Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Once, when lightning cracked the sky and briefly lit the cabin, Bristol opened her eyes to see Jean Pierre bending over her. His face was transfigured, lost in joyful rapture. Bristol closed her eyes and tightened her arms about his neck... and followed where he led.

  Afterward, they lay in the warmth of each other’s arms. Before Bristol’s soft eyes closed, she nestled against his solid strength and felt the security of knowing she was where she wanted to be tonight.

  Jean Pierre was gone when Bristol awoke to a gray dawn. She stretched and rolled to lay her cheek on his pillow, inhaling the fresh salty scent where his head had lain. Outside the bank of windows, a steady rain pelted the sea. The waves still tossed in anger, but less violently than during the night. She could see the ocean bubbling around raindrops, turning the waters into foaming slate.

  Bristol tucked the blankets under her chin and wriggled blissfully into the soft warmth. She felt no urgency to rise. No chickens squawked to be fed, no cows impatiently waited for milking. An empty water bucket didn’t beckon, nor a dwindling woodpile. Since boarding the Challenger, Bristol had experienced the first idle moments of her life. She stretched luxuriously; it was a wonderful feeling. This must be how it felt to be a true lady, like those in Mother England. She sighed. Best to treasure these lazy moments while she could. She suspected there would be few throughout her lifetime.

  A rap sounded at the cabin door, and Mr. Aykroyd poked his head inside. “Ah,” he said, a twinkle dancing in his blue eyes. “A lay-abed!” He sounded so like Noah that Bristol stared and had to fight down an urge to offer excuses.

  Briskly Mr. Aykroyd carried a tray to the bed. Bristol saw a mug of hot beer and a slice of thick buttered bread. “The captain sent this.” Mr. Aykroyd set the silver tray on the bed cover. When Bristol sat up against the pillows, his eyes noted the cameo pinned to her nightgown, and a flush of pleasure climbed the ridges and valleys of his cheeks.

  Bristol smiled, glad she’d worn the pin, and reached eagerly for her morning beer. “Ah, it’s hot and good. I was just fancying myself a pampered lady, and here you appear to make it true,” she teased.

  Mr. Aykroyd dropped into a playful bow, surprisingly graceful. “I be at yer service, yer majesty.” He straightened with a grin. “I swear, gel. Next ye’ll be having an old man jump through hoops!”

  They smiled at each other, delighted with themselves. “Was there much storm damage?” Bristol asked. The bread tasted fresh and hot and yeasty.

  “Nothing what can’t be fixed,” Mr. Aykroyd answered, shaking raindrops from his coat. His shrewd eyes studied Bristol, seeing the rosy glow in her cheeks. “Gel, either ye’ve done some thinking, or ye possess the adaptability of a youth I’ve long passed.” He watched her sipping the beer, propped in the bed, and a spot of color warmed his tired face. “Ye’re all right now, with...” He patted the bed.

  “Aye,” Bristol answered calmly, meeting his eyes. She tested her new conviction of living each day fully, without shame, and discovered she could manage with a minimum of embarrassment. The old feelings still simmered inside, but she wouldn’t allow any crippling guilts to surface.

  Mr. Aykroyd sat on the edge of the bed and took Bristol’s hand in his cold fingers. “Now, gel...” He frowned. “I advised ye to accept yer human needs and follow where they lead.” He peered into her green eyes. “But don’t hurl yerself overboard. Retain a little caution. Don’t be throwing yer heart into the wind.”

  Bristol laughed and pressed his hand, rubbing it to restore some warmth. “Thank you for worrying, Mr. Aykroyd, but you needn’t. I’ve thought this out and decided to take each day as it comes. I don’t want to be alone. I think... I think maybe I’m growing at a faster pace than I can cope with alone. Everything is so new. Does that make sense?” He nodded. “If you’re worrying I might... might fall in love with Captain La Crosse...” Bristol’s cheeks heated, and she hurried on. “I know this sounds brazen, but I can stay here without that happening. We’re too different.”

  Mr. Aykroyd opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and closed his lips.

  Bristol continued. “You’re right about people needing each other. I suspect even the captain does.” She frowned earnestly into Mr. Aykroyd’s intent gaze, remembering how tired and cold La Crosse had been when he returned last night.

