The Pirate's Widow

by DuBay, Sandra

  Callie said no more wondering what Sir Thomas would think if he knew she had a cache of pirate’s treasure at her disposal. In the crypt of the abandoned chapel where Kit had hidden only one of many treasures, awaited an Aladdin’s Cave of gold and jewels and beautiful objects the combined worth of which must surely rival whatever wealth Sir Thomas Sedgewyck possessed.

  Still, as she sat there beside him, Callie could not help wondering what it would be like to be the lady of Sedgewyck Manor. Surely being the wife of a man as rich and powerful as Sir Thomas must afford her and Jem the greatest protection for she could never quite put it from her mind that there still existed a death warrant with her name on it and one for Jem who’d been tried in absentia. He’d be hanged as well at least be transported to the colonies and condemned to years of servitude. But if she transformed herself into Caroline, Lady Sedgewyck, the authorities would never imagine she had once ridden in a tumbril through London only to cheat the hangman at the last moment.

  “Caroline?”

  She looked up at Sir Thomas. “I am sorry, you were saying?”

  “I hope you will come back to the manor with me after church.”

  “I should get home to Jem,” she demurred.

  “Jem will be fine; Gemma is there, is she not?”

  “A short visit, perhaps,” she agreed.

  When the service ended, the congregation waited respectfully for Sir Thomas to exit the church, Callie’s hand securely held in the crook of his arm. They paused to speak to the reverend who stood just inside the vestibule.

  “I am glad to see you out of mourning,” he told Callie. “No doubt your late husband would not wish you to be in perpetual black, as young as you are.”

  “My late husband believed mourning was done with the heart, Reverend,” Callie replied. “He believed the trappings of mourning were merely a show for others as if we needed to prove our grief to others.”

  “Well, he, no doubt, approves of your decision, then.”

  “I’m certain he is looking down upon us with a smile on his face,” she told him.

  “I meant to pay a visit,” he said, “to enquire as to whether you have considered sending your son to my school at the parsonage.”

  “I have been used to seeing to his education myself since our travels took us to such distant places. We have never been settled in one place until now.”

  “You should think about it. He would be with boys his own age and not keep company with, shall we say, the more questionable elements in the district?”

  “I will consider the matter.”

  Sir Thomas handed her into his carriage and climbed in beside her. “Will you really consider sending Jem to the parson’s school?” he asked as they started off.

  “I will,” she admitted.

  “I think it would be wise. As the parson said, it will take him away from those with whom he should, perhaps, not be encouraged to spend too much of his time.”

  “Meaning Finn Blount,” Callie surmised. “Forgive me, Sir Thomas, but having met Finn Blount I can see that he is not so different from most of the men in the area who ply their trade as salvagers when the opportunity arises.”

  “He is also a smuggler,” Sir Thomas told her, “and quite a notorious one. I can promise you if the Revenuers get their hands on him, they will not go gently. Surely you would not want Jem tainted by association.”

  Callie looked out of the window at the passing scenery. Jem, her little pirate boy, tainted by association with a local smuggler. Still, if he was with Finn when the Revenuers managed to capture him, inquiries might be made that could land them both in mortal danger.

  “Perhaps it would be good for him to try the school,” she agreed thoughtfully.

  Sir Thomas nodded his approval as the gatekeeper of Sedgewyck Manor ran out to swing the wrought iron gates wide to admit the carriage.

  Tea was brought to them in the scarlet drawing room where a huge portrait of Sir Thomas’ great-great-grandmother, the notorious lady pirate, Lettice, Lady Sedgewyck hung over the marble mantel.

  “I do apologize for the absence of my mother-in-law, Caroline,” Sir Thomas said. “But she is indisposed and the butler tells me Flora has been closeted with her mother all day.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Callie assured him. “You must not disturb Mrs. Louvain on my account.”

  She hid a smile behind her tea cup for Sophie Bates had been at pains to tell her in church that Venetia Louvain took to her bed after hearing that Sir Thomas had spent hundreds of pounds on Callie’s new wardrobe. Her hopes of seeing her second daughter installed in her late sister’s gilded shoes as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor seemed to be fading fast.

