The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “It seems you have great admiration for your hometown, sir.”

  “Yes, I have a residence with a lovely view of Boston Harbor,” Mr. Paddy smiles, and wistfully curls one corner of his mustache. “My son boards at a boy’s academy nearby.”

  “I didn’t know you’re married.”

  “Ahem,” Mr. Paddy coughs into his fist. “It is my sister’s boy. Helen and her husband died of smallpox when Peter was a toddler. I am his ward and by all accounts his father, I suppose. In fact, I am on my way to Boston and only overdue because of our regrettable mishap.”

  Jane holds her breath. She quiets her hands by clasping them in her lap and sits with her back as straight as a board.

  “It would be an honor to see you safely to Boston, Mrs. Hopkins.”

  “Mr. Paddy! You are too generous and I couldn’t be more fortunate. Do I detect the compassion of, uh,” Jane lowers her voice to almost a whisper and carefully adds, “dare I say, a Southern sympathizer.”

  Mr. Paddy is mildly startled by the remark and leans in, “A position, no doubt, we must keep in the strictest confidence where we are headed. You must not trouble your pretty head with such things. Please vanquish the thought.” This is followed by a cordial wink.

  Jane does not miss the rakish twinkle in the man’s eye. On Matt’s advice, she has not thus far revealed her or her husband’s strong opposition to slavery or other views on politics and war. She has been positively loyal in pretending her ignorance of such things.

  “Offer accepted,” Jane smiles brilliantly. “I thank you and Major Hopkins thanks you.”

  “Your valor is to be admired, my dear. You agree without hesitation. Let us hope the good major does not ring my neck for making such a proposal.”

  Jane giggles at this last remark. “You don’t have a thing to worry about, sir. Major Hopkins is well aware of my impulsive behavior. I am not to be taken lightly. You may find my gender attitudes contradictory to the times.”

  “Well, let us leave this interesting revelation to conversation during our journey north. We are for Boston, madam.” He lifts his glass in a toast and guzzles the last drop.

  Chapter 49

  REMNANTS OF PANIC

  “Bastard!” Sophie shrieks through a haze of shock and goes limp again.

  “Law,” Lieutenant Hale protests and hurriedly leads the way. Being the son of a whaling captain whose demanding new wife sailed with them when he was a boy, he blames women for most upsets at sea.

  “She is beside herself,” Reverend Post apologizes for the vile curse. He follows the Lieutenant with Widow Downing in his arms. Her head rocks on his shoulder as he swiftly moves to put distance between her and the event he has not yet had time to comprehend.

  Coming to, Sophie fights like a wildcat caught in a snare. She struggles to free herself from a nameless horror and the steel vise that holds her captive. Blindly swinging her balled-up fist, she clips Reverend Post on the jaw without warning.

  Clayton winces at the strike and promptly lowers the woman to her feet. He uses his strength to prop her upright until she comes to her senses.

  Widow Downing’s cheeks, initially a ghostly white, have turned blotchy shades of pink. The small veins at her temples are raised and her eyes rapidly flutter. Briefly, she is able to support herself.

  “Hold still, woman!” he commands. Then, assuming the more gentle posture of his profession, “Widow Downing, please. You are going to hurt yourself.”

  Reverend Post has two choices. Let go and suffer the full force of her rage against the sadistic evil that touched them both or hang on for dear life until it passes. He chooses the latter. In the confined space of the passageway, he manages to dodge an arm whose elbow will surely jab him in the ribs.

  “Let me go!”

  “I will be happy to oblige,” Clayton pants. “But you must cease your squirming at once.” The remnants of panic radiate outward. Shifting his awkward position before the next attack on his shins, he breathes soft and warm into her ear, “There are no demons here. You are safe, sister. Hold still.”

  Sophie hears the word safe and recognizes the voice through her red fog. She slows her movements. Her arms drop to her sides in compliance and she opens her eyes fully for the first time.

  “She’s all right,” Reverend Post announces.

  By now, a number of inquisitive passengers have jostled in and there is a hum of interest from the ship’s crew who also gather. Clayton is glad to see they stand witness to his careful keeping of the lady. It would not do to further compromise her repute, or his, in his personal handling of her. They have both been through quite enough already.

