What she hadn't expected was the cool indifference, sometimes even rudeness, from the other men whom she knew intimately from the long days on the island. This hurt most from Jacob. He seemed unable to meet her eyes and the only time he ever addressed her was when Justin first showed him his son. "He's a beautiful boy, Christy. Ye did well." That was all. When she inquired about Hanna and Elsie and Eric, he said only his new wife was waiting in Boston while Elsie and Eric were now married and apparently living with Eric's parents in Holland, part of the Prussian empire.
"And are they well?" she asked hopefully.
"I don't see how it matters much to you. After all," he replied softly, " 'twas ye who left us, not the other way around."
"But I didn't leave you." She tried desperately for his understanding.
"When you left him, you left us," he cut her off. " 'Tis that simple." And he excused himself before she could say anything more.
Only Brahms seemed willing to forgive her and she cherished the few times he kept her company. He told her everything of Boston, describing at length the climate and the terrain and especially the people, the similarities and differences with England. He also filled her in on the details of everyone's life; details no one else was willing to share.
He described Hanna and Jacob's wedding, making her wish she had been there. He told of Eric's hard decision to give up life at sea—surely owing to the terrifying hours of the monsoon, the subsequent stay on the island. Eric opted to take his father's trade—of all things, horse trainer for the Prussian army.
The fate of Carolyn Knolls surprised her most and she made him tell her twice before she believed it. John had forced Carolyn to stay on the island with him. He planned to "fill 'er with a string of brats before he'd let her go," and he asked Justin to send a ship by in a few years. Justin promised to do just this. Christina could only imagine Carolyn Knolls's fury at such a long imprisonment, one with such unpleasant consequences for her.
"Cajun?" was who she inquired about first.
"Well, apparently he's somewhere in India right now. After we were rescued, and Justin received the letter from his father and Carrington telling him you were safe, Justin decided to sail to Boston before coming to England. And Cajun and Justin decided to part paths at that point."
"But why?"
"Any number of reasons, I suppose. First, Justin is not going to be sailing anymore. Oh, he'll have his ships out, but he won't be on them. And Cajun knows he doesn't belong in the so-called civilized world."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, just imagine Cajun walking down the streets of London or Boston! He looks a savage and partially is. I've even seen him don proper clothes a few times, but he still doesn't fit. Cajun has never felt comfortable where his color matters. The English-speaking world can't accept his dignity; they would try to strip him of it, beat it out of him, and when they couldn't they'd kill him. No," he shook his head sadly, "a man like Cajun belongs in Arabia or India where his color doesn't matter."
She never thought of this but intuitively knew it as a sad truth. "Will Cajun never see Justin again?"
"Oh no. Cajun and Justin are as close as two men can without being—" He stopped, remembering her husband, then finished, "Cajun will show up again, no doubt."
Christina hoped this was true and wondered if, when he did show up, if he would have found it in his heart to forgive her. She cared most about Cajun and in an odd way, his opinion mattered most. Redemption or prosecution.
She was lonely and the ship kept her from any means she might have of coping with her loneliness. She had no sketchbook or even knitting or embroidery to do. Justin kept few books on board. If not for the joy of caring, nursing, and playing with her son, the joy of watching him unfold a little more each day, she could not have borne it.
Christina was up in early morning before dawn, suffering from yet another night's sleep interrupted by—how many times had little Justin roused her? Five? Six? Her nursing could no longer sustain him and he needed solid food, food that was not available on board the ship.
Already washed and dressed, sitting in a chair with little Justin in her arms, she was lured into a light sleep by the ceaseless motion of the ship on the water. The call of land sounded loudly from deck and Christina woke, hearing the excited cheers of the men. She jumped up from the chair. "Finally!" She laughed out loud. "Land, Justin! Did you hear it? We're going to see our new home!"
Little Justin tried desperately to figure out what he just did to cause his mother's excitement. Perhaps it was a gurgle. He gurgled again and grinned, then waited for her reaction.
