The Duke's Refuge

by Lorri Dudley

  Even on a small island, political affairs crept into every aspect, affecting farming, trade, industry, and also teaching. She didn’t know the people they spoke of, but Harrison’s eyes darkened when certain names were mentioned, one of them being Mr. Rousseau.

  At a lull in the conversation, Georgia mentioned their encounter with Mr. Rousseau and his invitation to a ball at the Artesian Hotel.

  “Isn’t that lovely?” she beamed at her father.

  Her father glanced in Harrison’s direction, and Georgia followed his gaze. Mr. Wells showed no physical reaction. His arm hung lazily over the back of the chair, and his eyes fixed on the lowball glass held in his fingertips. After downing the liquid and putting the glass on the table, his gaze met Georgia’s. His light eyes had hardened to a stormy, dark umber.

  “I believe a ball to be just the thing.” Papa broke the chilled silence.

  Mr. Wells arched a questioning brow in his direction.

  “There have been some misunderstandings among the leaders of the community. A little dancing and mingling might relieve some of the tension.”

  Aunt Tessa perked up. “Oh, how I love parties. Fredrick, with your beautiful daughter present, you won’t have a second to talk politics. You’ll be too busy fending off all the beaus trying to get an introduction.”

  Mr. Wells raised an index finger, and the footman rushed over to refill his glass. Georgia thought she saw her father smile, but Aunt Tessa hailed her attention.

  “Fredrick told me there’s a dressmaker in town, Madame Leflore. I’ve already commissioned her to come here and take your measurements.”

  Georgia sat straighter. “There’s a dressmaker on the island?”

  “This isn’t the dark continent,” Harrison said with a smirk. “We have dressmakers. You won’t have to go around in your privies.”

  She ignored his comment.

  “Georgia,” Aunt Tessa patted the table, “were you able to salvage any of your belongings?”

  Georgia gasped and half rose, bumping into the table. The fine crystal shook and refracted the candlelight into shimmery waves. She groaned as she sat back down and put a hand to her forehead. “My gowns.”

  Harrison lurched upright. “The trunk is still in the wagon.” His head whipped toward the window, despite the drawn shutters barring his view.

  “Oh dear.” Aunt Tessa exclaimed as the house shook from a gust of wind.

  They were gone. Georgia knew it. All gone.

  Harrison’s eyes softened, “I’m sure they’re fine. The groom brought the horses to the barn. Let’s hope he carried the trunk to the barn also.”

  But she could hear the uncertainty in his words. The trunk was too heavy for one man to carry.

  “I could go out…” A crack of thunder followed Harrison’s statement.

  Georgia shook her head. She couldn’t ask that of him, not during such a treacherous storm. He was all Max had. She’d never be able to live with herself if a boy was orphaned due to her need for finer things. She now realized how stupid she’d been to wade out into the ocean to retrieve her trunks. Despite her arguments, she knew he was right. They were only material things. She’d never be able to wear them if she were dead.

  She thought of Booker’s mother, who would be laid to rest in her gown. At least one would be put to good use.

  She sighed. “By tomorrow, all the little island boys will be running around in pink.”

  A smile stretched across Harrison’s lips, and a low chuckle rumbled in his throat.

  Georgia pinched her lips together to hide her own smile, which only made Harrison laugh again.

  Her aunt cocked her head and blinked as if imagining the scene. “I’ve always considered blue a better hue for little boys, but why not pink? It is a light red, I guess.”

  The comment tugged harder at Georgia’s restraint. She clapped a hand over her mouth and pretended to cough, but it morphed into a snort. She knew better than to display such emotion in public, and it took everything in her to regain her composure.

  After the dishes had been taken away, it was decided that Max and Harrison would stay the night since the storm hadn’t quieted. Within a few minutes, they’d worked out the new sleeping arrangements. Harrison, Max, and Papa would settle down in the gaming room. She and Aunt Tessa were set up in an adjoining sitting room. The servants carried in mattresses and readied them, then slumbered near the warmth of the stone hearth in the kitchen. Everyone settled down, and soon she heard the sounds of gentle snores and steady breathing, even through the raging gales and flashes of lighting outside.

