The Windflower

by Laura London

  Merry had never been told that she was close to death. In consequence she couldn’t understand why her visitors were jubilant. And if anyone knew why it was three days before Devon came to visit her, they didn’t see fit to reveal the reason to her. It would be a long time before she learned that Devon had spent those lost days fighting the heavy throes of arsenic intoxification.

  St. Elise was a verdant saucer of land that belled upward in plump prosperity from the foaming tropical surf. Coffee and cocoa for export grew in a sheltered central valley, and here and there parcels of cleared earth held plantings of indigo that supported in plenty the nearly fifty families who made the island their home. Beyond the happy traces of civilization were magnificent unspoiled forests where butterflies flickered on blue iridescent wings and spring-fed brooks gurgled, tumbling bright pebbles beneath their warm crystal water.

  Recuperation for Merry on St. Elise was a time of long afternoon naps and excellent meals from Morgan’s chef, a young German who had apprenticed in Napoleon’s kitchens at Malmaison. The villa itself was not a large one for its type, but it was beautifully made after the Spanish style and furnished with a discreet elegance that would have camouflaged to even a perceptive visitor that its owner was a pirate. Trying to find a clue from looking around here to Morgan’s personality, or to Devon’s, was more confusing than it was enlightening.

  The only unpleasant surprise had been Merry’s discovery that in her heart she had begun to hope Devon’s tender care of her had been prompted by an emotion more profound than an active sense of guilt. Foolish beyond permission was the only way to describe that yearning, the more so because Devon had not tried to be alone with her since they had come to the island. If anything, it seemed he had made an effort to do the opposite. By now she must surely have learned how dangerous it was to care too much what Devon felt for her; how many times would she need to have that painful lesson repeated? What she must do was remake her feelings into a wary friendship and not agonize over things that were not likely to be. There was some comfort in knowing if it ever became more than she was able to control, she could discuss it with Cat—comfort, but not a cure.

  The Black Joke had sailed, Tom Valentine in command. Rand Morgan had remained at the villa with a small number of the crew, including Raven, which meant there was a steady parade to her door of dripping buckets filled with sea creatures, of shells and starfish and snails as big as punch cups.

  Quiet moments were spent with Annie, speaking in gestures and smiles. Not the least fascinating thing about Annie was that she was married to Cook, six years her junior, and if they shared a single trait, Merry was not able to discern what it was. In spite of that they appeared to love each other, which had a special interest for Merry because she had observed few such relationships in her life. It was not hard to understand how anyone, man or woman, could love Annie, with her easy dignity and intelligence; it was a little harder to imagine what Cook could offer her until Merry remembered that on the Joke the kitchens had been a retreat for her. There was an iron will and a kind of canny astringency about Annie’s tough young husband that could be sustaining.

  But he was from the fourth generation of a family of pirates, and that affected his every attitude. The little Annie would reveal about Cook’s early treatment of her had produced in Merry an awed respect for the Indian girl’s courage, as well as a belated thankfulness that her own advent on the Joke had been under Devon’s protection. When Cook bought Annie, he was too young and had been too roughly reared to make even primitive concessions toward lightening her suffering and fear. He would never have beaten her, and if he had been able to speak in her language, he might have tried to reassure her, but as things had stood, it hadn’t occurred to him that it was wrong to use force on her as long as it was done without excessive brutality; and because he had not grown up around men who bothered to conduct their intimate relations with women in privacy, he had not done that either. Raven had been appalled and Sails gently chiding, but since the two of them, even together, had been no match for Cook, in the end it had been Cat who, after three days of listening to Annie’s weeping, had taken her away from Cook with the admonition that if he wanted his plaything back, he would have to learn to take better care of her. So Cook had been forced to listen to Raven’s advice and to Sails’s, and if the kindnesses Cook had shown Annie in order to appease Cat had been delivered sarcastically in the beginning, in time his own basic kindliness and Annie’s charm had begun to knit them, man to woman, in an alliance that had more to it than fleshly unions. As Cook had said rather glumly to Morgan a month later, “There’s more to love than two pelvises in a tussle.”

