Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Suddenly, a new thought struck her, causing a quiver of excitement and a feeling of keen anticipation to run through her. Perhaps some of the sailors off the Tongolese would be at the skating pond this evening. It would be perfectly proper for her to talk with them there, under the watchful eye of the chaperones. The very idea quickened her pace, giving a new purpose to the tiresome hours of preparation ahead.

  But for the rest of the day, every time she thought of the Tongolese, she remembered the near naked sailor with the strong tanned body and the mane of gold-streaked hair. What would such a man be like?

  “No doubt a rough, uncivilized brute, Lady Guinevere!” she said to the bisque doll propped against the pillows of her bed. “No gentleman at all!”

  Lady Guinevere, of course, lay quietly on the crisp white candlewicking of the spread, staring out of unblinking, painted eyes, the same bright blue as Persia’s.

  “Never mind,” she continued. “You don’t have to say a word. I know by your silence what you’re thinking. But you are wrong—totally! I haven’t given him a second thought, nor do I intend to.”

  Persia could invest Lady Guinevere with fabrications all she liked, but she couldn’t lie to herself. The sight of that sailor had changed her somehow. Even as she talked on to her favorite childhood confidante, for the first time in her life she felt rather foolish doing so.

  Perhaps it was time to put away the childhood things. Perhaps it was time for Persia Whiddington to become a woman.

  Chapter Two

  The greenish-yellow glow of the aurora borealis shimmered its luminous arc in the black heavens. November was late in the year for such an arresting phenomenon. Perhaps it bode well for a mild winter and an early greening in the spring. All over the village, citizens of Quoddy Cove commented upon this hopeful possibility, nodding sagely and punctuating their laconic statements to one another with the ubiquitous “ayah.”

  From the Federal-style house on Gay Street, Persia, in the final stages of preparing for the skating party, glanced out her bedroom window and uttered a cry of wonderment that carried to the farthest reaches of the second story.

  “Come quick, everybody! Look at the sky! I never in all my life saw anything like it.”

  All of her life was not that long. The younger Whiddington daughter had passed her sixteenth birthday the previous week. The day had been celebrated quietly at home with only Captain and Mrs. Whiddington, Europa, and the servants in attendance since a November snowstorm had chosen the night before to close its chilling hand over coastal Maine. Still, the wintry blast had done little to cool Persia’s enthusiasm at being sixteen and on the very brink of everything wonderful in life, or so she assumed.

  And tonight her life seemed almost too wonderful. The arrival of the Tongolese, her first skating party, and now this! The fabulous light show above had to be a good omen. Watching the colors shift in the night sky gave her the same pleasant, queasy feeling she had experienced while staring at the bronzed sailor a few hours earlier. For some unknown reason, she was unable to shake the man from her thoughts, though, in truth, she hadn’t tried very hard.

  Holding a delicately wrought, gold-on-brass whale-oil lamp, Persia shaded her eyes against its glare and peered heavenward through the dimpled glass of the windowpane, all the while murmuring her delight at the shifting drapes of color glowing in the black sky.

  “You sound like a silly child, Persia! For heaven’s sake, I don’t know what’s to get so excited about. It’s only the northern lights.”

  Europa Whiddington’s tone conveyed the superior, pseudosophisticated air that set eighteen-year-olds apart from their younger siblings. She swept across the room and, pushing her sister aside, yanked the window sash down.

  “What did you do that for?” Persia demanded. The angry toss of her head captured the lamp’s light, making golden sparks dance in her long auburn hair and gleam in her blue eyes.

  “My dear little sister, you aren’t even dressed. And here you stand, gaping out the window for any passerby to see. Why, I’d die of shame!”

  Europa, of course, was fully dressed. She looked breathtaking in her mauve velvet skating costume, trimmed in silver fox fur. Every glossy black curl was in place. Her cheeks had been pinched to bring forth a rosy glow. Persia could tell that Europa had sucked and bitten her lips to make them full and red. And she guessed that her sister had employed a broomstraw up the chimney to extract soot from the flue to darken her brows and eyelashes. Europa had been preparing all day and had long since been ready to leave for the skating pond.