  “Will you stay to dinner?”

  “Thank you, Sir Thomas, but I cannot. I really must go home after tea but it is kind of you to invite me. Another time, perhaps?”

  “Another time,” he said tightly and Callie was certain he was not used to having his invitations refused. “You will at least accompany me on a walk in the garden before you depart.”

  Callie could think of no plausible reason to refuse and so she and Sir Thomas strolled through the sunken garden behind the great house and followed the path into the woods at the edge of the lawn accompanied by Sir Thomas’ favorite hound, Achilles. As they walked they came upon alcoves and glades, places where the woods had been tamed to form little bowers where one might wile away long lazy afternoons. It was all delightful and Callie could not help but think what it would be like to be the mistress of such a place.

  “Do you like it, my dear?” Sir Thomas asked, his hand warm on hers where it rested in the crook of his arm.

  “It is beautiful, Sir Thomas,” she answered honestly. “You must be very happy here.”

  “I am. Though I confess that there is emptiness; a home without a mistress is not as welcoming as it could be.”

  “What was she like, your late wife? Did she resemble her sister?”

  “Flora?” He laughed. “Flora and Charlotte were half-sisters. Charlotte was the daughter of Venetia and her first husband. She and Flora were nothing alike. Charlotte’s beauty was dark and smoldering; there was a fire in her eyes, a promise in the very air around her.

  She was more like you than like Flora.”

  Callie turned her head to hide a smile. Poor Flora, poor Venetia, plotting and planning to regain the position as Sir Thomas’ lady wife with little chance of success. If Sir Thomas liked his women ‘dark and smoldering’ the pale, insipid Flora was unlike to inspire his passion.

  As they rounded a bend in the path, Achilles began to bark and scampered ahead of them on the path.

  “Where’s he going?” Callie asked.

  “To see Walter.”

  “The hermit?”

  “Yes, his cave is just ahead.”

  Inside Walter’s lair, Flora Louvain stood propped against a roughly hewn table, her skirts hiked up to expose her narrow backside, while Sir Thomas’ hermit took her from behind, his head thrown back, his eyes tightly shut.

  Flora moaned. “I love you, Walter, I do,” she rasped. “Do you love me?”

  Walter frowned. Why did the damned chit have to talk? He’d been lost in an inspiring fantasy, a tropical beach and a beautiful and buxom native girl with long, gleaming black hair and skin like warm honey.

  “Walter?” Flora prompted breathlessly.

  “Hush, my sweet,” Walter said, stepped away from her and fastening his homespun breeches. “I heard a dog bark. I think . . .”

  Achilles reached the rough planks that served as a door and barked for Walter’s attention.

  “It’s Sir Thomas’ dog,” Walter said. “He must be on his way. Quickly, you must go.”

  “You never answered my question,” Flora pouted, pushing down her skirts and tucking her small breasts back into the bodice of her gown. “Do you love me?”

  “Madly, my sweet, passionately, now go before we are discovered.”

  Walter peered out around the
door and saw only the hound, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling. “Go, now, hurry.”

  Flora leaned toward him for a last kiss but he shoved her roughly out the door and closed it behind her, not waiting to watch her disappear into the forest surrounding his home.

  Just as Sir Thomas and Callie rounded the last bend in the path, Callie heard a commotion in the underbrush and what sounded like a woman’s cry.

  “What was that, Sir Thomas?” she asked. “Perhaps someone’s hurt.”

  “Likely only an animal,” he replied, unconcerned. “Here, here is Walter’s home.”

  Set back from the path, Callie saw Sir Thomas’ favorite folly, a fanciful reconstruction of a cave made of gray stone, smoothed to make it look as if it were natural, rising out of the leaf-littered floor of the forest. As they approached, a man in rough clothing with a ragged beard and shaggy black hair pulled back and tied with a string at the nape of his neck appeared and struck an attitude, one hand raised to shield his eyes as he gazed off into the distance. Achilles gamboled happily around his feet but he paid no attention to the animal.

