They passed the flagship in deepest silence, close enough to hear the sound of a harmonica coming from her decks, but put her behind them without incident. A short time later, they saw a frigate toiling past in belligerent majesty some two hundred yards away. They stopped dead still to allow her to pass, then threshed onward without further incident. Toward daylight, they saw bales of Sea Island cotton floating in the water, where some unfortunate comrade of the sea had been forced to jettison at least his deck cargo. Some suggestion was made of picking up the bales, valued at several hundred dollars each, but it was concluded that there was no place on the ship to store them. So overloaded were they already that from a distance they must appear square and brown with baled cotton, and there was a standing order out to pray for fair weather into Nassau.
It had been Lorna’s intention to remove herself from Ramon’s cabin. That course proved unnecessary. He did not descend to it once during the three days of the voyage. Constant vigilance was the watchword, as they scanned the seas for sail or smoke, turning away from it until it was below the horizon each time it was sighted. Ramon stayed at his post, sleeping only in snatches, and then flinging himself down on the bales of cotton on the decks.
Lorna came upon him as she took the air on their final day at sea, after they had reached the relative safety of Bahamian waters. He lay sprawled on his stomach, exhausted, his face turned to one side. His features were marked with the strain of the last days, yet they were relaxed, almost boy-like in sleep. The wind rippled the linen of his shirt that was stretched over the rigid muscles of his back. It ruffled his dark hair and stirred the crisp curl that lay on his forehead. A peculiar tenderness rose unbidden inside her. She stretched out her hand with the impulse to brush back the curl as she had seen him do a thousand times.
Her fingers were within inches of him before she snatched them away. She was becoming maudlin. That would not do. Such a weakness was of no use to her, and might well be dangerous. A few feet away, her footsteps faltered and she looked back. The sight of his body sprawled over the bale awakened furtive memories of a rain-soaked afternoon, a flickering fire, a damp, deserted house. Heat flowed in her bloodstream, tingling along her nerves. With her face flaming and her eyes bleak, she turned and, deliberately conquering the need to run, moved away.
By the time they landed in Nassau, Lorna’s trunk was packed and she was ready to go ashore. She did not intend to make a clandestine departure; still, it could not be denied that she was glad to see only Cupid in evidence when she emerged on the deck. Explaining that she would send for her things, she left the ship, picked her way across the wharf, and emerged on Bay Street.
Before her lay Parliament Square with its government buildings washed a delicate shade of salmon pink. If she crossed the street and walked straight uphill, past the massive buildings with their porticos and columns, which reminded her of Beau Repose, she would come to the Royal Victoria. Instead, she stood looking around her. It was mid-afternoon, and the wheeled traffic was thick on this main thoroughfare in spite of the rubble that lay here and there where new curbstones were being laid and more gas street lamps erected. A dog, yelping, fled before a freight dray piled high with crates. A young native boy, a fruit peddler with a cherubic brown face and a sack of mangoes over his back, dodged in front of the fast-moving wagon, hooting at the driver. Two British sailors hanging from a buggy waved and called to her. Strolling toward her came a policeman in his white uniform. He noted her hesitation there on the street corner, glanced at the style of her gown, then stepped out into the street, holding up a gloved hand.
Traffic came to a halt with the rattle of traces and squeal of handbrakes. Horses neighed and drivers cursed. It would have been impossible, after that official courtesy, to refuse to cross, no matter what she meant to do afterward. Summoning a smile and a nod of appreciation for the policeman, she stepped into the white dust of the road and moved to the other side.
Somewhere nearby, perhaps three or four blocks beyond the hotel, in the vicinity of Government House, she thought there were lodgings. She was almost sure she had heard a man one day on the piazza mention them as being more reasonable in price than the hotel. If she could remove to something similar, then she could begin to look for work with which to keep herself. It was galling that she had not done so already in the weeks she had been in Nassau, that she had left herself open to the charge Ramon had leveled in his anger. She had no excuse, no one to blame except herself. It was difficult to see, now, why she had not made the effort. Surely, she could not have wanted to be dependent on Ramon Cazenave?
The idea was ridiculous. She had been upset by everything that had happened, unable to think straight, that was all. Well, not anymore. Raising the parasol she carried, lifting the front of her skirts, she set out with a militant step to search for a room.
She did not find one. The tide of Confederate military and naval officers, diplomats, newspaper correspondents, advertisers of various goods and munitions, captains of the British navy, British civilians serving the blockade runners, speculators, gamblers, and ne’er-do-wells seeking an easy living where money was plentiful had filled every nook and cranny in the city. The only thing available was a single bed in a room smelling strongly of rats and with roaches crawling on the walls. Since the other four beds, empty at that hour, were to be occupied by four men, it was clearly unsuitable.
It was getting late. There was nothing to be done except return to the hotel for the night and try again in the morning.
