Americans were a coarse, unruly breed, but this man exhibited sophistication. His cultured voice rivaled any English aristocrat, and his intelligence was obvious. No doubt stubbornness lay stamped in that unshaven jaw. To her estimation, he was a score and ten years. She pictured him the lord of a fine estate. She fluffed the feather tick, smoothing out the bumps until they lay flat. How did a man like that come to command a privateer ship when his manner spoke of wealth and refinement?
Her thoughts drifted back to Humphrey and their childhood escapades. Their adventures directed from Abigail invariably spelled trouble. Humphrey always tried to take the blame. Abigail would not let him. She told the truth to her father…except for the deception of her engagement. Her heart clenched.
“Boy, come here.”
He had caught her woolgathering. Abby dragged her feet to the end of his desk. Why did he wear such a heavy scowl? Had she done something wrong? Like she had with the captain of the Civis, she covered her head with her hands expectant of the coming blow.
“What are you doing?”
Abby peeked between her arms. “I’m waiting for you to hit me.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I do not abuse children. Can you read?”
Abby kept her head bowed studying his stained boot tapping beneath the desk. The same boot she threw-up on after she killed Captain Lee. Her teeth ground together. Simeon informed Thorne she was simple, the charade must be maintained. She shook her head.
Thorne rose and unlocked a chest at the end of his bed and threw it open. Abby had dusted the chest and craned her neck to see what was inside. Gowns. Gorgeous colorful gowns. If only to don a gown and twirl around.
Why did Thorne have ladies gowns? Contraband? Did he have a paramour? Didn’t all pirates have dozens of women? To think he posed as a vicar. How he had fooled everyone at her ball and she the biggest fool of all, to fall into his arms, to become another of his conquests? Abby fumed. If only she could point a British-Man-O-War in his direction.
“Most of the contents are for my cousin in Boston.” He muttered and beneath that shock of raven black hair, he rummaged to the bottom and pulled out a book. “We will begin your lessons.” He sat at his desk and kicked a chair up next to him, opening a primer she had recited when she was a precocious child of three.
Abby gaped. “Lessons? I’m no good at learning.” She pivoted to the door. Cleaning his room was one thing but knee to knee contact between teacher and pupil? He kicked up a chair next to him and hauled her into it. Abby gave him a disparaging look. Spine straight as a mast, she settled on the edge.
Jacob opened the book. “Nonsense. Every seaman needs to have proper learning. A,” he said, pointing to the letter. “B…,” he continued.
Jacob wondered why he was helping the boy. Because he had stolen a loaf of bread from an aristocrat and was enslaved and whipped on a ship. His fists tightened thinking of the Banfield estate, the lush gardens, the long drive leading up to a castle, the army of servants. So much wealth and this boy starved?
Wasn’t that his true war? The war against the aristocracy of England, denouncing the old rules that paid homage to the entitled and privileged while the rest of the masses starved.
His gut kicked, his body reacting to memories of his family. His uncle and guardian, Hugh Thorne, lived larger than life to a young boy, who thirsted for a father. As he did with all his children, Hugh encouraged Jacob’s education providing him the best of tutors. Involved in numerous business pursuits, Hugh stood a stalwart and principled man and cultivated Jacob’s interest in shipbuilding, a demanding and growing enterprise in the New World. Under Hugh’s stern eye, he nurtured Jacob’s unusual aptitude and, typical of New Englanders, worked him hard to better understand the mechanisms of the world. In addition, he sent the boy sailing, to learn the sea and the many refined skills needed to prove the crafts he built. His intentions lay clear. Jacob would inherit fifty percent share of the shipyard.
Events rapidly changed when the British shut down Boston Harbor. The suppression of King George’s representatives converted the taciturn Hugh Thorne into a staunch and ardent patriot. Jacob remained immune and moved out from under his uncle’s roof more concerned with the leisurely pursuits of life. He could not sympathize with the rebellion and openly defied his uncle’s declarations, seeing no good to come from it. After all, business in the shipyard was booming with repairs to British ships.