  “Good afternoon, Walter,” Sir Thomas said. “I’ve brought a lady to meet you.”

  The hermit abandoned his attitude and bowed to his employer. “Sir Thomas,” he said, “I trust you are well.”

  “Tolerably so; let me present Mrs. Caroline Jenkins. She and her young son have taken Hyacinth Cottage.”

  “Madam,” the hermit made her an elegant bow, “your servant. How do you find St. Swithin?”

  “Everyone has been most kind and attentive Mr. . . ?” Callie stopped, her eyes widening, as she looked closely at the bearded hermit.

  “Walter, ma’am; I am called Walter by one and all.”

  “Walter, then, I admit I have not lived in this country for many years; my husband and I traveled extensively, and I had not heard of the custom of having a hermit living in one’s garden.”

  “It is, I believe, more common among noblemen in England than here in Cornwall,” Walter replied, “but then Sir Thomas is, perhaps, more sophisticated than some of the gentlemen hereabouts.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Back at the manor, Flora sent her maid for a basin of warm water. She had skinned her knee falling over a log in her flight. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair had come down from its pins. The lace trimming the neckline of her gown was torn; Walter was none to gentle in his wooing.

  As she tucked her skirts beneath her chin and used the wet cloth to wash away the sticky evidence of her encounter, the door opened and her mother appeared.

  “Flora, where have you—“Venetia’s eyes took in her daughter’s disheveled appearance and the wet cloth tucked between Flora’s thin thighs. “What have you been about, my girl?”

  “Sir Thomas! Sir Thomas!” A maidservant came running up the path, her skirts flying. “Sir Thomas, something’s wrong with Mrs. Louvain and Miss Flora. There are the most dreadful sounds coming from Miss Flora’s room; screams and cries and crashes. It sounds like the walls are coming down.”

  “Drat it!” Sir Thomas growled. “Dear Caroline, I fear we must abandon our walk.”

  “Sir Thomas,” Walter said, “if you will give me permission to leave my post, I will see Mrs. Jenkins to the carriage and you may see to Mrs. and Miss Louvain.”

  “Caroline, if you would permit . . .”

  “Of course, Sir Thomas, you must see to your mother-in-law. I understand completely.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  Sir Thomas hurried away followed by the maidservant and Achilles who barked at his mater’s heels. As soon as they were out of earshot, Callie turned to the hermit.

  “Walter Bartlett?” she said, smiling.

  “Caroline Jenkins?” he replied with a grin.

  “How are you, Bartlett?”

  “Fair to middling’, Callie Llewellyn.”

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and they began a leisurely stroll back to the manor where the carriage waited to take Callie home.

  “It has been so long,” Callie said, “since Ocracoke.”

  Walter, whom Callie had known years before as Bartlett, first mate on the Queen Anne’s Revenge, nodded. “Aye, three years and more.”

  “I thought you dead along with Teach.” Edmund Teach, Walter’s former captain, had terrorized the high seas as Blackbeard, the most notorious pirate of all.

  “I was ashore when Maynard attacked. I signed on to a British warship bound for England and lay low.”

  Callie sighed. “I heard Maynard cut off Blackbeard’s head and hung it from his bowsprit.”

  Walter nodded. “They say Blackbeard’s headless body swam around Maynard’s ship seven times before it sank.” He put his hand over Callie’s as it lay on his arm. “And Kit?”

  “Dead as well.” Callie bit her lip. “Hanged in London. The last thing he did was arrange my escape. I thought to find a small village and hide until the world forgets about Kit Llewellyn and his doxy.”

  “And who is this Jem Sir Thomas mentioned?”

  “A boy. He was a passenger on one of the ships Kit took. He begged to be taken on as a seaman and his people on the ship didn’t seem to care so we took him on. Everyone thinks he is my son, and so he is, in my heart.”

  “Is he the ginger-haired boy who comes around sometimes?”

  “He is. He told me he’d met you.”

  “He talks about the sea.” He caught the look Callie threw him. “Don’t worry, I never told him I was a pirate myself. Doubtless he’d want to hear all about old Blackbeard.”

