Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  I smiled. “Aye,” I admitted. “And once again your innate wisdom makes you far smarter than the sum of any formal education you were denied by the circumstances of your youth.”

  He snorted. “YaBeRight. An’ICouldLearn. ILearntEnuff JustBein’ Aroun’ YaTheseYearsTa UnderstandWhat The DevilYaBeSayin’ WhenYa GetAnxiousAn StartUsin’CourtlyEnglish.”

  It was my turn to sigh with good humor as my matelot chuckled.

  I squatted before Pete. “Now enough of this: what of Striker? What will you do? How is my sister with his drinking?”

  He considered his answer. “SheSeemsTaExpectIt. SheWillNa’Talk TaMeO’It, Though. SheBeActin’Like TharBe Nuthin’Wrong EvenWhenI Drag’ImHome An’Dump’ImIn TheSpare RoomNearEveryNight. SheJust SitsAboutReadin’ BooksAnOrderin’ The ServantsAroun’.”

  I began to consider her behavior odd, and then I realized it was not. That was how she had spent most of her life in England.

  “SheDotesOn LittlePike AGoodlyAmount. An’SheLikesTalkin’ TaTheBardAn’Cudro ’BoutBusiness,” Pete added as if he were having to put thought into thinking about anything she did other than what he had first mentioned.

  “It sounds as if Striker and she have a fine noble English marriage,” I said sadly.

  “ThatBeTheWayO’It?” Pete asked. “AlwaysWondered ’OwTheRich Lived.”

  “Well, now you know,” I sighed. “If you substitute his relationship with you for the usual mistress a man of his station would have.” I winced.

  Pete shrugged. “ItBeAsYaSay TheseDays. When’E’sDeepInThe Rum’EsGotNoInterest. For’ErOrMe. Aye, ICould’Ave’Im, ButINa’Want’Im TheWay ’E’sBeen.” He shrugged again with feigned nonchalance.

  I sighed. “It sounds as if we should get him back to sea and dry him out.”

  Pete shook his head sadly. “ThatBeenDiscussed. ’EWon’tGo. Cudro EvenTalked TaSarahAboutIt. SheDon’tWant’ImTaGo.”

  I cursed quietly. “Well she needs to understand…” Then I understood how very afraid and alone she must be. I sighed yet again.

  Pete echoed it. “IBeThinkin’ItBe TimeTaMoveOn.”

  I was struck by the resignation in his tone; and by the irony that they had once been the standard I had wished to achieve with Gaston. How little I had known then.

  “ICouldNa’ BringMyselfTaGo RoveWithout’ImThisYear,” Pete continued forlornly, “ButNextINa’BeWaitin’.” He shook his head and met my gaze. “’ESaysWeCanna’Live LikeBoysNoMore. LikeWeDid WhenWe BeYounger. ThatWe’llDie JustLikeOtter An’AllTheOthers Iffn’WeKeepRovin’. ButI BeThinkin’I WouldRatherDieThat WayThanBeAPlanter, OrAMerchant, OrJustDrownInRum. ICanna’SeeMeLivin’ThatWay.”

  “Aye,” I whispered. I could not see it either. Men like Pete, great lions of men, were not meant to be caged.

  “I do not know,” Gaston said oddly. “I do not feel it is… growing up, perhaps. I feel it is finding peace. But I have peace I can find as a physician. And I do feel I—we—must care for the children we are responsible for.”

  “ThatBeWhyAMan ShouldStay Clear O’TheSquishyHole,” Pete chided, but there was little edge to it.

  “I have only truly attempted to envision growing old at all since I met Gaston,” I said. “And now, it is a thing I find wonder in,” I said with a touch of surprise as it occurred to me how very much I did not think of such things. I thought of my Horse feeling caged in the hospital… “I always thought I would die in some duel or… I know not. In some manner, I thought I would die young and never have to face learning how to age gracefully.”

  Pete snorted and gave an understanding nod.

  Gaston was regarding me with concern.

  I met his gaze with reassurance. “I will learn how—with you—unless you take to drinking excessive amounts of rum and whining.”

