A Perfect Curse

by Shereen Vedam

  Nevara blinked to keep her tears from falling. “For a while, I allowed myself to be fooled that my aunt was mistaken. However, Mark’s deception proved she was not.” Why would the countess not leave this alone? “I refused his proposal, and he walked away. For the past two weeks, he has not once attempted to seek me out. How is that love?”

  “I, too, once despaired as you do now, Nevara,” Belle said. “I thought Rufus could never love me as I loved him.”

  “Lord Terrance?” Nevara glanced up, shocked. “But he adores you. You have such an effect on him that it is visible even to strangers.”

  Belle nodded. “Yes, he does. But once upon a time, I thought I had hurt him so badly, that he would never look at me with tenderness again.” She came closer and brushed back a stray lock of Nevara’s hair. “You are there now, with Mark. Do not give up. True love often finds a way to survive.”

  Nevara wiped her cheeks of tears. “He does not love me.”

  Belle reclaimed her chair. “Could it be that you so strongly believe what your aunt told you, that you are ready to give up at the first obstacle?”

  “My aunt had my best interest at heart.” Nevara glared at Belle. “She took care of me after I lost both my parents.”

  “I did not know your aunt, Nevara. I know you. You are worthy of being loved. However, until you believe that, how can Mark ever convince you?”

  After her discussion with Lady Terrance, Nevara went up on the deck to walk off her confused thoughts. The cloudless sky was a dark blanket of stars. Along the Thames, vessels lined both shorelines while, on land, warehouses loomed large and close. A breeze brushed her skin with a spray of water.

  The few crewmen on deck were busy even though the vessel was at anchor. The captain always seemed to have something for his men to do, from tallowing the mast, wetting the planks or coiling rope. The passengers had retired, which was good since Nevara had no wish to converse.

  The second mate, passing nearby, stopped to introduce himself as John Small. He gave her a tentative smile and then pointed to a few rowboats heading toward the Magdalena. “The captain intends to sail on the morrow so the crew was called back. He expects the tide and wind to be favorable by daybreak.”

  Nevara nodded, and he moved on. She smiled, wondering if Lord Terrance’s persuasion had affected the captain’s prediction of the morning weather. Either way, it was good news. So why was she not rejoicing?

  She sighed, her thoughts invariably turning to Mark. Did he sense that she was about to leave London? She leaned against the railing and stared at the water lapping against the ship’s side.

  Miguel once told her that Mark drove carriages like a demon, that racing was one of his passions. Afterwards, she used to dream of Mark taking her on one of his mad rides.

  Impatiently, she turned her back to the railing. Mark would not waste a moment thinking about her while she was gone. Or would he? Her mind was awhirl with unanswerable questions. The returning crew began to noisily embark onto the vessel, giving her curious looks, so Nevara returned to her cabin to rest.

  Surprisingly, she fell asleep quickly and slept late. When she awoke, it was with a determination to convince Mark to await her return. After all, what if she was away for longer than six months? If he was to marry during her absence, any success she might achieve in Spain would have been for naught.

  The cabin was bright, suggesting it was well past daybreak. Mendal was absent, so she must have already left to assist Belle. Remembering John Small’s warning that they would leave today, she quickly dressed and sat at the table to pen her note. She confessed that she cared deeply for him and hoped that he returned her feelings. She was sealing her letter as the maid returned.

  “Mendal, will you do me a favor?”

  “What is it, miss?”

  “Will you accompany me while I take this letter to shore? Quickly, so we can return before the ship sets sail.”

  “Oh, miss, then I would have to climb down that ladder again. But thank the Lord, it cannot be done. Have you not noticed? We have already set sail.”

  “Oh, no!” Nevara ran to the porthole and looked out. New Wapping was no long in sight. They had indeed left port. Utter disappointment sank in, leaving her cold and shivering.

  The maid picked up her letter. “Could we not mail this at one of our other stops?”

