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Blaggard's Moon

Page 5

by George Bryan Polivka


  Ham just tugged on his crooked pipe, let the smoke rise and the ire settle. “See, boys, that’s just it. That’s just the kind of woman she was. Men took to her, took to defending her, just as you’re doing now. Many wanted her for themselves. Many others just didn’t want the under-deserving to have her. She carried herself with an air of easy nobility, and when she looked at you, you felt the light of it in those blue eyes. Like not only was she noble, you could be noble too, just by standing close enough. But I’ll tell you, Jenta Flug was not born noble. No, that rumor was false. She was in truth born poor, raised poor, and by a mother who dreamed she’d become more.”

  “Wait, who’s Flug? I thought you said her name was Stillmithers. If she married this Ryland, wouldn’t her name be Ryland?”

  “Aye, yer messin’ it up. How many names she got?”

  “Ah, it’s a wee bit hard to answer all these questions at once, and still let you nod off after only a few minutes time.” He sighed and stroked his beard. “But I’ll try. See, Jenta’s mother, name of Shayla Flug, had made what fine people in up-and-up society call a bad, bad mistake. She wasn’t more than sixteen when she’d latched on to a man above her station, a gentleman who was…kind to her. But he turned against her and turned her out, soon as he learned she was with child.”

  Whistles and low whoops stole through the forecastle.

  “He swore the baby wasn’t his, and all believed him. The young man’s family promised to pay handsomely for her to keep it all quiet and secret and send the baby off to an orphanage, but she refused. And then her own family gave her the boot. And so that left Shayla Flug to fend for herself, a scarlet woman now, and a baby on the way.”

  “What’d she look like, Ham? The scarlet mother?”

  “Well, she had raven-dark hair and clear green eyes. Her skin was like the finest white porcelain, and her heart, they said, was the same. But who could blame her for turning cold, making her own way like she did in a world where she was scorned? She took the only honest job she could find, with a wealthy man who let her have one small room in his basement for raising her child. She became the lowest of household servants, no more than a washerwoman, her delicate fingers ever raw and callused from scrubbing the master’s silk stockings and the mistress’s dainty underthings.”

  “Dainty underthings,” one listener repeated. Men chuckled and glanced sideways at one another.

  “It was a hard life for Shayla Flug. But she loved her little girl, and gave her the name of Jenta in the hope that one day, some way, she’d become a gentlewoman herself. And Jenta grew to be a beauty. Tall and comely, with blue eyes that pierced.”

  “And hair like a mug a’ beer!” a young voice noted.

  Ham winced. “Ah, the analogy is apt, even if the words fall somewhat short of perfection, Mr. Trum. But let’s rather again say that her hair was the color of a fine sherry, and leave it there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Jenta, now, she was softhearted. And she learned something her mother had lost somewhere along the way. Jenta knew how to laugh. She would seem quiet and serene, politely listening, and then something would strike her, and her blue eyes would spark like a flint on powder, and she’d laugh, and her laugh would light the darkness. And the world would be drawn to her. And by the world, I mean the world of men.

  “But Shayla protected her daughter ferociously. This one, this one, would grow up a lady. And so while Shayla cleared the teacups and crumbs of crumpet cakes, she watched the wealthy women carefully, and she listened close and studied how they worked their polite magic. And when she wasn’t washing the linens or polishing silver or scrubbing fine marble tiles, she was schooling her daughter in the ways of gentility, teaching her how to sip from a porcelain cup with her pinky finger raised.”

  A few of the men, lost now in the tale, raised invisible cups to their lips and dutifully protruded their little fingers.

  “And Jenta learned how to proffer a limp hand for a gentleman to kiss at a garden party.” Several men kissed invisible hands. One or two absently held up limp hands toward the dark timbers above their hammocks.

  “Eventually, she taught Jenta all the manners and mannerisms, and Jenta learned to be a perfect lady. But as Jenta came of age, neither her lessons nor her skills brought her a single invitation to any of the fine events in town. For in Nearing Vast, in the City of Mann at least, the doors to such society are shut upon those not born to rank and privilege.”

