Once Upon a Midnight Sea

by Ava Bradley

  "How very strange," Mrs. Bailey said, "but I feel as though the land is rocking."

  "Haw! Don't have your sea legs yet, do you?" Mr. Ranklin gave a hearty laugh. "When you're not accustomed to it, going back to land is as bad as the first day aboard. You shall learn to tolerate it soon enough."

  "Each night I pray I shall never set foot on a ship again," she answered solemnly.

  "Mrs. Bailey, if you are not feeling well, perhaps you should return to the ship." Maybe Christian's sparse appetite was due to seasickness as well, Adriana thought.

  "Don't be silly, Adriana. We haven't finished our supper."

  The restaurateur served her favorite island delicacy; snapper cooked over an open flame and seasoned with a tangy-sweet paprika and pineapple sauce. She noticed Christian ate only the fresh green beans and a little of the candied sweet potatoes that accompanied the main course.

  By the end of the meal Mr. Ranklin was drunk on rum and his son, Bernard, was red-faced with embarrassment.

  "My, what strange music," Mrs. Bailey commented. Out on the beach, a violinist accompanied a xylophonist and a female singer with maracas.

  "I quite like it," Adriana said. It reminded her of her childhood visit to Jamaica with her father, and a simpler time when she had no worries at all. A time she was sure would never be matched again.

  "To Adriana," Christian said, raising his glass. "May her next birthday as Mrs. Pres'on Weiss be as joyous as this." He slugged back the remainder of his rum and slammed the glass onto the table.

  Adriana's pleasant mood was shattered. The insinuation in his comment was clear.

  "Mr. De la Croix," Mrs. Bailey said angrily. "It is most unbecoming to let your spirits get the better of you."

  "Here here!" Mr. Ranklin slurred happily. He raised his glass. "To spirits! And many happy birthdays to come."

  "Er, Mr. Ranklin, please accept my apologies," Mrs. Bailey stuttered. "I certainly meant no disrespect against your character."

  "Ah, none taken, dear woman. None at all. Haw!"

  "Miss Montague," Bernard cleared his throat. "Though it is not exactly a chamber orchestra, I believe one can dance to this music. Would you do me the honor?" He rounded the table and offered his hand.

  She didn't look directly at Christian, but heard the heated breath he dragged in through his nostrils. She took Bernard's hand and stood. "I would be delighted."

  Her feet sank in the sand as they moved out into the gentle light of the setting sun. The musicians saw them and struck up what, with a little imagination, could be accepted as a waltz.

  "Do forgive my father," Bernard said quietly. "He hasn't been the same since Mother passed away."

  "You needn't apologize for him," Adriana told him. "I rather like him."

  "I pity him, in a strange way." Bernard's gaze slipped over her shoulder to the placid bay. "He's only half a man without her. He's not interested in any of his old hobbies. It seems all he wants to do is sail and drink."

  Adriana wondered what her father had been like when her mother was still alive. Was he only half that man now? She knew he'd worshipped her mother, but Adriana been too young when she died to remember them together.

  Before she could stop herself, she wondered what Christian would be like if he were ever to find happiness like that. A warm ache pulled at her heart.

  All people deserved to find love someday, yet the thought of Christian blissfully in love with a faithful, adoring wife brought her a painful twinge of jealousy. She'd known his kiss once, only briefly. Never again. Someday, some lucky woman would know it completely, forever.

  "Miss Montague?"

  She glanced up. "I'm terribly sorry, what did you say?"

  "Would you like to take a stroll on the beach after supper? With your chaperone, of course."

  "Oh, I–”

  "May I cut in?" Christian materialized beside them, giving a gentlemanly bow.

  Before Bernard could protest, Adriana turned and took Christian's hand. The song ended and the violinist struck up the first movement of Handel's hauntingly sweet Sonata in G. The sun passed behind the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with magnificent orange and cinnamon brush strokes. In the slant light, Christian's eyes were pale and full of longing.

  In a tender embrace, they twirled more slowly than she had with Bernard, his hold around her waist more daring.

  "You remembered my birthday." Adriana didn't know why, but it nearly brought her to tears.

  "I'm not so self-centered as you claim."