  Europa’s perfection caused Persia a twinge of envy. The older girl was every bit as fragile and elegant as their mother. Her features were finely sculpted, resembling those carved in the cameo brooches their father had brought back from the little town of Torre del Greco in Italy, where skilled craftsmen wrought delicate jewelry from the shells of the Mediterranean. Europa’s skin was just as white as the patrician lady’s portrayed in the delicate gold frame pinned at her breast. The only difference was that Europa’s shell-pale features were framed in the luxuriant darkness of her onyx-black hair.

  Persia often bemoaned the fact that she herself had inherited nothing of their mother’s beauty except her eyes. She possessed her father’s sturdy frame and adventurous temperament—not wonderful attributes for a young woman. As for her red hair, she hated it! Once, when she was a tiny girl, Europa had told her that fiery curls were the devil’s brand. Although she had learned through the years to ignore her sister’s taunts, those early pronouncements had left their mirk on Persia. She was ever wary that Lucifer in some guise or another might one day present himself and trick her into giving him his due.

  “Well, are you going to get ready or not?” Europa snapped. “I’m not really delighted at the prospect of taking you along anyway. And if you keep up this dawdling, I’ll have a fine excuse to go without you.”

  “Go on, if you want to,” Persia answered, peeved. “I’d just as soon not be seen in your company?”

  “Afraid of the competition?” Europa asked, bestowing a sarcastic smile on her little sister.

  “Hardly! But you’re the worst skater in York County! It’s embarrassing the way you have to hold on to that stupid chair to keep from falling on the ice. It seems to me you would have learned how to skate after all this time.”

  “That just shows what you know! Every time I fall, some handsome man comes rushing to help me up. You might try it, Persia. There’s something to be said for weak ankles. You’ll never get anywhere racing all the boys and beating them. Why, one would think you don’t know how to act like a lady!”

  “I know how to act, but I’m not going to make a blasted fool of myself on the ice just to get attention from a man.”

  “You’ll learn, little sister. Or you’ll find yourself an old maid one of these days. Mark my words!”

  “Well, I’ll certainly never stoop to tricking a man to get his attention!”

  Europa moved to the mirror, admiring her perfect features as she answered in a knowing tone, “Every woman who aims to marry has to use some tricks to get the man she wants.”

  “Europa Whiddington! How can you say such a thing? Are you suggesting that Mother tricked Father?”

  The sisterly argument carried down the hall to their parents’ bedroom, bringing their mother immediately to the door.

  “Young ladies!” Victoria Whiddington’s voice, though quiet, held a certain undeniable authority that none of their father’s stentorian harangues could equal. Both girls fell silent and lowered their faces in shame. “If either of you wants to go to the skating pond tonight, there will be no more bickering, I’m sure. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mother,” they chorused in muffled tones.

  “Very well, then. Persia, finish dressing.”

  Europa turned to her sister with a pleased, haughty smile.

  “Europa, go to your room and find something to occupy yourself until th
e rest of us are ready to go.”

  “But Mother, I was only—”

  “Never mind! Go work on your sampler.”

  Now it was Persia’s turn to flash a momentary triumphant look before Europa fled the room.

  Mrs. Whiddington started for the door, then turned for a moment and measured her lovely younger daughter with a gaze of sudden awareness. Persia’s full breasts were straining at the fragile smocking of her camisole. The pleasing plumpness of her baby fat had melted, reshaping itself into comely curves. When had Persia grown into a woman? And how could she have been too busy to notice the new ripeness of her daughter’s figure and the enchanting beauty of her bold features—her full, slightly pouting lips, the delicate arch of her dark brows, and the glitter of golden, featherlike lashes framing her large, sapphire-brilliant eyes? Persia looked every bit as mature as Europa. And furthermore she possessed the ripe, voluptuous beauty that men had found most difficult to deny themselves.