  Mr. Aykroyd’s thick brows met, and he nodded slowly. “Ye’re a far piece from home, gel”—both slid a glance toward the pewter cup on the desk—“and sometimes values get twisted in such a circumstance. Sometimes that be growth. Sometimes the turning away breeds a lifetime of remorse. Be certain which it is for ye. I’d not like to see ye hurt.”

  Bristol squeezed his hand. “I’ll be all right,” she murmured.

  Mr. Aykroyd stared into her emerald eyes for a long moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “I hope so, gel. Now, then...” He stood and scooped up the tray of storm-shattered dishes, starting for the door. At the latch he paused. “I’d like to ask a favor of ye.”

  “Anything,” Bristol said emphatically, anxious to repay his kindness and concern.

  “Well, I be wondering if ye might knit a wee mitten for Master Boyd’s stump. Not a man jack on this ship knows a knitting needle from a powder rammer. They be them what know how to sew, but none to claim knowledge of knitting.”

  Bristol clapped her hands. “I’d love to! I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it myself!” There was yarn in her trunk, and needles.

  “The lad would be mighty touched to know his angel did see to his comfort. ‘Tis cold outside, and colder still in the holds.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Aykroyd. I’ll begin today!” And she’d fashion new mittens for Mr. Aykroyd, too, Bristol thought, noticing the ragged pair he wore.

  She chose dark blue yarn for Master Boyd, wishing she had a lighter, more cheerful color, and spent the day sitting before the rain-streaked window, happily fashioning a rounded cup for the boy’s stump. When she finished, Bristol added a band of plain white along the top, then began a matching mitten for the boy’s right hand.

  La Crosse smiled and lifted an amused brow when he returned, bringing a blast of cold air and a man carrying their supper. “Somehow I don’t associate you with domestic virtues.” He laughed. “I picture you racing horses, or fighting pirates, or swinging a deadly fork.” The man prepared the table, laid out the dishes, and departed with a sidelong glance at Bristol.

  She laid down the nearly completed mitten. “Then you know very little about New England women,” she responded tartly. “We’re creatures of infinite talent and accomplishments.” Bristol smiled and took her place at the table, nodding approval at the pink slices of ham and golden mounds of roast pigeon.

  La Crosse grinned. “I stand corrected.” He touched Bristol’s dust cap lightly, removed his coat, and poured them each a generous glass of wine. “To the ladies of New England,” he toasted, and drained his glass.

  “No oranges tonight?” How quickly she was becoming accustomed to the luxuries of the captain’s life.

  “Not tonight. There aren’t many left; we’ll save them for a special treat.”

  As they ate, La Crosse detailed the storm’s destruction and spoke of the carpenters working double shifts to repair storm and pirate damage. It was possible they’d fallen a few days behind schedule; not a serious concern, as ships were scheduled by week, not day. Anything less than a week’s leeway would be a nearly impossible schedule to meet.

  “So,” he ended, pushing away his empty plate, “if you’ve been concerned that your Aunt Prudence might overlook the Challenger’s arrival, you can lay that worry to rest. Your aunt will have someone meeting the Gravesend ferry every day of the week we’re scheduled in.”

  “Someone?” Bristol arched a brow. “You forget my aunt’s circumstances. The Adams’ don’t have a ‘someone’ to handle such chores for them.” Bristol’s words carried a bite, but she kept her tone even. “Aunt Prudence will be waiting herself.”

 
La Crosse gave her a level, hooded look. “I’m interested in knowing more about your Aunt Prudence,” he said. “Or do you still mean to throw up a wall before all efforts to become acquainted?” He grinned.

  Bristol blushed and impulsively tossed a ball of bread at his chest. La Crosse laughed and popped the bread into his mouth.

  Hesitantly at first, Bristol spoke of her maiden aunt, telling him the little she knew of Prudence Adams.

  “Not an enticing picture,” he commented when Bristol lapsed into glum silence. “I can understand your reluctance.”

  His words were right, but the tone was wrong. Bristol had an idea Jean Pierre didn’t see the problem as having the importance she saw in it. “I’ll make the best of it,” she answered. “There’s nothing else to do.” Surprisingly, this didn’t seem the impossible task she’d once thought. Maybe La Crosse was right. Dealing with an aging aunt wasn’t nearly as formidable a task as coping with pirates, storms at sea, night attacks, and boys with one arm.

  “And your father,” La Crosse pressed. “Is he like his sister?”

