by Holly Newman
Handing the jug back to Angel, she took stock of their surroundings.
They were obviously below deck on some sailing vessel. Light came in through a small grated opening to the main deck that also let in fresh air. The narrowness of the space convinced her they were not on a large ship. Still, it was a surprisingly roomy hold that would even allow an average-sized man to stand upright. It was empty of all cargo save for the human kind, for with her and Angel were some eighteen to twenty women.
Cecilia sucked in her breath as the reality of the scene filtered into her mind. She scrambled to her feet and, leaning on Angel, slowly picked her way past the straw-filled pallets on which they lay or sat and looked at each closely in turn. The women were for the most part about sixteen years of age, all comely and, judging by their dress, predominantly of middle class or better station. A few were no more than children, the youngest a flaxen blond child of perhaps nine years. It was from her that the crying came that she'd heard. The others were either drugged into a stupor or so frightened and cowed that they sat listless and silent. Accumulating horror robbed Cecilia of strength, and she sank back down on her own pallet, Angel by her side.
She turned to Angel, her mind overwhelmed with questions that she couldn't get past her battered throat. Angel nodded in understanding.
"This—we are Elsdon's spice trade," she said softly, her voice a deep rumble in Cecilia's ear. "We're on a small ship that will take us downriver. Somewhere along the coast we'll be trans-ferred to a larger ship. Elsdon's coming along. He's leaving England: too many deaths, too many suspicions."
"Havelock?" Cecilia croaked out.
Bitterness etched Angel's features. "If I'd trusted him I wouldn't be here now."
"Don't despair," she managed, and swallowed painfully.
"If you're meaning Sir Branstoke and Bow Street, he's wise to them. The big ship's going out clean to fool them."
Suddenly the implications of being on a small ship percolated through to Cecilia and the fear she'd heretofore held at bay swept through her. Her breathing grew rapid and her eyes wid-ened. She clutched Angel's arm.
"I know," Angel said grimly, "it hit me like that too."
Cecilia's frightened gaze swept the small hold. She looked from the blank faces to those turned toward her and Angel, looking at the two of them for comfort. She realized she and Angel were the oldest of the captives and as such, the others would look to them for guidance. She couldn't crumble now. She had to be strong for them, no matter what the future held in store. She closed her eyes a moment, summoning Branstoke's face to her mind. She would draw strength and hope from that image she held of him. It wasn't over yet.
The strident squeal of protesting hinges followed by a flood of bright light preceded a ladder descending into the hold. The sight of immaculate top boots on the rungs followed by an elegantly attired male form warned them of Elsdon's visit.
Cecilia drew a little apart from Angel, not wishing to be seen leaning on another. A haughty mask descended over her dirt-streaked features. She lifted her head high, revealing deeply purpling bruises on the fair skin of her neck.
He walked toward her, a deeply satisfied smile on his face. "Ah, so the final item on our manifest has awoken. Excellent." He reached out one long finger to tilt her chin up. "Tsk, tsk, my dear, I do not like the sight of those bruises on your fair neck. Damaged goods bring lower prices, you know. We shall hope that they fade before we reach our destination."
She moved to bat his hand away but the clank of the length of chain between her wrists warned him of her action and he raised his hand out of reach.
He laughed. "Definitely not the flighty, sickly female. So much the better. Liveliness and fight also increases value. And quite frankly, my dear, at your age, every advantage is necessary to boost the price. Lovely though you are, you are past your prime in my market." He took a few steps toward the flaxen-haired child and hunkered down before her, running a hand down her quivering form. "Now this one, on the other hand, will bring a pretty penny, a very pretty penny indeed."
The child flinched and scuttled back against the curving walls, whimpering.
"Leave her be," Cecilia croaked out, getting up. Behind her, Angel stood as well. A couple women stirred, rising to their knees.
Elsdon turned toward Cecilia, his eyes narrowing. He rose smoothly, his hand delving deep into his pocket to bring out a pistol. He leveled it at Cecilia. The other women drew back.
"I have not that alacrity of spirit,
Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have."