  Pete laughed and Gaston smiled. There was the shadow of concern in my matelot’s eyes, though.

  “’EEverDoesThat, YaComeWithMe,” Pete said and leaned over to give me a gentle kiss on the cheek.

  For one Devil-begotten moment, I yearned to turn my head and meet his lips and learn what promise lied there; but that was not what I had chosen, and I had profound faith I had chosen well.

  “SoWhenWeBe Goin’TaEngland?” Pete asked. “OrWillYaBeGoin’ Ta FranceFirst? IWillNa’Go ThereTaLive. ButIWillDo WhateverYaNeedO’ MeTaSeeTaTheOther.”

  Gaston and I exchanged a startled glance.

  “I do not know,” I said. “And there is much we must tell you.”

  “StartTalkin’,” Pete said as he stood. “ItBeAWaysTaTheHouse. Les’ YaBeThinkin’ThisBe AThingWeMustSitFer.”

  I chuckled. “You might find it necessary to sit, but Gaston and I are quite beyond surprise over the matter.”

  And so we walked to Sarah’s and I told him of the babes and our lie. He cursed loudly at our predicament and louder at our solution. Then he chased Gaston about the road to cuff his head and reiterate his comment about the squishy hole. My matelot bore it with good humor.

  “SoWhatAbout YurFather?” Pete asked as we turned off the small road toward distant lights I assumed to be a house.

  “I do not know,” I said. “We must plan; but first, I would have the other matters settled, and perhaps see what he will do. England is his fortress, and rushing there will not be to our advantage. I could disguise myself and sail to France and then to England under another name to avoid those he surely has watching the ports—as I am sure he fears my coming. And once there make my way to his home and shoot or gut him; but they will know, and even if I hide in France or here they will seek me out to hang me for it. I will be hiding and running forever. And all who know me will be in peril. My father’s mercenaries were dangerous and cruel: they would be as bully boys compared to the King’s. And that is whose ire we will gain if I kill a lord.

  “Even if some other were to do it without my involvement, the other lords and the king would blame me if my father has been at all honest to anyone about the depth of our discord. And we do not know what has been said or is known in Charles’ court, or even my father’s household. Even if all of England knows—as all of Jamaica surely does—it might be possible to kill him without being suspected, but I feel I will need to employ subterfuge of the highest order.”

  And I truly did not have the heart for it—despite everything.

  “NeedSpies,” Pete said.

  “Aye,” I sighed.

  “We will have to see if my father can help yet on that front,” Gaston said. “If he will still speak to us,” he added sadly.

  I looked to my matelot where he hovered at the other side of the circle of lantern light. “I feel he has forgiven you worse.”

  Gaston sighed and nodded resolutely. “Oui.”

  We were in sight of a long, low house sitting on the shoulder of the hill. I could smell the sea beyond the dense forest, but it was now too dark to see anything Pete’s lantern or the house lights did not show.

  A sailor I recognized from the Queen and a Negro nodded greeting and returned to their card game once we walked up the steps to the porch. The sailor’s gaze was speculative and I wished to escape it. Pete thankfully led us through the front door without delay.

  We found Sarah in the sitting room, reading with a thoughtful expression, curled in a chair like a young girl. Her bulging belly was evident, but not as huge as it had been when last I saw her pregnant and the birth imminent.

  She was startled to see Pete, and then Gaston and I stepped into the room. At first her face held delight, and then she must have remembered she was angry with me, and my mother’s pinched look of disapproval tightened her features.

  “You have returned,” she said with a voice as taut as her face. Her gaze was locked upon me.

  Pete threw himself on the couch, and Gaston lowered himself slowly into a chair as if she might startle. I continued to stand before her as if she were a judge or queen.

  “We rowed across the channel… today.” I supposed it was today: it seemed eons ago. “How are you?”
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br />   “Fine.”

  “Mistress?” a Negress queried from the doorway.

  “We have guests, Marabelle,” Sarah said. She glanced at Gaston and Pete. “Lord Montren, Pete, would you like something to drink?”

  Gaston appeared uncomfortable, and Pete rolled his eyes at her; which she acknowledged with a tightening of her jaw.

