Jem tried to cover himself with a nightshirt but Callie went to him and snatched it from his hands.
“Who did this to you!” she demanded.
He twisted away from her but the movement made him catch his breath and several of the scabbed over welts broke open and began to bleed.
“Tell me, Jem, who did this!”
“The parson, Mr. Dougless.”
“The parson! He caned you? But why?”
“I was playing with the other boys. I had my dagger, the one I got in Africa. They asked to see it and I told them how I got it. They didn’t believe me. They told the parson I was a liar and he said this was what happened to boys who lied.”
“That evil bastard! I’ll have his guts for garters!”
“It would be different if I had been lying, Callie, but I wasn’t,” Jem reasoned.
“If you had been lying, Jem, it would have been up to the parson to tell me and for me to deal with it. He had no right taking a cane to you.”
“He canes the boys in the school all the time.”
“And Sir Thomas wanted me to send you there? And these are so-called civilized people?” She smoothed his tousled red hair. “Now you lie down on the bed and I’ll go and get some warm water and salve for your back. And tomorrow, young man, I’ll go have a talk with Mr. Holier-than-thou Dougless. He’ll be lucky if I don’t take his own cane to him!”
It was mid-morning of the next day when Callie marched up to the parsonage that sat beside the church in the center of St. Swithin. She knocked at the door and a young maid opened it.
“I need to see the parson,” Callie told her, pushing the door wider and entering the house.
“Wait! The parson is in the schoolroom. He is not to be disturbed.”
“Well, he is going to be disturbed! Where is the schoolroom?”
“In the study, under the stairs, but you cannot . . .”
Callie marched toward the door tucked beneath the wide staircase centered in the entry hall. She pounded on the heavy wooden panels before pushing it open. The parson stood before a group of about a dozen boys pointing with a thick cane toward the map fastened to the wall.
“Here, you cannot simply barge in, Mrs. Jenkins!”
“I can do as I please, Reverend, and I please to hear how you dared use that cane on my son!”
The Reverend’s cheeks reddened. “Boys, go outside for a few moments.”
Whispering excitedly, the boys left the schoolroom casting glances between Callie and the parson.
“I do not tolerate liars, madam,” the parson told Callie when the door had shut behind his pupils. “A lying tongue is the tool of the devil.”
“My son does not lie. I understand there was a dispute over a knife.”
“There was—he told some fantastical story about an African king.”
“The King of Ashanti. And that fantastical story happens to be true. The knife was given to my husband after he helped rescue the king’s daughter from a band of slavers who had abducted her from her home.” Callie did not tell the parson that Kit had attacked the slave ship thinking it a merchant vessel.
“And how was I to know there was even a place called Ashanti let alone a king of it?”
“You call yourself a teacher? Is not geography one of the subjects you teach?”
“We are speaking of darkest Africa, madam, a heathen place. What matter who lives there or what airs and titles they see fit to bestow upon themselves?”
“I have found more kindness and morality in so-called ‘heathen places’ in the world, sir, than I have found in this village!” The parson opened his mouth to reply but Callie went on: “I did not come here to discuss foreign lands, sir, I came here to tell you that if you ever—ever—brutalize my son again, you shall have cause to regret it to your dying day!”
“Are you threatening me, madam?”
“Yes, sir, I am most certainly threatening you!”
“How dare you!” The door burst open and Olivia Dougless, the parson’s prune-faced wife appeared, eyes blazing. “How dare you threaten my husband?”
“Eavesdropping, Mrs. Dougless?” Callie asked, “And do you also eavesdrop when parishioners come to discuss personal matters with your husband? I wonder if that is not how you seem to have always the latest gossip at your fingertips.”
Olivia Dougless’ horrified expression and flushed cheeks confirmed Callie’s suspicions. She waved a dismissive hand. “I care little if you do or not since I have no intention of discussing anything of a personal nature with either of you. I will leave you now but let me repeat, should you—either of you—raise a hand to my son again, you will have cause to regret it.”
