Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  He forced a stern expression and a sterner voice. “Now, Miss Persia Whiddington, I’d like to know exactly what’s going on.”

  “Oh, Father, it’s just what you’ve been wanting. I thought you would have guessed by now.”

  He gazed down at her, looking perplexed. “What are you talking about, girl?”

  “I’m going to be married.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes! I’m going to India to marry Reverend Cyrus Blackwell!”

  He drew away from her abruptly, and his eyes narrowed under their bushy brows. “The hell you say!”

  “Don’t you see? It’s what I’ve always dreamed of… ever since I was a little girl. I’ve always wanted to cross the oceans. And to actually live in a foreign land… in India, of all places! Why, it’s as if my prayers were heard by Reverend Blackwell and his by me. This is the perfect solution for both of us. And now my life makes sense for the first time ever. I was never meant to marry Zachariah Hazzard. That’s why things didn’t work out. I was being saved for grander things. I’ll start packing tonight. When the Madagascar sails, I’ll be on her!”

  “I forbid it!”

  She backed away from him and her smile faded. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Father. I was sure you would understand and be happy for me.”

  “How can I be happy that you’re going around the world to marry a man you don’t even know, much less love? I know you need a husband, Persia, but I simply can’t allow this.”

  Persia went to him and brushed his grizzled cheek with her lips. “I’m sorry, Father, truly. But I’m not a child any longer. And although I’d like your blessing, I’m going regardless.”

  She turned to leave, but his words stopped her. “How can you marry Birdie Blackwell’s brother, after all the terrible things she said about you? Doesn’t it mean anything that her vicious gossip broke your mother’s heart?”

  Persia shook her head. “He can’t be anything like Miss Birdie was. Didn’t he leave her when he was very young? Probably he went away because he recognized her as evil and wanted to be out from under her influence. He’s a man of God, Father. He must be a good man!”

  Before he could say another word, Persia hurried off to her room. She spent the rest of the short winter afternoon there, sorting her thoughts and her clothes. The heavy woolens that wouldn’t be practical in India she folded into a neat pile. Those would go to Europa in Portland. She cast aside her scarlet cape—hardly a fitting color for a minister’s wife!

  The supper hour came and passed, but Persia did not go downstairs to eat. She wasn’t hungry. She had too much to think about, too much to do. Besides, she had said what she had to say to her father. If she faced him across the table this soon, he would only start in on her again. He would come around, but she had to give him the time he needed.

  She undressed, donned a warm nightgown, and climbed into bed. But far into the night, she tossed and turned on her mattress. A feverish excitement gripped her, and sleep refused to come. Finally, she lit her whale-oil lamp and reached for her Bible. If she was going to be the wife of a missionary, she would have to take her religion more seriously. She concentrated hard on the tiny print, but her eyes soon closed and the book slipped to her breast.

  Asa Whiddington had spent a long, lonely evening in the library. He loved these wintry nights when Persia was with him. Unlike most fathers and daughters, the two of them could talk. And they did talk—endlessly—about foreign lands, ships, the sea, the winds, the stars. Suddenly he sat up in his chair, realization coming to him like a blow. Yes, they had talked, but always of the things he loved and knew. When had they ever discussed Persia’s dreams and hopes?

  “Never!” he told himself unhappily. He had spent all these years filling her head with the very things that were now about to take her from him forever. “You selfish old bastard,” he muttered. “Serves you right.”

  Heaving a weary sigh, he shoved himself up from his chair. It was time he made peace with her. She was right: he wanted her to marry, and he wanted her to be happy. She could probably do neither by staying here in Maine with him. He didn’t like what she was about to do, but did he really have any right to object? He had lived a full life. Now it was his daughter’s turn to choose her own path, even if it took her far away from him. At least he could talk to her, calmly and rationally, instead of hurling abuses as he had done earlier. He might be able to bear having his daughter go away, but he would die if he lost her love and her respect.

  He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to frame the proper words of reconciliation. He decided that he would simply apologize for his abominable behavior earlier, then let her do the talking for a change. Maybe during a civilized discussion, it would dawn on Persia that this was not what she really wanted at all. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best he could come up with.

  Not a sound issued from her room. Her father knocked softly but received no answer. Lamplight gleamed into the hallway from underneath the door. Sudden fear gripped him. What if he had driven her away? What if she’d packed her things and fled into the night, unwilling to hear more of his tirades?

  He grabbed the brass knob and wrenched the door open. His heart thudded with sudden relief. She was sleeping, a soft smile curving her lips. He stood just inside the door for several moments staring at her, his heart brimming with tenderness for his most precious daughter. She looked far younger than her years with the lace-edged collar of her nightgown tied demurely under her chin and her long, shining hair flowing over the pillow. The patchwork quilt that covered her rose and fell evenly as she breathed. One hand, fingers curled delicately, rested on a book, while the other was thrown back over her head. He tiptoed across the room and took the volume from her grasp.

  “Her Bible,” he said, nodding. He looked to see what she’d been reading. It was opened to the Book of Ruth. “No doubt where your thoughts were when you fell asleep, my child.”

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then blew out the lamp. She never woke as he tiptoed out and closed the door.

