Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  He hesitated. “Well, now. Perhaps. But not too close. And I warn you, not many of what these sailors sing are songs a lady would choose to hear.”

  “That is all right. I am not your average lady.”

  He chuckled again and set off with her, offering his arm. “That you are not. A gentlewoman planter? I’ll wager the Nevisians will be rather surprised when you join them.”

  “As you wager on everything,” she chided.

  She felt, rather than saw, his shrug. “My winnings are funding this passage for me. Is it my fault that I’m rather good at gambling?”

  “Is it what your father wished for you?”

  “Never,” he said easily, unoffended. “Is becoming a planter what your father wished for you, Lady Tomlinson?”

  She stopped, and he turned to face her and removed his tricorn hat. “Forgive me,” he said. “That was horribly cavalier.”

  She sighed. “No more than I was. Please, forgive me as well.” Once again they set off, Keturah’s mind on her father and how terribly dismayed he’d be were he to see her and her sisters aboard this ship. When they finally turned the forecastle corner, the music and laughter grew louder, thankfully distracting her from her dark thoughts.

  They hovered just on the edge of the circle of light, and Keturah leaned against the wall, watching.

  There Gray was, his shirt open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled up. His hat was not to be seen, his jacket lying across a crate to his right. Around him were four fiddlers, each racing him to the crescendo of their raucous song. Each of the five at their instruments was sweating profusely, so fast were they moving. Keturah grinned as the men sang of a tavern wench who stole the heart of every passing sailor but stubbornly refused to give her favors to but one. Sadly the one had died, and the prettiest girl in all the isles was forever alone, even while forever surrounded by men. The sailors lifted mugs of grog to the sky at the end as if saluting the tragic idea of that girl, and their voices came to an abrupt halt just as the musicians finished. Except for one, of course. Inebriated, he went on, thinking there was another verse. His mate shoved him backward off his perch and he fell, making all the rest laugh uproariously.

  Keturah gasped. Mr. Wood leaned closer and said, “Ah, that lad is surely all right, m’lady. Do not fear on his account. The grog will keep him loose.”

  But Keturah was once again hungrily watching Gray as he laughed and chatted with the men all about him, his face in captivating lamplight and deep shadow. How did he do that? Manage to befriend both nobles and sailors alike? Ever since they were children, he was always the charmer, befriending the milkmaid as easily as the county judge. Was that part of what made her distrust him? And was that fair when it was clearly an honest gift rather than a ruse? For Gray looked as alive and content here in his shirtsleeves as he did in his finery at a ball. Perhaps even happier.

  It had never been her own gifting to enjoy such a wide array of people. She liked to have her intimate circle of friends—she considered the rest something to be endured. Much like Gray, Selah reveled in parties and calling upon people. Verity found herself somewhere between her sisters in what they’d come to call “people tolerance.”

  Once again she wondered if Gray might like to court Selah, in a few years. After he makes a success of himself, she caught herself thinking, and yet the thought made her mouth go dry. She didn’t care for the idea. It made her feel … jealous.

  The men were needling Gray, asking him to do something when he clearly was preparing to turn in for the night.

  “Just one more, gov’nor!” cried one man.

  “The sad one, about your lost love!” called another.

  “Yes, that one!”

  “Please, your lordship!”

  The men gave him titles that were not his own, poking fun at his separateness as a passenger of the upper class, but in their teasing treating him as one of their own too.

  “Well, all right,” Gray said reluctantly. “Just one more.” He held up his index finger, shooting a warning glance about the circle. He raised his violin to his shoulder and nestled his cheek against it when someone said, “Tell us who she was.”

  “What was her name?” called a man from the far side of the circle.

  “Yes! Tell us her name, gov’nor!”

  “Her name?” Gray smiled in that way that made his eyes twinkle. He pretended to be about to tell them, but then seemed to remember himself and shook his head. “’Twould be ungentlemanly.”

  “But you’re no gentleman!” protested another. “You’re here with us!”

