The Pirate Bride

by Y'Barbo, Kathleen;

  This last fact Maribel learned as Mama was chattering about the party that her friend Abigail intended to give. They were to pay this woman a visit, and all Maribel could think of was the faint hope that Mama’s friend might offer some sort of sustenance to keep her from evaporating into nothing.

  Even as she held out hope, she knew it was unlikely. Apparently ladies did not eat in this city. So she decided to make one last attempt to avoid the visit altogether.

  “Mama, I know you wish me to meet your friends but perhaps another day?” she said as her stomach complained loudly. “It has been a busy morning, and I am quite exhausted.”

  “You slept enough for two days, Maribel,” she said as she adjusted the lace on her sleeve. “Abigail has been my dearest friend ever since Don Pablo and I arrived in the city. If you were to visit anyone else before you visit her, she would be heartbroken.”

  “Then I will take a vow not to visit anyone else,” Maribel said. “And tomorrow she can be the first on our list.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mama shook her head. “We are practically on her doorstep. You will behave like a proper lady and enjoy this visit. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said, although the events of the morning had been a fair indicator that she did not yet completely understand how to behave like a proper lady. But if that sort of thing was important to Mama—and it appeared that it was—then she simply would have to learn.

  “Mama,” she said as an idea occurred that just might buy her some time before she was required to be paraded about in public. “Perhaps I need a tutor.”

  “Tutor? Whatever for?”

  “Well,” Maribel said as she slowed her speech to allow the idea to properly unfold in her mind, “if I am to navigate the perilous waters of society, perhaps someone of my own age could be of service in showing me exactly how to accomplish this. Of course I do understand you are fully capable of repairing my social deficits, but wouldn’t someone of my age group be more likely to give advice that would be relevant? Also, she might know others with whom I could become friends.”

  At that statement, Maribel almost visibly cringed. The last thing she wished was to join a social circle of proper ladies. Not when Abuelo’s home had a library full of books just waiting to be read.

  Mama seemed ready to speak and then closed her mouth. Apparently something in what Maribel just said had made sense to her.

  “Yes,” her mother finally said. “Yes, I do believe you came up with a wonderful idea, Maribel. Much as I would love to tutor you in the ways of a proper lady, a girl of your own age would be much more appropriate.” She smiled. “And besides, you know no one in the city.”

  “Other than you and Abuelo,” she reminded her, still wishing she hadn’t gone down the path of making Mama believe she wanted to gain a circle of friends.

  “Yes, of course,” Mama said. “But no one of your age and social standing. Yes, I know exactly the girl who can help you.”

  “You do?”

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a large house that stood two stories high and spread out quite a distance in both directions. Before Mama could emerge from the carriage, a footman was there to assist her. Another footman in matching attire aided Maribel.

  “But, Mama,” she said. “I thought perhaps we would begin my training before I was subjected to any visits.”

  “Nonsense,” Mama said as she allowed a maid to usher them inside. “Abigail doesn’t care about any of that. She just wants to meet you after all these years of praying you would come home. And, of course, I will want to discuss your idea with her.”

  “Whatever for?” Maribel asked as she took in the elegantly carved furniture and crimson silk drapes that filled the expansive parlor.

  “Because the young lady I have in mind for tutoring you is Abigail’s daughter, Gabrielle. What better time to ask this favor of her than now? For if there is to be a welcome-home celebration, it makes no sense to wait a lengthy amount of time before holding the party.”

  “While I do agree,” Maribel said as she perched on the edge of a settee covered in navy-striped silk, “wouldn’t it make more sense to just let me learn how to conduct myself in public first?”

  “My dear daughter,” Mama said, her tone soft but firm. “When you were very young, I realized how intelligent you were. There was not a skill presented to you that you failed to master. I despaired of keeping you occupied until your tutor taught you to read.” She slid Maribel a knowing glance. “You were not yet four years old.”

  A horse plodded past, its rider oblivious to the spirited conversation going on inside on the other side of the window. She watched the hooves kick up muddy tracks in the road until she finally could manage a response. Because unfortunately she knew where this conversation was leading.

  “Yes, well, while I will agree, I don’t follow how this has anything to do with my ability to adapt socially to this new city.”

  “You do follow,” she said. “You are the same now as you were eleven years ago. Anything you put your mind to you can master, and, my darling, you require very little time to master it. Just as now when you believe you have mastered me, but you have not. For you see, I have no doubt that if allowed, you would put off these lessons or fail miserably at them so as not to have to be introduced socially at all.”

  Of course, Mama still knew her quite well. Thus there was no need to protest. Just to make another plan.

  “Mama,” she said softly as she gave her a sideways look. “Why did that seamstress seem upset when you did not offer payment? Is it customary here to do such a thing? Back in Spain proper ladies did not handle money. Are things different here?”

  Mama’s smile went south and was replaced by the neutral expression Maribel recognized from her childhood. The expression that would let her know just how displeased she was with the question.

  “Mary, dear,” came a voice from just outside the parlor.