Christina stopped herself from going up on deck, knowing she had to wait for an escort. Surely he would send someone soon. She sat back down in the hard wood chair and waited, trying to contain her excitement. Excitement coupled with a bit of apprehension. Excitement that she would be seeing the New World for the first time; apprehension because she knew not what it would bring.
Time passed miserably slow until it became clear Justin had sent no one to escort her up. She swallowed her disappointment. She told herself it didn't matter; in time she would have to see it.
Finally the door opened and Justin himself walked in.
Gone were the faded breeches and vest, the windblown hair, and the unshaven face, the familiar costume he had again adapted the day the ship set sail. The gentleman to replace the sea captain, and the contrast was startling. His thick dark hair was brushed neatly back and his face was clean-shaven. He wore a crisp cotton shirt, finely tailored brown breeches, the kind loose only at the knees where they were tucked into shiny black boots. A gentlemen, but not. His shirt had none of the fashionable frills, no lace or ruffles or neck collar. Then as though such stark masculinity needed accenting, a pistol hung from a worn leather shoulder holster, a jeweled dagger hung from a black belt.
Justin greeted his son and took him from her, and then addressed her forthrightly. "Since we'll be disembarking by late morning, I should explain a few things to you. Boston, Massachusetts—like any major port city—holds a diverse conglomeration of people. However," he continued to the point, "the Puritan historical influence is still strong and you'll find the social stratification every bit as rigid as England's. For these reasons, and until I receive the annulment papers, you will be introduced as my wife."
This information was what Brahms had told her. Brahms had added the amusing fact that, unlike the rigid hereditary lines of English elite, all of Boston's upper echelon's wealth came from "privateering" English ships during the revolution. Some brave captains found themselves not with one ship but ten, and suddenly wealthy. Then they remembered all their uncles, aunts, and cousins who were dukes, duchesses, lords and ladies of the English court.
Christina watched little Justin fondle the ivory handle of the pistol. She held her breath. His father didn't seem to notice or care.
"As you know," Justin looked at her to say seriously, "the only bond between us is our son. I don't know how that will affect him—I suppose one day he'll ask us about it and we'll tell him."
Christina looked away uncomfortably. She had already thought of this. The day would come when Justin would ask why his father didn't like her. She knew this; what she didn't know was how she could possibly explain it.
"I want this to work. With the exception of certain social obligations arising from my work and politics, as my wife I'll ask nothing from you."
She knew this too. After the night in the carriage, he had made this perfectly clear. She tried to tell herself she was glad. Physical love with hostility could only be ugly, if not even terrifying.
"In other words," he finished, "I hope to live as amicably as possible."
Christina nodded in acquiescence. The speech held nothing unexpected, and was delivered with no outward hostility but rather calm indifference. As though he had accepted the sad fact that he disliked his wife—nay, hated, she was certain of this—and he would make the best of his misfortune.
&nb
sp; Little Justin abruptly decided he was bored with his father's long stream of words, words he sensed had little to do with him, and he began squirming with all his strength. Only to discover what he already knew— while his strength caused his mother some concern, it had absolutely no effect on his father. He laughed and playfully socked his father's face.
Justin laughed too, tossed his son in the air, and swung him around, receiving a peal of laughter as reward. "Would you like to see the new land?" he asked as he turned toward the door.
Christina did not wait for an invitation to join them.
"And, oh, one other thing," Justin remembered. "A carriage should be waiting to take you and Justin to the house."
Christina lifted her eyes to him.
"My house is in Middlesex," he explained, "about fifteen miles from Boston. I also keep a household in town for convenience. I'll be staying there for a few days."
"I—" She couldn't believe he would do this. "You would send us to your house alone?" she asked on the heels of a frightening pause.
"You've demonstrated your ability to travel far greater distances without me. I don't see why it's a problem." And with that he left her alone.
