Dante was a man who dared the fates, who stared boldly at the odds, then risked them to achieve some personal goal he had set for himself. He seemed to be defying the heavens when he went aloft, looking for all the world like Neptune, god of the sea, as he surveyed his kingdom while the hungry waters lapped at his feet. It was as if the captain of the Sea Dragon were tempting fortune into a reckoning with him.
Rhea closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to drift with the lulling motion of the ship while she caught at that elusive impression that had been puzzling her, bothering her. The more she had watched Dante, the stronger her impression had become that there was something familiar about him. She had the strange sensation that she had known his face for most of her life, and as she lay there, relaxed, it suddenly struck her why Dante Leighton, captain of the Sea Dragon, held so powerful a fascination for her.
How many times had she stood in the Long Gallery at Camareigh, staring dreamily up at that portrait of her ancestor who had been the adventurer-privateer during the reign of Elizabeth I. The similarity between the two men was not in an identical cast of features, for her ancestor was a much darker man, who sported the neatly trimmed beard fashionable during the sixteenth century. And where Dante’s eyes were pale and crystalline with light, her ancestor’s were like ebony. But that mattered not, for it was the expression in their eyes that made them brethren. They possessed a kindred spirit. And even though two centuries separated their existences, they could have stepped into each other’s lives with little difficulty.
They were enterprising men seeking adventure, who thrived in defiance of danger, crying to fortune and foe alike, “Come if you dare!” The bold stroke was their forte, and they would venture undaunted into the fires of hell if challenged to do so.
Rhea smiled in sudden relief, for she now felt at long last that she understood herself. She had been mesmerized for years by a portrait. She had fallen in love with a painted man, and now she had transferred that infatuation—yes, infatuation—to this flesh-and-blood man who so resembled in spirit the portrait that had held her spellbound. She was not in love with Dante, Rhea told herself, but with the memory of a man from another century, who seemed now to be walking the quarterdeck of the Sea Dragon.
Rhea sniffed back her tears and wiped their unwanted wetness from her cheeks. She chuckled softly, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders now that she had freed herself from the bedevilment of Dante Leighton.
Rhea felt something soft touching her cheek and sat up startled, her less than charitable thoughts concerning the captain of the Sea Dragon causing her to blush guiltily should the man himself have been standing there watching her.
“Jamaica,” Rhea breathed in relief, then glanced in surprise at the door, which was now open. Even though Jamaica was capable of swiping a piece of fish from the galley, or a slice of beef from your plate when you were not looking, Rhea seriously doubted whether he was proficient at opening doors.
Then Conny appeared in the doorway, staring with concern at her red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks.
“Ye’ve been crying, m’lady?” he questioned, sounding almost reproachful. “Why?” he asked, as if he couldn’t possibly understand how anyone could be unhappy who was lucky enough to be on board the Sea Dragon and serving under Captain Dante Leighton.
“I was just feeling homesick,” Rhea explained. “Don’t you ever get homesick, Conny?”
“No,” he answered honestly, his eyes wide with surprise at such a question.
“I would think you would miss your family. I am certain your mother and father must worry about you when you are at sea,” Rhea said, wondering how it was that Conny Brady became the cabin boy on board the Sea Dragon.
“Me mum died when I was five and me pa was a sailor. He went to sea and never came back. Reckon ’tis in me blood.”
“Where are you from, Conny?” Rhea asked, thinking how different Conny Brady’s life had been from Robin’s.
“Bristol. Though me pa was a Paddy.”
“A Paddy?”
“An Irishman, m’lady. He come into port and met me mum, begot me, then shipped out. Never heard of him again, we didn’t.”
“How long have you been at sea, Conny?” Rhea couldn’t understand the boy’s complacence.
“Oh, nigh on five years now, I reckon. Signed aboard me first ship when I was six—’twas a bit after me mum died. Reckoned bein’ at sea was better’n bein’ in some workhouse or asylum fer orphans. That’s where the magistrate wanted to put me since I had no family, so I ran away one night. Never been back, I haven’t, though…” Conny stopped and turned a bright red when he noticed Rhea’s interested stare.