  There were grumblings about the unfairness of society’s doors.

  “There was one dance, though, just one, a cotillion held for new recruits into His Majesty’s Navy. It was local girls saying their goodbyes to local boys, mostly, but it had an air of respectability to it. Jenta was sixteen, versed in all the ins and all the outs of polite banter, knowing the fine dance steps of ladies and gentlemen, and ready to put such skills to use. So Shayla said yes, and Jenta went. And there she danced with many a young sailor. Several caught her eye, but only one caught her fancy.”

  “You’re a quiet one.”

  Jenta said it to the dark-haired boy who leaned against the wall near the bowl of sugar punch. He wore the same blue uniform as the others, but standing there by the drapes where the wall angled in, he fairly melted into the shadows. She had noticed him some time back, tall and aloof, calm eyes that spoke of some larger purpose, something deeper. He seemed more aware, somehow, than the others. He had held her gaze when she glanced at him during a dance, not in a challenging way, nor in a hopeful way as most of the boys did, nor in that hungry way a few of them did, but just in a questioning way. As though he felt she was different, too. He hadn’t seemed the least interested in dancing; she even saw him shake his head when chatting with several girls who came by and then left him alone again.

  Jenta spoke the words after she had finished perhaps her fifth dance, a slow and melancholy thing, throughout which she had needed to assure her partner that no, he hadn’t hurt her toes and yes, he was doing just fine, both of which he seemed quite willing to believe. She had graciously declined the young man’s offer to continue their partnership into the next tune, citing a sudden thirst, and when he asked if he could accompany her to the punch bowl she had quickly agreed. But on the way she introduced him to a young lady with whom she had spoken earlier in the evening, and who afterward seemed to watch with something that looked a bit like envy. So after a brief conversation, during which it was discovered that the young lady very much enjoyed dancing and the young man very much wanted to learn to dance better, she was able to complete her quest for punch unaccompanied.

  She did not pick up one of the empty cups beside the bowl, however, but instead stood nearby watching the dancers, close enough to the quiet young man that he must be quite aware of her presence, but not so close as to be considered forward. He made no move to introduce himself. She sighed, fanned herself, and even caught his eye with hers once. But he said nothing. So she was the first to speak, a simple observation, not an accusation, regarding the apparent disparity between his level of interest in the affairs of the evening and his actual participation in them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in answer. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

  “You don’t dance, then?”

  “No.” He was not apologetic about it.

  “But you don’t mind watching others.”

  The fiddler hit three sour notes by way of tuning, then started in, joined by a bass fiddle in a much more spirited tune.

  “I don’t step on toes when I watch others.” His raised eyebrow spoke of experience.

  She laughed. “Not a risk taker, then?”

  He did not answer. Instead he studied her.

  She turned her attention back to the dance, letting him make his assessments, hoping she had not offended him. But she thought not. She waved at the couple she had recently put together. The young man smiled as he danced by. The young lady winced.

  “What are you doing here?” Not curt or cold,
but curious.

  She turned her head toward him, looked away again. “Certainly you know. You’ve been watching me all night.”

  “Well, there’s only one way you could know that.” His tone was not defensive.

  She laughed again. “I did wonder why you’re standing here alone. I thought perhaps you were assigned to guard the punch bowl.”

  He shook his head. He was not smiling, but he was not angry, either. He picked up a cup, scooped it almost full, then held it out to her.

  She put her hand on it. He held it just a moment longer than he needed to. “You didn’t come over here for the punch. Did you?” he asked.

  His directness took her off guard. She heard no accusation and no pretense. She glanced around to see if any of the others had overheard him. It was rude behavior, she knew, but no one was paying attention, and she found herself unable to react negatively. In fact, it had the opposite effect. “Well, my mother tells me I have a bad habit of picking up strays.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  She looked into the cup, studying the deep red liquid. She smelled strawberries. But she did not drink. “I don’t know what you are.”