  Nevara swallowed her regret and nodded. The maid then said that the Terrances had requested Nevara to join them on the main deck. Despondent, Nevara went up with her.

  Passengers crowded the railings to wave to loved ones, calling out their farewells. Above, sea birds were diving at the sails, calling out as if they too were wishing them goodbye. She lifted her face, reveling in the sharp wind. It whipped at the sails as briskly as it did her gown, pulling askew her neatly combed and tucked hair, making her wish to appear tidy and reserved, a fool’s quest aboard a sailing vessel.

  Belle waved cheerily to her from beside her husband. “Fine morning, is it not?”

  “It is indeed.” How could she disagree with so much exhilaration in the air?

  Mendal was quietly praying for a safe voyage.

  Nevara gazed across the water, resigned to having missed her chance to communicate with Mark.

  Lord Terrance pointed to ships lining the river. “That giant in the distance is a collier, Miss Wood. It is used to transport coal between ports.”

  The collier sailed alongside smaller fishing crafts. Little wherries glided by, light long rowboats transporting passengers and goods to the docks. This intermingling of multi-sized vessels presented an enchanting sight. Nevara’s disappointment at not reaching Mark was juxtaposed by her excitement at finally leaving London. She was on her way to Spain.

  They passed London Tower at a graceful speed and soon afterward, the Royal Hospital at Greenwich. The view from the riverside gave Nevara an entirely new prospect. As anxious as she was to proceed with her journey, she would miss London. And Mark.

  Mendal seemed less enthused by the scenery and said she felt unwell. Still clutching Nevara’s letter, she said she wished to return below. Belle absently nodded.

  The maid’s sudden exclamation of surprise startled both her employers and Nevara. All three turned and found Mark Alvaro standing in front of Mendal. With one hand gripping the rigging and the other planted firmly on his odd looking walking stick, he observed them in silence.

  Nevara’s chest sank as if weighed down by an anchor. His great black cape billowed in the wind, revealing a brilliant chartreuse lining. Beneath the cape, he had on a bottle green coat over a cream waistcoat, white shirt and beige-colored pantaloons that outlined every muscle of his long lean limbs. Polished Hessians completed the magnificent picture he presented. The wind whipped his dark hair about his face, and his brooding gaze was transfixed on Nevara.

  When had he come aboard? If he planned to ensure she disembarked at the next port, she would not go.

  Mendal looked from Mark to Nevara to the letter in her hand. She took a tentative step toward Mark, missive extended. Nevara ran up to her and snatched the letter, then hid it behind her back.

  Mark lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.

  A blush heated her cheeks. The letter had seemed a good idea when she thought he would be reading it while she was half way across the Atlantic. She could not possibly give it to him now, not when they were face-to-face.

  “Mr. Alvaro,” Belle said, breaking the awkward silence. “How pleased we are to see you and not a little surprised. What brings you here?”

  Mark’s gaze swerved to the lady and then to her husband. He made a creditable bow despite the rocking of the vessel. “Good morning, my lord, Lady Terrance.” He then trained his somber gaze on Nevara.

  She swallowed the lump choking her throat, but lifted her chin, prepared to resist any persuasion to end her journey.
r />   “I am here,” he said, “to accompany Nevara to Spain.”

  MARK’S HANDS WENT clammy as he waited for Nevara’s reaction to his news.

  Behind her spectacles, her brown eyes widened. For a moment, she seemed glad to see him, but that was unlikely. He had left behind his hopes of winning her affections when he boarded this vessel. It was best to focus on his remaining goal—to guard Nevara while on this sea journey. Once they arrived in Spain, he would have to see how useful he could be without his magic to help him protect her.

  Lady Terrance stepped forward, catching his attention, her gaze approving. “Would you join us in our cabin for dinner this evening, sir? Nevara will be dining with us, as well.”

