Followed by the quiet Mr. Barker, he strode into the woods to find the site Zazu had spoken of.
Savina was surprised by a spurt of something close to jealousy at the admiring expression on Mr. Anthony Heywood’s face when Zazu offered her advice. It did not bear examining, because she feared the emotion would not reflect well on her character. Instead she joined Zazu in building a fire—after many tries by both of them, and with no one else’s help, they did manage to get one going with the flint and tinderbox—and constructing a rough tripod of heavy branches over the fire to suspend the pot to boil some water, not an easy task and taking the better part of an hour.
Dusting her hands off, she looked down at them ruefully, and then at her filthy dress and torn hem. “What a mess I am,” she said. She sat down on the ground near their fire and continued, “But I’m too tired to care. Last night was brutal and I’m exhausted.”
Zazu sat down near her, then grimaced and moved a branch from under her legs. “How odd it is,” she mused, “that we should be mired here, when we thought we were leaving the Caribbean forever.”
“I wonder how long it will take before we’re found,” Savina said, pulling her knees up, surrounding them with her arms and resting her head on her forearms. “Do you think Captain Verdun will keep his promise and send word to the nearest British settlement of our position?”
“Why should he?” Lady Venture, sitting in stately leisure and being fanned by Annie wielding a palm frond, spoke up finally, though she would not meet Savina’s eye. The dry palm frond rattled as Annie’s hands shook.
“He won’t,” Lord Gaston-Reade said, glancing up from his notebook. “Filthy Americans . . . they never keep their word.”
“How do you know?” Savina said, genuinely curious. “Have you had dealings with Americans?”
“Of course not; wouldn’t soil my hands with that. But everyone knows what they’re like.”
“Who is everyone?” Savina asked, gazing steadily at him.
“Everyone!” he retorted, irritation in his clipped response. “I can’t name names. Just everyone. Didn’t they break their agreements with us?”
“Bertie, no one wants to listen to politics here,” Lady Venture said.
“And no one wishes to listen to you,” he retorted.
Savina stood and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of her back. Zazu stood, too, and both young women bent their efforts to the practicality of tea and food without another word to the earl and his sister.
One of the other choices the American captain had forced Savina to make was that, as he was being quite charitable enough in allowing them so many supplies, she had to decide on the number of trunks, crates and boxes they took ashore. Given the choice, she sacrificed their trunks of clothing for more food and supplies. She regretted it when she thought of changing into a dry, clean dress, but food, eating implements and a good-sized tarpaulin of oiled canvas had seemed more important.
Zazu scooped some of the boiling water out of the large pot into the smaller pot, threw some tea leaves in, and then said, “I saw some fruit trees; perhaps I should gather some fruit. The more we can extend our supplies, the better.”
As she moved off, Savina’s father came back and collapsed on the ground near the fire.
“Papa,” Savina said, crouching down beside him.
He didn’t respond, his lined face marred by an expression of defeat. Her stomach clenched and she thought of Lady Venture’s words, that if they had stayed on board, even if they were prisoners they would have someone to care for them. Her father may have chafed at his role as a prisoner of war, but this was worse . . . much worse.
“Papa, please, you must rouse yourself.” She reached over for the brush, one of the few luxury items she had been allowed to pack, and, kneeling beside him, brushed his hair. He gazed at her at first as if he didn’t recognize her, but gradually he took in a deep breath and sighed.
He stayed her hand with his own. “Savina, don’t trouble yourself, my dear. I shall . . . I shall rally. I will try harder to be more valiant. Like you.” He gazed steadily at her, his pouchy eyes like those of a fond basset. “Your mother would be so proud. She was the strong one, you know, never me.” He stood with great effort, given his bulk, turned to Lord Gaston-Reade, and said, “My lord, I wish to be of assistance. What may I do?”
Lord Gaston-Reade asked for his help counting and cataloguing supplies—Savina gritted her teeth and said nothing—and he set to work happily helping his future son-in-law. She supposed she should feel fortunate they got along so well, but in her opinion there was entirely too much deference on her father’s side and too much presumption on the part of her fiancé.
When Zazu came back, they cut up some meat and yams and set them to boil. For Savina it was a novelty, something she had never done before, and she was clumsy at first. But Zazu seemed to have slipped back into her youth in the Maroon settlement, chopping some of the vegetables with quick, deft movements, and by the time the others came back, there was food to eat. Though it was rough, and in normal circumstances most would have rejected it as disgusting, even Lady Venture ate her share without comment.
“Where do you think we are?” Savina asked as people’s appetites became sated and conversation was once more possible.
Lady Venture sat still on her barrel, with Annie on the ground by her side. Mr. Heywood had kindly set a couple of crates near the fire and Savina’s father had taken one, with Mr. Barker beside him. The younger man had tried to give his seat up to Savina, but she stayed on the ground close to the fire by Zazu. Lord Gaston-Reade stood, unwilling to do the work it would have required to make himself a crate seat. He shot his secretary, who sat on the ground near the fire, disagreeable looks, but Mr. Heywood appeared not to notice as he rapidly consumed the stew of pork and yams from a tin plate.
