My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  Nothing.

  He let out his breath, relaxing, grinning, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of snaring his prize. “Aaaargh,” he growled happily, rolling the words around his teeth as he figured Blackbeard must’ve done, “ye’ll not escape me now, wench!” He pulled on the rope, testing it.

  That was all he needed, to begin climbing and have the damned thing let go to send him crashing to the street. But no, the grapple was solid, strong, tightly in place.

  With a last wary glance behind him, he pulled himself up and began to climb, the knife

  clenched between his teeth, cutlass at his side, hair trailing between his shoulders, powerful arms and bare feet pulling and pushing him up the thick rope.

  I’ll have ye yet, woman, he growled, reveling in the role of marauding pirate.

  Higher and higher he went. Heights did not bother him; he was, after all, the most fearsome freebooter ever to sail the Spanish Main, the most dangerous pirate ever to stalk the streets of London. Adjusting his eye patch and sheathing his dagger, he paused just beneath the windowsill, breathing hard, grinning fiercely, and wondering how to best make his surprise entry. Then, in a single movement, he pulled himself cleanly up and through the window, and drawing his cutlass, leapt into the room with a savage, bloodcurdling yell.

  “Aaaarrrrrrghhhhhh!”

  “Eeeeeaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

  An elderly woman, in slippers and nightgown.

  “SHIT!” Gray cried, and bolted for the door.

  “Thief! Intruder! Somebody, help!”

  Cutlass in hand, he tore frantically down the hall, the old woman’s screams echoing in the corridor behind him. How could he have chosen the wrong room?! He tripped, nearly fell, cut himself on the blade of the sword, and finding speed, darted away from an opening door, when he heard more calls and shouts ringing out behind him.

  And as he charged around the corner he saw two flag officers in cocked hats and epaulets

  just entering the hotel dining room.

  He feinted to the right, charging down a carpeted corridor—

  “There he is! Thief! Somebody, stop him, thief! ”

  Behind him he heard pounding feet, knew the two admirals had seen him and were in hot

  pursuit.

  Bloody hell, where was Maeve’s room?!

  He charged around another corner, running as fast as his bare feet would take him, shirt

  billowing, hair flying out behind him. There, thank God, thank God, thank God!, her door—

  “Maeve, open up!”

  “Gray, darling? Is that you?”

  “For God’s sake, Maeve, open the goddamned door, now! ”

  “Now Gray, that’s no way to talk to royalty.”

  He pounded savagely against the door, nearly holing the elegant wood. “Jesus, Maeve,

  OPEN THE GODDAMNED DOOR!”

  He heard more people running toward him. The old woman in her nightgown, hotel

  personnel, maids, clerks, a nobleman in elegant silk— Oh, God, not the Marquess of Anderleigh

  —”I say, Sir Graham, is that you? ”—and then the two flag officers, not just any flag officers, but Lords Hood and Barham, both admirals and the latter, the most senior man in the entire bloody navy, from whose office Gray had just come not an hour before—now striding with tight-lipped authority around the corner.

  He slammed his fist against the door a final time. “Maeve, for the love of God, open the door!”

  “SIR GRAHAM!” Lord Barham’s voice thundered through the hall. “What in GOD’S

  NAME are you DOING?!’’

  Silence. He fell back, plastering his spine against the door, a pirate with a patch over his eye, a cutlass in his hand, his shirt open to his navel, and their shocked eyes upon him, while the crowd gaped and stared and gathered and smirked.

  The door opened and he fell, prostrate, at the Pirate Queen’s feet.

  “Maeve! Say you’ll marry me!”

  Chapter 33

  Several hours after Maeve Merrick agreed quite publicly to marry Rear Admiral Sir Graham

  Falconer, a post chaise carrying one Captain Henry Blackwood arrived at Nelson’s home,

  Merton, with the news that Villeneuve was holed up in the Spanish port of Cadiz with more than thirty ships-of-the-line. And so began the last stage of events, all rushing toward that final decisive battle that the admiral, in those last weeks of his long-suffering life, knew was coming.

