Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Emerald left her buggy parked out of view farther back on the road, concealed by the tall cane, and walked alone up the carriageway. Lifting her hand to shade her eyes against the glitter, she paused and glanced toward Harwick House. She had deliberately arrived late, hoping to fade into the throng and thereby remain unnoticed.

  She saw Geneva standing with Lord Felix in the receiving line and had to admit that her father’s cousin appeared quite happy.

  It was Lord Felix Buckington, however, who held Emerald’s curious and cautious gaze, for this was the first time she’d seen him, and, after what she’d heard, she was curious indeed. He was nothing like the man she had expected to see. He was not large and physically powerful but tall and spare, as swarthy as a Spaniard, with eyes a startling blue. In their determined glance, Emerald detected a ruthlessness that agreed with the thin but strong mouth and hawklike nose.

  His coat of black camlet had bone-colored lace at the wrists, and there were more ruffles at his cravat and a haughty glimmering sapphire.

  Planters with their families from all across Jamaica thronged the wide lawn, partially encircled with palm trees. Picking up her burgundy velvet flounces looped with Spanish lace, Emerald walked hesitantly toward them. The palpable waft of smoking beef, pork, and turkey drifted to her.

  As she approached the lawn area where guests were already enjoying plates of food and cool drinks, her courage failed. How could she possibly face them? Did the family know she was coming? What if the viscount had forgotten to inform Great-aunt Sophie that he had bidden her to come?

  Glancing about, she didn’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he had not come with the entourage bringing Felix back to the house from the wedding. But why would he? If what her father had told her last night were true, she wondered what Baret thought of Felix’s marrying Geneva Harwick.

  Noticing an arbor shading the outer path that led to the garden behind the house, she took momentary refuge beneath the vine, thick with white passionflowers.

  I must be daft to have braved this moment, she told herself and looked toward the front porch where Lavender stood with her mother, Lady Beatrice, greeting some guests.

  Emerald clenched her hands. I haven’t the courage to walk up there even if I am dressed as fine as Lavender.

  She took a closer look at Lavender’s father, Lord Avery Thaxton. Frail and fine-boned, he was attired in blue taffetas with thick gold lace. His was a poet’s face, narrow at the chin with sensuous lips. A shock of curly brown hair waved across a white forehead, and moody eyes gazed out upon a world with an expression of perpetual boredom.

  Avery Thaxton had married Beatrice Harwick in London. Having lost their first two children soon after birth, they had overcompensated by indulging their only child, Lavender. They sailed to the West Indies when Avery was appointed by His Majesty to aid the governor-general as a strong voice for moderation in Jamaica’s relationship with Spain. It was known that Avery had failed to curtail the raids of the buccaneers on the Main.

  Not that it was Avery’s fault—the governor-general was hard pressed to keep the buccaneers’ headquarters in Port Royal without issuing them commissions, and without the buccaneers Jamaica had no naval defenses. But already there were rumblings that Lord Avery might be called back to London to answer to King Charles for failing to curb them.

  She listened to the pleasant din of voices and laughter, the tinkle of glasses, the excited cries of children playing, and felt disappointment at her lack of courage.

  And just where was the gallant Captain Foxworth?

  She drew in a small breath. Well, I won’t stand here in the shadows like a turtle with its head pulled in, she scolded herself.

  She was stepping from the arbor when an anxious voice called, “Miss Emerald, has you seen Jette?”

  Emerald turned to an older African woman, hurrying down the arbor path from the back. It was Jitana, the head housekeeper.

  “He’s not with his new governess?” She had been certain that Drummond had left the house with him and the twins early that morning.

  “He’s been gone since the family returned from the wedding.”

  Knowing of the child’s displeasure over Geneva’s marriage, Emerald assumed that he was hiding.

  “He must be in the house somewhere. He has to be.”

  Jitana shook her head. “The governess says he was with Timothy and Titus, but they’s missing too.”

