Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall

by Luccia Gray

  “Harry, you are not the first man I have kissed.”

  He was silent, as I had expected. I was someone else’s cast off. I could never be with the man I loved, yet I had become unsuitable for any other man. Such was the helpless plight of women, while men were allowed many lovers, without reproach, even after marriage.

  “That isn’t important,” he finally said, “as long as I am the last.”

  It was my turn to be speechless. I didn’t understand the implications of his words. What did he mean? What was he proposing?

  “I should like to be the only man you kiss from now on. Shall I be the last, Annette?”

  “I am not sure if I understand what you are asking of me.”

  “I love you, Annette.”

  I gasped. “What do you mean? How is it possible?”

  “I have loved you for a long time, Annette. Since the first day I met you at Eyre Hall when Helen was taken ill.”

  “I had no idea, Harry. Have I done anything to encourage you? If I have it was not intended.”

  “No. It was not your fault I fell in love, but I am glad I did. I have enjoyed your company, when I have had the privilege of seeing you and conversing with you at Eyre Hall, and at the hospital these last few months.”

  He was silent, but when I did not speak, he continued. “I realise your silence means that you do not love me yet, but if you are not adverse to my company, I am willing to wait until you do love me, and I am sure you will, in time.”

  I was still lost for words, because I didn’t know what I felt for him. I found him pleasing. I did enjoy his kisses, and his hand in mine was comforting, but I didn’t feel for him the yearning need I had felt for John.

  “If you accept my offer of courtship, I promise to be faithful and respectful to you alone.”

  “Harry, thank you for your kind words, and your generous promise, but I do not yet know what I feel for you, or what I could come to feel.”

  “Dare I ask if your heart is already taken by another man? I mean, do you still love the man who kissed you?”

  “No, I…” I was about to tell him it was impossible, but instead I said, “No, I no longer love him.”

  “Well, that gives me hope. May I speak to Jane?”

  “On what terms?”

  “I should like permission to call on you, if you agree, so we could walk alone, or hand in hand with her approval, instead of worrying about being caught by Helen, for example.”

  I had to laugh. He looked so upset and his words sounded so amusing.

  “How can you ‘call on me’ on this ship? We are constantly bumping into each other.”

  “Well, at least I make you laugh. That is no doubt a good beginning.”

  “I do like you, Harry.”

  “You like me? Well, that is another point in my favour.”

  “I like you very much. I enjoy being in your company, you are pleasant and your conversation is varied and knowledgeable. I also enjoy working with you at the hospital. I respect your work and your dedication to your patients. You are a good man, you…deserve better.”

  “I can do no better than to court the woman I love, Annette, and that is you.”

  “I mean someone who loves you, too.”

  “Could we try to get to know each other better, and perhaps, in time, you will love me.”

  “I cannot guarantee my feelings will grow.”

  “But I can wait, and hope, and try to convince you, if you will allow me to.”

  The moon was shining over the rippling waters, and a strong wind blew into my face, lifting my hair. His eyes darkened as his hands held my face close to his.

  “Do you like my kisses, Annette?”

  I moved my lips closer to his in reply. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves breaking against our boat, rocking us gently in the middle of the ocean. I laid my arms on his shoulders and thought he would be easy to love if I could forget John’s tormented face, when he kissed me farewell and vowed it would be our last kiss.

  ***

  Chapter XXX – Jamaica

  After sighting Bermuda, we passed many other islands, which I would have considered beautiful if I had not been so preoccupied and overexcited due to the proximity to our destination.

  Annette and Harry were increasingly more occupied with each other’s company, and Helen and I spent much time wondering along the deck with Captain Long. He kindly told us the names of the major islands we passed like St. Vincent's and St. Lucia, and we even anchored for a few hours in Port Royal Bay, Martinique, because we were in need of some basic supplies. I must say that Martinique had the appearance of a little paradise; even so, I was glad to leave it behind, because it meant we were coming closer to Jamaica, and Michael.