  “That will be our hostess, Abigail,” Mama said, her voice now taut with irritation. “There will be no more discussion on this topic, either here or once we are back home. Should you make the attempt, you will regret that you did not heed my warning. Do you understand?”

  Before Maribel could respond, a voluptuous dark-haired woman a full decade younger than Maribel expected burst into the room. “Please forgive the delay. I was upstairs supervising the opening of Jean-Luc’s chambers and up to my elbows in … oh!”

  Her hands went to her cheeks, revealing sparkling jewels on several fingers and a clattering collection of bracelets dotted in pearls and diamonds. Matching pearl-and-diamond earrings sparkled beneath inky-black hair that had been swept away from her face with jeweled combs.

  The effect was both stunning and intimidating. Then she smiled, and her deep brown eyes lit with joy.

  “You must be Maribel,” she said as she approached her in the same way one would approach a delicate vase or fragile flower. “You are everything your mother said you would be and more.” She looked toward Mama, and her smile rose higher. “She’s home, Mary. Can you believe it? She is home.”

  And then this lovely creature—this proper lady—began to weep.

  “Abigail, my dearest friend, meet Maribel Cordoba,” Mama said with a tremble in her voice. “Maribel, this is Mrs. Abigail Valmont.”

  The lady of the house shook her head and swiped at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I am so sorry for these silly tears,” she said. “I am just so overcome with how very good our Lord can be to us on occasion. When I see the efforts of our prayers standing before us, well, it is just all too much.”

  “It is indeed,” Mama said. “Her grandfather and I are beyond grateful that she has been found. And we are, of course, indebted to you and Marcel for your generosity as well.”

  She shook her head. “It is nothing. Oh, but, Maribel, you are quite something. Look at you.” Her attention went back to Mama. “For a girl who grew up outside of a city with modern conveniences, s
he seems remarkably well settled here and quite sophisticated.”

  “She is still learning our ways, but I believe she is happy to be home, are you not, Maribel?”

  “I am,” she said, even as she knew that happiness came with an equal amount of regret at what she had left behind on Isla de Santa Maria. “And I am thankful for the prayers that kept me safe while I was lost and then brought me here.”

  “But as to learning our ways,” Mama said, sliding a warning glance toward Maribel before facing their hostess once more. “There is much yet to be taught, I’m afraid. You see, Maribel was still but a child when we lost her, and eleven years have passed.”

  “Eleven years,” Mrs. Valmont said as if that number held some significance. She paused a moment, her expression hinting that her thoughts were far away. Then the smile returned and she turned her focus to Mama. “Yes, that is a long time to wait for a child to return.”

  “I have had the most interesting conversation with my daughter, and I would like your opinion, Abigail.”

  “Of course,” she said with an expectant look as she settled onto the chair nearest Mama.

  Mama shifted positions and gave their hostess her full attention, leaving Maribel to take in her surroundings. Although this was a fine home, it was very much a family home as witnessed by the gilt-framed painting over the fireplace.

  The artist had captured the family of six seated in this very room. A man easily as old as Abuelo sat next to a younger Abigail on the settee, his expression that of a proud father and happy husband. Positioned on either side of them were a boy and a girl barely old enough to sit alone—who must be twins. Standing behind the couple were two young men in their teen years, one slightly taller and possibly a little older than the other.

  While the elder Valmont looked straight ahead, Abigail had her attention focused on her husband, their hands entwined. Maribel’s gaze went from the little girl beside her mother to the little boy next to his papa. Then she studied the young men behind them. Very much alike in their facial features, the younger-looking of the two wore a broad smile. The elder one, though he …

  Maribel leaned forward. There was something familiar about the elder son. Something in the way he looked directly at her as though he could jump out of the painting and stand right in front of her. Something in those eyes, beautifully silver, and that insolent expression—not unhappy but not completely happy either—that struck a memory.

  Or perhaps her imagination.

  She sat back and let out a long breath. Mother Superior was right. Her imagination made her think things were real when they were, in truth, imaginary. How could a stranger in a painting on some woman’s wall in New Orleans possibly be someone who was part of her memories?

  And yet she could not look away from that painting. Could not relieve herself of the notion that she had looked into those eyes before.

  “Maribel?”

  Mama nudged her, and Maribel tore herself from the painting to return to whatever reality awaited in Abigail Valmont’s parlor. She found both Mama and their hostess staring at her.

  “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry. I was distracted by that painting.” She looked past Mama to Mrs. Valmont. “It is lovely.”

  “Thank you, Maribel,” Mrs. Valmont said. “My husband would like another painted, but I do like this one. The children were all so much younger then. Such an innocent time for all of them. And for us as their parents. But as they grow, well …” She shrugged. “My mother used to say little children, little problems. But as they age, it becomes big children, big problems. I suppose that truth has been borne out more times than I wish.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Mama said. “Oh, but what blessings your children are all the same.”

  “Depending on the day, yes,” she said with a grin.

  “So, Maribel, you likely missed our conversation regarding the subject you and I discussed in the carriage.”

  “I did, and I am terribly sorry for my inattentive rudeness.” Even Mama looked suitably impressed at her apology. So much so, she actually smiled.

