*
"Katy, all I'm trying to say is you'll jeopardize your chances for a proper marriage if this goes on much more. I only hope you have some idea of what you're about." Dalby Bedford leaned back in his chair and studied the head of his cane, troubled by his conflicting emotions. The night sounds from the compound outside, crickets and whistling frogs, filtered in through the closed jalousies.
He loved his daughter more than life itself. What's more, he had vowed long ago never to treat her as a child. And now . . . now that she no longer was a child, what to do? It was too late to dictate to her; the time for that was years ago. She was a woman now—she was no longer his little girl. She was no longer his.
They'd always been best of friends. In the evenings they'd often meet in the forecourt of the compound, where, after she was old enough to understand such things, they would laugh over the latest gossip from London: what pompous Lord had been cuckolded, whose mistress had caused a scene at court. He had never thought to warn her that, as a woman, she might someday have desires of her own.
But now, he was still her father, still worried over her, still wanted the right thing for her . . . and she was throwing away her best chance to secure a fine marriage—all for the company of a man whose rough manner he could not help but despise, however much he might respect his courage and talent.
Hugh Winston was the antithesis of everything Dalby Bedford stood for: he was impulsive, contemptuous of law and order. How could Katy be attracted to him, be so imprudent? Had she learned nothing in all their years together?
Dalby Bedford found himself puzzled, disturbed, and—yes, he had to admit it—a trifle jealous.
"Katy, you know I've never tried to interfere in what you choose to do, but in truth I must tell you I'm troubled about this Winston. Your carousing about with a smuggler is hardly demeanor fitting our position here. I fear it's already been cause for talk."
She set down the leather bridle she was mending and lifted her eyes, sensing his discomfort. "You'd suppose there were more important things for the island to talk about, especially now."
"What happens to you is important to me; I should hope it's important to you as well, young woman."
She straightened her skirt, and the edge of her crinoline petticoat glistened in the candlelight. "Hugh's a 'smuggler' when I'm out with him, but he's 'Captain Winston' when the militia needs a batch of raw ten-acre freeholders drilled in how to form ranks and prime a musket. I thought it was 'Captain Winston,' and not a 'smuggler' who's been working night and day helping keep trained gunners manning all the breastworks along the coast."
"There's no arguing with you, Katy. I gave that up long ago. I'm just telling you to mind yourself." He swabbed his brow against the heat of early evening and rose to open the jalousies. A light breeze whispered through the room and fluttered the curtains. "I'll grant you he's been a help to us, for all his want of breeding. But what do you know about him? No man who lives the way he does can be thought a gentleman. You've been out riding with him half a dozen times, once all the way over to the breastwork at Oistins. In fact, you must have passed right by the Walrond plantation. It's not gone unnoticed, you can be sure."
He settled back into his chair with a sigh and laid aside his cane. These last few days he had realized more than ever how much he depended on Katherine. "Anthony Walrond's a man of the world, but you can't push him too far. I'm just telling you to try and be discreet. In faith, my greater worry is that . . . that I'd sooner you were here with me more now. Between us, I think the fleet's going to try and invade soon. If not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after for certain. Talk has run its course. And if we've got to fight the English army on our own beaches, God help us."
He could sense the unity on the island dissolving. Many of the smaller planters were growing fearful, and morale in the militia was visibly deteriorating. Half the men would just as soon have done with the constant alerts and dwindling supplies. There was scarcely any meat to be had now, and flour was increasingly being hoarded and rationed. Cassava bread was finding its way onto the tables of English planters who a fortnight earlier would have deemed it fit only for indentures—while the indentures themselves, God knows, were being fed even less than usual. Without the steady delivery of provisions by the Dutch shippers, there probably would be starvation on Barbados inside a month. And with all the new Africans on the island, many militiamen were reluctant to leave their own homes unprotected. Little wonder so many of the smaller freeholders were openly talking about surrender.
"Katy, I hate to ask this, but I do wish you'd stay here in the compound from now on. It's sure to be safer than riding about the island, no matter who you're with."
"I thought I was of age. And therefore free to come and go as I wish."
"Aye, that you are. You're twenty-three and twice as stubborn as your mother ever was. I just don't want to lose you too, the way I lost her." He looked at her, his eyes warm with concern. "Sometimes you seem so much like her. Only I think she truly loved Bermuda. Which I'll warrant you never really did."
"It always seemed so tame." She knew how much he cherished those few years of happiness, before his long stretch of widowerhood in Barbados. "There's a wildness and a mystery about this island I never felt there."
"Aye, you were of your own opinion, even then. But still I've always been regretful I agreed to take this post." He paused and his look darkened. "Especially considering what happened on the trip down. If only I'd taken your mother below decks when the firing began, she'd still be with us."
"But she wanted to see the canoes." She picked up the bridle again. "I did too."