  Captain Long had advised me that we might find him in dire conditions. Pirates and kidnappers were not known to be civil to their prisoners, and I was worried that as their emissary was dead, his captors might not be accommodating. However, I was confident that the Governor of Jamaica had been informed by the Ministry for the Colonies and the Admiralty, with the help of Admiral Fitzjames’ contacts, and they would be waiting for us at Montego Bay.

  I shuddered as I remembered the image I had seen when I first held his red button and chain, which I had been wearing around my neck since I had recovered it from the pirate.

  Eight days after passing Bermuda, we caught sight of Jamaica. We were all up, and on the lookout by six o'clock. I found it a most beautiful sight; such hills, such mountains, such dense vegetation, and such bright colours, filled me with immense joy. I breathed deeply; there was a delicious tinge of sweetness in the air, although I was sure Michael had not been able to smell it because the barbarians who had imprisoned him had confined him underground.

  The island gradually grew bigger and more colourful as we approached the coast. We saw small boats scattered around the bay, which the captain informed us probably belonged to local smugglers, masquerading as fishermen. He looked through his telescope and told us there were British soldiers near the beach and he spotted the battlements of Rosewood Castle, hidden behind a dense forest at the top of a distant hill.

  The captain insisted on approaching the soldiers alone first, but I told him I had not come this far to sit and wait for his news. Annette had offered to come, but I did not want Helen to remain alone, so I asked Annette to stay with her, while Captain Long, Harry and I approached the island on a small boat.

  The heat had been so dreadful, and my anticipation so overpowering, that I had barely slept or eaten since we passed Bermuda. Harry looked very concerned and tried to convince me to stay on board, but he soon realised any attempt to keep me away from Rosewood Castle would be useless.

  The soldiers approached us as we landed. “Welcome to Jamaica, Captain Long. We’ve been expecting you for a few days. The governor instructed us to visit Rosewood Castle and wait for your arrival last week.” He held out his hand and introduced himself. “Captain Gordon, Her Majesty’s Navy.”

  “Have you been to the castle?”

  “Indeed we have. They all left when they saw us approach.”

  “They?”

  “The pirates. The Black King is well known in this part of the island. Lives in that empty, ruined castle with his family. They call themselves Rey, or Kings of the island. Say they descend from the first Spanish Conquistadors. Perhaps, but who cares? Nowadays they are just travelling criminals, taking over empty old buildings to cover their heads, and smuggling and thieving along the Montego Bay, mostly. They don’t look for trouble, so they fled as soon as we appeared.”

  “And the prisoner?”

  “Might have taken him with them, or…” he stopped speaking to scratch his unruly beard and shot us stealthy looks with shifty eyes. I imagined there was a bandit hiding under the shabby, crooked uniform. Captain indeed, he certainly did not look or speak like an Englishman.

  “Or what?” I asked the impostor.

  “There was someone inside when we arrived,” he said
, straightening his humped shoulders. I realised he was hiding a shameful deed. Had the pirates bribed him?

  “Was?” I asked. My voice was shaking, and so were my legs. He looked from the captain to the doctor awkwardly, straightening his belt, and ignoring my question.

  “Did you look in the dungeons?” I asked.

  “There was something or someone in the dungeons.”

  We watched silently, but he shook his head, as if dismissing the situation as hopelessly unavoidable. Why had they not rescued him? The heat was scorching, and I wished I could rid myself of my cumbersome skirts and tight bodice. I wiped the perspiration from my brow. “Take us there at once.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said calmly, feet nailed to the ground displaying no intention of movement. “He’s good as dead, madam. Looks like yellow fever. We didn’t approach him. Too dangerous.”

  I was for a few seconds out of my senses, neither breathing nor hearing. The world had stopped spinning, and I was watching the captain and Harry’s lips move silently, in slow motion, presumably arguing with the man.

  I felt a weight on my shoulder. Harry’s hand squeezed me back to life.