  Georgia was the only one awake. With blankets pulled up to her chin, she listened to the howling wind and the ocean waves crashing in the distance. Those sounds were becoming familiar, but it was the noise she heard when the wind hit a lull that disturbed her. Each time it occurred, a pit formed in the bottom of her stomach, and her heartbeat fluttered like a caged bird.

  The hideous high-pitched squeaking noise split the night air. It sounded part-scream, part-childlike cry, but not human.

  Her eyelids shot open, and a tremble ran the length of her body. She whispered, “Aunt Tessa?” but received no response. “Aunt Tessa.” She whisper-shouted in her sternest voice, but to no avail.

  Her aunt muttered something incoherent, then rolled over, taking the full length of the blankets with her. The damp night air hit Georgia’s skin, raising goose pimples along her arms and legs.

  The squeaking sounded again, this time from directly outside the window. Georgia slipped out of bed and fumbled to light a candle. It took, and soon the room filled with contrasting light and flickering shadows. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching the dark corners for any movement. She stretched out a hand and shook Aunt Tessa’s shoulder, but kept her eyes probing the room. Her aunt swatted at her hand as if it were a bug, then released a loud snore.

  Georgia eyed the wash basin on the dressing table but didn’t dare wake her aunt with a good dousing.

  The squeaking noise erupted again, followed by a crack of thunder. Georgia bolted from the room. In her perilous flight, she collided with something mid-waist, flipped over it, and landed sprawled out across a sofa.

  A hand covered her mouth, muffling her scream.

  Chapter 10

  …The island is beautiful, but there are strange sounds that keep us awake at night, not to mention the storms. The beastly torrents come on suddenly. I’m told the fever does the same. Please pray for Fredrick.

  —From Lady Tessa Pickering to her sister-in-law, Nora Lennox

  “Miss Georgia. Shhh.” Max’s face appeared next to hers, his eyes wide. He removed his hand from over her mouth and placed his finger to his lips. “Don’t wake Papa. He’ll know the monsters are back.”

  Georgia sat up, trying to catch her breath. Her candle had blown out during her fall, casting the room in eerie blackness. She could feel a small bit of hot wax burning her hand and hoped none of it had spilled on Jenneigh’s Sunday dress. Max lit a candle next to him and set it on the stand.

  “If you’re awake, then I can light a candle. Father says I’m not to keep a candle lit while I’m in bed unless an adult is present.”

  Georgia nodded, unable to speak. She sucked in a deep breath and willed the rhythm of her heart to slow its rapid pace.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a peal of thunder. Georgia’s heart jumped in her chest, and she lunged for Max at the same time he reached for her. She wrapped her arms around the boy, and he clung to her like a baby monkey to its mama. His small frame trembled in her arms.

  “Max.” She forced her voice to sound calm. “What monsters are back? Do they make that horrible squeaking noise?”

  He snickered into her shoulder. “No, silly. The squeaks are the land pike. Hattie calls them squeaking lizards.”

  “Lizards?” She pushed him back and peered into his eyes. “How big are these lizards? Do they bite? Are they poisonous?” Her grip tightened on the boy’s should
ers as she glanced about their feet, expecting one to crawl out and wrap its fangs around their ankles.

  “No.” He grinned. “They’re harmless unless you’re forced to eat one. Everyone says they’re a delicacy, but I want to spit it out.” He stuck out his tongue for emphasis. “Yuck.”

  “Why do they make that ghastly racket?”

  He shrugged. “They just do. Every night, they crawl under rocks and hide in the bushes near the house, sniffing out food. They look like a fish but move like snakes with feet.”

  Georgia’s stomach heaved.

  “You sick, Miss Georgia?”

  “I need a minute.” Georgia waited until the urge to jump up and scream passed. Her father coughed in his sleep and let out a loud snore. The blankets were pulled up to his chin, and his glasses remained perched on his forehead.

  A shadow shifted, and Georgia made out Mr. Wells’ form. He lay on his side with his head resting on his arm. His tousled hair gave his angular features an even more rugged effect than usual. She imagined running her fingertips down the curve of his strong jaw.