  Her father slept soundly that night, but Persia’s quiet slumber gave way to troubled dreams. She was on a ship upon a storm-tossed sea. In the distance, she could barely make out a lush green shoreline. Two dark figures stalked her night passage, so that neither sea nor shore offered calm repose. She couldn’t make out the visage of the man waiting on the beach, but suddenly the sun came out in her dream and she recognized the long-loved face of Zachariah Hazzard. She awoke with a start and a sudden cry.

  In the darkest hour of that dark night she resolved not to wait. She would seek out Reverend Osgood at first light and offer herself as Cyrus Blackwell’s bride. As she had told her father, when the Madagascar sailed at the end of November, she planned to be on board.

  Her true fate had found her at last. She would not delay but would rush into its waiting arms.

  Persia had hoped to be out of the house before her father woke up. But when she hurried down to the kitchen to have a quick cup of tea to guard against the cold before starting out for the church, she found the captain already there. So absorbed was he in his paper that he seemed not to notice her when she sat down.

  Their breakfast passed in silence, but it was of the companionable sort. Not a word needed to pass between them for Persia to know that the storm had blown over.

  She watched as he folded his paper and laid it aside. His eyes held a merry glitter as he smiled and said, “Are your sea chests packed?”

  Relief flooded her. “Not yet, Father, but almost.”

  “Well, you’ll be needing some new things anyway. Some traveling suits, fashionable riding costumes, and a ball gown or two.”

  Persia stared at him, stunned. “Ball gowns? Father, I’m to wed a missionary, not an ambassador!”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “That may be, my dear, but before you become a missionary’s little church mouse, I have another role for you. You know I’ve ta
lked of sailing on the Madagascar myself. But we both know such a plan is sheer folly. I’m too old, too ill. So I’ve come to a decision. The captain we’ve signed is a fair merchant as well. But there’s not a man alive who could barter my cargo of ice as well as you can. Those Parsee merchants in Bombay will fall in love with you at first sight. They’ll wine and dine you and treat you to fancy balls in their palaces, and then they’ll empty their silk purses to buy our ice. Mark my words, it’s a solid business move!”

  Persia was struck nearly dumb. Why had her father decided this now? Maybe he thought that this last fling, this taste of Oriental luxuries, would dissuade her from marrying Cyrus Blackwell. If that was what he had in mind, he would soon find out it was no use.

  “Father, I’m flattered and pleased that you want me to act as your supercargo. I’ll do a fine job for you, I promise.”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to explain to Tudor. He’ll have no qualms, I’m sure. But why are you frowning, daughter?”

  She waved a hand in the air to dismiss her passing expression. “Oh, it had nothing to do with that. It’s just that I decided last night I have to go first thing this morning to speak with Reverend Osgood.” Her face suddenly became a mask of worry. “Father, what if he turns me down?”

  “Turn you down?” the captain blustered. “Never! Why, the man would be an idiot not to send you as Blackwell’s wife, if you choose to go!”

  “But the gossips… Birdie Blackwell in particular. What if Reverend Osgood feels as they all do—that I’m a scarlet woman because of one foolish, impetuous act in my youth?”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head over that, Persia my girl! I’ll go with you to speak to Osgood. He’ll accept your offer, or else.”

  Persia smiled, knowing that her father was going against all his own wishes to help her realize hers. He was a wonderful man. She would miss him desperately.

  Persia had dressed carefully for her audience with Reverend Osgood. She wore a simple dress of stark black jersey and a bonnet with a black veil that hid every inch of creamy skin and every strand of fiery hair. She had seen ministers’ wives before in just such drab attire and had felt sorry for them. But now her one goal was to create the impression that she, too, could be unassuming in appearance and especially in attitude.

  They found the minister hidden away in his tiny office at the church, counting the collection from the morning before while he sipped a steaming cup of tea. He seemed quite annoyed by their intrusion. Persia noted that his whiskers twitched and his small green eyes narrowed when they walked in on him.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early on a Monday morning, Brother Osgood,” the captain said cheerily, ignoring the man’s cold stare, “but my daughter and I have important business to discuss. I’m afraid it won’t wait.”

  The reverend glanced from Asa to Persia and back again. “Well, I suppose I can give you a few minutes, if it’s church business, that is.”

  “Oh, indeed it is! I’d never dream of bothering you otherwise. I know you’ve been wanting to add a new iron fence around the burying ground. And I thought, since my business is going so well, I might be able to see myself clear to donating the materials and labor.”

  Osgood’s face lost its sour expression, but Persia’s countenance captured exactly what he had cast off. She’d certainly had no idea that her father meant to come here and buy her a husband. But a moment later she realized with a sinking heart that even the much needed cemetery fence would not be enough to purchase a mate for a ruined woman.

  “That’s most Christian of you, Brother Whiddington. Bless you!” Reverend Osgood said.

  “You’ll bless us both when you hear what my daughter is offering.” The captain turned to her with an encouraging smile. “Persia, tell him.”

  “I’ve come to accept Reverend Blackwell’s proposal,” she said with quiet dignity.