“Though what?” Rhea asked. “Is there someplace you’d like to go or see? You have probably seen much more than I ever shall. Come on, don’t be bashful now. I can keep a secret, truly I can. I’ve all of my brothers’ naughty deeds locked up tight in my head. Aren’t you going to tell me?” Rhea asked. Her soft voice was at its most persuasive, and young Conny Brady never had a chance to deny her.
“Well,” he said finally, his color still heightened, “I would kinda like to see Camareigh. The way ye’ve talked about it, well…”
“You shall see it, Conny,” Rhea told him, touched by his confession. “I give you an invitation now to visit Camareigh whenever you so wish.”
Conny stood in silent disbelief. “Ye’re not gullin’ me, are ye, m’lady? This be truth, then? I’ve an invitation to come to see ye at Camareigh?”
“My word of honor you do,” Rhea reassured the young fellow. “If I ever return to Camareigh,” she added, more to herself then to Conny, but he caught her words and grinned wide.
“Ah, Lady Rhea, the cap’n’ll be lettin’ ye off in Antigua. Then ye can be leavin’ fer Camareigh, and in maybe a year or so, whenever the Sea Dragon’s back in English waters, well…maybe I’ll be travelin’ by and…”
“And you will come and stay for a month if you wish,” Rhea insisted, her eyes twinkling as she realized he had already planned his future visit.
“Ye think maybe this brother of yours might be lettin’ me ride his pony?” Conny asked diffidently.
“’Tisn’t up to Robin,” Rhea replied. Then she added quickly, when she saw the disappointment spreading across Conny’s young face, “’Tis up to Shoopiltee whether or not you ride him, but he is fairly well-behaved for a pony.” Rhea noticed for the first time the bundle in his arms, and she nodded at it curiously. “What have you there, Conny?”
Conny’s face turned an even brighter hue of red. “Oh, m’lady, Mr. Kirby’ll have me hide fer takin’ so long. What he must be thinkin’—coooee! Reckon he’s waitin’ now, along with the others to hear how ye like them. I knocked, I did, but when ye didn’t answer I just came in. Besides,” he added with a knowing look at the tomcat who was stretched out on the bunk cleaning himself, “he wanted in, and he’s not very patient, he isn’t.”
“I am sorry I didn’t hear you,” Rhea said, a frown of bewilderment on her brow as she stared at the strange bundle held so protectively in the boy’s arms.
“I guess not, seein’ how ye was cryin’,” Conny agreed, not very tactfully.
“’Tis our secret, eh, Conny?” Rhea requested.
“Aye, m’lady, ’tis our secret, but I reckon this’ll cheer ye up some,” he predicted, shyly holding out the carefully folded bundle of cloth.
“What is it?”
“Open it, m’lady!” Conny enjoined her, his eyes glowing with excitement. “Mr. Kirby would’ve liked to have been here, I bet, but he said ’tweren’t proper like, so he sends me with it, and with the compliments of the whole crew, just about. We all contributed somethin’, those of us who had something, that is, Lady Rhea.” Then he watched proudly as she slowly shook out the skirt and separate bodice that Kirby, with an occasional word of unwanted advice fro
m the others, had sewn for her.
Rhea’s eyes filled with tears as she touched the soft leather patches, so diligently stitched together to make what could almost be called a proper skirt. The hem was of varying lengths, conforming to the individual pieces of leather. Altogether, the skirt hardly would have been considered proper attire except at a masquerade ball.
“Don’t ye like it, m’lady?” Conny asked worriedly, looking crestfallen when he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. “That patch right there, and that one there,” he said, pointing to a couple of fawn-colored pieces of chamois, “are from a pair of my breeches!” His young voice was full of nervous anticipation as he tried to gauge her reaction to this unexpected gift from the crew of the Sea Dragon. “Ye not goin’ to cry, are ye?” he demanded in confusion, wondering what he had done to upset her.
“Oh, Conny,” Rhea said as she reached out and hugged him. Then, to his intense surprise and pleasure, she kissed him on the cheek. “’Tis the most beautiful and thoughtful gift I have ever received.”
