Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  “Courage?” Bristol frowned, wondering if he was making a fool of her. “I’ve done nothing to merit a gift.”

  La Crosse’s face sobered, and he looked at her over the candle in the center of the table. “But you have. It required courage not to run below deck and hide during the battle. It took courage to defend yourself against me last night.” He smiled charmingly. “And who but one of courage would subdue an attacker with a fork? Or stand without flinching from the stares or the whipping?” He looked into his glass and lowered his voice. “And it took courage not to fall on the sword last night.”

  Bristol gasped. “You knew!” Her fork clattered to her plate, and both hands leaped to her mouth. He hadn’t been asleep! La Crosse had watched her. And made no move to interfere! Bristol stared at him, her green eyes wide.

  “Of course I knew.” He met her stare. “Only cowards fall on swords, Mistress Adams—it takes no courage to die. It takes courage to live. It takes courage to face a life that isn’t all we want it to be; it takes courage to overcome the blows fate deals us, to face our fears and shames, our guilts.”

  Bristol lowered a white face, wadding the square of linen in her lap. “An outward courage.” Knowing he’d witnessed that private moment with the sword crumbled her defenses, and the truth spilled from her lips. “Inside, I was frightened. Everything you mentioned, all those acts you call courageous—they were impulsive reactions. Inside, you wouldn’t have found an ounce of courage,” she whispered.

  Jean Pierre La Crosse leaned forward and pulled her hand from her lap, covering it with his own. “Do you imagine anyone feels differently?” he asked softly. “Do you really believe any of us are brave in our secret hearts? No, little girl, it is not so!” He stroked her hand lightly. “A man who believes himself without fear, who boasts of bravery and courage—that is a foolish man. He courts unnecessary risk and endangers others as well as himself. The truly courageous is one who admits to fear, then overcomes it.”

  Bristol’s green eyes fastened to his.

  “Courage is an event of retrospect,” La Crosse continued. “We recognize our courage only when a crisis has passed, only when we’ve conquered the problem and have examined our actions from a distance.” His shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Then, more often than not, we ask ourselves: Was that actually me? Did I do all that?” La Crosse leaned back, releasing Bristol’s hand and raising his glass. “It was really you, little one. Really you that faced the fears and conquered.”

  “I think you give credit where little is due,” Bristol answered, not moving. Despite his earnest voice and serious face, she wondered uneasily if he humored her. She had never thought of herself in these terms. Perhaps she’d never before been tested.

  La Crosse swirled the wine in his glass, watching the candlelight sparkle through the liquid. “If you see no courage in your actions, perhaps you expect too much of yourself. Or perhaps I don’t fully understand your background. In mine, women are generally pampered, pallid creatures. Fragile bits of lace and ruffle much given to fainting and vapors at the first sign of unpleasantness. To discover fire and spirit in a woman is a refreshing surprise.” He smiled into his glass. “Certainly worth a small token of appreciation.”

  Bristol’s molded brows lifted. It pleased her to think of herself in this flattering light. But then, she couldn’t envision the sort of woman he described. “In Salem Village, fainting is a luxury allowed only during childbirth or extreme shock.” Her red curls tossed beneath her dust cap. “And you’ll find few New England women to match a description of ‘fragile.’ There’s too much work and never enough time to finish it all. Fragile women wouldn’t last a year.”

  He grinned. “Ah, the hearty stock you colonists are so fond of holding up to the rest of the world.” His gray eyes sobered, and he added, “I knew such women in the small village where I was born. My mother was such a one. But the ladies of my adult acquaintance, with one or two exceptions...” He sighed and waved his hands. “They are, unfortunately, made of softer goods.”

  Bristol touched the small package curiously, enjoying the mossy feel of the velvet. But of course she couldn’t accept it. She turned her head and frowned at the inky waves outside the windows. No moonlight illuminated the water tonight; instead, dark clouds blotted the sky. A rising swell of sea lifted the ship and dropped it with a none-too-gentle hand. Bristol thought of Jane Able’s body tossing in those murky waters and felt a quick pang of regret that she hadn’t made a greater effort to know Jane.

