Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  As Lillian dressed for the service topside, she found herself recalling that first glimpse of her own hidden secret. One chilly evening when she was nine, while her uncle was busy with his church duties, her aunt had spirited the young Lillian across town to a prison. That distant night, the prison’s keeper led Lillian and her aunt down a dank stone hall mired with fetid odors and the misery of centuries. They entered a stone chamber with low beams darkened by eons of woe. There sat a woman who looked somehow familiar to the child.

  Lillian now stared out the porthole as she brushed her hair, but in truth she saw nothing save that dread night. She recalled how everyone had cried then. Lillian’s aunt had sobbed as she hugged the woman. The woman was dressed in rags, and she cried as she reached out for Lillian, who screamed in horror and drew away, or tried to. Her aunt and the woman only cried the harder. Her aunt forced Lillian to step forward. But the woman did not attempt to hold the child again. Instead, the woman caressed Lillian’s hair and face, over and over, as though seeking to draw in the child’s beauty through her grimy fingers.

  Now, as Lillian stared out the window at the dancing sunlit sea, she could feel the woman’s touch sliding down her cheek in time to her strokes of the brush. How strange life was, she reflected, that the further she moved from that time, the more vivid the memories became. As though some unseen force was determined that she would never leave that early pain behind.

  In truth, today’s ceremony was vastly different from anything Lillian had known as a child. Today’s church was an open space upon the ship’s heaving deck. Their ceiling was a new sail, lashed to the masts and the side railings. The canopy billowed and boiled with the wind. The crew and passengers were joyous. They welcomed her with smiles, and the pastor even made mention of their guest, one newly risen from what must have come to feel like the grave. Lillian marveled at how all the people responded with chuckles and smiles her way. She had never heard humor from the pulpit before.

  The pulpit really was nothing more than stairs leading to the quarterdeck. The pastor wore a suit of rough-woven black cloth and a matching round hat. He smiled at all and sundry. He spoke about the great adventure they had set themselves upon, and he compared it with the Israelites’ trek through the wilderness, following the path their God set out for them. Lillian tried to listen to what the man said. But her mind was too caught up in how astonishingly different the service was from anything she had ever known before. When they rose to sing again, she looked about her. The people responded to her gaze with nods and smiles.

  Their ship was one of a new class called clippers, meant to be far swifter than anything ever before built. The shape of the vessel, narrower than the older ships known as square-riggers, required even the nicest of passenger cabins to be very restricted in size. The ship now cleaved the waves ahead, sending froth over the windward bow. This bucking and heaving was far more severe than with the older ships, or so Abigail had reported from talks with more experienced passengers. At the time, Lillian had bemoaned the fate that had granted them passage. But now, as she sat upon the hard bench and breathed the sea-spiced air, she was exhilarated by the sense of speed. The boat moved with such determined force it might as well have been powered by great canvas wings.

  Lillian spied the ship’s lieutenant leaning against the quarterdeck railing. He really was rather handsome, in a rakish way. His eyes were as dark as his hair and his sun-drenched skin. He kept his gaze fastened upon Abigail with singular intensity. Such open attention would not be accepted in polite society. But here the customs were not so well defined. Lillian would need to offer Abigail a warning.

  The thought caused a return of the guilt that had stabbed her in the cabin. Lillian cast a swift glance at the young woman seated beside her. Abigail’s attention was as tightly focused upon the pastor as the lieutenant’s was upon her. She had such a pure spirit; she was such a good person.

  Strangely enough, Lillian found the moment acted as a clarifying potion on her mind. She was able to sit beneath the sun-dappled canopy and feel a powerful lucidity to her thoughts. What was the truth behind her own motives? The fact was, her motives had never been clear. She had always carried her secrets, and in a way it was because they remained hidden that they had held such power over her.

  She caught her breath as the truth of it filled her being. The sound was enough to turn Abigail’s face toward her. Lillian dredged up a smile to show she was not becoming ill again. But the thought remained shockingly vivid. She had been chained to secrets she thought were not only hidden, but gone. And that had been a terrible lie. The banker had revealed this. The past had merely waited in the shadows until it was time to strike.

  So how was she to escape?

  The pastor called to his little flock, raising them to their feet for a final song of praise and thanksgiving. Lillian glanced about her at the shining faces, and for the first time in her life she envied them. The religion she had scorned her entire life gave these people a simple joy, a freedom, that was not hers. She sighed deeply. A freedom she would never know. How could she?

  Chapter 15

  Abigail was once again worried about the countess. That morning they passed the Chesapeake Bay headlands and entered calmer waters. If anything, Lillian should have been delighted. Yet since the previous Sunday when her nausea disappeared, Lillian had become increasingly withdrawn. A subtle change at first, now she hardly spoke at all. Lillian still took pains over her hair and face and dress, yet even this seemed to be mere habit. She dined at the captain’s table, as did all the upper-decks passengers. She could go the entire meal, with every man at the table agape at her loveliness, and notice nothing at all. Her eyes, normally so open and aware, remained blank. The candlelight might as well have been reflected from two blue-tinted mirrors. If someone spoke directly to her, she started as though coming awake and responded with such brevity they eventually turned away. Abigail was very worried Lillian had overcome her illness only to succumb to something far worse. But she would not speak of it.

