Quiet descended, a quiet marred by the creaking of the rigging above them. Captain Thorpe lowered his sword. And then, a resounding cheer rose from the seamen.
De Gruys, a white ring about his mouth, inclined his upper body in a stiff bow. “My congratulations on your skill, captain, and your strategy.”
Julia drew in her breath, fully expecting Thorpe to take exception to this veiled suggestion that he had won by guile. He did no such thing. Tucking his own blade under his arm, he bent to pick up de Gruys’ sword, presenting it to the man over his arm. “One is seldom of any use without the other,” he said easily. “Come, let me give you a drink.”
“Permit me to join you in a few moments, after I have repaired my appearance in my cabin,” de Gruys replied.
“As you will,” Thorpe said, and ordering a round of grog for the seamen, swept the others down the companionway to join him in a glass of wine. If he had looked back, as Julia did, he might have seen de Gruys staring after him, his lips drawn back in a grimace and his black eyes glittering with hatred.
They reached the port of Havana on the island of Cuba four days later. It was midafternoon when they dropped anchor. Captain Thorpe went ashore immediately to deal with the port authorities and arrange to have fresh water and victuals brought to the ship. Julia’s father went with him. There were Bonapartists in the city, he said, but Julia thought he was feeling the confinement of the ship and was more interested in the thought of congenial company in the warm, wine-sour atmosphere of a café or cantina.
When dusk fell and he still had not returned, she was not too concerned. De Gruys and the ship’s surgeon, a thin-featured little man named Hastings with a receding hairline and jaundiced complexion, had also gone ashore during the late evening and had not returned either. Captain Thorpe put in his appearance in time for dinner. He had left her father, he said, some hours before in front of a cantina not far from the waterfront. No doubt he had lost track of the time and would be along as soon as it occurred to him that his daughter would be growing anxious. Julia accepted this with a stiff nod, but she was grateful for the suggestion put forth by Jeremy Free a bit later that she take a turn about the deck. It was pleasant to stroll with the uncomplicated presence of the first mate beside her, and there was always the chance that she might catch sight of her father hastening back to the Sea Jade.
She did not like the view of Havana afforded from the ship, an area of ancient unpainted buildings squatting in the mud, leaning drunkenly against each other for support. Patches of lamplight gleamed here and there, the centers of much loud music and laughter. The light appeared to attract the women of the streets like moths, for they paraded up and down at the perimeter of the glow. Their breasts, revealed by low-cut bodices, gleamed pale, and their hips swayed beneath long skirts slit to the thigh. Once, as Julia watched, a sailor dragged one of the women into an alley, where he pressed her to the wall and there in the semidarkness began to demonstrate the purpose of the slit skirt. Quickly, Jeremy led Julia toward another section of the ship and remained there, talking and pointing out places of interest in the town spread out before them until it was safe to perambulate once more.
They had been on deck perhaps an hour when Julia caught sight of the figure of a man coming toward them along an ill-lit street. The slim shape, the jaunty, almost arrogant way he carried himself, made him instantly recognizable as her father. Though he was still too far away for her to make out his features, he was swinging his cane in the way he had when he was feeling pleased with himself. Captain Thorpe had been right; she had been needlessly worried, she told herself as she followed her father’s progress through the refuse of the dirty street.
She was about to call Jeremy’s attention to her father when two men erupted from an alley behind the elderly man. They were upon him before he could turn or cry out. A knife flashed high and fell once, twice. Her father’s knees buckled and he pitched forward. The two men went down beside him, fumbling at his clothes. An instant later they were up, his purse in one hand, his watch and fobs in the other. Before Julia could draw in her breath to scream, they had taken to their heels, and their fleeing shadows were lost among the maze of night-blackened alleys.
Jeremy would not let Julia go to him. He was brought aboard on a litter, and it was discovered that he still lived. The ship’s surgeon was still in town. It was Captain Thorpe who stanched the flow of blood, dressed the wounds, and saw that the elderly gentleman was made comfortable in his bunk. Julia assisted him. Nothing he said could stop her; when she informed him roundly that she was no stranger to blood, having, as mistress of her father’s house, overseen the binding of the wounds of his slaves and the birthing of their babies, he ceased to try.
Mercifully, her father had remained unconscious through the ordeal. There was a gray cast to his skin, and his breathing was uneven, as though the rise and fall of his chest hurt him. Propping him on pillows seemed to help, but there were long nightmarish moments when his chest ceased to move at all. Julia, trading bunks with M’sieu Robeaud, so that she could be with her father, lay for long hours listening to his struggles to breathe, her own chest aching with the desire to help him.
Toward morning, he regained consciousness. He was weak and pale, but lucid. Calling for the captain, he made it plain that he expected no concessions because of his injuries. He did not wish to be left behind in Havana, nor did he want to attempt to book passage back to New Orleans. He refused to allow a piece of ill luck to cause him to be left out of such an epic event as that in which they were involved. He did not expect the expedition to be delayed on his account. Such a thing would, in fact, cause him great distress. He had his daughter to care for him, and if the worst happened, it would at least happen while he was engaged in doing something worthwhile.