  For several moments, silence reigned in the room. Persia watched the minister’s face turn pale, then as scarlet as the cape she had cast aside the night before. His whiskers set to twitching again, and he leaned toward them across his desk.

  “No! By all that is holy, I will not send Brother Blackwell a used woman!”

  Persia was quaking with fury inside her black gown, but her father remained calm. “And whom will you send, Brother Osgood? I didn’t notice a line of applicants waiting outside to be interviewed.”

  “Better no bride than a tainted one.”

  “You seem to speak with great authority about my daughter’s sins. Perhaps you would like to number them for us so that she might offer some defense before she is condemned,” Captain Whiddington said.

  Osgood shrank back, unable to find the words for a moment. When they came, his voice quivered with outrage. “There’s no need for me to list her transgressions. Everyone knows. You are the one she disgraced, Whiddington. How can you speak so calmly about all this?”

  Persia watched a benign smile light her father’s face. “I never felt I was disgraced. My daughter was a mere child, who was enticed away by a man she thought she loved. She’s a woman now. She knows what she’s doing.”

  Osgood jumped up, pointing a finger at Persia excitedly. “There! There! You’ve admitted it yourself, Whiddington! She went away with a man! What more terrible crime could an unmarried woman commit?”

  Persia half rose from her chair. Her voice was muted by the heavy veil as she said, “Please, Father. Let’s go now.”

  Asa Whiddington touched her hand, indicating that she should remain seated. Then he turned his attention back to Reverend Osgood.

  “Perhaps the greatest sin of all is for us to judge and refuse to forgive. Surely the Lord has forgiven my daughter’s one transgression. Are you telling me that neither you nor Cyrus Blackwell can possibly do the same?” He paused, but Osgood offered no answer. The captain’s voice rose to an angry pitch for the first time. “And you call yourself a man of God?”

  “See here, now, Brother Whiddington, there’s no need to shout. I suppose you’re right. We should make allowances for her youth when she strayed from the fold. And, too, if she goes off to India, she won’t be a blight on the village any longer.”

  Persia was wavering between tears of shame and anger. This was far more difficult than she had anticipated. Reverend Osgood made her feel as if she really were a bad person. She was glad she could hide behind her veil.

  “By damn, I won’t have you making statements like that about my daughter, Osgood! The only blight on this village are the tongues of the busybodies, and yours is one of them! Come along, Persia. We’ve taken up too much of the good brother’s time.”

  They were at the door when Osgood called, “Wait a moment! About the fence…”

  The captain was about to tell the man where he could put his fence when Persia pressed his arm urgently. “Please, Father,” she whispered.

  Whiddington calmed himself forcibly. “You’ll get your fence and a share of profits from the ship that takes my daughter to India to wed Cyrus Blackwell.”

  The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Osgood’s mouth. It was by far the best offer he was likely to receive. And it would make life easier for him if Persia Whiddington was half a world away. The women of his congregation plagued him constantly about her. They feared for their husbands, their sons. As for Cyrus Blackwell, that godly man, he would probably never lower himself to bed a woman anyway. This would be a spiritual mating alone. The missionary would never find out that he had been sent damaged goods.

  “Well?” said the captain.

  “Done!” Osgood replied.

  The word sent a strange shiver through Persia. Her fate was sealed, for better or for worse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A mixture of sleet and heavy, wet snow sliced almost horizontally across the pitching deck of the Mazeppa. Periodic flashes of lightning hurled from the Stygian sky revealed a tall, ghostlike figure on the ship’s quarterdeck. The man’s thick ar
ms hugged his massive chest, and his stanchionlike legs anchored him where he stood. His oilskins flapped like sails in the gale winds, and torrents of water poured off his bristling white beard. A livid scar snaking up the right side of his face through his whiskers stood out like an arrow, pointing to the cold glitter in his dark eyes.

  “Haul in more sail!”

  The master of the Mazeppa shouted the order to his first mate. Immediately sailors gripped the lifeline and hurried without question to do the man’s bidding. Each one had learned during this two-year voyage that under this captain’s command there could be no hesitation, no argument, or else. They feared the man, some even hated him. But they respected him, too. And if ever there was a night when they needed to feel they could depend on someone’s judgment, it was upon them now. After going to hell and back across three oceans, it seemed doom might catch up with them here, almost in sight of the Boston Light.

  Because of the dirty weather, they had dared approach Boston only by the long way round, through Vineyard Sound, Nantucket Sound, and the backside of Cape Cod. Now they had rounded the cape, but Massachusetts Bay could be the death of a ship in heavy seas. With the Boston Light not yet in view, a mistake of a quarter of a point in the compass heading could send them crashing into Cohasset rocks or The Graves. The captain knew this full well, and his jaw was rigid with tension and concentration.

  “Signal the pilot,” he commanded, ordering a blue light to be flashed in the direction where pilot boats usually anchored, awaiting ships to be guided in. When this failed to arouse any attention, he had rockets set off. But they sputtered and died on the cold, wet air.

  “Damn these New England winters!” he spat.

  “But sir, didn’t you say this was your home?” asked the first mate.

  “I’ve got no home,” he growled in reply, and lightning struck across the sky again, seeming to make his eyes flash with bitter hate.