His voice was light, yet rung with a power to reach the boxes had he stood on a stage.
A shiver traversed Cecilia's spine, yet she stood her ground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Angel grasp the chain between her hands, holding it taut so its links could not ring against one another. There was an unholy glint to the woman's pale eyes and a rigidity to her jaw. Cecilia's gaze fixed upon Elsdon, challenging him to break it.
"So, you would still play King Richard?" she whispered huskily, forcing the words harshly past her throat. They had ghostly cadence. "A doomed and defeated man? A curious choice for mentor."
"Perhaps.. But I have learned from him. In the end, despite his words: Conscience is but a word cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong at awe: he was troubled by his conscience. I shall not be. And I have learned what he did not. That gold buys a good many consciences."
"For a time."
"Ah, you are thinking of your brother. It is a sad fact that tools often become too worn for repair and therefore need replacing."
"And Havelock?"
"Yes, Havelock, my Buckingham. Almost he had me fooled. He could be nearly as great an actor as I if he weren't plagued with notions of honor and duty and the other artificial trappings of our so-called polite society."
"Not quite your Buckingham, for he is free and alive," she said, intent on keeping him talking. Angel was stepping carefully around to the side of him. Two other women had grabbed their chains in like manner and rose to their feet.
He waved her words aside. "I shall deal with him later, as I shall your Branstoke and Mr. Thornbridge. Tell me, how did you get those two to do your bidding? Have you been rehearsing for your new role, my dear?" The gun seemed to sink a little, his guard relaxing.
"Not everyone uses your methods of deceit."
He laughed. "Are you telling me my empire's toppled for love? That's rich, I vow. Or are you trying your hand at comedy? It won't wash. Remember, I knew your husband and we discussed your abilities—or lack thereof."
Cecilia blushed then paled at his vileness.
"Luckily the customer you are destined for is not so particular in such matters. You shall be the fifth I've sent him. The others are all dead, though one did last as long as two years. He is quite voracious."
Cecilia gagged involuntarily. "You monster!"
He laughed heartily, taking a step closer. "Women are commodities. They have value like gems or precious metals. Unfortunately like fresh fruit, they are also perishable."
To the side and a little behind him Angel stood. Cecilia could see her gathering herself for an attack. She stepped to the side, leaning against a beam as if she were sickened. His eyes followed her, away from Angel.
Suddenly there was shouting and the sound of running feet above.
"No!" Cecilia yelled, too late.
Elsdon was already turning toward the hatch and Angel just as she lunged for him. He saw her rush, his pistol jerking up as she threw herself at him, her arms descending over his head as the gun went off.
Screams from the other women drowned out Angel's little cry of surprise and pain as she sagged against him, smearing him with her blood. He cursed and tried to shove her dead body away but her manacled arms were around him, imprisoning him in the circle of her arms. He stumbled awkwardly against a pillar.
Tears of rage and sorrow streamed down Cecilia's face. She would not let Angel die in vain! She came up behind Elsd
on as he struggled to wriggle out from under Angel's grasp. She brought her arms over his head, crossing them so the chain formed a noose. His neck was caught in the loop. She pulled her arms apart with all the strength at her command. The chain bit savagely into his neck. He gagged, his eyes bulging. He clawed uselessly at the chain. Two women beat at his arms and legs with the slack of their chains.
"Sir Elsdon! Sir Elsdon!" cried a voice from above. "They're ignoring the big ship! They're ordering us to heave to! Sir Elsdon!" A man's boots appeared on the ladder.
Cecilia howled in rage and frustration as the man bent double to look into the hold.
"Holy mother, they've up and kilt him!" he muttered. Hurriedly he climbed the ladder, pulling it up after him and slammed the hatch shut.
Sir Elsdon squawked once, feebly, but went unheard by the man. Then he went limp, falling to the floor, dragging Cecilia' and Angel's body with him.
Caught under the weight of his shoulders, Cecilia's arms quivered as she eased the pressure around his neck. "The key. Check his pockets," she croaked, her head falling back against the dirty floorboards.
Above them came the sounds of panic: shouting, gunshots, and the splash of men jumping into the river. The smell of smoke wafted into the hold.
