Nor did Adam delude himself with the notion that Deborah Selden would quit. What she wanted, being the woman she was, she would try her dad-blamedest to get; and likewise her father here was going to try to get it for her. Adam was, of course, flattered; he was delighted; but also he was more than a mite frightened by the directness of the attack.
Of the two, he calculated that he had more to fear from Deborah. Elnathan was a tasted sweet. She could not aspire to marry him while Zeph lived; and an adulterous relationship, even without the appropriate trimmings, would sure as snakes be known to everybody in town. Liberal though Newport was—of course everybody knew about Maisie, for instance—it would not tolerate this. Fornication afar and fornication at home, right in sight of everybody, were two different things.
Deborah Selden, on the other hand, clad in all the might of her virginity, might be hard to hold off.
Adam took a deep breath before entering the house.
h* hf Manners can come in handy. The Seldens, indoors, were a
^J' «_>^ touch formal in their treatment of Adam, who gratefully was
formal in reply.
Adam was jolted when a girl he had once pursued with japes, being
halted only when she turned to stick her tongue out at him—when such a one, Deborah, swept him a practiced curtsey. But Adam caught himself and made a leg Londonwise, his cocked hat held over his heart.
Deborah was wearing French gray camlet. There was white linen, thin and crisp, narrow, too, at the neck and cuffs. There was no cap and not even a suggestion of that tottering monstrosity the "commode," as affected by ladies of ton.
They talked a few minutes, proper but not stiff. She congratulated him on a successful voyage. He replied that it had yet to be voted a success, since his report to the other owner was not yet in; and it could be that he put some slight stress on that word "other." She said that she was sure it would prove a success; and then, directly, womanlike, she started to pump him about the dress materials he'd brought. She was worked up to hear about the wax candles, and told her father promptly and decisively that they should buy up a large stock of these. Obadiah, doffing his cloak, nodded. There were five candles in the branch on the table right then, and every one lighted. It made Adam feel like a duke.
Deborah excused herself and went back to the kitchen.
There was a poker being hotted in the fire.
Obadiah wasted no time on amenities. Even while he made flip, he was asking questions. He listened carefully to the answers. He approved the cargo and agreed to handle all of it, including Adam's own share, without any charge to Adam. With no hesitation he agreed to the payment of four pounds a month for Jethro Gardner's room and victuals, this to come out of the ship's fund. Concerning the few Dutch sails, though he bugged his eves a bit at the cost, he said only that this was in the captain's province.
"That extra smitch of speed," Adam pointed out, "might save everything, the seas down that way being what they are."
"Well, well, I trust you, Captain. I think you know best."
"It'll be mostly your money this time, sir. Mine's going to go over there." And he nodded in the direction of the Evans house.
Obadiah studied the brim of his mug.
"I wonder if you'd tell me. Captain—that is, if you caie to—how much, uh, how much you paid Zeph Evans for those four-sixteenths?"
Adam told him.
Obadiah's eyebrows, very bushv, were the only expressive feature of a face ordinarily impassive. Now the eyebrows leapt. Obadiah looked at Adam Long with interest and admiration.
"That was a bargain. Zeph try to get you drunk first, did he?"
"He tried."
"Want me to tell you what I paid Saye and Monk and Richardson?"
"I'd admire very much to hear, sir."
Obadiah told him.
Adam stared, aghast. Highly as he esteemed the schooner, who knew her better than anybody else, he found it hard to believe that more should be paid for five-sixteenths of her than was put out for the building of the entire vessel a year ago. Yet Obadiah Selden, never a boastful man anyway, surely was not boasting now.
"I had a good reason for paying that price," he said. Deborah appeared. "Dinner's ready."
After grace the talk took to less commercial matters. Adam's previous return had been so brief and withal so eventful that he was not well posted on conditions in Newport, any more than the Seldens were posted on conditions as he'd found them in Jamaica.
