Trade Wind

by M. M. Kaye

  She had always hated to be touched and Clay knew it. But she could not snatch her hands away, because that would only wound him. It was her own fault for meeting him like this—in public and under the watching eyes of strangers. She should have seen him at once and alone, and not kept him waiting, for naturally he would be shocked at the change in her appearance, and it was only the effect of that shock that was driving him to behave in so emotional and possessive a manner in front of all these people. But they were not betrothed. Or were they? Clay ought not…

  Hero glanced again at Lieutenant Larrimore, but the Englishman was no longer looking at nothing. He was looking at Cressy, and that carefully blank expression that had so disconcerted her had gone from his face. She could not even remember why it should have disturbed her, and when Clayton lifted his head and smiled at her she thought, as she had thought so often before in the days when he had been courting her, How handsome he is!

  It was going to be very pleasant after all—beginning all over again and getting to know each other once more as two quite different people: older and more adult people. Relief welled up in her, and with it a heady feeling of excitement; and forgetting the barely healed cut on her lip she laughed aloud and gaily. And instantly regretted doing so, for it had been exceedingly painful—and not only to herself. The smile vanished from Clayton’s face and he dropped her hands and stepped back as swiftly as though she had struck him. But having started to laugh she found that she could not stop, and she clapped her hands over her mouth as much to stifle her unfortunate mirth as to protect her lip from splitting again.

  Everything had gone awry, and this was not in the least how she had visualized her arrival in Zanzibar and her meeting with Clayton. She had thought and dreamt and planned for it so long, but now Clay’s hurt, shocked face and Aunt Abby’s horrified one, the unmistakable embarrassment of the naval Lieutenant and all the alarming and improbable happenings of the past ten days and the last four hours suddenly and for no reason at all struck her as wildly funny, and she laughed and gasped and laughed again, and could not stop.

  “She’s hysterical,” cried Aunt Abby agitatedly. “Hero honey, now do stop. Cressy—the hartshorn! Now, now, dear, we all understand how you feel. Clay, fetch a glass of water—and my smelling salts! It’s just nerves.”

  “No, it’s not,” gasped Hero, subsiding on to the sofa. “Oh mercy! now I’ve split my lip again. Clay, do stop looking like that. I know it isn’t funny, but if only you could have seen your face when you saw me! You looked so h-horrified. And so s-shocked when I laughed. I didn’t mean to laugh, but I couldn’t help it because suddenly it all seemed so absurd…all of you d-dressed in deep m-mourning and holding a m-memorial service for me, and then seeing me walk in alive and looking like a—a disorderly Billingsgate doxy!”

  Lieutenant Larrimore was betrayed into a grin, and Aunt Abby, who had never heard of Billingsgate and certainly never met a doxy, said: ” Really, Hero! I cannot think where you can have picked up such a dreadful expression!”

  “From Captain F-Frost,” giggled Hero, staunching a trickle of blood from her lip with a vast bandana handkerchief gallantly proffered by Thaddaeus Fullbright.

  “Frost?” exclaimed Clayton, thunderstruck. “Did you say Frost?”

  “He s-said that was what I looked like, and as soon as I s-saw your face I knew he had been right. I guess I should have w-worn a b-bonnet and veil, and b-broken it to you gently. I’m so sorry. Clay. I wasn’t laughing at you. Truly I was not It’s just that it was so funny. Do I look like a disorderly doxy?”

  A chorus of indignant protests answered her, and Captain Fullbright observed heartily that she looked just about wonderful to him: “A sight for sore eyes, ma’am. And I know Mrs Fullbright, who has been blaming herself for it all, will agree with me. It is a miracle that you’re alive, and what are a few cuts and bruises against that? They’ll heal soon enough and you won’t be a mite the worse. And now, if you ladies will excuse us, Mrs Fullbright and I’ll be getting back to the ship. We sail tomorrow morning on the tide.”

