by Jane Feather
“If you’d care to come on deck once we’re clear of the ’arbor bar, ma’am, cap’n says you’ll be welcome,” he said, touching his hat.
“Thank you, I’ll be glad of the fresh air.” Her eyes felt sticky from her deep sleep and her hair probably looked like a bird’s nest. “Would it be possible to get a jug of water for washing?” she asked.
“Can’t get any ’ot, ma’am,” he informed her. “Can’t light the galley fire till we’re clear of the ’arbor.”
“Cold is fine. Anything will do,” she said hastily. “I need to freshen myself a little.”
“Right y’are, ma’am.” He offered another salute and went off moving easily with the boat’s motion.
Arabella opened her little bag and found her hairbrush and a small hand mirror. She held it up and examined her reflection grimly. It was every bit as bad as she feared. She’d slept all afternoon in the same riding clothes she’d worn yesterday and overnight in the chaise and she looked as grimy, sticky, and sweaty as she felt. And then she thought of the woman in the Chatelet and was sickened by her own selfishness. When had Charlotte—it was Charlotte—last seen clean linen? A toothbrush? A hairbrush even. Did she have access even to cold washing water?
The sailor knocked and came in at her call with a ewer and tin basin that he set on the stool. “Will that do you, ma’am?”
“Amply,” she said with a warmth that surprised him given the paucity of his offering.
“Cap’n’ll be pleased to welcome you on deck in about ’alf an hour, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She locked the door after him. If she was going to strip naked, she needed to be certain no one would barge in. She shook out her creased skirt, waistcoat, and jacket and spread them over the bed, then rolled up her stockings and undergarments and tucked them into the cloak bag. Bracing herself against the rolling deck, she sponged her body from head to toe with the slightly brackish water. It refreshed her a little, and her head began to clear. If she accepted the captain’s invitation and went up on deck, she would come face-to-face with Jack. Should she surprise him in public? Or go and find his cabin first?
In public, she decided, brushing her hair with vigorous strokes. He would have to be superficially polite and by the time they were alone the first flush of fury would perhaps have faded. Not that she cared whether it did or not. She was in the right and Jack was in the wrong. He could rage all he wanted, she would be calm and steadfast in her conviction.
For some reason, however firmly she talked to herself, the flutters in her belly wouldn’t quiet down. She put on a light gown of cream cambric with a bronze sash at the waist, changed her stockings, and thrust her feet into a pair of simple kid slippers, the only other footwear she had apart from riding boots. She looked tidy, but that was the best that could be said.
She stood with her hand on the door, for a moment unable to summon the will to open it. She wasn’t afraid of her husband, for God’s sake. Was she? But she mustn’t get it wrong. Her future . . . their future . . . depended on her taking charge and getting it right.
She opened the door onto the narrow wooden corridor. Light came from the top of a set of steps at the end. The companionway, the sailor had called it. Using the wall for support she made her way to the steps and climbed up into the bright sunlight of late afternoon.
Gulls wheeled and mewed, the rigging creaked, a sail cracked as the boat swung onto another tack. Arabella, unprepared for the movement, grabbed the deck rail, ducking instinctively as the boom swung by over her head, casting a black shadow.
She looked up and met the eyes of her husband, who was standing a few feet away in the stern beside a sun-bronzed young man at the wheel. The craft came about and plunged forward again. Arabella didn’t move, transfixed by Jack’s gray and momentarily uncomprehending gaze.
The man at the wheel raised a hand to his cap and invited, “Ma’am, come and join us. A beautiful afternoon . . . lovely westerly wind.” He sounded delighted by both, his face all smiles, his blue eyes all dance and sparkle like the surface of the sea.
Arabella came over to them. “Captain,” she said, half in question, half in greeting.
“Cap’n Perry, ma’am.” He held out a strong hand, the other firmly fixed to the wheel. “Delighted to have you aboard. We have a fellow passenger. His grace of St. Jules.”
