Twenty Six
“They will look charming with the green silk gown…? Hell’s bits Tiola, what slime-weeded depth did you haul that crowing cockerel from?”
Tiola was examining the emeralds against her skin, preening in the cracked looking glass above the cooking-fire. She ignored Jesamiah’s sarcasm.
“Green is unlucky,” he stated, petulant, when he received no answer. “Some sailors refuse to have anything green that is not edible aboard.”
“Just as well I am no sailor then,” she countered, angry with him for a variety of reasons, not all of them fair. Angry because she was not certain which of the two men she was more annoyed with; Jesamiah for being so deliberately reckless and annoying or Stefan for his blithe assumptions. Or with herself for allowing this silly anger to curdle in the first place.
Realising her displeasure Jesamiah remained prudently silent as she collected the cups, found a sudden interest in studying the books on the shelf again, although he knew every one of the dozen sitting there; Bartholomew Sharp’s expedition, Sir Henry Mainwaring’s nonsense about pirate hunting. Exquemelin’s Buccaneers of America – none of them as remarkable as Mr William Dampier’s publications of course.
“You going then, tonight?” he finally asked fully expecting her to answer no, she was not. Was startled when she declared of course she was.
“I am looking forward to it in fact.”
“Wearing his dress and trinkets? I never had you hoisted as a woman who would jump to a fop’s beck and call.”
Her anger spilt over, she spun around threw the cup in her hand to the floor where it shattered into pieces. “Is this how you repay my hospitality? By being obnoxious about my friends?”
Jesamiah stared at the scatter of splintered china, thought, Now you’ve only got two, you daft wench. Said, “Good friend, is he?”
“He is an important man here in Cape Town and is no fool.”
“Is he not? You surprise me.”
“He will work out what you were alluding to, Jesamiah. What you are.” Tiola closed her eyes and leant her arm on the beam of the mantel, sudden weariness sapping her energy. She did not want Jesamiah to go, did not know how she was to bear the sorrow of him leaving – and he would be leaving, soon, very soon. When he left, what would there be for her? A dull life as Stefan van Overstratten’s cosseted wife? Was that why she was angry, because she wanted the amusing unpredictability of Jesamiah, not the proud arrogance of Stefan?
The fire crackled, steam rose in gentle spirals from the kettle. Sounds filtered from the street; a woman calling, children squealing. Kisty was crying.
Something has happened, Tiola thought. I will go down in a little while and see what is wrong. Birds were hopping over the clay tiles of the roof, their claws scratching. The air was hot, the day dry and dusty.
“I think I ought to finish getting dressed,” Jesamiah said cursing himself for being a fool. He had upset her, had not meant to. “My apologies, I did not intend to offend you. Nor him.” The second was not true, van Overstratten could go rot.
“I know when you lie, so please do not patronise me,” Tiola snapped, then sighed and accepted the inevitable. He would not be staying, and marrying Stefan was a sensible match. She fetched a broom and a hand shovel to clear the broken mess, pointed at a wooden clothes chest in the corner. “Your things are in there.”
She had darned the hole in the toe of his stocking he discovered, and cleaned the blood from his waistcoat. His waist sash had been folded neatly. Ah! His ribbons! Surreptitiously, he poked at other folded garments, hers. Undergarments, petticoats, a shift, a lace-edged bodice.
“Your boots are in the corner behind the curtain,” Tiola said tipping the broken shards of china into the fire, where they would eventually be removed along with the ash. Guiltily he pushed the bodice aside, lifted his hat and belt; the cutlass and scabbard were there with the leather baldric. No coat. Damn, it had been left in the brothel – his pistol! Lovingly, with a smile of pleasure, greeting an old friend, he brought it out. No man could be a pirate without a cutlass and pistol. Forgetting why he was standing there he began to load the weapon with wadding, shot and powder. An unprimed pistol was useless. Nor would a pirate captain be standing here in bare feet, half dressed. He chuckled, set the loaded weapon aside, pulled on his stockings fetched his boots.
