A Certain Latitude
By
Janet Mullany
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to:
Beta readers Donna Blake, Anna Genest, Margaret Hren, Christie Kelley, and Katherine Spivey.
Pam Rosenthal for the mobile writing retreat, and for reminding me of the most important rule of erotic writing: that sometimes you need a little more talk, a little less action.
DEDICATION
Even though they may roll in their graves, this book is dedicated to the courageous men and women of the English abolitionist movement.
Copyright © 2007, 2013 by Janet Mullany
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.
A Certain Latitude is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.
CHAPTER 1
Bristol, 1800
This was not the way Allen Pendale had intended his departure to be. He had anticipated a nostalgic, sentimental farewell to Bristol. Seagulls wheeled and cried overhead, the winter sky was a hazy smoky blue, and St. Mary Radcliffe’s spire rose proudly among the terraced houses of the dirty, noisy city.
It was a pity that Lord Glenning, red-faced, cuckolded and irate, drove his curricle in a chaos of spilled barrels and cursing seamen along the dock toward the Daphne.
And an even greater pity that a ship could not be merely untethered and flicked forward with some sort of nautical whip like a horse and carriage.
“Pendale, you whoreson!” Glenning’s voice was audible, barely, as the Daphne meandered away from the quay, led by a couple of small rowing-boats.
The other passengers, standing in a knot on deck, surrounded by their luggage, paused and looked at Allen.
“Do your friends always bid you farewell so?” One of them, a red-headed woman asked, a cynical smile on her face.
“Only the ones I’ve cuckolded.” Now Allen could see Glenning’s bulbous face and his arm rising, then sighted the glint of pale winter sun on metal.
“Get down!” Allen shouted and pushed the woman down, landing on top of her. Breathless he waited for the sound of the shot.
“What are you doing?” The woman struggled beneath him, her face red with fury, and flailed at him with a free arm. “Get off me immediately!”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I was merely saving your life.”
“My life would not have been in danger, had you kept your breeches buttoned.”
“I regret I didn’t have such foresight.” He raised himself from her, sorting out cloaks, her umbrella and a reticule, and then he plucked her bonnet from under his knee.
“You’ve ruined it!” She swiped at her flattened bonnet.
“Beg your pardon,” he said again, wondering if Glenning was reloading, or merely waiting for his head to appear within range once more.
She slithered out from under him, scooting herself across the deck, giving him a fine view of her ankles and one collapsed stocking, dull and gray, revealing a pale, slender calf.
Allen listened for the crack of a gunshot, but heard only the stamp of feet and hoarse chant of the crew as they worked the capstan.
The woman was the first to stand. “A telescope,” she said in disgust.
A telescope?
He stood and peered at Glenning, who roared out inaudible curses, his fist waving in the air. Sure enough, his lordship had a telescope tucked under one arm.
“I thought—” Allen began in self-defense, his face reddening, but the woman turned away.
The gap between the sloop and the quay widened, and Allen couldn’t resist a last look at the shore to see familiar landmarks slide by.
He followed the red-haired woman, prepared to make an apology for manhandling her to the deck. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I acted unforgivably.”
She shrugged. “I thought you were supposed to fight under those sort of circumstances.”
“Only if the woman is worth dying for or marrying,” he responded. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Allen Pendale, at your service, ma’am.”
“I am Miss Clarissa Onslowe.”
She glanced at him with a look he was used to seeing from his clients, when they had something to hide and hoped he would not notice their reaction. Not a woman particularly skilled in the art of deception, he concluded, while wondering for a brief moment what this dowdy spinster—with admittedly attractive ankles—could possibly have to hide.
“Pendale? You are related perhaps to the Earl of Frensham?”
“My father.”
Well, of course. What did she expect, on a ship bound for the Caribbean island where the Earl owned one of the largest estates and was neighbor to her future employer? She gave Pendale an abrupt curtsy and turned away to follow the other woman passenger, Mrs. Blight, down to the cabin they were to share. Not only had Pendale been pursued by a jealous husband, but he had also been rash enough to nearly miss the tide—she gave a sniff of annoyance, and gathered her cloak and skirts to descend the steep stairway—little more than a ladder—that led below.
She followed Mrs. Blight, ducking through a low doorway and into a small cabin the size of a cupboard.
“Where—” she began, before realizing that what she took for two shelves were in fact their beds. Dim light filtered in through a small, greenish glass window.
“Well, this is fancy, I must say!” Mrs. Blight smiled, obviously impressed with their accommodation. “Mind your head on the lamp, my dear. This is a far cry from the last ship I was on.”
“You have sailed before?”
“Not exactly.” Mrs. Blight, back to Clarissa, dug into her possessions. “I was visiting a gentleman on a man-o’-war some years ago, when I was young and foolish.” She sighed, and emerged with a substantial medicine traveling chest, from which she produced a tiny mirror, a rouge pot and a length of gaudy ribbon. “The Captain will expect us to show our best finery at dinner. Take this ribbon, my dear Miss Onslowe. Your cap may be finely worked, but it’s not becoming at all.”