"Hurry!". Cecilia urged the two women tentatively touching and poking his body. She struggled to free herself from his leaden weight.
"Here!" one of the women cried, pulling an iron key out of his waistcoat pocket. With trembling hands she unlocked her fetters and those of the other woman who stood over Elsdon. Then she freed Cecilia and rolled Elsdon's and Angel's bodies off of her.
Cecilia climbed painfully to her feet. Dark, acrid smoke curled into the hold through the grating. Cecilia coughed and held out her hand for the key.
"One of you climb onto the other's shoulders and see if you can push that hatch open. I'll unlock the others," she cried against the pain in her throat. Her eyes were stinging from the smoke.
Hands clutched at her to get free, knocking her down. Doggedly she continued. The women who were not drugged scrambled to help those at the hatch. They boosted one of the thirteen year-old girls out of the opening. A blast of heat entered the hold followed by great billows of smoke. A cry of thanks went up as the ladder descended followed by pushing and shoving as each fought to be the first free of the hold.
"Wait! Stop! We've got to help these women!" yelled Cecilia as she frantically removed the last of the irons from three drugged women. Only the youngest child remained in chains. She was coughing and knuckling her eyes, but Cecilia freed her and managed to get her and one of the drugged women to stand. "Go! Go!" she urged the child, pushing her and the woman toward the ladder. Tears caused by the smoke mingled with tears of frustration. It couldn't end this way. "Oh, James, help me," she murmured as she crawled to the next woman and pulled at her, trying desperately to get her to respond. "Don't let any more die!"
Frantically she poured water on the woman's face and slapped her cheeks. "Please," she cried, sobbing, "please!"
"Cecilia!"
She paused and looked up toward the hatch.
"Cecilia!"
Her face grew bright with hope and joy. "I'm down here!" she yelled, her throat denying her sufficient volume. She swallowed. "Here!" she cried again, louder.
Her call was rewarded with the sound of boots on the ladder.
"Where are you, Cecilia?" he called through the smoke, searching the shadowed hold, his gaze stopping on the entwined figures of Angel and Sir Elsdon.
"Over here. Help me," she croaked.
His head swung around and he saw her kneeling by two prone women. "Havelock!" he yelled up the ladder, "I need your help!" He strode over to her and pulled one of the women up, slinging her over his shoulder just as Havelock dropped into the hold.
"There's another one over here," he told him, jerking his head to the side. With his free hand he pushed Cecilia ahead of him as Lord Havelock brushed past him to pick up the other woman.
Cecilia scrambled up the ladder, every limb of her body quivering from exertion and fatigue though her head felt amazingly clear and alert. On deck she could see that the fire, primarily in the rigging, was being fought by sailors from the naval ship nearby. But the fire was spreading faster than their efforts to put it out. As they crossed the deck, the call was being given to abandon ship. A burly seaman swept Cecilia off her feet and dumped her unceremoniously into a boat drawn alongside. Looking across the water, she saw a boat with a load of frightened women reach the safety of the naval vessel. Havelock and Branstoke lowered their burdens to waiting seamen then jumped down beside them. Branstoke pulled Cecilia into his arms where she clung to him, gulping cooler air while tears of relief slid down her cheeks.
The sailors pulled hard on the oars as the fire spread rapidly across the little ship. They were almost to the naval vessel when a loud boom and crack drew their attention back in time to see the other ship list sideways and slide burning into the river.
Cecilia, wiping the tears away with the back of a grimy hand, said a prayer for Angel Swafford's soul.
The next afternoon Cecilia lay propped in a nest of pillows on the daybed in Lady Meriton's rose parlor, George Waddley's journal lying open and forgotten in her lap. She was staring at nothing, yet in her mind seeing everything. Everything that had happened over the last weeks, over the last years of her life. She felt odd, unsettled. There was a churning restlessness within her.
The horrors of the past, though they might haunt some corridors of her mind, were just that, the past. And the Cecilia Waddley, nee Haukstrom who existed in that past was also gone. Like the legendary phoenix, rebirth followed destruction.
