by Lily Silver
Once she had her emotions strangled into submission, Chloe turned slowly about to meet Elizabeth again. The pity on Elizabeth’s face should have brought comfort, but it only carved a deeper wound. “I’ve made a difficult decision. I mean to go abroad, Lizzie.”
“Why?” Elizabeth’s copper brows arched upward. Her eyes glittered with moisture and her voice thickened. “You are Gareth’s widow, a member of our family. We will always take care of you. There is no need for you to leave us, Chloe.”
“I’ve lived here all my life.” Chloe made a broad, sweeping gesture to encompass their surroundings, the island of Ravencrest. “Perhaps I’d like to see the world.” Chloe knew she was being sharper than necessary. It hurt to hear Elizabeth insinuate she must accept her life as it had been handed to her and that her place was here. Chloe had to get away. She had to start anew in a place where no one knew her secret shame.
“We’ll all go to England, one day, when Katie is old enough to travel. Or, we could go to Charleston, Chloe, visit his lordship’s mother for a few weeks, just you and I, and the children, of course. Alicia loves to see her grandchildren. We could leave them with her and explore the delights of Charleston together, shop, take in the theatre there …”
No. She did not wish to go to see the count’s mother, and certainly not with Elizabeth’s five children surrounding her on her journey. It would be just another day in her life, a day spent as Aunt Chloe, the tragic figure who’d lost both her husband and her only child. Nor did she wish to be fussed over by her deceased husband’s elder sister, made the object of pity during her stay in the woman’s home.
Chloe shored up her courage to confess the truth, at least a small part of it. “You ask me why I do not accompany you to the village or to the port city of Basseterre anymore. I tell you I don’t feel well or I have something to attend to. I remain at home because the islanders curse me when I pass in the street and call me horrible names. Oh, they don’t do it in your hearing, but they do find ways to let me know I am not welcome here.”
Anger flared in Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’ll take care of it, Chloe. I’ll make certain—”
“No!” Chloe cut her off. “I don’t wish you to take up my cause and reprimand the islanders. They hate me because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. My father never married my mother. You cannot change how they feel about me, Elizabeth. I have a family, in Spain. They won’t know I was the love child of the Spanish steward or that I married Richard O’Donovan’s bastard son. All they will know is that I’m the daughter of Juan Ramirez.”
“You are as a sister to me.” Elizabeth came close and reached up to smooth a strand of Chloe’s hair behind her ear. “I care for you. I don’t want you to run away.”
“If you truly care for me, then help me find my family, help me get to Spain.”
Chapter Four
Jack usually looked forward to invitations to dine at Ravencrest Plantation.
The empty place as Jack took his seat at the table was a sobering reminder of the loss the family had suffered this past year. The Beaumonts and the O’Donovans had welcomed Jack to their table with excellent food, fine wine and stirring conversation for nearly a decade. Tonight, the gathering lacked the vivacity and warmth Lady Elizabeth and Gareth provided. Lady Elizabeth was upstairs, recovering from childbirth.
Even so, it was a full table. The count was present, as was Gareth’s widow, Chloe O’Donovan. Lord and Lady Greystowe were visiting from England, with Lady Greystowe filling in as hostess for her husband’s sister as she sat across from the count at the opposite end of the table. Mr. Ambrose Duchamp, the count’s steward, was also in attendance. His presence was never an improvement.
Mr. Barnaby, an associate of the Greystowe’s, sat across from Jack. He appeared to be older than Noah but seemed to live forever in a state of grace. He had not aged a day since Jack first met the fellow on Christmas Eve of 1798.
Chloe O’Donovan sat next to Mr. Barnaby, across the table from Jack. She was quiet, subdued. He didn’t like seeing her this way. She had always been a vivacious and outgoing woman at table. He didn’t know what to say to her after her great loss. He didn’t know what to say to her now, so he found himself saying nothing. There had been many times this past year that she’d been absent from dinner when Jack visited. The poor woman had lost so much.