  It had become one of Morgan’s favorite quotations. In fact, in the weeks afterward Morgan had only to utter the words “As young Cook says…” to wring groans from his auditors.

  The air outside Merry’s window was warm and genial, and as soon as she was well enough to sit up, they carried her out to rest in Morgan’s terraced garden. The villa sprawled behind with its fretwork decorations and wooden porches. Sunlight spilled upon the bright shingled roof and bounced like a sprite through the fountain spray and on the well-raked walks of crushed limestone. Scarlet lilies startled the eye from shady corners, and iron frames dripped twining branches heavy with lavender blossoms. Raven put it rather well. “Neat,” he had said to her on her first morning outside, “as the Pope’s toothpick. Do you want sun or shade?”

  He had been settling her on a Chinese Chippendale bench in the early sunlight when Morgan brought her the sketchbook. Her initial reaction was cold terror. How did he know she could draw? But if Rand Morgan’s dark, thorough eyes had seen the color leave her cheeks, he hid it under a facile smile that was hard to interpret. Instinct warned her not to disclose her distinctive talent, but the pleasure of having a pencil in hand after so long had by midmorning made instinct seem akin to superstition. She received a tremendous and genuine response to the charcoal drawing she did that morning of Raven, and the charm of that made it impossible to stop. Much later she would remember that praise was the flat plane of a quick-edged sword.

  Strong and healthy some weeks after that, Merry sat under one of a lovely avenue of shaddock trees, on a blanket in the grass. Beside her Raven was stretched out with a book propped open on his bare chest and his head on the pork belly of Dennis the pig. Cook and Saunders lounged nearby. Annie lay curled on her side, her arching toes against Raven’s hip and her head pillowed on her husband’s thigh, her sable hair coiled between his legs. He was lifting it and letting it fall as he frowned over the copybook in his hand, his short freckled nose wrinkled slightly in perplexed disgust.

  Raven and Cook were studying, a routine that Morgan had instigated in their earliest days on the Joke, although no one was quite sure if the lessons were intended to promote their education or to test the patience of Will Saunders, who was supposed to be their teacher. Both Cook and Raven were quick learners, but that made them no easier to instruct. Raven’s attention span for passive activity was notably abbreviated, and Cook had a tendency to dispute everything. If he was told that e followed i, save after c, it was woe betide Will Saunders if Cook found an exception later that Saunders had forgotten. Just now Cook was saying, “What kind of a problem is this, Saunders?” Glaring at the book, he read aloud: ‘The stagecoach is drawn by four pairs of horses. How many horses are two horses and two horses and two horses and two horses? How many horses are four times two horses?’ He tossed down the book, spine upward on the grass. Then he said, “How in the name of Jesus should I know? I don’t know a damn thing about horses.”

  Saunders was lying on the grass with his heels crossed and a wide-brimmed hat covering his face. From under the hat, “The question doesn’t have a damn thing to do with horses, matey, and you know it.”

  “Well, Jeez.” Cook began to warm to the subject. “Bloody thing’s so easy that there must be a trick to it.”

  “What’s the answer?” Saunders showed no disposition to em
erge from under the hat.

  “I refuse,” Cook said, brightening at the incipient argument. “Damn, it’s too easy. I’ll be blast if it ain’t an insult to my intelligence.”

  Moving with reluctance, Saunders pushed off the hat and sat up. “You’ve got tongue enough for two sets of teeth,” he said irritably. Glancing at the book on the grass by Cook’s knees, he said, “Well, for the love of Jesus, you’ve brought out the wrong book. Is that what you’ve been looking at for the last hour? You went through that book in three days nine months ago, as you are more than well aware.”

  To Merry, who had halted in her drawing of Cat and begun to giggle, Saunders delivered a reproachful glance, said, “Don’t encourage him,” and vanished again under the hat.