  In the Channel, and in the French and Spanish ports of the Atlantic seaboard, great fleets stood poised for the final confrontation while Europe stood waiting . . .

  Off of the Spanish port of Cadiz, where Villeneuve’s forces had fled for refuge, the bored and frustrated blockading fleet under the British Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood complained bitterly about their dour old “Cuddie’s” puritanical ways: “For charity’s sake, send us Lord Nelson, oh ye men of power!” wrote one of the desperate captains, in a letter home to his wife.

  And in England, while anxiously waiting to go aboard Victory for the last time, Lord Nelson paid his bills with his dwindling resources, put his affairs in order, and spent his time playing with his little daughter. On one of his trips to London he stopped to pay a somber visit to an old friend, fashioned from the mainmast of the French flagship L’Orient which he had defeated at the Battle of the Nile, and now, waiting patiently for that time when the two of them would be together forever. That old friend had traveled many miles with him; now, it rested safely in the care of one Mr. Peddieson.

  “Get it properly engraved for me,” Nelson joked to Peddieson, “for I shall probably need it upon my return.”

  That old friend was his coffin.

  ###

  At Falconer House in Surrey, things were in a state of high excitement as the family’s only

  son, the days of his own leave numbered before he returned to his West Indies command, eagerly awaited his marriage to the Pirate Queen, to be held at Nelson’s nearby home, Merton Place.

  Gray’s happiness over that upcoming event was heightened by an urgent message sent to

  him by Lord Nelson, but he did not tell his Pirate Queen the surprising contents of the admiral’s note. For Sir Graham knew that his lady must conquer her demons herself—and as her wedding day dawned, she did.

  She got up that morning, dressed, and long before the house awoke and Gray’s six younger

  sisters sought her out for tales of piracy on the high seas, tiptoed quietly from her bedroom and down the great staircase . . . across plush carpeting and marbled floors . . . past the statues and busts and paintings of ancestors that lined the walls, until she saw the half-open door to the study.

  It called to her. It was now or never. She could not live with the pain anymore.

  She paused only once on her way to that room and all the fears she would confront there,

  and that was to stop, as she always did, beneath the magnificent portrait that dominated the wall just outside the door. It was a glorious portrait, stretching from the height of her waist to the tall ceiling, of a pirate standing before a dark and roiling sea with storm clouds gathering behind him like a great, unholy halo. His hair was black, magnificent, wild; his eyes were bold, his stance, godlike and commanding. He leaned on a cutlass, wore a flowing shirt of white silk, and jackboots that reached to his knees. Behind him was a fleet of ships, his ships, and the elaborate nameplate affixed to the painting’s gilt frame read, Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, K.B.

  Maeve tilted her head back, stepped forward, and kissed the only part of that magnificent portrait she could reach: his boots.

  Leave it to her Knight to be painted as a pirate, when any admiral worth his salt wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but his finest uniform.

  She touched the portrait one final time, as though the courage of the man himself could

  reach her. But he had gone to London last night to meet with the Admiralty, then on to Merton to see Nelson, and she had yet to hear the
hoofbeats signifying his return.

  “Gray,” she whispered, staring into the dark, commanding eyes, “how I wish you were here, right now. I need you. I’m afraid. But I must do this thing that has to be done . . . and I must do it alone.”

  She was trembling. She heard the sounds of the big house, amplified by the intense quiet; the ticking of a clock somewhere down the hall, various creaks and settlings of aged wood, and outside, the crow of a rooster. Sunlight, weak and orange, slanted through the tall windows, angling toward the door of the study as though directing her to do what needed to be done.

  What difference did it make, now? She was getting married today. She should have written

  the letter to her family weeks ago, when she’d first learned they hadn't deserted her, after all.

  Now, it was too late.

  Do it, Maeve.

  But even as her heart tried to retreat behind the walls it had hidden behind for seven long years, she knew there was no turning back. She had been affected these last three weeks by watching Gray’s family revel in the love they had for each other. It was time to put the demons behind her, to face the truth.