She smiled softly and closed the book in her lap. That old Cecilia, that sheltered, naive Cecilia who feared the world and played parts to exist within it, possessed the truth all the while, yet never saw it. She could only look upon the surface of life for that was how she lived it. She leaned her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes, a smile softly touching her lips.
She heard the parlor door open and close, but still she did not open her eyes, though her smile widened. "I see I shall have to reprimand Loudon for failing in his duties yet again," she said severely even though the smile lingered on her face.
She raised her head and opened her eyes to see Sir James Branstoke leaning against the closed parlor doors, his arms folded across his chest. His eyelids were in their normal lazy, half-closed position. He straightened languidly, drawing a slight giggle from Cecilia. Taking his quizzing glass from his waistcoat pocket, he raised it to peer through the glass at her.
"Will you insist on wearing those infernal caps when we are married?" he asked, studying the lace confection that covered her pale blond curls.
"Are we to be married?" she asked archly.
"We had better be," he said seriously, dropping the quizzing glass and walking toward her, "or I shall not be responsible for the consequences."
"And what consequences are those?" she asked breathlessly, the butterflies careening wildly through her stomach and pressing outward to fill her entire body.
He sat down on the edge of the daybed, appearing to be still studying the lace cap. He reached up to pluck it off her head.
His thin lips curved into a smile. "Shall we take this action to be symbolic of my desires?" He gathered her up in his arms, cradling her against him. "Or are further demonstrations in order," he whispered against her ear, his breath light, warm, and caressing.
She shivered delightfully in his arms and turned her face up to his. "Yes and no," she whispered, straining toward him. Then she paused and reached up a hand between their lips. She leaned back against the pillows, sighing.
"I love you, James. But what are we to do?" she asked seriously.
"Do?"
She waved a hand over her attire. "I am once again in mourning for a year though all I want is to leave the past behind."
"Ah, yes. Social conventions," he said, "we
being such society-controlled creatures. I have given the matter thought. We, my darling ninny hammer, in order to save you from falling into a decline, are going to elope.”
"Me go into a decline? Am I such a poor-spirited individual?"
"You created the image, not I. I don't see any reason to attempt to persuade people otherwise. Upon consideration I have decided it is the perfect excuse for us to continue to stay out of society's orb. You being so frequently confined to your bed and I the devoted husband, so attentively attending to your needs," he suggested, smiling raffishly.
"Hmmm," she said, snuggling among the pillows. Then she scowled and sat up, a determined look glinting in her royal blue eyes. "You are making me forget everything. My mind is full of questions. What has happened? How did Havelock get involved? What's going to happen now? What's the world to know?"
He sighed. "I forget you slept nearly twenty-four hours while the rest of us toiled to unravel the skeins of Elsdon's weaving. All right. Piecing this together from various sources, the story goes as follows: Elsdon was on the Grand Tour when Napoleon began playing havoc with Europe. As a consequence he found himself kicking his heels for long periods in backwater locations without access to funds. During that time he met a doge who lusted after a nobleman's daughter pledged to another. He told Elsdon that he'd pay a king's ransom for a night with the girl. Elsdon, young, at loose ends, and lacking funds, took up the challenge and soon supplied the grateful doge with his heart's desire. As in Haukstrom's case, one thing led to another and soon he was in the white slavery trade. One thing he discovered in Europe and the Middle East was that English women were considered great prizes and carried great worth. When he returned to England he decided to see if he couldn't tap into this lucrative market."
Branstoke rose from the daybed and crossed to a side table where Loudon had earlier left a decanter of sherry and some glasses. He poured out two glasses, carrying the second to Cecilia.
"No one knows precisely how he got together with Waddley. Havelock guesses that Waddley had been involved in illegal activities in the Mediterranean that Elsdon knew about from his time there and used them as an introduction. Whatever, about nine years ago they began occasionally filling orders. Slowly their reputation grew among those who had an interest in their products. As their reputation grew, so did the demand. Elsdon began using others to scout for likely women. One of the women they abducted eight years ago was Dorothea Rustian."