Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  Shrugging on her wrap, Bathsheba twitched aside one of the voiles. The street had grown quieter, but for the gulls fighting over discarded scraps and a group of children playing atop the harbour wall. It was cooler now, with the sun dipping, but still warm enough that she was in no hurry to dress again.

  Hattie had returned with the tea and was pouring them both a cup. “A nice fragrant blend, and freshly sliced lemon to go with it.”

  “That’s lovely, Hattie. Just what I need.” Bathsheba settled herself on one of the rattan chairs and took a sip.

  “It’s not half bad, this place. The restaurant’s done out quite fancily—chandeliers and gilded mirrors, and proper linens on the tables. There’s a French chef, even!”

  Bathsheba smiled into her cup. Hattie could always be relied upon to find out what was what.

  “Now, you enjoy that cuppa, m’lady, and I’ll lay out your rose silk. I’d wager a five pound note that all heads will be turned your way this evening.”

  “Really, Hattie.” Bathsheba gave her a reproving look. The girl was always making a fuss over who might cross their path, and whether some eligible-looking man might be giving her the eye.

  It was too embarrassing! Not to mention, ridiculous.

  Bathsheba was well past her twenty-seventh birthday and one marriage had been quite enough. Not that Lord Asquith had mistreated her—quite the contrary. He’d lavished her with expensive gifts and given her all the things women professed to desire, but, despite her husband’s material generosity and gentleness of disposition, Bathsheba had found the married state… She fought for the right word among so many that sprang to mind.

  Dissatisfying was perhaps the most honest.

  It was said that marriage was built upon mutual respect and understanding, and there was a deal of sense in that, Bathsheba knew, so it shouldn’t have mattered that Reginald hardly visited her bedchamber.

  But her discontent hadn’t stemmed solely from their lack of physical intimacy.

  As a wife, she’d imagined greater liberty, and she’d gained that, to some extent, in the management of her household—but those freedoms hadn’t lead anywhere.

  Attending the same events, meeting the same people, and having more-or-less the same conversations, she’d simply done so in more expensive gowns, and wearing a great many more jewels.

  In matter of fact, Bathsheba had instructed Hattie to leave her best clothes in London, along with most of her jewellery.

  There would be no elegant musical evenings nor Society soirees to attend in New Guinea—a fact that filled Bathsheba with unmitigated delight. She’d attended enough of those vapid gatherings to last a lifetime.

  From now on, only her most practical clothes would be needed, and in the lightest fabrics, to suit the climate they were coming to.

  However, once onboard ship, Bathsheba had discovered one of her most luxurious gowns folded within her trunk. Its adornment of tiny amethysts, sewn across the span of the yoke and through the bodice, was far too lavish—even for the dining arrangements on board the S.S. Adelphine—but Hattie had been adamant that she shouldn’t travel without such a dress.

  “The Fairfax Hotel mightn’t be The Savoy, but you never know who you’ll meet. Besides which, you look very well in it, m’lady.”

  Hattie gave a sniff. “Ooh! I nearly forgot! The nice concierge at the front desk gave me this—” Hattie pulled an envelope from her pocket. In looping hand, it was clearly addressed “Lady Asquith”. “It was left some weeks ago, he says, by him as booked the rooms for us—your brother, m’lady.”

  Hurriedly, Bathsheba set aside her cup and took hold of the letter.

  How well organised Sebastian was; of course, he’d left a note for her. No doubt, it contained the instructions for her transfer to the Vuru camp.

  Tearing it open, she read.

  July 27th, 1898

  Dearest B

  So much has happened since our last communication. I pray this finds you well, and arrived safely in Moresby after your long sail. Knowing that you are already upon the seas, I leave this at the Fairfax, hoping it will find you on your arrival.

  There is so much to tell you, but I must begin with the saddest news any brother may impart to his sister—that our father passed into the next life some ten days ago. The malaria he contracted as a young man had plagued him always, but his constitution had weakened these past months.

