On the Wings of a Whisper: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 1)

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On the Wings of a Whisper: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 1) Page 5

by Lynnette Bonner


  RyAnne wondered at the wave of distress that coursed through her. She should engage Brayden in conversation, but no topic would come to mind.

  Awkward silence stretched for the space of several seconds as Brayden watched Captain Dawson and Alicia with a look of speculation.

  RyAnne cleared her throat and forced her attention to fix on Brayden. She’d been looking forward to seeing him all day, after all. “It’s good to see you again, Brayden. How have you been since I saw you last? When was it…Christmas past?”

  Brayden seemed to shake himself from his reverie. “Yes. Over half a year. Too long.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “You look very lovely this evening, RyAnne.” He took her hand once more and led her onto the dance floor. They danced for several minutes before he spoke again, looking deep into her eyes. “When are you going to accept my proposal?” Somehow there was more seriousness in his question this time than in times past.

  She swallowed away the trepidation that thought raised and grinned at him. “A proposal is it? And earlier with Mercy Carrigan… What was that? Anything a girl with a beau interested in marriage should be concerned about?”

  He chuckled. “Mercy is…well, she’s like a sister to me! You know that.”

  In a pig’s eye! But all she allowed herself to say was, “I am only eighteen, Brayden. I don’t want to get married yet.”

  “Judith Tanner is fifteen, and she is getting married next month.”

  RyAnne thought about Judith for a few moments and then answered, “Yes, and I feel sorry for her.”

  “But I am not George Crowley.” Brayden’s devilish smile revealed even, white teeth just before he spun her into a twirl.

  RyAnne sighed again and tried not to offer too much encouragement. Indeed, Brayden was nothing like the elderly, hunched Mr. Crowley. Mr. Crowley will probably be faithful to poor Judith Tanner.

  Oh stop! No formal commitment existed between them. Brayden owed her no fidelity.

  “So?” he prompted. “What say you?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  The captain and Alicia twirled by, Alicia tittering in a shrill flirtatious way that set RyAnne’s teeth together.

  She forced her thoughts back to Brayden. Was she ready for matrimony? It would mean leaving her friendships with the princesses behind because Brayden always grew stiff and recalcitrant whenever she spoke of them. That thought seemed unbearable.

  She tried to envision herself running Brayden’s household, and somehow she just couldn’t picture it. At least not yet.

  So how did she once more decline his request without arousing rancor? She swept the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “I just don’t feel ready to make such a commitment yet, Brayden.” Besides, she didn’t think Papa would give his consent to the union. She’d heard him voice displeasure over Brayden’s behavior on more than one occasion in the parlor back home.

  And if she couldn’t convince Papa to stay and they lost him forever? That would leave Mother in control of her future, and that thought was even more unbearable than having to cajole Papa into agreeing to let her marry Brayden.

  “I have a lot weighing on my mind just now. Maybe after a few days I will feel differently than I do now. I promise to consider your proposal in earnest this time.”

  She thought a flicker of impatience touched Brayden’s expression, but in a blink he was smiling down at her. She must have imagined it.

  Still…she was suddenly most relieved that she’d been able to put him off once again.

  Trent quite happily bowed a good-bye to Alicia Harcourt at the end of only one dance. The woman could have talked a starving dog away from a meaty bone using fewer words than she’d plied him with during that dance. But he’d learned a few things about the way Harcourt indigo was shipped.

  He cast a glance to where Brayden was leading RyAnne into a second set. Couldn’t the man see she was limp on her feet?

  He started toward them, then froze. With a shake of his head, he chuckled in self-deprecation and forced himself to reverse course and saunter toward the billiards room. He’d obviously been sent on one too many trips to rescue the damsel. He’d tried to tell her to rest, and by her own account she was a full-grown woman and didn’t need him nannying her.

  Ryan Hunter, Ali Khalifa, Dr. David Livingstone, and a small group of other men stood in a cluster deep in discussion. Although the talk seemed casual, he could tell by the tension on the faces of most of the men that this was a subject all of them felt strongly about.