The kitchen was wondrously bright, and the conversation matched it. Obadiah himself didn't talk much, but Deborah was downright chatty. As for Adam, he became a clam only when they asked him what he thought of London. "Well, it's different."
"You mean, better than you expected? Or worse?" "Well-different."
The meal itself lived up to the earlier odors. In addition to the vension, with potatoes, they had baked fresh pickerel; and the oyster pie, served with some creamy meat sauce, was a masterpiece. Adam said as much, roundly.
He looked at Deborah as often as he dared. Not only was she mighty handsome, she had always been that, but her trimness flummoxed him. She'd had nobody to help her—Adam several times had peeked into the kitchen—yet when she sat down, after putting the food on the table, she was cool and trig. No hair was loose, her hands weren't red, there was not a fleck of spilled gravy anywhere on her. Adam liked things that way, shipshape.
Still the girl wasn't at ease. Though there was no scrape in her voice to show the strain, Adam was sure she was holding herself in. She didn't tremble, but she darn' near shook.
Adam would not have mentioned Seth Selden, but Obadiah himself brought up this subject, asking what had happened to his brother. Obadiah knew, of course; but he wished to hear Adam say it.
Adam was blunt. He said that Seth was now, to the best of his knowledge, on Providence island in the Bahamas, a nest of piracy that might last through the war or might get wiped out at any time, depending on Admiral Benbow. But that camp would certainly be flattened immediately after peace was declared, Adam added. He said he doubted that Seth would ever come back.
Obadiah nodded, and changed the subject.
The meal was sumptuous by Newport standards, yet Adam, watchful, sensed that this was the way the Seldens ordinarily ate. He was impressed. The table was covered with a linen cloth, and they were even given individual small squares of linen to wipe their hands on. There were no trenchers: everything was served on pewter. As head of the family Obadiah Selden even sat in a chair. He seldom picked his teeth during the meal, and Deborah never did, so Adam didn't.
They had a sweet pudding, and then the men returned to the parlor, where the biggest surprise of all awaited Adam. He and his host had brandy, real French brandy, and they had it not in leather jacks or in mugs but in cups made of glass.
They talked again of trade. Obadiah Selden was a sound merchant, one who knew his market, and he asked a great many questions.
"I don't go in for smuggling any more'n I have to," Adam told him. "But you can't get away from it for all." He dinged his glass with a forefinger. "I'll warrant this very brandy came in at the cove, sir?"
Obadiah said nothing.
"Some of the owners wondered how I got that molasses so cheap. Well, it was French, that's why. The French planters used to throw their molasses away until a little while ago."
"It came in English barrels."
"Aye. I bought the barrels already branded, only empty. Then I arranged through a friend of mine down there, a Mr. Cartwright, who's a lawyer, to get assigned to a flag-of-truce fleet that was going over to Guadeloupe to dicker with the Frenchies—I never did find out what about. It cost me twenty pounds to get that assignment. I put it on my list as entertainment expenses."
"But—I don't understand."
"Guadeloupe's French. The way they see the law in Jamaica it's not dealing with the enemy if you do some business while there's a flag-of-truce talk going on, provided you're a part of the official party. That's
why they have so many of 'em there, to exchange prisoners and all like that. And that's why it costs so much to get assigned to one. We went as a supply vessel. I don't know what we was supposed to supply."
"And—you bought molasses?"
"Fleet was only there half a day, so we had to move brisk. But we got all the barrels filled—a thruppence a gallon, about half what we'd've paid in Kingston. I just mention this to give you an idea of how thev do things down in the islands."
"I see."
"Why, down that way Englishmen buy their own wool from Frenchies.
That's right! There's French vessels that stand off Dover, and the 'owlers' run out and stock 'em with woolens. You've heard of the owlers?"
"Aye."