  “Sailors kiss and tell after every port!” guffawed another.

  Gray shook his head again, then tucked his cheek against the mahogany instrument and began to play.

  The notes were high and plaintive, spare and yet serene. Keturah found she was holding her breath. It was unlike anything she had ever heard. Something … Gray had written himself? It unfolded from his instrument, building and building with lower, more complex notes and speed, in a way that made Ket wonder if it was somehow pulling her in, whispering to her of the story behind it.

  Because it truly sounded like longing … desperation, hope, and sorrow. As the last note hovered in the air, the crowd around him utterly silent and somber, Keturah blinked as though trying to rouse herself from a dream. Had that beautiful song truly emerged from Gray Covington’s violin?

  Two of the sailors called good night and walked past Keturah and Mr. Wood just as Gray lifted his head and smiled at the group. His eyes caught hers as the passing lamp illuminated her presence and stayed on her even after she was once again enveloped by darkness. At first his eyes showed pleasure and surprise, but then they quickly narrowed. He wasn’t pleased she was here. Because he feared for her safety or reputation? Or because she had witnessed him perform such an intimate song?

  “We should retire,” she said to Mr. Wood.

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed, but he moved terribly slowly when she was feeling the utmost urgency. She practically tugged him along.

  “Lady Tomlinson!” said Gray, catching up to them when they were but partway down the ship’s starboard side.

  Keturah stiffened and turned to face him. “Mr. Covington. I had no idea you had become so accomplished a musician. You should grace the captain and the rest of us with your talent on the morrow.”

  Gray shook his head. She noticed the violin and bow occupied both hands. “No. I never play for such gatherings. Only for pleasure, not to present myself as a spectacle.”

  Mr. Wood was making some excuse, slipping away now that Ket was “in other capable hands,” but she couldn’t keep herself from looking at Gray. She knew of what he spoke. In their set, playing an instrument became a duty, a manner in which to show off. Rarely was it played for a pure love of music. “I see,” she said at last as he offered her his arm and they began strolling back to the passenger quarters. “’Tis a pity. That last song was truly beautiful.”

  “You think so?” he said softly. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”

  “Did you write it?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I only wish you would share it with a larger audience. You saw how the men responded. Everyone thought it a wonder.”

  He laughed under his breath. “With that much grog in them, there would be little I could play that they would not deem a ‘wonder.’”

  They reached the stairwell. Gray descended first and then reached up a hand to help her down. She had time to wonder how Mr. Wood had made it back to his quarters so quickly when they themselves had not lingered. Had the man run for his cabin?

  Gray paused outside her cabin door while she patted her skirts for the key, tied with a ribbon at her waist.

  “Would you tell me the name of it?” she asked lightly, wondering if she knew the girl who had elicited such emotion from him. Then she silently cursed herself for being so nosey.

  He smiled at her and waited, staring until she met his gaze. The
n he took her hand. “Do you not know, Keturah?” he whispered, lifting her knuckles slowly to his lips, never dropping his gaze.

  Her heart stopped a moment, then surged.

  No. Surely not.

  She pulled her hand away. “You jest. ’Tis a song you’ve played for others. A ploy to steal the heart of every lady you meet with a simple change of title.”

  “Is that all you think of me?” he asked, hurt making his eyes droop.

  “I … I do not know what to think of you, Mr. Covington.”

  “Clearly. I am partially to blame for that. I have been inconsistent. Pigheaded. I ignored you when you needed my friendship. I assumed you needed my help when you did not. I was a fool. But can we not begin again, Keturah? Can you not call me Gray as you once did? Can we not at least be friends again?” He stepped closer.

  She swallowed hard, wanting to ease the hurt she had caused and yet also wanting to end this intimacy. Because there was something in his eyes that did not speak solely of friendship. “All right. We shall try that, Gray. Thank you for seeing me to my cabin. Good night.”

  With shaking hands she turned and fumbled with the key, finally managing to slip it into the lock as he hovered near … so near.