By the time she reached the hotel, the swift tropical night had fallen. The glow of lamplight shone like beacons from the French doors of the graceful building. The doors of the dining room stood open to the evening air, revealing the diners at their tables beneath the sparkling chandeliers, while the terrace outside was dim and cool, lit by lanterns in the palm trees. A soft, piercingly sweet sound of violins reached Lorna. Suddenly, she was aware of a deep weariness and an inexplicable welling up of tears.
She trod the path that led through the new garden toward the great silk cotton tree with its balcony. Mingling with the smell of damp earth where the gardener had been at work and the scent of growing things, she caught the odor of a cigar. It came from the balcony in the lower branches, she thought, for there was a red glow at that point. As she came even with it, she looked up. The last light in the sky fell on her upturned face.
An oath, harsh, little more than an unbelieving grunt, came from among the limbs of the tree. A man stood there, though he was no more than a solid shadow in the dimness. Lorna, startled herself, spoke a musical good evening. The man did not answer, but stood staring after her as she walked on toward the entrance of the hotel. She was in her room, preparing to ring for supper, when finally she placed the voice. The man who had been so surprised, so shocked to see her, was Nate Bacon.
She got an early start the next day. She called first on Sara Morgan to report the success of her mission, and found that lady feeling well enough to be thinking of returning to England as soon as she had hired a nurse to care for her on the journey. The task of aiding the Confederacy, she said, could not be carried out in Nassau. Lorna was almost of the opinion that her own task of finding a room was also impossible in Nassau.
Her efforts took her along Bay Street a number of times. She was there to see the Bonny Girl arrive and to hear from a stevedore the story of how she had been chased ninety miles off course by a federal cruiser before she could haul for home. From a distance, she saw Ramon. It appeared that he was making the Lorelei ready to run again, despite the fact that the moon had changed. Three days to unload and take on another cargo was considered dispatch, she knew, which meant that he would probably be taking the ship out again in two days’ time. That information was the sole result of her day.
She saw Peter the following afternoon. His ship had sustained a hit near the waterline that had caused problems with the engine. With the delay for repairs, he would not be going out again. She did not mention her quest. He m
ight have been able to help, but he still believed, or pretended to, in the polite fiction of her uncle who paid her expenses. Since she was not prepared to confide in him, she could see no point in raising questions to which she could tender no truthful answers.
She was having breakfast on the morning of the third day, sitting alone at a table on the terrace, when she saw Nate Bacon again. He noticed her at the same time and changed his course, coming to stand with one hand resting on the stiffly starched white linen of her table, the other holding his high-crowned hat, and his back to the sun.
“You are looking well, Lorna,” he said, his voice grave. “You are rested from your trip to Wilmington?” She ignored his pleasantry, reaching for the knife to butter her roll. “How did you know I had gone?”
“There must be few in Nassau who don’t know. Cazenave is the hero of the hour in Nassau, one of the dashing blockade runner captains who can do no wrong, and this is a small place, a provincial backwater. You were seen boarding his ship, and seen returning. The only question is whether you went for love or for money.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Forgive me, I put that badly,” he said, his voice bland, though the look in his pale blue eyes was not. “I meant to say there was some idea that you may have had an investment in the run, since you are known to be living here on the bounty of a wealthy uncle.”
He meant her to know he was aware of the lies that secured her place in Nassau society. But, could it be that his snide remarks also indicated his ignorance of her real purpose in traveling on Ramon’s ship? Whatever the reason for them, she had no intention of being drawn out. His reaction to her return had caused a virulent suspicion that he might have some knowledge of how the federals had come to learn of her trip as a courier. She could think of no way to prove or to persuade him to admit it, however. She turned her attention to his question.
“Let us say,” she said, a smile curving her mouth with a hint of fond remembrance, “that I went along for the pleasure.”
His face darkened, but the waiter, a long apron tied about his waist and covering his dark trousers, approached to refill her coffee cup, and Nate could not speak for long moments. When the man had gone, Nate put his hand on the back of the chair across from her, saying abruptly, “May I join you?”
She looked at the chair, then raised a limpid gaze to his face. “I think not.”
“You little bitch,” he said softly.
It was odd that his virulence left her unmoved. Not so long ago, she would have been upset, thrown into dismay. Now, she calmly picked up her coffee cup. “If that is the way you feel, I’m surprised that you care to speak to me.”
“I would like to do more than that to you.”
“That would be difficult here in public. I suggest you go, before I call the waiter and tell him you are annoying me.”
He stood staring down at her. There was a quality of menace in his silence that affected her much more than his threats. She wished she could see his expression, but the glare of the sun behind him made his features dim. She set down her cup and it rattled in the saucer. Turning her head, she looked about her for the waiter.
“All right, I’m going,” Franklin’s father said, “but this isn’t the end of it. I thought I could ignore you, since you were so well guarded; that I could get on with transferring my holdings into gold and strike out for Yankee country. There were things more important than a beautiful blonde bitch, even if she did kill my son. I thought I could see to it you paid the price, and that would satisfy me. I was wrong. There’s something unfinished between us, and I mean to finish it.”