  Lieutenant Larrimore recollected urgent business at the British Consulate and left with them; though reluctantly and with a glance at Cressy that immediately recalled to Hero’s mind the comments that Captain Thaddaeus had once made on the score of Cressy’s interest in the Englishman. But either the Captain had been mistaken or else the boot was on the other foot, for Cressy had shown only the barest civility towards the Lieutenant, and her acknowledgement of his farewells as he took his leave was noticeably cold and distant.

  The door had barely shut behind him when Clayton turned swiftly on Hero and said in a hard grating voice that she had never heard him use before: “What was that about Frost? Where did you meet the man? How did he come to say such an outrageous thing to you?”

  “What outrageous thing?” said Hero, bewildered.

  “You said five minutes ago that he had described you as a—as a disorderly doxy,” said Clayton angrily, “and I should like to know how in tarnation he had the opportunity to do so?”

  “Why, on the Virago, of course. Didn’t they tell you?”

  Aunt Abby said faintly: “It was Captain Frost who rescued her, Clay dear, not—”

  “Frost! But she arrived here with Larrimore. It was Larrimore who brought her back. She was on the Daffodil, Joe Lynch told me—he saw them arrive. He was—”

  Hero said: “Lieutenant Larrimore took me off Captain Frost’s ship this morning and brought me ashore. But it was the crew of the Virago who picked me up during the storm.”

  “That goddamned blackguard!” said Clayton furiously. “Do you mean to tell me that you have spent the last ten days in his company?”

  “I have spent them on his ship,” corrected Hero sharply.

  “It’s the same thing! God Almighty—”

  “There is no need to blaspheme, dear,” intervened Aunt Abby reprovingly. “I guess we all know it was unfortunate, but as Captain Frost has kindly agreed to its being put about that dear Hero was picked up by the Daffodil (which you must admit is most considerate of him) no one but ourselves need ever know. And in any case, there is nothing we can do about it now.”

  “Except,” said Hero, unaccountably annoyed and looking challengingly at her relatives, “to take the first opportunity of thanking him for being the means of saving my life and for conveying me to Zanzibar.”

  The Consul looked a little taken aback, but said readily enough: “Why, sure we’ll do that. We’re all mighty glad to have you back. Hero. But I won’t disguise from you that I would rather you’d been picked up by almost anyone else. Frost’s got a bad reputation in this town, and it’s blamed awkward that in my position I should be under any obligation to him. I can only hope that he does not presume upon it.”

  “He will,” said Clayton bitterly, “you can bet your last dime on that. I wouldn’t have had this happen for worlds…Frost, of all people! Why couldn’t it have been Larrimore? Or almost anyone else? Even the dirtiest Arab dhow would have been preferable to the Virago.”

  “What nonsense, Clay dear,” said his mother chidingly. “As if it mattered who it was. The only thing that matters is that dear Hero is safe, and if the good Lord permitted that man to be His instrument in saving her from a watery grave, I’m sure we have no right to cavil at it.”

  But here neither her son nor her husband were in agreement with her. Both appeared to think that it was the Devil rather than the Deity who had been responsible for selecting Emory Frost as the instrument in question, and Hero would undoubtedly have agreed with them had it not occurred to her that they were giving far more attention to deploring the identity of her rescuer than to rejoicing in her rescue. Piqued by this, she was moved to defend him. With the unfortunate result that in less than two minutes she found herself involved in a heated quarrel with Mr Clayton Mayo.

  Clayton had been cruelly hurt by having his emotional welcome greeted by an outburst of laughter, and now he chose to take her defence of Cap
tain Frost as a direct affront to himself and an indication of worse things. It being well known, asserted Clay, white-lipped with anger, that Rory Frost was not only a criminal, but a debauched roué with whom no woman was safe. To be associated in any way with such a man was tantamount to being ruined, and he had not expected her to enjoy the process.

  “Of course I didn’t enjoy it!” retorted Hero, stung by the injustice of the attack.’ It was exceedingly unpleasant and most humiliating, and—”

  She caught sight of her aunt’s horrified countenance and her uncle’s dropped jaw and realized too late the interpretation that could be put upon those words.