  “I would like some wine,” I told Marabelle.

  Sarah snorted and waved the woman off to fetch it.

  “Why are you here?” she asked me.

  “Pete insisted, and… I wish to apologize for the circumstances of our parting,” I said sincerely. “I did not wish to hurt you. I just felt you were the only thing of value I could hold Pete off with.”

  He snorted with amusement.

  She was not amused.

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  “But you were mad,” she said with a withering tone.

  I sighed. I did not wish to fight with her, but I was growing quickly weary of her acrimony. “As I believe I explained that day, I was afraid our friends would do the wrong thing in an attempt to help us. As you did while we were prisoners.”

  She shook her head tightly with refutation and looked away with anger.

  I wondered why I had to fight with those I cared for; and then I recalled Theodore’s words.

  “I know you were trying to help me,” I said without anger. “I do. I thank you for caring to try. But what you asked was not a thing I could do. It would have made things worse, no matter how reasonable you thought it seemed.”

  “You were a stubborn fool,” she said quietly. She returned her gaze to me and she spat, “And now what? You will rally the men and have all sail off with you to battle Father? To avenge your honor?”

  I realized they had all been waiting for me to do just that. I sighed. “Nay.” And then her words struck another chord, and it rang off key and jarring. “Nay,” I said with more force as my ire rose. “And I do not feel my honor was besmirched. Thorp nearly broke me—I will spare you the details—but he did not diminish my honor. That is a thing that only would have occurred if I had been a craven man and lied as you suggested. As it is, my honor is intact even if my hide and arse are not.

  “And as for our father… I will not rally the men and sail off like a fool. I will not accept the risk of one single life for him. I will not award him that. His death is not worth the life of any man or woman I know. Not one. Not even those I dislike.”

  She was initially stunned by my words, but she gathered herself quickly. “What if he kills Gaston? What if his men return and kill Gaston? What then?”

  That was a thing I had not allowed myself to truly contemplate. I looked away and let the fear of it wash over me. What would I do? I did not know if I could survive losing him, and then I wondered what he would wish of me. He would not wish for me to die.

  I glanced at Gaston and found him reassuring and resolute. I looked back to her before he could speak.

  “I will likely be lost to madness for a time,” I said. “And if I survive that, then… I will have children to care for. And facing our father will be the last thing I will wish to do; because he will already have taken everything from me that he can; and the only reason I wish him dead now is to prevent him from taking anything else from me or those I care about.”

  She looked away and did not speak. Her face was an inscrutable mask, but her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Sarah, I do not wish to battle with you,” I said softly.

  She sniffed. “Nay, because you are kind and good. You engender shame in the rest of your blood.”

  “Sarah…”

  “Nay,” she snapped and turned back to me. “I was wrong. You are different. You are not like Father or Uncle Cedric or Shane. You are a man apart.” She looked away again.

  “Thank you?” I said with trepidation that I should elicit her anger once again. “How is Uncle Cedric? Have you heard from him since…”

  Her incredulous gaze stopped me.

  “He is dead,” she said. She shook her head and sighed. “While you were away—at Maracaibo. He had the flux again, and some fever. He died at one of Modyford’s plantations. We buried him at Ithaca. Mister Theodore escorted me. No one would speak to us. A week later, they burned our warehouse.”

  She shook her head again and the movement seemed to fan the anger that had returned to her eyes. “You were not there. He wanted to speak to you. That is all they would tell me. He asked for you again and again in his delirium. But you were not there, and they did not send for me.”

  I was saddened, but I could not let her words lie. “They would not have sent for me, either.”

  “Nay,” she agreed with an unbecoming sneer. “Nay, they would not. And it is likely he never would have dared approach either of us again; but that is not my point. You were not there. James was not there. Pete was not there. None of you were there. I will not be left alone again while you all run off to satisfy your honor, or tactics, or plans. You said you would protect me. James said he would protect me. But nay, there is always something more important to you men.”

  She glared at each of us in turn; and Gaston and Pete appeared to be as much a scolded boy as I felt.

