The Pirate's Daughter

by Helen Dickson

‘Are you all right?’

  Taken aback by the sudden softening of his tone, Cassandra looked at him. The rare moment of tenderness touched a corner of her heart. He looked concerned and, after enduring many weeks of cold indifference, she was pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied softly. ‘Yes. I am perfectly well.’

  Fearing some contagious disease was about to burst out on the ship, which could turn out to be a disaster on a massive scale if not checked immediately, Stuart set about locating Mr Patterson and sending him to attend Rosa. He waited with increasing dread in the cabin next door whilst the surgeon examined her. After several minutes Mr Patterson appeared, his features set in grave lines of concern. He was followed by an extremely anxious-looking Cassandra.

  ‘What is it, Mr Patterson?’ she asked anxiously. ‘What is wrong with her?’

  Mr Patterson looked at her from beneath heavy brows drawn together over his nose in a frown. ‘She hasn’t been well since boarding the ship at Barbados, you say?’

  ‘No. In fact, since going to Barbados she seems to have been susceptible to weakness.’

  ‘Mmm. The climate frequently has that effect on people. If one doesn’t possess a strong constitution to begin with, they often have difficulty getting over even the slightest ailment.’

  ‘But living all her life on the Cape Verde Islands, Rosa is accustomed to such a climate, so it can’t be that. She will get well, won’t she?’ Cassandra asked hopefully.

  Giving a faint shrug, he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s impossible to say. She may—she may not.’

  ‘Is it possible that she has cholera, Mr Patterson? Please tell me.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I have to say the suddenness with which it has developed might lead one to think it might be—but she doesn’t have the symptoms of cholera such as the agonising cramps in her limbs and abdomen. Nor do I think it’s typhus, because there is no rash, which usually accompanies the disease, to suggest this.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ uttered Stuart with immense relief, for the last thing he wanted was an epidemic of typhus on board his ship, which would decimate his crew considerably. ‘Then what do you think it is?’

  ‘It can be any one of a group of mysterious infections characterised by high fever. It is possible that she may have eaten something contaminated—or become infected in any number of ways, which, because of the depressed state of her mind and body, has brought on the fever.’

  ‘Is there anyone else ill on the ship with the same symptoms as Rosa—and, if so, are any of the fevers contagious?’

  Mr Patterson shook his head. ‘We had two cases of yellow jack at the start of the voyage—both men died, as you know, but that was some time ago. We were fortunate to contain it, because usually the disease spreads rapidly. Since then I’ve had nothing more serious to contend with other than the usual dysentery, shipboard injuries and the occasional mild fever. How are you feeling, my dear?’ he asked with sudden concern, for her natural anxiety for her companion made her look pale and wan. ‘Do you feel well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Patterson. I feel quite well.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the fever may be malignant and highly infectious. If you insist on nursing your companion, there is every danger of you falling sick yourself.’

  ‘Then I shall order Rosa to be moved to the sick quarters,’ Stuart suggested sharply, ‘where you can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘No,’ said Cassandra, turning on him fiercely, her eyes flashing with a savage brilliance, her features charged with emotion. ‘It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think? I have already been exposed to whatever is wrong with Rosa. She will stay here where I can look after her myself.’

  Angered by her bold resistance to his authority, Stuart’s eyes narrowed. ‘I insist on her being moved. For God’s sake, Cassandra, be sensible,’ he admonished harshly. ‘You heard what Mr Patterson said. It is possible that the fever is highly virulent. If you do not expose yourself further, there is every chance you will not become infected. Rosa must be removed to the sick quarters at once.’ His face was white and his eyes challenged her dangerously to defy him.

  Feeling her blood pounding in her temples, Cassandra stood her ground and met his challenge defiantly, giving no thought to Mr Patterson’s presence. ‘Spare me your concern,’ she scorned, her face twisted in anguished bitterness. ‘Your sudden consideration for my well being is a travesty after all the agonising weeks of indifference I’ve been forced to endure.

