I looked out with no little trepidation. What did I expect to see? I wasn’t sure, but the memories of the Cobleighs were still fresh in my mind. Instead, what I saw, sitting astride her horse in the pale moonlight of the yard, as though God himself was shining his lantern upon her beauty, was Caroline Scott.
She was dressed as if for riding school. Her clothes were dark. She wore a tall hat and a white shirt and black jacket. With one hand she held the reins and the other was raised, about to throw a second fistful of gravel at my window.
I myself had been known to use the very same trick to attract the attention of a lady friend, and I remembered well the terror of waking up the whole household. So when I threw stones at a casement window, I usually did it from behind the safety of a stone wall. Not Caroline. That was the difference in our social standing. She had no fears of being run off the property with a boot in her behind and a flea in her ear. She was Caroline Scott of Hawkins Lane in Bristol. She herself was being courted by the son of an East India Company executive. Clandestine assignation or not – and there was no doubt this was clandestine – hiding behind stone walls was not for her.
‘Well …’ she whispered. I saw her eyes dance in the moonlight. ‘Are you going to leave me sitting out here all night?’
No. In moments I was in the yard by her side, taking the reins of the horse and walking her away from the property as we spoke.
‘Your actions the other day,’ she said. ‘You put yourself in great danger in order to protect that young thief.’
(Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. And, yes, yes, I did feel a little guilt at that.)
(But not too much guilt.)
‘There is nothing I hate so much as a bully, Miss Scott,’ I said. Which did at least have the benefit of being true.
‘So I thought. This is twice now I have been most impressed by the gallantry of your actions.’
‘Then it is on two occasions that I have been pleased you were there to witness it.’
‘You interest me, Mr Kenway. And your own interest in me has not gone unremarked.’
I stayed silent. And we walked for a while. And even though no words were spoken there was meaning in our silence. As though we acknowledged our feelings for each other. I felt the closeness of her riding boot. Above the heat and scent of the horse, I thought I could smell the powder she wore. Never before had I been so aware of a person, of the nearness of a person.
‘I expect you have been told that I am betrothed to another,’ she said.
We stopped along the lane. There were stone walls on either side of us, the green pastures beyond interrupted by clusters of white sheep. The air was warm and dry around us, not even a breeze to disturb the trees that rose to make the skyline. From somewhere came the cry of an animal, lovelorn or hurt, but certainly feral, and a sudden disturbance in the bushes startled us. We felt like interlopers. Uninvited guests to nature’s household.
‘Why, I don’t think –’
‘Mr Kenway –’
‘You can call me Edward, Miss Scott.’
‘Well, you can continue calling me Miss Scott.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh go on then, you can call me Caroline.’
‘Thank you, Miss Scott.’
She gave me a sideways look, as though to check whether or not I was mocking her.
‘Well, Edward,’ she continued, ‘I know full well you have been making enquiries about me. And though I do not pretend to know exactly what you’ve been told, I think I know the gist: that Caroline Scott is betrothed to Matthew Hague; that Matthew Hague bombards her with love poems, that the union has the blessing of his father and, of course, her father. Am I right?’
I admitted I had heard as much.
‘Perhaps in the short dealings we have had together you might understand how I would feel about this particular arrangement?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘Then I shall spell it out for you. The thought of marriage to Matthew Hague turns my stomach. Do you think I want to live my life in the household of the Hagues? Expected to treat my husband like a king, turn a blind eye to his affairs, run the household, shout at the staff, choose flowers and pick out doilies, go visiting, take tea, trade gossip with other wives?
‘Do you think I want to hide myself so deeply beneath the petty concerns of manners and etiquette that I can no longer find myself? At the moment I live between two worlds, Edward, able to see them both. The world I see on my visits to the harbour is the world that is most real to me, Edward. The one that is most alive. And as for Matthew Hague himself, I despise him almost as much as his poetry.