  Georgia immediately tore her eyes away. She shouldn’t be looking at a man’s sleeping form, and why would she even think of doing such a thing?

  Another land pike let out a shrill squeal. Icy fingers crept down Georgia’s spine, and she waited for her father or Mr. Wells to awaken, but neither of them stirred even the slightest bit. Obviously, they weren’t disturbed by the disgusting squeaking creatures outside. Her fingers reached for a book on the end table. Maybe if she threw it at them, she’d gain their attention.

  “Please, don’t,” whispered Max. His stricken face reminded her of Max’s frantic remark about not waking Papa, because then he’d know the monsters were back.

  “Max,” she whispered. “Who are your monsters? They’re not like my squeaky lizards?”

  He shook his head. She watched his big eyes become overly bright, the flickering candlelight making them appear like glowing pools. His entire body stiffened, and he pulled his elbows in toward his middle. “No. They’re big and dark…and they sneak around at night with their booming noises and flashes of light.”

  Max must be afraid of thunder and lightning, and for a good reason around these parts. She’d never seen a tempest rage like the one carrying on outside. “Do you get a lot of storms like this?”

  Max nodded.

  “What do you usually do when you feel scared?”

  He raised his chin and puffed out his little chest. “I’m not scared. Papa says I’m a man now. Men don’t get scared.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the room with its eerie, blue light. Max tensed, and his breath held as they waited in silence for the subsequent crash of thunder. This time the rumble sounded distant. Max released his breath, and she felt him relax beside her.

  “It sounds like it’s moving out to sea,” she said.

  Max focused on her face. “Does that mean you’re going back to bed?”

  A wave of sleepiness washed over her, and she stifled a yawn. “Mmmm.” She nodded.

  “But the land pike are still out there. If you stay here, I can protect you…because…like Papa says, I’m a man now.”

  Her soft mattress was tempting, but it was also on the floor. How easy would it be for one of those land pike to crawl up next to her while she was asleep? The hair on her arms raised.

  She regarded the small, frightened boy. “I believe I could use some protection.” She grabbed an extra blanket folded on the side table and wrapped it around herself. Max watched her in silence until she lifted a corner, then he scooted underneath. Another land pike cried out through the lull in the storm. “Maybe you could tell me a story to take my mind off those creatures.”

  Max shot upright, glanced at his father and then at her. His voice was a whisper when he spoke. “Did you hear the story about the fierce Carib?”

  Georgia let out another yawn and snuggled deeper under the blanket. “No. I haven’t.” Her voice sounded almost as drowsy as she felt. “Why don’t you tell me that one … wait.” She reached out and pulled Max back down. “Tell me, and try not to move too much.”

  Max lay back, warming her side. He stared up at the ceiling as he relayed the heroic story, but soon his voice began to trail off. Georgia let her heavy eyelids close, and soon sleep overtook her too.

  Georgia’s sandpaper tongue roved around her mouth, trying to work up some saliva. She lifted her arms above her head and arched her back as she did every morning, but today a jarring stiffness in her neck roused her fully in mere seconds.

  Her eyes jerked open, and she stared at the plaster ceiling. Why did her body feel so strange? With a wince, she let her lids flutter closed again. Her hand raised to massage the back of her neck.

  That’s when she realized she’d slept in this seated position. Ignoring the pain, she lifted her head and reopened her eyes. A pair of snug-fitting cream breeches loomed in front of her.

  Confused, her eyes drifted up to a broad chest covered in a loose cambric shirt with a dangling cravat around the pointed collars. Strong arms crossed in front of the muscular chest, and her gaze drew upward. Above a stubbled chin stretched the mocking half-smile with which Georgia was becoming all too familiar.

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  Mr. Wells’ question confirmed her worst fear. He’d witnessed her sleeping with her mouth open.

  Her throat felt like she’d munched on cotton. She nodded and looked around for Max, but he was already up, probably tending to that bird of his.

  Mr. Wells passed her a cup, and she wrapped both hands around it. The warm liquid flowed over her parched lips and dry throat like a healing balm. She released a satisfied moan, and Mr. Wells’ roguish smile grew.