  Please know that the final days of his illness were swift and without pain, thanks to our small supply of laudanum.

  My intent is to continue his work, though not at Vuru.

  A fierce stroke of luck has come my way. Among the many stories and superstitions we’ve recorded, there is one I cannot rid from my mind.

  Perhaps I would have lacked the will to pursue this call if our father needed me still for his own work, but his death brings freedom—to explore where no other European has ventured.

  I begin a journey of my own on the morrow, to Vanuaka—a place shrouded in mystery, of which the Vuru fishermen are reluctant to speak, and no boat there will take me.

  Accordingly, I’ve returned to Moresby and have found a crew willing to set sail, carrying myself and two of our Vuru team. Even so, the men are to give me but one week, while the boat remains offshore. It shall be enough, I hope, to discover something of the residents of this remote and unstudied place, and to dispel the myth of what others dread.

  If I may forge a bond with the native islanders, we might return—you and I.

  Whatever comes to pass, I should be back in Moresby before September is out, in good time for your arrival. Nevertheless, I leave this note—for who can vouch for the weather, or some other matter causing delay.

  I shall not speak of other outcomes but, should I fail to see you again, sweet sister, please understand that a man must pay heed to his heart, and mine cannot rest until it has ventured where others have feared to go.

  A sum remains with the Fairfax, to provide accommodation for you and to purchase a berth back to England, should I not return.

  But I wish not to dwell on such gloomy thoughts.

  The greatest adventures are yet to come, and my stories shall be yours, when we meet again.

  Yours, with love

  Sebastian

  Bathsheba sat very still for some moments.

  Her father dead? How could that be?

  Hadn’t he known she was coming? No matter the illness, wouldn’t he have found the strength to wait for her?

  All these years, he’d existed more in her imagination than in reality, but she’d been about to change that. They were going to be united again. There was supposed to be time.

  And Sebastian.

  He’d said he’d be waiting for her, too.

  What was he thinking, setting off without her? All their adventures were going to be together.

  She scanned back to the top of the letter: July 27th.

  More than ten weeks ago, and Sebastian had promised to be back well before the end of September.

  Her hand was trembling as the paper fluttered to the floor.

  Where was he?

  Chapter Two

  Meanwhile, in a dark corner of The Fairfax Hotel lounge…

  The ginger-sour warmth of the liquor was doing its work; two glasses in, the ache down his side had abated. As long as he took only shallow breaths, the pain was bearable. Alcohol never solved anything, but it damn well made him feel better, and it had been a hell of a day.

  Goytacaz’s men had landed a good few kicks to his ribs once they’d gotten him down, and the worst of it was that he’d had to lie there and take it.

  The ship they’d boarded, headed to the German side of New Guinea, hadn’t been carrying anywhere near as many guns as the tip-off had indicated.

  Not enough to clear Jorge’s debt.

  And he’d been given only a short reprieve to find the rest.

  He’d been doing fine until that squall had hit just east of Cairns. They’d lost the main mast and th
ree crew overboard, not to mention four hundred bottles of French brandy smashed in the hold.

  Limping into harbour, he’d sold what remained of the brandy to pay for repairs but it’d left them in an impossible position. Half the profit on the brandy was due to Signor Goytacaz.

  Jorge had been running small jobs for him these past three months to pay back what was owed, and the munitions had been supposed to make them square. If he didn’t come up with the money soon, his ship would be forfeit—and it would be his own damn fault.

  Angrily, he poured another five fingers of bourbon and knocked them back, wincing as the liquor washed over the split in his lip. Too many people were depending on him. Not just the crew but the islanders back on Tukalu.

  Besides which, Goddamn it, that ship had been handed down by his father, and by his grandfather before that. Over his dead body would he let someone take The Marguerite.

  “The pink muslin, Hattie, and don’t bother with the corset.”

  “But, m’lady, it’s not proper!” Hattie gaped, open-mouthed. “I can’t let you go downstairs half-dressed.”