Her anger lifting, Tiola realised it for the stupidity it was. This was her birthday she ought not be a crosspatch on this day. What would be was in the future so why waste the pleasure of the present?
“I‘m sorry, sweetheart, I truly did not intend to upset you.” He repeated his apology as he thread the sash around his waist, buckled his belt over the top, wincing as his right arm protested. “Only,” he paused, fiddled with his earring. He wanted to say, Only I am jealous of this Stefan van Overstratten. I do not know whether he is an intimate friend or a mere acquaintance. Said instead, with a limp shrug, “He annoyed me.”
“So I noticed.” She fetched his waistcoat, held it for him to slip on.
The old hole made by a lead shot had been re-patched neatly, the new one also mended. A matching pair. Standing so close her fragrance was overpowering. Had he imagined her kissing him? It had seemed real at the time. Suddenly he realised there was only one certain way to answer so many questions. He dipped his head, his lips brushing lightly against hers his moustache and beard scratching against her skin. She yielded to his touch and he felt her eager response. Sliding his arm around her waist he pulled her closer, the kiss fiercer and more insistent, his tongue parting her lips to explore her mouth. As he would kiss any woman.
And she pushed violently at his chest, forcefully shoving him aside. He stepped back, at a loss, held his hands high, palms open, a gesture of reassurance and surrender combined. He had only kissed her – even for a girl who had never been kissed before she should not react like this! He moved more paces away, puzzled. What had frightened her? Had that bloody Dutchman tried something inappropriate?
“What is it? What have I done? I meant no harm.”
She was fighting the urge to wipe away the feel of his mouth over hers with the back of her hand. Fighting it because the sensation had felt so nice, but his action had unexpectedly plunged her back into the sordid nightmare of those last days in Cornwall. The rekindled horror swept through her – her father’s thick lips covering hers so she could hardly breath, his foul hands touching her body; her desperate struggles to get away from him. And the loathing on his face when instinct had allowed her to use Craft for the first time, thrusting him away with the strength of several men. His seething outrage that she should fight back abruptly ended by his wife and the blade in her hand.
The repercussions, those dreadful following days. All of it coming back because Jesamiah had kissed her! And yet, when she had found him, bleeding and in trouble she had kissed him without a second thought. Had just done the most obvious and practical thing to hide his face and get rid of those two men, who would most certainly have finished him off.
Unaware of the cause of her distress Jesamiah was frantically searching for what else he could to do to salvage the situation. “If Stefan is your lover and I have offended you Tiola, then I beg pardon, I behaved inappropriate.”
The curtain swished open, its rings rattling along the wooden pole. Jenna.
“Aye my lad, and if I catch you behaving inappropriate you will find yourself tumbling down these stairs as a gelding.” The woman swept into the room, her face suffused with rage. “Do I make myself understood?”
Royal Navy marines, soldiers – the gallows – all those Jesamiah could face with impunity. A middle-aged buxom woman with nothing beyond the sole interest of her young ward’s well being? He cleared his throat, stated, “Perfectly, Ma’am.”
Grunting as she pushed past, glowering at him, Jenna set her basket of purchases to the table. “Seeing as you obviously have your strength back, you can make yourself useful.” She ducked her head towards the empty cooking pot
hanging on its hook to one side of the fire. “I cannot manage without water. Pot needs filling, you know where the well is.” She lifted one of the wooden buckets, thrust it into his right hand. He winced. “Four of these.”
Tiola protested. “Jenna dear, he is not well enough.”
“If he can get half drunk and behave like the tomcat he is, then he is well enough to earn his keep.” Jenna bobbed her head at Jesamiah who had opened his mouth to protest he was not drunk. “Do not deny you have been sampling the rum young man. I can smell it on your breath. Or are you grumbling that work is too grand a thing for a pirate to be doing?”
Jesamiah closed his open mouth, shifted the bucket into his left hand and touched the right to his forehead. “It will be my pleasure to be of service, Ma’am.”
“Aye, it’s your pleasure of servicing I am afeared of!” Jenna snapped at his departing heels.
Twenty Seven
“That was uncharitable and uncalled for,” Tiola stated facing the older woman who stood with her arms folded, stern disapproval etched into her face.
