by Wylde, Anya
“So you are doing the falcon dance?” George asked in fascination.
“Yes, you see, you must bob and flap, bob and flap, and then bob, bob and flap, flap …”
“I beg you throw him overboard,” Celine pleaded in disgust.
“As you say,” George bowed and then picked up Philbert and threw him back into the water.
After a moment, Celine asked, “Do you think he knows how to swim?”
“I hope so,” George said looking down. He suddenly exclaimed, “Goodness.”
“What is it?”
“Your poet is climbing back up the rope. He ignored the boat bobbing next to his head.”
“He is a little persistent.”
“A little persistent?”
“A lot then. How will we get rid of him?”
“Leave it to me and follow my advice. I am skilled in the matters of love.” He threw a wink at her.
She rolled her eyes and nodded.
“Now tell him you love him,”
She didn’t question him but poked her head over the edge and told the dripping poet, “I love you.”
“Now tell him that you are so thankful that he still wants you, since you have nowhere else to go. The duke found out that you had visited him at The Devil’s Pitchfork which is no place for a lady. And now that you are on a pirate ship he will surely disown you rather than have his family name besmirched.”
Celine faithfully conveyed this to the poet.
“What is he doing now?” George asked.
“He has paused halfway. I think he is thinking things over.”
“Wonderful, now tell him you are going to climb down the ladder and together you can run away to Gretna Green. Thereafter, you can live in a small cottage covered with roses and live on peas, since the duke has refused to give you a dowry.”
Celine put a leg over the edge of the ship and once again repeated everything George had told her.
“Now what is he doing?”
“He is rapidly climbing down the rope,” she informed George and then called down to the poet, “What did you say? Speak louder.”
“What is he saying?” George asked hopping from foot to foot.
“He is saying goodbye. He suddenly recalled that a printer is waiting for him at the inn. He is now on a boat and sailing away.” She pulled out a handkerchief and waved to the departing poet, “Goodbye.”
“Was that fellow bobbing and flapping?” Penelope asked coming up behind her. “I knew it would catch on.”
“Penny, what in the world are you doing on the ship?” Celine screeched.
“I think it was highly unfair of you to expect me to stay in the carriage when all of you are here having fun on the ship. Where is Charles?”
“We have to rescue him,” Celine replied irritably. “Now the plan is that you will stay here. George will climb down the ladder and swim to the shore and get some help. Meanwhile, I will rescue the duke.”
“What am I supposed to do with him though?” George asked.
Celine turned to George, “Him? Who him?”
“Him,” George pointed behind himself.
Celine frowned and looked over George’s shoulder and gasped.
One Legged Tim being a good head shorter than George had been standing and listening to them for some time. And all through that time he had kept a fully loaded gun digging into George’s fourth lumbar vertebrae.
Chapter 32
Celine’s eyes widened in fright.
“Don’t be scared,” George told her. “I can handle this.”
“How?” she asked, her heart beating fast and loud.
George grinned. His hand shot up, gripped Tim’s wrist and twisted it.
The gun slipped out of Tim’s fingers and into George’s waiting hand.
George pocketed the gun and spun on the spot. He spun so fast that Celine could barely see him, and while he was spinning, his leg shot out and kicked Tim’s sole leg.
With a howl of annoyance, Tim crashed to the ground.
George dipped in an elegant bow, his dimple winking in satisfaction. It had taken him but a moment to win that particular battle.
Penelope clapped her hands in pleasure, “Oh, that was wonderful. Now do that again with the rest of them,” she begged.
Celine turned to look at what Penelope meant by the rest of them.
She gulped.
The Black Rover with his menacing grey eyes, cruel lips and scarred cheek stood a few steps away flanked by at least thirty of his men.
The duke, too, stood in one corner staring at his wife in horror.
Somehow people always congregate where the action is. If two strangers start a brawl in the middle of the road, then magically a large crowd surrounds them. Here on the ship it was no different. Every one of the Black Rover’s men and Penelope’s blushing maids that were aboard The Desperate Lark raised their noses up in the air and smelled that something was afoot. They followed the scent and quickly arrived on the deck to witness the unfolding events.
“I wonder,” the Black Rover mused scratching his cheek with the gun, “who to shoot first.”
“You can keep me and let the rest go. I stole the recipe not them,” George said stepping forward.
Celine’s heart melted at her brave George. He was so sweet, she thought lovingly, wanting to give up his life to save them. She was pleased at how responsible he had become recently, though she had to admit she adored his mischievous side as well.
“I think Elmer is right,” the duke spoke up. “Keep him.”
“No, I have a better proposition,” a new voice spoke up.
With the advent of this new voice, the wind seemed to perk up and pick up speed.
Everyone turned towards the spot from where the voice had originated. They spotted a man’s hat slowly appearing over the edge of the ship.
The sun shone brighter and the early morning air became crisper as more and more of the black, exquisitely crafted hat came into view.
Everyone sharply sucked in air when the smooth dark forehead greeted them. The men straightened and the women brightened with the arrival of the nose. Ladies and gentlemen quivered in suppressed excitement when finally the lips and the chin emerged.