‘Do not think me a helpless damsel in distress, Edward, because I am not that. But I’m not here for your help. I have come to help myself.’
‘You’ve come to help yourself to me?’
‘If you wish. Your next move is yours to make, but if you make it do so knowing this: any relationship between you and me would not have the blessing of my father, but it would have mine.’
‘Excuse me, but it’s not so much your father who concerns me, as his choice for you.’
‘And the thought of making an enemy of the Hagues, does that put you off?’
I knew at that moment nothing would put me off. ‘No, Caroline, it doesn’t.’
‘I hoped as much.’
We parted, with arrangements made to meet again. And after that, our relationship began in earnest. We were able to keep it a secret. For some months, in fact, our meetings were held entirely in private: snatched moments spent wandering the lanes between Bristol and Hatherton, riding in the pastures.
Until one day she announced that Matthew Hague planned to ask for her hand in marriage the following morning, and my heart stopped.
I was determined not to lose her. Because of my love for her, because I could think of nothing but her, because when we were together I savoured every moment. Every word, every gesture that Caroline made was like nectar to me – everything about her, every curve and contour, her scent, her laugh, her refined manners, her intelligence.
And all of this ran through my mind as I dropped to one knee and took her hand, because what she was telling me, perhaps it wasn’t an invitation but a farewell, and if it was, well, at least my humiliation would not be known far and wide, confined to the birds in the trees and the cows that stood in the fields watching us with sleepy eyes and chewing ruminatively.
‘Caroline, will you marry me?’ I said.
I held my breath. During our courtship every meeting we’d had, every stolen kiss we’d shared, I’d been haunted by a feeling of not believing my luck. It was as though a great joke was being played on me – I half expected Tom Cobleigh to come leaping out of the shadows snorting with laughter. And if not that – if not some vengeful practical joke at my expense – then perhaps I was merely a diversion for Caroline, a final fling, before she applied herself to her familial duty.
‘Ah, Edward,’ she smiled, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
9
I couldn’t accept it, though, and I found myself travelling into town the next day, my journey taking me to Hawkins Lane. All I knew was that Matthew Hague planned to pay her a visit in the morning, and as I sidled up the highway and passed the row of houses among which was hers, I wondered if he was in there now, perhaps making his proposal.
One thing I knew of Caroline, she was a brave woman, but even so the bravest I’d ever known, but even so, she was passing up the opportunity to live the rest of her days in pampered luxury; and, worse, she was going to scandalize her mother and father. I knew only too well the pressures of trying to please a parent, how tempting it was to go down that route. An unfulfilled soul, or a soul troubled with guilt – which was the hardest cross to bear?
With me standing before her – and she loved me I’m sure of that – perhaps the decision was easier to make. But what about at night, when misgivings made their rounds and doubt came visiting? Perhaps she might simply have changed
her mind and she was, at this very moment, blushing in her acceptance of Matthew Hague’s proposal, and mentally writing a letter to me.
And if that happened, well, there was always Dylan Wallace, I supposed.
But then from the corner of my eye I saw the front door open and Wilson appear, quickly followed by the draughtsman and behind them Matthew Hague, who offered his arm for Caroline, Rose taking up the rear as they began their perambulations.
Staying some distance behind, I followed them all the way to the harbour, puzzling over his intentions. Not the harbour, surely? The dirty, smelly, crowded harbour, with its stench of manure and burning pitch and just-caught fish and men who had returned from months away at sea without so much as a bath during that time.
They were making their way towards what looked like a schooner moored at the dock, around which were gathered some men. It was difficult to tell, though, because hanging from the back of the ship was some kind of canvas, obscuring the name of the vessel. However, as the group drew closer to it I thought I knew what it was. I thought I knew his plan.
Sure enough, they stopped before it and still out of sight I watched as Caroline’s eyes flicked nervously from Matthew Hague to the schooner, guessing that she, too, had worked out the purpose of their visit.
