The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  Instead, she flinched at a wolf-like wail not far in the distance. Sounds from the boys’ play, she figured. Katie shook her head at their foolishness, for they were ruining the sunny laziness of the day with their noise.

  She walked up the side of the ravine until she saw the settlement’s green again. By then, a strange silence had spread over everything.

  No boys, no birds, not even a bee.

  “Why have you all gone quiet?” she whispered, puzzled. She continued slowly up the rise, wondering what she would find.

  Then came a curdling scream—a man-scream, horrible and uncommon.

  It abruptly choked off into a sort of gurgling noise that chilled her blood in an instant. She stood there in place, unable to move, though her heart seemed to be beating as fast as hummingbird wings.

  The boys were no longer playing there. In fact, she could not see her brothers at all. The old man was still standing, but the carpenter was now a grotesque heap on the ground.

  A warrior suddenly burst from the woods.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 02 - Captain Sir Edward

  Early spring, 1795

  Port of Plymouth, England

  Captain Sir Edward Lindsay was rushing to dinner, but his haste didn't have much to do with conviction. It was too late in the day. He was too long at the quay. Time he was on his way. The words kept running through his brain like an old nursery rhyme, and it reflected in his pace.

  It wasn’t quite dark yet, but would be soon—a sign of his tardiness. He would miss pre-dinner cordials and useless chatter. The notion made him smile. He didn't like these affairs, but going was an order. Since he had joined the Royal Navy over twenty-five years ago as a cabin boy, he hadn't disobeyed an order. Not intentionally anyway.

  He kept telling himself that it was the strain of the enforced social order that made him so tired this night. He had no other excuse. Long months at sea didn’t bother him as it did some. He preferred life on his ship, the Stalwart, for there he knew what to expect: He had made sure of that since his first command.

  “Not like these be-damned dinner parties and blasted balls.”

  The men who attended looked like peacocks, strutting around, preening for position. Men of shared duty turned into men he didn't care to even know. And the women looked like something out of a child's book of fairy tales. None of it was real. They put on their smiles and their sweetness like they put on their clothes and their jewels. Captain Sir Edward Lindsay learned long ago to beware of women bearing false promise.

  He was not bitter, though some had called him so. They didn’t understand that an officer in the Royal Navy had no business leaving a woman behind. Women didn't sit at home writing letters and taking tea or fretting with their lace and frills, as they liked men to believe. They ran around behind a man's back, gambling and spending all his money. Or even worse, they would be unfaithful.

  Then they'd pray in their churches, crying and feeling martyred for their devotion, expecting a man who was only doing his duty to feel some sort of guilt about that too. He would not be the cause of any woman's woes, and no woman would be the cause of his own. If that made him seem bitter to those who didn’t know better, then so be it. It was none of their business anyway.

  A few streets from the Government House of the Vice-Admiral, Sir Edward entered a small park. It was quiet here, with few carriages at this time of evening. He needed some time to prepare himself mentally. These social gatherings required him to be polite and superficial, but he had pressing things on his mind.

  The war had been smoldering for many long months. The French rebels—Republicans they liked to call themselves now— killed their king and then declared war on England. He wasn’t the only one surprised that it had lasted this long.

  No man standing on the deck watching the cannons roar back and forth held much account for rebel discipline. There was none. When the battle got too real, with their newly found love of freedom, the Republicans simply voted not to obey their officers. It was said that life inside France was just as volatile.

  Sir Edward found a stone bench and sat down. He had only been in port for a few days, but this was the first time he’d been to land. His legs were still used to the movement of the decks and ached for something more challenging than these mossy cobblestones. He closed his eyes, put his head back, and took a deep breath.

  Something made his neck tingle, a familiar warning signal: There was danger nearby.

  His hand went immediately to his sword out of habit. It wasn't there; he was in dress uniform for a dinner party. All he had was a dagger hidden discretely under his jacket. It was comfort enough. But when he heard it again, he relaxed.

  It was singing—he was sure of it now. The words came clearly:

  “White willow bark for an aching head,

  then take a long, quiet rest in bed.

  The taste is quite bitter and terribly bad.

  You must keep the patient happy, not mad.

  Use white willow tea and a honey bun . . .”

  There was a pause, then the voice continued in some confusion: “American elm, not the British one? No, that’s not right. Elm is for sore throat. Willow is for aches and pains. Which is this? Tell me, Friendly Joe, which tree might you be?”

  Sir Edward saw the movement, and his head tipped to one side first, then to the other as he tried to see through the branches in the fading light. He heard the rustle of a petticoat, followed by a barely audible swearword that could have come from a common sailor, though it came without the usual conviction.

  It was a woman, standing on the low branches of a tree, but still a good eight feet up off the ground. He walked over and called up, "You there, what are you doing?"

  She didn't answer at first. He couldn’t make out her face, but her figure looked both trim and full in all the right places. Appealing—especially to a man who had just spent the last several months at sea. Probably some sort of trollop, he decided. No lady walked around without full rigging under her skirts. These were neither full, nor fancy, and definitely not something you would normally find in a tree.

  She had yet to give a reply. He repeated, “I said, what are you doing up there?”