Lord Adair’s handsome looks and strong physique blasted them all in the face forcing a few to close their eyes against the beauty of it all. Three maids swooned and some of the pirates were moved to proclaim their patriotic side by shouting,
“May England’s enemies be pickled in brine.”
“Porcupine filled saddles to England’s foes.”
“Let the brains of the enemy bumfuzzle and their mouths fill with rotting fish from Billingsgate.”
Lord Adair smiled and gracefully swung onto the deck followed by Nithercott and six old women.
“I have a proposition,” Lord Adair repeated in a dark hypnotic voice.
The Black Rover ignored him, his eyes on the shortest of the old women. “Ma, ye have returned,” he said worriedly.
The four feet tall, wrinkled person standing behind Lord Adair eyed her six feet five inches son in disgust, “Willy, what is this I hear, ye have decided to murder a duke? What shall become of yer future if ye go around killing important people? How many times have I told ye to choose yer victims carefully?”
“Can you please not call me Willy, Ma? At least not in front of them.”
“I shall call ye what I like. And it was never this curly haired lad’s fault. Lord Adair explained it all to me. Belcher made him drink. But ye, Willy, what excuse do ye have? What sort of a pirate allows an important artefact to be stolen under his watch?”
The Black Rover wilted, his mouth turning petulant. “I said I am sorry, Ma, what more do you want. I have your recipe back now.”
Sordid Sandy placed her hands on her hips, a sign that she was settling in for a good long scold.
The Black Rover eyed his men from the corner of his eyes and hastily whispered, “Don’t scold now. Not in front of them. My r
eputation is already wavering after the way you went on and on … I will have to shoot someone now, ma, to build it all back up. You have left me with no other choice.”
His mother shrugged, “Do as ye like, but quickly now. I haven’t had me breakfast yet.”
The Black Rover hurriedly agreed. His gaze swept over the assembled interlopers finally settling on the duke.
Penelope waddled forward and took her place in front of her husband, “I would like to offer you someone remarkable in return for our freedom,” she said bravely. “He will keep your crew entertained for hours, or you can shoot him. We won’t mind either way. His name happens to be Philbert Woodbead and he is a brilliant poet. I saw him row away but a moment ago. If you look—Arrgh,” she finished on a scream.
The Black Rover watched Penelope patting her belly nervously. “Do you have a babe in their?”
“No, I ate a horse on the way over,” Penelope replied, her eyes red and her breath coming in shallow gasps.
“Har har,” the Black Rover laughed in forced amusement.
No one joined him, their attention on Penelope who was now clutching her belly with both hands, her eyes squeezed shut and her face alarmingly scrunched up.
The captain stopped laughing and eyed the duchess fearfully. “When is the baby coming?”
“Now,” Penelope replied.
“You mean soon?” the Black Rover asked hopefully.
“No, I mean now,” Penelope insisted, glaring at the captain.
“What do you mean now?” the duke asked rushing to his wife.
“I am having the baby now,” Penelope repeated through gritted teeth, “and don’t you dare make me say so again.”
“You can’t,” everyone screeched in horror. “Not on the pirate ship!”
Penelope replied with a full throated yell, “Oh, this … blasted, blooming, rotten, flea bitten, beastly farting crackers. This hurts.”
“No, no, Penny. You cannot do this now. I cannot have my child born on a pirate ship. You stay in there,” the duke begged her belly.
“Get a chair,” the Black Rover roared, his hands twisting together nervously, “with cushions.”
“Get her some water,” George shouted. “Hot water.”
“Bollocks.” screeched Penelope.
Sordid Sandy pulled out a gun from between the valley of her bosom and fired three times into the air. When all became quiet, she said, “It is time for someone older, wiser and more experienced to take charge. The baby is coming,” she told the duke, “no matter how much you beg, plead or pray.”
“But Dr Johnson, the midwife—” The duke was cut short by another curse from Penelope.
“Get Willy’s chamber ready,” Sandy ordered the six old women who were her lady’s maids. “I want plenty of clean sheets, water, rum, a knife, and anything else you can think off.” Next, she turned to the young maids who had arrived with Penelope, “Carry the duchess to the room at once.”
“She is my wife, I will carry her,” the duke warned striding up to the duchess.
The maids fell back and allowed him room to approach.
He went and put his arms around her legs. He heaved, pulled, exhaled and inhaled without moving an inch. He finally gasped out, “I will carry her with some help.”
Thereafter, the writhing, screaming duchess was swiftly carried by the duke with the help of eleven maids into the Black Rover’s private chamber. Celine raced after them.
“I want all the men to leave and anyone else who has a weak stomach or swoons at the sight of blood,” demanded Sandy.
All the old women stayed, while six of the eleven young maids departed dragging the reluctant duke with them.
The door was closed, and Sandy after lighting plenty of candles turned to Penelope, “Strip out of yer clothes, wrap this sheet around yerself and open yer legs.”
“No,” Penelope replied in shock. “Not in front of everyone.”
“Babe is squished inside. It will need space to come out.”