No one answered immediately, but once the secretary’s mouthful of food was swallowed, he said, “It seems to me that we are on one of the islands known as the Bahamas, perhaps, or at least close by.”
“Yes, I was thinking the same thing,” Savina said. “We were clearly blown off course by the storm the night before the Gryphon accosted us, and so to that group of islands. I’ve heard that the smaller ones are coral cays.”
Mr. Heywood shot her a look of some surprise. “What is a ‘cay’?” he said, giving it the pronunciation she had used, of “key.”
She blushed. It was not something she was accustomed to, to being asked about her fund of knowledge. She read widely, devouring every book on Jamaica and the Caribbean she could find, but her fiancé had never spoken to her of such things, or of any serious subject, she realized for the first time.
“A cay is an island composed of coral, from my understanding. Coral is a primitive life form,” she said, fingering the small cross around her neck, made of a pale pink coral. “But as the coral becomes hard and builds up into enormous reefs it forms a base, and sand gathers, then plant seeds, blown on the winds, grow. Thus, islands are formed.”
Heywood nodded. “The sand is particularly fine and white,” he said, gazing down over the tranquil beach.
“Does it matter where we are?” Lady Venture interrupted with an agitated huff. “What I want to know is how are we going to get home?”
Savina’s father spoke up for the first time, perhaps buoyed by the steaming cup of tea he held in his hands.
“My lady, I fear our first necessity is going to be survival in this terrible place. I can’t imagine how we’re to do it.” He glanced around at the group. “What are we going to do?”
Savina glanced at Mr. Heywood and saw that he was looking to his employer, who lounged indolently against the trunk of a palm tree. When Lord Gaston-Reade said nothing, Heywood brushed his hands together and stood.
“This is my proposal,” he said. “Mr. Barker and I have found, with Miss Zazu’s invaluable help, a capital spot for a safe camp. We have a good, heavy, large oilskin. With that as a roof, we could have a rudimentary
shelter constructed by the end of the day. Is everyone in agreement?”
There was silence, but finally Mr. Barker stood and said, “I’m with you, Mr. Heywood.”
Savina’s father nodded. “I will do what I can to help.”
“You will be a welcome addition, sir,” Heywood said, giving him a warm smile.
Savina caught the secretary’s eye and thanked him with a smile. He nodded, took a deep breath and said, “Well, gentlemen, shall we get started?”
Lord Gaston-Reade, piqued by the group’s lack of deference—it was clear to Savina that he felt he ought to have been consulted about the placement of the camp—stomped off into the bushes after luncheon. Savina and Zazu set to work repacking the utensils—they would need to be moved yet again—talking in low tones as they did so.
Savina occasionally glanced over at Lady Venture, who stood at the edge of the thicket and scowled off to the horizon in angry silence. The woman was a complete mystery to her, and since she had always found mysteries intriguing, she had whiled away some time in trying to figure out her character and temperament. They had often been in company together in the social gatherings in Spanish Town feting government officials or other celebrations. Lady Venture, older than Savina by some years, could be charming and had a sharp, incisive wit at times that had startled Savina the first time she was exposed to it.
But she could be bad-tempered, too. Why she was so angry and rancorous was the mystery. She had what she had appeared to be after, a devoted fiancé, but still she was often sour, her remarks tinged with acerbic venom.
She would try one more time, Savina thought.
“Lady Venture,” she said, “what do you make of our situation here? What would improve it, do you think?”
The woman’s gaze slewed around to Savina. “Improve it? Our situation would be considerably improved if everyone would stop pretending that this was some jolly camping adventure and face the facts. We are abandoned here, and will likely never leave this abominable island. And it is all your doing.”
Annie, her maid, gazed up at her in horror, then dissolved in tears and ran away into the bushes.
“Whatever is wrong with her?” Lady Venture said, gazing off after her as she disappeared.
“You frightened her! She’s a very sensitive girl and you scared her with your talk of being here forever.”
“Miss Roxeter, because you treat your maid like some kind of pet do not think you can make a pet out of mine.”
“That is enough,” Zazu said, standing and stalking over to Lady Venture. “You shall not speak to me that way. I am no one’s pet. I am descended from a Coromantee queen, so my lineage is not merely equal to yours, but better. Never speak to me that way again.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you at all,” Lady Venture said, standing and staring directly into Zazu’s dark eyes.
“Then do not speak of me in that manner.”
Savina laughed out loud and clapped her hands as Zazu whirled and stalked away.
Lady Venture glared at Savina. “I have never been spoken to in that manner by a servant! You will tell her to behave herself.”
“No. It’s simply too much fun watching you two spar.” Savina gazed at her steadily for a long minute. “My lady . . . Venture, I don’t know how long we’re going to be on this island, but you’re going to have to become accustomed to the idea that for as long as that is the case, you will have to live with things the way they are. Zazu is working harder than any of us, and I, for one, will not tell her to behave any way at all. I consider her manners to be better than many others’ I could name.”