  The shaddocks were hung with cannonballs of golden fruit, and ducking through them, Devon glimpsed Merry in an innocent moment, the residue of that earlier laughter still bright, her exquisite cheeks dappled with skipping sunlight that wove through the sheltering leaves. Her soft brushed curls haloed her smile and licked in airy tendrils against the fine-boned hollows under her ears and near the base of her jawline. Dainty, drifting shadows beaded the shell-pink fibers of her gown. Annie had made the dress for her from a simple pattern carefully cut of Flanders muslin that cupped Merry’s sweetly rounded breasts and showed, in faint depressions, the honey-soft line of the hips and the curved surfaces between her tucked legs. Desire came to Devon in a light sting that brought with it the lucent memory of her flesh pliant against his fingers and the breathtaking arch of her breasts under his palm.

  Cat was seated on a low stone wall stringing his mandolin and posing with not very good grace for Merry’s dexterously wielded pencil. Spanish jasmine, growing to one side, suffused the air with its fragrance, and an inch from the toe of his high boots was a tiny hummingbird moving beelike in a vibration of gold and green feathers as its beak plunged repeatedly into the corolla of a nodding honeysuckle. There were, Devon noted, a lot of things to distract Cat, but the long-haired boy’s fierce early years had given him an unerring sensitivity to human realities. From Cat’s expression, focused with candid clarity on Devon’s eyes, Devon knew that Cat had seen him looking at Merry, and Devon wondered idly what his own face had shown. Probably the inbreaths of hydrogen.

  Devon stepped forward as Merry glanced skyward toward the wild golden-toned twitter of a bird which darted across the stretching band of a sunbeam. Pointing, asking what kind of bird it was, she upset her ivory pencil box, which had been unwisely balanced on the pig’s rump. Trotters flailing, the pig scrambled to its feet, dunking Raven’s head on the blanket to receive a haphazard shower of rolling pencils.

  Merry was on her knees immediately, laughing in dismayed apology, pulling pencils out of Raven’s loose waving curls, dusting graphite powder and cedar shavings from his bare skin. Retrieving an erasing rubber from under his ear, she said, “I’m dreadfully sorry. What a stupid thing!” Seeing that the pig had retreated in umbrage to Cat: “And poor Dennis. But does anyone happen to know what kind of a—” Suddenly Merry fell silent. Poised as she was, half leaning over Raven with her chest a handspan from his, the boy under her could not move unless he wanted to contact that wonderful feminine body, which was not a good idea with circumstances as they were. Tilting his neck to look up and backward, he was able to see, as he had guessed, that Devon had come, and that Merry was staring at him. It was amazing to Raven, as it was to the others, that Devon had begun to avoid Merry, especially when one thought of the risk he had taken with his own life to save her. For an unknown reason Devon had forbidden them to tell Merry about it. Was it that same enigmatic motive that had made the man behave toward her like a remote if friendly acquaintance since she had reawakened from the coma? The only certain thing about any of it was the hurt it was causing Merry. Damn. Why couldn’t anyone seem to solve it? Raven glanced up once at Merry and then tipped back to smile lazily into Devon’s receptive gaze.

  “See the fun you miss by spending half the morning closeted with Morgan in the study?” Raven said, stomping with unabashed verbiage through the embarrassing intimacy of the moment. “It’s taking Merry forever to draw Cat’s picture because all she wants to do is look at birds. Now she’s overset her pencils over some weightless bit of feather and bone, and God knows what it is, mon. We keep telling her we’re only good with pigs.”

  Merry had gratefully used the time Raven made to recover. Straight-shouldered, she settled sensibly on her heels, her smudged fingers laid flat on her lap, and strove for a natural expression of welcome.

  “It was a swallow,” Devon said, smiling at her. “Latin name: Hirundo poeciloma.”

  Eyeing Devon with disfavor, Cook said, “God’s sake. Even the Latin. You’d think this was a bloody university.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cat said, tuning his E string. “He’s a fake. He only learns the common ones. If it had been a puffin, you’d have seen him humbled.”

  “But you ought to hear me with vegetation,” Devon said, grinning. “I can go on and on.” He began to laugh at Cook’s expression of alarm as he dropped easily to the blanket beside Merry. “But I won’t.” To Merry: “Will you show me your drawing, Merry mine?”