  “This way, sir. Captain will be here directly.” Lieutenant Hale opens the cabin door to the Captain’s Quarters and steps aside. “I’ve sent for the Ship’s Surgeon, sir.”

  “You dropped your Bible, preacher.” One of the sailors who had followed the others shoves through the small crowd and holds out the reverend’s small leather-bound King James Version. The one he favors when traveling. His Bible is not the only thing that had gone missing in the scuffle. Along with it, he lost the small amber glass bottle he wished to return to Widow Downing.

  God truly works in mysterious ways. If he had not retrieved Widow Downing’s tiny corked bottle from a crevice in ship’s storage and randomly encountered Miss Colette who shared her mistress’ whereabouts, he might not have stumbled upon the murderous attack on deck. Is it happenstance? He thinks not.

  “Thank you, brother. You are too kind,” Clayton smiles at the sailor who gives him a toothless grin. He takes the good Book with his free hand, quickly raises it to his lips in gratitude, and slips it into one of his wide front pockets.

  “Madame. Oh, Madame!” Colette cries out over the commotion outside the Captain’s Quarters. Colette heard there had been trouble involving her mistress. “Please, let me by.”

  The people part, though not because of Colette’s frantic request. They, instead, recognize the Ship’s Surgeon who arrives on the scene. Colette scurries after him. “My mistress needs me,” she warns anyone who might stop her.

  “I’m okay. Really. You can let go now.” Sophie’s haze lifts even more. She tries to smile, but there is pain in her jaw and neck.

  Reverend Post clears his throat and respectfully releases her arm.

  Sophie wobbles with the movement of the ship, but throws up her hands to ward off further assistance.

  “Colette,” she croaks, thankful to see her friend and alarmed by the blur of worried stares.

  Colette is noticeably shaken. Her hair is damp and her tightening curls have pulled from pins that keep it in place. Sophie can only imagine what her own appearance must be like. The unwelcome face of Father Cambrio flashes in her mind. Before she can focus on what happened, she is being helped to a seat in a fusty overstuffed chair that has probably been anchored to the floor for as long as the Nannie Dee has been in service.

  Sophie’s eyes roam the tidy room that is dominated by dark woods and heavy beams. It smells of oil and male sweat. The colorful spines of Captain Varney’s books line a small built-in cabinet with bubbled glass doors. Maps and nautical apparatus clutter a table that is centered under a shuttered window with a view to the outside. A rather cozy bed with blue pillows and velvet drapes lines another wall next to a masculine writing desk. It is not a large room, but anyone can tell it is the Captain’s home.

  “May I?” Surgeon Spalding observes the woman’s complexion. His great size blocks the light and casts a shadow on his patient. He is surprisingly gentle when he lifts Widow Downing’s chin and tilts her head left and right. His eyebrows furrow at the abominable condition of her neck. Anyone can plainly see the raised whelps, the lingering impressions of fingers and fresh bruising on the side of her jaw. He presses his damp, plump fingers on the inside of her narrow wrist to measure her pulse.

  Using a lighted candle, Surgeon Spalding examines Widow Downing’s eyes. Pulling back each lid, he is satisfied with the
vigorous response from her pupils.

  “How do you feel, my dear?”

  “Like I’ve been hit by a train,” Sophie says hoarsely. Her answer gets a cackle from the stern surgeon.

  “I beg your pardon?” Surgeon Spalding covers his surprise with a wheezing cough and mops the sweat from his forehead and upper lip with a soiled cloth he keeps handy. He thinks perhaps he misunderstood her remark.

  Sophie shrugs, “It’s just, well, I’m okay, considering.” The man is lucky she submitted to his examination without complaint. She has no trust in 19th Century medicine or, for that matter, men in general. Her strength gradually regenerates in a rush of warm blood to her fingers and toes. She rubs her hands together, feeling a stinging prickle.

  “Clear the way, I say,” comes the boisterous, no-nonsense tone of Captain Varney. “Lieutenant Hale.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Get your men back to their duties,” the captain barks.