  “I’ll look for them. All three are probably somewhere amid the picnic guests.”

  “Lady Geneva’s sprouting thistles over this. His lordship Felix being here and all, and they was supposed to dine together at the head table.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thankee, Miss Emerald—and you’re sure looking pretty this afternoon.” She turned and hurried back up the path in the direction of the house.

  It was not like Jette to disappoint Geneva even if he did disapprove of her marriage. Geneva was as close to a mother as the child had. Although his blood mother was unknown and Viscount Royce Buckington declared legally dead, Jette had been entrusted to friends of the viscount in France. It was there, in a village close to Lyon, that Geneva had gone to find the small child and bring him to Foxemoore.

  He’s got to be somewhere nearby, thought Emerald.

  As always, if she could locate the mulatto twins that he had “adopted” and named Timothy and Titus, Jette was likely to be with them. No doubt they would be on a hunt to capture bugs in a bottle, and Jette would be oblivious to the time.

  The three boys had become nearly inseparable since Jette had grown up enough to hear of his father’s disappearance. The close relationship among the three appeared to be part of a healing process that eased his emotional loss.

  Concern for the boy rallied Emerald’s courage, and her steps quickened in the direction of the front lawn, where she skirted the edge and scanned the numerous guests.

  She recognized only a few important faces from Port Royal, most of them officials in Governor Modyford’s parliament.

  Jette was nowhere in sight. It was true that the boy had been upset about the marriage and going to London but not enough to deliberately run away. She recalled his desire to join his brother and search for their father! Would he have run away to find the ship?

  I should have taken the buggy back to Port Royal last night to warn Father, she scolded herself, but her own dilemma over Jamie and Ty had divided her mind.

  But surely Jette wouldn’t run away. He had promised her.

  No, he must be with the twins playing somewhere nearby. She knew for a fact that once they had their bugs in a bottle, they could sit for an hour, simply shaking it to keep the insects crawling and buzzing, and never realize the passage of time.

  Emerald’s own concerns for the child had developed slowly during the past two years. Frail and often ailing, Jette had responded to her warmth at the Singing School. His interest in spiritual matters had no doubt been cultivated by the loss of his parents, but Emerald believed he had a heart that was open to knowledge of the Lord.

  Even though Geneva and most of the family were Anglican, not only had she allowed Great-uncle Mathias, a Puritan, to take command of Jette’s training, but when Jette pleaded to be allowed to enroll in the Singing School, the family had surprisingly given permission.

  Worshipful singing was a new concept, for congregational hymns were unheard of in England and the American colonies. The first singing schools had originated in Boston. God had mightily worked through the evangelistic preaching of certain Puritan leaders, and part of the spiritual movement included the careful teaching of both the Bible and the traditional chanting of the Psalms to children in a school setting.

  In order to teach the Psalms with her uncle’s first tunebooks, Mathias had introduced his own idea of a singing school for the slave children, patterned after the adult schools that trained singers in Psalm singing and hymn tunes deemed appropriate to teach to church congregations.

  Although the t
raditional adult singing schools were held within the church, Mathias had strongly believed that God was leading him to begin an independent work for the slaves, translating their chants into a gospel message they would respond to favorably.

  The idea was so foreign that neither of them had mentioned it to anyone on Foxemoore except Ty and Minette.

  Emerald had been drawn to the idea from the start and had worked with him from the day he had built, near the slave huts, a structure made from palm branches and old sections of a boat that the turtle man Hob had told him about.

  At one time—before she decided to marry Jamie and escape Foxemoore—Emerald had nourished her own unspoken dream for the school. She had wanted to write a children’s hymnal: “Songs for Slave Children.” Great-uncle Mathias had encouraged her in the project, but somehow the struggles of simply living each day in Port Royal had robbed her of the will to carry it out.

  Now as she searched the area of the lawn and trees, she did not see Jette or the twins anywhere. She stopped to inquire of the servants, but no one recalled having seen the three boys.