But he did know. She knew he understood. To be forced to a new household alone—why, she didn't know a soul, not a single soul. She didn't even know if he had servants, and if he did, what would they think of her arriving alone without her husband on such a momentous occasion? It was unheard of. No introductions or even a trunk and her dress—
She looked down at the miserable state of her dress. It had once been the prettiest dress she had ever owned, but the fabric had not been made for travel. Her only garment showed every day of its excessive wear and was as stained as any beggar's rag. And her hair—
She felt her hair. She had not wanted to bother him and therefore she had never asked for some fresh water to bathe. He had never offered the luxury, only dressing water and salt water in which to wash little Justin's clothes. It had been over a month since she had washed it and it showed, despite the tight braids wrapped around her head.
She looked a pathetic creature indeed. She would not blame anyone for finding her a source of ridicule, even laughter—if not to her face, then behind her back. He thought she deserved it. He hated her that much.
Tears swam unwelcome to her eyes and she covered her face in her hands.
An hour or so passed before Justin returned his son for feeding and, no doubt, changing. He left without a word. It was Brahms who finally came to escort her up.
A cold biting wind greeted her and little Justin as she stepped onto deck. The sky was a crisp blue that comes only in winter. Clouds hung in the far horizon, drawing her gaze to take in her first sight of the new land.
She had never seen a port as large as Boston. Over thirty wharves and numerous docks. Ships docked everywhere. Quaint, whitewashed buildings mixed with brick ones and these stood in the foreground of thick green forests. Marshland spread to the right as far as the eye could see. She clutched her cloak tight around herself and her child, marveling at the sparkle of the rooftops, how very clean and uncluttered the lovely town looked compared to London. It was breathtaking.
The ship slipped slowly into dock. The men crowded around the rail, already calling to the sizable crowd waiting for their arrival. The clamor of metal sounded as the great anchor was lowered, this requiring the strength of five men at the turn wheel.
Justin finished calling the last of his orders and came by her, lifting Justin from her arms. He looked at her almost quizzically. She quickly turned her head, not wanting him to discern her tears. Too many tears had been shed. This was her fate and she, too, must learn to accept it.
As Justin led her down the gangplank, she found herself looking at a dozen or so faces, all of which seemed waiting for him. Everything happened at once. At the same time the crew rushed down, the crowd rushed up, two surges clashing. Greetings and noise and confusion. Everyone rushed forward with greetings and Justin was suddenly surrounded. She was forgotten.
It became painfully obvious Justin did not intend to introduce her to anyone in the large gathering that surrounded him. He must be embarrassed, she realized, clutching the folds of her cloak tight about her. She stared hard at the tips of her worn slippers, wishing the earth would open to swallow her up, so great was her embarrassment. She prayed no one noticed her and if they did, that they wouldn't connect her pathetic lot with him or his son.
She finally heard Justin explain in a loud voice that he could not receive guests till the evening. The crowd disbanded one by one until she finally looked up and saw only Jacob; and in his arms was a lady.
She was beautiful and lovely and looked ever so different. She wore a fashionable day dress of pale green, gloves, and a matching darker green cloak. Her hair was styled into pretty ringlets around her face. Christina might not have recognized her but it was her—it was Hanna!
A surge of emotion rose through Christina and it was all she could do not to run into her arms. She had missed her so much! And if only Hanna didn't disown her friendship, if Hanna could forgive her...
She could not swallow this hope as she approached the small gathering. Hanna lifted little Justin from his father's arms and, for several long minutes, she happily engaged in the traditional conversation and exclamations one makes to an infant. Justin suddenly left, seeing another friend, and just as Hanna's eyes finally fell on Christina. Christina held her breath, seeing her concern and worry and—
"How do you do, Christina?"
"Fine... I'm fine. I, oh Hanna—" She reached out to her.
"He's a lovely boy," she replied too quickly as she handed Justin to her and turned at once to Jacob. "We've got to rush on."
