Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  He finished the ensemble with a silk scarf that Finch fashioned into a sling. Frowned profusely as the man set the wig on his head.

  “I feel like a molly boy dressed to tout for business,” he grumbled as he descended the stairs, pausing at the bottom to remove one of the buckled patent shoes. “These are too tight; they’re pinching.”

  “You look most splendid!” Alicia’s exclamation was genuine. “I do declare, I will be the envy of every lady!”

  “Well they must be hard for choice then. I ain’t comfortable in these clothes.” Jesamiah petulantly squeezed the shoe back on and growled as Alicia hurried forward to adjust the frothed lace of his cravat.

  “Cease this fussing, woman. You and Finch between you are turning me into a poppet doll!”

  “And very nice you look too,” Finch said to himself from the doorway, a satisfied grin curling his usually dour mouth as he watched Jesamiah hand Alicia into the carriage. He walked back into the house taking a long, languid, look around the entrance hall. The elegant curve of the stairs, the paintings on the walls, the expense; the luxury. “I as reckon we could do very nicely ‘ere.” He nodded to himself. “Very nicely indeed.”

  Twenty Nine

  Charles cursed himself. What a fool. What a fool! What had made him think Jesamiah would be pleased to see him? That his son would welcome him? He was dead, He was gone. To the living he was a ghost!

  She had said, the Witch Woman, that it would be difficult putting right the wrongs of the past – huh! Why had he not listened? Angrily he stood up and marched along the bank of the River. The scenery was all the same, an expanse of nothing. Grey and bleak. No rushes or water reeds, plants, shrubs or trees. Nothing but emptiness.

  All he had wanted to do, for now, was say he was sorry to his son, to Jesamiah! Yet again he had made a stupid, stupid, mistake. Take it slowly. Gain the lad’s confidence – give him time to think. That is what he should have done.

  Soon, the Witch Woman would fulfil her promise and help him cross the River and, when the time was right, he would do what he had to do. Until then, his grave anchored him. Near where his bones bound him he could appear in bodily form at will, albeit briefly. Anywhere else, as long as he was near the counterpart of an earthly river, he could project his voice or face – or a shadow of himself. Nothing solid, nothing even remotely real or alive. But come the Night of the Dead, all would be different…

  Oh what good was any of it if his son did not want to acknowledge him? Charles groaned with remorse. How dull-witted could he be? His grave, the one place where he could appear as he had been in life, and he had been stupid and frightened the lad into aggressive defence! What in bugger’s name had he been thinking of?

  Stupid! Stupid!

  Thirty

  Saturday 19th October – North Carolina

  The river was coloured as if it were running with molten gold, the setting sun dazzling on its surface, the occasional waft of a breeze creating diamond-bright sparkles on the flurried wavelets. Tiola loved the peace of evenings, the calm serenity as birds, beasts and the day itself began to settle for the night. Venus was shining low in the sky and Tiola bobbed a respectful greeting to her serene beauty, then sat on the grassy bank contentedly day-dreaming and listening to the sounds, breathing in the scents. Her fingers twiddled the golden acorn that hung from a chain at her neck. The maid had found it in the bed, had assumed it was Tiola’s.

  Stupidly she had felt unease when the maid had put it into her hand. A sudden feeling of disquiet. Jesamiah did not have his acorn charm – there was nothing to keep him safe. Beyond knowing where he was and that he was alive and recovering from being shot, she had no idea how he was, for she dared not communicate with him too often. She brought the charm to her lips, kissed it. Her doubts, these feelings of unease, were probably nothing. Jesamiah could look after himself, and what could happen in Urbanna? It was hardly the Spanish Main where at any moment he could be attacked by an opposing ship – another pirate, or the Navy. He was on his estate, repairing his ship. Nothing could happen there. Could it?

  She set the silly thoughts aside. Tomorrow she would come here again, bring the artist’s box she had found on the top shelf of the closet in her room. It was long while since she had taken pleasure in drawing. She was not very talented, but painting and sketching were relaxing pastimes. And despite the pleasure of the river and nature, she did ache for the time to pass quickly, had no desire to spend overmuch of it within the bickering and squabbling that permeated the household. Drawing was a respectable thing for young ladies to do, and conveniently, one that could be accomplished quite innocently in solitude. The young artist she had noticed on her walk with Perdita would perhaps be willing to advise her on the several mistakes she commonly made? How not to make the nose too big in a portrait; to give depth and dimension to a landscape.