  The rising voices of planters discussing their anger over the French sugar trade with the American colonies drifted to her from a cluster of palms, where a group of men had gathered and stood drinking from tall glasses.

  “How long will England tolerate the French islands dumping cheap sugar on the market? Our trade and land holdings are at risk. Does His Majesty intend to protect us or not?”

  “Since when has the king protected Jamaica?” came a scornful voice. “Our safety depends on the buccaneers.”

  “But for how long? Lord Felix and the Peace Party are against them, but if they leave and return to Tortuga … Governor Modyford must issue new letters of commission to Morgan and his captains.”

  “Pirates! And with them preying on the Main, how do you expect to ever trade with Madrid? They all ought to be arrested and sent to Execution Dock.”

  “And where will the safety of Jamaica be without Morgan and his buccaneers? What stands between our plantations and either Spain or France but the rogues?”

  Emerald was well aware of the politics of King Sugar. Anger over the exports from the French islands of Martinique and Guadalupe bought by American privateers was growing stronger by the day. Mention of the privateers from the colonies lit a spark in the already hot afternoon. Grumbling voices crackled in the air as others joined the debate.

  Today, after the outdoor supper, Felix would be speaking to the planters about mounting difficulties with France over the sugar trade.

  Emerald had heard her father say that Felix held a high position within the Society of West Indian Planters and Merchants in London. The lobby was an established political power in the court of His Majesty King Charles, and it used all available means, public and private, to stress the importance of maintaining an English sugar monopoly. Lord Felix worked tirelessly against the French sugar islands. The London lobby, her father said, “has organized one of the most rigid and vigorous parliamentary power blocks England has ever known. And many of them wish for peace with Spain.”

  What all this might mean for Jamaica and the family sugar estate, Emerald did not know.

  Above them all, the arrogant voice of Sir Jasper called out, “But who can trust the buccaneers for long? Their loyalty is not to Jamaica but to their greed and hatred for Spain. While King Charles seeks a treaty with Madrid, the buccaneers embarrass him by attacking peaceful galleons in the Caribbean. Lord Felix has come to Governor Modyford from the king with orders to stop this piracy! He intends to hang any pirate or buccaneer who attacks a Spanish ship.”

  She turned her head away quickly, so that Jasper wouldn’t recognize her, and crossed the lawn toward the carriageway. Why, he has gall to speak so, she thought indignantly. He’s naught but a pirate himself.

  Their voices faded into an argumentative din as she hurried on.

  She paused, the breeze tugging at her hat, as several riders came through the white-pillared gateway from the outer road. As they cantered up the palm-lined roadway toward the house, she stepped back out of sight, believing she recognized the fair young swordsman named Sir Erik Farrow. Was the viscount with him?

  Glancing back toward the Great House and seeing that the milling guests were too busy to notice her, she picked up her flounces and sped down the sloping lawn, keeping close to the shade trees that lined the road.

  Emerald was intent on swift departure when a voice halted her flight.

  “Fleeing the lion’s den?”

  17

  FACING THE FOXES

  Emerald’s eyes narrowed. She clenched her hands and turned her head toward a cluster of palms.

  The familiar fine-blooded horse that she had encountered the morning before on the road stood munching a grassy clump. She glanced about the trees but saw no one at first. Then Baret Buckington straightened from the shadowing palm where he’d been lounging, evidently waiting for someone.

  He was resplendent in stylish hat and suit of fine velvet cloth with a broad white collar. The pale blue ostrich feather that curled on his broad-brimmed black hat fluttered. His high leather boots were polished, and their buckles gleamed. His dark eyes flickered with amusement.

  “Or does my cousin make a hasty retreat from Sir Jasper? We can’t have him win now, can we? Not when you’re so handsomely dressed for the ball.”

