“Josephine—Jo. Are you all right? What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching to brush a tear from her cheek with a calloused thumb. The tender gesture should have made her cry harder. Instead it irrationally made her angry. How could he push her away one day and then seek to console her when he was the reason she was upset?
“Nothing is wrong,” she said shortly. “I’m going to my cabin to prepare to go ashore. I am anxious to find Monsieur Pallet and learn what news he has.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seen in the city until we know—” Ford wisely stopped speaking at her glare.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice as frosty as she could manage, though her throat was clogged with tears.. She brushed past him and did not turn back even when he called after her.
An hour later when the ship was docked and tied off, Jo emerged from her cabin, corseted tightly, petticoats fluffed, and hair in place.
She’d grown accustomed to the freedom her island dress had afforded her. Her stays now felt a bit like a cage. Nonetheless, she felt it was important to wear her own clothes when she learned her fate. Hopefully Monsieur Pallet would be here already and she would learn if she was to be charged with murder or assault.
Ford frowned when he saw her. “I still think it would be wiser for you to remain on board.”
“I would hear my fate directly,” she said as firmly as she could manage. She was still so sensitive to Ford’s presence and acutely aware of the breach between them that it was difficult to force herself to sound businesslike.
He said nothing more, only turned and spoke to his men who were checking the pistols tucked in their belts and adding various knives and clubs to their armament.
Jo approached Odysseus who was loading a revolver.
“Surely Havana is not so dangerous that you all must equip yourselves like a small army simply to escort one woman.”
Odysseus glanced up at her in surprise. “These are not for your protection.”
“Then what—”
“Slavery is still legal in Cuba. Havana has many slave markets. The weapons are to ensure that our captain and Bodega and Boussa are not mistaken for escaped slaves.”
Jo felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She gripped Odysseus’ arm.
“They must not put themselves at such risk! Why do they not stay aboard the ship?” She glanced about until she located Ford. He wore a well-tailored coat and waistcoat. His cravat was simply tied, his boots polished to a high sheen. He looked every inch the successful businessman, except for the bandolier slung across his chest and the bulge at his hips betraying his weapon.
She looked back to Odysseus, who shrugged with his customary Slavic fatalism.
“They are not necessarily safer on the ship.”
“Then why did we come here? Surely we could have met Monsieur Pallet somewhere else!” she cried.
“The captain must sell his cargo, no? Besides, there are freedmen in Cuba as well. It is just…prudent to be cautious.” And with that he turned to give orders to another crewmember.
Ford approached her, indicating they should depart. Jo grabbed his arm. “Mr. Odysseus told me it might not be safe for you in Havana.”
“Odysseus talks too much,” Ford said, his expression hardening.
“Send men in your stead,” she implored. “I will be—” She stopped abruptly as he turned narrowed eyes on her. After an uncomfortable moment, Jo shook her head, realizing her argument was hopeless as Ford took it as a challenge to his ability to keep himself and his men safe. She followed the men over the gangway.
Once out of the docks, she could see Havana was much larger than St. Kitts, and much more developed. They walked up a narrow brick-lined street. Two- and three-story buildings on either side housed shops and other businesses. Balcony window boxes and the occasional line of laundry indicated living apartments above. Jo craned her neck to take everything in. The action made the ground tilt beneath her and she stumbled. A warm hand caught her elbow and she glanced up with a smile of thanks. When she discovered Ford at her side, it faltered.
“It will take you a while to regain your land legs,” he said and she recognized the olive branch for what it was.
“The ground does feel like it is riding upon a wave,” she agreed, relieved to have a normal conversation with him. “How long does it usually take to get used to walking on land again?” she asked, eager to keep him talking.
“A day, perhaps two.”
“Just in time to go back on the ship?”
He smiled. “Only if Pallet is on time.”