His uncle fell at Breed’s Hill and after the battle, Jacob rushed to the field. His uncle died in his arms. Hugh extracted a promise from him that he’d care for the family. Instead Jacob drowned his sorrows in ale oblivious of the state of affairs surrounding him. His Aunt Esther died of the influenza, but more likely from a broken heart. Good or bad, everyone’s life was made by choices. For Thorne, he had chosen rum to heal the wounds of his dead Uncle Hugh and Aunt Esther who were like a mother and father to him.
To think he’d derive pleasure from confronting his real father, The Duke of Banfield. How many times had he fantasied that meeting, striking his father to the ground? Had his father forced himself on his mother? How vulnerable she was, finding herself with child, forced to seek refuge in America with her sister and her brother-in-law. She died when he was ten summers.
He had asked his father to free his cousin Ethan Thorne, a privateer rotting in a hellhole of a British prison. Each day his death loomed, starvation and beatings, the daily fare. Ethan was like a brother to him. Jacob’s real father had failed.
In the gloomy silence, Abe looked expectantly to him. “Why do I have to learn?”
Didn’t Thomas fight everyone on everything? Thorne grunted. “I have read many books, gathering their beauty, their wit or wisdom against dark days. I have known belly-low hunger many times over, but I have known a worse hunger−the need to know and to learn.”
“Dark days?”
The boy’s question had a far-reaching sensitivity. “I had a cousin once. His name was Thomas. He was about your age.”
“Had?” Abe’s eyebrows disappeared under the loathsome cap.
The air grew thick with unspoken emotions. Abe was so like his young cousin, Thomas small of stature, slim, beardless and with all the sensitivity and discovery of the world awaiting him. The seductive temptation to break through the barriers of buried aches mocked Jacob. Wasn’t it less damning to tell the tale to a boy, a simple one at that, who would not judge?
“In 1765, the British crown commanded unwieldy restrictions and unfair taxation. Soon Boston became the pulse of the Colonies rebellion. In answering volley, the King cracked down and surrounded the harbor with a siege. My family suffered under the Quartering Act, the forced imposition of housing His Majesty’s soldiers. My eighteen-year-old cousin, a beauty, fell under the scrutiny of a British sergeant. One night, she had gone out into the barn to check on a mare that was foaling. She screamed for help, and then was struck unconscious by the British sergeant. He planned to have his way with her but Thomas surprised him. The British sergeant ran the boy through with his sword. That lying redcoat bastard, had me arrested for the murder.” Under the British siege of Boston, Thorne’s word against an officer of the realm carried no weight at all. After a hasty trial, the reality of a noose came clear. Transported from prison to the gallows, friends furious with the injustice, created a diversion and freed him. Thorne recruited several sailors. Under the cloak of night and right under the nose of the English occupiers, they threaded a needle among anchored British Man O’ Wars, sailing free of Boston Harbor to take on the deadly trade of privateering.
“I was very close to Thomas. I should have been there...” If only he’d not laid waste to his drunken stupor and forsaken his cousins. He had responsibilities, had disregarded his promise to his uncle. Through his contrition, Thorne had disclosed his sins to the lad. Why? Was the admission a way to seek absolution? Or was it the way the lad leaned in and listened attentively?
Abby blinked. Thorne’s story and loyalty to his family touched her hear
t. She had to restrain herself from not touching his sleeve as she listened without judgment to his sad tale and the crimes he suffered. In England, she was far removed from the American conflict, leaving her indifferent and immune to their cause. Being this close gave her a unique perspective. She offered up a prayer to ease his anguish with the realization that the devastation he bore created revenge in him. She must remain guarded.
Thorne resumed the lessons, his voice squared patient and rhythmic. Abby repeated the letters and phonetic sounds as instructed, the tedious exercise boring her to tears. Her father had procured the best of tutors for her brothers and had insisted on her education. Extremely competitive, the Rutland siblings thrived on ruthless competition with their little sister. In fierce debates, she had triumphed over her older brothers, amazing her father and tutors. She smiled.