  ‘Rosa is my responsibility. If you are concerned that the disease will spread throughout the ship, then you can make sure no one else comes near her or me. If I am to succumb to the disease, then so be it. In fact, I shall meet it with a happiness you could not possibly imagine—for it will free me from you and this mockery of a marriage.’

  Without looking back, Cassandra spun on her heel contemptuously and stormed from the cabin, leaving Mr Patterson staring after her in pure astonishment at her outburst, and Stuart with an expression as hard as iron. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides as he struggled to stop himself from going after her and physically dragging her away from Rosa’s bedside.

  The heat was unbearable inside the cabin as hour after hour Cassandra nursed Rosa. She lay on the narrow bed, twisting restlessly from side to side and rambling incoherently in her delirium, showing no sign of improvement. In fact, if anything, her condition grew much worse. Her eyes were dull and expressionless, her hair and body drenched with sweat. Cassandra worked ceaselessly, her mind torn with anguish as she poured the herbal posset Mr Patterson had given her into Rosa’s mouth. She was constantly wringing out cloths in cool water and placing them on Rosa’s face and body, which the fever had boiled dry.

  The day dragged on, the afternoon drawing to evening, and Cassandra had no thought for anything as she watched Rosa suffer, fervently praying to God not to let her dear friend die. If anyone had to die, then it should be her—for was she not the reason why Rosa had gone to Barbados in the first place, the reason for her being on board this ship?

  On the edge of her conscious mind she heard someone knock on the cabin door but ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away and leave her in peace to tend to Rosa, whose face was sunken against the pillows, her eyes hollow in deep purple sockets, her pulse rapid and her breathing so shallow that Cassandra had to place her hand on her chest to feel if she was still moving.

  With the dark a fresh period of waiting began as Rosa began to slip away from her. By midnight she had fallen into a coma and by dawn she was dead. Cassandra was numb with shock. It had happened so quickly. As she stared down at the waxen face of her companion, her friend, the young woman who had become more like a sister to her over the past months and was now beyond her, her heart was torn apart. With a trembling hand she reached out and stroked her cheek.

  ‘Rest, dear Rosa,’ she whispered before turning away, choking on a sob as a tear splashed down her face.

  She stumbled towards the door, desperate to leave the foetid atmosphere of the cabin and feel the cool morning air on her face. Dragging herself up the companion ladder and on to the quarter deck, she was vaguely aware of seamen moving about around her and aloft as they went about the ship’s routine work.

  Fearful of spreading infection, she moved away to an empty part of the deck and stood looking at the shimmering expanse of water all around her as far as the eye could see. Silver streaked the dawn sky and a fine mist floated on the surface of the sea, heralding the heat of the day. Her head ached as if it were about to split in two. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with air. Bone weary, she felt so tired that she couldn’t think. But she didn’t want to think any more. All she wanted was for the rest of the world to go away and leave her entirely alone.

  Stuart scarcely recognised the woman standing by the rail, swaying slightly, with lank strands of hair hanging down her face and her clothes dirty and stained with perspiration. From the moment she had locked herself in the
cabin with Rosa, refusing to open the door to anyone, he had lived through one of the worst nightmares of his life. Patiently he had waited for her to emerge—and, as the crew of his ship had discovered to their cost when he had vented all his anger on them, patience was not one of his virtues.

  The last rage-filled words Cassandra had flung at him before rebelliously locking herself in Rosa’s cabin had reverberated again and again in his mind as the hours slipped by so that he thought he would go mad.

  He was tormented by the devastating thought that by nursing her sick friend through the fever she too would become infected, and if so there was every possibility that she might die. He didn’t know what obscure feeling prompted him to torture himself in this manner over the well-being of a woman whose father had murdered his brother, but seeing her so wretched and dejected filled him with compassion and his heart went out to her. Her distress was real and pitiful to see.

  Cassandra was not aware of Stuart’s presence until he stood beside her. Numbly she turned and looked at him, her eyes glazed.

  ‘How is Rosa?’ Stuart asked gently.

