In her search, some things she knew, but useless for what she needed. Other things were best left unidentified, and she hoped very much that this one particular thing wasn’t an amputated, now petrified finger.
Far back in the corner of lowest cupboard, she found the last dregs of brandy from a bottle that looked much older than her. Was it enough?
She thought about perhaps raiding the galley instead. But the cook for the officers was a Royal Navy man to the core, and he believed in tight discipline—and plain English cooking. She knew because she had gone roaming in his domain before.
“Who would ever have thought I’d be missing the French chef?”
She rummaged through her bag. Cinnamon bark, cloves, and one lone allspice berry. The last magic berry, she thought, and took it as a sign to make some mulled wine. The last time she had mulled wine was in Boston, with Terry.
“It seems like a lifetime ago.”
The brandy would help and would have to do, she decided. She emptied the heated mixture into the brandy bottle. Then Kate did what she could to improve the taste, sipping each time as she mixed more and more things in. But she knew the troubles in drinking too much was many:
If it’s poison, I could be dead.
If I drink too much, I won’t have enough left.
How much is enough for stupor, not death?
It quickly turned into excuse, not reason: How will I know he will drink if I don’t make it tasty anyway?
She only had to make enough to get him down to start. Then she could make more to keep him that way when he wasn’t quite sure what he was drinking.
“Or just knock him in the head.”
She giggled.
By the end of the experiment, she was yawning too. She figured she had at least a half glass-worth by then, just with the tasting.
“For a good night’s rest, sure to make you smile,
steep valerian root, then add chamomile.
For calmness of spirit, with catnip and yarrow,
take a bunch, boil it down, sleep until tomorrow.”
Those other things could make you sleep, if she could get them down him. Sleep for a week, or forever. Like the opium in Lady Catherine’s patent medicine. What was it, Mrs. Pinkley’s Potion for Heavenly Sleep? Or the poppy heads from the second Lady de Warrenne’s garden. They hadn’t been ready for the picking. Perhaps the woman didn’t know those were the kind of poppies that made men go into a sleep-like stupor, and then when denied, would trade everything, even kill for.
Kate would have to prepare the poppy juice, of course, and knew where to look in her mother’s journal. It was one of the few pages marked with a skull and cross bones. Her mother had been hesitant in adding the page at all, it seems.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, Kate decided.
Her mother must have figured that too.
But why did even thinking about it make her feel guilty?
“Because you might be killing a man, Madam, and worse, yourself.”
Who did that sound like?
Edward Lindsay.
Better that than a murderess, she thought. Well, maybe not murder, maybe just bad luck. It’s not like Ambrose didn’t have it coming . . .
It was something that Fiya would say.
Kate said, “I’m not like him, else he’d be dead already.”
In a moment, she laid down and slipped into a deep, even slumber . . . hopefully, that’s all it would be.
* * * * *
Kate woke up with a start. Her head was cloudy and felt very large. When she tried to rise, her head split in two. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside.
It only did a little.
She staggered up on deck. It was nearly dark out. Was it still the same day? Probably, the brew wasn’t so strong as that. It would work well enough, she decided. The worst part was getting the first batch down. Then it would go easier, she knew, for a man will swallow anything when he thinks he’s in love and close to a stupor. She had learned that from her friend, Terry, too.
“Now the hard part comes.”
She held her breath for a moment, let it out in a long sigh, then went back to the surgery. Kate opened the lid to her small trunk, and held up the last gown of her mother’s. Ambrose had ruined the others, but this one had not been within his reach on the Red Wind. This was inside the old pickle barrel, for she had run out of room in her trunk.
He hadn’t opened that cask, and the dress remained safe along with her Scotch, now-dearly departed, and some charcoal wrapped in straw to soak up the smell of the long-gone pickles, and lavender to leave behind odor of its own.
She had another cask just like it on the Wilde, but figured it was long gone by now as well. Mr. Whayles, one and two, seemed to like pickles only too well to let them go to waste, and she had given them both free rein with her supply.
“What are you doing this moment, Mr. Whayles?”
She took a moment to picture him there on the Wilde. Was it well on the way to India by now? Or had something happened to it as well.
But I am putting off the inevitable, she thought. Dreaming, when I should be doing.
She had to smooth the dress on the bunk, for it was wrinkled for damp and neglect. It was a pretty gown, with rich, earthy tones that her mother had favored, as deep and rich as wine from Bordeaux. She had seen the dress in a painting in the family house in Paris. This was only a copy, she knew, a remnant from another time and place.
The gown was not at home on a ship, but better at a fine table with crystal, polished silver, and bright chandeliers. Kate ran her hands up and down the folds. The fabric still had a sumptuous texture, and now gave off a slight aroma of lavender, to her great relief.
“Pickles would ruin the mood.”
Still, the gown was quite old, and she had to be careful. It took a bit of doing to do up the back by herself. For a moment, she thought of asking one of Lady Catherine’s maids for help, but managed well enough in the end. She might have missed an eyelet or too with the lacings, but Kate hoped Ambrose Standish would not be noticing whether the fastenings were done properly anyway.
