“And him delivering that news and their grousing should keep any from seeing us swim away,” Striker said.
“Excellent,” I sighed, and considered the darkening waters. I spied a shark fin far back in our wake, the yellow triangle glinting for a moment in the last rays of the setting sun before slipping beneath the waves. The damn creatures followed ships everywhere, seeking whatever men dropped over the sides: and we were going to drop ourselves over the side.
Striker and Pete were already wearing only their breeches as was ever their wont. I doffed my tunic, as I disliked swimming in it; telling myself I had more in my sea chest at Sarah’s. Then I snorted at my foolishness: here we were planning to sneak ashore as if the whole colony of Jamaica might want our hides, and yet I expected to find all I might need at the house. I quickly prayed to the Gods that the former was the flight of fancy. Of course, I didn’t want my things to be missing from Sarah’s, either.
“Let this all be a lark at which we will laugh over wine this night,” I muttered quietly in French by way of prayer.
Gaston regarded me sharply.
I grinned at him reassuringly and shrugged.
He donned his tunic and breeches and strapped on his sword belt, without his baldric or much in the way of his usual assortment of weapons. We had indeed discussed this many times: much like the matter of clothing, we would either not need our pistols—which would take great effort to get ashore with dry powder and the like anyway—or we would discover such trouble awaiting us that it would be best to avoid conflict and return to the ship to plan what we might do next. I joined my matelot in equipping my sword belt with a few knives and nothing else.
When all were prepared, Dickey shook our hands to wish us fortune. “Do not forget to come and tell us if all is well,” he admonished. “If we do not see you by the dawn, we will assume some evil has befallen you and sail farther from shore to give us room to maneuver.”
“Aye, aye,” Striker told him with a grin, and pulled the slender man into a one-armed embrace. “Tell Cudro and the Bard we will not be so happy at being home that we’ll forget others worry.”
I chuckled at the irony: Striker was by far the most accomplished worrier of our number.
Dickey slipped out the door. Striker pulled Pete to him for a quick kiss. My matelot did the same with me, and I chuckled against his lips.
Scant moments later, we heard Cudro’s magnificent voice boom from above, where he stood at the fore rail of the quarterdeck to address the men. We turned to the windows, and one by one, dove out into the sea.
The water seemed cold, and it drove away all thoughts of our plan and what we might find ashore, invigorating my senses and setting my muscles and skin afire: no matter what else we might face, at this moment, there was only the sea and its imminent dangers. The sun had truly set now, and I could see nothing beneath the water, even though the sky still shone dully with dusk’s light. I bobbed to the surface, pushing my fear of the sea’s natural denizens beneath me, and tread water while seeking my matelot or the others. I saw Gaston a few yards away and swam to meet him. We located Pete and Striker nearby, and all began to swim to shore.
It was indeed an easy swim. My fears of sharks, and other things unknown to man that might lurk beneath nighttime waters, drove me to make fast work of it; but when I at least reached the shore I had little regret for the endeavor: I felt more alive than I had in weeks, and I saw this sentiment mirrored upon the faces of my friends. Gaston bowled me over to kiss me exuberantly in the sand, and we laughed like boys.
After a short rest, we took stock of our surroundings and discovered the Bard had indeed timed our escapade well. We could just see the torches on Fort Rupert at the wall to the west, placing us out of sight in the palms and bracken of the Palisadoes: an area inhabited only by buccaneers who could not afford habitation within Port Royal.
“If we are truly so damn concerned as to who might see us,” Striker said as we stood and stretched, “we should not enter by the gate. Someone will surely recognize us.”
With grudging sighs of agreement, we returned to the surf, making our way through the waves toward the wall and fort until we were just beyond the light of their torches: at which point, we took to deeper water to swim out and around the defense works and return to the surf along Port Royal’s southern shore. Twilight had passed, and night was illuminated in silver by a nearly full moon. We could clearly see the nearest buildings, yet I doubted that anyone could see us as we walked ashore, unless they were standing beyond the light of their cheery yellow torches and lanterns and their eyes were well-accustomed to the moonlight.