  “Oh, darling, I know there are so many new things here that you are unused to. Being inattentive is understandable in the short term.” Her smile evaporated. “However, my darling, I must insist that you do pay attention now. Abigail and I have come up with the most brilliant plan, haven’t we, dear?”

  “Oh, we have,” Abigail said, her hands pressed together as if she might soon begin applauding the two of them and their strategies. “While your mother despaired of a way to help you learn our ways here, I did think perhaps I had a solution. You see, my daughter, Gabrielle, is in dire need of a new friend. Suffice it to say, she has not spent her time as wisely as I wish and needs to be redirected to a cause that is worthy.”

  “And I am that cause.”

  Soon as she said the words, Maribel wished to take them back. The very tone of them sounded rude at worst and ungrateful at best. Before she could speak to remedy the situation, her hostess laughed.

  “Oh, Mary. She is so quick-witted. She and Gabrielle will get along famously, and I will make the introduction right now.” Mrs. Valmont rose. “You two just wait right here, will you?”

  “Of course,” Mama said sweetly. As soon as the parlor door closed behind Mrs. Valmont, Mama’s expression changed. “What am I going to do with you, Maribel Cordoba? The moment I think I have finally gotten through to you regarding the behavior of a proper lady, you prove me wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. Truly I meant no offense,” Maribel said as she rose to walk toward the painting, now mesmerized by the young man with the fearless look and the memorable eyes.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said. “What is so important about that painting that you have to lose all ability to respond to anyone else in the room?”

  “I don’t know,” she told her. “There’s just something about …”

  Maribel paused. Had Mother Superior’s warning about her imagination not been echoing, she might have admitted to Mama that there was something about that one fellow in the painting that seemed familiar. Instead, she chose to keep that to herself.

  Mama came to stand beside her, grasping Maribel’s hand. She turned away from the painting to face her mother. “I owe you an apology,” Mama said gently.

  Not at all what she expected to hear from her mother. “Why?”

  Her expression softened. “Because I have expected far too much from you. My darling, you have barely been in the city for one day. How in the world would you know how to conduct yourself after so short a time?”

  “Yes, well, I was taught manners by the nuns, so I will not allow them to accept the blame for behavior they did not cause,” she said, suddenly feeling the need to defend Mother Superior and the others who toiled at the orphanage.

  “Of course,” she said. “I am a complete fool. Will you forgive me?”

  Maribel shook her head. “Again, why?”

  “I lived through eleven years’ worth of days spent wondering where you were. Eleven years of nights when I fell asleep praying or crying—sometimes both—because my daughter had vanished. I refused to believe you died when the Venganza was sunk by those horrible pirates and—”

  “Privateers, Mama. There is a difference. And those privateers did not sink the Venganza. The idiocy of those in charge of that vessel is what sunk it. The crew had Letters of Marque from the king of France, and they did not seek anything other than the treasure in the Venganza’s hold. No violence was spent against the Spanish vessel and yet they fired against us.”

  Mama’s eyes widened. “Daughter, tell me exactly who is us?” She had said too much, this Maribel could easily tell. Though the truth of her life was there for her family to know if they wished, it was becoming quite clear that Mama did not wish to know it.

  “Us would be the crew aboard the Ghost Ship, although Captain Beaumont did not prefer that name for the vessel,” she said. “I tried to tell you of how I arrived at the orphanage. Did you not belie
ve I spent time aboard a privateer’s vessel?”

  Mama released her hand and walked away only to return. “There will be an appropriate time to continue this conversation,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But that time is not now.”

  “I tried,” she said again.

  “Perhaps you did, but there will be questions regarding at what point this Ghost Ship became us to you, and you have not yet tried to tell me this. This captain, he had a bounty on his head, and not just from the Spaniards who did not take kindly to him accosting their vessel.”

  “I was on that vessel, Mama,” she said, her temper rising. “I can tell you exactly what happened.”

  Mama’s eyes narrowed. “There is no need, Maribel. You can be sure that the father and widow of the late Antonio Cordoba were told the facts surrounding these supposed Letters of Marque and how the Venganza came to land at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. The one fact they got wrong, however, was that you were very much alive and not dead like your father.”

  “Well, Mama, it appears you will believe strangers over your daughter,” she snapped as she heard a conversation out in the foyer, “but I was there, and I can tell you that the facts you were told are absolutely and positively wrong.”

  Jean-Luc walked into the foyer of his family home and then stepped into his sister’s open arms. “You are finally home!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “You promised you would be back days ago. More than a week, actually, and you had us all very worried.”

  He grinned and spun the spirited girl around then set her back on her feet, slipping a small package into her hand as she tried to find her balance. “There,” he said with a grin, “am I forgiven?” Gaby hurried to open the package. “I am not a child that you can distract with pretty things. I was worried about you. And worse than that, I have been given the most vile of punishments, and all because I dared sneak out of the house to pay a call on a friend. Can you feature it?”

  She retrieved a strand of pearls from the package and tossed the wrapping behind her. “Oh, Jean-Luc, they are exquisite.”