Laura stared at the wooden carved nativity scene displayed in the sitting room. The Virgin Mary, her robes painted a serene blue, bowed her head over the beatific face of her child in his crib lined with straw. How remarkable.
What did Mary think as she gave birth in a stable? Did she fear? Did she suffer the birthing pains like other women? How did she feel about her son?
She picked up the carved image of the child, simply rendered in swaddling clothes. The icon fit in the palm of her hand, about half the size of the one born two days before, the one that never got to open her eyes or draw breath. The image of the Christ child before her blurred. She blinked away the tears. A miracle of life; a miracle of the hope of the life to come. She returned the figure to the display with reverence before rising on unsteady legs.
The Christmas tableau was decorated with ribbons and greenery, and surrounded by candles to form a sort of shrine. The gaily festive display was at sharp odds with the black she wore for Gina’s child.
She tightened the shawl around her shoulders even though the villa was warm against the cold, blustery winds that had sprung up overnight. The entire day was grey from the leaden sky to the ash-colored clouds of fog that isolated them from the rest of the world.
Laura peered through the closed French doors and touched a finger to the freezing glass as though to reach the distant clutch of people outside who were framed in one of the panes. They, too, were all dressed in black, the figures familiar. Gina stood with her head bent, her shoulders shaking in paroxysms of grief. Serafina stood on one side and Elias on the other. The silhouettes of the other mourners blended into one, but Laura knew Sophia and Kit were there also.
She wanted to be out there, too. But she had not felt well this morning, and everyone insisted she remain indoors for her baby’s sake, as well as her own. From her vantage point, she looked down to one of the southeastern gardens to see the small, newly-constructed, pine coffin – its pale yellow color stark against the black of the mourners – being lowered into the ground.
She swallowed and touched her own stomach to reassure herself the baby inside was still active. She was. And Laura nearly wept with relief and shame that she should be glad of it, while another woman was left bereft.
The party of mourners broke up and a couple of men began to fill in the grave. Laura looked for Elias among the returning group. The need to see him and have him close now seemed acute. It was he, even more than Sophia, who could reassure her.
*
January 6
“Still can’t sleep?”
Laura started at the voice, but it distracted her from the ache in her lower back, which was a help.
Elias stood in the doorway.
“Someone is keeping me awake,” she said, keeping up her pacing up and down the terrace now shuttered against the cold of the evening.
“May I keep you company?”
Laura gave him a sharp look, then sighed. Perhaps having someone to talk to would distract her long enough for ache to go away.
“If you want.”
“Shall I find my guitar and play for you?”
Laura shook her head wearily. “Just talk to me.”
“About anything in particular?”
Laura started to shake her head, then stopped.
“Tell me how a Scottish Methodist gets so far from home.”
There was only the soft rasp of her slippers as she continued pacing up and down, past the day bed, the mismatched iron chairs, and the round timber table that looked like had been cobbled together from long-weathered planks.
She paced up and down two more times.
“Well?” Being tired made her irritable.
Elias shrugged.
“I was twenty-one years old and filled with youthful exuberance. My aunt and I went to hear William Wilberforce talk about translating the Bible into every language, starting with Welsh,” he said.
“Afterwards, I spoke to him about his abolitionist work and someone else mentioned an Algerian tribe that didn’t even have a written version of their own language. Before I knew it, I was part of a group of a dozen men and women ready to set sail for Africa.”
Laura stopped her pacing as the ache shifted position from her back to her belly. Elias was now beside her with one hand on her elbow, the other on the small of her back, urging her toward the day bed.
She allowed him to help her find a comfortable position on her side. She closed her eyes as she felt him sit on the bed beside her. At a tentative touch on her back, Elias whispered, “May I?”
She hummed an affirmative response and he rubbed gentle circles that helped ease the worst of the ache. She breathed in the fresh pine and lemon of his scent and willed herself to relax.
This was Elias, her knight in shining armor, the man she was tempted to believe when he said he loved her – not because he said the words, but for everything he did. She realized it had taken months before she felt confident enough to look at a man directly in the eye again, let alone to let one touch her.
“Don’t stop,” she said, aware her voice was sleepy.
“I won’t.”
“No, I mean don’t stop talking to me. What happened next?”
He told her about their voyage to Algeria. In their first week there, the group was set upon by bandits, and they had only just escaped thanks to the arrival of a group of Bedouins.
Finally introduced to the tribe, they were welcomed but the language barrier proved nearly insurmountable. Nonetheless, Elias spent his days with the men, learning their customs and their language until he was confident enough to begin sharing the rudiments of the Gospel.
Then disaster struck. A flood devastated the village, killing four of the local families. In the aftermath, four of the missionaries suffered severe dysentery. Soon, they had the most disheartening news of all, a supply ship with food and funds had been captured by Barbary Coast pirates.
After his small progress in codifying the language, Elias woke one morning to find the village nearly deserted. Everyone had packed up and left for their annual migratory trek with their livestock, harvesting frankincense from the trees along the way. They would not return for at least six months, perhaps longer.
