by Jane Toombs
"No more than any man would. She's all you say and more.” Jeremy paused, then continued slowly, “She's not like other women. But you forget the difference between men and animals. Men can control their lusts."
The wind had picked up so that now spray strung their faces. They turned from the sea, putting their backs to the rail. Overhead the stars winked out one by one as clouds from the south overtook the Columbia.
"Storm coming,” Philippe said after a time. “Man was never meant to sail the sea. At least not this particular man."
"The time does drag,” Jeremy agreed. “But you still haven't answered my question about what you intend for the girl."
One of the ship's crew hurried past them, followed by another. They both climbed the ratlines into the rigging.
"All right,” Philippe said, “I'll tell you straight out. I have no interest in the girl. Not in the way you mean. With me, she's business—and I never mix my personal and business affairs. Make no mistake, I'm fond of her and I'll protect her, just like a banker protects his money by locking it in a vault."
"Is that how you see her? As money in a vault?"
"Don't twist my words. There's more to it than protecting her from men. I have to protect her from herself as well."
"Don't talk in riddles. What are you getting at?"
Philippe waved a hand. “Haven't you seen how she behaves? At the ball, she had Colonel Chestnut eating out of her hand in a matter of minutes. She's a natural coquette. Worse, she's brazen. Think. We found Micah Randolph, or maybe Esau, in her room in the middle of the night, didn't we, both of them naked as jaybirds? Don't you suppose she invited him there and then found she'd been presented with more than she bargained for? Or else, when we arrived, she decided she'd have better luck casting her lot with us."
Jeremy hurled his cigarillo into the sea and grasped the front of Philippe's shirt. He yanked the bearded man to him. “If we hadn't been together for so long, I'd kill you for saying that."
Philippe made no attempt to protect himself. “You don't want to hear the truth. I'll say no more."
Jeremy pushed him away. “We've been with Mary for the last two months. She's not that sort. She's a bit saucy, but there's no harm in that."
"Ha! I made inquiries at the Randolphs before I sought her out. They knew her well. She plays a part with the best of them, sweet and demure if that's what's called for, brazen if she thinks that will serve her. The only thing they didn't understand was why she'd never found herself with child."
"You never told me this before."
"Philippe Manigault doesn't believe in shattering illusions or defaming a woman. Men find comfort in their dreams, their false impressions, fantasies and fairy tales, though I'm afraid our Princess Mary is something less than a Snow White or a Cinderella. She's spent more time in bedrooms than in the vicinity of fireplaces."
"I don't believe it. She was desperate enough to stab that despicable Randolph twin with a knife."
Philippe shrugged. “Who knows what a woman might do? Think. Why else did I bring her with us if she couldn't play a part? I'll tell you what I have in mind. If Mary Vere plays her cards right, she'll marry well. Extremely well. What do men from the diggings know of women? Flush with money. Looking for a good time, they're ripe for plucking.” He held up a hand. “Wait, hear me out. I'm no fool. I don't intend to have her marry the first sourdough that sashays down the pike with a favorable assay report in his pocket. I've set my sights on bigger game. But the idea's the same."
"I don't like it, Philippe. What right do you have to meddle with her life?"
"It's for her own good. Left to her own devices, she'll end up pregnant by some fly-by-night confidence man who'll leave her without a penny. If she listens to me, on the other hand, she'll have wealth and position and, who knows, maybe even happiness as well."
Jeremy raised his one eyebrow. “Just what does Philippe Manigault get out of all this?"
"Surely he'll manage to sweep up some crumbs in the process. But it's not the money, it's the challenge. To make a somebody out of a nobody. To create a lady from a servant girl. It's the game that matters, not the pot I may or may not rake in at the end."
"Spoken like a true gambler."
"This particular gambler,” Philippe said, “doesn't much care for one of the gentleman who looks like he wants to sit in on the game. I'm talking about Captain Nyland."
"Nyland? What's he got to do with Mary?"
"I thought that would pique your interest."