“His grace and I are already acquainted,” Arabella said quietly, looking at Jack.
“Very well acquainted, as it happens,” Jack said. “Captain Perry, this is my wife, the duchess of St. Jules.”
Tom Perry stared at his two passengers. “I beg pardon? I was unaware . . .”
“No, how should you be,” Jack broke in. “I also was unaware.” He took his wife’s elbow and said, “If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes, Captain . . .” and moved Arabella back towards the companionway, leaving Tom staring.
“It’s too stuffy below,” Arabella protested as they reached the steps. “There’s no one over there.” She gestured towards the prow of the boat.
Jack acquiesced with a faint nod and they made their way to a small spot at the front of the foresail, stepping carefully over coiled rope. She looked out over the curved rail, waiting for him to stand beside her.
“Care to explain?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as he rested his hands on the rail beside hers. His knuckles were white.
“I would have thought it was obvious.”
He gave a sharp crack of laughter and turned to lean his back against the rail. “Nothing is obvious where you are concerned, my dear. I learned that long ago. Now, if you please . . . ?”
She spoke quietly but with unmistakable force. “I am not Frederick. I have Lacey blood, I accept that, but I am not my brother. You married me for your own reasons, I have always understood that, and I always understood on some level that they had something to do with Frederick.”
She remained looking out at the water and when he said nothing she continued, “I took the risk, in hindsight a foolish one, that whatever lay between you and Frederick couldn’t possibly concern me . . . me,” she emphasized. “I took the risk that you would come to understand that.”
Silence lay heavy between them. “Have you nothing to say?” she demanded fiercely, turning sideways to look at his profile, the uncompromising jut of his jaw. Her heart dipped. She wasn’t making any impression. “I cannot and do not ask forgiveness for Frederick—”
“Enough!” he interrupted savagely. “I don’t want to hear his name on your lips again. You are no longer a Lacey. Your family no longer exists, and you will never speak the name again. Is that understood?” And now he turned to look at her and it was as if he wasn’t seeing her.
“I am who I am,” she stated. “I am your wife, Jack. I love you. But I wasn’t born your wife. I am here to help your sister . . . ” She threw up an imperative hand as he opened his mouth. “No, don’t interrupt me. Your sister, my sister-in-law. A woman in need. I will not be shut out of this responsibility. And it is my responsibility because she is my husband’s sister, and not because my coward of a half brother betrayed her.” Her fierce gaze fixed him, refused to let go even when he turned his head away.
“Reflect well, Jack,” she continued. “If it hadn’t been for me, you would never have known that Charlotte might still live. If it hadn’t—”
“Stop,” he cried. “Don’t you realize that’s driving me insane?”
She swallowed, feeling her way. “Yes,” she said simply. “I do realize that. How could I not? I am your wife. I love you. Above all else. Your causes are mine. It’s very, very simple if you would let yourself see it.”
Jack heard her words but they didn’t seem to mean anything. Frederick Lacey in the Place de la Bastille had looked directly at him. Had seen his own salvation. If Charlotte had died in the courtyard of La Force, it would have been relatively quick—if she had not . . . he could not bear to think of what she had suffered. His hands gripped the railing as he stared out over the waters
of the Channel, oblivious of the still, silent woman at his side.
Desolate, Arabella pushed herself away from the rail and picked her way across the ropes towards the companionway and her cabin belowdecks.
Anger came to her rescue. How could he have so little humanity, so little understanding, so little faith in her? She slammed the door to her tiny cabin. She had laid herself bare for him, exposed her soul, declared her love, and it hadn’t moved him. He was still enmired in the bitter choking muck of vengeance hardened like the molten lava of Vesuvius.
She sat on the edge of the bunk and stared out of the porthole as the sun sank and the sea turned pink then pale turquoise then dull gray. The evening star appeared and she could smell cooking. Feet sounded on the decks above. The boat pitched a little as a gust of wind caught the sails.
She didn’t know whether she was hungry or nauseated, but still she continued to sit as if in a trance, waiting for something to happen.
