Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Keturah said little more than his name in greeting, nor throughout the dinner, which overall came off far more splendidly than the first. The first mate was rather subdued, as if keeping himself in check, and the captain enthralled the women with tales of travel along the coast of Spain and the Barbary Coast, more than once with a privateer on the chase. The food was bland, but there was plenty of it. As usual, Gray ate heartily, trying to ignore how Keturah picked at her own plate. Was she ill? Suffering from the motion of the waves, perhaps?

  But he could not ask her. He would not. No, it was up to her to reach out to him. He did not want her to see him as pressing at all. Even as he burned with questions … Had she begun reading Horticulture of the West Indies? What did she think about the author’s assertion that there was a way to treat sugar blight with lime? Had she not had her own garden successes at Hartwick, even when her neighbors had struggled? How was it that she drove back the algae that one wet summer that swallowed every one of her neighbors’ gardens?

  Callender was talking to Verity about Brutus, her falcon, and gently inquired if the bird cared to fly at night.

  “Brutus adores flying at every opportunity,” Verity said. “If he was half as good at fishing as he is at ratting, I’d never get him back aboard—other than to eat.”

  “Well, if your bonny bird continues to kill the rats, I might reward him with sardines,” the captain said. “Others swear by cats or terriers aboard ship for the task, but Mr. Burr tells me your bird has captured three already.”

  “Four,” Verity said proudly, cocking a brow.

  The captain smiled and lifted his hands in pleasure.

  “Shall I bring him out this evening on our stroll so you can observe?” Verity asked.

  “Aye, lass. I’d enjoy that.” The man’s eyes lingered on Verity, and Keturah shifted in her seat as if in agitation.

  Well, this was something. The captain himself intended to escort them this very night?

  “Perhaps Mr. Covington would care to join us,” the captain said. “He’s as good at pointing out constellations as Burr here. And Mr. Smith? Perhaps some astronomy would be good for ye as well, as a future tutor.”

  Gray and Keturah stiffened together. Gray recovered himself first. “It would be my sincere pleasure,” he said, “if Lady Tomlinson finds the prospect agreeable.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Covington, for the offer,” she said, wiping her pretty lips with a napkin in the most distracting manner, “but I think I shall retire early this evening.”

  Gray’s eyes jerked up to meet hers—realizing he was staring at her mouth in the most ungentlemanly way—even as Selah let out a pouty breath. “Ket!” she whispered furiously. “Did we not just agree to a turn around the deck? Under the stars? You said—”

  “Selah,” Keturah hissed, giving her little sister an icy glare. A blush of anger rose at her neck. “Remember your place.”

  “Please,” Gray said quietly to her so only she could hear. “Do not let the prospect of my company keep you away or exclude your sisters from their evening stroll. I’m certain any of these other fine gentlemen would be happy to take my place.”

  “No, Gray. ’Tis not that,” she protested, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it. He knew her well enough to know that the prospect of walking the decks at any given hour would be her heart’s desire. Only one thing could be keeping her back when the opportunity had finally presented itself.

  “Is it not?” he asked, daring to stare back into her golden eyes a moment too long. “No matter.” He lifted his chin and looked down the table. “Might there be another who could escort Lady Tomlinson this evening? I fear I must see to my studies.”

  A chorus of offers arose, and arrangements were made for the middle-aged merchant Odell and also Smith to join as escorts. Gray hastily said his good-nights, well aware that Callender was giving Wood a victorious smile.

  He left the dining room, after forcing himself to give his thanks to the captain for supper with the utmost civility, wondering if it was his imagination or if Keturah’s catlike eyes truly followed him all the way to the door. No, surely not. Clearly, the woman still wished to steer clear of him. He would go to the deck as he did each eve, to play. It was the thing he’d come to anticipate most each long day aboard the ship. But ’twould be after the sisters were safely returned to their quarters.