"I admit I don't care for the sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch. Nyland acts as though he received his rules and regulations in person from atop Mount Sinai. No profanity on board, no liquor, no gambling. Still, the man seems a competent seaman, I'll give him that."
"His maritime skills aren't what concern me. He's had his eye on Mary ever since we came aboard. Have you noticed how his dour gaze rarely leaves her?"
"I've noticed, but if I took offense at every man who looked at her, I'd have to fight off the world."
"It's not the way he looks at her that has me concerned. It's the way she returns his glances."
"That I haven't noticed. You're foreseeing danger where none exists."
"I've had more experience with the ways of women than you have, Jeremy. The portents all point in the same direction and it distresses me. Not only because Nyland has a wife and daughter in New Bedford, either, though I know he does. It's for Mary's sake. I don't want her to cheapen herself. Captain Nyland is small game compared to what I have in mind for her."
"I'll kill him if he lays a hand on her."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary. I intend to speak to her this very evening.” He placed a hand at his midsection. “Always presuming that horrible affliction the French call mal de mer doesn't arrive with the storm."
Jeremy shook his head, his expression disbelieving, as though questioning what he'd been told about Mary.
Philippe sighed. “She's a lovely girl. I mean that. The best of us have our failings, though. You do know her ancestry's mixed, which is no fault of hers."
"I heard the rumor she has a touch of Negro blood. What of it?"
"Rumors usually contain a grain of truth. If this one is true, and I suspect it may be, she can't be blamed for her proclivities. Blood will tell."
Jeremy scowled. “I'm still not sure you're telling me the truth about any of this."
"We're all better off if we can keep our illusions.” Philippe put his hand on Jeremy's shoulder.
Jeremy shrugged him off and stalked away.
After a moment, Philippe walked to the companionway leading beneath the poop deck. As he reached the narrow corridor below decks, the ship shuddered under the impact of a wave and he stopped abruptly, swallowing several times. As the ship steadied, he took a deep breath and went on to the door of the first cabin on the port side, where he knocked.
"Who is it?” Mary asked from inside.
"Philippe."
She unbolted the door, stood aside and he entered the small cabin, the swinging lamp over the table throwing their shadows onto the wooden bulkheads. Rowena lay on Mary's berth, sleeping.
"I see this abominable lurching doesn't bother your cat,” he said.
"She's exhausted,” Mary told him, sitting back down in her chair at the table. “Do you know she actually killed two rats today? The cook was so pleased he gave her a chunk of fish. I think it's so kind of the captain to allow Rowena the run of the ship. You know their ship's cat jumped ship at the last port of call."
"Remarkable."
Noticing Philippe, who'd seated himself in the other chair, seemed to be trying to read what she'd written in her journal, Mary closed the book, saying, “I write in this every evening. I don't ever want to forget all the sights and the people I've met."
"Did you, perhaps, pen a few words in praise of our friend, Jeremy Johnston?” Philippe asked.
So he had glimpsed Jeremy's name. Blushing, she admitted, “I may have."
&nbs
p; "I just came from talking with him. He's quite taken with you, Mary."
"If he is, he has a queer way of showing it. We hardly exchange a word all day."
"Jeremy's like that. I've known him a long time, ever since I saved his life in an altercation in Albany, New York, some years ago. He's quite open with men, but woman are another story altogether. The man's hopelessly shy where women are concerned."
"I don't think I care to discuss Jeremy.” Mary's forefinger idly traced the J in the word Journal on the cover of the book. “He's taken with me?” she asked.
"There's no question of it."
"Oh.” After a moment, she leaned toward Philippe. “Can you keep a secret?"
"When I want to be, I'm as close-lipped as a man holding four aces. Which, as you may or may not know, can be a winning poker hand."
She sighed. “I've never felt about any other man the way I feel about Jeremy. When he's near me, I'm tongued-tied. I don't know why—I can talk to other men with no trouble. Yet I want to be near him. When I'm not, I can't get him out of my thoughts. I find myself remembering the wave in his hair, those strange yellow wedges in his eyes, his gentleness. I'm impatient whenever I'm not talking about him. Is there something wrong with me?"