Jo was desperate to know her fate, but she was also loath to part company with Ford. Suppose Monsieur Pallet had orders to bring her back under arrest? Suppose she’d been cleared of any charges and was free to return to Theo’s house to resume her quiet life of daily walks to the market and long, even quieter nights of reading or embroidery by candlelight.
When she’d arrived in St. Kitts after escaping Thomas Kent, such a routine had been a balm to her bruised mind and soul. Now, however, she was a woman who had survived a brush with a hurricane, who had stitched torn flesh and ripped sails. She was a woman who’d fallen in love with a man who was the exact opposite of Thomas Kent. She did not think she could return to that quiet life of keeping house for her brother.
The narrow street they were on opened onto a wide plaza filled with children, pigeons, and carts of produce. Jo wanted to slow down and take it all in, but Ford and his band pressed on more quickly. They turned on to a much wider avenue lined with large buildings stuccoed in white, cream, and pale yellow. Trees stood sentinel in an unending row down the middle of the street.
Jo tried to look in every direction, not only to take in the sights, but because it seemed they must expect attack at any moment. Ford led their group confidently. He did not appear to be looking left or right. Nor did his men, she realized. Glancing around again, she saw that while there were black men who appeared to be slaves, there were also a few who seemed to be shop owners. One finely dressed man with dark skin strode out of a bank building, hat at a jaunty angle and walking stick in hand. As if avoiding a mud puddle, he stepped around the slave woman who bore a cloth-wrapped bundle atop her head while various other bundles were strapped to her body. She frowned as she tried to reconcile the two opposing images and wondered if she could summon the courage to ask Ford how he felt about slavery. It was easy for her to think of it being something from the past since England had never allowed it on home soil and had made it illegal more than twenty years earlier. Still, Spain still allowed it as did the United States and many other countries. As she began to consider it, she found herself feeling nauseous. What must Ford or the other black sailors feel? She glanced at each of them in turn but they still strode through the streets as if they owned them. If they felt any pain or anger at the state of their fellow men, they hid it well.
Josephine’s nerves relaxed a little and her mind returned to the more personal questions plaguing her. She wished she and Ford could have talked more before leaving the ship. She’d thought—that is, she’d hoped his feelings mirrored hers. But if they did, why would he have pushed her away, especially after the morning they’d woken up in the same bed after the hurricane. She was a widow and not a young innocent. Even she knew that widows were allowed a great deal more leeway than young unmarried ladies.
Except you are pretending to be just that on St. Kitts, she reminded herself. Why hadn’t she come up with a better identity? She could have claimed to be a widow thrice over and no one would have questioned it. Then she would have been free to engage in discreet amorous affairs without censure. Except you want more than simply an affair, that nagging voice replied and she sighed.
The small party stopped in front of a two-story building. “El Louvre” was carved into a wooden sign over the door. Once inside, Jo could see several large dining rooms opening off the entry hall and at the end of the space, an ornate wooden desk. Odysseus spoke to the man behind that desk and pr
ocured a handful of keys. Before she had a moment to request a meal from the dining room, the men were urging her upstairs and into a large, private sitting room.
“Are we staying here until Monsieur Pallet arrives?” she asked Ford.
“Yes, several of us. The rest of the men I will send back to the ship to sleep, but I have business to attend while we wait. I thought you’d like the chance to sleep in a real bed.”
It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask if he would join her in that real bed. She felt her cheeks warm at the very idea. Even were they alone, she didn’t think she had the courage to say such an outrageous thing. Ford had made it clear he would not risk getting her with child while her future was unclear. But was that just an excuse? And what if Monsieur Pallet brought good news? Would he give in to their passion then? And how outrageous had she become that she was plotting seduction of a man who had more care for her reputation than she did? It was enough to make her smile in wonder. Perhaps she was well and truly recovered from life with Thomas Kent if she could indulge in such bold and scandalous thoughts.