There was a knock at the door and hope leaped through her veins. “Yes,” she called.
The sailor opened the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but will you be taking supper above with the cap’n? Or down ’ere.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she wanted no supper, but wisdom ruled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “In here, please.”
He backed out and returned in a few minutes with a plate of stew, a hunk of bread, and a jug of ale. “’Ere y’are, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She took the tray and sat down with it on the cot. It smelled good and she broke the bread, dipping it into the gravy. For a while she ate with some enjoyment, then she began to feel queasy again and put the tray from her. She wasn’t used to the motion of boats. She set the tray outside her door, undressed to her shift, and crept back under the thin sheet and blanket on the cot, where she lay listening to the shifting timbers, the slap of the waves against the bow, and watched the silver spot of starlight shining through the porthole onto the wooden floor.
_______
Jack and the captain shared supper on deck. Neither of them mentioned the absence of the other passenger and Jack prompted Tom Perry, whose awkward bemusement was like a continuing silent shout, to talk about the dangers that still remained running paquets between England and France.
“And some of the folk we pick up, sir . . .” Tom relaxed, waxed expansive as the level in his tankard lowered and the subject touched familiar ground. “Poor bloody souls . . . barely escaped with their lives. We get all sorts now. Not just the aristos but the artisans, the professionals, so to speak. There’s no place for them in their own country neither, but you’d think folks who earn a decent living would be welcome.”
He glanced towards his aristocratic passenger with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. Apart from the strange business of a duke and his duchess taking passage like they weren’t married, one could never be too sure what a cross-Channel voyager in a paquet going to Europe considered about the turmoil. Easy enough with those fleeing the other way.
Jack dipped bread in his stew. “Indeed,” he said.
Tom Perry gave up. He drained his tankard. “You’ll excuse me, your grace, but I’ve a ship to sail. I wish you a good night. Should be a quiet one. Wind’s shifted to the southwest. We’ll make port by four, I reckon. Be tied up by six.”
“Good night, captain.” Jack refilled his tankard and stared into the distance, oblivious of the stars, the gentle salt-scented breeze, the cradle rock of the boat. His head would not clear. Until now his fury had been cold, clear, easily directed. He had seen it as the point of his rapier in a duel, his épée in a match with Maitre Albert. It went where he sent it with deadly purpose and it reached its mark. But now there was a hot muddle where purpose and fulfillment tangled.
Charlotte had spent over a year in a Paris prison . . . if indeed the woman in Le Chatelet was Charlotte. But how could she be? The tricoteuse had described her . . . described how she’d been dragged to the bayonets in the courtyard. Described the silver flash running back from her forehead. Chuckling, the ghastly woman had reached up with a grimed finger to touch Jack’s own streak, pushing back his red bonnet. And she had winked.
But perhaps Charlotte had escaped the September massacre. Perhaps she had evaded the guillotine.
He pressed his hands to his temples against the roar of confusion and denial.
He got up from the makeshift table and went to the companionway. A sailor stood there, clearly waiting rather impatiently for the tardy departure of the captain’s supper guest.
“Direct me to Lady Arabella’s cabin.” The instruction was curt and its recipient responded in kind. He jerked his head towards the companionway. Jack followed him down the stairs and then followed the pointed finger.
Jack opened the cabin door softly and looked into the small space lit only by a faint gleam from the night sky. The shape on the cot shifted slightly.
“So, Jack?” she said.
He came over and sat beside her, laying his hand on her turned hip beneath the blanket. She moved one hand to cover his, lacing her fingers with his. He bent to kiss her, brushing his lips along the line of her jaw. Slowly she rolled onto her back, looking up at him in the dim starlight. There was a sadness in her smile.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. For answer she raised a hand and pressed his lips closed with her fingertips.
Jack kicked off his boots and inched onto the narrow cot beside her, sliding an arm beneath her, drawing her close against him. He caressed her cheek as she nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, and he felt her slide into sleep beneath his touch. He held her thus throughout the night, while he stared open-eyed at the wooden rafters of the ceiling, waiting for dawn.
