Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  “No, of course not.” Grace attempted a comforting smile.

  Rustling sounds rose from the corner, and Annette appeared beside them. Spyglass ceased her purring. Grace gave the mulatto a cursory glance before returning her gaze to Madame Dubois. “Can you eat something, madame?” The poor woman had not partaken of any food since last night.

  “Je ne sais pas.” Madame Dubois breathed out words barely above a whisper. “Perhaps.”

  “Annette,” Grace said. “Would you please tell Father Alers to bring up some broth for Madame.”

  Annette blinked and gazed at her mistress as if she were an apparition before darting out the door.

  Spyglass stretched on the table where she lay and began purring.

  “My head hurts.” Madame Dubois pressed her temples and turned toward Grace. “Where are we? Where is Rafe?”

  “We are safe.” Grace didn’t want to add to the woman’s stress by informing her of the two ships following them. “And Rafe, I mean Captain Dubois, is no doubt up on deck.” Though Grace had not seen him for several hours.

  Madame Dubois stared at Grace as if seeing her for the first time. The haughty sheen had dissipated from her eyes, along with the animosity that always fired from within them. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

  Grace squeezed her hand. “Because you are ill. Surely you would do the same for me should I become waylaid by some malady.”

  Madame Dubois shook her head, a slight smirk upon her lips. “I do not think so.”

  Grace chuckled, knowing that in her delirium, the woman had spoken the truth. She released her hand and dipped the cloth back into a basin of water. Then wringing it out, she laid it over Madame Dubois’s forehead. “It does not matter. I will care for you anyway.”

  “I do not deserve it,” she muttered, her confession shocking Grace.

  “None of us deserve anything good, madame.” Grace flinched at her own words, wondering where they had come from. Yet tears filled her eyes as she realized how true they were. For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. There is none righteous, no not one.

  The door creaked, and Annette entered, followed by Father Alers, a tray in hand. He ambled in and set it down on the table then eyed Madame Dubois with concern. The scent of lemons and beef broth swirled about the cabin. Annette closed the door and slunk into the shadows against the bulkhead.

  Spyglass sat up, her ears perked.

  “How is she?” Father Alers sank into the chair.

  Grace shook her head. “I cannot cool her fever.”

  The old priest leaned forward in the chair and scratched his beard as if trying to conjure up a solution.

  Grace stood. “It came upon her so suddenly. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  A gasp came from the shadows, and Grace snapped her gaze toward Annette’s dark form, wondering at the woman’s odd behavior and then remembering the potion she had given Madame Dubois. “Do you know what happened to your mistress, Annette?” Her voice carried more accusation then she intended, and Annette cowered further into the shadows—so far Grace could not see her eyes.

  “Non, mademoiselle,” came her sheepish voice.

  Father Alers gestured toward the tray. “Perhaps the broth will strengthen her.”

  “Do you have any herbs aboard, any feverfew, peppermint, or elderflower?” Grace clasped her hands together.

  “Non.”

  “No one with medical knowledge?”

  “Non.” Father Alers shook his head.

  A groan sounded from the cot. “Mademoiselle.” Madame Dubois reached out her hand, and Grace fell to her knees and took it in her own.

  “Yes, I am here, madame.” She laid the back of her hand on Madame Dubois’s cheek, then flinched at the heat radiating off her skin.

  “I am dying.” Her voice wobbled, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  Visions of Grace’s mother on her deathbed crept out from hiding and dashed tauntingly across Grace’s mind. Madame Dubois looked so much like her: same blond hair, same striking blue eyes, and now the same feverish skin, same raspy voice, same delirium. Grace would not watch another woman die. “No, you will not die.”

  Father Alers handed Grace the bowl. “Help her drink this.”

  Gently placing her arm beneath Madame Dubois, Grace tried to lift her. “Madame, please drink this broth.”

  “Non. Non.” She waved it away. “I cannot.”

  With a huff of defeat, Grace handed the bowl back to Father Alers, her heart sinking lower in her chest.

  “Mademoiselle,” the woman panted. “I must tell you something.”

  “You should rest, madame. Regain your strength.” Grace wiped a saturated curl from her face.