  Hero Hollis was neither slow-witted nor ignorant of the facts of life. But she was, in many ways, remarkably innocent, and the fact that she might have been “ruined’ by Captain Frost, in the sense that Clay had used that word, had never once occurred to her. It did now, with all the force and outrage of a blow between the eyes, and she stared at Clayton with a face that was quite as horrified as Aunt Abby’s.

  “Hero, honey!” moaned Aunt Abby. “Really, Clay, you should not even suggest such things!”

  “Yes, he should,” said Hero clearly. “Go on. Clay. I am interested. We are all interested in just exactly what you mean by that. How am I ‘ruined’? In what way? Are you suggesting that this man Frost made improper advances to me?”

  “Hero!”—this time it was a shriek as Aunt Abby reached wildly for her vinaigrette—“how can you say such a thing? Cressy, go to your room at once. Oh, this is terrible. Clayton—”

  “Please be quiet. Aunt Abby. I wish to hear what Clay has to say, and I would prefer him to say it now and before witnesses. Am I supposed to have been ravished?”

  “Hero—! You ought not to know about such things! Cressy, didn’t I tell you to leave the room? Oh mercy, where are the smelling salts?”

  No one paid any attention to the afflicted lady. Her husband pursed his lips and stood looking thoughtfully at his angry niece, and Cressy moved no further than the sofa.

  Clayton said: “I happen to know the man. And his reputation.”

  “But it seems that you do not know me,” said Hero, “or my reputation. If you did, you would not dare to suggest such a thing.”

  “Hell! I am not suggesting it. I am only telling you that no one outside ourselves is likely to believe that you spent over a week alone with that man without ” He was interrupted:

  “Alone?” blazed Hero. “I was not alone! The ship was crammed with people—dozens of other people. Black and brown and white ones.”

  “Men!”

  “What else do you expect? That Captain Frost ships a female crew? How many women are there on that British Navy ship? Of course they were all men! But that doesn’t mean…Why, he hardly looked at me. Or spoke to me. I might have been a—a vegetable for all he cared. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in me, and if you had a mite of sense you’d know why!”

  “I can see why,” said Clay unkindly.

  “Yes, I know you can. You made that perfectly clear to me the moment I came into this room. And let me tell you I looked a good deal worse than this a week ago I No one—not even a m-monster—would have wished to make advances to someone with a black eye and a cut mouth and—”

  Hero caught her breath on something suspiciously like a sob, and recovering herself, said defiantly: “He was extremely kind!”

  “Was he, indeed! I thought you just told us that you were uncomfortable and humiliated.”

  “So I was. But not half as uncomfortable and humiliated as I am right now!”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Clay shortly. “It shows you have some sense of proportion.”

  Hero made an unintelligible sound that was strongly reminiscent of an indignant kitten, and whirling round, fled from the room, followed precipitately by the sympathetic Cressy.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Aunt Abby accusingly. “Really Clay, it is too bad of you. You cannot believe that Hero…that Captain Frost…Though of course you are quite right as to her reputation. People are always so unkind and only too ready to believe the worst. But then no one will know of it, so nothing will be said. I guess you’d better go right upstairs and apologize: go on. Best do it now.”

  Her son took an angry turn about the room, his handsome face set in a scowl and his hands deep in his pockets, and presently he said sulkily: “If it should get out, no one could be blamed for thinking the worst. The man’s a notorious lecher.”

  “Clay!”

  “Oh, Mama darling, don’t play prunes-and-prisms. You’ve heard all the scandal about him and you know as well as I do that there are only two places where he feels truly at home: in a brawl or a brothel! It makes me madder than fire to think of him laying his filthy hands on Hero and…Why, I’d almost rather she had been drowned!”

  “How can you. Clay? I can’t and won’t believe that he did anything of the sort. Oh, this is all too dreadful…and just when I was so happy!” Aunt Abby dissolved into tears and following her niece’s example, hastily left the room.

  The door banged behind her, and Clay said sullenly: “Well, maybe I’m wrong. But I don’t have to like her being on his ship, even if it’s true that he never laid a finger on her.”