Conny’s grin spread practically from ear to ear at her words of praise. “There be somethin’ else there too, m’lady,” he told her, unable to contain his excitement any longer.
“But, Conny, how can the men afford to lose parts of their breeches?” Rhea asked. “This will cost them dearly.”
Conny seemed to find her wording funny and started to giggle uncontrollably. “Well to be sure, m’lady, us men of the Sea Dragon figured ’twould be an honor to donate our breeches to help make ye somethin’ decent to wear, beggin’ your pardon,” he tacked on, realizing rather belatedly that he had just insulted her. “Besides, Mr. Kirby said ’twould be the cap’n’s pleasure to reimburse us all for the loss of our best breeches, seein’ how the most of us only had the one pair.”
“Mr. Kirby seems not only a fine seamstress, but also quite accomplished at embroidering a bit on the truth,” Rhea remarked, thinking of the captain’s displeasure when he found out he would have to foot the bill, for she doubted very seriously if he had knowledge of his crew’s generosity. “Did the captain contribute to my skirt, Conny?” she asked now, running her hand with obvious pleasure over the odd-shaped squares of buckskin and soft leathers fitted together in a careful, harmonious blending of shades of tawny, russet, and nut brown.
“Aye, m’lady, I remember Mr. Kirby sayin’ ’twould be a perfect fit and color for someplace on the skirt, but don’t remember exactly where,” he told her. “But just about everybody knows where his patch of breeches is. Now, Mr. MacDonald made those for ye,” Conny added, noticing that Rhea was examining closely the two sections of hard leather that had been cut and stitched into the shape of soles, with long lengths of rawhide woven through holes on each side. “’Tis complicated-lookin’, m’lady, but Mr. MacDonald says to crisscross the straps over your foot, then wind them up your calves and tie them. ’Twill help hold your stockings up. Reckon your old boots be a mite uncomfortable with it getting’ so much warmer.”
Then Rhea brought from the cloth bundle a fine linen bodice that had been beautifully fashioned for her, the edging of lace around the décolletage and sleeves as delicately wrought as any she’d ever seen. “’Tis beautiful,” she murmured, then gave a gasp of surprise as she encountered the bunch of colorful silk ribbons that were wrapped up with the bodice. The ribbons were of jewel-bright hues of scarlet, emerald, saffron, plum, and sapphire. “Oh, Conny,” she said, “where did you find these precious ribbons?”
“They be from Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Conny replied honestly, his wide blue eyes entranced by the sight of Rhea holding the colorful ribbons against her hair as she smiled playfully at him. “Cobbs says they were supposed to be for some coquette in St. Eustatius that Mr. Fitzsimmons has been after for the longest time.”
“Oh, dear,” Rhea said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I hope Mr. Fitzsimmons was not reluctant to part with these ribbons he bought especially for his lady friend.”
“Coooee, no, m’lady!” Conny said, whistling through his teeth. “For one thing, she ain’t no lady, Longacres says, and for another, Mr. Fitzsimmons says he’s just about spent the last shilling he intends to on the doxy—” Conny Brady, the cabin boy who innocently repeated much of what he overheard, stopped abruptly as he remembered with whom he was speaking. Then, with a face burning with mortification, he concluded rather lamely, “And she probably has a trunk full of ribbons anyway, Mr. Fitzsimmons says.”
“Well, you thank Mr. Fitzsimmons for his sacrifice,” Rhea told him, pretending she hadn’t understood what Conny had said.
“Aye, I will, m’lady,” Conny replied eagerly, pleased that he had not offended Lady Rhea. “I better get back to Mr. Kirby or he’ll be in a stew, and besides, I don’t want anyone to lick the bowl. Mr. Kirby promised it to me, but ye can’t trust nobody when it comes to Mr. Kirby’s apple and orange puddin’,” Conny told her, a look of concern spreading across his face as he realized how long he’d been absent from the galley and an unprotected bowl of pudding.
“Off you go then, and, Conny,” Rhea said and paused, her violet eyes seeming to swallow him up, “thank you. You are very special to me.”