  She gave him a tentative smile and quietly closed the door, hoping not to wake Grace. She settled atop her blanket, not bothering to undress, and turned on her side, hands beneath her cheek, thinking of Gray playing that song. His intimation that the song was for her. He’d seemed so intent, so truthful, and so hurt when she doubted him. But was it a game he played with all women? The reason why so many had allowed him to kiss them? The man knew how to wheedle his way into a woman’s heart. “You’re such a fool, Keturah,” she muttered to herself, sighing heavily. And now you’ve agreed to friendship …

  Now, more than ever, Nevis could not come fast enough.

  Chapter Ten

  After the endless days at sea, it felt like a strange dream as they were finally approaching Nevis. The sailors cheered when someone in the crow’s nest that morning shouted, “Land ho!” So did the passengers, all rushing to the deck to peer out at the horizon as the West Indies came into view—as one welcome, glorious green dot after another amid the blue sea. Within hours they’d drawn closer, and Captain McKintrick didn’t miss the opportunity to direct everyone’s attention to Nevis’s towering peak. Moving close behind Verity, the captain pointed over her shoulder when she couldn’t make it out for herself.

  “And is that her sister isle, Saint Christopher, just to her north?” Keturah asked, silently reminding the man that she was watching and he ought to resume a proper distance from her sister.

  “’Tis,” he said and cast her a bashful grin as he stepped away from Verity.

  It was but one more reason she would be glad to be off this ship. Whilst the captain’s political leanings had put off Verity for a while, over the last week his consistent charms seemed to be drawing her in again. She’d gone on and on about his “delightful brogue” last night, imitating one phrase after another and dissolving into giggles with Selah.

  She looked around for Gray, certain he couldn’t be far since everyone had turned out, all of them staring off toward land. She spotted him shaking the hands of various sailors as if in congratulations for getting them all safely to their new home. When he caught her eye, he hesitated before making his way to her, joining her at the rail.

  “Are you ready for this, Keturah?”

  “I do not know,” she said truthfully. “I have not yet finished your ninth and tenth books.”

  “Ah, well, you’ve read the most important volumes, at least. And I won’t be far. You can borrow the others anytime you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said, looking again to the islands as they loomed closer. Her heart was racing. Because of Nevis? Or because Gray was so near? Since that night in the passageway, he’d seemed to begin avoiding her again, which she thought was for the best. She concentrated on the island, her thoughts turning to the fears she harbored about her new life on the shores ahead. How was she to manage it? Truly? Even with Selah and Ver to help her …

  “Remember the giant oak tree we climbed,” Gray asked quietly, “when we were but children?”

  She blinked, then nodded.

  “Do you remember how I hated heights—and what you told me when you were coaxing me upward?”

  Ket smiled. “One limb at a time, Gray. Just look to the next limb, not all the way to the top.”

  He smiled with her, his dimples deepening. “Those words have helped me through many a trial, Keturah. Perhaps they’ll help you, too, with what lies before us.”

  The captain shouted to the few dozen passengers to return to their cabins, stow their belongings, and prepare to disembark. To the crew he began shouting orders, bringing the Restoration about, beginning to tack toward Nevis. Everyone moved at once, and in the crowd, Ket became separated from Gray. Was it odd that she lamented the fact that she had probably spent her last intimate moments with him? She’d spent all six weeks of their voyage alternately drawn to him and, when they were together, scurrying away. With two busy plantations to run, how often might they see each other?

  ’Twill be what ’twill be, she thought with a sigh.

  They anchored in Charlestown’s harbor, and a group of men set off from shore in long rowboats to assist the crew in unloading the cargo and passengers. Ket and her sisters were helped into a boat with the small family who had remained in their cabin for the majority of the trip, all four of them seasick. They looked thin and wan, and Keturah hoped time on land would quickly set them to rights.

  She saw that Gray and Philip were in another boat, along with the gamblers, tutor, and Mr. Odell. It was reassuring, somehow, to know he was nearby.

