by Cheryl Holt
“That wasn’t very charitable of them.”
“I agree.”
“Would you think me horrid if I said I hope I never have the misfortune to meet your parents? I’m sure I wouldn’t like them.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t either. I don’t like them, and I’m their daughter.”
“Why haven’t you taken your final vows? Is it because you don’t feel called? Don’t you care if you become a nun or not?”
“I never wanted to be a nun, and nothing’s changed my mind—even after so many years have passed.”
“How many years has it been?”
“Five.”
“Five! How old were you when they sent you away?”
“Fifteen. I’m twenty now.”
“You were just a child.” He was indignant on her behalf, which made her love him.
“I keep expecting something will happen to provide me with a better fate.”
“Your Mother Superior wasn’t upset by your delaying over the vows?”
“She would never force anybody. That’s not how it works. You have to be ready and you have to proceed freely and without coercion.”
“And you’re not ready?”
“No, and I never will be.” Brazenly she reached out and stroked a finger across his hand. “How about you? What future awaits? With so many brothers, you must not have many options through your family.”
“No, I have to earn my own salary. I was employed as clerk for a wealthy grain merchant.”
“He was thrown overboard when you were?”
“Yes. Dear Mr. Fitzwilliam. I was sort of an apprentice to him, and he didn’t have any sons of his own. He might eventually have promoted me to a position of authority.” He sighed. “It’ll never transpire now. I’m certain he’s deceased, and it’s the reason I’m dawdling here in Africa. If I rushed to England, there’s naught for me there. I’d be starting over from scratch.”
For a girl who was eager to latch onto a viable fellow, the news was distressing, but she wouldn’t let it dim her enthusiasm. He was the first man she’d met in ages who might someday be able to supply exactly what she needed. She wasn’t about to be thwarted by a small disaster such as a boss’s death or the lack of prospects.
“How about your personal life, Ralston? Since you’re in no hurry to go home, there must be no fiancée pining for you to arrive.”
“No, no fiancée. How could I court anyone? In light of my penury, I couldn’t make any promises.”
She concurred, but he was bright and capable, and she was positive he’d land himself in a stable situation. It might take some time, but he’d get there.
“I’m so dreadfully hot,” she said. “Would it shock you if I remove my veil?”
“I’ve been living with Mr. Hubbard for months. I’ve become unshockable.”
She tugged on the pins that kept the heavy headdress in place. With a flick of her wrist, she yanked it away and pitched it on the floor. Some nuns shaved their hair or wore it very short, but she refused. Her glorious chestnut tresses flowed down her back in a curly wave, and she watched his reaction, being thrilled to note a gleam of male appreciation.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“About what? About your hair?”
“Yes.”
“It’s so pretty.”
“What a lovely thing to say.” It was the sole compliment she’d received from a man since the squire’s son had tossed out flattery when she was fifteen. She grinned.
“You don’t cut it?” he asked. “I’d have thought you would have.”
“Many nuns do, but I’m not much of a nun.”
“I can tell that about you.”
“May I shock you again?”
“You didn’t shock me the first time.”
“That’s right. You weren’t shocked, were you? How about this? The moon is up and it’s such a beautiful night. Could we go down to the sand and walk on the beach?”
“Yes, certainly we can, but I’ll only agree if you’ll take off your shoes and stockings so we can wade in the surf.”
“Why, Mr. Robertson, you naughty thing, you. Are you hoping to catch a glimpse of my ankles?”
“Yes,” he unabashedly replied, and she laughed and laughed.
Ooh, she liked him very much, much more than she should, much more than was wise.
They stood and went to the stairs, but before they could climb down, he turned and frowned at her.
“Are you sure we should, Rowena?”
“Absolutely sure. Why?”
“I feel I should caution you, that’s all. It’s what I do for Mr. Hubbard. I’m his conscience.”
“Why would I need you to act as my conscience? I’m an adult. I’m fully capable of choosing for myself, and I choose to walk on the beach.”