  “He is alive. I would know it if he were not,” I told him, as calmly as I could. I felt like screaming that we should not waste another second, but I realised I had to maintain a calm appearance, or I would be rendered incapable of staying with the men.

  “Let us not waste any more time, Captain Gordon. Please lead the way,” said Harry briskly.

  I must have boarded the horse–drawn carriage, and we must have travelled for some time, because as I descended the steps on our arrival, I vaguely remember the heat, the dry dust, and the swaying of the carriage. My feet leapt onto the arid ground.

  I looked up the rocky slope to the derelict house, which paid tribute to its former magnificence, proudly yet decadently facing the ocean. The cracked wooden shutters banged noisily against the window frames, and a colony of black birds squealed angrily from the rooftops, warning us to keep away.

  I ran up the jagged steps to reach the central archway leading onto the gaping front door and flew into the decaying building, almost slipping on the leaf–laden floor. I rushed in and out of the empty rooms, calling, “Michael!”, while the crumbling walls shouted his name back eerily.

  “Where are the dungeons?” I cried as I ran out of the room, unable to control my exasperation any longer.

  “This way,” said one of the soldiers, leading us down a narrow, stone staircase.

  A stench of death, decay, and mossy dampness, laden with salt from the sea, blew up as we neared the murky ground.

  “Over there!” the soldier shouted, pointing to a heap in the corner, against a wall. “Careful, he might have the fever!” he warned before flying back up the stairs.

  My eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, but I rushed towards the wall and saw something quivering on the floor, perhaps it was a frightened animal huddled in the corner. I fell on my knees next to it, and put my hand out to touch the bundle. It could not be human, and even if it was, it was too small to be Michael. My fingers touched cold, clammy skin. It was a person. I was now able to distinguish a ball of long messy dark hair covering most of his face. Could it be Michael? Could he have shrunk to half his size? I searched for his hand; it was cold and limp, but not rigid and lifeless. Whoever it was, he was still alive, and he could tell us where they had taken Michael.

  Suddenly the hand clutched mine, and an eye opened amidst the tangle of hair. I lowered my face to his and heard him whisper with his last breath, “Jane.”

  Harry’s urgent words pulled me away. “Jane, let me see to him, please.”

  I sat on the floor, numbed with the shock of his condition. Had he died? Had I imagined he clasped my hand and opened his eye? Did I hear him say my name? Had we arrived in Jamaica, or was it another of my ghostly dreams? I was indeed in the dungeon I had envisaged when I held his button at Eyre Hall. Was I delirious and had I revisited my hallucination? Had I died in the storm?

  My body was being shaken violently, but I could not move or speak. Then I felt a sharp sting on my face, which forced me to scream.

  “Jane.” Harry’s face was staring into mine. “Jane,” he repeated, “Michael is alive. We need to take him back to the ship at once. Do you understand?”

  I heard the words, but I had no idea what he meant. What ship? I looked around the room. Where was I? Who were these men staring at me? What were they doing to me? I heard meaningless words and let myself be carried away.

  “She is in a state of shock. Take her to the carriage. I need two men to help me carry Michael to the carriage, too. We must take them back to the ship.”

  ***

  Helen was upset that they had left us on board and refused to read, or sit. She was impossibly active all morning, running up and down the deck and begging the mate to let her look through his spyglass almost every hour. She refused to eat anything for lunch and sulked when I sent her to Jane’s cabin for a nap when the sun was highest and scorching on deck.

  “Annette, I want to wait here until Michael comes back.”

  “Darling, be patient. We are not yet sure they will find him.”

  “They will. Jane will find him.”

  “I hope so. Would you like me to tell you about Jamaica? I used to live here when I was a little girl like you.”

  She listened attentively as I told her about the heat in summer, and the wet season, the hurricanes, the wild birds, the solitary beaches, and our airy colonial house in the vast plantation, asking plenty of questions, as she always did.