  Cassandra met his dark eyes without flinching. ‘Rosa is dead. She died just a short while ago.’

  ‘I see. Then, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

  His words seemed to come to Cassandra from afar, penetrating her mind slowly. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Struggling to come to terms with Rosa’s death, and feeling frustration at her own inability not to have done more to save her, she turned the rage that had been simmering in her breast ever since Rosa had fallen ill on her husband with full force.

  ‘Sorry! You are sorry? I do not believe you. Ever since you became aware of who we are you have treated her with the same disdain and contempt as you did myself—as if we were lepers. You didn’t know Rosa. You never tried to get to know her, and your insufferable, overbearing pride and arrogant manner did little to endear you to either of us. Rosa was so good. So caring. She deserved to live more than anyone I know. And now she is dead.’

  Stuart looked at her with a grim seriousness. There was so much violence in her unpremeditated outburst of feeling, so much hurt. ‘I know, and your grief is understandable. But you are upset—overwrought. Come—let me escort you to your cabin. When you have washed and eaten perhaps you will be able to look upon her death in a better light.’

  ‘Better light? Never,’ she whispered fiercely, returning her self-recriminating gaze to the sea. ‘You don’t understand. How could you? You see, I can never atone for what I have done to Rosa. It’s because of me that she’s dead. If I had not foolishly taken it into my head to go with Drum when Nat was executed, she would still be alive.

  ‘Because of the hurt I have caused it should be me lying dead. But don’t worry,’ she said with a scornful twist to her lovely lips, spurred on by a sense of outrage. ‘With any luck at all I shall have contracted Rosa’s fever and will be dead within twenty-four hours.’

  Her words pierced Stuart to the heart. His expression softened. ‘You little fool. Don’t say that. There is every chance you will not have become infected.’

  ‘Maybe—we will soon know. However, perhaps you should not come too close to me, Stuart, otherwise there is every chance that you will become infected, too. But it would suit you, wouldn’t it, if I contracted the same illness as Rosa—if it became fatal? At least then you would be rid of me, which would save you the embarrassment of explaining who I am to your family and friends. I know you have much to forgive—but I no longer care whether you do or not.

  ‘Our marriage is ridiculous and a mockery and I should never have let myself be charmed by you. Let us say that the Caribbean cast a spell on us both, a spell that lost its enchantment the moment we left Barbados’s shores. In the beginning I hoped things would be different between us and that you would come to accept me as your wife, despite who my father was. But I realise now that it can never be.’

  Stuart listened to her outburst in grim silence, stiff and wary. He realised her grief over Rosa’s death and his own treatment of her had wounded her deeply but, no matter how much he wanted the matter to be resolved between them, he was unable to put the past behind him just yet. It was too soon. But neither did he want to lose her.

  ‘I told you I need time to come to terms with who you are.’

  ‘Time! How much time? A lifetime? I am not prepared to wait that long, Stuart.’ Her gaze became sad as she looked at the sea. A haziness blurred her vision, and the pain inside her head was growing stronger. ‘You have no idea how much I have wished with all my heart for things to be different between us. I cannot help my past—and I deeply regret it. But your treatment of me has been cruel to the extreme and I cannot bear it. That is why I have decided to be mistress of my own destiny. I will not live with a man who finds me repellent.’

  She did not tell him of the nights she had lain awake in her bed, knowing he was sleeping just behind the bulkhead in the adjacent cabin, just a few short steps away, or how she had hoped he would come to her, and how she had eventually fallen to sleep with her yearning unfulfilled.

  ‘You know perfectly well that you do not repel me—quite the opposite, in fact—but it would seem you have given the matter much thought, Cassandra.’

  ‘During the past twenty-four hours I’ve had plenty of time to consider my future—a future without you.’

  ‘Then, please, tell me what you have decided?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘When the first land is sighted I want you to put me ashore. You will go on to England without me—and forget me, if you can. I don’t want to go on without you—I don’t know if I can. I don’t know how I will bear it.’ Her voice was low but steady, and in her eyes as she looked at him was the profound truth of her love for him.