  “He misses it. He’s a little buccaneer at heart. I worried when we first came that one day I would wake up and find him run off but Finn Blount has taken him under his wing.”

  “Finn’s a good man.”

  “That he is. A very good man, I think.”

  “Do I hear a note of fondness in your voice? Gossip points in another direction, you know.”

  “Toward Sir Thomas?”

  “Aye. The general expectation in the village is that you’re to be the new Lady Sedgewyck.”

  Callie sighed. “Sir Thomas has been paying court to me but Walter; I don’t want to marry him. It’s just that I do not know how to discourage him without angering him and I do nott think he’d be a man to take rejection kindly.”

  “I think you’re right there, my girl. And if he found out either of our histories . . .” Walter made a slashing motion across this throat.

  “Bit of hypocrisy there, don’t you think, considering the Sedgewyck fortune came from piracy.”

  “Aye, but there’s none as pious as the reformed sinner. Still, old Madam Louvain would be pleased to hear you say you’ve no interest in becoming Lady Sedgewyck.”

  “She wants Sir Thomas for her own Flora, doesn’t she? And Flora? Does she want to be the lady of the manor?”

  “So badly she can taste it. Her sister, the last Lady Sedgewyck, was kind enough to take Flora and her mother in; even gave Flora three London Seasons to try and find a husband though the girl had neither a fortune large enough to tempt anyone nor beauty to make up for the lack. But Flora always resented her half-sister’s marriage. I do not believe she was sorry when Charlotte died in childbed. I think she already had an eye toward replacing her.”

  “That’s dreadful!”

  “Aye, she’s a schemer, that one.” Walter shrugged. “But keen enough for a bit of slap and tickle on occasion.”

  “Walter! You and Flora Louvain?”

  He chuckled. “She’d not admit it if you stretched her on the rack, but the girl has a bit of a taste for a man’s attention now and then. Doubtless her mother would string her up by the thumbs if she knew.”

  They had reached the manor house and Sir Thomas’ carriage which stood waiting, coachman perched high on the box. Walter handed Callie into the carriage and closed the door with its gilded coat of arms.

  “Take care of yourself, Caroline Jenkins,” he said with a wink. “And tell young
Jem he’d be better off taking after Finn than following his heart to the sea.”

  “You take care of yourself as well, Walter the hermit,” Callie replied. “And don’t break too many hearts.”

  He stood back as the coachman slapped the reins and the carriage started off.

  Above their heads, Sir Thomas shoved open the door of Flora’s room and stood, dumbfounded in the doorway. The usually immaculate room was a shambles; chairs were knocked over and ornaments smashed. Flora cowered in a corner while her mother, bosom heaving, stood over her with a riding crop.

  “What the devil is going on?” he demanded.

  Venetia stared at him for a moment. “A mouse, Sir Thomas; Flora has seen a mouse.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What’s wrong, Jem?” Callie asked after ten minutes of watching Jem stir his soup with his spoon without so much as tasting it.

  “Nothing,” he said, not looking up from his bowl. “I think I’ll go to bed, Callie.”

  Callie frowned. The sun had barely set and Jem seldom went to bed without being told. “Are you ill?” she asked, leaning across the table and laying a hand on his forehead.

  “No,” he replied, laying down his spoon and rising from the table. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  Callie watched as he slowly left the room. She heard his footsteps climbing the stairs and, soon after, the sound of his bedroom door closing.

  “Did he not like the soup?” Gemma asked, coming to clear away the bowls.

  “I don’t know; he wasn’t himself.”

  “He’s not happy about going to school, I think.”

  “No, he’d rather be following Finn about learning how to be a smuggler and a salvager. But it only been a few days, and he might like it better when he’s been going longer. I think I’ll go up and see if I can discover what is ailing him.”

  Callie climbed the stairs and went to Jem’s room. Tapping lightly at the door, she opened it and saw him standing, shirtless, before the looking glass.

  “Jem, what is—?” Callie gasped. In the looking glass she saw the reflection of his back. The pale skin was crisscrossed with angry welts, some of them dotted with flecks of dried blood.