Josephine was shown to her room where she tried to nap. A lively dinner that evening was followed by an early bedtime. Surely a city the size of Havana did not close down so early, she thought. The daydream of walking through torch lit streets, perhaps seeing a play, perhaps sitting in a public coffee house and ordering a cup plagued her. She stared out her window at the people in the streets below. What would Ford say if she knocked on his door and demanded he take her either out to see the sites or to bed? She laughed at her shocking thoughts, wishing she had the courage to do just that.
The next day was equally uneventful. Josephine finally invented a need for something at the market, just to have a reason to leave her room. Sadly, Ford did not escort her, instead sending Odysseus and two other men to serve as guards while he attended the business of selling Mr. Appleton’s sugar.
Returning later with a wooden comb and a light scarf, she was relieved to learn Monsieur Pallet had arrived in Havana and would be joining them for dinner. She was relieved and yet also terrified at what news he might bear.
She ordered a bath and spent an inordinate amount of time brushing her gown and arranging her hair, as if the worst news could be borne as long as she was well groomed.
When at last Odysseus knocked on her door to let her know Monsieur Pallet had arrived, Josephine’s nerves were strung taut. Her mind played over and over the moment she had squeezed the trigger. Had Mrs. Livingston spoken up in her defense? Would the Lieutenant Governor believe his sister if she did? Would Josephine forever be on the run? Where would she go?
She’d not allowed herself to think about that day or it’s consequences since boarding The Nightingale, but now she was consumed with dreadful possibilities.
“Ma chere Mademoiselle Barclay! The sea air clearly agrees with you. You are radiant, ma belle.”
Josephine tried to smile but her face felt stiff and frozen. Ford stood next to monsieur Pallet but his face was impassive and she wondered wildly if he’d already heard her fate and was hiding his reaction to spare her.
“Monsieur Pallet,” she managed hoarsely. “Please tell me. Am I to be arrested?”
“Who would dare arrest such a beautiful woman?” Monsieur Pallet asked expansively.
“Quite a great number of people, I should imagine,” she said tightly. Ford stepped closer to her and touched her elbow. She wanted to turn into him, bury her face in his chest and cling to him. Instead she took what solace she could from that small touch and straightened her spine.
“Please dispense with the flattery if it is to soften the blow of ill news, sir.”
“Ma chere! How could you think I would deliver foul news? Of course no one is going to arrest you! Madame Livingston broke down and confessed to her brother that her cochon of a husband had been abusing her terribly since their wedding night. The Lieutenant Governor wanted to arrest him—”
“But he couldn’t because it’s not a crime to beat one’s wife,” Josephine interrupted bitterly.
Monsieur Pallet smiled sadly, his wide mouth downturned, his dark eyes shadowed. His normal joie de vivre was replaced with sobriety. “Non, ma chere mademoiselle,” he agreed quietly. “But he shall not escape unscathed. Lord Robinson beat him soundly if rumors are to be believed. Then he was deposited on the first ship returning to England.”
“Where he will resume his life as if nothing had happened,” Josephine said.
“He has not Madame Livingston or the remainder of her dowry. I may or may not have heard Lord Robinson explain to his sister that he had arranged to deliver her dowry in installments so that her husband could not spend it all at once. It seems the Lieutenant Governor had grave reservations about his sister’s choice for a husband.”
“You may not have heard?” Ford asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.
Monsieur Pallet shrugged philosophically. “It was a turn of speech. I always hear everything, mon ami. It is one of my many talents.”
Josephine still wasn’t sure of her fate. “So there will be no charges levied against me?”
“No charges,” the Frenchman said.
Josephine felt the tension in her body drain out so suddenly, her knees felt weak and she wobbled unsteadily. Ford grasped her arm more firmly and led her to a chair.
“I may return home?” she asked.
At that question, Monsieur Pallet’s gaze shifted and he shuffled from foot to foot.
“What is it?” Ford demanded. “Why isn’t Jo—Miss Barclay able to return to Basseterre?”
“Well of course she is able to return,” Pallet said. “It’s only that—”
“That what?” Josephine cried.
