Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The result of such natural and commercial advantages was a harbor, so crowded that it looked impossible to get another ship into it with a wedge and maul. There were frigates and barques and brigantines; yachts and yawls, schooners and sloops; and, darting here and there, a few skiffs with sails colored orange and blue and green. The tall masts made a wild cross-hatching against the intense blue of the sky, and among them loomed the smokestacks of the steamers, the lead-colored ships like so many gray ghosts among the brighter craft. So closely were they all anchored, indeed, that it looked as if it might be feasible to walk across the harbor by moving from deck to deck.

  Lorna stood in the prow of the Lorelei, holding to the rail, her eyes narrowed against the wind that flapped her skirts and thrummed in the rigging above and behind her. She had watched as the Bahama Islands had risen slowly out of the sea, low-lying mounds gray-blue with distance, turning slowly to a vibrant jade green edged with the white of their beaches. She had seen the dark, purple-blue of the deep water turn to magenta and turquoise as they neared land, changing to aquamarine and pale celadon green along the creamy shoreline as they steamed past. They had kept to the channel, easing past countless small islands — mere dots in the vastness of the ocean, with palm trees waving above their and sands — and larger masses of land with scant habitation. Finally, they had steamed between the shores of low-lying Hog Island on the left and the larger hillock of New Providence on the right.

  Now the port of Nassau itself lay before her, a long, semi-circular bay with warehouses of weathered limestone or rough, new-sawn planking crowding the water’s edge, and houses with wide verandas climbing the low hill behind them. Church towers stood out, shining in the sun, and the graceful crowns of royal palms, silk cotton trees, sea grapes, and deep green sea pines waved over cool, secluded gardens enclosed by limestone walls. Against the white stone and green vegetation could be seen bright splashes of lavender and orange, crimson and yellow and pale blue, where tropical flowers bloomed.

  Small in the distance, carriages and people moved to and fro on the street that bordered the waterfront. The closer the ship drew in, the more frantic seemed the activity. There were stevedores, their black torsos glistening in the tropical sun above knee-length breeches, loading and unloading the vessels drawn up to the docks. Men in frock coats and stovepipe hats strode from one stuccoed building to another, talking, gesticulating with the canes they carried as they walked, while between them darted clerks with bills of lading fluttering in their hands.

  A squad of men in the red of British uniforms, shouldering bayoneted rifles, marched along. A maid in white apron and boldly printed kerchief, carrying a napkin-covered silver coffee pot in her hands, crossed hurriedly in front of them. Women bearing woven trays of fruit and vegetables swayed with languid purpose from quay to quay. On a boat just in, Bahamian fishermen cleaned fish and twisted conch from their brown and pink shells, throwing the refuse into the water. Ladies in foaming crinolines, holding delicate satin-and-lace parasols tilted to protect them from the strong rays of the morning sun, were being driven here and there in open landaus. Dogs swarmed, while rooting pigs kept a wary eye upon them. Gulls circled the harbor, screaming as they fought over garbage in the water, and above them floated the angular black shapes of frigate birds.

  Across the bay could be heard, too, the chanting of work songs sung by the gangs of stevedores, the barking of dogs and squealing of pigs as they were chased, the rasping of saws and pounding of hammers as new buildings were thrown up, the shuffle of feet, and rattle of carriages. The smell of new lumber, sharp and resinous, drifted seaward along with the rich and ripe aroma of flowers and decaying fruit, of fish and verdant growth, and open sewage.

  The Lorelei was hailed by ship after ship as she made her way toward her anchorage. Other vessels farther along ran up greetings with signal flags. The ship’s crew, bringing her in with practiced ease, shouted and yelled, their spirits boisterous, as if it was only now that they felt safe at last. The whistle down the tube communicating between the wheelhouse and the engine room shrilled. The ship lost headway. Her engines shuddered to a stop with a burst of steam as pressure was released from the boilers. The paddle wheels stopped turning with a last cascade of water. Chains rattled, running free, and the ship swung to her anchor. They had arrived.