Next thing I knew, Hague was down on one knee, and the staff of the schooner, Wilson and the draughtsman, were all standing with their hands behind their backs, ready for the round of applause as Matthew Hague popped his question, ‘My darling, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Caroline swallowed and stammered. ‘Matthew, m-must we do this here?’
He shot her a patronizing look, then with an expansive gesture of his hand ordered the canvas come off the rear of the schooner. There etched in a gold leaf was the vessel’s name: Caroline.
‘Where better place, my dear?’
And if it hadn’t been for the situation I might even have slightly enjoyed the sight of Caroline at a loss. Usually she was nothing if not sure of herself. The doubt and near-panic I saw in her eyes was, I suspect, as new to her as it was to me.
‘Matthew, I must say, you’re embarrassing me.’
‘My dear, dear Caroline, my precious flower …’ he said, and made a small gesture to his draughtsman, who immediately began rooting around for his quill in order to record his master’s poetic words.
‘But how else would I have unveiled my marital gift to you? Now, I must press you for an answer. Please, with all these people watching …’
And, yes, I realized looking around, the entire harbour seemed to have halted, everybody hanging on Caroline’s next words, which were …
‘No, Matthew.’
Hague stood up so sharply that his draughtsman was forced to scurry backwards and almost lost his footing. Hague’s face darkened and his lips pursed as he fought to retain composure and force a smile. ‘One of your little jokes, perhaps?’
‘I fear not, Matthew, I am betrothed to another.’
Hague drew himself up to his full height as though to intimidate Caroline. Standing back in the crowd I felt my blood rising and began to make my way forward.
‘To another,’ he croaked. ‘And just who is this other man?’
‘Me, sir,’ I announced, having reached the front of the crowd and presented myself to him.
He looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘You,’ he spat.
From behind him Wilson was already moving forward, and in his eyes I could see his fury that I’d failed to heed his warning. And how that became his failure.
With an outstretched arm Hague stopped him. ‘No, Wilson,’ he said, adding pointedly, ‘not here. Not now. I’m sure my lady may want to reconsider …’
A ripple of surprise and, I guess, not a little humour had travelled through the crowd and it rose again as Caroline said, ‘No, Matthew, Edward and I are to be married.’
He rounded on her. ‘And does your father know about this?’
‘Not yet,’ she said, then added, ‘I’ve a feeling he soon will, though.’
For a moment Hague simply stood and trembled with rage, and for the first but not, as it would turn out, the last time, I actually felt sympathy for him. In the next instant he was barking at bystanders to get back to their work, then shouting at the schooner crew to replace the canvas, then calling to Wilson and his draughtsman to leave the harbour, turning his back pointedly on Caroline and offering me a look of hate as he exited. At his rear was Wilson and our eyes locked. Slowly, he drew a finger across his throat.
I shouldn’t have done it really; Wilson was not a man to provoke, but I couldn’t help myself, returning his death threat with a cheeky wink.
10
And that was how Bristol came to know that Edward Kenway, a sheep farmer worth a mere seventy-five pounds a year, was to marry Caroline Scott.
And what a scandal it was: Caroline Scott marrying beneath her would have been cause for gossip enough. That she had spurned Matthew Hague in the process constituted quite a stir, and I wonder if that scandal might ultimately have worked in our favour, because while I steeled myself for retribution – and for a while I looked for Wilson round every corner, and my first glance from the window to the yard each morning was filled with trepidation – none came. I saw nothing of Wilson, heard nothing of Matthew Hague.
In the end, the threat to our marriage came not from outside – not from the Cobleighs, Emmett Scott, Matthew Hague or Wilson. It came from the inside. It came from me.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about the reasons why, of course. And the problem was that I kept returning to my meeting with Dylan Wallace and his promises of riches in the West Indies. I wanted to go and return to Caroline a rich man. I had begun to see it as my only chance of making a success of myself. My only chance of being worthy of her. For, of course, yes, there was the immediate glory, or perhaps you might say stature, of having made Caroline Scott my wife, taking her from beneath the nose of Matthew Hague, but that was soon followed by a kind of … well, I can only describe it as stagnation.