Wouldn’t Captain Thorne be surprised to learn she had scholarly proficiency in Latin, French, and German, and could perform elementary calculus? Plus, she owned a firm grasp of the sciences and philosophy. To eradicate the whimsy flowing through her mind, Abby shook her head.
“Tell me to slow down when you don’t understand,” he said, in that deep smoothly accented voice that rolled up her spine. “Learning is difficult and takes time.”
“Z,” she repeated, and bestowed on him a proper idiot grin to maintain her disguise when he pointed to the letter. Why was this renowned privateer teaching an orphan to read? Here was a man who caused her maids to shiver with stories of goblins and monsters and demons. He was not a malformed creature, nor shaped like a centaur or griffin. No. He was a flesh and blood man, unquestionably attractive, sturdy, rugged, with a lean, hard muscled body, and those cobalt eyes, so clear and perceptive.
“C-a-t.” He moved onto words and exaggerated the consonants and vowel for her.
“Cat,” Abby followed. To think he’d enraged the King of England, crippled the economy of the greatest power in Europe, and outwitted the strongest naval fleet in the world.
Like confronting a jackal in its own den. The cryptic response he had given in the garden before he had kissed her made sense now. Of course, he moved close to his enemies, to learn their movements. How close she had been in guessing his identity. She gritted her teeth. And now, the tables were reversed. Was she not an orphan boy? Abby smirked. Her disguise the night of the ball with the heavy platinum wig and mask fooled Thorne.
Pleased with her progress, Thorne’s fingers flexed over the edges of the book. Her mother had taught her a person’s personality could be read in his hands. His were calloused hands from rough work with long tapered fingers, hands that indicated confidence and strength.
Abby fidgeted with the inkwell. He moved it from her, his finger grazing hers. She jerked her hands beneath the table and took in their appearance, broken nails, filthy and calloused fingers, nothing to remark any womanliness.
Thorne checked his pocket watch. “Enough lessons for today. Go help Simeon serve dinner.” Abby shot to her feet, overturning her chair. Under Thorne’s curse she righted it, and flew from the room.
As the ship’s bell tolled five, dinner was served. The table was set with linens, gleaming silver, Staffordshire china edged with rose bouquets, and a tall candelabra, winking with beeswax candles. Like one of her father’s footmen, Abe held up the wall, serving and removing dishes when required, and then poured confiscated wine from the Civis into crystal glasses. Most of the accompaniments, she surmised, pilfered from merchant ships.
She objected to thievery of any kind. Bred into her remained high moral principles and she examined the cost and benefits. For his efforts, Thorne stood to gain a rope about his neck.
With his ruddy cheeks, chafed by the wind and ever present smile, Benjamin Lewis, the gunner patted his rotund belly. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal like this in my entire life, Captain.”
Long-limbed, clean shaven, brown hair pulled back neatly in a queue, Joseph Lawton, Thorne’s lieutenant raised his glass to Simeon who cut through puff-pastry, serving hefty portions of dessert. “To the best prize, we ever collected. You are worth your weight in gold, Simeon.”
Abby’s mouth watered. Truly, Simeon had outdone himself and deserved the praise. Thorne raised his glass with equal enthusiasm, his leg hooked over an arm of his chair; he leaned back and surveyed his men, indisputably the sovereign of his kingdom.
Her mind drifted, thinking of the man who kidnapped her. With only the memory of a thin reedy voice, how could she distinguish her unseen enemy? Certainly, he was not aboard the Civis. Who had kidnapped her? Who had set the fire? How many were there?
Enos, the ship’s carpenter stabbed his beef. “A couple weeks ‘til we reach Martinique?”
Abby tensed. Martinique? She recalled what little she had learned in geography and read in the papers. An island ruled by the French in the Caribbean, renowned for American rebels to disburse cargo. It made sense. The Vengeance was loaded to the hilt with the Civis’s valuables and Thorne would need to unload at an allied port.