At a loss, the missionaries returned to the coastal port but disease killed three of them, and the survivors were forced to journey to Sicily to seek medical treatment for another of their party, a middle-aged spinster. There, the woman’s condition worsened and the doctor would only allow her to travel home in the company of a nurse.
The mission trip was an abject failure and, without additional funds, they couldn’t afford to stay. As it was, they could barely scrape together enough funds for a passage home.
“So I made the decision to stay behind so they could afford the nurse,” he said and paused.
Silence stretched on. Elias, apparently deciding she had fallen asleep, removed his hand and Laura felt him shift beside her.
“What, on your own?” she murmured.
He correctly took that as a cue to continue with the back rub.
“I was young and strong, and had enough for a bed and meal for the first night. I figured the next day I’d go down to the docks and find a ship that would allow me to work passage back to England. So, this particular night, I prayed for a miracle.”
“What happened?”
Elias chuckled. “I took a room at a tavern and got into a fight.”
“That doesn’t sound like a miracle.”
“Ah, but it was.”
She felt him squeeze her shoulder and nearly wept at the easy normalness of the gesture. This was so nice. She had been told that tears would spring easily during pregnancy. Perhaps that accounted for her mood.
“I was warming myself by the fire downstairs when an argument broke out between two men. Apparently, a barmaid had an unrequited affection for this sandy-haired fellow which didn’t sit well with another man who happened to be quite a deal bigger. They came to blows. Everyone in the place watched th
is smaller chap duck a punch from the giant then fell him with a blow to the stomach. Then the big man’s friend stepped up. I thought this young man seemed well able to take care of himself against two, but three more of the jilted lover’s friends decided to join in. Well, no one else in the tavern moved to take this young man’s side. It struck me as very unsporting.”
“Unsporting? Going around punching people seems very unsporting to me.”
“Not when it’s done with principle and honor. Ganging up on someone because of a slight to one’s pride is not honorable.”
“Oh,” she said, drawing out the syllable. There were times when Elias was a little too serious. Now he picked up on her tease.
“Yes, oh.” She could hear the smile in his voice and it warmed her further. “I stepped in to stop the chap getting rabbit punched and, before we knew it, we’d dealt with all five of them. Then the landlord threw us out, and I’d already paid for my bed.”
“Well, that was a strange answer to a prayer.”
“I thought the same thing at the time. But do you know who the sandy-haired man was?”
“Should I?”
“It was Christopher John Hardacre.” Elias dropped his voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Kit has a habit of drawing attention to himself.”
Laura burst into laughter, then softened her amusement to a chuckle to avoid waking the house.
“I had noticed. Before they married, Sophia once called him a Narcissus.”
“Well, that’s as a good a description as any I’ve heard.”
Silence fell between them. He continued rubbing her back and Laura closed her eyes. Elias spoke again, softly. “Kit has had a very troubled past but he is a good man. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course, why do you ask?”
“I remember something you said to me on the Calliope soon after we left Al-Min. I’ve been Kit’s friend for more than eight years now. He loves Sophia very much. I’ve seen the change in him, he’s… happy. He has found himself. If you had known Kit the way he was before, you’d never believe he was the same man. Still, if anyone could understand the hell you’ve been through, it would be him. Sometimes I wonder whether spending the rest of your confinement with Sophia and Kit on Catallus would have been better than being here with me.”
Laura rolled and pushed herself up to the top of the day bed to sit up. She reached out for Elias’ hand. He took it.
“You’ve been so kind to me, I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she said. “You’ve given me time to think, you’ve never treated me like a worthless whore or a fragile doll. I—”
The abdominal pain was the worst she’d ever felt. She gripped Elias’ hand tight.
“Laura?”
She let out a whoosh of air.
“Is it time?”
Another pain, this one equally as bad as the previous struck her. All she could do was nod.
“Serafina!”
Laura kept her eyes closed tight and prepared herself for the next wave of pain. She heard Serafina’s shuffling feet and Elias’ instruction. Wake Sophia, boil water, prepare Laura’s room for birthing.
Oh God, oh God – the baby was on its way!
Chapter Twenty
Elias stared across the valley, following every ridge and vale where it was illuminated by the sun. He had walked around the perimeter of his estate and yet every ounce of his attention was focused on the house where Laura was giving birth.
He thought of Gina’s stillborn child and recoiled at the thought it, too, would be the fate of Laura’s babe. He closed his eyes to pray, mindful of the fact his every word was a selfish one – please don’t let Laura die. Please don’t let the baby die.
In the heat of battle, when his very own life was in peril, Elias had never felt this degree of helplessness. He picked up a small stone and hurled it as far as his strength would allow. A moment later, he heard the sound of someone approaching him. They walked rather than ran, which meant there was no news yet – for good or ill.
He recognized the footsteps as belonging to Kit and did not turn until his friend stood at his shoulder.
“Months ago, you asked me if this was the end,” said Kit. “I made some quip and never answered you.”
