“Well, unless one uses a dildo...”
She hit me in the head with a balled cloth.
Gaston was still in the doorway, leaning oddly on the door. Despite his fine spirits, he seemed suddenly ill at ease. I awarded him a questioning look. Then I saw his erection: the one he was trying to hide from Agnes by staying behind the door. I did not blame him: the thought of the two of them writhing about on the bed—and the remembered smell of a woman in the heat of sex—had stirred my member too.
I stood and snatched the syringe from him and showed it to Agnes. My matelot was no fool, he used my distraction to drop onto the bed and roll on his side with the bedding strategically bunched before him.
“This is a syringe,” I told Agnes, and then demonstrated its working with water from the basin.
She was quite interested, but obviously at a loss as to why I felt the need to tell her about it here and now.
“It can suck up any liquid in the tube,” I said. “Such as jism… And then deliver it with a squirt.”
She frowned, but then her eyes widened with understanding.
“Yvette can deliver seed to your womb without us,” Gaston said – apparently more relaxed now. “Or you could do it yourself.”
“That is wonderful,” she said quietly.
“We hoped you would like it,” I said.
“I would like the next child to be Will’s,” Gaston said carefully. “If it pleases you.”
She frowned but for a moment and then she looked from one to the other of us and nodded. “I think that a fine thing.”
“We will be one family,” Gaston said with great happiness and relief.
I smiled with them, but I had dark thoughts: few things came so easily or simply to us. Gaston and I had worked very hard to become a well-matched team—very hard indeed—and would not trial and perseverance of that degree be required for Yvette and Agnes to have a fine marriage that would stand the tests of time; or for us to have a fine stable relationship with them? Were we to be four horses hitched to one dray, or would we be two teams and two carts attempting to pull the same load of children through the world? However was that to work? I did not wish to share my marriage with any other; and I knew without doubt that Agnes and Yvette were not truly a team: that would be a long time in coming. I was not sure if it would have been worse to have our children gotten upon two women who were not involved with one another, or with these two who were. Sadly, I wished for Agnes to be the mother of our children and nothing else. And I knew how very unfair that was. She deserved happiness. I once again cursed my inability to give Gaston children—or, for that matter, his ability to produce his own.
We would have to see how it all played out over time. Though I saw hardships ahead, I saw nothing to fear of the magnitude necessary to make me voice my protests and concerns and thus change our course. I resolved to have faith in the Gods.
Ninety-Four
Wherein We Frolic in the Face of Fear
My concerns seemed unfounded as one pleasant day passed into the next in our new home. Gaston settled into the role of Île de la Tortue’s physician, and soon had patients from all over the small island. We heard tales that some needed much coaxing: they had heard he was mad. Still, they came in the end, and Gaston treated them with decorum and prowess until it seemed none doubted his sanity or ability.
My days were spent frolicking. I quickly settled into the role of a careless colt. I assisted my matelot, I played with babies, I read great books, and I let my cares drift away on the evening breeze.
We spent the first part of any night sitting about laughing and drinking with our cabal until many of them sailed to the northern colonies of Virginia and Carolina to engage in honest trade. We teased one another a great deal about this honest and legal lifestyle we had adopted, but all thought it was for the best.
We had discussed the trading journeys from the first, but everyone had harbored concerns that my father might have men set to report the presence of our ship and disrupt our business ventures as he had on Jamaica. We also worried that without the ship, it would be difficult for us to escape if the need arose. After much discussion—much of it patient reiteration of my thoughts about what my father would and would not do quickly if at all—it was finally decided that they should indeed go; because there was truly little they could do if my father sent an army.
The only remaining concern was the recognition of our ship and fellows. Cudro and the Bard could easily secure papers attesting to their being French and the like, but the Queen was known. Thus we decided to rename the Virgin Queen the Magdalene. And to further her disguise, Gaston and I paid for the Bard to do a thing he had long wished, and our ship was brought into Cayonne’s harbor and her forward square-rigged mast was given another fore-and-aft rig so that she ceased being a brigantine and became a schooner.
They sailed in the middle of February. We expected them to return before we could possibly hear any important news from France. Gaston and I wished for Striker to go with them; but everyone decided Pete and a one-armed man would be too easy to recognize: and Striker refused to go. Pete was obviously torn, but in the end he said he was not interested in such legal activity.
We were not sure if he simply did not wish to leave his matelot: and matelots they still were. For all his anger, Pete was ever there to drag his man home; and for all his drunkenness, Striker seemed ever truly appreciative. We continued to see them almost every night after the others sailed. Gaston and I said nothing to either of them about their troubles; and truly, my frolicking Horse simply wished the matter would go away of its own accord.
As for the rest, we settled into a happy routine. Agnes and I were married in a happy ceremony, and then every day after, Gaston and I provided Agnes with a little cup of my jism. We were not surprised or disappointed when my seed did not take. We were not sure if it ever would—using this method. It was entirely possible it offended the Gods. As the collection of it was always a pleasurable event on my part, I cared not one way or the other.
Yvette and Agnes appeared to get on well enough—so well that I occasionally worried someone else would see their affection for what it was. If anyone did, they made no remark of it to me.