  “Of course it’s true.’ His stepfather’s voice was curt and edged with impatience.’ Goddammit you’ve only got to look at the girl! You showed plainly enough what you thought of her when she walked in just now—and that in spite of knowing that she’s a fine, handsome young woman when she isn’t looking like a—a—whatever it was that man said she looked like. Ten to one he put her down as a plain piece and not worth wasting his time on. Besides, he’d know she was my niece and entitled to proper respect, and in the circumstances, he wouldn’t have dared treat her roughly.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t he!” scoffed Clayton. “That’s all you know about it, sir. He wouldn’t care a curse about that, though I guess you’re right about the rest of it Frost wouldn’t be interested in a plain woman.”

  “You seem,” said his stepfather disapprovingly, “to know a damn’ sight too much about this unsavoury slaver. I didn’t know you were that well acquainted.”

  “I’m not. It’s just that…well, I guess it’s because I get about a good bit more than you do, so I hear more gossip—and there’s always been plenty of talk about him. As to his slaving activities, Larrimore and the British Navy have been laying for him for years. Not that they’ll ever get him. He’s a darned sight too well in with the natives around here, and he’s got the Sultan in his pocket.”

  “I know. It’s downright disgraceful, but there isn’t much we can do about it Majid is a weak no-good, and in some ways it’s almost a pity that the younger brother didn’t succeed. Bargash has got twice as much guts, and if his father had been as shrewd a man as they like to make out he’d have realized it and left the throne to him.”

  “Maybe he’ll get it yet; and a heap sooner than we think.”

  The Consul looked at his step-son sharply. “What makes you say that?”

  Clayton flushed and turned away to stare out at the hot, tree-shaded garden. “Nothing. It’s like I said: there’s always talk, and Majid is not too popular with the Palace crowd and his royal relations. Most of them seem to think as you do, that the Heir-Apparent is the better man and ought to have been Sultan.”

  “So I gather. And I can’t say I’m surprised, for the Arabs don’t fancy weak rulers. But if young Majid carries on as he’s doing right now, that brother of his’ll certainly get the throne soon enough, for it’ll take a cast-iron constitution to stand up to the shenanigans that go on up at the Palace, and anyone can see Majid ain’t got one.”

  Clayton gave a short laugh: “Maybe not But will Bargash be content to wait for dead men’s shoes?”

  “He hasn’t any alternative. Twenty years ago, or maybe even ten, he could have stuck a knife into his brother and no one would have raised a finger. But times have changed, and this ain’t Muscat. Besides
, the British are here.”

  “The British! That prosy old bore George Edwards and one ten-cent sloop with Dan Larrimore in charge! And I’d like to know what good Larrimore does—apart from hanging round this house whenever he’s in port and making sheep’s eyes at Cressy.”

  Nathaniel Hollis pulled his lip and regarded his step-son with a shrewd and ruminative eye. He was fond of Clay in a detached and unemotional way, but unlike Abby he had never been blind to the boy’s defects. There were times when he wondered if he ought to have been firmer with him; taken more interest in his education and upbringing and the forming of his character; put down his foot and stopped Abigail’s slavish spoiling of her son. But that would have meant fighting Abby, and Nathaniel, like his brother Barclay, was too easy-going a man to face such a prospect. Besides, he had always felt a certain diffidence in taking a strong line with another man’s son.

  He said now: “I wouldn’t underrate the British if I were you, Clay. George Edwards may be a prosy old bore and not overburdened with brains, but he’s got plenty of influence around here. Anyways, it’s not what he is that counts, but what he stands for. Behind him there’s an autocratic old matriarch who wears the crown of England, and behind her the whole weight of the British Empire. And neither of ‘em are what you might call negligible. As for young Dan Larrimore, I reckon he’s a lot smarter than you think. It can’t be an easy job, trying to put down slaving in these waters: not when every man jack of ‘em around here are up to their necks in it and can’t see a thing wrong with it. Why, even the slaves themselves aren’t all that grateful for being freed. With no one to feed ‘em and look after ‘em, or to keep them busy and out of mischief, they were most of’em a heap better off before; and they know it. And so does Dan! In his line of work it’s all kicks and no ha’pence.”