The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  * * *

  Christian refrained from telling his stories after that. As time went on, Ravenna reached the conclusion he’d indeed been truthful, that he’d only uttered such graphic descriptions to enable her to leave that coast behind and get on with her life, for he was much kinder in the months afterward.

  What’s more, he didn’t condemn, ridicule, criticize or irritate James in any way again, at least not during the voyage home. Nor did he use the word “mongrel,” not even when he spoke to Ravenna privately.

  These sacrifices were not lost on James. He tolerated Christian more and more, until it made Ravenna sick to think of what Christian had threatened, how he now so pleasantly poured James’s tea.

  During those long months on the ocean swells, the merchant ship made incredible time. With the hold reeking of Cantonese tea, they sailed southward to Valparaiso, a Spanish port on the coast of Chile. There their captain obtained ship’s supplies and rested the crew for three whole days—the dangerous passage around Cape Horn was waiting, the captain said, and they needed all the rest they could get before battling those unmanageable seas.

  Howling westerlies and pounding rollers came in off the Pacific as they struggled ’round the Horn. Those days were the most frightening Ravenna had known in all her years of being on the water, especially since she had no doubt whatsoever that their captain cared more about hurrying to cash in on his precious cargo than about any of his passengers or crew.

  Both before and after the Horn, the ship never saw land for more than a day or two at most, but as they drew nearer to civilization, Ravenna realized that in passing up those ports, their captain had actually worked to her advantage.

  Christian couldn’t marry her aboard ship.

  Whenever they put in for the few supplies their captain judged they couldn’t do without, Christian was quick to hop into the jolly boat and inspect the port for its matrimonial suitability. Luckily, of the few harbors they’d encountered, he’d deemed them all uncivilized.

  Until they reached Barbados, that is. There he promptly declared Bridgetown worthy of hosting their nuptials and he set about enforcing his threats by approaching James with the most wily of schemes: Respectfully and with as much modesty as he could muster, he asked James’s permission for her hand.

  Rescuing Christian from the Spanish prison had been one thing. James allowing a marriage was entirely another. Ravenna expected his newfound tolerance to explode into a full-fledged murder, or at least a rekindling of the feud between the cousins.

  This didn’t happen. James came to her on deck that first night and when she saw his face, she knew her last hope of escaping Christian’s threat had gone.

  “He’s asked me, you know,” James said in a low voice.

  She didn’t answer. Gazing out over the aquamarine water, she was thinking of Paul, of how stupid they’d been in believing his fate could be subverted somehow, that history could be cheated. If only you’d made a will to protect us, she thought bitterly. If only we’d married so your son could inherit Swallowhill and give us a home, an income, an escape.

  “Should I even ask if you love him?” Seeing the way she stared at the sea, James touched her shoulder, turned her gently to face his question. “He’s keen to have me believe so, but I know you, Ravenna. You pity him, if anything. Your compassion is for that man inside him he’ll become in two centuries and I told him as much.”

  “You told him about David?” She glanced up, scarcely believing he’d done such a thing. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about the future, or the potion we got in—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Love.” James regarded her with solemn, raised brows. “He’s called you Ravenna, you know he has. I see how you keep your secrets with him. You didn’t tell me about Paul’s watch, did you?”

  She bit her lip. She fixed her eyes determinedly on Bridgetown in the distance until James had turned away, his hand slipping pointedly from her shoulder. “If you confide in him so much,” he said, “maybe you do want to marry him after all. I’ll not stand in your way. More than I hate him, I love you, Ravenna, and I’d have you do as you wish with your life, so long as you go on living it.”

  With this pronouncement, her fate was sealed.

  They were married in a sugar plantation’s opulent seventeenth-century rooms. Apparently, even with the deplorable state of Christian’s clothes, the plantation owners had been impressed enough with his peerage to offer their house for the wedding. They’d even told Christian it’d be a great honor.

  The moment they set eyes on Ravenna, they probably changed their minds. When she arrived in the nearly 80 degree heat, waddling in James’s extra large shirt and his breeches with the waistline let out to the seams, it became obvious why Lord Launceston would so adamantly wish for a private service—Ravenna was nearly eight months pregnant.

  No one said a word about her condition. She was given use of the owners’ room, as well as a tub and a few of their toiletries. She hadn’t had a proper bath in quite literally years, and the idea of lounging in the tub while Christian waited impatiently downstairs was the only appealing aspect of the wedding.

  She whiled away at least an hour, just watching the palm fronds sway outside the fancy sash windows. She tried not to think of Paul, but there was a heaviness to her thoughts, a mindless numb that constantly spoke his name no matter how she fought to shut it out. All she could do was lie there in the water, stifling the sound of her tears in a bath sheet as her last moments of spinsterhood ticked away.

  By the time James came for her, she was a mess. The air was cool, yet she still sweated in her donated gown, her hand in James’s as thoughts of Paul drifted uneasily through her mind. He’d once joked that they’d marry on the island with Federal agents for witnesses, spend their honeymoon in prison for trespassing on government land, set up house in Las Vegas and wear gold lamé to the grocery store—had Paul come to his senses earlier, had he married her, instead of meeting Christian before the reverend as she was, she might now be Lord Killiney’s widow, long ago wedded in Tenerife or Cape Town. Had it been so, she’d have the Killiney title, castle and tenants’ rent and she’d certainly not have been marrying Christian.

  But she wasn’t Paul’s widow. And being that she had no other choice, she allowed James to escort her into the drawing room where, waiting for her amid gilded furniture and tropical flowers, Christian stood fidgeting.

  She expected him to be wallowing in self-satisfaction when she approached him willfully, took his arm. Yet he was anything but satisfied. She saw his eyes slide away in discomfort, toward the windows and the cane fields, toward anything other than the sight of her crying.

  Because she was crying. She couldn’t help it. When the ceremony began and Christian was prompted to recite his vows, Ravenna was thankful James stood behind her; had he seen those tears trickling down her cheek, he would’ve stopped the entire proceedings, and what would Christian have threatened then?

  She couldn’t risk it, so she promised to love, comfort, honor and obey. She found the strength to turn toward Christian, to speak those vows, but it was Paul’s summer sky eyes she saw. When Christian muttered some oath of fidelity, she heard the huskiness of Paul’s Dublin tone the way it’d sounded in the quiet of their cabin, felt the butter-soft touch of Paul’s hand in hers, remembered that moment when he’d knelt down before her, slipped the malachite ring from his finger and onto hers, saying, Elizabeth, would you be my wife?

  Thinking of it, fighting back tears, she realized the moment had arrived she’d dreaded. Christian stepped nearer. He slipped his fingers around her arm, and with his coltish features pinched in a wince, he finally dared to meet her eyes. Penitence, humility, these were the things she saw when he licked his lips and bent down close. Feeling the warmth of his sweet-smelling breath, she braced herself, certain that when she closed her eyes, she’d meet head on with a greedy kiss.

  Instead, she felt only the slightest softness of his mouth against her tear-staine
d cheek.

  When the reverend announced them earl and countess, Ravenna was too stunned to move. She stared at Christian. Christian ignored her. He wouldn’t even acknowledge her, much less risk a glance as they signed the registry, thanked their hosts, and once their names had been duly recorded, he left the room in a hurry.

  In the coach, he gazed off over the cane fields through the whole of their journey back to the ship, and in the brooding silence amidst the four of them, she knew.

  He was ashamed of having made her marry him.