Emmett Scott had delivered his cutting blow at the wedding. We should have been grateful, I suppose, that he and Caroline’s mother had deigned to attend. Although for my own part I was not at all grateful. I would have preferred it if the pair of them had stayed away. I hated to see my father, cap in hand, bowing and scraping to Emmett Scott, hardly a noble man after all, just a merchant, separated from us not by any aristocratic leanings but by money alone.
For Caroline, though, I was glad they came. It wasn’t as if they approved of the marriage, far from it, but at the very least they weren’t prepared to lose their daughter over it.
I overheard her mother say, ‘We just want you to be happy, Caroline,’ and knew that she was speaking for herself alone. In the eyes of Emmett Scott I saw no such desire. I saw the look of a man who had been denied his chance to clamber higher up the social ladder, a man whose dreams of great influence had been dashed. He came to the wedding under sufferance, or perhaps for the pleasure of delivering his pronouncement in the churchyard after the vows had been made.
Emmett Scott had black hair brushed forward, dark sunken cheeks and a mouth pinched permanently into a shape like a cat’s anus. His face, in fact, wore the permanent expression of a man biting deep into the flesh of a lemon.
Except for this one occasion, when his lips pressed into a thin smile and he said, ‘There will be no dowry.’
His wife, Caroline’s mother, closed her eyes tightly as though it was a moment she’d dreaded, had hoped might not happen. Words had been exchanged, I could guess, and the last of them had belonged to Emmett Scott.
So we moved into an outhouse on my father’s farm. We had appointed it as best we could, but it was still, at the end of the day, an outhouse: packed mud and sticks for the walls, our roof thatch badly in need of repair.
Our union had begun in the summer, of course, when our home was a cool sanctuary away from the blazing sun, but in winter, in the wet and
wind, it was no kind of sanctuary at all. Caroline had been used to a brick-built townhouse with the life of Bristol all around, with servants to boot, her washing, her cooking, every whim attended to. Here she was not rich. She was poor. And her husband was poor. With no prospects.
I began visiting the inns once more, but I was not the same man as before, not as I’d been in the days when I was a single man, the cheerful, boisterous drunk, the jester. Now I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I sat with my back to the room, hunched, brooding over my ale, feeling as though they were all talking about me, like they were all saying, ‘There’s Edward Kenway, who can’t provide for his wife.’
I had suggested it to Caroline, of course. Me becoming a privateer. And while she hadn’t said no – she was still my wife, after all – she hadn’t said yes, and in her eyes were doubt and worry.
‘I don’t want to leave you alone, but I can leave here poor and come back rich,’ I told her.
Now, if I was to go, I went without her blessing. I went without her blessing and I left her alone in a farmyard shack, and her father would say I had deserted her, and her mother would despise me for making Caroline unhappy.
I couldn’t win.
‘Is it dangerous?’ she asked one night when I spoke about privateering.
‘It wouldn’t be so highly paid if it wasn’t,’ I told her, and, of course, she reluctantly agreed that I could go. What choice did she have? But I didn’t want to leave her behind with a broken heart.
One morning, I awoke from a drunken stupor, blinking in the morning light, only to find Caroline already dressed for the day ahead.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said, and turned and left the room.
Another night I sat in the Livid Brews. I’d like to say I was not my usual self as I sat with my back to the rest of the tavern, hunched over my tankard, taking great big gulps in between dark thoughts and watching the level fall. Always watching the level of my ale fall.
But the sad fact of the matter was that I was my usual self. That younger man, always ready with a quip and a smile had disappeared. In his place, still a young man, but one who now had the cares of the world on his shoulders.
Assassin’s Creed® Page 169