Captain Thorpe looked at Julia where she stood with her hand on her father’s shoulder. “You agree?” he asked, his voice curt.
How could she not? The struggle to impose his will on them was draining her father of his precious strength; she could feel his trembling under her fingers. “It will be as my father wishes,” she answered, her eyes dark with pain.
“Even if it is not in your own best interests?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You think not now,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line. “Later, when it is too late to turn back, you may change your mind.”
What was he suggesting? That her father was more likely to die if they continued? That past a certain point it would be impossible to turn back, even if they wanted to, and still keep to the schedule set out by the emperor?
Lifting her head, she said, “Neither my father nor I would dream of jeopardizing this expedition.”
“Doubtless, but that was not my meaning.”
His gaze rested on her with a peculiar intensity, as if trying to convey some message without putting it into words which might disturb the injured man.
Abruptly, she realized the implication of his words. In the event of her father’s death, she would be alone on this ship without a guardian or protector. The thought was far from pleasant, but she thrust it aside. Her father was going to live. Moistening her lips, she said, “We appreciate your concern, captain. However, we urge you to proceed as if we were not aboard the Sea Jade. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with the rescue of Napoleon.”
“Very well,” he agreed, and with a short bow, he left them.
When the sound of the captain’s boots had faded along the companionway, her father turned his head on the pillow. “My daughter—” he began, then stopped.
Julia moved to where he could look into her face. “Yes, Papa?”
He stared at her for long moments, his forehead drawn together in a frown that was not totally the result of pain. At last, he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing at all.”
They sailed at dawn. Five days later, they ran into rough weather. The tossing of the ship reopened her father’s knife wounds. Feverish, in delirium, he
began to cough blood. Nine days out from Havana he died and was buried at sea.
3
There was something so final about death aboard a ship. One moment her father was there, the next he was gone, dropped overboard to sink beneath the waves without a trace. When she returned to New Orleans, she would have a requiem mass sung for the repose of his soul and a monument erected, but for the moment she was aware of a great emptiness.
The last thing she had thought to pack in her trunk for this adventure was mourning clothes. That would have to wait until she reached London. For the time being, she made do with a band of black velvet about her neck, worn with the most drab of the gowns she possessed. Not that any were precisely subdued, but she did have a lavender-blue muslin and a brown cambric which would serve, especially when paired with the gray velvet of her pelerine cape.
Clothes. Thinking of them distracted her mind from the last painful hours of her father’s life — hours in which he had tried time and again to give her some important message. What had he been trying to say through the blood which foamed in his throat? What intelligence had he been trying to convey with his staring eyes?
Tonight she would wear the brown cambric. This would be the first time she had taken a meal in the dining saloon since her father had been attacked. She could not bear to sit in her cabin alone, at the mercy of the endless round of her thoughts. In addition, it would not do to give the gentlemen with whom she was traveling the idea that she was fearful of coming out among them.
They had passed through the storm, but there was still a swell on the sea. Julia made her way toward the saloon with some care, holding to the rope, which served as a railing along the bulkheads. She was too early for dinner, but she had brought with her the small woven sewing basket containing her embroidery. It would occupy her hands and give her a means of retreat from masculine conversation. There had been a time when she had enjoyed setting stitches, watching patterns come to colorful life under her needle. In the past few years, there had been little time for such a solitary pursuit, but she had thrown the basket into one of the boxes as she was packing in case it was needed to while away the long voyage. It had proved its worth during the hours spent at her father’s bedside.
Her mind clouded with memories of those helpless hours, Julia had almost reached the saloon before she realized there were voices issuing from the open door. At a note of anger in the tones, she stopped, reluctant to intrude on what might be a matter of ship’s discipline or a quarrel among the officers. The sound of her name held her motionless.
“You can’t do that to the girl,” Second Mate O’Toole protested. “It’s not human.”“
“What else do you suggest? Her safety must be assured, and at the same time, we must guarantee the secrecy of this mission.” Exasperation laced the voice of Captain Thorpe and the measured tread of his footsteps as he paced sounded on the hard wooden floor. Julia had not realized that O’Toole was privy to the details of their mission. Captain Thorpe, it seemed, placed an inordinate trust in his officers. That could, of course, be all to the good, since they must eventually be on terms of intimacy with the emperor.
“But to clamp her in irons!” O’Toole protested.
“I don’t call restricting her to the Sea Jade while we are in England putting her in irons. She will be perfectly free to move about.”
“Come, sir, when you can’t leave a place, it’s a prison, no matter how you describe it.”
“O’Toole is right, captain,” came the voice of Marcel de Gruys. “I know you gave your word to her father that you would care for Mademoiselle Dupré, but he can hardly have envisioned such drastic measures.”
“Doubtless, but as her father, he was able to keep a much closer watch on her movements and the people she talked with than I can manage.”
“I’m thinking the old gentleman didn’t bother to keep too keen an eye on her,” O’Toole said.