Everyone else was happy—save Doucette and Rachel. He scurried and swayed about in the shadows, casting baleful glares in my direction and watching Gaston with hungry eyes. He did not seem prone to engage in any of the horrendous behaviors Liam had told me of, though. I kept a wary eye on him anyway.
Rachel appeared to be suffering a great deal with this pregnancy. She was always tired and grouchy, and fearful that some evil would befall the child after losing the last one. Gaston inquired of her health often; and was always told she was well enough. I stayed away from her.
We watched the little spy boys for a time. I quickly learned they did indeed report to Father Pierre. Thus they were no bother to Gaston and me, but we did have Yvette and Agnes to protect. I had two of the boys sent away—sold actually, to my chagrin and shame. I would not have been party to it if they had been the children of any of Yvette’s servants, but they were foundlings dropped on Doucette’s doorstep. Yvette secured positions for them as house boys at a plantation on the other end of the island. This change brought the remaining two younger ones handily in line. I do not believe they understood they would be gotten rid of if they posed a threat; nay, I feel they merely began to perceive their carefree existences might soon be at an end and therefore they chose to fill their days with more enjoyable boyhood pursuits than skulking about the house. We soon saw very little of them.
I began to grow restless as February approached its end. We had been in Cayonne for two months. All was pleasant and looked to remain that way. Though we might receive a response to the letter Theodore had sent before we arrived, it would be several more months before we could hope to hear from the Marquis concerning Gaston’s letter to him about the marriage to Christine. We had occasionally discussed how we would go about ascertaining the other information I fe
lt we needed before we could act on the matter of my father. However, we were now hampered in that endeavor by not wishing to reveal our location. It was entirely possible that every vessel leaving Cayonne sailed directly to some other port and reported of our being in Île de la Tortue, but it was equally possible that none did. We decided not to tip our hand in regard to Modyford—and eventually my father—by seeking information from Morgan and thus admitting we were alive and well and living on a neighboring island.
With nothing to do, and few concerns I could act upon, I began to seek a diversion. I settled upon finally resolving the one problem plaguing Gaston and me in our new home—our lack of privacy. True, we had a room we were satisfied with, but it shared a wall with Rucker and Bones, and the shutters between it and the atrium did no more to block sound than they blocked the breeze. We loved quietly, and there had been no Horseplay beyond the occasional lucky times we found ourselves alone in the surgery. I now wished to acquire the retreat we had discussed that day in the market. And, with Gaston’s birthday rapidly approaching in the first weeks of March, I threw myself into the new task with enthusiasm.
I also recalled we had discussed riding. Truly, I had thought about it on many a day in the past two months. Even before I had a place to keep a horse, I decided a mount would aid my search: I might have to travel the length and breadth of the island to find our retreat.
After several days of asking everyone we knew—beyond our household—about available land and horses, I came to learn that unwanted horses were a scarce commodity on Île de la Tortue, and acreage for sale was rarer still. The blacksmith told me the best way to secure either was to walk about with a large purse and make offers on anything that struck my fancy—and pray the owner was drunk. I was also told I should be thankful I was not seeking a woman. I found great amusement in that, and did not tell him I already had more of those then I ever wanted.
I spent the day after that wandering about town asking every horse owner I saw if his animal was for sale. Two men offered to fetch me some of the wild ponies the Spaniards had left on the Haiti, but they admitted it might take months.
I wished we could find some way of retrieving our lovely geldings, Diablo and Francis from their carefree existence on Jamaica, but that would be impossible. They were as lost to us as Negril. I prayed no one would recall they were ours, and they would be allowed to while away their days in idle contentment.
I went home dejected to find my matelot treating yet another older man for gout. Sadly, that ailment seemed to be in fine supply. Buccaneers were not fat, and on only rare occasion became afflicted with gout. This patient, like many others Gaston had been surprised to find on Île de la Tortue, was not a former buccaneer, however. He was either a former merchant ship’s officer or an actual French colonist. We did not like such men: they minded us of the fat English plantation owners on Jamaica. Though French, and thus not prone to wearing wool, they were otherwise much the same, in that every thought in their head seemed to revolve around profit and their comfort and ease.
“Lord Montren, thank you, thank you,” the man gushed as my matelot finished wrapping the foot. “Since you have begun treating me I hardly feel it at all. However can I repay you?”
“You would not happen to have a horse?” I asked without thinking, and immediately regretted it as Gaston regarded me quizzically. I had not told my man of my quest for his birthday gift or anything associated with it.
“You have need of a horse, Lord Montren?” the man asked with surprise.
Gaston awarded me a knowing smile and turned back to his patient. “Oui. I wish to do some riding.”
I stifled a sigh and regarded the man with hope. Even if the horse were known, I could at least keep my search for land a secret if I did not continue to be an idiot.
“I have a horse,” the man said. “Not much of a horse. He was a good worker in his day, back when I had land. But now that I’ve moved to town, all he does is eat more than the mules. I’ve been thinking of butchering him. He’s fat enough, and he doesn’t have many years left.”