Looking away from her momentarily as the footman removed his empty plate, Jack noted Mr. Barnaby, that old meddler, was silently watching him.
Jack held the man’s potent gaze. It was as if he knew what Jack was thinking. He wanted to ask the old man what the hell he was staring at. The gathering was solemn enough without causing insult, so Jack ate the next course quietly and watched Chloe pick at her food. Barnaby watched him watch Chloe while the rest of the gathering struggled to make conversation.
When Gareth O’Donovan was alive the wine and philosophical arguments flowed freely among those present. Gareth had been a thoughtful and enthusiastic host where his nephew, the count, was typically somber and self absorbed at table. Jack’s animosity toward the fellow faded as the years went by and their scuffle on that particular Christmas Eve became a distant memory. He grew to admire Gareth O’Donovan for his wit and charm, and could easily understand how a young woman such as Chloe Ramirez had been so taken with the man.
Without Gareth’s natural charm or Lady Elizabeth’s sunny temperament to influence the gathering, they were all at the mercy of Elizabeth’s husband, the dark count. The count was a good fellow, a trifle too serious for his own good, but he was not one to stand on formality. He allowed those close to him, including Jack, to call him by his Christian name instead of his title. It was an equitable gesture, as Donovan Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, was born and raised in America and gained his title by default, through the death of a distant French relation.
Jack tried to appear interested in Donovan’s conversation, but he didn’t give two shillings about horse breeding. He was a seaman. Horses were useful for riding or pulling wagons. That was the extent of his interest in the creatures.
Donovan and Lord Greystowe were going on about the damned creatures as if they were magical. As they were the high-ranking nobles at table, none dared speak over them or change the topic, despite the listing interest of their assembled guests. The two men were partners in a new breeding venture so they tended to wax poetic about animals that swatted flies with their tails and dropped mountains of shit in the road for an unwary traveler to step in.
The men successfully crossed wild Irish ponies with fine Arabian lines. Their new breed, the Connemara Pony, was catching the attention of horsemen in both Europe and America. They were making a steep profit, never mind that both were already bloody stinking rich, without this added industry to enlarge their coffers. The pair were discussing a grand exhibition they were planning in Ireland while the rest of the dining party sat bored and distracted around them.
As Gareth’s empty chair was to Jack’s left, between himself and Lady Greystowe at the end of the table, Jack looked to his right. Mr. Duchamp, the thin, grim steward who had the demeanor of a grave-digger, was carefully prying the bones from his plate of steamed cod as if he were absorbed in an elaborate dissection. Jack could not stand the fellow, and could not think of a thing he wished to say to Mr. Duchamp.
Jack looked to the other end of the table, at his friend, the count.
Donovan noticed his questioning look. “You’ve seen them in action, Jack. And you are a gambling man. What do you think of our Connemara Ponies entering the races this year?”
Jack set his wine down with careful fingers and looked to his host. “I’ve sworn off gambling. Haven’t you heard?”
Donovan and Lord Greystowe exchanged an odd glance. Clearly they found his lack of interest in their endeavor to produce a new breed of horseflesh distressing.
“Never mind,” Donovan muttered when Jack didn’t sink into raptures over a horse.
“How is my lady?” Jack was more interes
ted in hearing about the countess and the new baby than talking about horseflesh. “Cherie has a baby sister. You are to be congratulated, my friend, another beauty to grace your home.” Jack smiled and lifted his glass as he looked about the table at the two women gathered there. “And you do seem to have a vast collection of lovelies, don’t you, my lord? A toast to the beauty and grace surrounding us.”
After they all drank to his toast, Lady Greystowe took up the conversation where it had lagged. “Sure, and now that our men are finished boring us all to tears with talk of their new breed, may I ask you a few questions, Captain Rawlings?”
“Of course, my lady.” He gave her a charming smile.
Lady Greystowe had auburn hair that possessed such a deep cast of crimson it was as if rich mahogany wood had been coated with blood. The affect was stunning. She had pale skin and bright, intelligent blue eyes.
