Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Sophia had indulged her. Laura had even overheard her cousin defending her to Kit, whose patience was wearing thin.

  But Laura confessed to no one her real reason for demurring. If she named the child and had it baptized, then he would have her name and, forever in the church register, she would be its mother.

  Tears welled behind Laura’s closed lids nonetheless, waking her from a semi-doze of black thoughts. She lay on the bed and brought herself back to the present. A sliver of mid-winter sun cut across her arm which lay across her belly. Birds twittered in the bushes outside. And, inside, in the room with her, were the soft rustle of fabric and the smell of lemons and rosemary.

  She opened her eyes and shifted on the bed soundlessly to watch a familiar figure softly pace the floor with the sleeping child resting his head on the man’s broad shoulder. Elias’ eyes were closed, his own cheek nestled against the child’s.

  Damn it all! The scene was beautiful and she found herself close to tears once again. Her heart swelled with gratitude toward Elias. He had done everything for her and more, and asked nothing of her in return – not even a simple answer to the question he had asked so many months ago.

  If he opened his eyes and repeated his offer of marriage and granting a name to her son, she would give him her answer and be sure of it.

  The answer would be yes.

  Elias’ left hand lay on the child’s bare back, tanned skin dark against the infant’s much lighter flesh. All though her labor, she was terrified the baby would be the image of its father, that she would look at the child and see Selim Omar. It was a relief when she was first presented with the baby after it had been cleaned up. There was little hair on its head, but what there was appeared more fair than dark, and, when he opened his eyes, they were the deepest shade of blue she had ever seen.

  That pair of eyes opened to hers across the room now, and she was drawn into them as inexorably as the river is drawn to the sea. She sat up. Her stockinged feet touched the soft wool rug by her bed. Elias turned at the sound of the bed creaking, and he smiled sleepily at her. To Laura’s surprise, the baby turned his head also, and now two pairs of eyes regarded her.

  “I’ve been thinking of names,” said Elias, his voice soft.

  Laura inclined her head. “Such as?”

  “Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin?”

  “It means ‘son of my right hand’. Do you object?”

  Laura shook her head and stood up. She drew a hand over the child’s arm, feeling softness in the limbs not yet muscled and strong.

  “Benjamin is a fine name,” she said.

  Silence stretched on as she waited for Elias to repeat his offer of marriage.

  “There is no Church of England here,” he said instead. “I know Morwena would like the child baptized Catholic, but we don’t have to. We could do the service here ourselves.”

  Still no proposal.

  After a moment, Laura nodded her agreement to his plan. “Yes, here would be best.”

  She kept her eyes on the baby – Benjamin – and found a little piece of her heart filled knowing the child now had a Christian name.

  “With your permission, Benjamin will take my family name,” said Elias, as if he had carried on her thoughts.

  Laura raised her eyes to Elias’. With his name, the child could be free from the chains of his past. He would have a new father, a new destiny. Could a change of name provide such a future for her?

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice hoarse with the emotion that welled up behind it. “He will be Benjamin Edward Nash. Edward for my father.”

  Elias’ eyes deepened in color until she no longer knew where the irises ended and the pupils began.

  “He will grow into a fine man, Laura.” Elias made it sound like a vow. She swayed and she found herself in his embrace, one arm around her while the other securely cradled her child. Their child.

  “I have an answer for you, if you wish to hear it,” she whispered.

  Elias’ expression deepened to a frown as he appeared to puzzle through her words. She gave a small smile and the pieces fell into place. His expression became wary, cautious. Laura drew another breath to give herself time to choose her words carefully.

  “You do me the greatest compliment by asking me to be your wife,” she said.

  Elias looked at her. “If that were to be your answer alone, then you would make me the happiest of men. But I know it’s not.”

  She conceded the truth with an incline of her head. She swallowed and pushed on.

  “Every day, I find myself with more reasons to love you.” Laura felt Elias’ feet shift and thought she might have even heard an intake of breath but she was afraid to look up into his face. “I want to marry you. I will marry you. I want to be your wife in every sense, but I’m not ready. I need time.”

  Now she felt brave enough to look up into Elias’ face and found the expected mixture of hope and fear in his eyes.

  She imagined him thinking over her words and formulating an argument to press her to a date. But Laura was ready for it. She would be ready in her own good time.

  They held one another for a while. Then Benjamin started to squirm and Elias had to accommodate him. He removed his arm from around Laura to cradle the baby in both his arms, and she felt the loss.

  “Will you be sure to let me know when you are ready?” he asked. His tone seemed to express a grim realization that such a time may not be soon.

  “I will,” she replied. It was the only vow she could bring herself to make.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “My lady, Rabia, there is someone here to see you.”

  Rabia broke her gaze from the thin line of the horizon.

  “Deal with it, Toufik. That’s your job.”

  Leave me alone. Three months had passed and the pain of her son’s death did not lessen. Everything, everything she had done was for him, to ensure he assumed his rightful place as the son of royalty.