  ———

  Keturah took a long, deep breath as Gray exited the cramped dining room, studiously avoiding her sisters’ curious gazes. She knew she’d offended her old friend for perhaps the hundredth time. And whilst she dearly wished to cease doing such harm, she found it a relief—his exit. His presence … agitated her. She had been far too aware of his leg, just inches from her own below the table. Of his hand settling his napkin across his lap, his fingers perilously close to her hip. Even his elbow, for pity’s sake, so close to her own as he cut his dry roast beef when she brought her fork to her mouth.

  What on earth has me in such a state? she wondered. She was entirely too aware of everything about Gray. Ever since he’d come to see her at Hartwick Manor. And while she wanted to mend fences, that was all she wanted. Because the last thing she needed was a man captivating her thoughts. All through dinner she could barely keep track of the conversation because she’d been distracted by the smell of his fresh linen shirt, even the leather of his belt. It was all far too … intimate.

  She’d been aware of Edward like that. But it had been different. She had been alert to every nuance of his movements—a stiffening shoulder, a clenched jaw, the rising of that vein at his temple—but as warning. Like a rabbit in her garden, lying low with its ears tucked, waiting, waiting, waiting for an attacker to either pass or give chase. She forced a smile and accepted Mr. Odell’s round hand, assisting her to her feet. She asked him how he enjoyed his meal even as her thoughts inevitably returned to Gray.

  They made their way down a passage and out onto the deck, where Keturah took a deep breath of the crisp damp air, relishing how the cool washed over her hot skin. She asked another question of Mr. Odell—about what he intended to do when he reached Nevis—and they began their stroll around the deck, following the captain and Verity, with Selah and Mr. Smith behind them. As Mr. Odell prattled on about his intention to make Nevis but a stop on his way to other islands, and how he wished to open a linen shop in each, Keturah returned to her thoughts about Gray and how she reacted—no, responded—to him.

  That was it. It was more a response than a reaction. It wasn’t at all like how it had been with Edward. He’d give her a hint of what was to come, and she would flee or brace. What she felt around Gray was more like some sort of curious, visceral pull and push. Not so immediate—deeper. She looked to the dark sea, spreading for so many miles, and so many fathoms below. Yes, it was akin to something more like the tides. Something welling from within, responding to the moon’s silent call.

  As a small girl she had fancied herself in love with Gray Covington. But when they came of age and he looked at every girl but her, she had convinced herself it was nothing but a childish fancy, not love. And now … was she truly battling that old attraction? Could a handsome man so easily unravel her carefully knit blanket of protection with but a bit of kindness and attention and grace?

  Gray shall not be the next man to reign over you, Keturah Banning Tomlinson. You are free. And you shall remain that way forever. Remember?

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on Mr. Odell and how he was prattling on about his connections in Spain and the fine Madeira he was importing to the Carolinas—once he sold half of it to the planters in Nevis. It would assist him in funding his linen shops.

  “So I suppose, with your connections,” she said, “that you hope England remains at peace with Spain for some time.”

  “Ahh, yes, France will forever be a potential enemy. But whilst Spain is our occasional friend, I wish to capitalize on that peace.” He gave her an appreciative glance. Politics was seldom a subject tha
t women willingly entertained.

  Verity, hearing the topic, urged the captain to a stop and turned to them. “Do you not think that with our superior naval power, France will forever be cowed into compliance and peace?”

  Mr. Odell’s grizzled brows rose even higher. Two women interested in such a topic? he plainly wondered.

  “France, perhaps,” the captain said. “But the colonies find Britain’s reign taxing. There are some who whisper of revolution. Separation. And I canna say I blame them.”

  “Why, Captain!” Verity said, turning to him in dismay, “what a traitorous thing to say!”

  “’Tis truth more than treachery, lass,” he said, unperturbed by her anger. “It would be traitorous to throw my hat in with the colonials.” But the way he said it made Keturah think that he’d given it some thought. There was more than one Scotsman who chafed under the heavy hand of British politics. Whilst every one of them had to swear fealty to England after the Battle of Culloden, many did so only to save their necks.

  “Are you intimating that you have Jacobean sympathies?” Verity asked, a hand drifting to her neck as she stared hard at the captain.