  Emerald swallowed and made a little curtsy. And despite the warmth in her cheeks, her eyes courageously met his. “I’ve no appetite for the barbecue, your lordship. Nor do I care to mince about the floor to music like a goose. So begging your leave—”

  “I’m certain Geneva will have some dainties to tempt your finicky appetite. And as for mincing about the floor to music—I’ve a notion any girl who can don calico drawers and swim a quarter mile to shore will have practiced a bit, even if only in secret.”

  She blushed, for she had indeed waltzed about the Manor many times with Minette, both pretending to be great ladies at a ball, and the idea that he already knew her well enough to guess that was unnerving. But it was the mention of her disguise that provoked her.

  “Oh, please, won’t you forget that?”

  “My dear Lady Harwick! Forget that you dared my ship in the darkest midnight donned in the garb of a pirate? Madam! You request too great a sacrifice even for my esteemed gallantry!”

  His eyes glinted, and a faint smile touched his mouth. He was being miserably mean and enjoying it.

  Emerald retained her dignity. “Your gallantry is in want, m’lord.”

  “Is it? Well. We’ll need discuss my manners at a more convenient time.” He tilted his head, glancing toward the guests. “Lunch is being served. Shall we join them?”

  “Oh, please, I … can’t!”

  “Not afraid, are you?”

  She didn’t want to admit her courage was lacking. “I can explain everything about mistakenly going aboard your ship. I vow I can!” She glanced nervously toward the barbecue.

  A dark brow lifted. “You will indeed explain.” He took hold of her forearm. “But later. Shall we go? The lions wait.”

  “I … can’t … please.” She tried to pull away.

  His hand dropped. He appraised her as though bored, folding his arms. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  She had turned, bent on retreat to the security of her concealed carriage when his words stopped her.

  “Disappointed?”

  “You can risk what you believed to be a pirate’s cabin, but when the moment comes to demonstrate pride in being the daughter of Sir Karlton you flit away like a nervous chickadee.”

  Had she heard him properly? She was proud! It was the gossip about her birth that she cringed to face in public, but he already knew.

  Emerald looked at him as she held onto her hat. Her eyes searched his. Had it been a simple mistake when he called her the daughter of Sir Karlton? Did that imply he accepted her birth? Or was he only interested in keeping her there until she explained about
the night before?

  She saw her opportunity and changed the subject. “I must talk to you about little Jette.”

  Before he had time for a response, they both spotted Lavender walking toward them. Evidently he had been waiting for her.

  Emerald froze as her cousin approached, but Lavender appeared not to see her. She turned her full attention on Baret, her blue eyes glowing, a shy smile on her lips. Emerald knew Lavender too well to believe the shyness to be genuine, and she wasn’t as sweet-tempered as she now appeared, but on Lavender the affectation was flattering.

  She wore a white satin frock with tiny red rosebuds and French eggshell lace. Her golden hair was elaborately done in a cluster of French-style curls.

  Emerald stepped back, lost in her cousin’s shadow, fingering the ribbon on her hat uncomfortably.

  “Baret! You kept your promise. Mother thought you might not come.”

  “And intentionally miss seeing you? Hello, Lavender.”

  Lavender’s eyes warmed as they looked up at him. “How pleasant of you to surprise me.”

  “I may need your good graces before your mother and father.”

  Lavender clasped her hands together in distress, pearl rings glimmering. “Oh, Baret! You didn’t risk your reputation to attack another Spanish ship? You shall enrage your grandfather.”

  “I’m afraid I already have,” he said ruefully. “I met with him last night.”

  “You were here last night and didn’t see me?” she asked, pretending hurt feelings.

  “You were asleep. As for the Santiago, I performed my duty admirably.”

  She appeared genuinely troubled, but Emerald, watching, remembered that Lavender had once told her she admired Baret’s daring on the Caribbean.

  “I’ve something I must discuss with you alone,” Lavender murmured. “Will you come to the ball?” She took his arm. “Oh, you must! I shall be horribly saddened if you don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”