Her stomach was empty but her head was full of vengeance. If she could get back to England, she knew she could get help to find the men responsible. Round it swirled, memories of every painful offense, devising new and interesting ways of bringing her families’ enemies to sudden, gagging, writhing, agonizing justice. Could she and Simeon escape once they landed in Martinique? Could they find passage home? She toyed with a button on her coat, tamped down the glee rising in her throat, unable to wait to inform Simeon.
“Boy. Come here and fill our glasses,” ordered Thorne with a resounding chorus of agreement. “To the Civis and the profit she gave us and−” he raised his glass and the men followed with hearty laughter “−may all of England’s aristocracy swim in a special place in hell.”
Abby stiffened. If he was related to the Banfield’s, why would he hate them? A strong fire was stoked in Thorne, enough to hold a booted foot on the neck of all aristocrats. Simeon’s warnings flared. Tread warily.
To earn the rebel’s trust grew paramount and as the evening lingered, she eagerly topped off their glasses of wine. By midnight, all four were deep in their cups. Abby’s feet smarted from unbearable blisters spawned by shuffling around in her large boots. She stretched her limbs, stiff from standing so long.
By accident the lieutenant’s posture and bearing resembled a British governor. He helped himself to an extra portion of apple flan. “What plans do you have for your birthday eve, Enos?”
Enos’s cheek-bones stood up, and below them were deep hollows, like egg-cups. He pawed his short craggy beard and puffed his chest like a bantam rooster. “I have a girl named Sally to attend my needs.”
Another woman present on the boat? Abby stood to attention. She had seen none.
Thorne dropped his chair to all fours. “I hear fair Sally is missing something of late.”
“Aye sadly, that she is,” Enos concurred, staring into his glass.
Thorne slapped Enos on his back, threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he did something that verified his madness. He broke out in song, his deep rich baritone followed by his men, pounding the table, picking up a familiar nursery rhyme, and inventing their own ribald lyrics.
Sally lost her breasts and asked the mate if he could find them.
Leave them alone and they’ll come home wagging their teats behind them.
Abby clapped her hands on her ears then yanked them down to her sides. Heat stole up her cheeks. Of course, the object of their passion was the certain anatomy of the Vengeance’s figurehead, named Sally. The Civis had clipped her breasts with cannon fire.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Thorne slurred his words. “You lived on the streets of London. I’m sure the doxies curled your ears.”
She was about to correct him saying she had no familiarity with prostitutes. She stared at the ceiling instead. Thorne rose from his chair, an indication to his crew he was tired and that the festivities had concluded. The crew bid their adieus.
Thorne waved a hand over the table. “Tomorrow boy. Now come here.” He stumbled in the corner searching then rising unsteadily, he produced a small pair of boots. “Can’t risk you falling overboard with those over-sized boots. The Vengeance’s prior cook wore them. Since he was killed in a skirmish, he won’t need them.”
Abby’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t know what to say, Captain Thorne.” To wear a dead man’s boots! She closed her eyes to hide her horror, visualizing the rows and rows of boots and satin slippers lining her wardrobe room.
Thorne flopped on his bed pleased to see her overwhelmed with his gift. In seconds, he snored. Abby leaned against the bed post. Asleep, Thorne did not appear so monstrous. She wondered about his conflicting nature. He certainly gave an orphan boy a chance, teaching him to read, money for labors, and the gift of boots, even if they were from a departed soul. Her chest tightened with his thoughtfulness. Without covers, he’d catch cold. Abby pulled the blankets around him. With the boots under her arm, Abby grabbed up a plate of leftovers, snatched a book off the shelf and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 4
Abby awoke to the chime of bells, the churn of waves and murmur of masculine voices. She lay perfectly still, trying to pretend this was not real. She refused to open her eyes. So long as she kept them closed she could imagine she was back home, in her own bed of pressed linens and snuggled beneath her silk damask counterpane. In a few minutes, her maids would come in with tea and cream, sprinkling the exact amount of sugar required for her taste. During the next few moments, plans would be discussed for the day’s events along with the gowns and accoutrements to accompany those activities.
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