  “Perhaps we will visit my house, our house, in Spanish Town. It is a grand colonial house with an extensive sugar plantation. There are plenty of rooms and beautiful beaches we can walk to every day.”

  I had run out of stories to tell Helen and the sun was waning when they finally came back. She cried with excitement as the mate told us the search party were approaching the beach.

  “Seems there are two injured, being carried,” he told us.

  “Who are they? Can you see them?”

  “Some soldiers are carrying Mrs. Mason, and the doctor and the captain are carrying someone else.”

  “Michael!” Helen cried.

  “Could be. All I can see is a bundle,” said the mate.

  We waited impatiently as he observed with the spyglass. When the boat neared, he turned to me. “I think the young lass should go down to the cabin, and perhaps you too, miss.” Then he leaned into my ear and whispered, “The bundle looks like a naked man. He might be dead. Doesn’t look good to me.”

  I gasped and told a reluctant Helen that she had to wait in our cabin. I made her promise she would not leave until I told her she could. I thanked God she was an obedient child, and prayed that Michael was not dead.

  Jane was carried by a sour–looking soldier and laid on the floor. Her eyes were open, so I bent down to speak to her, but she looked at me with a vacant stare. She seemed to neither see nor hear me.

  “Take her down to her cabin,” Harry ordered the soldier who had laid her on the floor, and then he turned to me. “Annette, make sure Jane’s comfortable and ask Nell to sit by her side and read the Bible to her. Do it quickly, and then come down to the surgery with water, soap, towels, caustic soda, bandages, and the medical chest which is in my cabin.”

  I convinced a distraught Nell to sit by Jane’s side and read the Psalms to her continuously until I came back, then I rushed to the surgery.

  We spent the following hours uncovering layers of dirt, revealing multiple bruises, scabs, and bleeding wounds, which Harry insisted were aired and constantly wiped clean. It was only after washing and cutting his hair, and shaving his beard that the battered and waning figure began to resemble Michael. He did not even flinch as we worked, and his breathing was so shallow I thought he might have died. We finally bandaged the wounds, covered him in a nightshirt, sat him on a bed, and tried to persuade him to drink some water.
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  It was very dark when we finally left him in his bed in the cabin and went up to the deck. I was exhausted and saddened and cried in Harry’s arms until I had no tears left, and my chest ached.

  We sat in silence, watching the stars moving slowly across the black sky. My head fell on his shoulder, my eyes closed, and I wished I could sleep and dream I was back at the convent conversing with Mother Angela or teaching the girls elocution. I wished I had never left Spanish Town, yet strangely, now that I was so near I was not pleased to be back. They belonged to another world I had left behind, and although I missed it, there was no point in going back. I felt Harry’s hand rest on my shoulder and although it was pleasurable to feel treasured by the man at my side, I could not help myself wish it were John’s warmth I was feeling.

  Much later, I asked Harry, “Could Michael have yellow fever, as the soldiers said?”

  “I don’t think so. That is probably why they went nowhere near him, but on the contrary, his body temperature is low. That is a good sign. No fever and no infection.”

  “Thank God,” I sighed. “But Michael looks so frail. Will he recover?”

  Harry took my hand and watched me, no doubt choosing his words. “He is suffering from severe malnutrition and dehydration, but that is not the worst of our worries. He drank water, and I trust he will be on a liquid diet in a few days. Once he sees Jane, he will fight for his life, but I am concerned about his physical wounds. Until they stop bleeding and scabs form, if they do, I cannot tell if they will heal. His hands and legs must have been shackled for a long time before they were removed, and the blackened bruises look raw. The decay of the tissue, caused by lack of blood supply could be fatal. Gangrene could set in and I may have to amputate.” He stopped and I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.

  “I am worried about the swollen, black fingers on his left hand.” He stopped to watch my tortured face before adding, “And his ankles, I’m afraid.”

  I thought I had dried up all my tears, but it seems my capacity for crying had not yet been reached. I wiped them with my damp handkerchief and asked him, “What about Jane?”