  There was an endless delay while port officials came on board. Later, Ramon swung down into a boat and was rowed to shore, where he was to negotiate for the disposition of the cargo of cotton the ship had brought in and its eventual unloading. It was well after the noon hour when he returned.

  Lorna watched from the deck as he was rowed back out to the ship. He sat at ease with the inshore breeze ruffling his dark hair, and his features relaxed as he exchanged quick banter with the men who manned the oars. It was a change.

  During the last few days of the voyage, he had grown tense, with lines of strain about his eyes, as they threaded through seas that were known to be patrolled regularly by federal warships. Twice they had sighted sails and had turned their stern to them, piling on the smokeless anthracite coal and dropping them well below the horizon before they continued on their way again. The passage among the islands of the Bahama chain had not been much better, for it was lined with sharp and deadly formations of ancient coral reefs that could rip the bottom from even an iron-clad steamer like so much gold foil from a bon-bon.

  It had not been particularly comfortable being around him during that time. His temper had become uncertain, his manner brusque to the point of rudeness. All he required of her, it had seemed at times, was the mind-dulling solace of her body, snatched moments of surcease from the demands of duty. Once he had gone to sleep with his head pillowed on her breasts and his hands tangled in her hair. Another time, she had awakened in the dawn hours to find him dressed to go back on deck, kneeling beside the bunk watching her, only watching her, in the pale gray light. He had come to her less often after that, and when he had taken her in his arms it was as if he was driven by a compulsive need and the anger of self-contempt.

  What would he be like, now that they had reached their destination? She searched his face for an answer as he climbed the rope ladder let down over the side. He gave her a brief smile before swinging inward, onto the deck. His manner was preoccupied; still, he stopped beside her.

  “I suppose you are anxious to go ashore?” he asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “It won’t be long now. I would like to see you settled at the hotel before dark; that will be the Royal Victoria, the newest on the island. I met Edward Lansing while I was ashore. We are invited to dinner this evening, and to the musicale to follow.”

  She sent him an incredulous glance. “Any rooming house will do for me, but you must make my excuses for tonight. You must know I have only what I stand here in to wear. It would not have been suitable in the best of times, but now is quite impossible.”

  She had long ago discarded her habit jacket of heavy poplin for one of Ramon’s shirts, which was much more comfortable in the warm weather. With its collar left open, falling to a depth on her smaller frame that plumbed the hollow between the creamy curves of her breasts, and with its sleeves rolled to the elbows, the shirt would hardly have done for an evening function, even if her trailing habit skirt had not been irreparably stained by river mud and sea water.

  “I had not forgotten,” he said with a brief smile. “There should be time to visit one of Nassau’s best dressmakers on the way to the hotel. I’m sure something can be arranged.”

  The chances did not seem good to Lorna, considering the unimpressive size of the capital of the Bahamas; still, when the time came to leave the ship, she walked beside Ramon, picking her way along the streets. On a quiet thoroughfare away from the waterfront, they stopped before a small West Indies-style house of pink-painted plaster over limestone blocks. The girl who answered the door had threaded needles thrust into the bib of her apron and a pin cushion strapped to her wrist. Bobbing a curtsy, she
invited them in a broad cockney accent to step inside and poured out cups of tea for them to drink while they waited for the owner of the shop to join them.

  The mistress of the establishment was an overblown woman with shining black hair, a quick laugh, and shrewd eyes. Informed of their need for an evening costume, she clasped her hands before her, pursed her lips, and began to demure. It was impossible on such short notice; human hands could not accomplish the sewing of a gown in less than three days’ time. Men were such volatile creatures, so demanding, but Captain Cazenave must understand—

  Ramon took a purse heavy with the weight of gold eagles from his jacket and quietly placed it on the table beside his chair. “This lady,” he said, “has no time to waste, nor do I.”

  “I see.” The woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Carstairs despite the lack of a ring on her finger, looked from the gold to Lorna. “I see,” she repeated, her mouth curving into a wide smile. “I suppose something might be done. I have one or two gowns stitched, awaiting only the final fitting. If the young lady will come this way?”