My matelot’s face slid into the amiable smile that he used when dealing with disagreeable patients. I always found it surprising. It was as odd to his person as the fine linen shirt and breeches he had taken to wearing; and very much a part of his new professional mask. I was proud of him for being able to don it, though. There had been a day when we had never thought his Horse would stand for treating fat old men for gout. And my Horse did not dislike it: it seemed I saw it for what it was; not a change in his character, but merely a form of disguise that allowed him to do as he needed in this place.
“I would be willing to take the animal in payment for the rest of your treatment,” Gaston said.
The man was pleased and astounded. “My lord, then I will have received a bargain. I think the animal eats more than I’ve paid you.” Then he frowned with a tinge of guilt. “He was never a riding animal. He’s a big animal bred for the plow.”
“I think we can find some use for him,” Gaston said pleasantly but firmly.
“I’ll have a boy bring him around,” the man said.
Gaston shook his head. “Non, Will can fetch him.”
As the man hobbled out the door on his crutches, my matelot pulled me aside and whispered in English, “Go rescue the poor creature.”
I grinned and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”
The man did not attempt to make conversation as we wound our way to his house on the other side of town. One reason was that maneuvering his bulk about on crutches left him very little breath to speak; and for another, I had somehow slipped into a position of unimportance here on Île de la Tortue. I was not viewed by Gaston’s wealthy patients as his servant, but I was apparently not perceived as his equal, either. I found it did not bother me; as it had never troubled me when I assumed such a role around the powerful friends I had shadowed in Christendom. I preferred this anonymity.
We at last stood before a small paddock with two mules, a donkey, and a dirty-gray, fat, old, swaybacked gelding the size of a destrier. He was surely eighteen hands, with ribs as round as a hogshead. He stood between the other animals and the hay, chewing a mouthful of the same, regarding his owner and me with the resigned mien of a horse who knows the men eying him will be troublesome yet there is nothing he can do about it. I have loved some horses upon first seeing them: I did not feel that grand emotion for this creature, but I did feel great fondness and admiration.
“He’s called Pomme,” the man said and shrugged as if the name were a curiosity.
“Then Pomme it is,” I said pleasantly, though I could not understand why someone would call a horse of this nature an apple, either.
I entered the paddock and took a length of halter rope from the peg on the shed and approached my new steed. He considered me and twitched his tail as I looped the rope over his head. His withers were taller than my head. I felt no threat from him, but as large as he was, if he wished to cause a fuss he would be dangerous. He merely eyed the feed one last time and sighed as I led him away.
“Good riddance,” his former owner said as we passed him.
“Truer words could not be spoken,” I mumbled in English as I glanced back at the gout-ridden merchant. Pomme seemed to snort his agreement.
All the feed the mighty Pomme would surely eat in a year was worth the expression on my matelot’s face when he beheld the beast.
“He is huge,” Gaston said with wonder.
“Oui, and not all of it is fat,” I remarked with a grin.
“Is he as old as he looks?” my man asked and stroked the misty-grey muzzle.
As the rest of the animal was the same color, it was no indication of his age. I raised Pomme’s head and examined his well-worn teeth. “Oui, he is old.”
“Can he be ridden?”
I sighed and got a handful of mane and vaulted onto the wide back. Pomme sighed and shifted his bulk to his right rear leg. I regarded my splayed legs and comfortable crotch
—not a thing I was accustomed to when riding bareback—and chuckled. “A man could nap up here. He is as comfortable as a well-stuffed settee.”
“And as prone to movement,” Gaston noted.
I laughed. I laughed harder still when drumming my heels on the beast’s fat sides produced no reaction. When my amusement passed a little, I clucked and was rewarded with a pair of swiveled ears. “Come now, Pomme, let us stable you,” I said and flicked the halter rope. He took a step forward and I continued to cluck encouragement.
Gaston walked alongside as we headed for the alley and the entrance to the yard. “Pomme?”
“His former owner said it is his name.”
“I wonder who named him,” Gaston mused. “I doubt it was that man. He does not seem the type to name horses.”
We made our leisurely way into the yard and quickly attracted the attention of everyone in the atrium. Pomme—to my pleasure—reacted not one whit to being surrounded by loud, strange people and dogs.
After I explained that he was our new horse, Liam lifted Pomme’s lip and shook his head with incredulity. “Damn, Will, what’re ya goin’ ta do with this old nag, feed ’im every bale o’ hay in town ’til he dies?”
“I intend to ride him until he becomes a bit trimmer. He has a comfortable back.”
“We could always eat him,” Henrietta said. “Or feed him to the dogs.”
I glared at her.
Her husband leaped to her defense. “Will,” he protested. “The damn dogs already eat us out o’ ’ouse and home.”
“Then it is lucky for everyone we are wealthy,” I said and dismounted Pomme to lead him into the paddock.
“True, true,” Liam said good-naturedly, but an icy breeze had blown over the assembly.
I did not regret my words. We fed all of them, and I thought it best they remember that from time to time.
I turned my back on them and rummaged about in the tack box to see if there were any grooming implements. Doucette had only owned a mule, and I doubt any attempt had been made to groom it. To my surprise, I found a curry brush. When I turned back to Pomme, I found our audience had wandered off—except for Gaston.
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