  All of a sudden, Victoria Whiddington felt something like a blizzard assault her heart. Tonight her little Persia would be thrust into a woman’s world for the first time. Could her youngest handle it? She prayed so.

  “Persia,” she said, ‘you will be careful tonight?”

  Her daughter looked up, her eyes sparkling suddenly and a lovely smile lighting her face. “Careful, Mother? You know I skate well. I’ve never had an accident.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” The older woman’s tone and demeanor were serious.

  Persia’s smile faded and a small frown took its place. “What then, Mother?”

  Victoria couldn’t bring herself to put her cautions into words. How could a decent Christian woman voice the shocking dangers unscrupulous men presented to innocent young women? How could she explain the demands of lovers on their sweethearts? How could she tell her daughter of the intimacies husbands exacted from their wives? She couldn’t! The words refused to come. She could only pray for the best and live with the nagging little coldness that had taken up residence in her heart.

  “Oh, never mind. Just be sure you keep your curtains closed until you’re dressed, dear. One never knows who might pass by and glance up at you.”

  Victoria’s caution came too late. Already the moth had been drawn to the flame, where it lingered, feeling the smoldering, tantalizing heat.

  Seaman Zachariah Hazzard, down in the street below, hadn’t meant to stare. Following the bright skaters’ lanterns—like a river of fireflies—he had been on his way to the pond with everyone else in town when he paused to look up at the curious lights in the sky. Only by chance did Persia peer out of her window at that exact moment. Zack’s gaze had quickly shifted from one wondrous sight to the other.

  A gentleman, of course, would have averted his eyes. But never had Zack Hazzard been accused of being a gentleman. And he wasn’t about to choose this moment to start correcting bad habits.

  He couldn’t see the woman’s face, but he knew her hair was red. The light in the upstairs room cast its glow behind her, making her long tresses shimmer like a fiery aura. And he could see her tempting silhouette, dark against the bright room—soft shoulders, full breasts, and a becomingly slim waist. Even after the drapes were drawn shut, Zack stood his ground, still staring up, still trying to imagine what she must look like in the flesh. A warm, delicious woman—smelling of lavender and powder and fancy French soap.

  He swiped at his brow and gave himself a good shake. He’d been a long time at sea on the Tongolese. Too long, when a distant silhouette could cast such a spell over him.

  Most of the crew had gone on to Boston, the ship’s homeport, where families waited to welcome their world-wandering loved ones back. But something had made Zack stay. Maybe, he thought grimly, he simply didn’t want to see all those joyous, tearful homecomings. He had no relatives expecting him to rush back to them. For all his family knew, he was long since dead.

  When he had cursed his father, kissed his mother, and run away to sea at the age of twelve, he’d known that he could never return to the fold. Many a time he had lain awake in his hammock aboard ship, seeing his mother’s face in the dark and wondering how she was.

  After turning twenty-one—a man, salted and cured at sea—he had taken his one and only sentimental journey back to Salem, Massachusetts. He could still remember his light heart and his lively step as he greeted sights he knew so well. In his mind even now he watched the younger, unsuspecting version of himself as he neared home.

  Swaggering up Derby Street, his sea bag filled with gewgaws of ivory, ebony, and gold to delight his mother and younger sisters, he spied the old house. But a crowd was gathered about the place. His eyes were drawn to a woman in black who looked strangely familiar. She stood on the front stoop, holding a solemn-faced little boy by the hand and dabbing at red eyes with her handkerchief. Zack stood stock still, trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Pardon me, sir. Do you know that woman?” he asked of a passing stranger. “It seems I should recall her name.”

  The grim-visaged passerby looked the young sailing man up and down before he answered. “You wouldn’t be knowing Miss Mary unless you was from around these parts.”

  “Mary? You mean that’s Mary Hazzard?” He squinted hard, trying to make himself believe that the woman in black with features drawn and careworn was the same bright, winsome sister he had kissed good-bye as she slept clutching her ragdoll so many years ago.

  “Not Hazzard any logger. Not these seven years past. She married old Doc Goodlow. But even he couldn’t save Mary’s poor mother.”