Clarissa took the ribbon, a tawdry piece of stuff, at which she’d normally turn up her nose and give it to a chambermaid. However, in these close quarters, it would be diplomatic to accept. “Thank you, Mrs. Blight.”
“A woman should always appear at her best. I know these things, my dear, from my line of business.”
“Your line of business?” Mr. Blight was Lemarchand’s overseer, she knew that much. She couldn’t imagine what possible trade Mrs. Blight might have practiced—a servant, she would have guessed, or possibly the proprietor of a small shop. Not at all the sort of woman she would have imagined herself traveling with.
Mrs. Blight, mirror in hand, looked up from patting rouge on her cheeks. “I kept a house. I tell you, I was hard put to make the choice when Blight asked for my hand. When a woman does as well as I did, she must make sure she does the right thing in giving up all for love.” She sighed, produced a small vial and shook a little of its contents onto the palm of her hand. She dabbed liberally at her neck and bosom, filling the cabin with a strong scent of roses.
“I was a housekeeper, too,” Clarissa said, though she wondered whether they had indeed shared the same profession.
Mrs. Blight squinted at herself in the mirror and watched Clarissa lace the ribbon through her hair. “Better,” she said. “Why, you might pass for thirty if you’d use a little rouge.”
“I’m eight-and-twenty,” Clarissa said. “Thank you for the ribbon.”
She grabbed her spinster’s cap and placed it on her head, covering up the gaudy ribbon. Then she squeezed past Mrs. Blight and made her
way onto the deck again.
To her surprise she enjoyed dinner, which took place in the Captain’s state room, a relatively large space spanning the width of the ship, with the last of the afternoon light streaming in through many-paned windows on both sides. Captain Trent, a genial weather-beaten man in his forties, sat at the head of the table with Mr. Johnson, his first lieutenant, sharing the duties of host. Although Clarissa had heard Mr. Johnson bellow ferociously at the seamen on deck, he seemed struck dumb by the company of two women. He had taken some pains with his appearance; his hair was combed into a fashionable attempt at disorder, which was successful but for a wayward tuft at the back of his head.
The food was good—of course, at this stage in the long journey, everything was fresh—and the wine even better.
“Mr. Lemarchand enjoys his wine,” Captain Trent said with a wink. “’Tis a pity indeed only eleven of the dozen casks of claret we carry will arrive safely. Your health, ladies and gentlemen.”
Glasses clinked. Mrs. Blight shifted her considerable bosom onto the table and addressed Allen Pendale. “If I may be so bold, sir, what is your business with Lemarchand?”
Clarissa noticed he took a good look at the woman’s breasts before replying.
“I’m something of an interloper, ma’am. My chief business is with his neighbor, the Earl of Frensham.”
“An equally fine plantation, so I’ve heard,” the captain said.
“Soft on his Negroes,” Blight said, removing a piece of gristle from his mouth.
“Blight is Lemarchand’s overseer,” Mrs. Blight explained to Clarissa. “And to think he came all the way back to England to marry me.”
Pendale grinned. “You’re on your honeymoon?” He turned to Clarissa. “We shall have to allow the lovebirds some time alone, Miss Onslowe.”
“Indeed.” What appeared to her an appallingly crude comment merely seemed to entertain the Blights. She attempted to change the subject. “I am to serve as governess and companion to Miss Lemarchand.”
“Ah, yes. A pretty young miss, she is. We carry a pianoforte for her, and all sorts of things young ladies like: books and lengths of cloth and fashion papers.” The captain laughed. “He didn’t want to risk the pianoforte on one of his slavers. Besides, there wouldn’t have been room.”
“It would be a shame to take up a space that could hold twenty or so slaves with something so frivolous as a piano,” Clarissa commented.
“Quite so, ma’am.” The Captain gave her an agreeable smile, her irony lost on him.
“They’re not people, rightly speaking,” Blight said. “You don’t want to get sentimental over them, Miss Onslowe. You’ll see what savages they are when we get there.”
“Why, shame on you, Miss Onslowe, you speak like one of those abolitionists,” Mrs. Blight said. “We are all dependent on the trade, and on Mr. Lemarchand’s generosity. Besides, business is business, my dear.”
Clarissa bit her lip. “I’ve met Negroes in Bristol. They are not savages, sir. They are as civilized as you or me.”
Blight smirked. “You’ll change your mind, Miss Onslowe.” He ripped a wing off a chicken. “Lemarchand might be interested in knowing what sort of woman he’s hired to educate his daughter, that’s all.”
“And you will make it your business to let the gentleman know?”
Blight looked at her, his gaze stripping her naked. “It may be my duty.”
Allen Pendale leaned forward, elbows on the table, one large hand around his wineglass, plate pushed aside. “Blackmail is against the law, Blight. Besides, I doubt Lemarchand cares what a woman thinks.”
“And I am supposed to thank you for that astute observation, Mr. Pendale?”
“If you wish, Miss Onslowe.” He addressed Blight again. “Lemarchand is well aware of sentiments in England. Feelings run strong. Why, the rope makers of Liverpool, whose livelihood depend upon it, petition for the trade to end, and housewives boycott sugar, as well you know.”