  Still it took a moment before she answered, "Does it matter?" Her voice was low and smooth, like the feel of velvet cushions. She had an accent, colonial, probably West Indies or America, he decided. He took a step closer.

  Her last syllable had lilted up higher and softer in pitch with a flare that wasn't there before in her words. He had heard the same in polite banter at tea parties and social receptions. He took it as mockery and laughed.

  "I suppose it does not,” he said. “Would you like some help to get down?"

  She hesitated. It was so quiet here now that he could hear the far-off noises in the town. He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but she said, "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

  The captain said, "Nothing comes to mind at present." He meant to be stern, hoped that he sounded that way, but his smile came of its own accord.

  “I would like some help,” she said, as if talking to herself. Then louder, “As long as you understand that I could get down on my own if there was no one here to witness the deed. And only if you promise to keep your hands where they will do the most good.”

  He didn't think she really meant it the way it sounded. He moved closer to assist. The endeavor didn't go well, and she ended up close in his arms. She was a head’s length shorter than him. Even in the darkening evening light, he could see that her hair had all the colors that corn silk could be. It smelled like a meadow he had known in his youth.

  "Thank you," she said and pulled away.

  Or tried to—

  The lace on the front of her simple French-cut gown was caught at the front of his uniform. He only knew where the dress came from because it looked like those of the women on the ships he had recently taken in the British blockade of France—ships both coming and going. That’s how he had come to be
a rich man.

  "Now look at that," she said, then quickly added, "Never mind after all. You mind your manners, sir, and I’ll see to my own self as well."

  Then she started laughing, which only made the tangle worse. She busied herself with the errant threads. He could feel her body pressing against him firmly, then softly again, with each breath. She was warmth in the cool evening, and he wished he didn't have to go. He studied her as she worked at the lace and the buttons on his jacket.

  Her hair had been styled with a simple elegance that he found very pretty. That is to say, it had been styled. Not much of it remained intact. A breeze ruffled the tendrils at her forehead, but he realized it was his own breathing. He tried to look away.

  She said, "I do apologize. On occasion, a man may tolerate a woman who goes out on a limb, but he may not tolerate a silly woman at any other time."

  He smiled, but said nothing.

  She looked back to her lace and continued to work in silence. In a moment, she whispered, "You came from a ship."

  "Madam?"

  "You smell like the sea."

  "I am sorry if that offends you, I should have—"

  "No, no, I like it. It reminds me of home. Bother, now it seems to be fraying. My Duenna will be so annoyed, or would be if I ever had one. I’m not even sure what a Duenna could be, come to think. My Portuguese is appalling. Or is that Spanish? Either way, I should practice. Do you have a knife?"

  He wasn't sure that he trusted her with something sharp, but with a wry smile, he handed her the small penknife he always kept for trimming cigars and eating apples.

  Then a carriage passed nearby. They both flinched at the noise, stepping closer toward the tree together as if from some shared protective instinct.

  "There seems to be no hope," she said. "Well, I’ve kept you long enough. You have been more than patient."

  She clumsily cut, then tore, at her lace.

  "There was no need to do that, Madam. I am in no hurry."

  "You looked like you were. Heavens, I seem to have given you a nasty stain. I do apologize, I have taken too full advantage of your kindness."

  He looked down. There was a red smear on his white lapel. Blood, not his own.

  "You are hurt," he said and reached for her.

  "That I may be, but I will not be needing your help with that. Not there anyway."

  Her arms wrapped around herself. She looked and sounded like a stubborn child. But still she blotted at his lapel with a lace handkerchief she seemed to pull out of nowhere. It was fine lace, expensive quality. He knew the look of such things. Even if he hadn't been born to them, his service to King and Country had made them part of his world now.

  Then he saw the blood ooze through her dress in a soaking red streak at her breast. His smile faded. "You are hurt," he said again and grabbed at her arm.

  It was bound under her dress sleeve. He knew the feel of a bandage well enough. She gasped, held her breath for an instant, and then faded away into a faint. Much of hair fell free, and at that moment, he wondered what people might think if they saw them: A man with a woman alone in the park—the woman bloodied, disheveled, unconscious.

  He took off his uniform jacket and draped it around her as well as he could. Then he swept her into his arms and headed for a busier street in order to find help as fast as possible. The cabby didn't say anything, just opened the door and pushed the rest of her trailing skirts inside before he slammed it back up.

  Captain Lindsay ordered the cabby to the quay.

  Mindless chatter and dining room manners were things that he well understood. Danger he knew even better. But he had to admit that this particular situation was new to him, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do. On his ship, he would have his bearings again. He would know what to do from there.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 03 - The Map

  On board HMS Stalwart, Plymouth harbor

  Dr. Llewellyn, the ship’s surgeon, said nothing as he looked at the unconscious woman now on the captain's bunk. Sir Edward tried to explain, but anything he said sounded made-up and strange. He shut up and just looked at her too.

  She was quite pretty in a countrified sort of way. She wore no face paint or powder like women of the streets. Her clothes were well made, but not elaborate. He could see no other jewelry but a bracelet of smooth wood, highly polished and the two-toned color of honey barely mixed into molasses. The captain touched the bracelet. He had never seen wood like this before.