  He looked into her, studying her bright blue eyes. He smelled the honeysuckle of her perfume. “But these others belong here. You don’t.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “No. But I don’t belong here, either.”

  She felt suddenly his sense of purpose, and it surprised her. It was startling. It was not unattractive.

  A talkative crowd now gathered around the punch bowl, surrounding them, ignoring them. He made a quick gesture with his head, hardly a formal invitation, but when he walked away she walked with him.

  They stood on the back porch of the inn, looking out over the street. It was quiet here, a perfect summer’s evening. The music sounded farther away than it was, and more melodious, more wistful somehow, from this distance. A watchman in a soiled frock coat walked to a lamppost, set down his stepstool, climbed up, and began trimming the wick, brightening the street by a shade or two. Now from behind them, a matronly woman creaked heavily onto the porch and crossed her arms.

  “There’s your guard of the punch bowl,” Damrick whispered, cutting his eyes to the chaperone.

  She smiled, but did not laugh.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. He seemed much more at ease out here.

  She wanted to tell him. But for some reason, she didn’t. “Do you ship out in the morning?”

  He nodded. He looked out over the street again. “Three years of service, starting at dawn.”

  She wished she hadn’t brought it up. That was his focus. That was his sense of purpose. Of course. “Will you look for me when you return?” She asked it impulsively, but she held his gaze when he turned to question her. She felt a sting as he searched for an answer. His eyes grew distant again, though he looked at her still.

  Finally, he looked back down the street. “It’s hard to know what three years will bring.” Then they spoke about the Navy, about pirates, then back to cotillions. But they never got back around to her question.

  “That was a conversation Jenta never did forget,” Ham informed his audience. “She talked to her mama about it, and when she spoke about the dark young man, her pulse quickened. Shayla saw it, and warned her about the risks, the attraction that a woman could feel for a dark, mysterious fellow with a trace of danger about him.”

  “That’s us!” someone called. The others sang out in hopeful agreement.

  “She told her mother he’d behaved as a gentleman, but Shayla was quick to point out that in fact he was not one. Jenta countered that neither was she a lady, and what ensued was…a serious clash of conflicting convictions.”

  “A serious what?”

  “An argument. The upshot was that there would be no more cotillions for Jenta unless they were truly of the higher social order. And so, there would be no more cotillions. Three years later, the most beautiful young woman in the city, nearly twenty years old and refined of heart and mind, lived with her mother and two cats in a cramped, dank cellar below a rich man’s house, smelling of lye and linens, not even allowed the light of day of the servant’s quarters.”

  Many of the men growled and groused on her behalf.

  Delaney was one of them. He had seen a fair number of those born to rank and privilege up close, after he’d turned pirate. He had brought the favored, the slammers of social doors, to unfavorable ends. He had done his part to blast those doors down, using cannon fire and gunpowder. He had watched as gentlemen, and even a few ladies, trembled with fear when set upon at sea.

  Fear and terror, that was something Delaney expected. But disgust, that he did not expect, and it had chafed him raw inside. More often than not he saw disdain in the haughty faces of the rich, heard scorn from lace-trimmed throats, felt contempt in their defiant refusals or grudging compliance. It made Delaney feel bitter and small and exposed somehow, even though it was he who held the pistol.

  The truth was, the haughtiness of the high and mighty could make pirating a satisfying line of work.

  “Damrick, on the gangway that day,” Ham continued, “looking into her eyes as he’d done years earlier, felt the fanned ember of that single evening years before. And just as the slightest spark falling from a flint can smolder on a forest floor among the dry leaves and pine duff, almost invisible, in the same way, that evening spent in conversation on a porch burned within each of them. Now the winds of fate that drew them close once more also blew that ember to flare up suddenly, a flame that could not be denied by either, drawing them silently but surely back toward one another.