  “Non, s´il vous plaît. I must.” She stopped to catch her breath. She peered at Grace below heavy lids and shook her head. “What you must think of me.”

  “It does not matter.”

  “I was not always like I am now.” Madame Dubois swallowed and tried to gather her breath. “I grew up in France, in the small port town of La Havre. Mon père worked on the docks and ma mère washed clothes to make extra money. She was British like you.”

  “Shhh.” Grace dabbed the cloth on her head, wondering why the woman cared to disclose her childhood now of all times.

  “Mon père died in an accident. Ma mère died of the sickness two months later,” she rasped.

  Grace halted her ministrations. She had lost only one parent. She could not imagine the horror of losing both.

  “I exist on the streets for many years.” Madame Dubois coughed, and her face pinched in pain. “Then at sixteen I accept the King’s offer to come to Saint Dominique to become wife to a planter.”

  Grace thought of Nicole. It would seem many of the women at Port-de-Paix shared the same past.

  Madame Dubois squeezed her hand. “I never had enough nourriture. I never had des belles robes. I never had someone to love me. Comprenezvous?” She lifted sincere eyes to Grace, and in that look, Grace no longer saw a vain, pretentious woman. She no longer saw a jealous shrew. She saw a frightened, innocent little girl.

  Drawing Claire’s hand to her lips, Grace kissed it and smiled. Her eyes moistened at the thought of what this woman had endured. “I cannot say that I completely understand, but I do empathize with your pain, for I too, have suffered loss.” Grace wiped a tear pooling at the corner of Madame Dubois’s eye. “Now you must rest and get well.” Though by the rising heat on the woman’s cheeks, Grace began to doubt that would happen.

  Madame Dubois’s breathing grew ragged and her lids closed. She turned her head and fell asleep. When Grace tried to wake her there was no response, not even a whimper. Leaning her head on the cot, Grace allowed her tears to fall. “Please, Lord, heal this woman. Please.”

  “She will not live.” Annette’s words pierced the air like a rapier.

  Grace snapped her gaze toward the mulatto. “How can you say such a thing?”

  Annette stepped out of the gloom into the lantern light. Malevolence, but also a spark of dread, burned in her brown eyes as she gazed at her mistress. Grace shivered.

  Father Alers stood, the legs of his chair scraping over the planks of the deck.

  “What have you done?” Grace asked as she rose and took a step toward her. Spyglass darted to the edge of the table, and shifted her one eye onto Annette.

  The mulatto swallowed, her wide eyes sparking in the lantern light. “I gave her what she want, what she beg for.”

  Father Alers glanced over the cabin as if he, too, felt the darkening presence within, then he narrowed his eyes upon Annette. “And what did she ask for?”

  “Un philtre d ’amour.” She laughed. “To make her irrésistible to Captain Dubois.”

  Grace grabbed her arm. “A love potion? What was in it?”

  “Nothing that would do any harm.” Annette trembled, her gaze skittering to her mistress. “Except to one who has no heart.”

  If Annette had poisoned Mada
me Dubois, what hope did they have to save her? She thought to insist the mulatto give her an antidote, but from the look in her eyes, Grace didn’t dare allow the woman to administer any further potions to her mistress. Blood surged to Grace’s head even as her stomach knotted. “If Madame Dubois dies, her death is on your hands.”

  Tears swarmed into Annette’s eyes, and she drew a ragged breath. “I gave her what she asked for,” she repeated, her voice raised in fear. “It is the gods who decide if she deserves to live.” She shuddered, tore her arm from Grace’s hand, and dashed from the cabin, sobbing.

  Grace started after her, but Father Alers held her in place. “Let her go. Our concern must be for Madame Dubois.”

  Spyglass curled into a ball again on the table.

  Grace eyed the cat curiously then clutched the chain around her neck. “Yes. We must get her to port. We must find an apothecary.”

  “We cannot. Le Capitaine spotted one of Woodes’s ships just outside the harbor entrance. Until they are gone or we have a moonless night, we are trapped in this cove.” Father Alers pressed down the coils of his gray hair, but they sprang back into their chaotic web as soon as he withdrew his hand.