“I understand, but since I’ve arrived at the villa, I’ve found that the spot has an odd way of making it seem that misbehavior is allowed—and even encouraged. I’d hate to have you engage in conduct you’ll regret in the morning.”
“It’s just a moonlight stroll, Ralston. I may get my toes wet in the process, but I doubt I’ll regret having wet toes.”
He studied her, then smiled. “No, I don’t suppose you will.”
As if they were adolescent sweethearts, he reached for her hand and linked their fingers. They started down together.
CHAPTER FIVE
Faith was walking down a deserted hallway, enjoying the shade, when the sound of swords clanging together brought her up short.
The villa was usually very quiet, with the servants seeing to their duties as if they were invisible. The rattle of steel crashing on steel unnerved her, left her worried that trouble was brewing.
She tiptoed out onto a small balcony. Down below, there was a grassy courtyard, and Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Robertson were fencing. Mr. Hubbard was obviously the better of the two, and he was steadily forcing Mr. Robertson to retreat.
They were dressed in trousers again, most of their torsos bared to the hot sun. Their pants were the flowing, silky sort she always observed them in, the ones she imagined a sultan might wear when visiting his harem. She wondered if they realized how far they’d moved from moral behavior.
Though she knew she should go back inside, she couldn’t stop watching. They were so fit and agile, so deft at parry and thrust. It was thrilling to view their muscled arms, their heaving chests, the sweat on their brows. And of course, the longer she studied them, the more meticulously she recalled how Mr. Hubbard had looked with no clothes at all.
Just from remembering, she flushed with heat, and though she tried to push the prurient picture out of her mind, she couldn’t manage it.
She understood that she was a healthy twenty-five-year-old female who’d spent very little time around men. Yes, she was marching down the road to becoming a nun, but she was only human. She couldn’t fail to be intrigued, especially when he was so fascinating and flirted so outrageously.
If she found herself liking his attention, it wasn’t surprising. It had been an eternity since anyone had noticed her as an individual person, and it felt marvelous to be singled out. She wouldn’t deny it, but she couldn’t continue to revel in his regard. She had to make plans and begin implementing them.
By traveling to the villa, she’d hoped to receive assistance from the occupant, but clearly no assistance would be forthcoming. Mr. Hubbard had no funds to loan, no advice to give, and no interest in helping her out of her predicament.
She needed to journey on to Scotland, needed to transport Mary, Martha, and Millicent to the convent while she figured out what was to be done with them now that their aunt, Mother Superior, had passed away.
Rowena had to head for home too, before she wandered off her path and abandoned it forever. So it was ridiculous to dawdle, to stand on a secluded balcony and drool over Mr. Hubbard’s fine form and dashing manner.
But she couldn’t desist.
She wished she had his ability to discount the ou
tside world. She wished she had his ability to pretend she had no responsibilities. And he didn’t actually seem to have any. There was no family or position calling him to England. He could loaf and play to infinity, but she couldn’t. She had to get going, but just that moment she couldn’t recollect why.
Mr. Hubbard delivered a hard jab with his sword that sent Mr. Robertson’s weapon flying.
“I win again,” Mr. Hubbard said, “and you’re dead.”
He stuck the tip of his blade at Mr. Robertson’s throat, and the younger man laughed and pushed it away.
“You’re a menace, Chase.”
“Yes, I am,” Mr. Hubbard agreed, “and don’t you forget it.”
“You enjoy beating me.”
“Yes, but I’m trying to improve your skill too. I’m doing you a favor, you pathetic ingrate.”
“You’ve taught me well. If I’m ever in a battle, I’m sure I’ll be able to hold my own.”
“If you don’t, you’ll be dead for real. No bandit will pass up the chance to plunge his blade through your heart.”
“I always intend to stay right by your side so if we meet with criminals, I’ll hide behind you.”
“What if they kill me?”
“Then I suppose I’ll be in deep trouble.”