“Let me assume my sister-in-law’s role as hostess and welcome you properly to our table. It is a pleasure to see you again, Captain Rawlings. I’ve heard intriguing stories about you from several sources.”
“I deny half of it, strictly on principle. The rest, I expect I cannot deny, no matter how much I might wish to.” Jack was ill at ease with Lord Greystowe’s sharp gaze upon him. He’d witnessed some bizarre things in Kieran O’Flaherty, Lord Greystowe’s presence. The man had the reputation of being an accomplished sorcerer, like Merlin of old. Jack didn’t doubt for a moment that if he weren’t careful regarding Mrs. O’Flaherty, the man might turn him into a lizard and squash him under his boot.
Lady Greystowe laughed at Jack’s quip, as did the rest of the gathering. Even the redheaded sorcerer seemed amused by Jack’s protests.
“I assure you, what I have heard is only complimentary,” Lady Greystowe demurred. “I am curious about you, sir. I’ve heard whispers about The Raven and Black Jack, rumors whispered in the shadows. How did the pair of you meet up in the Far East? You were both from America. What peculiar circumstances brought you together?”
She knew about them being pirates years ago? Jack shot Donovan a warning glare.
Donovan frowned, seeming irritated by her curiosity. Jack was simply worried.
Piracy was not something one spoke of openly. It was a serious crime.
“I was born and raised in Boston,” Jack explained, “I went to sea as a lad of twelve. I worked my way up through the ranks and eventually became a first mate and then a captain of my own ship …”
He hoped that by focusing on his seafaring history he’d bore the woman and she’d forget her question about his pirating days. As soon as he quit speaking about topsails collapsing in a hurricane, the wily woman returned the conversation to how he met Donovan Beaumont.
“And how did you come to meet my lord the count in the East Indies?”
“That’s my own affair.” Jack gave an exasperated sigh as he looked down the table to his host. Donovan could answer the woman’s cheeky questions. She was his damned houseguest.
Donovan was not amused. Jack could tell he was greatly perturbed by the conversation.
“My dear Rose,” Donovan began in a crisp tone, tracing a line across the tablecloth with the pointed edge of his knife. “Our past history is not something Jack and I wish to divulge. That subject is a closed one. Jack and I met in the east. We served together as merchant sailors. We became the best of friends during desperate times. We met in a time of war. Men never wish to speak of war or the horrors of battle, my lady. I’m certain you will understand.”
Lady Greystowe blinked and glanced about the table, as if suddenly aware that she may have crossed an invisible line. “Oh, forgive me, Donovan, Captain Rawlings … it’s just that … well … you do have a certain reputation. My nephew was given some noble and romantic ideas about your exploits some years ago by your servant so I’ve always wondered what circumstances brought the two of you to embrace such an adventurous life.”
“Rose,” Kieran, Lord Greystowe, said in a quiet undertone. “There are tragic circumstances. This isn’t a story to entertain the children, or a plot for one of your books.”
Jack cleared his throat and looked down at his half-empty plate. He felt as if he’d just inadvertently slapped the woman. He didn’t mean to be rude. She was curious, naturally so, as she’d heard more than most about their past. It was Donovan’s balmy manservant, Pearl, who had filled her nephew’s head with that bilge water and raised her curiosity.
“My wife is an authoress,” Lord Greystowe informed Jack and the remaining company. His pleased grin betrayed his pride. “A talented writer. Her first book was a stunning success, The Mysteries of Ireland. It is a collection of short stories about Ireland and accounts of mystical events in the land of our birth. She’s working on her second book ‘Enchanted Tales from The East’, and thus, she’s presently fascinated with the East Indies. She’s interviewed Pearl numerous times already during our stay here.”
That was why she was asking questions! Donovan’s manservant was always loose about the mouth, damn the idiot. Again, Jack cast a dark look in the direction of his friend. Donovan met his look and held it for a long moment before giving Jack a silent nod of assent.
