But as she said them, she regretted the words.
They sounded . . . weak.
“I have always been useless, but no more. I’ve never had a husband before, and I must not let down the one that I have now. A good wife helps her husband, that’s what the Padre said the Bible said.”
Besides, Ambrose Standish was not the only one to be a survivor.
She had survived herself from dire straits. When her brothers were taken and her mother had perished . . .
Did being left behind count?
When Louis Dumars died in prison, she survived . . .
“No, I have no idea how I got out of that. Just got fished out of the drink in a crate.”
Nothing to brag about there, she knew, as that required no initiative or bravery or even competence of any sort on her part.
When her father wasted away, she was left to bury him and carry on with everything that he gave her. What he left her—none of that she did on her own. No wonder I’m still hiding here in the shadows.
There had to be some victories too, to make my life saving.
“I made it through the Earl’s excursion and burned Louis’s papers and escaped from blasted pirates as well. I made friends with a mule, married off a Mullah’s daughter to my uncle’s steward, and married myself to Edward—no, Captain Sir Edward Lindsay.”
She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She knew how to fight, and she had something to protect. As she thought about those things, it made her stand straighter, move out of the shadows.
Kate felt renewed. She was safe now.
No slavers to sell her off to the highest bidder.
No French Republicans lurking nearby to drag her away to prison.
No native war party to take her family away.
She was a wife now and might someday be a mother.
“Just like Mama.”
Fiya had a new life; Kate knew this was her chance to have her own new beginning.
“The past is gone, there is only this moment.”
She thought of Fiya when she said it. Ambrose Standish could not hurt her now.
“Not if I won’t let him.”
Curiosity made Kate wander down to the surgery.
“The man is long gone,” said a steward who was now cleaning up. “All he needs is a bit of rest out of the sun and the wind, some food, and a wash—a long wash with a good bit of soap, if you don’t mind my saying. He stinks, and I say that after ten years in this hell-smelling navy through foul winds and trips on the equator.”
Kate started to ask him where the castaway was bunked, but there was no one left there to ask, for the crewman had gone on his way. She studied the shelves of books and supplies, trying to decide what to do.
Many of these supplies came with Lady Catherine, she knew. The butler left them off, and Kate put them on the shelves without paying the goods much mind at the time. She never found much use for these things since she had her own goodies: picked, mixed, and tended with her own hand. She knew just what each was supposed to do.
But these were different. There were several medium-size bottles with bright labels, boxes of flowery packets and cachets, and smaller bottles of elixirs—all promising cures of specific predicaments to mysterious ailments of all flavors.
She rubbed her chin in thought. Then her eyebrow went up, just the one. She looked closer. Nothing of use to the surgeons of the Royal Navy, it would seem. Lady Catherine had thought to bring nothing of practical value on this ship of war—nothing useful for a sailor, or to mend the slash from a sword, or a cannon-torn amputation or even a hole from a pistol ball. But there were plenty of patent medicines useful to an ailing lady’s attendant.
“Mrs. Pinkley’s Potion for Heavenly Sleep of Beauty,” she read.
Kate pulled up the stopper and sniffed. Opium, she would guess. She set it aside, and then picked up a box full of pastel packets.
“Madam Pearl’s Powders for the Proper Breathing of Ladies.”
She tore a corner and smelled. It was familiar—some sort of mint, and possibly pennyroyal too, and definitely eucalyptus.
Might do some good for a stuffy nose, or perhaps for someone who had fainted, though not as much as loosing a corset that was too tight.
But for her particular plan, no, this would not do.
Kate opened more bottles and sniffed, opened boxes of packets and cachets and lozenges. Many were more sugar and alcohol than medicinal, she decided, slipping a cherry lozenge into her mouth. It had a heavy taste of brandy.
It seems she had already found the best of the lot.
“So what do I have? No gun, no knife anymore, and no Friendly Joe in any way, shape, or form.”
The only weapons she could count on were Ambrose’s own fear, the knowledge she gleaned from her mother’s journals, and the strength of joy from her new life with Edward Lindsay. The new life she wanted very much to continue.
And her new potion, of course.
“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” she whispered. “Or is it, bubble, bubble, my mother’s double?”
She sighed so hard that the powder from one of the packets went flying. This made her sneeze, and more powdery dust went into the air, into her hair, everywhere. She tossed the packet to the side, and wiped the rest as best as she could, all the while thinking.
Mama would have something to start with, but Kate decided she would have to make do with her own recipe.
“In a pinch, with a pinch, just a pinch.”
Still, the thought of her mother gave her comfort. But the vision of Standish bidding her farewell the last time as she stood on the deck of the Red Wind made her shiver. Then it made her mad. She grabbed Mrs. Pinkley’s bottle and went to check her journals, just to be sure she didn’t quite poison the man.
* * * * *
Ambrose Standish had already seen the Elizabeth Regina once, but it hadn’t been christened then. And it had seen no action as yet, he could tell. It had no mending. No chipped paint or splintered wood from bullets, cannon fire, and misspent shrapnel. No stains of blood on the decks. No tatters in the sails. Not yet.