  He leaned one shoulder into the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. With his ankles crossed and the toe of one boot resting on the floor, he scanned the room lazily. It wouldn’t do to appear too interested in Khalifa’s comings and goings. He’d stuck pretty close to the man all evening. Although, he’d been careful.

  “It will never happen, Livingstone,” a short, pudgy, balding man named Ludlow said. “The slave market on Zanzibar will be here for years to come.”

  “Indeed, sir,” returned David Livingstone sadly, “I believe you may be right. I cannot, however, allow my conscience to ignore the continuing evil that pervades in the form of slavery. Man’s greed, even at the expense of other human beings, has shown itself to be insatiable. I must do all that I can to prevent the continuance of such an evil and firmly believe that were all men to respect the laws of the Scripture as they should, the exploitation of the natives would have ended long ago.”

  Ryan Hunter stepped into the discussion. “I for one do believe that the slave market will be shut down, and soon. Majid will not be able to stand the political pressure for much longer.”

  Trent rubbed at an invisible spot on the floor with the toe of his boot. Hunter may be right on that count. The reigning sultan of Zanzibar had made clear his intentions to keep Britain happy on more than one occasion.

  “The Scriptures, sir?” Ali addressed Livingstone. “You go to the Bible to support your campaign against slavery? The Bible has nothing to say against slavery. In fact, in many areas the Scriptures admonish slaves to be subject to their masters in obedience of service. The Old Testament itself has many laws telling masters how to treat their slaves. As does the Qur’an.”

  Livingstone exhaled a tired sigh that made it evident he had heard this argument before. “Let us set aside the Muslim holy book and speak only of the Bible. Why, sir, do you think that there were ordinances about slavery in the books of the law?” He continued without pause, answering his own question. “Because of the hardness of men’s hearts. Did not Christ himself make this argument before the Pharisees when they asked him why Moses commanded that a man give his wife a certificate of divorce? God in his omniscience understood that men would divorce, so he set forth laws to ensure that the evil therein would not be so great. It was the same with the laws of slavery. They are not there because God condones evils done to one’s fellow man, but to ensure that even in the hardness of man’s heart, evil should have some limitations.”

  “I do not see these evils that you proclaim exist, Mr. Livingstone,” Ludlow said.

  Ryan Hunter’s voice was barely controlled as he said, “You don’t see the evils, Ludlow? How can you miss them? In the harbor, as we speak”—he gestured toward the outside of the mansion—”there float the corpses of captured people who were thought to be too sick to live. Instead of bringing them onto the island where medical attention could be obtained for them, the slavers, in their greed, not wanting to pay duty on property that might not prove its worth, simply threw them overboard. You don’t call murder an evil, Ludlow?” His voice had crescendoed until at the end of his statement, the whole room had fallen quiet as everyone turned to listen.

  Trent watched in amusement as Ludlow sputtered, trying to think of a coherent reply.

  Ali was the first one to speak. He waved his hand in a careless arc. “You own slaves yourself, Mr. Hunter. There are few slave traders who practice such things. You propel the evil actions of the few onto the good intentions of the
many, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Good intentions, Mr. Khalifa?”

  Trent jolted upright and turned toward the entry.

  RyAnne Hunter stepped fully into the room and stood next to her father. Her head didn’t even reach his shoulder, but her tiny frame vibrated with a fury that lent menace to what she lacked in stature. Her mother, who had come in behind her, plucked at RyAnne’s sleeve in an obvious attempt to remind her it was improper for young ladies to enter into such discussions, but RyAnne ignored her and continued, “What are these good intentions you speak of with such candor, sir?” Only Trent and Ali knew she spoke of more than the issue of slavery.

  Khalifa turned to her with the air of a perfect gentleman, as if the incident in the garden had never taken place. Although a spark of anger lit his eyes, he said calmly, “Why, madam, will you not agree that the natives are heathens, bent toward evil practices of all kinds? We would never be able to civilize them if we left them in amongst the wicked influences of their society.”

  “‘Civilized’ seems to be a relative term, sir.”