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “Gentlemen. And ladies. Please, give us some privacy. The hour is late and we have had enough excitement for one evening.” Captain Varney gestures politely to the few passengers who curiously look on. “Goodnight, all. Yes, yes, a good evening to you too, Mr. Quinn . . . and Mrs. Quinn. Oh, I assure you Mr. Hinshaw we have everything well in hand. Now, please excuse us. Yes, good night.” He quietly closes the cabin door behind him.

  “How is it?” Reverend Post carefully screens his question to Captain Varney.

  “The storm has subsided,” Captain Varney says. His meaning is obvious to those in the room. He hangs his hat on a hook and turns to the Surgeon, “Good evening, Spalding. How is our dear lady?”

  “Well, I see no permanent ill-effects. I believe her injuries are mostly superficial. In all, I expect she will make a complete recovery, Captain.” Spalding lowers his voice and bends close to Sophie’s ear. “And the babe, as well,” he grins and pats his patient’s shoulder, all father-like. The woman’s delicate condition could be judged by a swelling waistline that strains the laces on Widow Downing’s corset in an otherwise trim physique.

  Sophie recoils from the man’s sour breath and juts her chin in frustration. She is not sure which bothers her more, the inadequate judgment on her health or the first semi-public reference to her baby. In reality, neither should she be medically evaluated by sight and touch alone. The thought of going through her pregnancy and life in general without modern-day medicine and advanced technology is a real concern.

  “She needs rest, of course,” the surgeon firmly decides and takes Widow Downing’s hand. “I will prescribe a soothing tonic to make it a bit easier for you, dear. You will be sore come morning.”

  Sophie tries a smile and pulls her hand out of Spalding’s slimy grip. His hand is as wet as the brow he perpetually mops.

  “I am perfectly all right, thank you,” Sophie says, and pushes up to her feet. Her red-rimmed eyes, which have turned almost silver in the lamplight, fall to Reverend Post who is watching her intently. “Thank you all.” Her gaze moves to Surgeon Spalding and finally to Captain Varney. She straightens to appear stronger than she feels. There are a lot of emotions at play.

  “Colette,” she croaks again. It is a struggle to talk.

  The men make an awkward shift forward to assist.

  “Please. I’m fine,” Sophie shrugs off their advances. She smoothes the folds of her skirt, and lays one tremulous hand protectively over her stomach.

  “Reverend Post, may I ask for a moment of your time, sir,” Captain Varney speaks clearly and feels his pocket for a cigar to chew. Before the night is done, he will have earned his dram of Old Crow to warm his innards. “There are matters to address.”

  “Why certainly, Captain,” Reverend Post says. “I am at your disposal.”

  “I’m okay,” Sophie rasps. “Rest is all I need right now,” she emphasizes. No way is she taking any of the doctor’s prescribed restoratives. His tonic is likely opium. She learned a few names for the more popular Victorian remedies from Ben during their Civil War reenacting days. The potent drug and others of its kind are dished out like aspirin with no moral condemnation or understanding of the risk.

  “Colette?” Sophie’s voice breaks and she tenderly tests the tightness at her throat where bands of purple mar the surface of her skin. She feels a spreading weariness coming on.

  “Madame will be in her cabin,” Colette finishes.

  “I will escort the lady,” Surgeon Spalding insists. He takes Sophie’s elbow and ignores Colette like she is a speck of furniture in the room. “Come now, no objections, madam. It is good I let you walk at all. If you will excuse us, gentlemen.”

  Sophie’s sideways glance catches a rebellious spark in Colette’s eyes, yet her features remain neutral. She even dips an appropriate curtsy.

  “I am behind you, madame. No worries,” Colette murmurs solemnly and bobs again.

  Chapter 50

  A BLOODY NIGHTMARE

  When Sophie and Colette are alone and their cabin door is tightly shut to the world outside, Sophie’s crushing sobs come in an explosive flow. Grabbing her pillow, she quickly buries her face to muffle the gut-wrenching sound.

  “Oh my God,” she coughs and gasps for air between spasms of hiccups. She takes a fresh handkerchief from Colette and holds it to her throbbing head. Pacing the cramped room, she feels an urge to flee, but where can she go? Everything hurts and she is wild with fear for her baby.