Philippe shook his head. “Nothing that hasn't afflicted womankind for the last ten thousand years. As Shakespeare said, ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefor is wing'd Cupid painted blind.’ You're in love with the man. It's as simple as that."
"Yet he ignores me. Sometimes I want to say, ‘Look, this is Mary Vere. Pay attention to me.’”
"Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” The ship creaked and lurched, causing Philippe to glance apprehensively from side to side. He looked so pale she was about to ask him what was wrong when he blurted out, “My God, I don't know if I can survive five more weeks of this confounded perpetual motion."
"You should have your sea legs soon. Captain Nyland told me I got mine very quickly."
Philippe mumbled something that sounded like, “I'll bet he did."
"You were about to make a suggestion,” Mary reminded him.
"Ah, yes. About Jeremy. Men are a perverse breed. For some reason, we don't want what's offered to us, no matter how magnificent that gift might be. We always want what we think we can't have, or what we observe other men coveting. It's been the same ever since Eve lusted after the only fruit in Eden that was forbidden."
Mary gave him a puzzled frown. “Eve was a woman, not a man."
"The principle's the same. Take Captain Nyland now. Wouldn't you say he's a fine figure of a man?"
Not understanding what the captain had to do with perversity, she said, “I suppose he is. I've only spoken to him once."
"He's a courageous seaman to boot, or so I was told in Panama City."
"I'm sure that's true. But what does Captain Nyland have to do with Jeremy?"
"Simply this. Our brave and courageous captain is also taken with you. Haven't you noticed how his gaze fixes on you whenever you're in sight?"
Mary's face flushed. “Maybe I have noticed."
"Yet you've done nothing to encourage him. Think, Mary, what might happen if you were to smile at the good captain rather than ignoring him. The effect on Jeremy might be dramatic. For example, if the captain where to invite you to take the wheel and you accepted, and Jeremy saw him guiding your hands with his own, who knows what the results might be?"
Mary shook her head. “I couldn't. I don't like to be devious."
"They do say all's fair in love and war.” Philippe shrugged. “But have it your own way. All I want is your happiness. If you're content to long for a man who doesn't deserve you and refuses to notice you, then that's your business. I'm not boasting when I admit to being something of a man of the world. I've lived longer than you have, seen more things and met more people, people who were good and bad, virtuous and wicked, forthright and sly. So just perhaps, mind you, I know whereof I speak.
"What you do, of course, is up to you. I don't intend to try to influence you in any way. After all, you'll have to live with the result. I won't.” He rose. Bracing himself with one hand on the bulkhead, he leaned down and kissed Mary's forehead. “Sleep well,” he said. “You, too, Philippe."
She bolted the cabin door behind him and stood with her back to it, exulting in the feel of the ship rolling beneath her feet and the rush of the ocean.
During the voyage across the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean from New Orleans, she'd discovered she loved the sea and ships. How she'd delighted in standing at the bow with the spray in her face, the wind blowing strands of hair out from under her bonnet as the rigging creaked and groaned above her and the deck rose and fell beneath her feet.
She felt free, with the past receding behind her, the future a bright glow on the horizon. Even the isthmus had enthralled her as their train rattled across long trestles above tropical swamps and the swift Chagres River before laboring over the mountains to the seaport of Panama. At night she went to bed tired, yet content. The mornings found her eager to discover what the new day might bring.
There was only one cloud—the knowledge that each day brought her closer to California and the end of her journey, closer to the time she might no longer be with Jeremy. Even the thought of possibly finding her father wasn't enough to banish that cloud. Her father seemed far more of a fantasy than flesh-and-blood Jeremy. She had no idea of what would happen when they reached their destination.
Jeremy never discussed his plans with her, but she had a dismal feeling she wouldn't be a part of his life in San Francisco. He didn't know she loved him, had from the first. How could he when she'd only known it herself once she admitted it to Philippe.