  Stuart was deeply moved by her words and the look in her eyes. There was a pain in his heart and his arms ached to hold her. He had to keep a tight rein on his emotions, on his feelings for her. He must not let her see what was in him, for he had made up his mind not to touch her, and she might weaken him. At length, he said, ‘And if I refuse to do as you ask?’

  ‘I shall jump overboard if I have to. You see, Stuart, I have no mind to let you take me to England where, should my identity become known—as there is every chance it will be—I shall be hanged. I cannot deny that the dread of discovery dwells heavy on my heart.’ Her lips curled with irony. ‘In that respect I am a coward, you see. So…will you agree to do as I ask—should I live that long, that is?’

  Despite the barrier her relationship to Nathaniel Wylde had erected between them, the idea that they must part for ever was not to be borne. ‘Ask anything else of me, but that I will never do,’ Stuart answered, speaking in a controlled voice, forcing himself to remain calm. To show anger would achieve nothing at this time when she was grieving for Rosa. His eyes were like ice, but apart from that his expression betrayed no emotion. ‘I shall have you shackled in irons if need be when we near land. You are my wife and will remain with me.

  ‘I would not insist on taking you to England if I knew you faced arrest. Apart from Samuel Tillotson, who has given me his word never to speak of it, I am pretty confident no one will discover your identity.’

  ‘You are wrong, Stuart. If you recall, I told you that several of our neighbours in Chelsea know who my father was. He always went to great lengths to conceal his identity—always coming to the house quietly and seeing me in private, but servants are not stupid. They talk.’

  ‘Then you must not go back to Everson House. As far as your neighbours are concerned you went to Barbados to visit your cousin and to all intents and purposes there you remain. And think about it, Cassandra. Why would anyone, knowing the reason why, believe that I was the man responsible for bringing one of England’s most notorious pirates to the gallows, would make his daughter my wife? So let there be no more talk of you going ashore. However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. Come. I will escort you below.’

>   Had he exploded with anger at her request, or responded with more force, Cassandra would have understood, but the deathly quiet of his voice unsettled her. A hard lump rose in her throat. She loved him to distraction and could not think of a world in which he did not exist. But she could not remain with him and not have his love. She would find some way of leaving the ship. She must. How she would survive the pain of leaving him she knew not, but her mind told her coldly that, if she was to retain her sanity and any dignity in her life, this was what she must do. Overcome with an intense feeling of weariness, she turned from him.

  ‘Thank you—but I am perfectly capable of finding my own way down to the cabin.’

  Stuart could see she was far from capable of going anywhere without assistance as she swayed against him. She had eaten nothing and had been without sleep for over twenty-four hours, and she was worn out with looking after Rosa. Taking one look at her flushed face and bright eyes, it was clear she had come to the end of her strength.

  Suddenly everything seemed so far away to Cassandra. ‘I’m so tired. I—I think I’ll lie down for a while,’ she murmured, placing a hand to her aching brow. Beneath her clothes sweat damped her body. Her stomach contracted and a wave of nausea robbed her of breath. She summoned the strength to move. Her movements were clumsy and each step was a concentrated effort of will. The deck seemed to sway around her and she staggered and would have fallen, but Stuart stooped to lift her up in his arms. His face, white and wiped clean of all but a hideous fear, was the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her.

  Chapter Nine

  Cassandra’s collapse struck terror into Stuart’s heart. His chest heaving with exertion and his heart hammering in a frantic rhythm, he carried his beloved burden across the deck, oblivious to the stricken, fearful faces of the crew. Reaching her cabin, he began to try to make Cassandra comfortable, driven by desperation, all the while fear that she might die clawing at him. Stripping her of her gown, he settled her back on the pillows. Her eyes were closed, her breathing laboured. Without another woman on board to nurse her—and refusing to even contemplate sending her to the sick quarters for Mr Patterson to tend, for a man other than himself to touch her—he knew it was up to him to look after her.