  But would he want paying? Her funds were running low. Nicholas Page would undoubtedly advance some of her fee were she to ask, but she was receiving board and lodging and did not want to appear in need.

  With the sky turning to a darker purple, she closed her eyes and murmured a litany passed down by her ancestors, an ancient prayer of peace.

  Light enclose the Circle,

  All to fill the Air;

  Warming through the deep Earth,

  Within the Fire flare.

  Light upon the Water

  The river and the Sea.

  Spirit become the Circle

  Protect and bless thou me.

  “Muttering to yourself, Mistress Oldstagh, will bring you a bad reputation. You may even be accused of witchcraft!”

  Tiola gasped and half scrambled to her feet, the words of protection springing to her lips, which she hastily subdued.

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.” Jonathan Gabriel climbed over a semi-concealed fence and stood before her, hastily removing his hat and offering her a bow of greeting.

  “You did somewhat surprise me,” she confessed, re-seating herself. She indicated the undergrowth encroaching over the narrow track, “I assumed few people came along here.”

  “Most folk who want the river go to the jetty; there are not many in these parts who appreciate things for beauty alone. And there is nothing to bring them along here, for this path leads only to the Governor’s private gardens.“

  Tiola smiled to herself. Yes, she knew that. She permitted the smile to play along her lips, to reach her eyes as she squinted up at him, his face shadowed by the last rays of the sun setting behind him. “You would not happen to be walking this secretive path for a specific reason?”

  “Of course not!” His answer was too quick and loud. Too guilty.

  Raising an eyebrow Tiola patted the grass next to her. “You are welcome to sit a while. It would not be advisable to go near the house at the moment. They are all in uproar concerning our near neighbour, Captain Teach. It seems he is among the guests to dine with us tonight. Mistress Page and Perdita do not welcome the prospect and the Governor is therefore affronted.”

  He sat, his eyes lit with a sparkle of joy at mention of Perdita, his long, lanky arms hugging his bent knees. He might have known this quiet, enigmatic young lady would guess the reason for his being here. This path led discreetly to the shrubs and trees that bordered the rear of the house, and in particular, where Perdita Galland’s bedchamber was situated. “We do not meet often,” he admitted. “Some evenings such as this I wait for nightfall, creep into the garden and gaze at her window.” He glanced sharply at Tiola. “Is that so very wrong of me?”

  Tiola squeezed his hand. He had long, slender fingers, those of his right hand callused where the sewing needles had rubbed the skin hard. “No my dear, it is not wrong. Love that comes from the heart and fills the soul is never wrong. Although Governor Eden may well not agree with me.”

  Frustrated, Jonathan plucked a stalk of feathered grass, began systematically shredding it. “I so love her, Mistress Oldstagh, but what am I to do? I am a tailor’s son
. Eden will never permit me to court her. Never. Yet he lets that sodding pirate romp through the house – begging pardon for m’language.”

  Tiola almost burst out with the fact that she was well used to bad language, being affianced to a man who was still in heart, body, and soul, despite his papers of amnesty, a pirate.

  “All I can do is find a way to make my fortune. That is the only thing respected round here. Money. Look at Teach, he is admired because he scatters gold like,” he tossed the grass into the water, “like grass seed.”

  There was little Tiola could say to console him. “It is a pity that men – fathers – put such store on wealth, for a husband who is skilled at a trade is a fine prospect.”

  “Not in my case. I would be better off were I to become a pirate.” Jonathan’s words were bitter as he stood, his face crunched into despair. “Thieves, murderers and rapists seem to be admired in this wretched town. Honest men who respect women count for naught.” He tipped his hat, turned on his heel and walked away, unable to say more for the rage swelling in his throat.

  A soothing charm of hope and calm would have been of benefit to him but Tiola dared not send one. Teach’s influence had spread like a canker through Bath Town, his presence drifted on the wind as a foul odour. The man was consumed by the malevolence of the Dark Power, which sought the Craft of an Old One of Wisdom like a fox attracted to the hen house. And until that babe kicking so forcefully inside Elizabeth-Anne’s belly decided to be born, Tiola could not risk slipping the bolt and luring the predator in to face his doom.