Chapter 21
Arabella awoke to the sounds of shouting, the rattle of the anchor chain, the judder of the boat as it came to a stop. She was still curled against Jack, his hand still cupping her cheek. He turned his head slowly as she stirred and smiled at her. “You slept well, love. I could feel it.”
“And you didn’t sleep at all,” she stated, running a finger along his unshaven chin. He so rarely looked disheveled, she found the sensation both novel and sensual.
“No,” he agreed, edging his arm out from beneath her. His hand and forearm were numb and he shook them vigorously as he stood up with a muffled groan. “These bunks are not designed for two.”
“No, I’m sorry, you must be so cramped,” she said remorsefully, struggling off the cot herself.
He took her head between his hands and kissed her mouth. “A well-deserved penance.”
“No, not that,” she denied, slipping her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I would not have you made uncomfortable.”
It was a little late for that, Jack reflected wryly, and he wasn’t thinking of physical discomfort.
“What do we do first?” Arabella asked, shaking out her much-abused riding skirt. It was now so natural to talk of “we.” They were united, a couple with a common purpose, and she felt light as air.
“Go to an inn, bespeak breakfast, and then find horses,” he said readily. “Get dressed quickly while I fetch my things from my cabin.” He left her and she scrambled into her riding habit, giving her hair a perfunctory brush and splashing her face with leftover water from the ewer. She rinsed her mouth out, grimacing at the salty taste of the brackish water. It made her feel queasy.
She went up on deck, carrying her cloak bag, and blinked in the bright sunlight. It was a scene of purposeful chaos, sailors tossing bales onto the dock, where porters loaded them onto carts, men scurrying between the wooden sheds on the quay, other ships entering the red-walled harbor, hauling down sails, shouting voices competing with the scream of swooping gulls.
Jack was talking to Tom Perry by the gangplank that had been lowered, connecting the Sea Horse to the quayside. He beckoned to Arabella, who stepped carefully over ropes and around cartons and bales to join them.
“Captain Perry expects to be in Calais again
in ten days’ time,” Jack told her as she reached them. “If we’re here, he’ll have passage for three of us.” He tried to speak with a definitive confidence. It had become all important that Charlotte lived in Le Chatelet. He could no longer countenance the idea that they could be on a wild-goose chase, that Claude Flamand could have been mistaken . . . or worse, that once again he would arrive too late and this time Charlotte would be dead.
Such defeatist thinking would achieve nothing. He was almost febrile with fatigue but knew he couldn’t sleep even if there was time.
Arabella heard his fatigue, heard the underlying doubts in the firmly positive tone, but she said nothing. She could only offer her strength to bolster his. “There’s an inn on the quay,” she said. “We can get breakfast there, and maybe they’ll have a livery stable.”
“Oh, aye, m’lady. The Lion d’Or has a good stable,” Tom Perry told her. “Is it to Paris you’re going?”
Jack nodded. “Yes.”
“It’ll take three days,” Tom stated.
“I intend to be there by tomorrow night,” Jack returned.
The captain looked doubtfully at Arabella. Maybe a man riding like the devil could do the distance in two days, but not a woman. “You’ll need to be there by afternoon, then,” he said. “They close the city gates at dusk. And after dusk it’s not safe to be on the streets. You’d do best to stay outside the city overnight and enter in the morning.”
Jack nodded again, but Arabella knew he had no intention of doing any such thing. They bade the captain farewell and followed a sailor carrying their bags down to the quay and across to the black-timbered inn.
“Get us a parlor and breakfast,” Jack instructed Arabella at the door. “Oh, and hot water.” He ran his hand over his chin with a grimace. “I’m going to see what they have on offer in the stables.”
Arabella laid a hand on his arm. “Why don’t I get a bedchamber? You’ll be all the better for a couple of hours’ sleep.”