  She moved to the doorway through which she had entered and, holding aside the portieres of pale yellow silk that draped the opening, waited for Lorna to precede her.

  “Is it possible you have something in black?” Lorna said quietly.

  “Black?” The woman’s tone held disbelief.

  “Not black,” Ramon said at the same time.

  Lorna swung on him. “But, surely…” she began.

  “No. There is nothing that compels it, and everything to advise against it. Those dressed in mourning must be ready to explain the cause.”

  Her gray gaze caught and held his opaque, black stare. She was aware of the dressmaker’s watching them in frank curiosity, aware too of the undercurrent of meaning in Ramon’s words. Choosing her reply with care, she said, “You think, too, that it would be a mockery?”

  “I think it would be a sacrilege. Mourning is worn only for those who matter. If you don’t regret the death, then, don’t drape yourself in black.”

  It occurred to her that, if he was to be rid of her, she must be attractive to other men. People could hardly be expected to take notice of a female in mourning, one who might well turn lachrymose at the least provocation. She inclined her head in a cool nod of acceptance and, turning, allowed herself to be shown into the fitting room.

  So disturbing were her thoughts that she paid little attention to the gowns brought out from a back room, beyond noting that they were all of the latest fashion, one not yet seen in Louisiana. When the woman held one up, she merely nodded, then stood staring over the heads of the dressmaker and her assistant as they bustled around her, helping her from her clothing, pulling off her riding boots and substituting a pair of white kid slippers in order to better judge the length of the gown. She was aware of the women’s sidelong glances at the bruises that still lingered in yellow and green profusion on her arms and her back above her camisole, but Mrs. Carstairs, turning away with tight lips, asked no question, and Lorna volunteered no answers.

  When she was in her underclothing, a new Victoria corset with a steel busk and front hooks for easier fastening and removal was brought out and fitted snugly about her waist. Next, a Douglas and Sherwood cage crinoline of spring steel clad in graduated rows of cloth tubing was lifted over her head, followed by three petticoats of lawn and one of taffeta, each of them edged with lace and bound at the hems with ribbon. The dressmaker then carefully placed a gown over Lorna’s head, drawing it down into place. Standing back, she issued instructions while her assistant pinned the excess material in place upon Lorna. When they were done, the older woman turned Lorna slowly around, so she could see herself in the great cheval mirror of mahogany and ormolu that stood in one corner.

  The gown was of plum silk with short sleeves hidden under epaulettes of ribbon rosettes, and with a pointed bodice above a full skirt set with more rosettes of ribbon about the hem. The color was over-bright and the rosettes large for Lorna’s taste, but it was the décolletage that was the real trouble. Set off the shoulders, it dipped low and wide across the breasts, leaving the blue-veined globes exposed to the very edge of their rose-pink aureoles.

  “I don’t think…” she began.

  “Perhaps the gentleman should judge?” Mrs. Carstairs suggested, her head tilted to one side and a roguish smile on her generous mouth.

  The implication was that, since Ramon was paying, he should have the final say in how he meant her to look. It was an unpalatable idea, but there was a certain cynical wisdom in it.

  “Very well,” she said.

  The young assistant held back the portieres that had been dropped into place as a curtain over the doorway during the fitting. With her head high and her face a trifle pale, Lorna swept through the opening, compressing her crinoline, then allowing it to billow around her as she turned with slow majesty before Ramon. Facing him, she lifted her chin as for a blow, awaiting his verdict. Mrs. Carstairs stood to one side with her hands clasped in front of her and a benign smile of anticipation on her face, while her assistant hovered beside her.

  Ramon frowned, surveying Lorna with slow care from head to hem. His dark gaze rested on the smooth curves of her shoulders. The lines about his eyes tightened.

  “No.”

  Lorna released the breath she had been holding. He flung her a quick glance, and she looked away, unwilling to permit him to see her gratitude. She had been afraid he meant to parade her as a woman of less than pristine virtue, to make a spectacle of their intimacy as a means of attracting another man to — as he so inelegantly put it — pay her expenses.