A servant was hovering next to Mr. Hubbard. It was the gigantic man who’d initially greeted her, the man with the shaved head, braided beard, and strange tattoos. She’d since learned that his name was Akmed, and he couldn’t talk. His tongue had been cut out by slavers when he was a boy.
She tamped down a shudder. She wouldn’t remain in a country where boys had their tongues cut out, where pirates threw gentlemen into the ocean to drown. She wanted to return to Britain, where life drifted along with no drama and no surprises.
Mr. Hubbard gestured to Akmed, and he fetched Mr. Robertson’s sword and wiped it off.
“Let’s try it again,” Mr. Hubbard told his friend. “En garde!”
Mr. Robertson sighed. “Must we keep on? I’m hot and thirsty.”
“Again, Ralston!” Mr. Hubbard snapped, and Mr. Robertson set his feet.
They began, steel ringing with each blow, their tanned bodies twirling and bending as they parried. The bout went on for quite some time, but gradually Mr. Robertson started to retreat. Eventually he lost his footing and fell on his bottom.
“I give! I give!” He held up his palms in surrender. “I admit it. You’re better than me.”
“Of course I am, but you’re not so bad yourself.”
“High praise, my dear sword master.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Mr. Hubbard extended his hand, and Mr. Robertson was yanked to his feet. That’s when Faith heard giggling and applause.
She glanced over the balcony rail to see Rowena and the girls sitting in the shade and watching the lesson, as were numerous servants.
To Faith’s dismay, Rowena had shed her wimple and her hair was pulled back with a ribbon. More shockingly, she wasn’t attired in her habit. She’d found some clothes somewhere, and they weren’t the sort of garments any Englishwoman would ever consider wearing. They must have once belonged to a native woman.
The fabric was light and thin, colorful, and wrapped around her as if it was a towel. It outlined her curves so there was no question of her shapely anatomy. Her arms were bare, her feet were bare.
The girls had changed too. Their stiff skirts, petticoats, buckled shoes, and stockings had been removed, and they were dressed in outfits similar to the female servants, a type of casual trouser that billowed at the calves and tightened at the ankles. Their upper torsos were covered with vests, and they were barefoot too.
Mr. Hubbard took that moment to spin around, and he noticed her lurking up above. He flashed a seductive grin, winked, then sauntered off with Mr. Robertson. She slinked into the quiet hallway and leaned against the wall, reviewing her situation, what was happening with Rowena and the children.
When Mr. Hubbard had peered up at her, her pulse had raced as if she was an adolescent ninny in the throes of her first crush. Every facet of her response was dangerous and wrong, and she had to put a stop to it. Unfortunately she was delighted by his attention and apparently so starved for it that she was rapidly forgetting her position in the world.
The previous evening, he’d suggested she toss away her wimple. At the time, she’d claimed she never would, but evidently she’d taken his words to heart. As she’d risen that morning, it had been very hot. Her wimple was hanging from the bedpost in her room.
She kept telling herself she’d done it simply to be more comfortable, but the pitiable fact was that she’d done it for Mr. Hubbard, because he’d urged her to, because she’d wanted him to note that she had.
After a mere two days in the residence, she was already suffering strange alterations to her character. It almost seemed as if magic was afoot. Would she yield to it?
She hurried down the stairs, anxious to find Rowena, to speak with her, but nervous about how to phrase her comments. Any remark would sound scolding and wouldn’t be welcome, yet Faith felt she should counsel caution.
And what about the girls prancing about like natives? Should it be allowed? They were very young. Did it matter how they dressed while staying at the villa?
Faith couldn’t decide. Nor could she describe her relationship to them. With their parents being deceased, Mother Superior had been bringing them to the convent to live and attend school. Their only other kin were a pair of bachelor uncles in India, and even if a letter could be gotten to them about their nieces’ plight, it might be two or three years before Faith received a reply.