  She forced a smile. "Yet you won't even let me have one whole dance with another man." Instantly she regretted her forwardness. When she glanced away to hide her embarrassment, he released her hand to lift her chin.

  Her stomach quivered with uncertain discomfiture. She knew she shouldn't be dancing with him, yet she had never felt as wonderful as in his arms. "You had better watch yourself," she whispered. "Mrs. Bailey is sure to intercede."

  "On the contrary, she suggested I cut in. She is content with your loathing of me to have me dissuade Bernard. And she's feeling quite guilty about forgetting your birthday."

  "She shouldn't. The storm distracted us all."

  They twirled slowly across the soft beach as the fading sky cast him in an otherworldly quintessence.

  "Do you remember saying you wished things were different between us?" he asked. "That we were different people?"

  Adriana could hardly draw a breath as she nodded. Christian leaned close until he spoke just at her ear. "Tonight, during this one dance, we are."

  She closed her eyes as a fantasy too good to believe danced across her imagination. His arm tightened around her waist and he drew her closer until she could smell not only his clean scent, but the masculine essence of him, feel the very heartbeat within him. Her own heart raced as she dared to let herself become another person–anyone other than Adriana Montague, future wife of Preston Weiss.

  "If only it were true."

  The music stopped. He drew back until he could look into her eyes. She barely heard him as he spoke, yet she could read the words on his lips. "We can make it true."

  A glowing light at the patio caught her attention. One of the proprietors held a cake alight with tiny candles. The other musicians joined the violinist in a rendition of "Happy Birthday," and everyone at the patio began singing.

  Adriana blushed as she started towards them. She brought her hands to her cheeks, delighted nearly to tears. After everything they had been through, they took the effort to celebrate her twenty-first birthday.

  She turned back to Christian and laughed with joy. "Did you arrange this?"

  He took a wobbly step toward her, then sank to his knees and collapsed into the sand.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adriana raced to Christian's side. Henri's running footsteps mashed through the sand as he ran over.

  "Why of all the shameful nonsense," Mrs. Bailey sounded off. "He's inebriated himself with rum."

  "He hasn't, he had only one glass of rum," Adriana said. "Something is terribly wrong."

  Henri turned him over and brushed the sand from his cheek. "He's feverish."

  Adriana placed the back of her hand to his forehead. His skin was fiercely hot. "Is he ill from swimming during the storm?"

  Merciful heavens, this was her fault!

  "Christian. Wake up, boy. Answer me." Henri gently slapped one side of his face, then the other.

  "Don't hurt him!" Adriana insisted. The restaurant owner rushed over to help. "Get a cool cloth for his head. Do you have a doctor here?"

  "Oui, yes. I will send my son." The man turned to a young boy and pointed to the hillside as he gave fast instructions in French. The boy nodded and raced off. "There is a doctor in the village. My son will bring him."

  The man's wife knelt beside Christian and gripped his wrist, then touched his cheek. She wore a grim expression as she glanced up at them.

  "What is it, what is wrong with him?" Adriana demanded. "He went into the wate
r during the storm. My dog fell overboard and he dove in to save it. Could that have made him sick?"

  "I fear it is jungle fever."

  Jungle fever... "Malaria? No, it cannot be! We've been on the ship this whole time." She looked at Henri, silently willing him to make it better.

  The old man's expression fell into horror. "He complained about the insects at Sombrero Island."

  "Henri..." Christian's eyes fluttered. "So hot."

  "I'm here boy. Don't worry, you're going to be fine."

  "Mon pere, Henri... My father..."

  Henri swept a nervous glance across the people crowded around. "Don't worry, son. You'll be back on deck in no time."

  "Take him to the patio," the proprietor said. He and another worker helped Bernard and Henri carry Christian to a hammock strung at the far end of the pub.

  Mrs. Bailey took Adriana's arm. "Come away, child," she said gently. "Let them see to him."

  She pulled out of her chaperone's grip. "I'll not leave him. This is my fault."

  "It isn't. You heard her, he has Malaria. There is nothing you can do. He probably won't survive."

  Adriana spun around. "How can you say such a thing?" Tears blurred her vision. "He won't die. I won't let him!"

  She took the cloth from the restaurant owner's wife to blot Christian's skin. An eternity passed before the young boy returned with the doctor.