“I remember.” Elias bent to pick up another stone. “I decided your non-answer was an answer itself. Now with Kaddouri gone, do we call our war over? I suppose that’s up to you, Captain.”
He let the pebble’s uneven edges roll through his fingers. “I know we said no more going into battle, but I can’t help feeling we’re leaving loose ends untied. That doesn’t sit well with me.”
Kit shifted on his feet, letting his left leg take his weight. “It’s another type of battle if you want to win the war for Laura. Be sure you’re fighting the right enemy. Kaddouri is dead. So is Selim Omar – and Ahmed Sharrouf. You can’t kill them over again, no matter how much you want to.”
The captain barked a self-deprecating laugh. “I should know, I’ve tried.”
Elias checked the weight of the stone in his hand and threw it with all his strength. Fighting the right enemy? Who was that exactly? He didn’t know. Frankly, he wasn’t sure of anything.
“I’ve been thinking…” Kit continued.
Elias felt his senses sharpen at the words and he turned to face his friend properly. The man’s blond hair glinted gold in the early morning sun and cast his face in relief.
“We were so preoccupied with the rescue of Sophia and Laura we never went back to Pantelleria to see what happened to Sharrouf’s network of spies. The information we could glean there could keep us busy for quite some time.”
Elias turned his face back to the sun, absorbing its meager warmth on this January morning. “I made some enquiries during a trading run three months back. Apparently, a family has claimed Sharrouf’s compound.”
“His family?”
Elias shrugged. “They say not, but no one knows who they are or where they came from, but as long as they don’t cause any trouble for us, right?”
Kit looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we should make sure. Just to keep your suspicions in check.”
Then he slapped Elias on the shoulder.
“So show me this vast olive oil press that Jonathan has been telling me about.”
Elias tilted his head. “Since when have you been interested in olive oil production?”
“I’m not, but since we’ve been thrown out of the house until Laura gives birth, I might as well do something – anything to keep you occupied.”
The sun had reached the highest point in the sky when Matteo tracked them down in one of the furthest fields where Kit was helping Elias with a minor repair to a fence.
“Senor Nash! The baby has arrived. It is a boy. A healthy boy!”
Elias felt his jaw tighten. He was well aware of the scrutiny Kit gave him.
“And Miss Laura?” There. He delivered the question without revealing an ounce of worry in his voice.
Matteo shrugged his shoulders. “She’s fine, they say. Sleeping now, I think.”
He thanked the young man, who ran off back toward the villa. He let out a low exhale of breath and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets to stop them from shaking. He did not want to betray his feeling of relief, or of joy.
Kit, as usual, showed no such restraint. Elias found himself in his friend’s embrace.
“Congratulations, Pater.”
Elias offered him a wan smile in return and watched as Kit’s enthusiasm dimmed in the face of it. “Come on,” he offered, “cheer up. Laura’s done all the hard work. All you have to do is convince her you’re a halfway decent prospect.”
“Ah yes, the easy part…”
Kit laughed, then started back toward the house, leaning on his cane, leg stiff from the cold. Elias watched him go. Just as his friend was about to disappear into the olive grove, he glanced back and waved Elias to follow. Elias shook his head and Kit shrugged and
continued on.
Elias loved Kit like a brother, but sometimes one needed solitude, not another’s voice in one’s ear.
As soon as he was alone, he sank to his knees. On his lips was a prayer of heartfelt relief at not having to bury another babe – or worse, the babe’s mother. Then he whispered another prayer to help ready himself for the challenge to come.
How did Laura feel, now that the child was here? A boy. Would she love him, having given him life? Or would she, like many unwed mothers he was aware of, be happy to give up the babe and carry on as though the nine months had never existed?
He had always imagined himself a father and husband one day, but never in his wildest dreams under such circumstances as these. He always thought he would marry some local girl. She would be pleasant and even-tempered. Perhaps, she would even be pretty. Sometimes, when he had let himself imagine what she might look like, he was ashamed to admit she resembled the young woman who had offered herself to him in the brothel, the closest he had ever come to a flesh and blood nearly-nude woman.
Now, the bride of his imagination was fair-haired and vivacious with blue eyes that took a man’s breath away – but she did not want him.
Or her child.
*
Laura kept her eyes closed. It was the only way to stop the tears, which came with near constant regularity.
Why should she cry? She was whole and had given birth to a healthy boy a few weeks ago. But nothing she seemed to do was right. The infant cried every time she picked it up, but it settled every time Sophia held him. Despite her squeamishness, Laura had tried her hardest to nurse the boy, but her milk did not come.
Gina should be the one to cry. Her child had died. But now the Sicilian girl happily clutched Laura’s son to her breast. She was the one giving him nourishment and love, not his own mother. Perhaps the boy would be better off without her.
The baby. Her baby, as yet unnamed. Sophia and Morwena in their own ways had made it plain they would like to see the babe named and baptized, but when it came to setting the date, she always found some excuse to put it off – the weather was too inclement, she still did not feel well, it was too cold for the child to go out…
Revenge of the Corsairs Page 16