  Bathsheba waved away her protests. “I don’t have time to worry about that, Hattie. Now, please, just help me.”

  While Hattie looked through the trunk for the dress, Bathsheba pulled on clean underthings.

  “It could do with a press.” Hattie frowned as she shook it out. “I wasn’t expecting—”

  “It’s fine.” Bathsheba stepped into the skirts and turned her back to let Hattie deal with the buttons.

  It wouldn’t do to panic.

  She’d only to keep calm.

  People didn’t disappear or, at least, not people like Sebastian.

  She need only find out which ship he’d hired. If it had returned, it must have done so with him on board. The mystery would soon be solved.

  Someone would know, surely; someone would help her.

  Hurrying downstairs, Bathsheba presented herself at the front desk.

  Taking deep breaths and reminding herself to stay calm, she forced herself to summon up a pleasant expression.

  From his chair, the elderly concierge smiled back, adjusting his glasses upon his nose. “Good afternoon, Madam. What can I be helping you with?”

  “I need to find out something… about ships leaving the harbour… and who might be on them.”

  “Ships?” The concierge looked troubled. “There’re lots of ships.”

  “Yes, I know but…” Bathsheba clenched her fists in frustration. Where should she begin? “I need to know which ship my brother left on, about ten weeks ago.”

  “Your brother, ahhh…” The concierge smiled again, an indulgent look upon his face. “You’d best ask him, hadn’t you. He’ll know which ship it was.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Despite the ceiling fan above them, Bathsheba felt a rush of heat, making her head pound. “He’s still on the ship. At least, I hope he is.” Her throat had grown thick, making it difficult to swallow, so that her words came out half-strangled. “I…I need to find out.”

  “There’re lots of ships.” The elderly man smiled again, looking bemused.

  Bathsheba fought back the prickling behind her eyes.

  She would not cry!

  There would be a way to find out. She just needed to find the right person to ask. At the harbour, perhaps. There would be a harbour master, wouldn’t there? He’d have a record of the ships passing in and out.

  But not necessarily the passengers, nor the destinations.

  The room swayed, obliging her to grab hold of the desk’s edge.

  “You alright, madam? You look like you need to lie down.” The concierge peered at her. “’Tis the heat, most likely. Does strange things to the brain, does the heat.”

  “Yes… I mean, no. No, I don’t want to lie down.” Bathsheba swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”

  What was a person supposed to do in these situations? What helped? She needed clarity.

  Lord Asquith had sworn by a tot of brandy to restore the senses.

  Brandy. Yes.

  Reginald had given her some after she’d taken a tumble from her horse. Nothing had been broken, but she’d gone all to jelly.

  Bathsheba felt like that now.

  The hotel would have brandy, wouldn’t it, or something similar? She’d sit down and drink the brandy, just as Reginald had made her do, and then gather her thoughts again.

  Taking careful steps, she managed to cross the marble-floor to the glass doors of the residents’ lounge. The clock in the vestibule chimed six as she pushed them open.

  Dusk was only just falling, but the room was almost dark, its velvet drapes pulled shut against the low-slanting western rays.

  Bathsheba blinked and looked about.

  Several gentlemen were already seated, smoking their cigars and reading their newspapers. Two were playing chess but even they looked up as she entered.

  All heads swivelled in her direction.

  Biting her lip, Bathsheba made her way to an empty seat. What was one supposed to do? A long, polished wood bar stretched almost the length of the room. Behind it, there was an array of bottles, and a barman, polishing glasses. She didn’t have to stand up, surely, and ask for what she wanted. The thought filled her with dread—to have everyone watch her while she asked for strong liquor.

  She ought to leave; ask the concierge to send something to her room instead. But the thought of returning upstairs seemed worse than remaining here. It would be like hiding—and she had nothing to be ashamed of. If the men could enjoy a glass of something, why shouldn’t she?

  Besides which, the brandy would be medicinal.

