The Pirate's Widow

by DuBay, Sandra

  Chapter Ten

  A jolly boat from the H.M.S. Vengeance took Sir Thomas, Callie, and Flora out to the warship anchored in Mount’s Bay. The ship’s master, Captain Horatio Reynolds, resplendent in his blue frock coat trimmed with gold, welcomed them aboard and introduced his second in command.

  “Sir Thomas, ladies,” he said, “allow me to present Lieutenant Fitzalan.”

  The young lieutenant made them an elegant bow. “Welcome aboard.”

  Sir Thomas stepped forward. “Captain, lieutenant, allow me to present my late wife’s sister, Miss Flora Louvain, and my dear friend, Mrs. Caroline Jenkins.”

  Flora simpered, holding out a hand toward the handsome young lieutenant. Gallantly, he took it and bent over it but his lips fell short of making contact with her creamy kid glove.

  “Miss Louvain,” he said. “Mrs. Jenkins.”

  “Thank you for allowing us to visit your ship, Captain Reynolds,” Callie said, slipping her arm through the crooked arm the captain offered her.

  “Is this your first time aboard a British warship, ma’am?” the captain asked.

  “It is,” she admitted.

  “But not her first time aboard a ship,” Sir Thomas informed him. “Mrs. Jenkins late husband was a missionary and together with him and their young son, they sailed to many distant lands.”

  “Is that right? Where have you been, Mrs. Jenkins?” Lieutenant Fitzalan, Flora clinging to his arm, asked.

  “We visited America, lieutenant, and the West Indies, as well as Africa.”

  “Wonderful places. Myself, I should one day like to venture into the Pacific. The reports one hears are of tropical paradises.”

  “This seems a fine vessel,” Sir Thomas commented as they climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck.

  “Indeed, it is. She’s new to the service, Sir Thomas, I am her first commander.”

  Callie said nothing. All around her were reminders of Kit and their lives together, their adventures, triumphs, tragedies . . . She held her breath as they entered the captain’s day cabin where a table had been elegantly set. Aside from new furniture and a fresh coat of paint the room had not changed greatly and Callie thought she could almost hear Kit’s voice calling from the room beyond, the night cabin.

  “Shall we sit down?”

  The meal began with a chicken fricassee. “This is delicious,” Callie told the captain.

  “You are fortunate to be dining aboard in port,” Captain Reynolds told her. “I assure you we would not dine so well in the middle of the ocean. But then, having traveled, I’m certain you are familiar with the limitations of life at sea.”

  “Indeed, I am,” she admitted.

  “You said the Vengeance was new to His Majesty’s service, Captain,” Flora said. “And yet, if you’ll pardon me, she does not seem to be newly built.”

  “No, indeed, she is not newly built, Miss Louvain,” the captain confirmed. “She was taken as a prize, captured by the crew of H.M.S. Dauntless and refitted for the service at Portsmouth. She was formerly the Crimson Vengeance, a pirate ship, captained by the notorious Kit Llewellyn.”

  “A pirate ship!” Flora shuddered dramatically. “I hope there are no ghostly pirates aboard! You must protect me from them, Mr. Fitzalan.”

  “Indeed I would,” the young lieutenant agreed. “You may place your safety in my hands.”

  She placed her hand over his. “I knew I could.”

  She shot a glance toward Sir Thomas to see if her flirting with the handsome young officer was having the desired effect of making her erstwhile brother-in-law jealous but his eyes were fixed on the captain.

  “The pirates were routed, then,” he said, popping a brandied cherry into his mouth.

  “They were captured and hanged at Execution Dock,” Captain Reynolds said.

  “No more than they deserved, I’m sure.”

  “Of a certainty, Sir Thomas; in fact, this very ship was once the Seabird, a merchantman out of Boston. Kit Llewellyn captured her and massacred all aboard.”

  Callie gritted her teeth. It was a lie. She had been aboard Kit’s former ship, the Black Rose when he had intercepted the Seabird he had taken the cargo stowed below decks and sent the crew on her way aboard his former ship before taking command of the Seabird and rechristening her the Crimson Vengeance. Several former crewmen aboard the Seabird had joined Kit’s crew—most had been killed in the battle with the British Navy but a few had survived and perished at Execution Dock.