"Then they take the bolts to Jamaica or the Barbados and spirit em ashore. First the stuff's smuggled out of England, to avoid the export duties, and then it's smuggled into an English colony to avoid the import duties. Sometimes some of that stuff gets smuggled out of Jamaica again and into one of the mainland colonies here. That makes three full sets of smuggling, as you might say. And still it's cheaper than if you bought it legitimate. Though not much cheaper by that time," Adam added. "Not enough to make it worth the risk."
"I am glad to hear you say that. Captain. The penalties for violating the Navigation Acts are getting more severe all the time, and that man Dudley up to Boston means business."
"I'm perfectly clear!"
"I'm sure you are. And I'm sure you'll stay that way." He put a hand on Adam's shoulder, an act in him as astonishing as a kiss. "Our fortunes are tied up together now, and you must watch your reputation."
"Just because I bladed with that collector—"
"It ain't that. I'd say most folks think the better of you for that. There was lot out in the street heard what Wingfield said. But you mustn't forget that these are touchy times. The Lords of Trade over there can do pretty much anything they want with us, if they get to supposing we're a rabble of pirate lovers. And you're vulnerable. Captain. You've never denied that you've helped unload, out at Contraband Cove."
"I had heaps of company there!"
"Sure. But there's still those who say it's odd you jumped right from apprentice to invester."
"There was no coin involved! I got an interest in the schooner because I worked so much to build her, and everybody knows that. And I had the right to collect. Only I can't prove that now. Mr. Sedgewick is dead."
"I don't question a thing you say. I'm only reminding you that there are folks who'll go right on whispering that you might have been Tom Hart's agent here—that that's how you got your start."
It graveled Adam to hear that old charge. There'd never been an ounce of truth in it. He knew who had been Thomas Hart's agent here! If he ever fetched out that deposition— But he said nothing.
Deborah, skirt rustling, eyes dowTicast, came in with some needlework and sat at the other end of the bench before the fire. Obadiah picked up the brandy bottle and went to the back of the house. Soon Obadiah returned—in nightrail, nightcap, dressing robe.
"Bed's turned over but it's cold."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Father!"
She put down the needlework and sped out, to return with a v.'arm-ing pan into which she scraped embers. She went out with this.
Obadiah came into the room, walking with that peculiar widespread walk of his. He looked mighty silly in the nightcap, but that robe, Adam reckoned, must have cost sixteen shillings.
"We must talk about this some other time. Captain. This—and other matters. Good night now."
"Good night, sir."
Deborah came back and picked up her needlework and sat down on the bench, the same bench Adam sat on. The needlework was something fancy, Adam reckoned. Anyway the needle made a hollow bouncy "pong!" each time it went through. Now and then a flurry of leaves would click against the window, or a piece would fall off a burning log, to sink sheepishly among the deeper embers, and a shower of sparks would go spitting up the chimney. These were the only sounds.
jiT r? Adam stared at the fire. The logs were mostly red cedar, well «^ yj dried. Each was bottomed by small pink flames that strove to reach its top; and now and then a flame, stretching, would get up there, and expand, waxing blue, and leap in glee, and waver, then abruptly, as if spat at, die. But the flames underneath kept licking away.
"Pong!" went the needle. "Pong!"
Adam stared at the backs of his hands, but they looked pretty much the same as they always had, so, after a while, he stared at the fire again.
Deborah asked him about the voyage. What had the weather been like? He answered a shade impatiently. You didn't talk about sea weather except to sailors. If there was a lot of it, then there was a lot of work; or if not, not. And in any case the weather Deborah Selden asked about was gone now.
She asked also about London, though cautiously; and it was with caution that Adam answered. The truth is, he did not care to admit even to himself how disappointed he had been in what he used to call Home. What good things about it he could find in his heart to say, he said; but those weren't many. And he finished—remembering his mother, though not mentioning her—with the bitter observation that it was hard to see why folks had to be dragged out of jails or made drunk or hit on the head in order to persuade them to quit a place like that for a place like this.