  Now he was dead and everything she had lived for was gone. Not even the satisfaction of knowing two of Selim Omar’s lesser wives were slaughtered in the raid and the other made a lowly concubine for the use of the Berber tribesmen, could lift her from the depths of despair she had tumbled into since that fateful day in the mountains of Libya.

  “You will want to hear from this man, my lady,” Toufik insisted, something he had not done since that dreadful, dreadful morning. It was as though he shared the guilt over her child’s death. It would be easy for her to blame him, to take her grief and rage out on the eunuch – but she acknowledged to herself that she was the sole author of this tragedy.

  Toufik did not avert his eyes when she looked up at him. They bore into hers, compelling in their intensity. Part of her wanted to send him away nonetheless. Another part reminded her that a show of weakness would reduce her authority, and her already tenuous position here would become dire.

  She yelled for Brown Mouse. The maid scurried in. “Bring me my finest robe. The red one with the gold-embroidered veil.” The maid bowed and disappeared as quickly and quietly as would her namesake.

  Rabia rose to her feet, feeling pins and needles course down her legs after so much inactivity.

  “This man had better be worth my while, Toufik.”

  The man grinned. “I do not think you will be disappointed by his report.”

  The eunuch bowed and left just as Brown Mouse returned with Rabia’s garments and a bowl of warm cologne water. She shoved the maid aside, and washed and dressed herself. That Toufik knew of the man’s news before her did not sit well. Perhaps she had allowed herself to mourn too long, instead of keeping a tight rein on the eunuch’s ambition. It would not do to have the balance of power shift away from her simply because she was a woman, plagued with a woman’s sensibilities.

  She ruled this place. It was time to remind Toufik of that.

  A short while later, Rabia signaled to the ceremonial guard to admit her guest. She watched him through the golden ha
ze of her veil. The man carried himself with confidence and anticipation; it was clear he felt he had something of importance to share.

  “We have found the English woman.” The man delivered his news with deep gravity. “She lives in a villa outside Palermo with one of the sailors from the Calliope.”

  She had completely forgotten about her escaped doves.

  “Which woman? Which sailor?”

  “The fair-haired woman, my lady. The man she lives with is called Nash.”

  Fair-haired? That would be Laura Cappleman, not Sophia Green, Hardacre’s woman. Rabia recalled what she had read in Sharrouf’s journals. Nash, Elias Nash. First officer on the Calliope, but not Kit Hardacre.

  “What of the ship’s captain?”

  The man shook his head. “We presume he stays with his ship. We only see him when he is in port.”

  A nose in the tent. It would be enough to start. Rabia hadn’t decided how she might make use of this information, but years of living in a harem had taught her every tidbit of gossip might, one day, find its place.

  “Very good,” she said at length. “I want to know their movements, I want to know when the Calliope is in port, and when she leaves. I want to know if Nash sails alone or with the girl. You are to report directly to me in two months.”

  She flicked her wrist to dismiss him. Her spy bowed at the waist.

  “There is one more piece of information that might interest you, my lady…”

  The man paused; Rabia raised her head.

  “The English woman was delivered of a child in the first month of the year.”

  Rabia was glad to have her face veiled. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  She quickly did the arithmetic – Laura Cappleman had to have been pregnant while in her charge.

  And the only man to have had her was Selim Omar.

  Rabia’s hands trembled. An heir! There could be another heir! Allah be praised! She could yet be restored to the Ottoman court.

  “Male or female?” she could not hide her impatience.

  The man shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “Then find out.”

  He pursed his lips. “That will be expensive, my lady. I will have to find someone within the household to inform on them. It will not be easy.”

  “Just do it. Bring me news and I will double your fee.”

  The man smiled, long and serpentine. Rabia didn’t like the man’s expression. He was thinking how he could further exploit her interest. He could be dangerous; he could expose them.

  She waited until she was sure the man did not linger in the anteroom after leaving and rang for Toufik.

  “Tito will return to us in a month with news. After he has shared it with me, kill him.”

  Toufik’s sober face broadened into a grin.

  “Very good, my lady.”

  *

  “I have a surprise for you.” Elias stretched out his hand. Laura didn’t take it immediately. She watched the faces of those around the table.

  Kit wore an expression like the cat that got the cream – but, then, that wasn’t an unusual expression for him. Still, it gave very little away. Laura considered deceit didn’t come as naturally to Sophia on the other hand, so it was to her Laura looked to provide a clue as to Elias’ surprise.

  Either Sophia’s skills of deception had improved under her husband’s influence – not to mention life in the harem – or she was as much in the dark as Laura was. There was nothing for it but to give her attention back to Elias.

  “Am I going to like your surprise?” she asked airily.

  He picked up on her tease and grinned. “That wouldn’t be for me to say. The only way to determine is if you trust me.”

  Theatrically nodding to both Kit and Sophia as though she were a performer and they were her audience, she asked them, “Should I trust him?”

  “I wouldn’t.” Kit’s voice was serious but a twitch of his lip gave the lie to the words.

  “Incorrigible, the lot of you,” said Sophia with friendly exasperation. “Whatever the surprise is, it is something my husband has been up to his armpits in over the past two weeks without any reference to me. So, if you don’t want to know, then I most certainly do!”