  She wanted to defend Kit but she knew she could say nothing and, doubtless, these men would not believe her even if she told them the truth about Kit.

  “It is unfortunate that there are still pirates plying the seas,” Sir Thomas said.

  “Here, here,” Lieutenant Fitzalan said, raising his glass. “Death to all pirates!”

  Callie raised her glass to her lips with the others but could not bring herself to drink such a toast. She was glad when Sir Thomas went on:

  “They should all be put to death for their atrocities.”

  Callie said nothing but she thought it monumentally hypocritical for a man whose family fortune was based on piracy to make such a pronouncement. Whatever he thought, time had not washed the blood from the gold his ancestress had stolen to finance her fine manor and elegant grounds. Sir Thomas Sedgewyck could posture and preen to his heart’s content but the fact of the matter was that the blood of pirates still flowed in his veins no matter how blue he wanted to believe it had turned over the past few generations.

  When dinner ended, Captain Reynolds rose from the table. “Shall we go out onto the quarterdeck? The sunset promises to be very fine this evening.”

  Callie rose with the others. “I beg your pardon, Captain, but if I might join you in a moment, I’d be grateful . . .”

  “Ah, of course; Lieutenant Fitzalan will show you the way, ma’am.”

  While the others filed out of the cabin, the young lieutenant showed Callie through a set of doors to the captain’s private cabin where a boxlike hammock had replaced the bed she’d shared with Kit. Several swords hung on the wall and, with a start, Callie recognized Kit’s own cutlass with its long curved blade and intricately etched guard. She reached up to touch the handle feeling almost as if she could still feel the warmth of his hand there.

  “Careful, Mrs. Jenkins,” Lieutenant Fitzalan warned. “It’s fearfully sharp.”

  “I’m sure,” Callie agreed, turning away.

  “Right behind that curtain, ma’am,” he told her, pointing to a doorway in the wall shielded by a drapery. “I shall wait in the dining room to escort you out to the others.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant.”

  Callie slipped behind the curtain and listened for the sound of Mr. Fitzalan’s retreating steps. When she was sure he was gone, she lifted her skirts and took out the knife she’d hidden in the pocket of her petticoat.

  The little room held two seats of ease, little more than a box with two holes through which the occupant could relieve themselves directly into the sea. When Callie had sailed with Kit it had also held a small metal tub in which she could bathe herself in the water collected in water barrels on the deck to catch rainfall.

  She shook herself out of her reverie. She mustn’t tarry too long or she might arouse suspicion, or at least embarrassing speculation. With her knife, she pried out the carved medallion centered in the wall above the seats of ease. Within lay a small cavity barely large enough to hold the Kit’s leather-bound journal and a few precious trinkets. Callie took the small book, thankfully much smaller than the heavy captain’s log no doubt taken as booty by the British which had been kept on the desk in the day cabin. This was Kit’s own journal, recording private thoughts as well as the locations of the treasure caches he’d hidden on their travels. Callie secreted the small book in the pocket of her petticoat. There was another object in the hidey-hole and her hand trembled as she pulled it out. A gold locket with a long gold chain glimmered in her hand. With unsteady fingers
she opened it.

  Two miniatures, one of her, the other of Kit, were inside. Painted by an old man in Valparaiso, she had thought them surely lost. Snapping it shut, she added it to the journal in her pocket.

  She heard footfalls in the room outside and knew Lieutenant Fitzalan was growing impatient. Dropping her skirts, she fitted the medallion back into place, slid the knife into the waistband of her skirt and smoothed the boned bodice over it.

  She smiled as she left the tiny chamber and rejoined Lieutenant Fitzalan. “I’m sorry to detain you, sir,” she said, slipping a hand through the crook of his arm.

  “No need to apologize, Mrs. Jenkins,” he assured her. “Shall we join the others?”