"But I thought you didn't like Newport, Captain?"
"Never said that. I just figured Newport didn't like me."
"Do they really do those things to enlist people?"
"Worse. They steal 'em."
Without making any mention of his own exploits, he told her about the kidnappers. She was horrified.
"Why, there ought to be a law against that!"
"Probably is. There's laws against pretty nigh everything."
Their voices trailed off; and soon there was again only the sound of her sewing and the spit of sparks in the fireplace.
Some time passed in this way.
Then Adam rose. He waggled his hands. When he did succeed in speaking, his voice was louder than it had any reason to be.
"So you still want a husband, even though you don't have to have one, is that it?"
She did not look up from her needlework, and indeed she bent over it a little lower.
"Captain, I don't think that's very kind of you. I never said I just wanted a husband. I wanted you. So when I got a chance I asked you. And when you said no, I still wanted you. So I tried to trick you."
"You sure did."
"Any other girl would have done the same. Only she'd get a better chance. She'd let you walk out with her, and if she could, she'd bundle with you. Then you'd get all fussed up, and you'd beg her to marry you, and you'd think you was lucky when she said she would, not knowdng she'd planned it that way. With me it wasn't the same. I had to ask straight-out."
He looked at the fire, and then he looked at the top of her head and down the back of her neck, where her dress stood out a bit.
"You never wanted anybody else, the same way?"
"No, Adam. I can honestly say I never did."
"But you did want me—like that?"
She had ceased to do the needlework. She dropped her hands to her lap, it could be to control them. Otherwise she didn't stir.
"I did, and I still do."
The voice was tiny. Slowly her head was lowered even more. Downy black hairs clustered at the nape of her neck just beneath the bun. Her shoulders were hunched up a bit.
She did not stir. He put out a hand and placed it on her shoulder, and at the touch she fairly jumped. She was quiet after that, but rigid. Her hands were pressed down white in her lap. Her feet shoved the floor.
"If I'd known that was the way you felt—well, things might have been different."
"You always seemed to be afraid of me."
"Maybe I was. I was afraid of most folks then. After all, I don't know who my father was, for sure. And my mother I don't remember well. Mr. and Mrs. Sedgewick weren't much hel
p, though they didn't beat me much—I guess not as much as they should've."
"You— You used to jeer at everybody."
"I reckon that's because I was scared. Then the better work I did, the smarter I got, the more it seemed folks disliked me. I guess I just imagined that. But naturally I never even dreamed that you—well, I never even gave myself a loose to think about that, that's all. And now it's too late."
Her shoulder leapt under his hand and her head went back, so that he retreated, truly thinking for an instant that she was about to spring at him and claw his face with her fingernails.
"You didn't marry that red-head down there?"
She looked lovely. Her eyes were flashing. Her chin was up, and the way her head was lifted it showed the lines of her neck. Her hands were at her sides on the bench now, and her feet were drawn underneath her, as though she was all readied to spring.
Fascinated, he moved toward her.
"Don't you touch me, Adam Long!"
He stopped.
"Are you married to her?"
He shook his head.
"No," he said.
Her head went down, and the muscles in her shoulders and arms slacked off. She slumped.
"I'm sorr)'," she whispered. "I didn't think even you would be fool enough to do that. But I had to ask."
He just stood there looking at her; and he was the one who was doing the trembling now.
Color rose in her neck, in her face.
"You can touch me now, if you want, Adam," she whispered.
Eager leaves tinked and scraped at the window, then turned out of sight, sinldng.
Adam did not touch her. He was afraid to.
"No, I'm not married— But it's sort of the same, in a way."
"How do you mean? No, I'd rather you didn't tell me! But you—you're not really married?"
"Not really, no. But I got certain obligations. I've done certain things and I reckon I can't back out of 'em now. I reckon that in the eyes of God I am married. God's got it all wrote down, in the Book. You know that."
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