  “So there is naught we can do for her.” Grace glanced at Madame Dubois.

  Father Alers crossed himself. “Nothing but pray.”

  ***

  Thorn rubbed the back of his neck and took another turn across the foredeck. Unable to sleep, he’d dismissed the sailor on watch and took his place. He squeezed the muscles in his arms and stretched his back. Why was he so tense? Everything was going according to plan.

  He slid his thumb over the scar stretching down his cheek and neck, a constant reminder to stay the course—to forge ahead until the vengeance that gnawed hungrily in his gut was satisfied. Glancing over the ebony waters of the bay, her shallow waves christened in silver moonlight, he smiled at the fortunate turn of events. Movement on the deck below caught his eye. A dark form ducked within the shadows by the starboard railing. One of the crew? No, the shape was far too small. Muffled sobs filled the air.

  Thorn made his way down the foredeck ladder then crept across the main deck, trying not to alert whoever it was. But as he grew near, her sobs grew louder—for he could now tell it was a woman—a woman with hair the color of the night tumbling down her back. His heart leapt.

  Annette.

  He took another step toward her. His boot thumped. She whirled around to face him and let out a gasp, backing away.

  He lifted a hand. “Don’t be afraid. I heard you crying.”

  She glanced toward the companionway hatch then back at him, swiping the moisture from her cheeks.

  “May I?” Thorn motioned to the spot beside her, hoping she would accept his company.

  She said nothing. He slipped next to her and grabbed the railing. Trying to appear nonchalant, he glanced over the dark waters. “Beautiful night.”

  She sniffed and faced the harbor. “Oui.”

  Thorn took a deep breath, trying to still the thumping of his heart. He’d wanted nothing more than to speak to this dark beauty ever since she had boarded the brig, but her position and color created societal obstacles that had prevented him. Now, as she stood beside him, smelling of citrus and cedar, his senses inflamed. And all he wanted to do was discover the cause of her distress and stop her from crying. “Are you ill, mademoiselle?” He dared a glance at her. Her dark, thick lashes lowered to her cheeks that looked more like creamy café in the moonlight.

  She shook her head. “My mistress is ill.”

  He nodded and leaned his elbow on the railing, trying to make out more of her exquisite features in the shadows. “I am sorry.”

  “Pas moi. I am not.” Her French accent sharpened.

  Thorn chuckled. She clicked her tongue and started to leave, but he grabbed her arm. “Please forgive me. I was not laughing at you. It is just that, well...” He released her, thankful when she stayed even though her suspicious gaze signaled she could bolt at any minute. “Your mistress is not a person to evoke much sympathy, non?” He mimicked her French, hoping it would please her and was rewarded with a tiny smile that set his heart soaring.

  “Why do you, a white man, speak to me?” she asked, her sweet voice barely audible over the creaking of the ship.

  Realizing he must look a fright, Thorn adjusted his coat and brushed dirt from his sleeve. “I have wanted to speak to you ever since you came aboard.”

  Her delicate brow folded. “Pourquoi?” She took a step back as if suddenly afraid of him.

  He lifted a hand in an effort to assuage her fear but it only sent her farther away. “You misunderstand, mademoiselle. I have no untoward intentions. I only wish to get to know you.”

  “To know me?” She shook her head as if he’d said the moon were made of flour and milk.

  “Yes. That is all.” Thorn opened his palms in a gesture of innocence.

  She faced the bay, the breeze dancing through her hair that reminded him of black silk. He longed to sift his fingers through it. “You are very beautiful.”

  She huffed in disgust. “Oui. It is what I was made for.”

  “Not all you were created for.” Thorn laid a hand on her arm, but she snapped from his touch and shot fiery eyes his way. A cloud strayed over the moon, stealing Annette from his sight.

  “Non? Mon père treats me as a slave. Ma mère is his mistress. And Madame Dubois despises me. I am half black, half white. The blancs shun me. The Africans are repulsed by the white blood in my veins. I live suspendue between two worlds, and I belong to none. I am nothing without my beauty. And if that is all you want from me, you must speak to Monsieur Dubois. I am sure you and he can make a good deal.” Turning, she started to walk away, but Thorn jumped in her path, blocking her. He hoped she couldn’t see the grin on his lips at her spirited oration. The woman was not only beautiful but full of pluck as well.