  “The Jacobite cause is dead,” the captain returned soberly. “I’d be a fool to admit to such a thing, especially given the fact that I captain a British vessel.” But again, he did not deny such leanings.

  “Indeed,” Verity said, and Keturah was relieved to see that the captain’s surprising political stance had cooled some of her ardor. As the great-granddaughters of a British general, the girls had always taken pride in their nation, Verity most of all.

  “You ladies are soon to be planters. You’ll find that fellow planters have their own complaints against the Crown.”

  “Then we shall remind them of how they owe a great deal to England,” Verity fairly huffed.

  The captain gave her a gentle smile. “Let us not speak of it further now, lass. In a year or two I shall come to call and see if the warm winds of the tropics have thawed your icy ideals.”

  Verity blinked quickly and shifted in agitation. She turned to Grace. “Please go to Cuffee and ask him to bring me Brutus. I think he would be a welcome distraction.”

  The girl curtsied and hurried off to do her mistress’s bidding.

  “I dinna mean to upset ye, lass,” the captain said, leading them to the rail. “But ’tis best if ye are prepared for what is ahead. You’ve lived all your life in the shelter of the aristocratic fold, I take it. The world is vast. And full of many who are against our beloved Britain.”

  “And those who are for her too,” Keturah said soothingly, turning toward the rail and looking down to the wash of the waves thirty feet below. “As gentlewomen planters, what affects England—and those for or against her—will come to bear upon us.”

  “To be sure,” he said and cast Ket a grateful glance.

  He was right, though. Politics were another thing to which she would need to apply herself. Once on Nevis, she could subscribe to the paper published on St. Croix. And at parties she was sure to overhear much talk among the men—once they were deep in their cups. Her servants could listen for relevant information to pass along to her. In time she would find a few trusted sources, so she could plan on how to capitalize on the wars and alliances that endlessly arose. When and to whom she should sell her sugar. When and with whom she should trade. What she needed to succeed.

  As she read Gray’s book, she regretted that she had not thought to bring thirty new machetes—they’d be ten times as expensive on-island. Inwardly, she chastised herself for thinking so much about the clothing and furniture they might need, but precious little about the crops that would sustain them. She’d been so intent on setting sail, thinking that once they arrived, they’d find their new overseer and he would see to all that pertained to the crops. But as she became increasingly aware of Gray’s meticulous preparations, she became all the more aware of her own shortcomings.

  Over the captain’s shoulder she spotted Philip, reading on what was becoming his customary perch atop the coil of rope. She noticed now that it was near a posted lamp, allowing him to see the page, even at this hour. “Pardon my intrusion, Philip.”

  He looked up as she neared, smiled, and rose. “Not at all, Lady Tomlinson. How do you fare this evening?”

  “I am well. Your master is not out and about too?” she asked quietly, feigning ignorance as to where he might be as she looked around the deck.

  “No, m’lady. He is hard at work on his plans for the new mill. He has become quite the adept draftsman, it seems.” He shook his head and shot her a rueful grin. “I fear I shall long for my days of leisure aboard this ship once we reach the island. Master Gray’s plans surely mean we will be at work from sunup to sundown.”

  She gestured to another spot on the rope. “May I?”

  “But of course,” he said. And with her, he sat down again.

  “What are you reading now?”

  He turned the book’s spine to show her.

  Tropical Storms and Hurricanes, she read. “It will not be much like our gentle, steady English rains, I hear.”

  “No,” he said. “But ’twill be something to behold, will it not? A strong bracing storm always reminds me of the power of our good Lord.”

  Nodding, she said, “I only hope the coming storms shall not tear down all that Gray and I hope to build and accomplish on our plantations.”

  “Lady Tomlinson,” said Mr. Odell as he approached, looking with some bewilderment at her sitting with Philip. Perhaps he felt as though he was shirking his escort duties by allowing her to chat with a mere servant. “Shall we resume our stroll?”

  “Yes, Mr. Odell,” she said, rising to take his arm again. “Good night, Philip.”