She gave an unsteady laugh. “Fine words. The people of Nassau have little use for people who trade with the Yankees. The government here, to say nothing of the men in gray I’ve seen, might be interested in knowing your plans. I would be careful if I were you.”
“Are you threatening me, Lorna? I hope not. It would be most unwise, considering your own past.”
She traced the rim of her coffee cup with a finger. “I wonder who they would be most interested in, a murderess or a traitor?”
“I somehow doubt,” he said, a savage undertone to his humor, “that we will find out. On the other hand, you can be sure that I will get my hands on you, alone, someday. Soon.”
He left her, striding from the terrace back into the dining room. After a time, Lorna picked up her fork, pushing at the piece of pineapple left on her plate. She bit into her roll, but it was dry, nearly choking her. Lifting her coffee cup, she sipped at the liquid. It was cold and bitter.
Lorna’s encounter with Nate left her disturbed, chilled in spirit. She could not seem to bring herself to consider what she must do. She kept to her room, tending to her scanty wardrobe, rinsing out a few things, sending others to be laundered. She stared out the French doors, watching the harbor; looked over the books she had brought from Ramon’s shelf in the cabin, and paced, stopping now and then — too often for her peace of mind — to stare at the portraits of Peter and Ramon and herself that had been made that day in Wilmington.
It was a comfort to have the guards in the hall and at the end of the veranda, all within call. She had been inclined to resent their presence when they had reappeared on her return, had been tempted to send them away with a sharp message for Ramon. No longer.
If she were able to find another place, would her guards follow her? Would Nathaniel Bacon? Or would she be safer, more anonymous, away from the hotel? She could not decide, and so abandoned the idea of looking further that day. Instead, she concentrated on the prospect of employment. An idea formed slowly in the back of her mind, one connected with Peter’s frequent lament concerning his ever-declining supply of shirts. She would have to present it to Mrs. Carstairs to see what she thought.
It was peculiar that she had not heard from the Lansings since her return. Or perhaps it was not. She had suspected it was Ramon who had insisted on her name being added to their guest list. If he no longer pressed it, then Charlotte and Elizabeth would doubtless be glad to overlook her. That she should feel hurt by the omission was silly. She was nothing to the Lansings, nor they to her. Instead of letting herself be seduced by such petty concerns, she had best be trying to remedy her situation, even if it had grown late in the day.
Mrs. Carstairs was not in. The door of her shop was wreathed in black crepe, and the maid who answered said that she had been called away to one of the out islands, to Abaco, she thought, for the funeral of a relative. As she was turning away, a carriage pulled up.
It was Peter who jumped down and strode toward her. “There you are! They said at the hotel that you had gone out, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come on, we haven’t a moment to waste.”
“What is it?” she asked, as he took her arm and hustled her toward the carriage.
“There’s an opera troupe in town on their way to Boston. They will stage one performance of Verdi’s La Traviata, and one only. We don’t want to miss it!”
They didn’t, though Lorna flung herself into her gown with only the most sketchy rinse of her face, and they snatched a dinner of fried grouper and chips at a stand near the docks, eating them with their fingers while the carriage rolled away. The music was marvelous, the soprano who sang the difficult role of Violetta, the tragic Lady of the Camellias, superb. The ending brought tears to Lorna’s eyes, even as she took pleasure in the evening’s escape from her own problems. Peter took out his handkerchief and, complaining in mock exasperation, dried her tears with gentle care.
It was while they were moving slowly toward the exit doors, caught in the crush of people made more difficult by the enormous circumference of the ladies’ skirts, that Lorna saw Ramon. He was escorting Charlotte, with Elizabeth moving ahead of them on the arm of a man in the extremely correct evening attire of a diplomat. Edward Lansing and his wife followed. Ramon was staring at Lorna with clenched jaws. As he met her gaze, he looked away to Peter, and the expression that smoldered for a moment in his eyes
was murderous.
Charlotte, chatting away, noticed suddenly that his attention had wandered. She followed his gaze, and a haughty mien descended upon her. She looked through Lorna as if she were not there, then tapped Ramon’s arm with her fan in an imperious gesture, so at odds with her usual vivacity that it made her seem extremely young. He turned back at her summons, bending his dark head as he listened to her.
Lorna felt herself go hot, then cold. Charlotte had cut her as if she had been a social pariah. Such a thing had never happened to her. She could not believe it. Was it possible she had been mistaken? Could it be that the younger Lansing sister had been moved by spite because she knew Lorna had gone with Ramon to Wilmington? That must be it.
It might be cowardly, but she would as soon not give Elizabeth and her mother the opportunity to treat her in the same manner. She wondered if Peter had seen. She sent him a glance from under her lashes as they reached the door, and saw that his long, narrow face was set in lines of unguarded anger. With his usual quickness, he caught her oblique regard Forcing a smile, he began to complain in put-upon tones of people who could not bear to miss any entertainment offered, who were inconsiderate enough to fill up the aisles of theaters and music halls, and snarl traffic with all their carriages when he wanted to get to his.
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