He told the first officer, “A fine ship, and a ship to be proud of. Is this the maiden voyage?”
The officer took it as proper praise, saying, “More or less.”
And so life continued on the voyage in much the same way as before he had come aboard. Standish knew he was saved once again, and he began to feel at ease.
He also took full advantage of the hospitality. He washed up, ate up, and was soon taking in the company of Lady Catherine, who was taking over the captain’s table in the Sir Edward’s absence.
When Standish learned the identity of the new captain, he went to his cabin and laughed. When he heard that the man had married as well, he laughed until he cried.
“Poor Katie, so easily forgotten. Now he’s married to this hag, and Kate’s in a harem somewhere. Funny how life works out; I wonder how Sir Edward Linseed will take to the hag making him a cuckold?”
Within a few days, he decided that Lady Catherine was growing quite fond of him. But that was well planned. She had the butler moved out of the cabin, and now Standish stayed there alone. He knew why, it was only a matter of time before she would ask more of him than polite banter at the dinner table. The idea made him cringe, but that was the price of these things.
She gave Ambrose a fine shirt and a lace cravat that was meant for her brother. She gave him new stockings and an enameled stickpin, one that had belonged to her father. He wore it to dinner one evening. None of the officers were present at her table then, and the servants had been excused quite early too.
Standish was there alone. It was time for payback for her favors, he knew. He wished he had some whiskey now, or anything stronger than wine, for he needed fortification.
“All alone tonight?” he said, bowing low. “Doesn’t matter, when you are in the room, one hardly notices others.”
She flipped her fan in rapid reply. “Better to attend to ourselve
s,” Lady Catherine said. “We shall be peasants, basic and Bohemian.”
She wore a colorful skirt and a white peasant blouse that was pushed down low off her shoulders. Standish could tell that she was missing the full rigging of women’s foundations from under her clothes, and the shape she revealed was not pleasing. He wondered where she got the clothes.
Her lips were reddened from drinking her favorite French raspberry liquor, for the liquid was as thick and sweet as syrup. Her face had too much powder, and the heat of the evening formed sharp little lines at the corners of her eyes and the sides of her mouth. It made the lines look like some sort of sugar-spun cobweb.
There was a beauty mark patch in the shape of a heart pasted near her mouth. And she wore another, a shape he could not tell from his distance, at the top of her ample breast. Her bosom threatened to spill over the blouse that was meant for a much younger, much thinner woman.
She must have gotten the clothes from one of her maids, he guessed. Then it occurred to him that maybe the costume might be hers after all, remnants of a girl whose family had a habit of traveling, often visiting the coast of southern France.
She just got old. And fat. But he figured that she had always been foolish. The thought made him stare at her all the more. She blushed and kept flipping her fan, and he found the movement quite annoying.
“You look like a gypsy queen,” he said and winked.
This made her giggle, and she said something, but his eyes and attention were now fixated on the other beauty mark. What was it?
She leaned over the table and put her arms across her chest, which made her breasts push up all the more. He could see the rims of her nipples, as he looked even closer at the black patch near. Then she pushed his head into her cleavage with a hot, fruity sigh.
The breath full of stale, overly sweet liquor made him queasy, but the beauty mark made him laugh. The mark was a phallic symbol, erect. It was tiny, but he made it out for sure just before her flesh cut off his breath.
He pulled away. “My Lady, please, I am only human.” Then he did laugh, and he found it hard to stop.
She took it as adoration, giggled in response, and offered him liquor. Standish decided that he did need a drink, but wished it were something much stronger.
* * * * *
Hours later, back in his cabin, he buried his face in his pillow. This time he could not laugh. He rubbed his face in weariness. His hand came away with her powder. He smelled like a French brothel. He pushed the pillow away.
“Wrinkled old toad.” He grunted, smiling at the thought of her jewelry. And she also had plenty of gold coins. Easy to make a gift of a coin . . . or two, who would notice? But what would he have to do to get more?
This time his smile turned to bitter distaste. He had wine here in the cabin—several bottles that were a gift from the Lady, but nothing stronger. It would have to do.
He worked to free the cork, spilling some in the process. Then he gulped straight from the bottle, pausing between to take a few deep breaths. It gave him too much time to reflect on what he had just done, and what would be expected, and soon.
The lady wanted a man in the most carnal terms. She had made that obvious. Clearly her new husband had left her with the wanted. Standish was convenient, he had no doubt it was nothing more than that. He was readily available and far away from any family or friends—gossip would not make it off this ship to her circles, she was sure, else she wouldn’t be doing this.
He could have taken her there in the cabin tonight, not that he wanted her ever. But he had to admit that the idea intrigued him as the perfect revenge. Fornicating with Sir Edward Lindsay’s wife while the man was off doing His Majesty’s duty.
Standish smirked. “I’d be doing the man a favor.”
Not that it mattered one way or the other. His manhood had been mostly dead for years—at least with most women.
Only when he thought of her . . .
Ambrose closed his eyes and fought back the face that had haunted him since the day that he left her.