  Laura accepted Elias’ hand and he led her out onto the terrace and down the stairs to the lawn, slick from recent rain. She told herself she kept her hand in his because she might slip, but the truth of the matter was she quite liked holding his hand. It was sweet. It was innocent.

  For the first time in a very long time, Laura was content to walk where a man led without knowing the destination. She trusted Elias, even if she hadn’t said so. And a long forgotten feeling bloomed in her chest, an optimism for the future she thought destroyed on the day she was abducted by Selim Omar.

  Spring might be a few weeks away, but there was something already in the air. A moment she wished could last forever. One full of warmth and promise. It should be captured. Laura could see in her mind’s eye a landscape painting, a garden scene looking back up to the villa. She paused, bringing Elias to a halt with her.

  She turned to see Sophia and Kit much further behind. They were holding hands, too. In a few months’ time, the long-established wisteria which climbed up and along the terrace roof would be in full blossom, showing the lawn with a cascade of purple. In her imagination, she could even smell its heavenly scent.

  She would paint it on a sunny day, when the sky was blue and cloudless to showcase the fluted, Corinthian columns rising out of the emerald green lawn.

  “Anything wrong?” Elias asked.

  “No. Everything is right.”

  He seemed to take delight in the answer because he squeezed her hand and they continued. The little summer house just down the lawn from the house looked different. It had recently been whitewashed and the tiled roof looked like it had been freshly painted, though on closer inspection, it was the drying dew that made the roof shine.

  The square window panes gleamed and, around the front, the double French doors were open wide offering their welcome.

  “You’ve had no opportunity to paint over these recent months and I thought you needed somewhere special, somewhere you can concentrate on your work,” said Elias.

  He let go of her hand. Laura stepped beyond the threshold. Along the long wall was a day bed – large enough to sleep in if she chose. On one of the short walls was what looked to be an apothecary cabinet filled with glass bottles. She approached, moving out of the direct light to see their contents.

  It was as though Elias had captured a rainbow and bottled it. Every known pigment was here, identified with paper labels. Sitting on top of the cabinet was a brand new box with pastilles of color in tin trays, just waiting for the first dab of a brush.

  In the center of the room was a small table. Laid out on it were brand new painter’s accoutrements, all of the finest quality bristles.

  “This is for you. A studio for the finest artist in England.”

  Heat rose up Laura’s cheeks. It was a dream, surely it must be. Eventually, she lifted her eyes and found Elias leaning against the cabinet, his arms folded. She saw no uncertainty in his eyes, only satisfaction. Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? He had given her a dream, everything she wanted – a place to paint and the equipment to do it with.

  If only she could be certain she could do it justice.

  “I had Sophia advise me on the finest paints from France, and Morwena bought just about all the art boards available in Palermo. I’ve arranged for some more.”

  Laura tore her eyes away from Elias and turned to Sophia, who stood in Kit’s embrace. She hugged them both.

  “It was all Elias’ idea,” Sophia told her.

  It would be, of course. Even back home in England, the suitor who brought the smallest token expected some consideration in return. Yet Elias had not.

  She offered her hands and he accepted. After the briefest hesitation, Laura reached up and placed a kiss on a lightly-bristled cheek. />
  “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done,” she said.

  Those delicious, light brown eyes became liquid warmth. “If I’ve increased your regard for me, then that is reward enough.”

  *

  Dearest Laura,

  Your most recent letter caused me the greatest distress. It pains me that so many miles separates us but I hope that will soon change now that the New Year sees you unencumbered by unpleasant memories of your time away from England.

  I hope this letter finds you in much better spirits and adds to them. Through my wife Victoria, we hope to source a wonderful opportunity for you – to meet with the renowned French portraitist Élisabeth Louise Vigée-Le Brun. Lord Hampton-Wyck has commissioned the artist to paint Victoria’s mother and, my dear, you will be thrilled to know we have written her a letter asking her to evaluate your work! Are you not delighted? You know I’m not much of a mind for art and whatnot, but Victoria says your work is amongst the finest she’s seen and I trust her judgment in this matter.

  Madame Vigée-Le Brun is expected to join us in the summer and we hope in our next letter to have dates & etc. In your return letter, let me know of your preferred date to travel and I will arrange passage for you.

  Try to remain in good spirits. I am committed to do anything in our power to erase the past two horrible years and restore you to a life you should have had before your ill-considered journey with Sophia.

  Your loving brother,

  Samuel

  Sophia halted her packing as Laura finished reading the letter out loud – omitting the last sentence.

  “If Lady Victoria could pull off such a coup, you’d be silly not to take advantage of the opportunity,” she said.

  Laura resented her cousin’s calm logic. Pacing the floor was the only thing she could do to use some of pent up nervousness. “But I don’t have anything! I haven’t painted since Al-Min. I can’t do it. My skill has gone. I have as much dexterity with a brush as Benjamin does.”

  “You’re being foolish. You painted exquisitely and you were under great duress then. The memory of Selim Omar giving away your works as though they were trifles still makes me furious.”