Then she fashioned her hair as she remembered, though her own hair must have been a bit wilder than her mother’s had been, for the task was not the least bit easy. When Kate looked in the mirror, it was her mother who was looking back, except maybe for the eyes. She stared for a moment, gently touching her face, the same face as on the figurehead of the Wilde. Kate fought back an overwhelming wave of nostalgia . . . and loneliness.
“What is so wonderful about the past?” she said meanly. “My mother left me, my father died. Lord only knows what happened to my brothers.”
Then she felt guilty for not thinking about them for years. And worse, that if the attack hadn’t come, she wouldn’t be where she was now. She wouldn’t have gone to sea with her father, and first seen the man she had just married.
Until now, Edward Lindsay had only been a memory of a young man coming to the rescue of a child. He hadn’t remembered the event, and she wasn’t going to remind him. He might change his mind about everything then. She preferred to keep it as a fond memory of her childhood instead.
“Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards,” she said, quoting Benjamin Franklin again.
Kate glanced in the small mirror one last time. She looked like herself again, playing dress-up. She had done this thing before. Once her father caught her, and made her promise never to do it again. Rosalee O’Malley had explained that it wasn’t only that her father missed his wife still and carried a good bit of guilt at leaving his family alone for so long at a time.
The woman explained that he also knew that Kate was a whole different person. He didn’t want her to be overshadowed by a ghost. Rosalee had known her mother slightly, and she had practically raised Kate. Katie, the sponge, Mrs. O’Malley called her, because she remember, she copied everything. Her father saw it too.
Kate fought ba
ck tears. It wouldn’t do to cry. How can you seduce the man who murdered your mother when you are babbling like a child? She took a deep breath, and lowered her head, looking up and into the mirror.
The woman looking back was intense, perhaps evil.
What do you expect of a ghost?
More like an avenging angel?
The hair, the gown, would it be enough? Or was she really too different now?
Would Ambrose notice they were a different color than her mother’s eyes, and that her hair was a bit untamed?
And her mind—that was different too. It was full of someone else now, not her mother, not her father, not Louis Dumars. How could she act just the same when her head was filled with somebody else?
And where the hell was Edward Lindsay now? She closed her eyes, put her hand on her hips and tried to convince herself that this was the only course. Trouble was coming in one way or the other. She had lied since she first came aboard this ship, not directly, but basically.
At least she would have something to bargain with when the anger came, and she knew that it would—if she lived that long.
“Always been an optimist,” she mumbled, but it sounded much like her Uncle Lewis. She wondered then what Ben Franklin would say about something like this.
“Probably something about fools.”
She opened the surgery door and looked out. Kate made her way through the ship with little notice, creeping into Ambrose’s cabin. No one noticed her go in there either, she was sure. It was now only just dark. He had been chatting with the officers, and would be going to dinner with Lady Catherine soon. He often spoke with the officers to glean information. But why he also kept close company with the Lady was something she didn’t like to contemplate.
Ambrose Standish occupied the cabin alone, she knew, for he displaced the butler, who pushed a footman out of that shared cabin to be quartered with the sailors on a hammock below. Kate heard the footman talking, and it turned out that he actually preferred the difficult life in the Royal Navy. The life with Lady Catherine was more nonsense and hardship from what he had already seen of sea life. That was saying a lot, given the precarious life of a common sailor in the Royal Navy.
The only one who would miss Ambrose, she figured, would be the Lady Catherine.
Kate anticipated the Lady’s curiosity too. If one of the maids came to inquire on his absence, she would tell the maid that Mr. Standish was having an unusually heinous attack of a recurring affliction. Of course, if the Lady’s maid wanted to know more, Kate was prepared for the worst, with descriptions of cankers and pus-running sores.
But she thought the first excuse would suffice. She had known enough of the Earl and his friends to know that they preferred their pleasures with no effort made on their own part. Lady Catherine would be no different.
Kate looked about the cabin. His borrowed cloak was hanging where she knew it would be. She slipped in behind it to hide. It would work. In just a few hours, her plan would work or fail rather badly.
But this time, she thought, I have to do something. Then it occurred to Kate that her mother had always had the same choices. Let life happen to you, or take a hand in your fate. For the first time in her life, Kate felt more of a friendship than worship of her mother.
The cloak smelled musty, but not as bad as Standish himself. She wiped her nose to forestall a sneeze, then wondered if he would see her feet sticking out at the bottom.
She knew he wore his shoes to dinner. The Lady Catherine had given him new stockings and new shoes, both meant for the lady’s brother. Maids like to talk as well as butlers. Kate knew that Ambrose Standish very much liked the life that required silver buckles and silken hose.
That left his boots, serviceable items that a colonist would use. He had them on when he first came aboard. She pulled them over to the bottom of the cape with the toes left sticking out. She stepped inside, and luckily, they were big enough even with her own boots still on. That would do to hide her feet, she decided.
She clunked over to the table and set the doctored-brandy bottle toward the front. Curiosity made her taste it once more. It tasted better than before, but nothing that Louis Dumars would be proud of. He very much knew a good vintage and any kind of liquor that did better with age.