Was it guilt? Love? Hate?
He had forgotten by now, maybe it was all of those things mixed together. Seeing Katherine Senlis on the bough of the Wilde was always a wrenching reminder. Carved to perfection, every detail, and every curve. If he could carve her face out of his mind, he would.
“No, I could not.”
He went to the mirror and started wiping to clean his face. The rough motions distorted his features, dragging them down and around like a mask. He looked like some evil court jester. A clown. A fool.
His lips were red from her liquored kisses. Her taste was still on his tongue. He grabbed the wine and rinsed out his mouth, spitting the rest to the floor.
There were many ways to please a woman. French whores taught him a few as he passed away the days in Paris, waiting for Louis Dumars to die. He had thought about using those same ways on Kate. Take the mother, then the daughter, and see them both in Hell. Only with Kate, he would have stayed to watch her die. There was as a certain sort of symmetry in that—a certain poetry.
Thinking of the women, he chanted, sing-song:
“Rape the mother, rape the girl,
see them both, out of this world.
Then Daddy dies of sadness . . . “
What rhymed with sadness?
“Ambrose slips into madness.”
He grunted and took another drink. He finished the bottle, then threw it to the side and went for another. He couldn’t help but wonder though: Would Kate know them all by now, the ways of a whore?
He meant there in her harem, in the Mullah’s bed?
What did they call them, the tricks of the trade?
How about this for a coin; that for a favor?
Would she like it? Or would she fight them time and again? Would she fight like her mother? Not that it did any good. He couldn’t have stopped then if he had wanted.
Why did she have to cry?
“Katherine,” he murmured.
Then he started laughing again, but it choked off in surprise, for the sound was more like the cries of someone else. Like the strangled off cries he heard there alone in his castaway boat—the cries of the murdered men, come back to haunt him.
Like the cries of a madman . . .
* * * * *
CHAPTER 49 - Trapping the Murderer
The night was fading, and the dawn was as beautiful as she had ever seen. Kate did her night’s calculations several times to be sure, reckoning by the stars and the readings from the ship’s log: They were just a few days from their final port in Corsica.
It was time.
She went back to the surgery. Kate didn’t know if her plan would work. She had misgivings as she swirled the mixture in the bottle.
How much was enough?
How much was too much?
She would add it to wine, she had decided, and hoped the combination would be enough.
“Insha’Allah,” she murmured. It shall be as God wills. The sentiment made her feel lonely again. She hoped Fiya and Mr. M’bani were all right . . . and Evelyn too. Would she ever see any of them again? She doubted so and sighed.
“Will it work?”
Kate didn’t have the nerve to try her concoction on another, so she decided she had to try it on herself.
“Perhaps leave a note, in case bad goes to worse.”
Would it end up being a suicide note? Not really, more of an explanation. Still, what could she say? I love you, Edward, but I have to trap my mother’s murderer this way because no one on your ship would believe me now, since I have been lying about being your wife in the first place.
No, a note wouldn’t do. And she wasn’t brave enough to confront the First Officer and suggest that he arrest Ambrose Standish—especially with the other Lady Catherine still on board, and herself being incognito this way.
“How do I get myself into these things. I was better off there up in the tree.”
She opened a bottle of wine and pou
red some into a cup, then also a bit from her possibly poisonous herbal mixture. She took a deep breath as she gently swirled the wine.
A sip first . . . too bitter, she thought, but there had to be enough poison . . . potion to effect a large man. Standish had lost weight on his recent travels, but he was still much larger than her. He would have to drink a few large swallows, and quickly too. And she knew he wouldn’t drink such a bitter brew.
She glanced around the surgery. There was a small burner-type contraption where a real doctor could do whatever was needed of such things, she assumed. It was just a metal ring on a wire stand in order to suspend a cup or a bottle over a flame. She had used it to heat water for tea and tonics for her victims—that is, her patients.
Beside the ring was honey, which made everything a little bit less fowl. She poured some wine into a wide-bottomed glass, and stirred in the honey slowly. A bit of heat would make the honey dissolve faster, and it would also give her time to work up her nerve.
In a moment, she tried it again. Warm, not hot. Too hot and the alcohol would go out. She learned that from Terry’s cook there in Boston. Rum cake was only worked when you poured on the rum after, not before, the baking. She was counting on the liquor as well as the herbs.
Kate frowned as she sipped, for now it was too sweet. She peeled some lemon and put the rind in a bowl. She used a spoon to smash it to bring out the oils. It smelled very nice, usually, but now strange smells were filling the room from the brew there over the flame. She poured more wine into the lemon rind, and then that into the glass there over the flame, stirring for a few minutes.
Another sip or two . . . now the brew was getting too hot. She gathered up her skirts as a hot pad and slipped the cup from the flame. She sipped again, and then licked her lips.
“Better, like a sort of wine punch at a party.”
But it would get sickening if you had to drink much more. Something else was needed. She dropped to her knees and started rummaging in the surgery’s ample storage. She had to find something that would make the elixir more of a treat than a treatment.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 48