“As you may have cause to regret this day’s insolence!” Olivia retorted.
“Do your damnedest, madam,” Callie snarled, turning with a swish of her skirts. “I care this for your threats!” She snapped her fingers beneath Olivia’s long nose and swept out of the room and out of the parsonage.
The gaggle of young boys who had gathered beneath the study window to eavesdrop parted as Callie strode past them.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” one young boy, son of the chimney sweep, bolder than the rest, stepped forward. “Mrs. Jenkins, was it true, then, that Jem got the knife from an African savage?”
“Osei Tutu I is the King of Ashanti, Pip, and he is a great man who rules over a great empire in Africa. Just because people do not share our beliefs or our way of life does not make them savages. I daresay they would consider some of our ways barbaric. And yes, Jem’s knife came from the King.”
The boys chattered excitedly among themselves. Callie started to turn away but paused. “Tell me, boys, does the reverend use the cane on you often?”
They looked at one another and nodded. “Quite often, Mrs. Jenkins,” Robert, the plump son of the village baker, confirmed. “Spare the rod—“
“And spoil the child,” Callie finished. “And we call others barbarians.”
The parson appeared at the doorway. “Boys! Get in here this minute! Your parents will not thank me for allowing you to associate with less desirable elements!”
Callie made no reply as the boys began reluctantly straggling back to their lessons but she knew her days as a regular member of Reverend Dougless’ flock had come to an end.
* * * *
“How dare she!” Venetia Louvain, the wrist she’d sprained beating Flora cradled in a silken sling, mirrored Olivia Dougless’ look of scandalized indignation. “She actually threatened the poor reverend? That woman is no better than she should be! And her husband a missionary.”
“Or so she says,” Olivia hissed. “Who knows who he really was? She doesn’t look like any missionary’s wife I’ve ever seen!”
“Too true! She is too bold by half!”
“Just look at the way she leads Sir Thomas around by the nose; him carrying her about the village in his carriage and buying her a fortune in clothing. Who knows what wiles she’s used to lure him into her web?”
Venetia looked at her daughter, Flora, sitting by the window staring out morosely at the rain. If only Flora had the dark, fiery allure her older daughter had possessed. But where Charlotte had had the same dark hair and startling blue eyes as the Jenkins woman and the same feminine curves that seemed to exude a promise of sensuality hidden beneath a veneer of ladylike gentility, Flora was mousy, her hair a dun brown, her eyes pale and protuberant, her figure undistinguished even with the addition of extra layers in the bosom and hips of her corsets. And she seemed to possess no notion of how to flirt with a man through lowered lashes and an artfully fluttered fan.
She sighed. She didn’t enjoy being reminded that Caroline Jenkins was stealing the prize from beneath their noses without a least bit of competition from Flora. It was as if the girl didn’t even want to step into her sister’s exalted shoes. What were they going to do if she couldn’t capture Sir Thomas and charm him to the altar? Did Flora think Caroline Jenkins, once installed as Lady Sedgewyck, would t
olerate Venetia or Flora under her roof? Why, they’d be lucky to be banished to the grim and drafty dower house on the edge of the village. More likely, they’d be banished from the estate all together. And though Venetia had a modest income from her late husbands’ estates, it would certainly not afford them a lifestyle comparable to the splendor of Sedgewyck Manor.
“It would be a disaster,” she told her visitor, “if that woman manages to trap our dear Sir Thomas into matrimony. It would be the ruin of the House of Sedgewyck. The very thought of her taking my sainted daughter’s place as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor is enough to make me reach for my smelling salts.”
“He must be made to see the truth,” Olivia declared. “He must be made to see this—this—vulgar harridan for what she truly is.”
Sir Thomas appeared in the open doorway. He had handed his hat to a footman who stood waiting while he peeled off his gloves. “Vulgar harridan, Mrs. Dougless? Of whom can you be speaking?”
Seeing no way to avoid answering, Olivia decided to brazen it out. “I am speaking of Caroline Jenkins, Sir Thomas.”