  La Crosse waited, his lifted brow questioning and his strong face angular in the candlelight. Bristol noticed he too kept a wary eye on the rising sea. Meeting his gaze, Bristol wondered at the brevity of life, the uncertainty of it. Would she one day look back at this moment and regret she hadn’t made a greater effort to know Jean Pierre La Crosse?

  She sighed, her fingers stroking the blue velvet. Accepting his gift made a beginning. But accepting gifts from men simply wasn’t done. Hannah would be appalled if she knew. Bristol shrank from her mother’s disapproval. But Hannah was a universe away, in another world, and Bristol’s curiosity grew by the minute.

  “Now what’s wrong?” La Crosse’s gray eyes twinkled in amusement.

  “Women don’t accept gifts from men,” Bristol said stiffly. Even as the words left her mouth, she knew how prudish she sounded. And she hadn’t meant it like that.

  La Crosse waved his arms in a gesture midway between amusement and exasperation. “Where I come from, women expect gifts continually. Mistress Adams, must you make a moral issue of everything?” He paused and studied her pink cheeks. “Bristol... this is a simple token. A trinket from the pirates’ treasure. I promise you that acceptance compromises you in no way.”

  Bristol blinked, then almost burst into laughter. She was already compromised! Accepting his gift couldn’t possibly compromise her more than she was. Realizing the foolishness of her argument, she gave up and reached for the package, pulling at a thin cord. The blue velvet fell away, and Bristol stared at an exquisite gold chain glittering in the candlelight.

  She lifted round eyes. “It’s beautiful!” Bristol owned no jewelry other than her brothers’ death rings—small circlets encasing strands of hair, to be worn as symbols of grief during the mourning period, but not as adornment. She’d never owned anything to be worn just for pleasure.

  Smiling, La Crosse rose and reached for the chain. “Lift your hair,” he said, and she did so. He dropped the chain over her head and clasped it at her neck. Bristol felt a cool weight against her throat, balancing the warm tingle where his fingers had brushed.

  Blushing with a sudden surge of vanity, Bristol stood awkwardly and went to La Crosse’s shaving mirror, feeling his delighted grin at her back. She peered into the mirror, admiring the rich golden sparkle of the chain. A look totally incompatible with her white Puritan collar. Disappointed, she looked across the cabin and blurted, “It doesn’t look right.”

  La Crosse laughed and nodded agreement. “I doubt those collars were invented to encourage jewelry. Tuck the chain inside,” he advised. “You’ll know it’s there, and the necklace won’t mar the intent of your collar.” He shook his head at the folly of women’s vanity and poured more wine.

  The suggestion was sensible, but Bristol felt loath to hide her first piece of jewelry. She narrowed her eyes at the mirror, wondering how she’d look without the collar. “Aye,” she agreed reluctantly, staring into the mirror. “Tomorrow I’ll drop it inside.” For tonight she’d leave the gold chain outside, regardless of how strange the contrast.

  La Crosse gestured her back to the table. “There’s still your oranges to finish,” he teased.

  She’d forgotten. Bristol smiled self-consciously and returned to her chair. The dishes slid on the table as the ship dipped in a sudden lurch. Hurriedly she ate the dish of orange wedges, discovering them to be every bit as wonderful as she’d anticipated. “It’s going to storm, isn’t it?” Bristol asked uneasily.

>   “Aye. When I’ve tucked you in for the night, I’ll be going topside.” He refilled her glass. “Mr. Aykroyd will come if I’m needed before then.”

  Bristol set down the empty orange dish and dropped her eyes. “Am I to stay here, then?” she asked in a low whisper. Unaccountably, her heart quickened. She hadn’t let herself ponder the arrangements for tonight. But her trunk was here, her pewter cup was here. It seemed she was effectively moved into the captain’s cabin.

  Watching her, his face expressionless, La Crosse allowed a silence to build before he answered. “That is your decision, Bristol,” he said in a level voice. “What happened last night was unavoidable. I do not apologize. External forces were at work, and forces between us. However, what does or does not happen tonight is avoidable. Whatever you think, I’m not an insensitive monster.” His gray eyes didn’t waver. “The choice is yours.”

  Bristol toyed with the stem of her glass. She knew the right choice. She should smile her gratitude for the meal, stand, and ask to be escorted to the cabin she’d shared with Jane. A lonely cold cabin with a hard cot and Jane’s trunk in the aisle—a mournful reminder of the woman who now tossed in a stormy sea.