  She tried to weave around him, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Do not leave, Annette.” His throat constricted beneath a sudden sorrow. Sorrow at a life so enshrouded with misery and rejection. “I assure you, I want nothing from you but your friendship.” He peered in the darkness, longing to see her face. “I, too, find myself between two worlds. I am an Englishman on a French brig. I am a man of education and honor among a bevy of crude, ill-mannered sailors.” He leaned toward her. The cloud abandoned its post, allowing the moon to bathe her in milky light. “We have much in common, mademoiselle.”

  She lifted her moist brown eyes to his. And in them he saw a spark of hope.

  But then she looked away. “I must go,” she said.

  Thorn released her, and she dashed to the companionway ladder. Then casting one last glance his way, she disappeared below.

  Thorn smiled and gazed up at the half-moon. If God listened to prayers, Thorn would thank Him for the moon tonight that kept them imprisoned within this cove. For if the white orb had not made an appearance, they would have attempted an escape in the darkness, and he may not have had the chance to become better acquainted with the alluring Annette.

  In fact, each day they remained in this cove provided an opportunity for their refuge to be discovered.

  Which could only bode well for Mr. Thorn.

  And very badly for Rafe.

  CHAPTER 26

  At Father Alers’s gruff “entrez-vous,” Rafe entered the small cabin, Spyglass bounding in on his heels. The putrid stench of infirmité assaulted him and drew his eyes to the lithe, ghostly form lying on the cot amidst a tangle of blankets and golden hair. Thunder clapped outside, sending the brig aquiver with a sense of impending doom. Although storm clouds covered the tiny island, a few resolute rays of sunlight pierced the porthole into the tiny cabin.

  Father Alers gazed at Rafe with those intense golden eyes, now filled with concern.

  “Comment va-t-elle?” Rafe asked. When he had heard of Claire’s illness, he assumed it was just another one of her tricks to get his attention.

 
Claire moaned and shifted on her coverlet.

  Apparently, this time, Rafe had been wrong. He glanced across the cabin. Spyglass lapped broth from a bowl on the table. A jumble of blankets lay stuffed in one corner by the armoire alongside a candle, a necklace, and some stones.

  “Where is Mademoiselle Grace?”

  Father Alers stretched his legs out before him and folded his hands over his belly. “The mademoiselle went above for some air.”

  “Grace went above? Sous la pluie?” Rafe glanced at the porthole, where streaks of rain flattened beneath the prevailing wind.

  Father Alers shrugged. “It stopped raining, and the poor mademoiselle has been attending Madame Claire throughout the night.”

  “Vraiment?” Though Rafe knew of the mademoiselle’s charitable heart, he felt a twinge of shock that she would care for a woman who had done nothing but reproach her.

  “Oui, the mademoiselle has been most aimable to Madame Dubois.” Father Alers shook his head. “She returns each of Madame’s insults with kindness.”

  Rafe scratched his jaw as his muscles stiffened in defiance of Grace’s forgiving heart. Yet for as long as Rafe had known Father Alers, the man had dispensed his approbation of others as sparsely as he did the prize claret hidden in his trunk.

  Claire moaned, and he stared at the red blotches marring her sweat-laden face. She had always been so beautiful. Even now, consumed with sickness, she still displayed the feminine charm he had once been unable to resist. Yet lately her beauty seemed more akin to a lovely gown of silk and lace—a garment one put on and took off and that faded and stained and wrinkled over time.

  Rafe shifted his stance and spotted a cockroach scampering away. He smashed it with his boot, hoping to alleviate his aggravation.

  “Where is Annette? She should be attending her mistress.”

  Father Alers’s eyes took on a haunted look. “She ran out after Mademoiselle accused her of poisoning her mistress.”

  “Poisoning?” The word rebounded through Rafe’s mind like round shot but found no place to land.

  “Oui, un philtre d’amour.” Father Alers snorted. “A potion to win your heart.”