“Was it? I think not. You are an innocent where gentlemen are concerned and that one,” Jenna pointed at the stairs, “is not a gentleman.”
“I am not so innocent, Jenna. I am a midwife how can I be? I see the various results of what men do to women almost every day.” In sudden affection, realising Jenna’s reaction had been well intentioned, Tiola stepped forward and hugged her. “I appreciate your concern but I am, after all, now sixteen. You must allow me to spread my wings one day.”
“One day aye, and on that day I will give you my blessing. But not with the likes of him, a thieving pirate.” Jenna turned from Tiola, began busying herself with tidying away the new-bought provisions, making a start on preparing their midday meal. As well she had met Stefan yesterday and suggested he visit Tiola today, not wait until the evening. In her opinion, the sooner he made the girl his wife and this pirate returned to sea, the better.
Grumbling to himself, Jesamiah pulled at the well chain. Raising the bucket awkwardly with his left hand he swung it over the side, filled the house bucket and sent the other back down with an angry shove. Bloody fool! Stupid! Stupid! He should have taken more care, not leapt in as a drunken sot pouncing on the first woman available!
Tiola was a lady; he ought to have treated her as one. He winced as he lifted the full bucket, the movement pulling at the healing wound in his shoulder, set it down, sat on the edge of the well. What the fok was he doing staying here? Jenna despised him – she had made her opinion quite clear – and now he had made a damn fool of himself with Tiola. She probably hated him too. Perhaps he ought not have drunk so much? A man needed a tot or two once in a while, though. Needed a woman too.
Why did he not get his effects together and go? She was obviously fond of this Dutch peacock, and van Overstratten would probably be better for her anyway.
Forgetting the bucket, he stamped back up the stairs, halted a short way from the top as heard Jenna say, “Stay away from him girl. A pirate’s no good. The only certain prospect he has is to dangle at the end of a rope.”
“You would rather see me settled with Stefan?”
“Master van Overstratten is everything a sensible young woman would want in a husband.”
Or what an interfering besom-broom wants, Jesamiah thought to himself. Listening intently he settled his shoulder against the wall.
“Stefan may not want me as his wife, I have no dowry; nor does he know my background,” Tiola said.
Jenna snorted. “Oh tosh child, he has wealth a’plenty, what interest has he in dowries? Suitable women as wives – educated young women – are rarer than a snowstorm in a desert. Aside, he knows all he needs to know. You are the daughter of a gentleman, and both your parents are dead. We came to Cape Town because there was no future for us in England. The man has heard nought but the truth.”
“With which we have been economical,” Tiola answered wryly.
Jesamiah raised his eyebrows. Interesting. There was something to hide was there?
“Van Overstratten wants a wife who can give him sons – above that, none of the rest matters. After he has given you those, can you not see?
She would be pointing to the emeralds, Jesamiah guessed. He knew about gems, those were exquisite. Nor, unlike anything he would have given, had they been stolen. And the next he heard, Jesamiah could picture Jenna standing as she often did, fists on hips, her brows furrowed.
“You risk ruining a secure future, young lady, by encouraging this vagrant of a pirate. You have done the best you can for him, now he has to go before he is discovered for the miscreant he is and drags us into the dirt along with him.”
That hurt. Hurt because it was the truth. Jesamiah sat on the fourth stair down, his chin cupped in his left hand his breath puffing out through his cheeks. It was not often he did some serious thinking. What was he going to do with himself? He would have to find a new crew, find a new vessel. With one arm stiff and sore? He flexed the fingers, the resulting tremor of discomfort bringing a grimace to his face, waited for the ache shambling up and down his right arm to ease. He knew only piracy. What else could he do? Become a legitimate trader? Possibly.
He snorted grim laughter. If nothing else he knew how to keep pirates away, any cargo he carried would be safe. Did he want to settle down to a life as a landlubber? Have a sedentary life? No, but he wanted Tiola – or did she want Stefan? He could not believe that. Emeralds or no emeralds.