  Thirty One

  Virginia

  The shoes were too small and the wig was itching. Jesamiah had already found two fleas in it. A few young ladies had fluttered their fans and eyelashes at him, but his scowl had soon sent them scurrying in search of more sociable company.

  Ralph Wormeley’s Rosegil was a splendid house set in a grand estate, with more than two miles of river frontage – twice that of la Sorenta. The Wormeleys, too, were a grand family, Virginia’s answer to English nobility. The man himself acknowledged Jesamiah with a passing nod of greeting when first he had arrived with Alicia on his arm, but the family kept themselves apart from the general mêlée of guests. Once or twice the daughters had danced and the sons appeared to be enjoying themselves at the gaming tables. Jesamiah wondered whether his status would change were he to take over la Sorenta officially. As a landowner, would his face become acceptable?

  By the look of her, Alicia was having the time of her life; two hours into the evening she had partaken of every dance and openly flirted with every young man present. Only one of the dances so far, Jesamiah noted, had been with Samuel Trent. He was busy talking to various men of wealth and connection. Attempting to raise money in order to buy la Sorenta, Jesamiah assumed. Good luck to him. Maybe if there was a decent figure offered he might consider the proposal. Four thousand pounds sterling would be about right. And it would have to be cash, not the tobacco barter based on what was available or the value of next year’s tobacco crop. Hard, solid cash. It would not be easy for Trent to raise it. Only wealthy men had access to that sort of financial resource. And pirates.

  That was another thing rankling him; Governor Spotswood’s regulations against piracy. He’d had to ride into Urbanna to register his presence with the Constable. He hated riding, his legs were made for the sea not for sitting astride a fat-rumped cob. He’d had to sign his name and swear to God, with one hand on the Bible, that he had accepted amnesty and committed no offence of theft or murder on the High Seas or waterways below the low tide mark after the month of July. Both the signing and the ride had been a humiliating experience.

  There was no sign of that other man, the rider who had cantered off on the day of their arrival. Jesamiah had not learnt his name or anything about him. But then, he had not asked. He was not interested. Who Alicia chose to squabble with was her concern, not his.

  Jesamiah sipped the champagne, wondered whether he could ask for a tot of rum or brandy. Who was he fooling? He had no intention of remaining in Virginia. What did he want with a tobacco plantation – that tobacco plantation? Why not sell it to Trent at the price he could afford and be done with it? Yet curmudgeonly old Finch had been right; Tiola would not want to be spending the rest of her life at sea. Not if the bairns did start coming along.

  He glanced at Alicia, poised and elegant as she joined hands with her present partner to lead out and turn single. What was this dance? Something like, Swinny Was Tall the musicians had said. No, that was the previous one, a new dance apparently. There had been a lot of laughter and a few stumbling feet from those unfamiliar with the steps. Alicia had known it perfectly. How did she learn these dances? Who had taught her? The questions were piling into Jesamiah’s head. If she was with child, his child, how soon before she showed? Her belly was as flat as a dead-calm sea.

  She looked exquisite in a scarlet silk gown edged with black lace. Knowing her as intimately as he did, Jesamiah guessed the colours matched all the way down to her skin. With her honey-coloured hair piled in an elaborate creation of curls and ringlets, and rubies dripping from ears, throat and fingers, she was the most stunning woman present. But then, most of the others were either over forty or giggling girls who had never been kissed.

  He removed another glass of champagne from a servant’s tray. “Who the heck was Swinny?” he asked. “And is he tall?”

  The black servant shook her head, bewildered, not understanding for he had got the title wrong. Jesamiah shrugged, emptied the glass, exchanged it for another full one.

  The dancing and hubbub of chatter slithered to a ragged halt, the orchestra’s enraptured violinist screeching a few notes alone until he realised his colleagues had ceased playing.

  “Well,” Jesamiah mumbled into the sudden silence, resisting the urge to spit on the polished ballroom floor. “Alexander Spotswood himself. Lieutenant Governor of Virginia has graced us with his presence.”