  “Certainly not, sir, if you don’t wish it,” Mrs. Carstairs said, a shade of anxiety in her voice as her gaze flicked to the purse of gold eagles. “It doesn’t truly suit the young lady. I have another that will, I’m sure, be much more appropriate.”

  In the fitting room once more, Mrs. Carstairs joined the assistant in snatching out the pins. She scolded the young girl for her clumsiness and went down on her knees to let out the hem once more, then heaved herself upright again.

  “I apologize, my dear,” she said to Lorna as she lifted the gown off over her head. “I quite misunderstood. It isn’t often I make such a mistake, but these are trying times, and everything is turned topsy-turvy. A body never knows which side is up, so to speak, with sleepy old Nassau being overrun with the reckless, lawless folk who flock where there’s gold to be had. But there, I’ll say too much, if I don’t take care. Let me settle this one on you. I think you’ll find it more what the gentleman had in mind.”

  It was certainly more what Lorna had expected. A true dinner gown, rather than partaking of the nature of a ball gown, it was of a peculiar shade of silk that the dressmaker chose to call pearl-colored. It was nearer to being gray, however, a pale and silvery shade with a shimmering hint of pink in the folds as it floated over the hoops of Lorna’s crinoline. That touch of color was repeated across her cheekbones as she stared at herself in the cheval mirror.

  Never had she worn a gown of such richness, of such elegance. It had a double skirt, the lower one comprised of two deep flounces and finished with a plissé, or ruching, of pearl satin ribbon. The bodice was plain, with revers at the throat á gilet, or waistcoat fashion, edged with ruching and showing a frill of lace at the neckline. The sleeves were full and long, with ruched demi-revers at the elbow, which allowed the undersleeves of fine lace to be seen.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, her voice low.

  “So, it should be,” the woman said with a wink in the mirror. “It was made to resemble one worn by a fashion doll brought just last week from France, one designed by Worth himself, couturier to Empress Eugénie.”

  “You mean you copied it? How talented of you.”

  “One does what one must to make a living.” The other woman lifted a well-padded shoulder before turning to a nearby table heaped with silk flowers and lengths of ribbon, with fans and lace caps and tiny parasols.
She extracted from the pile a small posey of pink silk rosebuds set with leaves of moss green velvet and nestled in a circlet of fine, handmade lace. This she held to one side of Lorna’s head, then muttering beneath her breath, reached to take up a length of pearl ribbon to form a small, many-looped bow about the roses. She tucked the flowers deftly into the soft knot of hair at the nape of Lorna’s neck. Standing back, she surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction.

  “You are pleased?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Will you show the gentleman, then?”

  Lorna’s smile faded. After a moment she answered, “It might be as well.”

  The woman gave her a guarded glance. “He seems a generous man. I have here a walking dress of tan d’or in plain silk, just a shade darker than your hair, my dear, and piped in gray at the cuffs, the jockey, and waistband. There is, too, a cream poplin with a most soignée pardessus cloak of lightweight black silk lined in cream satin and braided with the same material. If you were to smile and be prettily grateful for the gown you are wearing, perhaps—”

  “I couldn’t,” she answered flatly.

  “She wouldn’t,” came the echo in deep-pitched tones from the doorway. Ramon dropped the portiere he had drawn aside and strolled forward. “She wouldn’t,” he repeated, “but we will take them anyway, provided you can deliver them to the Royal Victoria in two days’ time.”

  “Two days! Impossible!”

  “Indeed? Perhaps another dressmaker might find it within her power.”

  “It would mean sitting up all night,” the woman began, her resolution, wilting under his imperturbable and wholly charming smile.

  “A drudgery for which you will, of course, be well paid.”

  Mrs. Carstairs closed her mouth with an audible sound. “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”

  “You may add whatever you think necessary in the way of undergarments and, ah, feminine accouterments.”

  “Bonnets, sir? There is a friend of mine who has a lovely way with such scraps of straw and lace and ribbon.”