  Trent smirked. Ali’s face turned a shade paler. But the rest of the room didn’t seem to notice the undertones.

  Ludlow said, “I have to concur with Khalifa. No native is going to understand the way of Christianity if left on the Dark Continent among so many infidels. We must bring them out of the darkness so they can see the light of the truth.”

  Dr. Livingstone stiffened and brought a hand up to trace his mustache slowly, but he did not speak. Trent had heard the man tell of several natives who had confessed Christ during his time on the Continent.

  RyAnne threw back her shoulders and pinned Khalifa with a look that made the man take half a step back. Any other woman might have cowered before a man who’d assaulted her, but not Miss Hunter. Trent allowed himself a moment to appreciate the woman’s strength and tenacity…the spark that lit her green eyes…the way passion had clenched her tiny hands into fists—

  He forced his gaze back to the spot on the floor at his feet. Tomorrow he would leave for the Interior for months. Best he remember that.

  Miss Hunter turned the force of her ire toward Ludlow but included Khalifa in her glare as well. “So you say you are stealing these people from their homes with the pure intention of converting them?” Her voice rang with incredulity. Even Brayden, who had come to stand by her, now pulled on the sleeve of her dress, but she continued undeterred. “Slavers commit a crime against humanity—going so far as to steal natives from their very homes—in order to…preach the gospel? I think not!”

  Ali stiffened. “I have never stolen any one from their home, madam, nor do I ever have the intention of doing so. Prisoners of war are captured in the heat of battle between two or more tribes. I merely come along and relieve those captives from their terrible fate and offer them a chance at a wonderful life serving somewhere that is not so backward as the Dark Continent.” Ali’s words were spoken placatingly, yet there was an undertone of hostility as he obviously attempted to control his temper.

  “RyAnne”—Anne Hunter’s voice held a ribbon of reproach—”we really should be bidding everyone good-night.”

  Dr. Hunter added, “Yes, RyAnne, you really should say good-night.” His tone left no room for his daughter to argue.

  RyAnne opened her mouth as if to protest, but then she folded her hands and bowed her head with a nod. “Papa, come dance with me?”

  Ryan nodded. “Just wait for me in the other room, dearest. I’ll be right along.”

  Brayden offered his arm to RyAnne, but before they walked away, he gave a parting word to Ali. “Maybe you have never been part of an actual slave raid, Mr. Khalifa, but no doubt you have funded them, and that is just as bad, if not worse. And,” he continued, not allowing Ali to interrupt, “if we weren’t so ready to purchase prisoners of war, perhaps the natives would not be so ready to raid and plunder one another. In any case, the Harcourts are glad you’ve given up your slave-running days and put your skill as a captain to use for our fleet.” He paused, looking Khalifa directly in the eye. “But perhaps in the future you could temper the vocalization of your views at social gatherings to avoid putting us in a bad light, hmmm?”

  Ali and Brayden looked at one another for a moment, and Trent caught something in the exchange that gave him pause.

  The moment was broken when Brayden turned and led RyAnne back into the ballroom.

  Khalifa and Ludlow snorted in disgust at their retreating backs. “It’s not like we are breaking the law,” whined Ludlow to the men still around him. “It is still perfectly legal to bring slaves onto the island of Zanzibar.”

  “But it is not legal to export them, sir,” Ryan said. “And you will never be able to convince me that Zanzibar is consuming all of the twenty-thousand-and-more slaves a year that are brought to this island. Some are being smuggled off of the island somewhere. I only wish I knew where so I could stop it.”

  “We must all do what we can in our own way, Mr. Hunter,” Livingstone said.

  “Yes, you are right. When do you leave for the Continent, sir?” Ryan’s question effectively ended the debate over the evils of slavery. Most of the other men turned to conversations of their own, but Trent held his position.

  David Livingstone sounded weary when he replied, “I am hoping to leave by the nineteenth. I only stopped over here to collect some supplies for my trip inland.”