  “He tried to kill me.” Her blood runs cold and she turns her bleary glare on Colette. Something distinctly accusing passes behind her eyes.

  “Please, I knew nothing about this. You must believe me,” Colette pleads breathlessly, her watery eyes wide with alarm. “I should never have left you, madame. I am so sorry.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Sophie says, seeing honesty in Colette’s expression. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Tears flow silently down her cheeks. The saline burns as it trickles over abrasions on her skin. “It was my child all along. He wanted to murder my son, cause me to miscarry. I fought him, Colette,” she whimpers.

  Colette’s hands fly up to her cheeks. “The baby! But why?”

  “He said he wanted to make things right. He’s been poisoning me — both of us — putting something bad in our tea. That’s why we were sick.” Sophie looks at her hands that are trembling uncontrollably. “I was on to him. The captain’s book. I figured it out. He wanted to get rid of my baby.”

  “Hush now, chéri. We can talk about this later. Let me help you with your dress.”

  Sophie grips the side-rail of the top berth to keep from falling over. She momentarily fixates on her knuckles that are marked with angry redness. In a stunned daze, she suffers another wave of nausea. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Colette firmly takes Sophie’s arm, “You need to sit down. Now!” Her subservient tone abruptly disappears. “This is nonsense. You will hurt yourself. Sit. I mean it, Sophie Downing.”

  Sophie eases down into the single chair in their cabin. She is quivering severely and can’t seem to stop herself. “I keep seeing his face. He went over the side. If it wasn’t for Reverend Post,” she presses her fingers to her temples, unable to continue.

  “Quel idiot je suis!” Colette spits bitterly. “What a fool I’ve been. Shhh, be still,” she warns and begins to unhook Sophie’s bodice. The last clasp on the front of her corset springs open from the pressure against it.

  “Better?” Colette gives a supportive grin and gently tucks a damp strand of Sophie’s hair behind one ear. What she had heard up on deck is true then. Father Cambrio is dead.

  Sophie takes a deep breath, her eyes still locked on invisible horrors and what happened. Past experiences flash through her mind. Of losing Ben, escaping with Segi, and being forced into the hands of monsters who stole her life and brought her to this point. Loosened nerves and pent-up anxiety cause her to nearly strip her handkerchief of its pretty lace trim.

  Colette crouch
es down and cups her fingers over her friend’s hands, gently squeezing to still the frantic movements. She starts to say something, but only offers soothingly, “You are going to be all right.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is a bloody nightmare!” Sophie snaps.

  “Mon dieu! And what would you have me say?” Colette rises and goes to fill the washbasin with seawater from their bucket.

  “Good question,” Sophie’s mouth tries a smile, though it lends no warmth to her eyes. She makes a concerted effort to calm down and reaches up to explore the soreness with her fingertips. She can feel places where her skin is raised in whelps. The thought of Cambrio’s evil hands on her makes her want to vomit.

  “My throat is killing me.”

  “I should think so,” Colette frowns over her shoulder and moistens a clean cloth. She rings it out and folds it into a rectangle. “Here, this will help. Put it on your neck first. I would say maybe alcohol to kill the germs, but the scratches don’t appear to be deep. If it still looks angry in the morning, Surgeon—”

  “Ohhh-no. Surgeon Spalding will have to find someone else to poke and prod.” Sophie’s mouth forms a grimace as she wraps her throat gingerly with the wet rag. “Ouch! That hurts,” she bleats. Her words sound uneven and gravelly like she has been yelling her head off at a football game.

  “How do you feel otherwise? He didn’t hurt you, you know, anywhere else?”

  Sophie immediately gets Colette’s meaning. “No,” she says flatly, and watches Colette’s cheeks blow out an emotional puff of air.

  The salty liquid burns like a million tiny needles, but soon the coolness gives some relief. Sophie closes her eyes, pausing to assess her body intuitively. Her adrenaline is sadly depleted, leaving her stupid with exhaustion and feeling victimized and alone.

  “The child?” Colette’s question comes in a tender whisper.

  “I’m pretty sore, but the baby is okay,” Sophie says. It may be too early, but she thinks she can feel a succinct little twitch of reassurance in her tummy.