  Immediately Adriana didn't like him. He dressed sloppily in a dirty shirtwaist and trousers, not at all like a physician should present himself, and his breath reeked sourly of alcohol.

  He leaned over Christian. "Certainly looks like Malaria. I see a lot of it down here." He turned away and retrieved a bottle of laudanum from a scarred leather attaché. "All I can do is make him more comfortable as we wait for the inevitable." He unscrewed the cap and prepared to pour it directly into Christian's mouth.

  "What are you doing?" Adriana smacked his hand, sending the bottle flying. "Are you a physician or a mortician? He needs quinine, not laudanum!"

  "This island hasn't seen a single tablet of quinine in six months."

  "There must be some here. I'll find it myself if I have to."

  "Young lady, I will have you know–”

  "Henri, we must get him back aboard Lady Luck." Adriana turned her back on the doctor. "Mrs. Ling can help him."

  "There is nothing you can do for him," the doctor insisted.

  "Be quiet you...you charlatan." Adriana gripped Henri's arm. "Hurry, let us go, now."

  Henri glanced at Christian's prone form. "Yes, you are right. Mrs. Ling knows her herbs." He gestured with his hand, urging the others to help him carry Christian to the boats. Adriana hurried behind.

  "Take our boat. It's larger," Bernard said.

  The men laid him gently on the floor of the boat and Bernard climbed in beside Henri. "Mr. Dupree I shall help you to row."

  With Christian splayed out across the bottom of the tiny boat, there was no room for Adriana or Mrs. Bailey.

  "Do not worry," Mr. Ranklin called. "I shall bring the ladies in your jolly."

  The old man rowed so slowly they were soon separated from Tigress's shore boat. In his drunkenness, he zigzagged them across the tiny lagoon, clearly not accustomed to rowing himself. Thankfully, as they reached Lady Luck, Mr. Ling appeared to help them on deck. With Tigress's shore boat hoisted up, they had to climb aboard on the ladder.

  Mr. Ranklin waited on deck as Adriana and Mrs. Bailey hurried below. Henry and Bernard had laid Christian out on the bare mattress of his bed and removed his clothing. He now wore one of her father's nightshirts. His bare legs stretched out, revealing a matt of dark hair. She moved to Mrs. Ling's side where the tiny woman sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Can you help him?"

  Mrs. Ling pressed the back of her hand to Christian's cheek, then pulled back one eyelid. His lids fluttered and he moaned as he turned his head to escape her prying fingers.

  "If Malaria, I help him." The old cook smiled thinly at Adriana. "Maybe yellow fever."

  Adriana felt as though a ball of ice had dropped into her stomach. "And if it is yellow fever?"

  Mrs. Ling didn't answer. She stood and headed for the door. "I go now, prepare herbs." She stopped and pointed to the tub. "Make bath for him. Will help keep cool."

  "Yes, yes. I've heard that," Bernard said. "It is important to keep his body temperature from getting too high."

  Henri worked the pump to start filling the tub.

  Adriana did her best to remain calm while her heart raced. "Mrs. Bailey, please get clean bed linens from the hold."

  The older woman hesitated. "I, I do not know where they are. I have never been in the hold."

  "They are folded in the shelving beside the extra kitchen utensils. Go now, you shall find them."

  Mrs. Bailey placed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, dear me. Yes, I shall find them." She hurried off, mumbling to herself. Adriana could see her chaperone was worried for Christian too. In her heart Mrs. Bailey was kind and gentle, and that outweighed her sternness for propriety.

  "Get his legs," Henri said as he and Bernard each took his arms. Adriana and Mr. Ling lifted at his ankles and the four of them transferred Christian to the filling tub.

  The thin nightshirt turned nearly transparent, revealing every inch of him in detail. She kept her gaze pinned on his face, forbidding herself to glance any lower. He was such a perfect and handsome man, it wasn't fair that his beautiful life might be so cruelly cut short. It seemed he was plagued with hardship. Had he really been so bad he deserved this punishment?

  No, Adriana willed silently. I don't believe it. He is a good man. Deep in his soul, he only wants what is right.