She intended to carry out Mother Superior’s plan, to convey them to the convent and settle them there. But she actually had no authority over them—except that she was willing to exert some influence. She wasn’t their guardian. They weren’t her wards.
Rowena had joined the trip to serve as their nanny on the journey home. If she chose to attire them in a manner Faith didn’t like, was it Faith’s place to chastise Rowena? She assumed it was, but wasn’t certain. Rowena was much closer to them than Faith was, and she believed herself to be in charge of their routine activities.
What to do? What to do?
It was a question that constantly vexed her.
She reached the grassy courtyard just as the girls were leaving with the servants to have a snack. Rowena was leaving with them, and Faith called, “Rowena, may I talk to you for a minute?”
Rowena turned and when she saw Faith, she straightened and stood belligerently, as if daring Faith to mention her clothes. Surely Rowena couldn’t expect that Faith would ignore it. Faith had no right to order Rowena to behave, but a gentle reminder seemed appropriate.
Rowena waited until everyone was gone, then asked, “What is it? If you mean to complain about my outfit, please don’t. I’ve been hot and miserable for weeks. A maid showed me these colorful garments folded away in a trunk, and I’m finally comfortable. While we’re here, I’m not putting on my habit. I won’t.”
“Fine.” Faith couldn’t bear to bicker. “But should you dress like this, Rowena? Have you thought about it?”
“Yes, I’ve thought about it, Faith. I’m not a dunce.”
“I realize that. It’s simply that we’re a long way from home, and it’s easy to forget who we are.”
“I know who I am. I am Rowena Bond. I am a novitiate at the Sisters of Mercy convent located near Edinburgh, Scotland, but it’s been totally against my wishes. At the moment, there’s no one to judge or condemn me, and I’m making my own choices.”
“Are you planning to forsake the convent?”
“No, how would I?”
Rowena’s reply was very firm, but she glanced away, giving Faith the definite impression she was lying.
“So you’re…what? Playing? Loafing? Pretending you’re someone else?”
“Yes, precisely. I’m pretending to be someone else. You should try it yourself. Yo
u might be surprised by how much you’d enjoy it. I guarantee you’d be much cooler.”
“What about the girls?” Faith said, raising a different argument.
“What about them?”
“I’m not sure we should let them run about half-naked.”
“Honestly, Faith, who is there to tell us we shouldn’t? Their dresses are filthy, and they’ve been wearing them for weeks. The maids are washing them. Would you rather I had them running about in nothing at all?”
“No, of course not.”
“You exhaust me. Stop worrying so much.”
“I can’t help it. It’s wrong for us to stay here.”
“It doesn’t feel wrong to me. It feels quite grand.” Rowena walked by her. “Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m having dinner with Mr. Robertson.”
“In those clothes?”
“Yes, Faith, in exactly these clothes.” She kept on, but at the last second, she peered back. “By the way, where’s your wimple? It seems, fussy Faith, that you’re relaxing your own rules.”
“I was hot too,” Faith petulantly said.
“So was I. Remember the old adage, Faith? It’s about glass houses and throwing stones.”
Rowena stomped off and, torn and conflicted, Faith dawdled in the quiet.
She was no one’s guardian or nanny. She was just Faithful Newton, who understood more clearly than ever that they needed to get moving. The villa, with its lush courtyards, bubbling fountains, competent servants, and spectacular views, lulled a person into a dangerous state of languor.
Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Robertson were men, so they could dawdle without consequence. But she couldn’t, and neither could Rowena. Fraternization was perilous, and if they lingered, she suspected disaster would result.
They had to leave. They had to return to the nearby town where there was a good size population and a harbor. She had to muster some aid there. Before departing for the villa, she hadn’t spoken to any of the local people about her predicament. Once she’d been apprised of Mr. Hubbard’s presence, she’d trotted off to find him.
No doubt, if she searched in town, there would be a Christian family that might help her. Or maybe a ship’s captain would take pity on them and let them board. She’d never know if she didn’t try.