  At that moment, Zack had understood what was happening. There was a funeral in progress at the old homeplace. Cold dread filled him. He felt like a small boy again, crying in the night for his mother when a nightmare marred his sleep.

  “You mean, Mrs. Hazzard’s passed away?”

  “Passed away, bah! She was pushed into her grave. Murdered by that bastard husband of hers. Beat her to a bloody pulp, he did, in a drunken rage.”

  Zack had felt a sickness rising within him at the stranger’s words. He had known his father’s cruelty. He had run away because he hadn’t been able to take it any longer. He’d had to stand by and watch the old man slap his mother more than once. Still, the real brutality had been directed toward Zack himself, the only other male member of the family. And now, Zack relived the same awful guilt he had experienced the night he ran away. His mother had found out he was leaving. But instead of trying to keep him from going, she had given him what little money she could and had wished him a tearful farewell.

  “You’ll never grow up to be a man in this house, son. He won’t let you,” she had whispered. “Go! Find a life for yourself.”

  “But what about you and the girls, Mama?” he’d asked, his determination to leave faltering at the last moment.

  “You mustn’t worry about us, Zachariah. He won’t harm your sisters. And I’ve lived with him long enough to know how to deal with him.”

  But in the end, she hadn’t been able to cope. He had dealt her a killing blow, with an axe handle, the stranger told Zack, crushing her skull and releasing her from the hell she had lived on earth.

  Zack had wanted to go over and speak to his sister Mary, to see if there was any way he could help. But what could he do now? He should have stayed at home with them instead of running away. Maybe if he had, his mother would still be alive. He had known at that moment that he would have to live with his awful guilt to the end of his days.

  “Her husband?” He caught the stranger by the sleeve as he tried to hurry off. “What’s become of Mr. Hazzard?”

  “Killed his own self once he’d done for his poor woman. Saved the hangman an honest day’s work. Good riddance!”

  Zack felt numb at the words and muttered in answer, “Aye, good riddance.”

  He’d gone to the burying ground and watched his mother’s funeral from a distance. But he’d been unable to go to his sisters with cons
olation afterward. Since that day nearly six years ago, he had stayed away from Salem and his remaining family. Better for them to think he was dead, too, he told himself. After all, what good could he do them now?

  So, even though it felt fine to be ashore after his long voyage, he was at loose ends. He was sure neither where to go nor what to do with himself until he signed on for the next voyage. His future lay at sea… not in Salem, not in Boston, not in Quoddy Cove, Maine.

  He glanced up at the window and saw her once more—a dark, bewitching silhouette against the closed drapes.

  “Then again, Quoddy Cove might not be so bad,” he observed, stroking the wild gold of his beard.

  Suddenly, he remembered something his good friend Jehu, the carpenter on the Tongolese, had said to him that afternoon as they were departing the ship. “Well, Zack boy, it’s shore leave for me… for the rest of my life. And I’m more than ready.”

  “You’ll be back,” Zack had told him, laughing, because Jehu always claimed each trip was his last. Then invariably he shipped out again.

  “Not this time! I got me a wife I hardly remember how to make love to and a son nigh on to four years old that I’ve yet to lay eyes on. No, laddie! You take the sea for your mistress, if you like. Me, I want a real woman with warm lips to kiss, soft arms to hold me, and a need that won’t have to wait for years at a stretch. You better think about that, too. You’re not a bad sort. You’re no beauty, I’ll admit. Hawk nose, shaggy brow, and a temper about as sweet as a harpooned whale’s. Still, there’s some women likes the rough, hard-bit sort. Mark my words, there’s one for you out there somewhere. You’re not getting any younger. You’d best go find her before someone else steals her out from under you. Then you’ll kiss the sea good-bye. It’s no decent life for man nor beast.”

  Zack shoved his thick fingers through the shock of sun-streaked brown hair tumbling over his forehead. Remembering Jehu’s words just after seeing the woman in the window gave him a strange, squeamish feeling in the pit of his stomach.