  “I love you, Gray,” she whispered to that magnificent man in the portrait, and indeed, she did. For if her admiral had not taught her about vulnerability, love, courage and trust, she would never have been contemplating what she was about to do.

  Head high, the Pirate Queen pushed open the door to the study and saw the sunlight, like a beacon from God, touching nothing in the room but the carved oak desk beneath the window.

  She closed the door behind her and walked across the room, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

  Around her, the silence pressed.

  She looked at the quill pens laid out on the desk. The inkwell. The sheets of blank paper, set there as though awaiting the outpourings of her heart.

  Stop delaying.

  She picked up a quill, running her fingers over the soft feather. Her heart thundered in her breast. Slowly, she pulled one of the pieces of paper toward her.

  Far down the hall the clock chimed the hour, reminding her that time was trickling by,

  bringing back memories of her beloved Grandpa Ephraim and the obsession he’d had for

  timepieces.

  What are you waiting for, Maeve? Do it.

  Once again, she picked up the quill in her trembling hand, bit her lip, and began to write . . .

  DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

  As I write this, the sun is coming up and I am in England. I think you should know I’m getting married today—

  She paused, reading over her words. They seemed cold. Impersonal. With a little sob, she

  snatched up the paper, wadded it into a ball, flung it to the floor and tried again.

  DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

  This is your daughter, Maeve. I know you think I’m dead, but—

  No. That was even worse. Frustrated, Maeve crumpled up the letter, shot to her feet, bolted for the door, and paused, her lungs heaving and the tears choking the back of her throat. She stood there, watching the orange sunlight getting stronger, brighter, whiter, hotter. She touched the door and thought of the portrait just outside. She could flee this room and no one would ever know but her; or she could stay and confront her worst fears. She looked back at the desk, the pen lying across that stack of paper, the chair pushed aside and waiting for her to come back to it, and made her decision.

  Fisting her hands at her sides, she slowly went back to the desk, sat down, and weeping

  quietly, began to write once more.

  Dear Daddy and Mama,

  I don’t know how to begin a letter, and I especially don’t know how to begin this one. It’s awfully hard to write a letter of apology after seven years of believing the worst about somebody, especially when it’s your own family, but I am forcing myself to do it and if this letter never reaches you at least I will have made a start . . .

  She bit her lip, her teeth bringing the blood to the surface as the pen gathered speed and her thoughts began to pour out upon the page . . .

  The most singular set of circumstances have occurred in my life to bring about my writing to you at last, not the least of which is my meeting a wonderful man who has shown me what it means to love, to trust, and to be willing to take chances. Were it not for him, I would not be writing this letter; were it not for him, I would still be nursing my anger and bitterness and broken heart in the Caribbean, where I’ve made my home these past seven years. Now, I realize that all the time I was nursing my broken heart, you were both nursing yours . Oh, Daddy, oh, Mama, how can you ever forgive me? How can you . . . ?

  The tears were flowing now, uninhibited by barriers of distrust and fear, racing down her cheeks and beginning to spatter upon her wrist. Her arm. The paper on which she wrote. She did not see them. She did not hear the harsh sounds of her own breathing anymore, her sobs, the sound of the dogs barking outside, the thump of feet on the floor of an upstairs bedroom, nor see the sun pulling itself up through the clouds in a magnificent dawn of beauty and glory and hope.

  Mama, Daddy, I am so very ashamed of myself, for believing you have turned away from

  me. How can I apologize for that belief? I’m crying as I write this; I’m crying for all the lost years, all the sadness and grief and hurt and pain, the misunderstandings, the fact that I ran away from home and never came back. I’m crying because I love you, never stopped loving you, will always love you whether you can find it in your hearts to forgive me or not, crying because I’m getting married today and— She paused, her chest heaving in great, convulsing bursts of grief—

  and you shall not be here to see it . . .

  She pulled back, sobbing wretchedly, and was about to crumple the letter in her fist when a hand closed over her own.