  Callie wasn’t sorry to see the evening end. Once she had retrieved Kit’s journal she wanted nothing more than to get off this ship with its tormenting mixture of good and bad memories and Sir Thomas seemed to be the worse for too many ‘loyal toasts’ to His Majesty.

  Her mind was filled with memories of raucous nights spent celebrating the taking of a great prize, or somber days stitching the bodies of lost friends into their hammocks before committing them to the depths of the sea, of nights spent in Kit’s arms, of that last, bloody battle when it was clear that everything was lost.

  “You are very quiet, Caroline,” Sir Thomas said as they rode away from Penzance, the light of the full moon guiding them far more efficiently than the lanterns burning on either side of the coachman’s box. “Did you not enjoy your evening?”

  “I did, Sir Thomas,” she told him.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins is thinking of the handsome Lieutenant Fitzalan,” Flora piped up. “She seemed to tarry overlong with him in the captain’s cabin while the rest of us went out onto the quarterdeck.”

  “Flora,” Sir Thomas said grimly, “I’m going to have the coachman take you home to the manor and then I will see Mrs. Jenkins home. I have a question to ask her.”

  Even in the dim light of the coach Callie thought she saw Flora’s normally sallow cheeks go even paler.

  “Perhaps you should wait until another time, Sir Thomas,” she said. “Miss Louvain looks quite out of sorts suddenly.”

  Flora said nothing but dashed up to her mother’s room the moment they’d reached Sedgewyck Manor.

  “Ah, you’re back,” Venetia said from her place in front of her looking glass where her maid was braiding her long gray hair for the night. “I hope you did not let that dreadful Jenkins woman have all the attention.”

  “Sir Thomas is proposing to that ‘dreadful Jenkins’ woman as we speak,” Flora informed her.

  “What!” Venetia pushed her maid aside and rose, the sweeping skirts of her ruffled dressing gown swirling about her. “What are you talking about?”

  “They left me here and went on. Sir Thomas said he had a question to ask her.”

  “Good God! We’re lost! Lost!” She sank, trembling, into an armchair. “And it’s all your fault, my girl!”

  “My fault!”

  “If you hadn’t spent your time—.” She looked at her maid. “That will be all, Sawyer, you may go.” She waited until the woman had left the room and went on, her voice a low snarl. “If you hadn’t spent your time playing the harlot with that filthy hermit, you might have lured Sir Thomas away from that slut.”

  “I love Walter,” Flora declared defiantly. “And he loves me.”

  “Ah, that’s lovely.” Venetia’s smile was tinged with malice. “I hope you will be very happy together in whatever cave you decide to make your home because once Caroline Jenkins is ruling this particular roost, you’ll be out on your ear, you fool, and me beside you.”

  “I hate you!” Flora cried. “Why can you not see that Sir Thomas does not love me?”

  “Love? What is this foolish fascination you have with love? Marriages among the upper classes are not made for love. Do you think I loved your father, or he me? It was a sensible arrangement just as your stepping into your late sister’s shoes as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor is a sensible arrangement. And it would have happened by now, I’ve no doubt, but for the arrival of that black-haired strumpet. Well, let her have her evening of triumph. The game is not over until the Reverend pronounces them man and wife and I shan’t give up before then. And neither will you, my girl, if you want to keep a roof over your head!”

  Flora slammed out of her mother’s room, tears stinging her eyes. She knew her maid was waiting to help her prepare for bed, but she couldn’t face lying in that dark, cavernous room torn between the dread of seeing Caroline Jenkins installed as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor and the prospect of giving up all hope of love to make a sensible marriage if Sir Thomas could somehow be persuaded to offer for her hand.

  She went downstairs through the silent, darkened manor. In the corridor between the servants’ hall and the kitchens she could hear the housekeeper snoring through the door of her rooms. Just inside the back door, she took up a lantern and lit it then let herself outside.

  On the road to St. Swithin, Sir Thomas turned to Callie. “My dear,” he said, smiling, and she could smell the stale wine on his breath. “I think you know what it is I want to ask you.”

  “Perhaps we should wait until another time, Sir Thomas; I fear the wine at dinner has gone to our heads.”