  The design was simple: two thin bands that crossed once, but held parallel as they waved like water around her wrist. The bands were not any wider or thicker than the spine of a writing quill. They were solid, with no break at all, and looked formed from a single piece of wood. He wondered how she had gotten the bracelet onto her wrist, for it clearly would not slip over her hand now.

  An ivory comb was still caught in her hair, barely. The captain pulled it free, and as he set it aside, knocked over a stack of his books. The woman tossed restlessly. When he knelt to pick them up, his face was close to hers. She had faint freckles, and he decided that she was probably better suited to the sunlight than the smoky dim smolder of card-party candles and ballroom chandeliers.

  She wasn't very young, though she was a bit younger than him. But her face, even in this quiet, still dimness, held a weariness he recognized from looking in his own mirror. Maybe that was the reason she seemed so familiar.

  “Yes, for that reason, I am sure,” he murmured.

  “Captain?” the surgeon said.

  Sir Edward shook his head to clear his mind. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, man, get on with it.” He didn’t mean to growl. He thought for a moment of apologizing.

  The surgeon coughed slightly, then paused. The captain was still staring and didn’t seem to notice. The surgeon added, "Begging your pardon, sir. Perhaps you should . . ."

  "Yes, what?"

  "Please leave, sir. She looks to be a lady. I would not want it said—"

  "Oh, right . . . well, right. Carry on."

  The surgeon opened the door. Sir Edward left, but paced around the deck nearby for what seemed a long time. Then he remembered the dinner party and flinched. He went to his cabin door, but paused. Instead, to the Marine on guard, he said, "Find me some paper, quill, and ink.” The Marine stepped forward, but Sir Edward quickly added, “Not in there."

  "Sir?"

  "You heard me. I need to write something. Go ask one of the officers."

  The Marine did as ordered, though it took him some time.

  The captain wrote out his apologies. "Take this to Government House right away. Give it to Vice-Admiral Sir Hugh Tobin," he said, handing the note to the Marine, who just stared at it for a second too long as the unusual thing that it was. The Marine jumped as the captain barked, “On your way!”

  * * * * *

  In the captain’s cabin, Dr. Llewellyn took a moment to find his courage.

  "Too long at sea, old boy. Too long with nary a female in sight, and now here alone with such a female as this. Lord, give me strength."

  Then he saw the blood stain, and it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be: Instinct took over. He gently began removing her clothes, feet first, since that seemed the least revealing place to begin.

  She wore no lady slippers, but boots. Sturdy, but soft, and custom-made, he would guess. There was a hole in the heel of her fine hose that had been mended once, but had opened again. The fraying wasn't bad enough to make them useless. Her mending wasn't good enough to make him think that she did it very often.

  “Maybe she didn’t do it at all,” he mused. Maybe she has servants. But there were also burrs stuck on the stockings around her ankles, like she had recently walked through a field. Ladies with servants didn’t do things like that.

  He hung the dress over the captain’s cloak, which was draped on a hook on the wall. Her lace and fine cotton lawn sprigged with tiny flowers made a stark contrast to the captain’s dark wool alrea
dy there. The surgeon chuckled, for he had known Edward Lindsay for fifteen years, and he knew that the contrast was more than the color and the cloth.

  His captain did not approve of women in the most general terms. Dr. Llewellyn also knew that it was not from a character flaw or a long-lived hurt, but rather from a deep-seated shyness that Edward Lindsay would never admit.

  True, the surgeon knew the stories of the captain's mother. The good madam didn't give a fig for social conventions. Sir Edward Lindsay didn't either, come to that. He just didn't have the brass to rub it in people's noses like she did. Still, that was no reason to avoid your own mother for years at a time.

  Dr. Llewellyn started washing the woman. She seemed to relax, though she still was not lucid. He decided she was probably more tired than in a faint now. He gently touched her face. Her eyelashes fluttered. He took a deep breath, and then busied himself with the examination.

  Her wounds were healing: some cuts, more deep bruises. He’d had a few of those himself from living a troublesome youth of indenture in the West Indies. He had been lucky in life since then. Luckier than her, it would seem.

  Dr. Llewellyn unwrapped the bandage on her arm, revealing a neatly trimmed, vapor-thin gauze patch underneath. He could see through the patch to the wound, which would leave a jagged scar a few inches long.

  The gauze patch was sticky to the touch, and he had trouble peeling it away. He smelled the area, touched it, and then did the same with the patch. Honey, used by some to treat inflammations, rashes, even burns. To his relief, there was no smell of gangrene. He wondered if she had used the honey, or someone else had treated her with oldwives’ medicine.

  The new slash on her breast was not too deep, but just moving her about had opened it up again. Tiny droplets of blood were now forming. It must sting, he thought, for that was a tender place on a woman.

  The cut was narrow and even. It didn't look like it would leave much trace once healed. He dabbed it clean with spirits and tried not to look at the patient as a woman. He moved her gently this way and that, lifting arms and legs. Last, he examined her head. There was a good-sized bruise near the forehead to one side, mostly hidden by her hair. He probed it lightly. A lump remained as well.