“Indeed? And what can have brought on such a harsh description of a lady from whom I have only known gentility and grace?”
“This ‘lady’,” Olivia told him, “arrived at the parsonage this morning and threatened Mr. Dougless with bodily harm.”
“For what cause, if I may be so bold as to enquire?”
“Mr. Dougless had occasion to discipline her son after the wretch was heard boasting that he had received a knife in his possession from some savage in Africa.”
“And what form did this discipline take?”
“The young rogue was caned, the usual punishment for such sins.”
“Mrs. Jenkins, I take it, did not object to her son having lied?”
Mrs. Dougless scoffed. “She claimed his story was the truth, that the knife was indeed the gift of some African king in return for her husband’s assistance in restoring his daughter to him.”
“And have you reason to believe that Mrs. Jenkins was lying?”
“I have no way of knowing, Sir Thomas. But even if the story was true, for this woman to force her way into Mr. Dougless’ study and threaten him . . .”
“I will speak to the parties involved, madam,” Sir Thomas told her coolly. “In the meantime, I think we may consider this subject closed and I trust we will not hear it discussed again outside these four walls.
Olivia Dougless compressed her lips but she knew better than to argue. “As you wish, Sir Thomas,” she said tightly, exchanging a mutinous glance with Venetia who, wisely, said nothing.
Callie, wearing her oldest skirt and a loose cotton blouse that kept slipping from one bare shoulder, laughed, shading her eyes, as Jem threw a bit of driftwood and watched the fat brown and white puppy tumble after it. Finn had delivered the little dog, whom Jem had decided to name Rascal, earlier in the day.
Barefoot, Callie waded in the shallows, her skirts held up, as the roly-poly pup growled at Jem when he tried to take the stick out of its mouth. “He wants to keep it,” she called to Jem who picked up the puppy in his arms and came toward her.
“Rascal,” Callie said, scratching the puppy’s drooping ears. “Jem cannot throw the stick for you again unless you let him have it.”
But the puppy continued to growl at Jem’s every attempt to retrieve the stick so, finally, Jem let the puppy down onto the sand where it lay on its belly and chewed at its prize.
Jem and Callie both looked toward the house as the sounds of a horse’s hooves approached on the road that ran behind the cottage.
“Oh no,” Jem moaned. “It’s Himself.”
Sir Thomas reined in his horse and swung himself down. He tied the reins to a hitching post and made his way down the hillside to the shore. Callie still stood in the shallows, her skirts hiked almost to her knees. Her blouse, slipping from one shoulder, exposed flesh more tanned than elegant ladies desired but smooth and inviting. Her raven hair tumbled past her shoulders to her waist and Sir Thomas couldn’t help wondering how it would feel sliding through his fingers.
“Sir Thomas,” Callie said, leaving the water and letting her skirts fall to the sand. “What brings you here this fine afternoon?”
He removed his hat, sparing a glance for Jem who gathered up his puppy and ran further down the beach. The boy had not so much as acknowledged him; he was in need of a lesson in manners and the respect due his betters, Sir Thomas decided.
“Caroline,” he said, reaching her side. “I have come to speak to you about an incident I fear may become a matter of gossip.”
“The Reverend Mr. Dougless, no doubt,” she said.
“Indeed, yes.” Sir Thomas’ eyes swept over her. There was no denying that there was something wild about this woman. Everything about her, her beauty, the fire in her eyes, her defiant independence, belied her story of being a humble missionary’s widow, but the better Sir Thomas got to know her, the more he wanted her, and the more he wanted her, the less he wanted to know about who she might really be. Still, if she had a secret it might be something he could use to his advantage, leverage with which to possess her without the bother of marrying her for he was a man used to controlling the people around him and this woman seemed unlikely to be happily controlled. She might well prove a handful if he made her the new Lady Sedgewyck. Sir Thomas resolved to discover if the fiery Mrs. Jenkins had a secret that might make her more amenable.