  “Not the wine, dearest Caroline, but your beauty, and my desire.”

  “Sir Thomas . . .”

  “You know my wishes,” he went on, “I want to make you my lady wife, mistress of Sedgewyck Manor, surely a dazzling prospect for you.”

  “Dazzling,” she repeated dully.

  “Then you will accept my offer?”

  “No, Sir Thomas, I will not.”

  “Splendid! I knew I should not ask in vain and . . .” He stared at her in the dim light of the coach. “What was that?”

  “I said no, Sir Thomas, I will not be your wife.”

  “What is this folly? Do you have any notion of the honor I am doing you? I assure you were I to go to London during the Season looking for a bride, I should have my choice of any number of girls and all, may I inform you, of better pedigree and greater fortune than yourself.”

  “Well, then, perhaps that is what you should do.”

  “You impertinent bitch!” he snarled. “For months you have kept me waiting, have accepted my gifts, my attention, and now you tell me you will give nothing in return?”

  “I did not want your gifts or your attention, Sir Thomas, and, had I known there was a price upon them, I would certainly have cast good manners to the wind and refused both.”

  “By God I will not be treated this way! The time has come to pay your reckoning, madam, and if you disdain the marriage bed then I’ll have you without it!”

  “You will not!” Callie pounded on the side of the coach. “Stop the coach! Do you hear me? Let me out!”

  “He takes orders from no one but me,” Sir Thomas said with a laugh.

  He reached out and seized the ruffled edge of Callie’s pink brocade bodice. With a yank he tore it open, the tiny pearl buttons scattering over the tufted leather seat and the floor.

  His rough hands tore aside the lacy chemise that covered her breasts above the edge of her corset. Callie cried out as he buried his face in the pale, soft skin, his teeth grazing her nipple.

  “Let me go, you bastard!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you if you don’t let me out!”

  “A woman’s threats are like music to my ears,” he told her, his fingers working at the buttons of his breeches. “Let us see if we can put that insolent mouth to better use.”

  His hand closed about the back of her head and forced it down. His erection jutted up from the black satin of his breeches. In desperation, Callie seized it with one hand while the other drew the knife from the waistband of her skirt.

  Sir Thomas felt the prick of the knife’s point against the throbbing flesh of his manhood. He released his hold on her head. “What are you . . .?”

  “Let me out of here, you evil bastard or I’ll
cut it off now.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Her only reply was to jab the needle-sharp point into his flesh drawing a swelling bead of blood. Sir Thomas pounded on the wall of the coach. “Stop! Stop now!”

  Before the coach could roll to a stop, Callie was out the door and off into the darkness of the dunes surrounding St. Swithin.

  “You’ll regret this, you whore!” Sir Thomas shouted after her. “By all that’s holy, you will regret this!”

  By the dim light of the swaying lantern in her hand, Flora made her way across the garden behind Sedgewyck Manor and plunged into the dark forest. She could hear animals in the darkness, rustling the undergrowth, calling to one another, but she went on.

  “Walter?” she called as she neared the entrance to his cave. “Walter, please, it is Flora.”

  “Flora?” The rough-hewn door Sir Thomas had reluctantly fitted across the entrance of the cave to keep out the winter cold, opened and Walter stood there. “Flora, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “I had to come,” she told him, dropping the lantern and launching herself into his arms. “Mama will not give up her scheming to marry me to Sir Thomas but I will not, cannot, marry him.”

  “You would be a great lady,” Walter pointed out. “Mistress of Sedgewyck Manor, queen of the county.”

  “You sound like her,” Flora pouted. “I will not marry him. I do not love him.”

  “Well, marriages among the gentry . . .”

  “Hush, Walter, I do not love him because I love you!”

  “Flora . . .”

  “And you love me, Walter, I know you do. I know you haven’t said so because I am a lady and far above you. But it doesn’t matter, don’t you see? We can run away, be together, and raise our child— “

  “Child?” Walter croaked.

  “Yes,” Flora simpered. “I am with child, Walter, I am certain of it. No one else knows but I wanted to tell you. Isn’t it wonderful?”