  Lillian now sat upon an empty water cask lashed to the lee railing. She stared out to sea, yet Abigail knew she saw nothing. Not the low marshlands that turned the western horizon into an emerald ribbon. Nor the clouds of water birds that swarmed so thick they created shadows beneath the sun. That morning Abigail had spoken as clearly as she had dared, insisting that Lillian tell her what was the matter. She had refused to respond. Abigail had then asked if she had done something to offend the older woman. Lillian had finally looked at her, but all she would say was, “You dear, sweet young lady. How could you possibly have been anything other than angelic?”

  But Abigail did not feel angelic just then. She was mightily concerned.

  A male voice at her side said, “My dear Miss Abigail, I fear you have not heard a single word I have spoken.”

  She wrenched her gaze away from Lillian. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. It is just that I am worried about my friend.”

  “The countess? She looks splendid as always.”

  He really was a dashing fellow. He stood upon the quarterdeck with feet set well apart, a man accustomed to remaining steady in the foulest of conditions. The inland sea was calm here, however. Yet the low marsh headlands made no dint upon the wind. Their vessel sped along, the waters murmuring in a sibilant rush.

  The captain had retired to his day cabin, leaving his young officer in command. The lieutenant had taken this opportunity to invite Abigail to join him on the quarterdeck. Much of the deck was open to the upper deck passengers, but one corner was reserved for the senior officer on duty. Not even another ship’s officer could cross the invisible line without permission. They were chaperoned by the entire watch and all the passengers on deck. Yet the wind caught up their words as soon as they were spoken and flung them over the railing. It was as private an area as the ship offered.

  “I was saying,” the young lieutenant continued, “that so long as the wind remains off our stern, the captain feels we might head straigh
t for the Georgetown docks. It would be quite a feat, making the entire journey in just four weeks’ time. Or less, perhaps, by a day.”

  Abigail could see that a polite comment was expected, maybe even a regret over how their time together was about to end. Something he might use as an opening for speaking of the future. But out of the corner of her eye she spotted Lillian heave a great sigh and slump slightly. Abigail had to resist the urge to rush over and hold her. Lillian was not the sort of person to accept such aid, particularly in public.

  Abigail knew the lieutenant was awaiting her response. “But that’s not what we’re speaking about, is it.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The wind. The tides. The headwaters. Our journey. That’s not what is on your mind.”

  The lieutenant’s mouth worked a moment. He was tall, with a strong cleft jaw and features carved from wind and fierce determination. “Miss Abigail . . .”

  “Oh, I know I am impetuous and I speak far too often without thinking. But I dislike all this talking around and about, like we were waltzing upon the quarterdeck.” She turned slightly, so that she could no longer see Lillian. It was the only way to direct her attention fully upon the lieutenant. “Listen to me, sir. There is many a young lady who would be most thrilled by your attentions.”

  “But I do not want just any young woman’s favors.” He responded to the directness of her gaze and words. “I want yours, Miss Abigail.”

  “That is a pity, sir. A very great pity.”

  “Why, pray tell?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does. It matters a great deal. Why else would I ask?”

  “Because you are looking for some way to change my mind. Which, I assure you, will not happen.”

  He parried her thrust with a smile. “How can you be so certain unless you try?”

  “Very well.” Abigail crossed her arms. “Who am I?”

  “Miss Abigail, forgive me, but that is the first comment you have ever uttered which has not made sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me, sir. I ask you who I am because it is a question I myself cannot answer. I have often wondered why it is I have never felt inclined toward—toward a gentleman.”

  “I can perhaps answer that one.” Dark eyes flashed. “You have never given yourself the chance.”

  “No. I am sorry, sir, but you are wrong. I cannot give myself to a man until I know who I am. And that is a quest I must accomplish myself, with God’s help.”

  “Your God can join you upon this quest but I cannot. Is that your response?”

  “In its entirety, sir,” she replied firmly.

  His smile turned bitter. “How convenient.”

  It was done then. The connection was severed. Abigail felt a lancing regret as she observed the cold hardness enter the lieutenant’s gaze. She nodded her head. “Good day, sir.”

  “Miss Aldridge.”

  Abigail let the lieutenant be the one to turn away. It was his due, this gesture of pride and dismissal. She jumped slightly at the angry bellow which he then used to order the watch aloft. She walked over to where Lillian sat staring out at the sea.

  Abigail leaned against the railing. The water glinted slate gray and cold beneath the scuttling clouds. They were surrounded by the raucous call of countless birds, and the wind was a constant chilling force against her back. Abigail pressed the hair from her face and asked, “Why could I have not handled that better?”

  “You did remarkably well.”

  The response was so unexpected Abigail wondered if perhaps someone other than the countess had responded. “You heard?”

  Lillian raised an eyebrow toward the sea and the marshlands. “The wind carried your words.”

  “He is angry with me now.”

  “The lieutenant lives by pride.” Lillian continued to aim her words out to sea. “He cannot accept that any woman would refuse his advances. Particularly one surrounded by the world where he is master.”