  When their boat struck sand, hands onshore hauled them several feet inward. Keturah and her sisters shared an excited glance. “Here we go,” she whispered, then took the hand of a sailor and rose to her feet.

  “Easy, mum. First steps ashore are challenging for most,” he said. And he was right. Weeks at sea made her first steps on land feel as though her legs were unaccountably heavy.

  She giggled as Verity stumbled toward her. “Now I know what ‘sea legs’ feel like!” Ver said.

  “Indeed.”

  “What is that horrible odor?” Selah asked, looking around and bringing a handkerchief to her nose.

  “I have no idea,” Keturah said. “I thought the Restoration smelled poorly.”

  “Slaver,” said a sailor beside them who had overheard their conversation. “The Champion just anchored this morning.” He nodded grimly toward the wide-bottomed ship.

  Keturah blanched, because now she knew what that smell was.

  Rotting flesh and excrement and decay. Death.

  “Oh no,” Selah said, her brows arching in horror.

  “Get used to it, mum,” said the sailor. “’Tis common here in Nevis. Many captains stop here to reprovision as well as to sell off their stock. Slaves that the planters do not purchase here are taken on to other islands or the Carolinas. But the Indies are their best market.”

  The next boats brought the rest of the white passengers, and then their servants arrived, as wide-eyed and frightened as Ket supposed she and her sisters appeared. Swiftly, she set each of them to a task. She did not want any of them asking about the odor. There would be time enough to face that question later. She pulled out her purse and began distributing coins. “Gideon and Primus, see about securing several wagons to get our cargo to Tabletop. Grace and Cuffee, go and buy some fruit and cheese and bread so we can all eat. Edwin and Absalom, you await the boats that will bring our cargo and see that it is brought right there by the road,” she said, pausing to point, “where we can load it.”

  Nodding, the servants set off to do as they were told.

  She thought Gray had actually disappeared into the crowd without a farewell when she turned and saw him standing before her, Philip to his right. He had his tricorn in hand. “It
seems you have things well in hand, Keturah,” he said. “But I would be remiss in not offering to escort you to Tabletop—given, of course, that Teller’s Landing is just to her south.”

  She smiled. “That is most kind of you, Gray, but I think we can manage on our own.” Now that she was finally here, she wanted to make her own way up this tree. She had to do so. “One limb at a time.”

  “One limb at a time,” he repeated with a thoughtful nod. Was that respect in his eyes? “Good day, then. Send for me at Teller’s Landing if you find yourself in any need of assistance.”

  “Thank you. I shall. Good luck!”

  Along the beach and the quay, gentlemen and a few ladies under parasols began to gather and approach, one after another greeting them, welcoming them to the island, barely concealing their surprise that the three women had journeyed here alone, then inviting them to visit their own estates, sharing that they had known Father.

  Ket did her best to smile and politely receive all the inquiries and greetings, but between the heat radiating off the sand and the reek of the slaver ship, she was having a hard time breathing. She noted that the women not only carried parasols here in town but also nosegays of bright tropical flowers, which they held beneath their chins. Without something similar, Selah was soon gagging, making it all the worse for Keturah, whose own stomach twisted at the sound. Seeing their plight, several gentlemen swiftly offered them handkerchiefs to cover their noses, yet just moments later, Keturah knew she was losing the battle.

  Hurriedly, she excused herself and dragged her sisters to the side of a fishmonger’s stall, not wanting to lose sight of them. Once there, she discreetly threw up every bit of the hardtack she’d had at breakfast. And when she was done, it was Selah’s turn.

  “Honestly,” Verity fussed, looking back out the alley, “the Nevisians shall think us weak!”

  She was right, of course. But there was nothing for it. Together they returned to the market, Selah trailing behind. Keturah found herself hoping for another glimpse of Gray, missing his steady, strong presence, and then silently chastising herself for such foolery. The man had set off on his own as she had instructed—which was only right. He was as excited as she was to be here, his attention on his own future, his own needs. You cannot look to Gray, Ket. This has to be on your shoulders now, only yours.