  “I am heading to the Interior myself. On the morrow, in fact. It has long been on my heart to take the gospel to the peoples of the Interior. I hope to be able to convince several of the warring chieftains to stop selling their captives into slavery.”

  “Indeed, that has been my goal for several years, sir,” Livingstone said. “You will not find this an easy task. The natives don’t view human worth in the same way we Europeans do. Once one has captured his enemy, he feels it is his right to do with that person anything he chooses. And the temptation of European trinkets is too much to withstand, it seems. This is why I have been trying to establish a trade route into the interior of the Continent for years. If the natives could get their hands on material, beads, and the other common trinkets in trade for legitimate items such as ivory or cotton, then the tendency to sell their fellow man would be much less enticing.”

  “What is this rumor I hear about the Royal Geographical Society asking you to locate the source of the Nile?”

  Livingstone sighed. “It is true. Richard Burton returned to London proclaiming that he believed Lake Tanganyika to be the source. John Hanning Speke believes Lake Victoria, to the north, is the source. I have been sent with the disagreeable task of determining which of them, if either, is right. My heart is in establishing a trade route, but I have had a nasty time finding a passable route across the Continent, and so there is no brave soul who will fund another exploration.”

  Ryan gave a tired smile. “But if God is for us, who can be against us, yes?” Livingstone nodded with a smile of his own, and there was a slight pause before Ryan extended his hand to his fellow doctor. “May God bless your journey. I look forward to meeting you again someday.”

  “I will also look forward to that.” The men shook hands.

  Ryan glanced at his pocket watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…” He gave a slight bow, a twinkle leaping into his gaze. “I had best go and dance at least once with my wife and daughters before the night is over.”

  Brayden led RyAnne to a golden brocade settee just inside the ballroom, and she sank onto it with a great deal of relief. Aching muscles released some of their tension, and a cool breeze from the French doors, which had now been propped open, wafted over her. Jasmine and Mother seated themselves in the two adjacent chairs.

  “May I fetch you anything?” Brayden eased down by her side and bounced a glance between her, Mother, and Jasmine.

  “Some punch would be lovely, dear. Thank you.” RyAnne had no doubt Mother was just sending him off so she could reprimand her in relative privacy. But by the look
on Mother’s face, she was going to give her a good portion of her mind whether Brayden left or not.

  So RyAnne offered Brayden a smile. “I’m actually rather parched and would love a cup of punch.” It was true. Her mouth was quite dry. So she only allowed a tiny prick of guilt over the fact that she’d really sent him off to avoid the humiliation over whatever Mother was about to say and might have a moment to close her eyes. Which she did the second his back was turned.

  “RyAnne Estelle Hunter, how could you bring so much embarrassment upon us…” Mother launched into her expected tirade, but RyAnne was adept at shutting her out and did so with ease.

  Nonetheless, her head pounded. Oh to be abed with a cool cloth around her neck. Please, Papa, hurry and come dance with me. Her strength was fading even faster now that she’d allowed herself to sit, and she feared she might lack the strength to dance if he didn’t arrive soon.

  As if an angel had heard her thoughts as a prayer, at that very moment Papa’s voice boomed out, “Well now, which of my ladies should I twirl about first?” As usual, Papa had already forgiven, if not forgotten, her social misstep.

  A surge of thankfulness propelled RyAnne to her feet. Her chance had finally come. “Youngest first, I think, yes?” She offered him a bold wink she knew would sway him in her favor.

  Papa glanced from her to Mother and Jasmine. Mother only huffed impatience, and Jasmine smiled her acquiescence. “Very well, you imp! Youngest first.” Papa tweaked her nose before he swept her out onto the dance floor.

  RyAnne knew she hadn’t much time, so she pressed right into her request. “Papa, I’ve been searching for you all evening and wanting to speak to you.”

  A squint of exasperation was so fleeting she might have missed it if she hadn’t been so attuned to his every expression.

  She hadn’t missed a chance all week to ask him to stay, but she hadn’t yet revealed that she knew how sick he was. Still, she didn’t want to start their conversation by annoying him. That wouldn’t put him in an acquiescing mood.

 

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