  To choose otherwise rejected her background. She turned the wineglass in her fingers. Since leaving Salem Village, her value system had turned topsy-turvy. Without doubt she knew what a horrified Reverend Parris or Noah or Hannah would say. Bristol’s chin rose an inch. Those people were not here. They didn’t face the terror of night scuffles in a passageway. They didn’t share the fears of a rising storm.

  But if she stayed... She stole a peek at La Crosse, feeling a rush of warmth in her cheeks. The damage was done; she’d already spent one night with him. Her eyes strayed to the angry sea pounding against the windows, and she told herself her decision was prompted only by a fear of the storm.

  “I... I’ll stay here,” she said, embarrassment making her voice weak. Gulping her wine, Bristol refused to meet his stare.

  He was silent. When Bristol lifted her eyes, he appeared to be struggling, fighting an inner war. “Decency dictates that I send you back to your cabin. That and... other reasons.” His smoky eyes were veiled. “But I’m a selfish man, Bristol. I want you here.” He watched her. “Just be very, very certain this is your choice. You are free to go; I’ll not force you to remain here.”

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Bristol answered in a low voice.

  “Aye. As you wish.” La Crosse spoke softly, but she heard his pleasure. She also heard his deep voice affirm that she’d be committed to more than just comfort throughout a storm. Her heart beat faster, and the scarlet deepened in her face.

  La Crosse tugged the rope beside the table, and reached to catch an empty dish before it crashed to the floor. “Will you be uneasy in the dark?”

  “What?” Bristol’s thoughts had raced ahead to other matters.

  “In a storm, there’s always increased danger of fire. I’ll leave you one candle, but remember to extinguish it when you go to bed.” He began stacking the sliding dishes in a tray, and Bristol bent to help.

  He would leave immediately, then. To her confusion, a twinge of disappointment welled in her breast. Tonight she’d seen the charming companion Jane had reported. She hid her face by leaning over the table, catching at the chattering dishes.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Mr. Aykroyd bustled inside without waiting for La Crosse to bid him enter. Icy pellets stuck to his cap and coat, and sea spray had plastered white wisps of hair to his forehead. Mr. Aykroyd threw Bristol a distracted smile and called out to La Crosse. “She’ll be a fair blow, Captain. We’re battened down and steady. But I’d be feeling a mite stronger if we’d had more time to make repairs.”

  All business, La Crosse eyed the bank of windows, measuring the soar of black waves and listening to a scatter of sleet against the panes. “Aye. We’ll need sure hands on deck. What’s the attitude of the men?”

  Mr. Aykroyd smiled, wiping water from his face. “They was a tad surly after the whipping, sir. But the sharing-out eased matters considerably. Your timing could not be better.” Admiration underscored his words. Mr. Aykroyd wrung a stream of water from his cap, then shoved it back over the wet glisten of his hair. “They be a sober bunch, but steady and willing.”

  “Aye. Good.” La Crosse pushed his arms into a heavy coat and jammed a cap over his dark hair. “We’ll have a look.”

  She hadn’t considered it before, but listening, Bristol understood the sharing-out had been thoughtfully timed to lessen the men’s animosity over the whipping of their mate. La Crosse knew his business. Suddenly Bristol felt better, knowing his hand would guide them through the storm.

  While La Crosse secured the cabin, Mr. Aykroyd approached Bristol with a rolling gait and an awkward smile. He reached into his coat pocket. “Gel, I’ve been thinking... That is...” He cleared his throat, irritated at his stammer. “I don’t be having anyone, and...”

  Bristol watched with a twinkle of amusement; whatever Mr. Aykroyd tried to say, he wasn’t his usual decisive self. She patted his arm encouragingly and smiled.

  Mr. Aykroyd cursed under his breath. Then he pulled his hand from his pocket and pressed something into Bristol’s fingers. “Here!” he barked. “I don’t be much good at speeches, but I want you to have this.” Then he abruptly followed La Crosse out the door, bending against a frigid wind blasting down the passageway.

  Astonished, Bristol opened her fingers and looked at a tiny cameo. Walking to the candle La Crosse had left her, she held the delicate piece beneath the light. A woman’s ivory profile lifted from a jet background, and the entire oval was rimmed by a soft gold frame. The cameo was breathtaking in simplicity and workmanship.