  She looked up, the tears streaming down her face and splashing onto the back of that hand.

  His hand. The letter itself, blurred and smudged with her tears of grief.

  “Leave it be,” he commanded, quietly.

  “I can’t do it, Gray, I can’t send this, it’s stained and they won’t be able to even read it—”

  “Leave it,” he said again, softly.

  She shot to her feet, her hand still pinned beneath his. “I’m a coward, really I am, I should never even have thought I had the courage to do this—”

  “You do have the courage, and you have done it.” He moved around to join her behind the desk, taking care not to read what she had written. He made her sit back down in the chair, and kneeling down so that he was on a level with her, looked steadily in her eyes. “Maeve,” he said gently.

  She looked up at him, miserable, wretched.

  “Leave it be,” he said. “And let the tear stains remain. Nothing else could stand as proof of your love for your family as they can.”

  He was right, of course. The admiral was always right. She lunged out of the chair and

  hurled herself into his arms, crying bitterly, feeling his hands stroking her hair and soothing her.

  He held her for a long time, and then he gently set her back, gazing lovingly into her eyes and thumbing away the wetness upon her cheeks.

  Then he stood, tall, dark and splendidly handsome, and gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Finish your letter, Maeve,” was all he said, and, turning on his heel, left the room.

  ###

  “They’ll not come. Dear God, what have I done, I know they wrote to say they would be

  here, but they won’t come, I know they won’t come, it’s already late, late! And they have not come—”

  “Nelson,” she said soothingly, “it’s six o’clock in the morning. Not everyone rises as early as you!”

  ‘They won’t come, and here I’ve already told Falconer they would, dear God, what if he’s

  told her? Oh, Emma, I should never have told him, I should never have written that damned letter in the first place, I should never have interfered; this, if nothing else, shall be the de
ath of me, the very death of me!”

  He was so distraught he hadn’t shaved, hadn’t even washed his face yet this morning, his

  dear, sad, suffering little face that she loved so much. And how could he? How could he, with only one arm?

  She took his hand, sat him down in a chair, filled a basin, and lovingly did that intimate task for him, trying to remain cheerful and brave despite the knowledge that he would soon be

  leaving her once again to lead the British fleet against the might of Bonaparte’s navy.

  “It’s early yet,” she said again, dipping the washcloth in the bowl. She kissed his scarred brow, touched his lid, the eye beneath still bold, still penetrating, despite the fact he could barely see out of it. With love and tenderness, she washed his face, taking care to keep the soapy cloth away from his eyes, touching the lips that were now pinched tight in a perpetual frown of worry and despair. “Besides, the wedding ain’t ’til this afternoon. For all you know, their carriage might’ve broken down, a horse thrown a shoe; why, they might even ’ave got lost!”

  ‘They said they’d be here yesterday, Emma!”

  “And so did the girl’s cousins, but they ’aven’t arrived yet either. And you, of all people, know that Admiral Sir Christian Lord is as true as the shot from a carronade. ’E’ll be ’ere. They will be ’ere. Now sit still, would you? All this fidgeting of yours’ll make me slip and get soap in your eye.”

  He reached up, caught her hand, pressed it to his lips, and on a resigned breath, murmured,

  “Emma, dear, sweet, Emma . . . what would I do without you?”

  “You’d get on just fine,” she joked, “for you are Nelson. Now be still—we ’ave much to do before Sir Graham and ’is bride-to-be arrive!”

  She laughed, but in her heart were tears and sorrow and misery, for soon he would depart for the Victory at Portsmouth, and she had the strangest, most awful feeling that he wasn’t coming back.

  ###

  Merton Place was a lovely, sprawling property just southwest of London proper, complete

  with a little river affectionately renamed the Nile in honor of its owner’s famous victory, a pond filled with pike, grassy sloping lawns bordered by shrubbery, and a gravel drive that grumbled and crunched beneath the wheels of their carriage as the lathered steeds pulled up before the stone steps.