“This must improve with age,” she mumbled. But she doubted that Ambrose Standish would even notice when the time came.
Then she stood there a moment in the quiet darkness with her hands on her hips. It seemed strange that it should come back to this after so many years. Kate knew now that a little girl could not have done much to save her family back then.
Watch from the tree, watch from the sideboard, watch from the quarterdeck . . .
But she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
Still, it seemed more like revenge than justice. Common sense told her to speak to the First Officer, but what could he do? He did not know her. In effect, she had already lied to him, if only by not telling him who she was.
As far as Ambrose Standish was concerned, she had no proof. It was only her word against his, and she was already a liar, of sorts. So there was nothing to be done now, but wait.
Wait for Ambrose to finish dinner.
Wait for the plan to work or fail.
Wait for Edward to get back.
Kate was getting hot, and she was tired of standing. She eased down to sit on the floor and pushed the cloak away from her face. Her feet were sweating inside his boots.
What if she had to move fast? These boots would make her trip.
What if he wanted his cloak? He would pull it down and find her.
“Next I will have him as a clairvoyant. All this thinking won’t do.”
To take up the time, Kate thought of her husband.
And Evelyn, did she ever get to her brother’s ministry? Or was it a plantation?
And what of Fiya and Mr. M’bani? Where were they now? Some place with beautiful flowers and brilliant colored birds?
And what of the people in Spain? Yollie, the old woman, the Padre . . .
She was smiling when she heard Ambrose stumbling down the passage. He stopped at the door and fumbled with the latch.
“Silly old cow,” he said and staggered inside.
Kate just had time to cover herself again. She could hear him move about the cabin. He tried to light a lantern. It took him some time, and she wondered if he would set them all afire and be the end of her after all.
She needed some light, but not too much and certainly not a bonfire on the high seas, also known as the Elizabeth Regina. She held her breath.
As she peaked out from the cloak, she could see as the light gently flowed into the corners of the cabin. Kate tried to let out her breath without making a sound, but it caught in her throat when he said, “Hello, what is this?”
He wasn’t near, she could tell. But had he seen her? Was some part of her poking out? Had she moved? What could he mean? She did not move anymore, like the fawn, hiding from the danger.
“No, no,” he said, “limp as a rag after all.”
He snickered, and she heard the clatter of the chamber pot. He relieved himself, and then she heard a slapping sound.
“Bad boy, you are a bad boy,” he said. “How could you let the lady down so?”
Then he giggled.
She peeked out farther and could see his reflection in the mirror. He was handling his privates, speaking down to them about his failed evening with Lady Catherine.
Kate wondered with a twinge of wariness: Was he drunk enough? Too drunk and he would pass out. He had to be aware, that was important. If he would focus only on her, he would not notice the taste of the wine, she hoped. But if he was not drunk enough, he might figure the whole thing out. Just then, she realized how much she was in danger.
To her relief, Ambrose sat heavily on the pallet that served as his bed. He burped, giggled, and sang a few words of a bawdy song. Then he paused, scratched his head, and tipped over. He had not passed out, for she st
ill heard the rustling as he shifted about on the bunk.
In a moment, he muttered, “Fool. Wrinkled old toad.”
Kate found she could still see him in the mirror. She held very still, hoping he would not notice her. Yet.
He grabbed the bottle in front. It was the old bottle of brandy that Kate doctored. But he only held it a moment, and then set it aside. He burped again, and pushed himself further onto the bed. Eventually, his breathing became deep and even.
Kate waited a moment longer to gather up her courage. She eased out of hiding. The lantern was still burning. She lowered the flame until the edges of the room were only shapes and shadows. She moved the bottle closer, for in dire straits, she could also use it as a weapon.
“Ambrose?” she called in the voice she had heard so often in her mind and her dreams—the soft voice of her mother, long-dead Katherine St John Senlis.
He rolled a bit, then snorted.
“Ambrose. Wake up, Ambrose.”
“What? Who—“ He blinked. His eyes got wider, but he did not move anymore.
She smiled slightly as she said, “There you are. Good evening, Ambrose. Remember me?”
“Katherine?”
“You are a man now, Ambrose,” she said very low with just the trace of French inflection. “ My husband is gone too long. I need a man to love me, to protect me. I have come for you, Ambrose.”
His hand reached out even as his head shook no. His mouth formed the name, “Katherine,” though no sound came out.
“Will you have some brandy-wine with me, Ambrose?” she said. “Good for anything that might ail you.”
He nodded, still blinking, and eased into sitting still there on the bunk.
Kate poured him a glass of the spiked wine. She held it out, but stepped no closer to the light. He reached to take it with a shaking hand. He sipped, licked his lips, then drank deeply.
“Will you not have some, Katherine? Will you not share a drink with me?”
She smiled and poured a small dose into another cup. Kate pretended to drink, but did not. She watched in the mirror, and knew he could see the wine glimmer on her lips in the dim lantern light. He gulped down the rest of his, then with the back of his hand, he wiped at the dribble left there on his chin.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 49