Though Port Royal was growing, lot by lot, nearly every day, the new dwellings had not yet reached the southern edge of the cay; and so we crossed a small field before being able to slip into an alley between buildings. Once in manmade shadows, we made our way quietly to Sarah’s. As we neared our destination, I saw the lot upon which my wife’s house had once stood: still vacant save the charred and twisted remains of the three-story structure. In the moonlight it did not look so much like the remains of a house, but more the blackened bones of some monster of old.
That it had not been rebuilt reinforced the quandary I felt as to whether we were being overly cautious. The property belonged to my father and had been designated as the site of my wife’s home: that would be the wife of the Viscount of Marsdale. As I had renounced my claim to that title, even though I was still married to Vivian, there was no Lady Marsdale, and the property now served no purpose to my father. Yet, though six months had surely provided ample time for him to be notified of these things in England, and ostensibly to reply to them —outside the storm season, it only took eight weeks or so for a ship to sail between here and England—he had apparently not instructed anyone to do anything with this valuable piece of property. Or he had, and they had not had a chance to act on it, yet. Or he did not care. All options that applied to his thoughts and reaction to my conduct as well.
Despite having gained a deeper understanding of my father’s motivations and feelings this last year, I despaired I would ever know what he truly thought on any matter. My relationship with him was much like that charred debris: a thing burned down and now awaiting someone to clear it away and allow something new to be built.
My reverie was abruptly ended by the bark of dogs as we approached the back gate to Sarah’s house. The gruff warnings of the pack of Spanish mastiffs thankfully changed to yips of glee as one of them caught our scent and remembered us. Surrounded by bounding great beasts, we entered the large yard and threaded our way between the stable and cook house and into the atrium within the horseshoe of the house, where we were met with squeals of delight from the women and embraces from the men.
Liam looked as he ever did: nose crooked in a half dozen places, and skin tanned darker than his pale blonde hair. My sister Sarah greeted her husbands with delight and did not notice Striker’s missing arm for a surprisingly long time. My former tutor, Mister Rucker, was uncharacteristically gleeful in his greeting: embracing me tightly; and in such close quarters reminding me yet again how short he was now that I was a man. Bones, our lanky musketeer, was as laconic and lazy as ever, being the last to rise in greeting, but his smile was warm and sincere. Nickel seemed both delighted and alarmed at our arrival, and I wondered at that. But then I got my arms about Agnes and all other thought was driven from my head.
Agnes was pregnant. The bulge of baby was huge on her slender frame.
“Gods,” I breathed as she looked up at me with a happy smile.
I turned to Gaston and found him regarding her with a mixture of wonder and terror.
“Surprise,” Agnes said with a grin.
Gaston pulled her to him and held her close.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Aye, aye,” she assured him and pulled away far enough to gaze up at him. “I thought… I was quite surprised when… Well, I did not think… I didn’t think I wanted one so soon. But, now t
hat he—or she—is here, I am very happy. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It is wonderful,” he said softly. “I am very pleased.”
Her wide mouth smiled such that she was teeth nearly from one ear to the other, and her dark eyes glistened in the lamplight. She looked at me expectantly.
“I am delighted,” I said with great sincerity. Gaston would have the puppy he always wanted: a healthy one from a fine dam. And perhaps we could accomplish the whole matter of his producing an heir quickly, and then I would no longer need to share him, and Agnes would be free to find some woman who would accept the love she so eagerly wished to bestow upon one of her own number.
I kissed her forehead and then his mouth. His gaze found mine as I began to step back, and I lingered to whisper, “A good healthy puppy.”
He smiled with relief. “Oui.”
“You are happy and healthy,” I said to Agnes. “How is everyone else?”
We were somewhat alone: the whirling storm of greeting had moved from us a bit, save for two calming dogs: Bella and her mate Taro, who seemed happy to flank me.