  Merry was disappointed to find that his use of her name as a casual endearment had thrown her again into vivid disarray. She had a certain fear, irrational she hoped, that she might drop her gaze to his lips or to some other unsuitable portion of his anatomy. There must be a better way to manage. These waves of feeling were becoming more like a cruel prison every day. She handed him her sketchbook.

  Devon studied her drawing of Cat, gave her an apt compliment on its quality which she took more pleasure from than she wanted to, and then he asked her in an amiable tone if she had ever done this for a living.

  The question surprised a laugh out of her. “Certainly not,” she said. “Do people buy pencil sketches?”

  “That might depend on the subject,” Devon said. It was a casual remark, made without thought or any intention other than idle discussion, but it went so neatly to the heart of Merry’s one real offense against him that her laughter flattened into alarm. Devon was fishing out a pencil that had rolled under Annie’s hem, and though no one would suspect the fate of a relationship could rest on the retrieval of an errant pencil, the act prevented Devon from seeing the apprehension in Merry’s face and beginning from that to make the right sort of guesses. Like lost lovers that pass separately within minutes through the same door, Devon and Merry came as close as a glance to learning a crucial thing about each other. Of course, Rand Morgan would have probably made the point that a simple solution isn’t always best when one deals with a complicated problem.

  Raven, who had been looking at Merry, saw her apprehension, and although he had no way of knowing what it meant, it was logical for him to act protectively. When Devon looked up then, it was not toward Merry but toward Raven, who was demanding in an exuberant way to see the picture too. And so a moment that could have bred so much drama passed without solving or creating any new problems, as Raven began cheerfully to solicit critiques of the drawing on Merry’s behalf.

  From Will Saunders, supporting himself on an elbow: “Beautiful. But as it’s Cat, Merry love, do you think you’ve developed enough of the sneer?”

  Getting out of his studies had put Cook in a good mood. He said, “Sneer? By crow spit and wildfire, if that ain’t an injustice to poor Cat. Hey, with all of us knowin’ under that witchy tongue beats a heart warm as the tail fins on a dead sturgeon.” Wiping a brown stringy curl out of his eyes, grinning at Cat, he said, “What we really need to do, see, is to take off your clothes and drape a sheet over your lap. And we’ll give the picture to Morgan on St. Valentine’s Day.”

  Raven was making a point of clearing his throat, and Cook caught the warning in it and turned to see that Morgan had joined them and was standing, with a bland smile on his face, by a flowering shrub. “Oh, bloody hell,” Cook said and turned red.

  “Wha
t a delight it is to discover my name on your lips,” Morgan said in a tone that managed to convey the opposite without any visible energy. “Don’t squirm, my lad, or you’ll drop Annie’s head off your knee. She’s asleep, have you noticed?”

  Heavily relieved by the turn of subject, Cook drew aside a mound of shiny jet hair to study Annie’s face, the clear brown skin lax and glowing in sleep. “So she is! Bless her little soul. Well, Jeez. Did the same thing yesterday. Dropped right off to sleep in the middle of the day. I suppose I wake her up too many times at night,” he said with self-reproach.

  That drew sputters of outright laughter from his listeners.

  “On one occasion in particular,” Morgan said rather obscurely. The black gaze dipped cordially to Merry and then sprang to Devon. “Aren’t you going fishing, my dear?”

  “Yes,” Devon said, starting to get up. He smiled fully at Merry. “Something distracted me. But I’m going now. Precious and fading are my idle days.”

  “Well,” said Rand Morgan, “that’s true. Why don’t you take Merry?”

  In the ensuing silence Merry heard Cat say tersely, “Why should he? He’s already got bait.”

  Merry hardly caught the sense of Cat’s words because her every feeling arrowed to Devon. He didn’t want her to come with him. Rejection was there, clear as water, in Devon’s face. She had not thought to spend the day with him, she had never been fishing and never particularly desired to go, and yet, seeing that he didn’t want her with him cut her ill-protected heart like a steel spar. Against all force of will she must have been showing her hurt, because Devon’s expression changed quickly. Fondness or something like it washed into his vivid eyes and flooded, hot and pulpy, into her veins.