"Well, you've been a comfort to a dull old man—no, don't try and deny it—more than any father has a right to expect, I suppose. You became a woman that day your mother died, no question of it." The sparkle returned to his eyes. "You'd never do anything I told you after that. May God curse you with a daughter of your own someday, Katy Bedford. Then you'll know what it's like."
At that moment she wanted nothing so much as to slip her arms around his neck and tell him she would be his dutiful daughter forever. But she was no longer sure it was true.
"Now admit it to me, Katy. This is no time for pretense. You're smitten with this Winston, aren't you? I can see the change in you." He watched as she busied herself with the bridle, trying not to look surprised. "I realize you're a woman now. I suppose I can understand how a man like him might appeal to you. And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a bit of a dalliance. God knows it's fashionable in London these days. But your Winston's a curious fellow, and there're doubtless a lot of things about him neither of us knows." He looked at her. "I'm sure your mother wouldn't have approved, any more than I do."
"What does she have to do with this?" She knew he always invoked her mother's alleged old-fashioned views any time he couldn't think of a better argument.
"Perhaps you're right. What you do now is on my head, not hers." He paused, not wanting to meet her eyes. "I'll grant you I might have sowed a few wild oats myself, when I was your age. And I can't say I've entirely regretted it. The fact is, as I get older that's one of the few things from my early years I remember at all. After a while, all other memories fade." His voice drifted away. "And now, the way things have come to pass, these days may be the last either of us has left to . . ." He raised his hand suddenly, as though to silence himself. From down the hill came the faint crack of a musket, then another and another. Three shots.
They both waited, listening in the dim candlelight as the night sounds of crickets and frogs resumed once more. Finally he spoke.
"Well, there it is."
She rose and walked over behind his chair. She hesitated for a moment, then slipped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her cheek against his. There were so many things shed wanted to say to him over the years. Now suddenly it was almost too late, and still she couldn't find the words. She wanted to hold him now, but something still stopped her.
"I want to go with you." She grabbed the bridle and ran after him. To let him get away, with so much still unsaid. . . .
"No, you'll stay here, and for once that's an order." He took her hand and squeezed it. "I didn't tell you that five members of the Assembly have already called for surrender. Five out of twenty-two. I wonder how many more'll be ready to join them after tonight. If the Assembly votes to give in, Katy, you know it'll probably mean a trial in London for me." He kissed her on the cheek. "You'll have to look out for yourself then, and that'll be time aplenty to go chasing around the island in the dark." He drew back. "In the meantime, you'd best decide what you plan to do about this Winston fellow if that happens. Don't go losing your heart to him. He's a rogue who'll not do the right thing by you. Or any woman. Mark it. A father still can see a few things. He's already got one woman, that ship of his, and a seaman like that never has room for anyone else."
She had to concede that, in truth, there was something to what he said. Up till now shed been managing to keep things in balance. But was she starting to let desire overrule that better judgment? For the hundredth time she warned herself to keep her head.
"In the first place I don't wish to marry Hugh Winston. So it's just as well, isn't it, that he's got his ship. I see all too well what he is. I'm going to marry Anthony, and try and make the best of things." Her eyes hardened. "And secondly, we're not going to lose. You just have to delay the Assembly from voting a surrender. Hugh thinks the militia can drive them back."
"Aye, we may hold out for a time. We've got trained gunners for every breastwork on the west and south coasts. But how long before some of the militia starts defecting? Then what can we do? With guns at our backs as well . . ." He exhaled pensively. "By the way, on the subject of Winston, I've noticed something a trifle incongruous about that man. He appears to know a lot more about cannon and fortifications than a seaman reasonably ought, probably as much or more even than Anthony Walrond. Has he ever said where he learned it?"
"He never talks much about his past." She had found herself increasingly puzzled, and not a little infuriated, by Winston's secretiveness. Probably the only woman he ever confided in was Joan Fuller. "But sometimes I get the idea he may have learned a lot of what he knows from a Frenchman. Now and then he slips and uses a French name for something. I'd almost guess he helped a band of Frenchmen set up defenses somewhere in the Caribbean once."
Dalby Bedford quietly sucked in his breath and tried to mask his dismay. The only "band of Frenchmen" to fit that description would be the little settlement of planters on the French side of St. Christopher, or the Cow-Killers on Tortuga. And Hugh Winston hardly looked like a planter.
"Well, maybe it's just as well we don't know, Katy." He reached for his hat. "Now mind yourself, and make sure all the servants have muskets. Don't open the door to anyone." He pecked her quickly on the cheek. "Just be glad your friend Winston's frigate is aground. His 'other woman' is beached for now; try and keep her that way."
Suddenly James, their stooping, white-haired Irish servant pushed through the doorway from the paneled entry foyer. The night breeze set the candles flickering. "Excellency!" He bowed nervously. "Pardon me, Excellency. There's a . . . gentleman to see you. He just rode into the compound all in a sweat. Claims he's come up from Mistress Fuller's place."
Caribbee Page 18