“Does it have to come out between my legs?” Penelope asked.
“You could try and push is upwards and coax it out of yer nose, but I don’t think yer nostril is big enough,” Sandy chuckled.
Penelope did not laugh.
After that things progressed fairly slowly. Celine watched Penelope cuss creatively for what seemed like hours. A lot of prodding and poking occurred followed by some more screaming. When Penelope ran out of her more dignified oaths, Sandy taught her some shocking new ones. Most of the verbal abuse was aimed at the poor duke who stood outside, his ears glued to the door listening to every single word.
The sun inched upwards in the sky, sweat glistened on foreheads, and Penelope had no more energy left than to whimper every now and then. She tossed uncomfortably on the bed while the rest of the women breakfasted, sipped hot drinks and sang songs to please gods and hurry things along.
Once breakfast was over, Sordid Sandy looked refreshed and eager to attack the task ahead. She bounced around the room shouting orders. She made Penelope squat, kneel, sit on her hind legs and finally lie down flat on her back in the hopes of hastening the birth.
Penelope, tired out, slept for the next ten minutes while Sordid Sandy still bubbling over with energy turned her attention towards the maids and told them to lie on their backs and kick their heels in the air. Soon they had progressed to dancing around the bed.
“Is this necessary?” Celine asked as she hopped from foot to foot with her hands on her waist.
“I am trying to please the gods and speed things up,” Sordid Sandy replied crisply.
“Is the duchess in danger?” Celine asked anxiously.
“No, but soon it is going to be time for my snooze. I would rather not forgo that.”
Penelope woke to find flushed sweaty faces prancing in front of her eyes. The short sleep had done her good filling her with a burst of energy.
“Can I walk for a few minutes?” Penelope requested.
Sandy nodded, and with that single nod things spiralled out of control.
Celine watched what happened next in horror.
Two maids helped Penelope off the bed. Penelope stood up on shaky legs, her teeth biting down on dry lips. A single sheet was wrapped around her completely covering the upper part of her body but leaving her naked below the knees.
Sordid Sandy was not part of the London social circle. Hence, she had no idea that an upper class woman should be covered from head to foot and hidden behind curtains in a smoky, hot dark room at the time of giving birth. She did what she felt would keep the duchess most comfortable.
Celine, too, looking at Penelope’s red face decided not to mention Mrs Beatle’s chapter on confined ladies and birthing rituals for the elite.
Penelope prowled around the room, her steps cautious and her expression lethal. Everyone watched her hesitant steps become more confident.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Penelope started to say with a smile …
The rest of the words froze in her throat, her face turned white and she looked down in horror.
The room stilled as they eyed the spot between the duchess’ legs, the spot that was visible below the sheet and between the knees.
A heartbeat later everyone watched in shock as a lot of blood, gore, and with no prior notice … the baby gushed out.
Sordid Sandy was the only one who had the wits to move, and good god did she move. The wizened woman dived across the room and neatly caught the newborn babe in her arms before it could hit the floor.
The babe gave a full throated yell wrenching everyone out of their stunned state. A few maids snapped to attention and flew to see to the duchess, while some rushed to attend to the babe.
Celine paused long enough to ascertain that both mother and child were healthy before backing away towards the door. She pressed her lips together and flung the door open. She had to escape before she swooned.
George stuck his head inside, peeked over Celine’s head and turned grey.
Celine pushed him out and weakly congratulated the duke. It seemed the pirates and the duke had become friends, for outside a feast was already in progress with plenty of rum doing the rounds.
“Was it a boy or a girl?” Lord Adair asked coming up to sit beside her and George.
“Hmmblurg,” Celine mumbled, too busy guzzling a glass of rum.
After a minute of silence and wanting to desperately change the topic and erase the memory of the birth from her mind forever, she asked, “Will the pirates let us leave?”
Lord Adair smiled, “They will, for I have given the Black Rover an authorised letter from the sovereign declaring him to be a privateer. He is more than pleased with the promotion.”
Celine understood not a word of what he said, but nevertheless she nodded. All she cared about now was being allowed to leap overboard into the cold water to wash away what she had witnessed from her mind.
“We will never have a baby,” George’s white lips suddenly announced.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” she replied turning to him in relief.
“Never,” he repeated.
“Ever,” she echoed.
They smiled at each other.
Lord Adair tactfully left them alone.
George watched Lord Adair’s beautifully crafted shoes walk away. “I know you are in love with me,” he informed her.
All thoughts of the birthing flew out of her mind. “How can you be so sure?” she asked, her voice sounding high pitched and odd to her ears.
A dimple winked in his cheek, “You swam across to save me when you are terrified of water. You gave me your knitting needles to protect myself. You forgot to tie your hair back, you no longer care about propriety, you raced across England on horseback in order to save me and that too from pirates, you smell terrible—”
“Do you?” Celine cut in.
He understood what she was asking, “I came here to return the recipe, I promised my mother I will come home, I am planning to spend my life learning to be the Earl of Devon. What do you think, Amy? Why would I agree to live a deuced responsible life?”