From then on, silence again reigned in the castaway camp.
After hours of exhausting labor a new camp was set up, the dinner was cooked, and much had been accomplished. The atmosphere was tense, with Lord Gaston-Reade speaking only to Savina’s father and his sister, Lady Venture speaking to no one but her brother, and everyone else too tired to talk at all, but Savina didn’t care anymore. Let them sulk if they would.
After the camp had been tidied, she crept off to the beachfront and sat on a log, watching darkness veil the water as the moon replaced the sun. As tired as she was, it was still a beautiful, fearsome sight, the glowing trail across the lonely water, the waves lapping the shore.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” a voice behind her said.
Savina turned and saw Mr. Heywood approaching in the gloom. He bowed and turned to leave her alone, but she said, “No, come and sit, if that was your intention, Mr. Heywood.”
He came around the log and sat down gingerly a few feet away from her. They were silent for a time.
“Mr. Heywood, I want to say—”
“Miss Roxeter, I wanted to th—”
Both of them had spoken at exactly the same moment.
“Ladies first,” Heywood said, laughing at their folly.
Savina, very conscious of her ratted hair and unpleasant dress, turned on the log and gazed through the duskiness at Anthony Heywood. Though he was dirty and disheveled too, as they all were, he carried within him an innate dignity that could not be damaged by a dirty cravat or stubbly beard growing in. His sandy hair, at least, was neatly brushed to one side. “I want to thank you, for all you’ve done today.”
“I was about to say the same to you, Miss Roxeter. If not for you and Miss Zazu, we would have starved.”
Savina shrugged. “I don’t know how to cook. Zazu does.”
“But you very bravely organized things,” he said, his tone gentle and blending with the night sounds from the forest above and behind them. “And worked like a navvy all day long. I know that today has not been easy for you. Lord Gaston-Reade . . .” He didn’t finish, shaking his head and looking away, then back directly into her eyes. “You weren’t raised to labor, and so it is all the more commendable that you took such initiative.”
“Thank you. And thank you, too, for including my father. I’m afraid this has all been very difficult for him.” She stood and brushed her skirt down. “I think I shall retire now.”
Six
Though their sleeping arrangements were rough, by any accounting, Savina had been so weary the night before that the palm fronds and thick tropical leaves they had used to create pallets had been as comfortable as a feather mattress. Awakening in the morning, though, she felt dirty and disheveled and saw that Zazu, too, habitually very tidy, was also unkempt, her hair sticking out in tufts and her neat dress dirty.
“We’ll have to find some way to clean up today. I don’t think I can go another day like this,” Savina said quietly to Zazu as they lay face-to-face on their shared pallet.
Dawn was breaking, and a scraping sound nearby made Savina look up from her crude bed. She spotted a lizard scuttling through their encampment and squeaked a surprised gasp, but then calmed and pointed it out to her maid. They watched it scurry away, and then Zazu moved up to rest on her elbow.
“I cannot stay so dirty,” Zazu agreed, picking a twig out of her hair, grimacing, and tossing it aside. “But first, breakfast and tea, I think.”
“One thing before that,” Savina said with a sigh. “I need to find a quiet and secluded spot somewhere for some personal business. Ugh! This is one of the many things I am going to have trouble becoming accustomed to.”
They arose together, did what was necessary, and then came back to begin the day, their third on the island. Their “camp” was situated in an opening in a grove of palms, with the large oilskin tarpaulin stretched taut and lashed to four trees. That was their shelter, as rudimentary as it was, but angled to exclude wind from the ocean, and with the crates and barrels lined up to one side, it was some protection. The others slept on, oblivious of the two young women and their cautious movements.
As quietly as possible they unpacked one of the wood crates they had not yet gotten to the bottom of, and Savina was overjoyed to find a few extra things she hadn’t considered necessary until she thought they would have to get along without them. One was a straight razor a
nd strop. Her father would be pleased, she thought, as she gazed over at him, still asleep on his pallet. Perpetually neat, even dandified, he was distressed by his gray beard and scruffy appearance, she knew. It was something the American captain had clearly thought of that she had not, and she silently blessed his kindness. She would never say it aloud, but she knew he could easily have mired them with nothing but the clothes on their backs, so his few thoughtful gestures were greeted by her with gratitude.
“Molasses!” Zazu whispered, pulling a heavy tin pail out of the crate.
Savina made a face. “What can we do with that?”
“You will be glad of it soon enough. We shall have to make it last; who knows how long we shall be here?”
The others gradually rose, stretching and yawning, and set off in different directions into the bush. She hadn’t noticed before, but Savina soon realized that Anthony Heywood had been gone before she and Zazu arose. As they prepared the water to boil over the fire, he came back, the cuffs of his white shirt red, carrying a slab of something.
“What . . . what is that?” she asked, straightening from her task.
“Turtle meat,” he said. He indicated the long knife he carried in a crude sheath on his hip. “It’s very good. I had it once fried, though most often it’s used as soup or stew.”
Lady Savage Page 6