Not even if the wife was to sail with you? she had said a while ago. How much had she meant it?
Slamming to his feet, he stormed down the stairs. This was nonsense! He was a pirate god-damn it! As Jenna had stated, his only certain prospect was the noose, he was a no-good nothing. Someone such as Tiola needed a man who could care for her. Love her above all else.
“Sod it,” he growled to himself. “I can do that. Better than any over-dressed jay can.”
He supposed Tiola’s reaction to his kiss had been a natural one. Damn fool, the women he usually passed his time ashore with were all... there was no delicate way of putting it, were all sluts. Women who would do anything a man paid her to do, the more skilled the woman the more shillings she demanded. The advantage, they rarely wanted anything more, only the money. No promises, no ties. No commitment. He had never kissed a woman for love, and he would wager Tiola had never been kissed by a man at all. Except for his clumsy, stupid attempt – and that night in the alley. Which, now he thought of it, had been through her desperation to do something to help him, pure impulse to save his life.
A kiss for passion was something entirely different and he, idiot that he was, had waded in like a clumsy, inexperienced youth! That did not explain the other puzzle of how she had changed her appearance. He shook his head, he must have imagined it. Problem sorted. His kiss had alarmed her, taken her by surprise. Next time he would move more slowly, be more considerate. And there would be a next time, he would make sure of it.
Next problem. Jenna. She was a trained guard dog, always on the prowl, teeth bared, ready to sink them in down to the bone. And she had a preference for this cock-robin, Stefan van Overstratten. Fair enough, she had Tiola’s future at heart. Could he try getting round her? Show her he was just as worthy? He would have to start by being nice to her. Might work.
Four buckets, she had said.
“Bet the old basket thinks I’ll not manage it,” he muttered.
“One,” he counted cheerily as he emptied the first into the cooking pot. “You use this as your cauldron, sweetheart?” he said to Tiola with a grin, making a pretence that all was right with the world. “On those midnights when you brew a new batch of potions, remember who fetched the water before you go casting the next lot of spells, eh?”
Before she had chance to answer he disappeared down the stairs, whistling. Bad luck to whistle on board. He shrugged, what about on land? He switched to humming instead, breaking into song as he visited the privy to relieve himse
lf. Chanties were sailor’s songs, designed to keep rhythm and pace while the heavy anchor cable was hauled in, or sails were hoisted. As with most nautical songs, the one Jesamiah was singing inclined towards the bawdy; he thought it best to la-la the more indelicate words. “The Captain’s a bugger, di da, da, di da, da,” he improvised.
Emptying the second bucket, he leaned close to Jenna as she stood at the table mixing flour and eggs. For Stefan’s bloody cakes he assumed. Sang the next line softly, with a grin, into her ear. “The bosun’s a daisy, we know ‘e’s ‘alf crazy…” He pinched her backside and swung quickly away, disappearing to fetch the third bucketful, finishing the verse as he went. “So swab out yer gun and we’ll get the job done. Heave ho, heave ho, heave ho, m’lads.”
“You impudent flea!” Jenna called after him. “I know your game!”
Jesamiah jumped the last two stairs, crowing his mirth, returned within a minute. “The bilges are stinkin’ – who cares we’re a’drinkin! We’ll sit in the sun an’ might get the job done…”
His shoulder and arm were hurting like the pain of all the damned, but he ignored the discomfort. Emptying the bucket he put it down and as Jenna moved from the table to wipe flour from her hands, caught hold of her waist and twirled her around the room, singing, “Then I’ll do yours, while you do mine; and we’ll do ‘alf the crew of a ship o’ the line!”
Although sounding lewd the song was innocent – nearly every chanty had a double meaning – the line alluded to men helping each other plait and tar their long hair into the single braid of a queue, so favoured by many sailors. It could have other meanings of course.
Jenna batted at him with the cloth that was in her hand, he ducked beneath it and planted a kiss on her lips. “You’re pretty when you smile, love,” he said. “Do it more often, an’ I’ll give you another kiss.”
From across the room, Tiola laughed, her head back, delighted. He was so absurd!
Sea Witch Page 19