He tore his eyes away from the creamy shoulder exposed by the loose cotton blouse that slipped from it revealing the upper curve of her breast. He smiled at Callie as she looked up at him questioningly.
“Mrs. Dougless came to the manor today to complain that you had threatened her husband with bodily harm.”
“And so I did,” Callie confirmed. “He beat Jem with a cane, left him bruised and bloody, and all because he thought Jem had lied, which he had not.”
“The use of corporal punishment is not unusual for schoolboys,” Sir Thomas reasoned. “I do assure you that I spent a great deal of time at Fitzalan sitting upon a pillow after being caned for some transgression or another.”
“It’s barbaric. If my son needs discipline, I will be the one to provide it. I will not subject Jem to the parson’s notion of teaching.”
Sir Thomas could see it was hopeless to reason with her. He changed the subject. “And what about Jem’s education? Will he continue to attend school?”
“The parson’s school? I hardly think so.”
“Not necessarily the parson’s school. Boarding school, perhaps.”
“Boarding school? Send Jem away?”
“He’s older than most boys when they go away to school. I myself was sent away at eight.”
“Then I am sorry for you. But I cannot imagine sending Jem away.”
“Without a proper education, he will stand little chance of making his way in the world.”
“Jem can read and write and cipher. He has seen more of the world than most members of Parliament, I’d warrant. And since I believe he intends to make the sea his life, I hardly think he needs a university degree.”
“Then perhaps the navy. I have many contacts in the Royal Navy. Jem could rise in the ranks quickly and . . .”
“If Jem goes to sea, Sir Thomas, it will not be as a mid-shipman on some naval vessel but as the master of his own ship. I daresay he knows more of seamanship than many officers in His Majesty’s navy.”
“And how will Jem become the master of his own ship without an education, pray?”
Callie had it on the tip of her tongue to tell him that with the treasure Kit had hidden away Jem could be master of a fleet of ships but she knew better than to even allude to it. “Jem will make his way in the world, I have no doubt, without the necessity of sending him off to Harrow or Eaton or some warship.”
Sir Thomas sighed, frustrated. Yes, this woman definitely needed a lesson in humility. “Well, there is no need to discuss it. I can see you’re resolved. But, as a fr
iend, I would advise you to take a little care in your dealings with people like the Douglesses. They can do your reputation great harm.”
“I care little for the opinion of the Douglesses or anyone foolish enough to listen to their tales,” Callie told him coolly.
“I’ll bid you good-day, then, dear Caroline.”
Sir Thomas turned and walked away across the sand toward his horse that was tethered behind the cottage. Yes, this tempestuous beauty must be tamed before she could be ridden. He would send a messenger to Penzance when he returned to the manor; he knew just the man to ferret out whatever secrets she might have.
* * * *
A fortnight later, Callie was seated in Sir Thomas’ carriage having reluctantly accepted an invitation to accompany him to dinner at the home of Sir Basil and Lady Scropes near Penzance. They drove through the town and Sir Thomas called for the coachman to stop so that Callie could admire the beautiful view of Mount’s Bay and Mont St. Michel in the distance. But it was the sight of a British Navy warship riding at anchor that captured her attention.
“That ship,” she said softly, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.
Sir Thomas leaned over to peer out the window. “Yes, that’s H.M.S. Vengeance. I am acquainted with her captain. He was only recently given the command. She’s a fine vessel, I must say, for all that she is a former pirate ship. I understand she was once called the Crimson Vengeance. Her former master, Kit Llewellyn, was hanged at Execution Dock along with his crew. The Admiralty bought the ship and the prize money was divided among the crew of the navy ship that captured her.”
Callie stared silently at the ship. True, it bore different colors than Kit’s preferred crimson and black and a British flag flew from its stern, but the sight of the ship there, so close, brought back such a flood of memories that Callie trembled.
Sir Thomas ordered the coachman to drive on. “Would you like to go aboard her, my dear?” he asked. “The captain has invited me to dine with him on Thursday next. Flora asked to accompany me but I’m certain my friend would not mind my bringing another lady to grace his table.”
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