  “I have done poorly by you,” I admitted. “I have spent too many years seeing to my own concerns and no one else’s. I am trying to make amends for that.” But I knew her well-being was not a priority for me even now. Just as I knew she could see my guilt upon my face.

  “Striker will stay with you…now,” I added. But then I saw Pete studying the mantel with a resigned mien and my anger returned. “Unless he drinks himself to death because he is a man of the sea and not meant to live on land.”

  Gaston’s eyes went wide, and Pete looked to me with a grimace that said not even he would have said that to her. I shrugged: she was already angry with me.

  “Get out!” she growled.

  My matelot stood and seemed pleased at the opportunity to escape. I turned and found the maid in the doorway with a bottle of wine. I plucked it from her and began to follow my man to the door. Then I remembered Pete, and paused to give him a questioning look.

  “I’mStayin’,” he said with resignation.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Sarah growled at him and stood.

  “Sarah…” he said with weary chiding. He glanced at me. “CanYa FindYurWay?”

  “I suppose…” I said.

  Gaston nodded with assurance.

  I shrugged and waved farewell to Pete.

  My matelot took up the lantern we had left on the porch, and we returned to the mosquito-infested night. I was not looking forward to our walk back to Cayonne: I had been bitten several times on the way to the house.

  “We must never go anywhere without hogs’ fat,” I said and took a long pull on the bottle.

  “For many reasons,” Gaston said quite seriously and took the bottle from me to take a drink.

  “Was that your Horse?” he asked when we were well away from the house.

  “Non, my Horse wished to hold her and assure her everything would be well.”

  He made a thoughtful noise. “My Horse wished to slap her.”

  “I truly cannot say which course would have been correct.”

  “It was not a thing of our Horses. Or, rather, mine. You spoke well.”

  “Thank you.”

  I watched his profile in the bobbing light for a time, and thought of all the reasons I loved him, and wondered what I would do if I lost him.

  “Thank you for speaking as you did to the priest,” I said.

  He nodded. “You are welcome. And I am not jealous of Pete.”

  I grinned. “You should not be, but tell me, were you jealous when you kept it from me?”

  He sighed. “We were drunk. It angered me. Then I felt guilt and shame that I should ever feel so about such a thing. And then other things occurred with Pete and Striker and your bride and sister and…” He shook his head and sighed. “I forgot.”

/>   “Well, that shows how important that was.”

  I took another sip of wine and felt the mild giddiness of spirits on a nearly empty stomach. It was a familiar thing. I had spent much of my exile in Christendom feeling it.

  “I like to drink at times,” I said. “I drank and… frolicked for years. I drank and fucked and ran from anything that made me think; but I am not a drunkard.”

  “You have wondered about that before,” Gaston said.

  “Oui.” I wondered about it now. “I rarely drank to drown my sorrows. I usually drank out of… boredom; because everyone else was; or because it was all I had to drink. I do not think when I drink. Perhaps that is Striker’s problem: he is a worrier by nature.”

  “You are not,” Gaston said.

  “Non, I am not... Not as he is. I seem to have spent much of my life stumbling about with giddy naiveté. I recall Alonso chiding me for it about our having to leave Florence. I have not thought that the frolicking of my Horse; but perhaps that is exactly what it was. I think everything will be fine: that all problems can be solved. And if they cannot be, I am not prone to dwelling upon it or even blaming myself, unless I am under the sway of melancholy. Because I have ever known that that path leads to melancholy.”

  “Do you feel it is a deficiency of character?” he asked.

  “Perhaps, but perhaps it has kept me from becoming a drunkard.”

  “Or going mad,” Gaston said softly.

  I looked to him with surprise and found him smiling ruefully.

  “I ever make you think and drive you mad,” he said.

  “Non, as I ever tell you, the thinking drives me mad, not you. But it also makes me a man and not a boy—or a Horse, I suppose.”

  “Do you feel Pete is still a boy?” he asked with a thoughtful frown.

  I was surprised at the readiness of my answer. “Oui.”

  Gaston nodded. “We are very old boys learning to be men.”

  “Is it not said that some things are done better late than never?”

  “Oui.” He sighed and took my hand. “I did a great deal of thinking while you frolicked these last months.”