“Yes,” Lady Greystowe appeared to rally her courage in light of her husband’s praise. “I was hoping to add a chapter about piracy in the East Indies. Young men, boys in particular, love a good pirate story. I’ve talked about the Jinn in the Arab lands, and pashas and the exotic temples in Ceylon and India, but I still need some material on pirates to finish out the book.”
“You and I might have a few private chats,” Donovan answered, seeing that Jack was agitated by Lady Greystowe’s inquiry. “I can tell you a few generic tales, Rose, but I insist on you keeping it anonymous. Unless you wish Jack and myself to be hung for past mistakes?”
“Oh, no,” Lady Greystowe paled considerably, her exuberance was severely dampened by Donovan’s caution. Donovan always did have a talent for making a fine point without mincing words. “I would never wish to endanger either of you,” she said to her brother-in-law, now duly reminded of the seriousness of her inquiries and its possible effect upon those who gave her the information she sought.
“I am still a sailor,” Jack went on, feeling the need to smooth the failed conversation. “I work for his lordship, I’m the captain of his merchantman, the Pegasus, and pleased to be so fortunate.” He looked down the table to his friend again and they exchanged a careful nod. “I’m married to the sea, as it were. I’d be willing to share a few stories about my adventures as a sea captain. We’ve had trouble with privateers here and there, if that would interest you?”
“Oh, certainly. Thank you, Captain,” Lady Greystowe returned. Her eyebrow arched slightly. “Married to a body of water? Why Captain Rawlings, that is positively disturbing. Do you not long for family, for a wife and children to come home to?”
Great Neptune. Conversing with this lady was akin to trying to step across a deck filled with lit cannon fuses linked to crates of gunpowder. She was a clever one, and very persistent in digging deep for a story.
“Jack was engaged. His fiancée died tragically,” Donovan said in a curt tone.
“Forgive me,” Lady Greystowe said with emotion. “I didn’t mean to stir up past hurts.”
“It was many years ago, my lady.” Jack replied. “I was engaged to a lovely woman named Amelia. A young lady with golden hair like a field of pale flax. She lived in Boston. Her father ran a mercantile specializing in rich silk cloth. Her father was going to sail to the East Indies to purchase silks. My Amelia went with him. Their ship was taken by Barbary pirates and she…” He paused, the bitter memory rising to the fore and clogging his throat.
He couldn’t tell this gentle woman his beloved had been sold to an Arab prince, as a concubine for his harem. He couldn’t tell Lady Greystowe he’d turned to piracy when he learned of her grisly death at the hands of her captor. Or that her brother-in-law, the respectable Count Rochembeau sitting opposite from her had
been a vicious pirate in those days, and had helped Jack wreak a prolonged and bloody vengeance upon Arab sailors for the death Jack’s beloved.
“She died before I could find her,” Jack said sharply and downed his wine in one long, desperate guzzle. He set the empty goblet on the table. A footman stepped forward to fill it again.
Murmurs of sorrow echoed around the table. Murmurs he didn’t wish to hear.
“Someday you will find true love again,” Mr. Barnaby, the old man, piped up with an annoyingly cheerful voice. He lifted his glass to Jack, seeming convinced of his forecast.
“I beg to differ,” Chloe, now the widow of Mr. O’Donovan, interjected, her subtle Spanish accent laced with bitterness. “You may find true love but you may not be able to keep it.” It was the first time she spoke this evening.
The gathering seemed startled by the fact that she had spoken at all.
“Love comes in many forms,” Old Barnaby countered. “A man or woman can have more than one love in a lifetime.”
“I fear you speak the truth,” Donovan quipped, as if to infuse hope into the sinking conversation. “My mother mourned my father for seventeen long years and then one day, out of the blue, love found her again.” There were a few chuckles and snickers about the table.
That was cause for hope, to be sure. Donovan’s mother, Alicia Beaumont, had married the former Ravencrest butler!
*
“Thank you, for rescuing my sorry ass,” Jack offered as he and Donovan retreated to Donovan’s laboratory, where the man conducted most of his business.