  Opinion was divided regarding the Governor’s popularity and the uncomfortable pause while he stood a yard inside the entrance removing his hat, cloak and gloves, was noticeable. Spotswood was not known for tact, conviviality or equanimity towards civic and church officials, while military men, richer plantation owners and those with an excitement for adventure approved of him wholeheartedly. The Governor, depending on whether you needed his favour or not, was either admired or detested.

  Being at the head of the dance and near the entrance, Alicia was the first to sink into an elegant curtsey, her reminder of etiquette rippling through the crowded room like the crest of a rolling wave. As Spotswood walked further in, nodding a greeting here and there, several men failed to acknowledge him, a few clergymen and Virginia burgesses going so far as to turn their backs. Unperturbed, Spotswood disappeared into a side room where the gentlemen were playing cards or billiards and the underlying atmosphere in the ballroom almost immediately lost its chilled air of tension. Dancers and spectators began to smile and chat again; the orchestra resumed their lively tune and soon the room was vibrating with tapping feet and clapping hands.

  “Are thee not dancin’, Sir?” A middle-aged woman with three daughters in tow had to repeat her question twice before Jesamiah realised she was talking to him. “There are more men than girls here; always so of course. ‘Tis a pity the young ladies must sit out and not be permitted to show their figures to best advantage. Do thee not agree?”

  The young ladies she spoke of were reasonably pretty and Jesamiah should have answered politely, but his mood had been rapidly blackening with every tedious minute – and was not the sling around his neck an obvious reason why he did not dance?

  “In my experience, Ma’am, the only way a girl’s figure can be seen to best advantage is when she is stripped naked and moaning in ecstasy beneath me.”

  As a method of halting a conversation it worked most efficiently. Outraged, Agatha Chalmondy tilted her head in the air and took herself and her daughters off to the far side of the r
oom where she began telling everyone, word for word, what Jesamiah had said, pointing at him to ensure her listeners correctly identified the disgusting scoundrel.

  “What have you done to so offend people?” Alicia asked twenty minutes later during a pause in the dancing. “The gossip about you is somewhat ferocious.” She flopped down into a seat beside him, fanning herself furiously, cheeks flushed with breathlessness and the heat of so many bodies and candles. “The ladies appear quite scandalised and the men are reaching for their rapiers. I believe three are considering calling you out. Honestly Jesamiah, can I not leave you alone for five minutes without you stirring trouble?”

  “Then let me go home. I don’t fit comfortable in these surroundings. Nor these shoes.”

  “Certainly not. If you leave I will be expected to go with you, and we have not even had supper yet.”

  Samuel Trent joined Jesamiah soon after Alicia was whisked away by a uniformed marine for another lively dance, one that involved a lot of skirt twirling, the risqué exposure of a well-turned ankle and the occasional raucous shout. With Trent, a navy officer: Lieutenant Robert Maynard.

  “You are a seaman I hear?” Maynard enquired affably after the formal courtesy of introduction. “Was that your ship we saw heading in a few days ago? Blue-hulled; square-rigged?”

  “It was. Sea Witch.“

  “A sight for sore eyes, I can tell you. Made a change to see a vessel trimmed as she should be and looking as pretty as any of the young fillies here present.”

  Jesamiah remained silent. The English Royal Navy had a selection of imbeciles for admirals and most of the captains were as bad. Men who had bought their positions or inherited them from prestigious fathers and uncles; few could sail a ship efficiently across a garden pond let alone an ocean. Too much emphasis had gone on the Spanish and French wars, too many captains had only patrolled up and down from Biscay to the Med, or maintained a blockade on French and Spanish ports. King George and his naval officers regarded the American Colonies and the Caribbean as unimportant. Several thousand miles of distance made for complacency. The vessels sent to patrol the seas and coasts, and ostensibly to hunt pirates, were poorly crewed and in poorer condition. Pirates could provision and careen when and where they liked, Navy ships were not permitted to use anywhere except official docks. In the Caribbean that meant places like Antigua, Port Royal and Nassau, or the scattered forts of the American coast. Uncareened ships did not sail well. They were sluggish, full of worm and soon rotted. Poorly fed men fell sick and died.