  Fortunately, she was spared further dilemma by the appearance of a waiter, bringing a decanter and four glasses to a group of men playing cards.

  Seeing her, he came over.

  Bathsheba sat up very straight, making herself say it, though her request came out in the most hushed of tones. “A brandy, please.”

  “Of course; a large measure?” The waiter’s voice was anything but hushed. The man seated nearest definitely smirked.

  Bathsheba shrank in her seat. “Whatever’s usual.”

  “Yes, madam.” The waiter cast an appraising eye over her, his gaze lingering in the vicinity of her bosom, before moving off, one eyebrow cocked.

  The audacity! Just because she wasn’t wearing her foundation garment!

  Bathsheba pulled herself upright again, her cheeks burning. It didn’t make her slovenly, or loose-moralled. Besides which, what business was it of anyone but herself.

  It was madness to strap oneself up in whalebone with the humidity as it was. Should she make herself uncomfortable just so other people wouldn’t be affronted?

  To hell with that!

  There were more important things than bloody corsets. In fact, while she remained in New Guinea, there would be no more corset wearing.

  As the waiter returned, she shot him a defiant look, took the glass from the salver and knocked back the contents in one great gulp.

  The effects were immediate. Fire burned through her chest, making her gasp and cough. She shook her head against the shock of it, her eyes wide with surprise.

  Reginald had gotten her to sip the brandy that first time. Now she knew why. Except that, now the stuff was down, it was certainly heartening. Strange laughter bubbled up from inside, making her cough again.

  “Is madam, alright?” The waiter was looking down his nose at her again.

  “Perfectly, thank you, and I’ll have another one. Just the same size.” She smiled tightly at his retreating back, and offered the same to the two men looking up from their chess board.

  A terrible urge sprung up within her to poke out her tongue, but she squashed it swiftly. That really would be going too far. She was entitled to not wear a corset, and to partake of drink. She might even light a cigar, if she felt so inclined, but there was no excuse for rudeness.

  Naughty children stuck out their tongues, not ladies of
the British realm—even when they were dealing with situations of acute emotional distress.

  The brandy was certainly going some way to making her feel braver, more like herself, in fact—or the self she ought to be. Someone who wouldn’t let these sour-faced men deter her from what needed to be done.

  This time, when the waiter returned, Bathsheba looked him full in the eye, leant forward conspiratorially, and put the same question she’d addressed to the concierge: was there someone who knew the comings and goings of the harbour vessels—someone “in the know”.

  Ages ago, she’d read a novel where someone had said that and winked. She considered having a go and fluttered one eyelash, but it only made her nose wrinkle up. Quickly, she brought out her handkerchief to conceal the peculiar squinching.

  The waiter looked perturbed.

  Damn. He really will think I’m mad, and ask me to leave. Bathsheba gazed into the brandy despondently.

  But the waiter didn’t say anything. Nor did he move away, except to angle himself slightly and cast his eyes to the very back of the lounge. Bathsheba squinted through the cigar smoke.

  Bending to wipe at an imaginary mark on the side table, he murmured something.

  “Silver?” Bathsheba sucked in her breath. He wanted payment? That was a bit rich, seeing as he hadn’t yet told her anything.

  “Signor de Silva,” the waiter hissed and rolled his eyes, then jerked his head. There was no doubt he was indicating someone at the far end of the room. Someone sitting in a booth rather than an armchair, with just his leg poking out.

  A booted leg.

  And, for the briefest moment, a dark face dipping into view.

  “Oh, I see. Very good, thank you.”

  The wink really had worked.

  Bathsheba nodded to the waiter and, slightly unsteadily, got to her feet. Taking her glass with her, she processed across the plush carpet of the Fairfax Hotel lounge. Judgmental eyes were still upon her but she lifted her chin and did her best to look purposeful.

  Nothing mattered but Sebastian.

  No matter who this person was, if he knew something that would help her find her brother, she had to talk to him. She had money, after all—and money bought information.