“Then more fool he,” the captain said shortly.
“Softly,” the second officer cautioned, “the man is dead.” Captain Thorpe made no reply.
After a moment, Jeremy Free spoke, making his presence known for the first time. “It might be best to consult Mademoiselle Dupré. She may wish to return to New Orleans as soon as we reach port.”
“That would simplify matters,” de Gruys said, “but I would not set my hopes on it. From my knowledge of the lady, I would say she is most unlikely to relinquish this quest, especially now that her father has been forced to do so.”
“I don’t like the idea of her traveling alone,” O’Toole said dubiously. “Such an attractive woman—”
“A companion could be hired, a nice widow,” Jeremy suggested.
“If the lady had a companion, someone who could be with her day and night, the captain might even consider letting her go on with the thing as planned.” O’Toole put forth this tentative proposal.
If he expected Captain Thorpe to answer, he was disappointed. The sound of the captain’s pacing halted, however.
“How to find a companion who can be trusted, this becomes the next problem,” de Gruys said. “We cannot afford to encompass many more people in our circle, or soon all of Europe will know what we intend!”
Still, Captain Thorpe said nothing.
Jeremy, his tone reflective, spoke up. “If she stays on the ship, then what? From England, the Sea Jade sails direct to Rio. Does she go with the ship?”
“What?” the captain said, coming out of his absorption. “Yes, I expect so. The wait may be a long one before Napoleon makes port aboard the East Indiaman, but she will be able to see her hero and discourse with him on the voyage to Malta. After that, the Sea Jade will be at her disposal if she wishes to return home.”
There was the sound of a hearty backslap. “Jeremy, me boyo, are you thinking of applying for the post of companion then?” O’Toole inquired, the suggestion of a leer in his voice.
“No, certainly not,” Jeremy protested, but there was a general laugh at the first mate’s expense.
“There is something to be said for the suggestion,” Marcel de Gruys mused, adding, apparently at random, “I expect mademoiselle is her father’s sole heir?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Thorpe answered, his voice cold.
De Gruys made some further remark, but Julia did not quite catch it. Behind her, someone was descending the stairs of the companionway. She could not be caught eavesdropping. In the present mood of the men aboard the ship, she might be hung from the yardarm as a spy if they learned she had overheard any part of their conversation, she told herself with tight-lipped cynicism. Such a convenient excuse for removing her would be too good to let pass. Swiftly, silently, she retraced her steps to her own cabin door, pulling the panel open just as the ship’s surgeon came into view.
“Good evening, Dr. Hastings,” she said as he drew nearer.
He looked at her in surprise, as well he might. She had found him next to useless during her father’s illness and had at last pushed him forcibly out of the cabin. His mournful yellow face, like a monkey’s, had driven her to distraction, and she had nothing but contempt for his suggestion, made again and again, to bleed a man already drowning from internal bleeding.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Dupré.”
“Is it my imagination, sir, or does it grow colder?”
He blinked rapidly. “Yes, mademoiselle, the weather is indeed colder. The captain used the storm to good advantage and we are already leaving the temperate regions behind us.”
“Then, I had better keep my pelerine with me,” she said, indicating the garment which hung over her arm. “Do you join the others?”
He nodded.
“Then, perhaps you will give me your arm against the pitching of the ship?” she said, smiling with a shade of wanness.
Wordlessly, he proffered it. Sewing basket held before her like a shield, she walked beside the surgeon back to the saloon.
By exercising every ounce of self-control she possesse
d and stretching her skill as a hostess to the utmost, she managed to get through the evening. There was a sense of constraint among the men which made it impossible for her to relax. Captain Thorpe retreated into a brooding silence. Jeremy Free, despite her bereaved state, was too obviously sympathetic in his attitude, and O’Toole too hearty. M’sieu Robeaud appeared to have trouble meeting her eyes, concentrating on his dinner. As for Marcel de Gruys, he was cloyingly attentive. Strange; not so long ago she would have found his pose perfectly natural. Now, she felt suffocated by his nearness as he hovered over her chair trying to anticipate her every need. His manner of speaking of her father, intimate, insinuating, set her teeth on edge.
She made idle conversation, trying to ease the atmosphere, and smiled until her facial muscles began to quiver with the effort. When she could bear it no longer, she made her excuses and escaped, refusing escort.
Once in her cabin, she took off her pelerine, hung it on a hook on the wall, and sat down on her bunk. Only then did she allow herself to think. The arrogance, the sheer arrogance! To discuss her, to settle her future, make plans to curtail her freedom — it was not to be borne! This was not the first time it had been hinted that as a female she must be lacking in discretion. The insult of it when O’Toole, the most talkative of men, had been taken into their confidence! The next thing would be to make the weasel-faced surgeon one of them, though to her he looked the type to give way at once to either threat or bribe.
What was she to do? She found it hard to believe that Captain Thorpe would actually keep her a prisoner on the Sea fade, and yet, she recalled only too well his insistence that beyond sight of land he was master of his ship and everyone on it. Beyond sight of land—
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 5