Conny hunched his shoulders in pleased embarrassment, his eyes shining with an emotion he’d never known before, for no one had ever said that he was anybody special. “’Twas our pleasure, m’lady,” he mumbled as he quickly turned and left the small cabin, his feet hardly touching the deck.
“Oh, Jamaica, look at all of this.” Rhea sighed in pleasure as her hands strayed once again to the soft leathers of the skirt. She took a length of green ribbon and tied it around the big tom’s neck, the bow looking incongruous with the tom’s lordly expression. “Sorry, sweeting,” Rhea apologized with a grin as she freed Jamaica’s neck from its fashionable collar.
In growing excitement and anticipation, Rhea stared at her gifts from the crew of the Sea Dragon, hoping that the clothes would fit her, for she’d never been aware of Kirby taking any measurements, and she wasn’t certain who would have been more upset—herself or the crew—if she did not appear above deck in her new clothes. And so with little regret, Rhea ridded herself of the green velvet skirt and jacket that she had worn since that day, months ago, when she had been kidnapped from Camareigh. Her fingers were shaking slightly as she unfastened her quilted petticoat, letting it drop to the decking, for it had become cumbersome and unnecessary in the tropics. She had finally given up on her half boots just the day before, for with one heel missing and the leather beginning to mildew, she had grown reluctant to slip her feet inside of them. Her stockings had been rinsed out and folded away.
Standing in her thin chemise and corset of soft faille, she carefully picked up the skirt and examined it, then stepped inside it and pulled it up over her hips. It fit snugly around the waist, with the two edges of the waistband overlapping slightly and secured by two small strips of narrow leather, which she tied in a small bow. The cut was far less full than what she was accustomed to wearing, and the lightness and softness of the fabric gave her a freedom of movement she had seldom known; indeed, she felt almost as if she were clad in the breeches from which her skirt had been patched together. The hem of the skirt was far more uneven than she had first thought, for it hung almost to her heels in back, yet curved upward to mid-calf in front, and she supposed that Kirby must have run out of suitable breeches.
Rhea ran her hands lightly across the fine linen of the bodice, then, with a nervous sigh, slipped it over her head, pulling it down and over her breasts as she slid her arms into the slightly puffed sleeves with their deep edging of lace, which once must have adorned the cuffs of the original sleeves. Adjusting the bodice, she stared in dismay at its low décolletage and the soft rounding of breast revealed above the trimming of lace that cascaded along the deep curve. Canfield would have been outraged; perhaps she would even have fainted could she have seen her now. Rhea recalled well the lady’s mai
d’s insistence upon propriety at all times.
The little steward certainly had a good eye, for the bodice fit her well, while around the waist was a belt of plaited ribbons, which matched those for her hair. When it was pulled tight and tied, the loose material around her was gathered close to give a neatly fitted look.
Rhea spun around in pleasure, feeling like a different person already. When she stopped, her long braid twisted around her, and she decided that new clothes demanded a new hairstyle. With a serious look on her face, she retrieved the small hand mirror that Alastair had thoughtfully left behind for her use. A look of comical dismay spread across Rhea’s face as she stared at her reflection and realized that Canfield never would have recovered could she have seen the golden tint to her highly prized, pale complexion. Canfield had always threatened to use cucumber water and lemon juice on her whenever she happened to catch her out of doors without a proper hat and gloves. But Rhea wished now that she had Canfield to assist her; she would even gladly suffer that woman’s never-ending chatter.
Rhea freed her hair from the thick single braid, and taking another one of her borrowed items, a brush Houston Kirby had miraculously produced, she began to brush her hair free of tangles. She stared at herself in critical silence for a long moment as she tried to think what Canfield would have done with the unmanageable mane of hair. Then, with a look of determination, which Canfield would have responded to with a nervous clasping of her thin hands, Rhea began to divide her hair into sections, then patiently plaited the long strands into six braids, each interwoven with a different color ribbon. She then doubled the three braids on each side and tied them together above each ear with matching lengths of violet ribbon, leaving her hair to dangle in twisted golden loops that swung gently against her bare shoulders.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 46