“Only that it may not be advisable. Just yet. Socially. Soon, certainly.” Josephine stared in confusion at the Frenchman.
“But why not?”
“You know how people on St. Kitts are hungry for gossip. Word always gets out, even when I’m not there to spread it.”
“Word? Word of what? That Livingston was a base coward who battered his wife?” Josephine heard her voice rising, and for once ignored the urge to temper it.
Pallet glanced at Ford and then back at her. “Ma chere, you know how it is. People embellish little stories to make them more interesting.”
“What are they saying?” she demanded. “Tell me.”
Monsieur Pallet sighed and with a Gallic shrug of one shoulder, said, “The story is that you and Monsieur Livingston were having an affair. That you found him confessing to his wife—some are adding that he begged her forgiveness,” he added in an aside. “You grew enraged and wrestled his gun from him with the intent to murder her so that you might have him to yourself.”
Josephine stared at Pallet in shock. She glanced at Ford who had the same worried expression on his face, as if this news would be too much for her delicate sensibilities.
She felt a strange pressure in her chest and then she burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. The idea that she was a passion-crazed seductress bent on eliminating her romantic rival was so far from the woman she was--the quiet, biddable daughter, sister, and wife she’d been her entire life--that she could not contain her mirth. Then she glanced at the two men and saw from their expressions they were afraid the strain had been too great, that she’d lost her mind, and that sent her into fresh giggles. She’d survived more than four years with Thomas Kent and his fists. Outrageous stories told about her were not likely to send her over the edge.
She swallowed the rest of her laughter for Ford and Monsieur Pallet’s sake.
“Forgive me,” she said, though a random snort of mirth escaped her. “It’s just all so preposterous. Tell me, Monsieur Pallet, was it Mrs. Reppington who told you this story?” Mrs. Reppington lived for salacious gossip and when she couldn’t locate any, she often made it up.
The worry left Pallet’s face and he smiled crookedly. “Indeed, mademoiselle. It was her. And—” he paused and reached into his c
oat pocket. “I have a letter from your brother.”
Jo felt instantly guilty. Between hurricanes, impromptu doctoring, and…and all things Ford-related, she had scarcely spared a thought for her brother. He must have been worried sick. She took the letter and slid her finger under the fold to break the wax seal.
Ford and Pallet politely stepped away to give her privacy to read. She heard their murmured small talk as she saw Theo’s opening salutation.
Two minutes later she neatly folded his letter into a small packet and tucked it in the pocket of her voluminous skirts.
As if they’d been trying to give her privacy to read the missive, Ford and Monsieur Pallet stopped talking and looked at her.
She cleared her throat and gazed at a point between the two men, unable to bring herself to meet either of their concerned gazes. “My brother thinks it best if I take an extended holiday from St. Kitts.” She saw Ford frown and rushed to finish before he said something that made her cry. “He’s worked very hard to establish his business there—his life, really—and this—” she fluttered her hand as if shooing a fly—“this nonsense you referred to could have a negative effect on it. And of course, he doesn’t wish to subject me to censure and gossip.”
She glanced at Ford and could read the anger in his expression. She knew it was on her behalf, and strangely, that, even more than Theo’s letter, made her want to cry. She turned her gaze to Monsieur Pallet.”
“Theo said he sent you with some of my things?”
“Oui. I have it here, ma chere mademoiselle.” He gestured to a small trunk. “And this as well,” he continued, withdrawing a leather pouch from his coat pocket. It clinked heavily as he set it in her hands and she raised her brows in surprise. She hadn’t realized her brother was as wealthy as to afford such a gift.
“Thank you,” she said, unsure of what to do next. Should she stay in Havana? Travel to another island? With Thomas Kent dead, she supposed she could even return to England.
A few days ago, she would have thought to remain with Ford, forever if he wanted, but she was now so unsure of what was between them, she didn’t dare ask.
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 89