  Bristol turned misty eyes toward the cabin door. “I... won’t... cry!” she whispered. Somehow Mr. Aykroyd’s gift touched her in ways La Crosse’s gold chain had not. No explanations were needed here; she knew Mr. Aykroyd’s gift came as a pure expression of affection. An uncomplicated gesture of the heart.

  She donned her warmest nightgown and pinned the cameo to her breast, glancing at it frequently while she brushed out her long crackling hair. Tonight, Bristol thought with a smile, she went to bed adorned like a queen, with gold at her throat and gold on her breast. The world was truly an amazing place. Yesterday she’d thought it filled with evil, but kindness and generosity did exist beyond the perimeters of Salem Village.

  Bristol blew out the candle and climbed into the captain’s bed, but the fury of the storm made it impossible to sleep. The ship pitched and rolled violently, riding giant sea swells, then hurtling down deep troughs. Bristol clung to the bed, her green eyes flaring at unfamiliar noises. Across the room dishes smashed together in the tray and sprays of icy stones peppered the windows. Distant frightening crashes sounded above deck.

  For nearly an hour Bristol strained for each terrifying sound, her eyes wide and her clutching fingers aching. The storm was her fault. This was God’s anger telling her she belonged in the small cabin she’d shared with Jane. This was God’s reminder that it might have been Bristol’s body among the canvas shrouds. God’s rage tossed the Challenger upon furious seas, and that anger was directed squarely at Bristol. Toward her selfishness and vanity, toward her fall from grace, toward a sensual awakening.

  Deeply frightened, Bristol fought to remain on the pitching bed while her mind battled concepts greater than previous thought equipped her to handle.

  Jagged arrows of lightning hurled toward the waves, flicking the streaked windows in eerie flashes of illumination. They pierced Bristol’s thoughts with shafts of iced light.

  She smothered a scream. The ship would surely go down! Every person would die! Bristol held to the bed and her terrified eyes swung from side to side. “Wait!” a distant voice called in her head. She heard the voice as clearly as she heard the shrieking timbers of the ship. “Where’s your courage? Haven’t you battled fear before? And won?”

  “Aye,” Bristol whisp
ered. She thought of the earlier conversation with La Crosse.

  “Will you quiver every time a crisis appears?” the voice taunted.

  Bristol’s mind steadied, and she shook her head in irritation with the inner dialogue. What were things coming to, that she argued phantom voices in the darkness? But the inner exchange had its effect; anger at herself replaced an incapacitating fear. How could she have imagined herself so important that God followed her every thought and action? And took time to punish those which offended? Did God single her out? A grimace twisted Bristol’s mouth while she turned these new thoughts in her mind, her fingers clinging to the bed as the ship rose and dropped.

  No. No, of course not. The storm was not her fault. And nothing she did or thought would alter the outcome. A studied calm descended to soothe Bristol’s mind even as her body fought to maintain balance.

  Aye, if God willed it, the ship would go down, and Bristol Adams would die mid-sea. But then, it might be God’s plan that she die on a sunny afternoon, victim of a runaway horse. Or fall prey to a fatal disease. Or, or, or. The point was, it appeared to Bristol, she could not change God’s map of her life. But she could live her days with a minimum of needless fears. She could live each day to the fullest.

  Had Jane lived each day—really treasured it? Now it was too late, there were no second chances to approach each day as the gift it was.

  Bristol stretched out on the bed and forced her tense body to relax, letting herself sway with the ship’s roll instead of fighting. She allowed herself the full happiness of being here rather than at the other end of the ship, alone and frightened in the small cabin she’d originally been assigned. If life was so uncertain, she’d try to live hers, without fear or guilt or shame. Mr. Aykroyd was right, those emotions were debilitating and erased the simple joys of every day. She would accept God’s plan for her, and remember that nothing happened which He hadn’t foreseen.

  Sometime during the night, La Crosse slid into bed, shivering with wet and cold. Drowsily Bristol turned and offered her warm body to ease the chill of the storm, and Jean Pierre came to her with a soft murmur. While the storm raged and howled, they comforted each other in growing passion.