  She knelt by the front of the tub and soaked a cloth in the lukewarm water. In the hot tropical weather, it wouldn't get much cooler, but it would have to do. She used the cloth to blot his face.

  "Adriana..." Christian's eyes fluttered. "Désolé, je suis. Heureux de vous connaître."

  She glanced at Henri. "What did he say?"

  "He is happy to have met you," Henri's forlorn glance fell away. "And he is sorry."

  Tears welled in her eyes. Adriana cupped his cheek. "Tell him I am happy to know him also."

  "He is sorry?" Bernard asked. "Whatever for?"

  "Er, he blames himself for the damage to the mizzen royal," Henri told a half lie. "He's just delirious." He continued in French with the words Adriana asked him to say.

  "Henri," Christian mumbled. "Mon ami. Mon bein ami."

  "Oui. Yes, boy." Henri placed a hand on Christian's arm. "You are my good friend also."

  Mrs. Bailey returned with the bed linens and helped Adriana lay them out without even being asked. She took Adriana by the arm. "It is best we are not in here, he is not presentable."

  "You may leave if you wish." She pulled her arm free and returned to the side of the tub. "I am staying."

  For a moment Adriana feared Mrs. Bailey was going to insist. Finally the matronly woman let out a long, grumbling sigh and turned to go. Adriana knew she was disappointed, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now but saving Christian. She was afraid if she left the room, he would die. She had to stay and encourage him to hold on.

  Mrs. Ling returned with a strong smelling tea. They carried Christian to the bed and laid him out in the wet nightshirt. Immediately he started shivering. His brow wrinkled and he moaned.

  "What is wrong with him?" Adriana turned frantic. "How could he be cold?"

  "I've seen this before," Henri said. "He'll suffer chills and sweats until the fever leaves."

  "Put sheet over him," Mrs. Ling said. They propped several pillows under his head and Mrs. Ling brought the cup to his lips. "This Quinghao tea. Made of coin grass and hare's ear to fight malaria. Xuanshen will make him sweat out fever."

  "She knows what to do." Adriana said, as if speaking the words out loud would make them true. She turned to Henri. "Her herbs have been known for thousands of years."

  Henri's ex
pression turned pitying as he sensed her desperation. "Yes, Mrs. Ling knows what to do."

  Christian seemed to regain consciousness as he resisted the tea. His face twisted in disgust as he choked some of it down. Adriana sat on the other side of the bed and wiped the dribble from his chin.

  "It taste bad," Mrs. Ling said. "But cure Malaria. He very strong, have good chance." She lifted the cup to his lips again.

  When he turned his face away, Adriana sat opposite Mrs. Ling and helped hold him still. "Come now, Christian," she pleaded. Her fingers pressed through the wet cotton nightshirt into solid muscle. He was strong. He would make it, he had to. "You must drink it. It will help you get well."

  This time he drank with little resistance. His head lolled to the side and his body sagged on the bed.

  "He must drink every hour." Mrs. Ling set the cup down on the tray with the pot and turned a reassuring smile on Adriana. "You not worry. He have much to do. Not die yet."

  The woman's blunt comment brought a hot bolt of anxiety, but Adriana knew she had to keep her faith that everything would work out fine and they would soon be on their way again.

  Only hours ago, the storm they'd braved seemed the hardest thing she'd ever survived. Now she knew the worst was yet to come.

  * * *

  Edwina Bailey emerged on deck for a quiet moment of fresh air. The lowers were stifling and already smelling of sickness. "Why Mr. Ranklin, I didn't know you were still aboard."

  The man quickly tucked a flask back into his lapel and wiped his fluffy mustache. "Er, yes, well, I'm a bit of a captive, you see."

  Edwina bristled.

  "My boat is hoisted to your stern and I'm sure those below are busy with more important matters than winching me to the water. I would have done it myself, but I don't exactly know how. Haw!"

  "A man of your standing should not have to winch himself." She hid the truth behind a pinched smile. The man was simply too drunk.

  "Oh posh. A little hardship is good for the character, I dare say. Haw!" He leaned against the railing. As Lady Luck bowed on a gentle surge of the sea, he seemed not to notice he tilted and slid several inches to the right. "I would have borrowed your jolly, but as you can see, it's drifted away."