Christina's heart broke swiftly in two.
Not wanting to make matters worse, Jacob nodded and quickly steered Hanna away. In mute pain, Christina stood suddenly alone with her child in her arms.
Her gaze swept the crowd for Justin. She found him several yards away talking to someone in a fine carriage. He leaned forward. A lady leaned her head out. Beautiful did not come close to an apt description of this woman's loveliness. She reached a gloved hand to his face and, laughing, she kissed him.
Christina barely remembered anything else.
Justin returned to her and quickly led her to another carriage. He exchanged a lively greeting with the driver, introducing the handsome colored man as Chesapeake. She barely managed. He saw her into the carriage and, after kissing his son good-bye, he motioned Chessy forward. The carriage bolted forward and, as it fled past, she caught sight of Justin just as he climbed into the lady's carriage.
Why did it shock her so? She should have known he had a mistress; that she would be rich and beautiful, probably witty, intelligent, and charming too; that he would flaunt his affairs publicly—he cared so little for his wife.
Then why, oh God, did it hurt so badly?
Chesapeake shook his head sadly and, determined to reach the house by dusk, he cracked the whip across the mare's back, pushing the horses to a faster pace. He just couldn't fathom it, no sir. How in tarnation could a man be so good that he captures slavers and frees people of color and yet so mean to a young lady who was his very own wife?
Makes no sense, really.
'Course, he thought to himself, he hardly knew his employer, Mr. Justin Phillips. He knew the rumors, everybody did; he knew of his employer's reputation, a reputation that would do any man proud if you could believe it. Mr. Phillips made his wealth in the time-honored Boston tradition of privateering. Then, too, some said Mr. Phillips came from a wealthy family—some or 'nother lord or something. Near everyone who was anybody this side of the 'Lantic had one of them in their family—them lords and ladies must breed like mice in a wheat bin.
He knew somethin' else about Mr. Phillips too. Over two years passed since Mr. Phillips's house was built and staffed. Two years of absentee landlord and employer; two years of gettin' paid for no work. First they was t
old Mr. Phillips got caught by the British and hung. Fine but they still got paid. Then they was told Mr. Phillips didn't get the noose but died in a storm on his way to prison. And still they got paid, as though a dead man's goin' ta need a driver, house servants, cooks, and gardeners!
Someone, it seems, had the good sense to know a dead man wasn't all that dead.
So, sure 'nough, three months pass, the dead man shows up, but only to say he's leavin' again to fetch the new mistress and his son, and, lickety-split, the man's gone again.
Now he's back.
Chesapeake shook his head, feeling his dander rise like a rooster in a cockfight.
He didn't care how great they all said Mr. Phillips was—he didn't take kindly to no man who treats his wife mean. No sir. Lordin' it over her like that. First flaunted that lady right in front of her, then the worst, sendin' her into her new house all alone, no one to introduce her proper but the damn driver! Why, it's just not done! Everyone's gonna know right off, the master don't care for the mistress and if the master don't care, then no one else does either. That pretty little lady's gonna be lucky if she don't have to wipe her own floors.
She was sure pretty, too, and young! Whooo, did she look young. What in tarnation could possess a man? Was he blind? Didn't he see how sad and hurt and pained she looked?
Lord, it was a shame. Ain't no excuse, no sir...
Thinking on it, Chesapeake worked up a frightful anger, and wanting to help his mistress, to do anything he could, he stopped the carriage and tied the reins. He jumped down and went around the side to open the door.
"Howdy." He grinned generously.
Christina looked surprised. "Is something wrong?"
"No, ma'am," he assured her. "Nothin's wrong. But it's a long trip out and I just thought, well, I thought you'se might be hungry or thirsty or some-thin'. Hope—she's your cook," he explained, "packed us a fine fare. Fried chicken and biscuits with honey and two huge slices of her apple pie. Maybe you'se hungry?"
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