  Bristol shook her head no, and accepted another glass of wine. Pushing away her plate, she thought how pleasant it was to sit in the warm candleglow with rain pelting the window and pattering cheerily on the deck above their heads. She glanced at La Crosse over the rim of her glass and drew in a tiny breath.

  Bright candlelight washed away the small lines crinkling his eyes and emphasized his chiseled good looks. His was not a soft face; there was strength in the chin and jaw, and a hint of cruelty in his lips. But La Crosse owned a face women would admire and men respect. Bristol swallowed and lowered her gaze. “What did you say?” Her mind wandered.

  “Your father,” La Crosse prompted. Under his interested questioning, Bristol talked for more than an hour, telling him about the Adams family, remembering them with a rush of affection and love. They were distant by half an ocean, and no longer part of her daily life, not included in what she did or thought. With a start, Bristol realized she couldn’t have discussed them so dispassionately a week ago.

  Seeing her thoughts stray, La Crosse stood and stretched. “It’s been a long day,” he said gently, extending his hand to Bristol and blowing out the stub of candle.

  He led her to his bed and undressed her in the darkness. Bristol buried her hands in his dark hair, feeling her body waken to his sure touch, quivering to life as his fingers brushed bare skin and teased her breath into quickening gasps.

  Tonight La Crosse paced the growing urgency. He whispered into her ear, “Shhh. Slowly, slowly, little one.” And, submitting to his guiding hands and teaching mouth, Bristol learned there were ways to give pleasure that she never could have imagined.

  The rocking ship cradled them, and pattering raindrops serenaded above. And they explored each other’s bodies, delighting in their discoveries, seeking to offer ever greater joy, until finally an urgency built in explosive waves and they clung to moist heated flesh, soaring toward a panting release.

  Throughout the following weeks, Bristol came to know Jean Pierre’s body as well as her own, discovering new delights in each. Often she found herself lifting her head from a lap of knitting or a book Jean Pierre had recommended, and staring out the windows to think: I’m happy. I don’t recall ever being so happy. Each time the realization astonished her. The pattern of Bristol’s life seemed too simple to account for such happiness. She ate, she sewed and read, she slept. Once a week Jean Pierre invited her on deck, under heavy guard, to enjoy a few hours of fresh air and sunshine. But all in all, Bristol’s days passed quietly, repetitive in nature, with nothing apparent to spark the happiness glowing on her face and filling her breast.

  Lowering a book, Bristol frowned at the sparkling shimmer of waves outside the window, turning the question in her mind. Could it be Jean Pierre himself that fired her happiness? As the weeks had passed, she’d come to anticipate the hours with him with ever greater eagerness. Not only the nights, but also those hours they spent after dinner, talking over the day’s events, remembering their past for each other, and enjoying an easy companionship.

  By now Bristol knew the tiny French village of Eze almost as well as she knew Salem. She saw the old castle in her mind, pictured dusty sun-dappled lanes. She could see Marie La Crosse in her mind, and feel the young boy’s loss at Marie’s death. And though Jean Pierre seldom mentioned his English father, a dim outline had begun to form in Bristol’s thoughts.

  And she had served up her own past as well. Showing him the close-knit, bickering community of Salem Village. Remembering Noah and Hannah and Charity for him.

  A sudden thought struck Bristol with almost physical force. She hadn’t thought of Caleb Wainwright in weeks! Not in... not in weeks! Her book tumbled unnoticed from her lap. What had happened to her? Bristol rose abruptly from her chair and pressed her hands flat to the glass of the windows, looking out as if she could pierce the distance and see Salem’s shores. Caleb! What had made her repress him so totally? Guilt? Shame?

  Bristol squeezed her eyes shut and summoned Caleb’s face in her memory. A dim blur topped by a head of sandy hair wavered at the edge of her mind, but try as she might, Bristol could not force his face into clear focus.

  Disturbed, she sank into her chair. The full impact of betrayal struck her like a blow. Guilt kept her from facing his image, kept Caleb’s features out of focus. She reached for her pewter mug, turning the cool metal in her fingers.

  She pictured herself running to greet La Crosse when he stepped through the cabin door. She saw herself lifting an eager body to Jean Pierre’s skilled touch. She’d betrayed Caleb Wainwright in every possible way, both in body and mind.