  “But let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. For Jenta’s voyage south began not on that gangway, nor with that rekindling moment. No, it began just a bit earlier that same day, when Shayla rushed down to the cellar and announced to her daughter that all must be left behind. She hurried them both through the packing of clothes into laundry sacks, and they rushed out and up toward a waiting carriage, fleeing at last the servant’s life in Nearing Vast.”

  “Mama, is that carriage for us?”

  “Try to act as though you’ve seen one before. And I’m your mother, not your mama. We are in public.”

  Jenta stiffened, looked at the driver, a man quite a bit older than Shayla but plenty spry. He hadn’t overheard; Shayla had been discreet, as always. A striped tabby cat wandered up, eyes questioning. Her long tail flicked back and forth at the tip. “Poor Moggie,” she said, picking her up. “Who will feed you table scraps?” The cat let herself be held tight.

  The driver stepped down and looked at the two sorry sacks, stained and ragged. “Are these your traveling bags, madam?” Shayla said nothing in response to his bewilderment, but instead waited silently at the carriage door. He shrugged, put out a hand, and helped Shayla in.

  “Come, girl,” her mother said from within. “And no, we cannot take that with us.”

  “She wouldn’t be any trouble. Would you, Mogs?” She scratched the cat behind the ears.

  Shayla gave her just a moment, then said, “There are strays everywhere. Pick one up on the way.”

  Jenta whispered softly to the cat. When she set it on the ground, it promptly ran toward the house. “Won’t even miss me, will you?” she said after it. But Moggie turned and sat, and watched.

  Jenta admired the carriage even more on the inside, though she kept that to herself. It was polished mahogany and walnut wood, smelling of lemon oil and leather. The upholstery was blue velvet. She heard the thuds of the duffels hitting the roof, the creak of leather straps as the driver buckled them down tight, and then the cluck of a tongue, the slap of reins, and finally the plod of hooves on the dirt street. The carriage lurched and creaked.

  “Wait!” The voice came from the lawn behind them.

  “Don’t stop, driver!” Shayla called out.

  But the carriage ground to a halt.

  Jenta, facing backward, watched the approach of a familiar white-
haired man, slightly bent, whipping his cane ahead of him and planting it with conviction at each step. He popped his head into the window. Thin white hair flowed back from a lively face punctuated with bright, kind eyes. Shayla looked calmly at her employer.

  “Ma’am,” he said by way of hello. Then to Jenta, “Miss.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Frost,” Jenta answered as brightly as she dared. She had always liked him.

  “You seem to be leaving in quite a hurry. Is everything all right?”

  Shayla blinked once. “Yes, thank you. I apologize for our haste, but we must not miss our ship.”

  “Your ship? I see. So it’s Runsford Ryland taking you…where? South?”

  “We are his invited guests. And yes.”

  He nodded. “I don’t suppose I could talk you out of it?”

  “I don’t suppose you could.”

  “You don’t know him well.” Now the old gentleman looked concerned.

  “I suppose not. But he has promised us…introductions. And a place to live above ground.”

  “Yes, I understand. A step up.” He fumbled in his pocket. “I don’t blame you for that. Here, take this.” He held out two gold coins.

  “For what possible purpose?” Shayla asked, as Jenta watched in silence.

  “You may find you need independent means.”

  Shayla looked at him carefully. “For nineteen years I have washed your socks and changed your bed linens and served your tea. You and Mrs. Frost have kept me in a cellar. I care not about myself, but I would have liked some small foothold for my daughter, so that she would not be condemned to the same life. And yet you could not, or would not, provide it.”

  “We have tried.”

  “Have you?”

  “Mother!” Jenta whispered. She had felt the sting of Shayla’s displeasure often, but had never known her to aim it toward Mr. Frost.

  Shayla didn’t pause. “You lent us money to buy the clothes we wear, which I repaid in extra hours and extra duties. And you introduced me to Runsford Ryland. For those two things I thank you, but you will excuse me if I find your parting gift rather dubious. Now that your scrubwoman is already gone, you offer her independent means?”

 

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