“Well enough,” Agnes sighed. “There is news, but…” She looked past my shoulder and her lip twitched in a crooked grin.
I turned and found Nickel hovering nearby. He met my gaze and the shadow of a flush came over his handsome face. He did not seem to have aged in six months, and I wondered if he would ever appear to be other than the planter’s son escaping the priesthood we had first met.
“And how are you, Nickel?” I asked.
He gulped and nodded. “Very well, my… Will. Should I go and tell the Theodores you are here, and… your wife?”
“Aye,” I said. “Is there something the matter, Nickel?”
“Nay!” he appeared even more stricken and looked away quickly. “I will be back at once.” He hurried out.
Liam was suddenly at my side. “Silly lad. You’ll ’ave to sit him down over a bottle and talk some sense into ’im.”
“Why?” I asked.
“’E be in love with your wife, an’ ’er with ’im, it would appear,” Liam said with amusement. “Ya ’ave my word nothin’ improper ’as ’appened. But ’e be all up in arms aboot it. I tol’ ’im ya were a member o’ the Brethren and yur matelot come first—an’ that be the thing ya might duel a man o’er—but ’e would na’ listen.”
It was difficult not to laugh. “So they are truly in love. I suppose that is… wonderful. And how has my wife been? Sober?”
“Oh, aye,” Liam said.
“And how is her babe?” Gaston asked.
Liam frowned a little. “Right enough, but not like Pike.”
“Pike?” I asked.
“Yur nephew. None of us liked callin’ ’im little Pete or some such thing. So ’e became Pike.”
I thought that a good name, but as I thought on Jamaica in light of Liam’s news, I wondered how we would sort that matter out. I had promised Vivian I would not stand in the way of her happiness in matters of the heart if she should find someone. Of course, divorcing her would be difficult with all the fighting I had done to keep her in the face of my father’s insistence that I put her out; but did that really matter now? I was done with him. His opinion, or any other man’s, did not truly matter. But what of Jamaica: did Nickel wish to raise the child as his own, since she was his beloved’s; and would Gaston be happy to surrender her to another father? I glanced at Agnes: Gaston could well be more accepting of such a thing now.
“Um,” Liam said and pushed his floppy leather hat up to scratch his head distractedly. He looked over his shoulder. “Nickel not be the only one o’ us to fall prey to the wiles o’ women, as it were. Though, I don’t think it be a bad thing.”
I followed his gaze and saw Henrietta, the housekeeper, standing near the cookhouse regarding us intently.
“You too, Liam,” I teased.
“Aye, aye!” he cried. “An’ we be married,” he said with a grimace. He waved Henrietta over.
She hurried up and hooked her arm in his and beamed at us happily. “’As ’e tol’ ya?”
“Aye,” I said. “Congratulations, truly, that is wonderful.”
I tried to keep my concern at Liam’s seeming reluctance from my face—though I thought I well understood his possible doubts. He was the ardent defender of Brethren propriety and comportment: ever preaching about how a man should always stand by his matelot in the face of female interlopers. Yet, he had been alone after his beloved Otter died, and he was not a man like me: one who preferred men.
He looked down at Henrietta and smiled in a manner that erased all my fears about whether or not he was devoted to the endeavor.
“I am pleased you have found someone after Otter,” Gaston said for us, and I nodded my agreement and embraced our old friend.
Liam nodded sheepishly. “Aye, I just been worried that there might be those that think I be plannin’ on becomin’ a planter or the like now. Na’ that I want ta rove, mind ya, but…”
“I understand,” I said.
He grinned and looked at his wife again. He frowned. “Well, ya canna’ see it like ya can on Lady Montren, but… We be expectin’ too.”
Henrietta laughed merrily, even as she smacked her husband on the arm. “Aye, ya lout, I na’ be a skinny thing. An’ I na’ be as far along, neither,” she added to Gaston and me.
We gave our congratulations.