  “I should have—”

  “You could have done no better.”

  “I am so impetuous.”

  Lillian turned to her. “Why do you consider this a fault?”

  “Because it is.”

  Lillian started to respond, then turned her gaze back to the sea.

  Abigail settled herself upon the neighboring cask. “Would you tell me what you were going to say?”

  “I was thinking,” Lillian slowly replied, “I have no platform from which to advise you at all.”

  “Why ever not? Other than my mother, you are the finest woman I have ever met.”

  “Stop. Please. Do not—”

  “Do not what? Say that I admire you almost more than I can say? Tell you how worried I have been about you these past days? Wish that you would confide in me—”

  “No.” Lillian bolted upright. She pushed herself off the railing and rushed for the stairs.

  Abigail started to call after her, then sighed herself to lonely silence. Once more she had said the wrong thing. Once more she had accomplished nothing save offend someone close to her.

  If only she could do better.

  The wind did not hold in their favor. They awoke the next morning to a storm determined to press them away from land. All day the ship tacked back and forth across the Chesapeake Bay and the mouth of the Potomac. Finally they managed to berth at Owen, the port of Fredericksburg, just as the last glimmer of daylight faded to rainy dark. In fourteen hours of tacking they had advanced only thirty-nine miles. The storm passed, but the wind remained steadfast against them. The decision was taken to off-load. That night Abigail was awakened several times as the deckhands emptied the holds of cargo. When she rose at daybreak, three long river barges were lashed alongside their vessel.

  The captain made a brief speech of farewell, mostly congratulating himself and his crew for their rapid and safe passage. Abigail stood on the foredeck and observed a strange occurrence. The lower-decks passengers were both eager to leave and slow in their farewells. They had been together for four weeks on this cramped wooden island. One adventure was over, another was about to begin. Friendships had been made, secrets shared. Now they were going off in a multitude of directions, perhaps never to see one another again. Abigail watched as two women clung together and shed many tears. Their husbands looked on with the embarrassed expressions of men who had no idea what to say to one another. Abigail felt a trace of jealousy—not over the sorrow, but rather what the journey had held for them. For herself, she had spent the first two weeks nursing a prostrate Lillian, and the final two weeks worrying over her. Here she came now, stepping from the cabin hold. Apparently Lillian did not even see the captain as he bowed his formal farewell.

  “We have spaces held for us in the first barge,” Abigail told her companion. She spoke with the gentle cadence of one addressing a child. “We should arrive in Georgetown by early evening.”

  Lillian glanced over the side of the ship and inspected the barge far below. “Our luggage?”

  “I’ve already seen everything but your small hand case on board.”

  This time the captain inserted himself so closely Lillian had no choice but to accept his presence. “It has been an honor to have you on board, Countess.”

  “I cannot thank you enough, sir,” she replied. Her words were perfect, her manners impeccable. But Abigail knew her companion well enough to realize that Lillian was not really there at all. “Both for seeing us along this journey and for your hospitality.”

  He bent over the offered hand. “It would be an honor to welcome you on board again soon, my lady.”

  Abigail assumed the conversation was over and began leading Lillian toward the temporary stairs leading down to the barge. But again the captain stepped forward. “A word of advice, my lady.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Yanks, well, ma’am, that is . . .” He fumbled with his thoughts for a moment. “Might I ask where you are headed?”

  “That depends upon a numbe
r of things out of our control, sir. But I would imagine a journey into the interior is required. We are thinking of acquiring land, you see.”

  The captain nodded, as though his suspicions had been confirmed. “In that case, my lady, you’d best be aware that there are those among the frontiersmen who don’t take kindly to titled folk.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “They’re seen as land-grabbers, ma’am. Speculators, they’re called. Folks who are not interested in farming, or even clearing the land. Just paying top dollar for the best and the biggest, then holding it for gain or even just for prestige.”

  “That is not my intent at all, sir.”

  “They won’t be knowing that, my lady.”

  “Indeed not.” For the first time that day, Lillian seemed to draw the world into focus. “You are saying it would be best to refrain from mentioning who I am. I am indeed most grateful, sir. Come, Abigail. I see the others are on board and await us.”

  But as soon as they were settled into the bow station and the barge was cast free, Lillian seemed to return to her internal world. For once, however, Abigail refused to be affected by her companion’s secret ailment. The surroundings were simply too captivating.

  Thankfully, the sun lanced through the sky’s coverlet. But the wind held its aim straight for their faces. The swift-flowing current and the wind proved too strong an adversary for the barge’s six oars. They halted a brief distance upstream as two strong horses were attached to a yoke and long lead rope. One of the oarsmen led the horses on a path alongside the river, while another rode backward and kept an eye on both the line and the barge. All traffic moving downstream kept to the opposite bank. Their progress remained slow but constant.

  The landscape was varied and beautiful. Gentle hills seemed carved by the farms that blanketed their sides. There was a prosperous and contented air. The hamlets were far more open and expansive than the villages Abigail knew in England. There were neither ancient fortress walls nor tightly restricted lanes curving through densely clustered houses. And the air was rich with scents—autumn foliage and late fruit and woodsmoke and the river’s sweet smell.