  Stunned, Bristol stared at her fingers turning white on the handle of the pewter cup. It was time to say good-bye. Really say good-bye. She’d released Caleb to Charity before leaving Salem, but the words were hollow, the gesture only sham. When she’d shouted at Caleb in the settler’s cabin, she hadn’t meant the words in her heart, it hadn’t been her true intent never to see him again.

  Now it was. Bristol realized she could never face Caleb again. More important, she didn’t love him. Affection, aye, she felt a warm affection for Caleb; he’d been the first man she cared for, and a piece of her would always care. But she did not love him.

  Bristol’s fiery head rose, and she stared at the waves. In one way she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart; in another a new weight had been added. Releasing Caleb left her with... what?

  Was she in love with Jean Pierre?

  A rush of emotion rippled through her small frame. Mr. Aykroyd had warned her not to throw her heart into the wind. And what other wind was there but the whirlwind that was Jean Pierre La Crosse? She couldn’t love him! She refused to love him!

  It would never work. They were worlds apart in outlook and background. Aye, the evening discussion wove threads through their respective pasts, threads that could possibly be pulled into whole fabric; she understood much of what he was, and he knew her. But could those disparate worlds mesh? Could their understanding of each other’s past be brought forward to bear on the present? Bristol didn’t know.

  She chewed her lip. Sometimes La Crosse whispered into the fragrance of her hair, and the words were in French. But they carried the lightness of endearments, not commitments. Jean Pierre had never spoken of love. He’d promised her nothing. Had not mentioned tomorrow.

  Disturbed, Bristol paced the planks of the cabin. Why now? she wondered. Why did these awful realizations rise to haunt her now? And the answer came, swift and certain. Only now had she totally released Caleb Wainwright. And now the voyage was nearly ended.

  She searched her memory but found no hint from Jean Pierre of what might follow at the journey’s finish. He’d offered no promise to see her again. He’d asked no questions where he might find her in London Town.

  A core of shocked pain formed in Bristol’s heart and grew. Did the hurt mean she loved him? But she couldn’t!

/>   Bristol passed a hand over her burning eyes, glad when a knock sounded at the door, grateful to escape a sudden deluge of disturbing questions.

  Mr. Aykroyd leaned inside with a smile. “Well, are ye ready for an outing?” His quick eyes scanned Bristol’s pale face, and his smile faded to a frown. “What is it, gel? Are ye ill?”

  “No.” Bristol forced a shaky smile for Mr. Aykroyd. Though it was now spring and weeks past the need for gloves, she spied the pair she’d knitted peeking from his pocket. When she presented the mittens to him, Mr. Aykroyd had stared at the brown yarn for a long moment, his mouth falling open. Then he’d swallowed and rushed from the cabin. Never once had he mentioned the gloves, but they were always with him.

  Smiling at the memory, Bristol took Mr. Aykroyd’s arm and fondly pressed it. He really was the ugliest man she’d ever seen, Bristol thought with a smile of affection. “I’m thinking about the end of the voyage,” she explained, an edge of sadness cracking her voice.

  Mr. Aykroyd halted abruptly, and Bristol bumped into his side. He peered down into her face, his blue eyes anxious. “Ye haven’t lost yer heart, have ye?” His eyes allowed for nothing but a truthful answer.

  “I... Maybe... I don’t know,” Bristol replied miserably, dropping her eyes.

  “Gel! Don’t mistake the minute for the year!” He gripped her arm so tightly it hurt. “This is only a minute! A minute in yer life, and no more. Enjoy it, aye; there’s none to know on either side of the ocean that ye’ve claimed a little pleasure for yerself. No shame in it. But...” His eyes bored down intently. “But ye and the captain each have a life waiting. A life of commitments and obligations set in motion long before ye came together. Perhaps obligations that can’t be broken.”

  Bristol stared blankly, trying to sort out what he said. Had La Crosse mentioned her to Mr. Aykroyd? Or... A terrible new idea squeezed her heart, and her breath stopped. “Mr. Aykroyd, does Jean Pierre have... have a wife?” Was this what Mr. Aykroyd tried to tell her? Her world blackened in front of her eyes. If Jean Pierre had a wife, that would explain why he said little about his current life, but wandered in the past. It would explain why he didn’t speak of a future that included Bristol. Why his eyes appeared to sadden at certain moments when he watched her happiness.