  “Good night, Lady Tomlinson,” he said, tipping his head.

  Keturah and Mr. Odell went on to follow her sisters and Mr. Callender and Mr. Wood around the perimeter of the ship. When they reached the bow, there were four sailors tuning fiddles while others gathered around. Their escorts hastened them past as the bawdy men turned to bow extravagantly in their direction. A few made comments under their breath. Keturah looked over her shoulder as they passed, listening to the first plaintive notes of one of the men’s fiddles.

  “Oh, I do wish I could sit and listen to them. Between the wind and the waves and the music … beneath the stars, there’s something poetic about it all.”

  “Ach, but ’tis no place for a woman, Lady Tomlinson,” the captain said. “The sailors get to playing rather uncouth songs.”

  She could well imagine, she thought with a hidden smile. Tavern songs with bawdy lyrics, she supposed. Songs of lost women and lost dreams.

  “That doesn’t keep Mr. Covington from joining them on occasion,” Mr. Odell said, reproach evident in his tone.

  “Gray? Mr. Covington plays with them?” She had a dim memory of him struggling to practice on his violin as a child, but she hadn’t thought that he had kept up with it.

  “Regretfully, yes,” was all Mr. Odell said.

  Keturah looked out to the waves and wondered what it would take to sneak up here some night and listen. There was something in her that would love to see Gray playing, when he had no idea she was watching. She’d like to see him interacting with the sailors too. Would he play only his own music, or would he join them in theirs?

  Yes, she thought, smiling to herself. This evening’s stroll was but her first excursion abovedecks after sunset. She’d allow a week or two to go by before she dared, gathering the information she needed to do it, and she would not come without escort. That would simply be begging for trouble from the captain. But Mr. Callender certainly seemed eager to bend the rules here and there. Perhaps he would be a willing accomplice.

  Chapter Eight

  Halfway across the Atlantic, Gray was as accustomed to the deep groans and creaks of the Restoration’s timbers as any seasoned sailor. And like those seasoned sailors, when he awoke in the deep of night, he knew that the ship was un
der strain like never before on this voyage.

  Philip was already up, by the sound of it, fumbling with a flint at the lamp’s wick—which had sputtered out—while sliding back and forth in his stocking feet across the floor. The waves were huge, the cabin feeling as if it rocked at frightfully steep inclines. It wasn’t a surprise, really. The whole crew had been talking about a storm on the horizon yesterday. Still, Gray was not ready for the sheer terror of it.

  He’d certainly spent hours contemplating their relative size against the width and breadth of the sea, feeling small and yet mighty, courageous even. The Restoration was a fine ship, only two years old, and Captain McKintrick, for all his youth, was widely respected by the crew. But facing a storm like this one, weeks away from any land, made Gray’s stomach twist in fear.

  Lord, give me peace and strength, he prayed silently, taking embarrassing cheer as Philip finally succeeded in getting the lamp alight again. He laughed softly as the man slid in his nightshirt, back and forth, stubbornly holding on to the lamp chain to keep from falling onto Gray’s cot. “Well done, friend,” Gray said. “A bit of light is what we need.”

  And yet, as he watched the cabin tilt, he wondered if it was indeed better. Now he could see that they were climbing waves that set them at a full forty-five-degree angle, then cascading down the far side. With the wash of waves outside—as well as atop—he knew they were actually plunging prow-first into the next wave. What was it like on deck?

  His thoughts moved to the Bannings. How were they faring? Hurriedly, he reached for his jacket, pulling it on without a shirt. Unlike Philip, he ran hot and preferred to sleep without a nightshirt. Then, nearly falling over, he reached for his breeches that hung on a peg and sat down to pull them on.

  “As soon as you’re dressed, open the door,” he said to Philip as they plummeted down another wave, and this time water ran across the ceiling above and dripped down into their cabin in several places.

  Cocking a questioning brow but saying nothing, Philip yanked on his own breeches and hastily tucked the tails of his nightshirt into the waistband. He pulled off his nightcap and opened the door, looking left and right.