  Mark accepted, a little surprised by the invitation. He had wondered if the Terrances would be as opposed to him as the Joneses were. This journey would be less oppressive if he had a chance to spend time with Nevara.

  The Terrances retired and Nevara, accompanied by a maid, hurried below as if she was afraid to be alone with him.

  His loneliness at her departure was acute but not as sharp as it had been while he was in London. That change alone made it worthwhile coming aboard. Mark had never left England before. He had never wished to. Yet, he now journeyed toward his family’s homeland from which the Alvaros had been exiled for centuries. Somewhere, deep inside him, curiosity stirred, and a yearning surfaced to see the land where his ancestors had once lived and loved. Had Miguel felt this same sense of longing as his naval vessel set sail?

  This was a bittersweet departure. Mark’s only remaining family was his aged grandmother. If he were to die in his ancestral homeland, as had all the male members of his family, their family line would end with Mark. So it was appropriate that his family obligation ended where it began. In Spain. With that philosophical thought to keep him company, he rested on his staff as the Magdalena sailed along London’s twisting coastline and carried him out to sea.

  THE NEXT FEW days passed in relative calm as they left Essex and skimmed along the Kentish coast. They passed Sheppy and rounded the Island of Thanet. The winds stayed in their favor as they passed Hastings and Eastbourne.

  Mark spent his days seated on deck enjoying the scenery, idly watching sailors work and silently practicing the words and rhythm of chants. His evenings were taken up with dinner with the Terrances and Nevara and occasionally, the Magdalena’s captain. At night, while alone in his cabin, he recited his incantations and trained his focus so it could not be easily shaken.

  Since the energy he normally absorbed to cast his spells was derived from wind, his source of power was uninterrupted as the breeze easily followed him from land to sea. Constantly practicing and rehearsing his spells still drained him. He was on deck one morning, staring out to sea, when a wave washed over the side. He reared back, hand instinctively raised to protect his face. The water flowed around him without a droplet touching his skin.

  Mark marveled at his ability to use his power with such ease. He was becoming proficient at his craft, casting spells almost instinctively. Miguel would have envied such a natural use of magic.

  His brother had practiced and practiced for years and achieved only a sliver of what Mark could now do with barely a thought. Yet, once Mark’s feet touched Spain, all of his vast learned talent would be lost, just as Miguel would have been stripped of his ability to magically defend himself.

  The first mate strode by. “Best get below stairs, sir. The weather grows worse.”

  The wind was picking up.

  “I will, soon.” Once the sailor left, Mark shifted his feet apart and using his staff to steady himself against the rocking of the vessel, he reached out to the swirling wind whipping at the sails high above him. It answered with a friendly flick and almost knocked him off his feet. Chuckling at that playful tap, he took a deep steadying breath, planted his feet firmly on the boards, and reached out again. This time he narrowed his focus and allowed barely a trickle of the wind’s power to sweep into him. He felt it swell within him like a powerful water spout.

  In the days that followed, Mark carried on his practice but since his expertise was expanding and consequently the complexity of his spells, he stayed within his cabin, using an open porthole to access the wind. He channeled his power to speed the vessel forward, practiced sweeping the wind among the sails and gently steering the ship so no one would be aware of his manipulation of the breeze that kept them sailing steadily onward.

  All those onboard the Magdalena remained unaware of his magical exercises. He, on the other hand, was greatly impacted by his work, for as his skill improved, his hunger rose in equal proportion to the energy he expended. The meals onboard were barely enough to sustain him. His grumbles about the fare’s quality and quantity often sent the cook into a rage in the kitchens that sailors said could be heard from the topsails.

  In a way, his skilled work proved to be counter-productive to his gastronomical satisfaction. With the wind constantly high in their favor, the captain pushed on in his zeal to reach Spain within four weeks instead of stopping to refresh stores. Once they passed Worthing and the Isle of Wight, the sky turned cloudy and let loose a torrent of rain. While the ladies worked on adjusting to the vessel’s constant pitching, Lord Terrance and Mark established a routine of playing cards each evening in Mark’s cabin.