Agnes joined us, and I realized she had been gone. Rucker and Bones were hovering nearby, happily watching our exchange with Liam, but Sarah, Striker, and Pete were missing and I guessed they might have gone to look in on a child dear to their hearts.
“While we wait for the Theodores to arrive,” Agnes said quickly, “I have a thing to show you.” She waved a folded missive with a seal.
We took our leave of the others and followed her into the parlor with a lamp.
“It arrived months ago, but the Marquis sent a note for me saying I should not open it, but I should give it to you as soon as you returned,” Agnes said as Gaston broke his father’s seal and began to read.
I was soon alarmed as my matelot’s composure slipped and then disintegrated to such extent that when he finished the letter he threw it on the floor and went to pace at the other end of the room.
Agnes regarded me with concern, and I stooped to pick up the pages and took the seat Gaston had vacated and began reading. She perched on the edge of the settee and watched me.
“It is bad news, isn’t it?” Agnes whispered. “Is he well?”
It was not good news: it was awful. Christine was pregnant. Gaston’s father believed it to be his son’s: the get of Gaston’s one unfortunate and violent pairing with her. And that was not the worst of it. Christine’s father, Sir Christopher Vines, had contacted her mother’s family in France: a noble house headed by her uncle the Duke of Verlain. Vines had told them his daughter was married to Gaston, the Comte de Montren, the son of the Marquis de Tervent. Christine was apparently not willing to contradict her father. I surmised she sought Gaston’s name in retribution for… well, our handling of her. She was seeking what we had once offered her, a man’s name—without the man attached to it—so that she could do as she would.
Gaston’s father was willing to go along with this if Christine produced a son. To that end, he advised Gaston to wait before trying to get an heir upon Agnes, prayed his son would understand, and apologized profusely for asking such a thing.
I gazed up at Agnes and saw her belly. It was a damn good thing my matelot had not been inclined to dipping his wick in women prior to last December: he might have populated the island.
“Have you written him—the Marquis—about the baby?” I asked Agnes.
“Nay,” she said. “I thought… Gaston should. And, though Mister Rucker has been tutoring me in French since you left, my French is not so very good, yet. I could have had Mister Rucker write it for me; but, I wanted to do it myself, so that the Marquis would think well of me.”
My matelot
let loose a guttural moan of despair.
“What has happened?’ Agnes asked.
“Christine is with child.” I quickly related the rest of the letter.
She buried her face in her long fingers and sniffed back tears. “Oh damn it all. I… It matters. There was a time when…” She dropped her hands away and met my gaze. “My mother told me when I was little that my father came from a noble family, but then she said… She told me that I would never ever benefit from it: that I could never expect to ask them for anything. She told me that on her death bed: that I am dead to them because my father was dead to them. And I told myself it did not matter. Why did I need to be noble? I watched Christine, and I told myself at least I did not have to be like her; but, secretly…” She shook her head and looked away with her lips between her teeth. “I’ve grown accustomed to being the comtessee de Montren,” she finally added.
Gaston crossed the room in two strides and dropped down in front of her to growl fiercely, “You are the comtessee de Montren! I will have no other. I am not married to that bitch!” It was his Horse talking: that part of him which was truth and instinct.
She did not flinch. She nodded sadly.
There was a knock on the door, and I opened it because I did not know what to say to my matelot or his wife. Theodore embraced me before I could even speak a greeting. His pleasure at our presence was buoying; but sadly, we quickly stripped him of it and brought him down to stand in the muck with us once he turned to see Gaston and Agnes.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
I handed him the letter, and then realized he could not read French.
“My French is not adequate to this, I’m afraid,” he said quickly before I could retrieve it from him.
“You are all studying French?” I asked dully. I vaguely remembered some talk of that before we left.
“Oui,” Theodore said quickly with a tight smile. “But perhaps you should tell me of this, or read it to me.”
I read it to him, translating as I went. He sat and his pleasant features stiffened into the mask of a solicitor’s concentration as he listened.
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