“We bought only sugar from India, where I was housekeeper,” Clarissa said.
“So, if you have such scruples, Miss Onslowe, why are you here?” Blight tossed chicken bones onto his plate.
“That, sir, is my business.”
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Captain Trent shook his head. “We’ve several weeks ahead at close quarters. It’s best if we try to get along, for I assure you, things will be most uncomfortable if we do not. I believe you’ll find the island agreeable—Mr. Lemarchand lives like a king, the climate is like that of a fine English summer day, and so long as you do not get fever you’ll do well enough. There’s plenty of hunting and shooting to be had there, too.”
As the conversation turned to the topic of masculine pursuits, Clarissa studied Allen Pendale, who sat opposite her. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about his face she liked—the gleam of mischief in those dark eyes, his broad cheekbones and his spill of fashionably unruly hair. He had, moreover, taken her side—somewhat— although she suspected it was because he enjoyed an argument, rather than caring about the subject itself.
Pendale cut a large slice of pie, oozing with blackberries, and deposited it onto her plate. He winked. “Here, Miss Onslowe. To sweeten you up.”
Her mouth watered.
With his own spoon he dug into the slice on her plate, and offered her the succulent, dripping mouthful as though he were feeding a baby.
Entranced, she parted her lips.
He whispered, “Full of sugar.”
Of course. She was seduced all the same.
Miss Onslowe had had a little too much to drink, Allen thought. Well, they all had, thanks to his Lemarchand’s claret and a bottle of rum Captain Trent had produced at the end of the meal. She ambled onto the deck, a slight smile on her face, her white spinster’s cap glowing in the twilight. The garment aged her ten years and made her plainer than she was. He’d yet to see her with her head uncovered, but why he should want to was a mystery.
He stood still against the mast and lowered his cheroot to his side, so she wouldn’t notice him too soon.
She looked around carefully and removed the linen cap. To his surprise she wore a whorish sort of ribbon—red and silver—in her hair. She removed the ribbon and shook out her hair on to her shoulders, its brightness catching a spark of fire from the setting sun.
He clamped his cheroot between his teeth, sauntered forward and bowed. “Miss Onslowe.”
“Oh!” She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the offending cap back onto her head. “Good evening, Mr. Pendale.”
“Your servant, ma’am. Would you care to take a turn on the deck with me?” He offered his arm.
Her look was suspicious. Of course: the reaction of an aging spinster faced with a rake, and she had every right to think ill of his morals. On the other hand, what did she think he could do? Ram her up against the mast?
Not a bad idea. Remember those ankles? And where did that come from? He must be insane.
“Thank you, no. Goodnight, sir.” She stepped away toward the hatch.
“Miss Onslowe, I must warn you. Mr. and Mrs. Blight are, er, in residence in one of the cabins for an hour or so. Blight asked, and I could not help but agree.”
“Of course. Which cabin is it?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he lied, quite liking the idea of keeping her on deck a little longer.
“Probably yours. Mrs. Blight said ours was smaller.” She marched over to the hatch, and disappeared into the ship.
Allen drew on his cheroot, oddly disappointed that she had left, and gazed upward at the gentle billow of the sail and the moon pale against the darkening sky. The gentle meandering of the day had taken them and their escort of small sailing vessels far enough to escape the Bristol smoke; they had passed through the river’s spectacular gorge some hours ago, and occasional small clusters of golden squares announced the location of farmhouses and villages.
He watched the lights move slowly out of sight and listened to the splash of w
ater and the creak of the ship’s wheel, blew out a puff of rich smoke and wondered exactly how long it would take Blight to perform his marital duties.
Despite her confidence, Clarissa listened carefully and tapped on the door of the cabin before entering. To her relief she found the cabin empty.
Mrs. Blight, she considered vulgar, pretty and, in her way, kind-hearted, although she tried far too hard to simulate gentility. Exactly what kind of a house had she kept? Mr. Blight, lean, with dirty blond hair tied back in a queue, was almost handsome, but there was something about him Clarissa disliked—the set of his mouth, the cynicism in his deep-set dark eyes. He was, she felt, a man who would carry a grudge.
Once in her narrow shelf of a bed—it was only just long enough for her and she wondered how a taller person would fare—she lay for a time in a pleasantly tipsy state. The small space was full of unfamiliar sounds: creaks of huge timbers flexing and pushing against the water, small rustles—the housekeeper in her tut-tutted at the blatant activities of mice and rats—and the slap of water against the outside of the ship, only a few feet away. The ship had seemed large at first, with its two towering masts, and then smaller in comparison to the clippers and barques on the Avon. She wondered how it would feel when they were out of sight of land and vulnerable on the vastness of the sea.
Warned by travelers’ tales, she had brought her own sheets and quilt and a plump feather pillow. She turned her face into the pillow and sniffed the faint odor of lavender; lavender she had picked, rubbing the wheat-like stems between her fingers for the pleasure of the rising scent. Did they grow lavender on the island?
The island—that was how they referred to their destination, as though it were the only one that mattered, giving it a mystique that reminded her of Prospero’s island in The Tempest.
She’d have to ask someone, Captain Trent, maybe, about the lavender.
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