  “Rough night?”

  She nodded, still not ready to use her voice.

  “The storm keep you awake?”

  “A little, along with a few other noises I’m unaccustomed to.” She cleared her throat to cease the raspy tone.

  A deep, throaty chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s scared of the land pike noises the first night. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but he raised a challenging eyebrow. She shut her mouth without comment, and he threw his head back and laughed. The infectious nature of it drew a reluctant smile out of Georgia.

  Unfortunately, smiling reminded her how puffy her eyes were. She could barely see through their half-moon slits. She leaned forward and rubbed her face with her palms. A bad night’s sleep was horrible for her complexion. She must look like a bag of potatoes.

  But why worry about the way she looked? This was only Mr. Wells. It wasn’t like he’d even qualify as a suitor. She pictured herself hoeing a field as the wife of an island schoolmaster/planter, then shook away the image.

  He pivoted toward the door as his tanned fingers tied his cravat. She noted their fluid, graceful movement. Funny, he knew how to do it so well. Suddenly warm, Georgia averted her gaze.

  “Due to the storm, the roads will be impassable, so your father will be holding Sunday service in the breakfast room. Better hurry or you’ll be on the front row.”

  Was he poking fun at her again? She didn’t stop to see, just rose and retreated upstairs.

  After washing up and dressing, she sat front and center beside Aunt Tessa, the only seats left in their make-shift sanctuary. Harrison hadn’t been funning her about the front row. Mr. Wells, Max, and several servants sat behind her.

  Her father stood before a stack of sideways crates as a makeshift podium. He led them first through two hymns. She recognized both from attending Sunday services in London, but they never sounded the way they did today.

  Hattie’s voice rang out with a soulfulness that raised the fine hairs on Georgia’s arms and misted her eyes. The woman sang with such feeling that it seemed like angels might burst through the roof and shine their light her way. Her father and Mr. Wells’ baritone voices blended in with rudiment
ary harmonies, making the music that much sweeter. Georgia joined in quietly at first, the words hitting her like she’d never heard them before. Yes, she knew Jesus had died for her sins, but the song got her thinking.

  Were her sins really washed away, all her bitterness, anger, and jealousy wiped clean by his blood? Would Jesus truly leave the other ninety-nine sheep to find her?

  She tried to clamp onto the feeling even as the last notes faded.

  Her father opened the well-worn pages of his Bible. It reminded her of the many times she’d crawled into his lap as he sat in his reading chair. He’d pause and peer down at her through his spectacles, then begin reading his book out loud for her benefit. She gave herself a mental shake. That was before he’d abandoned her. A mirage.

  The warm timbre of his voice ran over her while he read the story of Joseph. When he finished, he closed his Bible with a thump. His eyes shimmered with passion as he walked around the makeshift podium. He perched his hip on the crate and let his leg dangle.

  “I love the story of Joseph. The poor boy was thrown into slavery by his own brothers and later into jail on a false accusation.” He paused, noting each of them. “Most of us would be angry, raving about injustice and wishing vengeance upon our brothers.”

  Georgia’s heart agreed. She wanted to shake Joseph’s brothers and scream, “It’s not his fault he was their father’s favorite.” Instead, she held her tongue and glanced around to see if anyone else was equally outraged. The others were listening intently, even Max, but their faces didn’t display the injustice that burned in Georgia’s heart.

  “We may blame God,” Papa continued. “Or believe he’s abandoned us, but Joseph didn’t. He put aside his pride and need for vengeance, and God raised him up to be Pharaoh’s right-hand man.” Her father patted his Bible and leaned in toward them. His voice lowered to just above a whisper. “You see, God doesn’t waste a hurt. The Bible refers to God as the potter, and we are the clay. I love this metaphor because it reminds me that we are God’s masterpiece. He is making us into something magnificent and functional. But if you have ever watched a potter, they have to guide the clay into shape, and sometimes they have to smush it back into a lump and start over. Sometimes, for God to rebuild us into his image, we too first have to be broken.”