Sitting again at the table, she opened her journal to the last entry. On the next line she wrote Jeremy Johnston. Below that she wrote Mary Vere. On the third line she got as far as Mary before her pen went dry. She dipped it in the inkwell and wrote Johnston after Mary, staring wistfully at the two words. Then she snapped the journal shut and slid it under the mattress in her berth.
The next day the Columbia ran before the storm from sunup to sundown. Philippe was nowhere to be seen, and Jeremy seemed preoccupied.
He looked at her, Mary thought, in a different way, as though appreciating her in a new light. His gaze, speculative and somehow accusing, made her uncomfortable.
Because of what Philippe had said to her, when Captain Nyland walked by, she couldn't help looking at him more thoroughly than before. He really was a handsome man, she decided, his black hair edged with gray, as were the sideburns he wore from his ears to his chin, while his eyebrows remained jet black. Because he was looking directly at her, she was struck by the brightness of his blue eyes before she glanced away. She'd never seen him smile.
In the days that followed after the ship outran the storm, Mary grew more and more aware of the captain's gaze on her as she walked on deck. She also noticed that the lines at the corners of his mouth turned down rather than up, making him seem like a man who'd received tidings of a dire calamity. His habitual gloominess piqued her curiosity. Though he never smiled, each time he met her on deck or in a corridor, he tipped his visored cap and said, “Good morning, Miss Vere."
She confined her reply to a nod, no smile and, “Good morning, Captain,” always passing by without stopping, while Philippe's words lay festering in her mind. Finally, fed up with Jeremy keeping his distance, she decided to venture a smile at Captain Nyland when he tipped his hat.
He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, as though that was the closest he could come to a smile. “Miss Vere,” he said, “may I take a moment of your time? I'm a plainspoken man. I've been meaning to tell you that I've admired you greatly from the moment you boarded my ship."
Flustered, she murmured, “Thank you, sir."
"I'm planning a small dinner party for this evening in my cabin,” he went on. “As of tomorrow we'll be a week out of Panama City."
Sh
e waited, expecting him to explain the connection between the dinner party and the ship's progress, but he did not.
"You would honor me greatly, Miss Vere,” he told you, “if you would be my guest tonight at eight bells. That's eight o'clock. You will honor me with your presence, won't you?"
She hesitated. Looking about, she saw Jeremy walking aft past the mainmast. He glanced up, saw her walking to the captain, and glanced quickly away. Was it possible Philippe was right? she asked herself. Every day found them closer to the end of their journey, yet she was no closer to Jeremy.
What harm could there be in accepting the captain's invitation? “I'd love to come,” she told him.
He saluted her, turned and climbed the ladder to the poop deck where she heard him shouting orders. Crewmen scrambled into the rigging to let out more sail and the ship sped northward before a following wind.
That night Mary dressed with care, choosing a gown Philippe had selected in New Orleans. The waist was narrow, the skirt full. “In the French style,” he'd said. The neckline was square-cut and modest, her only jewelry a gold-filigreed breast pin shaped like a dragonfly. “The pin is to remind you that you, like the dragon-fly, can change from a drab creature to a being of light and beauty,” Philippe had told her.
As she heard eight bells rings and readied herself to leave her cabin, it occurred to her that the dress was blue, the color of Captain Nyland's eyes. Is that why she'd chosen it? Though her reason for accepting the invitation was because of Jeremy, she couldn't help feeling flattered that the captain had singled her out for attention.
She walked along the lamp-lit corridor to the captain's cabin, where she hesitated outside the door, all at once unsure of herself. Perhaps she should have mentioned to Jeremy she was dining with the captain so he'd be sure to know. If Philippe hadn't still been confined to his cabin, recovering from seasickness, she would have told him, but he barely tolerated her intrusion when she came to bring him hot tea and soup. Who were the other guests? Could it be possible Jeremy might be one?