  One night, the captain joined them in their game. After sitting, the officer informed them that they were traveling into a gale. “The sea’s already washing over the whole forward part of the vessel,” he said in his glum manner. “Feel that pounding? It is the bow beating against the waves.”

  Overhead, the watch trampled about the decks and sang out at the ropes. Then came a “bang, bang, bang” on the scuttle, and the call, “All hands, reef topsails, ahoy!”

  The captain left to check on his men. They did not see him again until the next evening when he stopped to say, “The wind’s blowing like scissors and thumb-screws this night, sirs. You had best hang on tight.”

  The constant rocking motion kept the women sequestered in their cabins with illness. Mark sent over a bottled concoction of ginger, dandelion, black horehound and other herbs his grandmother had given him for the voyage.

  The poor quality of food from the galley did not help. With fresh stores having dwindled after two weeks at sea, they were reduced to nothing but salt beef and pork. On the Sabbath, the cook provided everyone with what he called a luxury -a pudding called “duff,” which was no more than flour boiled with water and eaten with molasses. Mark found it heavy, dark, and disgusting. He put up with the poor fare because he refused to waste any energy to spell himself a better meal when every ounce of his magic might be needed later to defend Nevara.

  His consequent bemoaning about the meals inevitably set the captain on a rant about the pitiful sum Mark had paid him for his passage and the weight of trouble he had brought by his constant lamenting about conditions on board.

  Terrance seemed to take pleasure in these little altercations, doing a bad job of hiding his grins.

  Mark settled in for yet another game of Piquet with his lordship. Feeling in a foul mood after another disagreeable meal, he suggested they raise the stakes and pointed to Earnest, who wagged his tail. “If I win, he is mine.”

  Terrance’s eyebrows shot up.

  Mark hid his pleasure. Finally, he had gained the upper hand on the earl. Not that he really would take the dog. The threat was enough.

  “My grandmother has been at me to get a pet,” Mark said. Although, a familiar was what she actually had in mind. But this conversation was more about rankling the earl than acquiring an actual familiar. “Earnest has shown himself to be well behaved.”

  “What do I get if I win?” his opponent asked with a frown. “I wager you have nothing of equal value to my dog!”

  “I have a William Blake landscape you might like.”


  Terrance’s eyes widened with interest, but then he shook his head and laughed. “Ah, but you have insisted that you have little hope of returning to London alive after this perilous journey, Alvaro, so you would hardly consider the loss of your painting painful.”

  “You are wrong, my lord, for I value my art collection as highly as you do your hound.” Mark dealt and placed eight cards that were left over as a talon, face down in the middle. “If I win, I shall only be richer by one scraggly Irish wolfhound while you would own my prized watercolor, one I spent months acquiring.”

  Terrance shook his head. “I cannot wager Earnest. Not unless I wish to swim to Spain after my wife tosses me overboard. She is partial to the pup.” He ruffled the dog’s ears.

  The image of the petite Lady Terrance tossing her large husband overboard was vastly amusing. Though, from the affectionate glances his opponent now bestowed upon his dog. Mark suspected that Lord Terrance refused to wager Earnest not because of his wife’s partiality, but his own.

  Mark graciously released the earl from the bet and they wagered on horses instead, each to relinquish the one they cherished most. Mark played his hand, quietly impressed by the healthy regard his lordship held for his wife.

  “My lord,” Mark said, “if I may be so bold as to ask, why did you agree to come on this journey?”

  Terrance examined his cards as if he had not heard the question. “Carte blanche.” Indicating he had no court cards, he then discarded five others.

  Mark began to doubt his lordship would ever answer him, when the earl spoke. “There was a time when I discounted Belle’s visions. I almost lost my home and my family to a fire as a result. Now, wherever her visions lead her, I follow.”

  “Lady Terrance foresaw the fire?”