Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “You’re right, it was not easy. Sicily is very traditional. Men have their places and women have theirs and family ties are strong. I could not have done it at all without Jonathan, Kit and Elias. At one time, they were the only ones who would trade with me, but that was years ago now. The war with Napoleon brought more English here, which is good. They are more… pragmatic –” she looked to Jonathan who nodded at the choice of word, “– about such things.”

  Then Morwena sat back and regarded her. “Perhaps we have more in common than you know. You’re a businesswoman, too.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Laura raised her eyebrow and saw Jonathan understood the question in it, even if Morwena did not. He sat up and nudged his wife.

  “The painting you did of Jonathan. It is wonderful!” she continued, blissfully unaware. “Such artworks could be turned into engravings and printed by the hundreds. You could be famous all over the world!”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not going happen. I don’t paint anymore.” Her statement was issued with such firm finality that even Morwena knew better than to argue.

  The journey continued in uncomfortable silence. They traveled through the village of Villagrazia, which appeared to be a little more than crossroads with a church and a couple of nondescript buildings. A few hundred yards beyond, they turned to the left and followed a laneway that led them down through a low-hanging cloud.

  The carriage passed between two stone pillars painted black. On one of them, Laura could make out the word Arcadia in white. Around another bend, the cloud and view opened up onto what looked like a park.

  A long, low building in whitewashed stone sat in the middle of lush green. Dotted here and there were goats, ducks and chickens, apparently allowed full access to the gardens. All that was missing was the three-legged dog.

  Samuel would hate this place, she thought. To him, everything had to be neat and orderly. Animals were to be confined to the unseen parts of the estate.

  No, Samuel wouldn’t like it here at all.

  Behind the house was an olive grove that disappeared up and into the remaining mist but it was the view to the west which took her breath away. She barely noticed Jonathan help her from the carriage as she took a few paces along a gravel path to the view down the valley and to the sea beyond.

  Caught in a shaft of sunlight was another small building, little more than a cottage really, sitting down from the house about twenty yards away. Little, square windows glinted in welcome. The outbuilding was surrounded by lavender, its grey-green stems waving at her, beckoning her over. Laura walked to a fork in the path, one side led to the cottage, the other went around the end of the villa in front of a wide open terrace now exposed to the emerging midday sun.

  She took in the textures beyond the cottage – the flat, even blue of the clearing sky, the rich shadows of black and emerald falling on the valley below, and the shades of green across the grass and shrubs, relieved by sharp spots of color from native orchids clinging to trees at the edge of the ridge.

  “This would be a lovely place to paint,” said Morwena, approaching behind her.

  Laura hated the idea that Morwena’s words echoed her own thoughts. No! She no longer painted. Every time she picked up a brush it reminded her of the stifling cloister of the harem, the unending fear of being abused. Laura had tried – of course she had – but unfinished paintings, left behind on Catallus chastised her. Three months to paint and yet nothing to show for it. No matter how hard she tried, her pathetic efforts mocked her from the canvas.

  “How long will Elias be?”

  “Not long,” Morwena answered. Perhaps, she was ignorant of the fact that her insistence on talking about painting was becoming more and more irritating or, perhaps, she didn’t care. In any event, Laura was tired of the subject so she walked on without caring whether Morwena joined her or not.

  She followed the path down to the little cottage. It had windows on two sides and, at the front, two glass-paneled French doors could open out completely to take in that spectacular view of the valley and the sea.

  There’s plenty of light, a little voice told her. Laura squashed it. She peered through the dusty windows and saw the interior was one room with a couple of mismatched chairs and a table, and nothing more.

  This would be perfect; she could live here quite happily in a little space of her own which she did not have to share with anyone else. A bed and a washstand would be the only things she needed. Laura would ask to have it cleaned.

  “This will do nicely.”

  “Here? In a shed? I don’t think Elias had that in mind at all.” So, Morwena had followed her after all.

  “And what exactly did Elias have in mind?”

  Morwena’s expression altered briefly but, apparently, the woman decided to ignore the inflection that layered the question with meaning.

  “There is a large room for you in the house and a little adjoining room for the bambino when he comes. Out here, you would be away from everyone. When the baby comes, you will need help to look after him.”

  Laura mentally shook herself. What on earth was the matter with her? All of these people had gone out of their way to be kind to her, and she was being selfish and rude. She smiled an apology at the Sicilian woman.

  “You’re right. I’m just tired and not thinking right.”

  Morwena seemed to take the apology on face value. “Would you like to see the house? I shall introduce you to Serafina, the housekeeper; she is a marvelous cook.”

  “I am famished,” Laura conceded, “and so is the baby.”

  Morwena’s face lit up. “Maravigghiusu! Wonderful! You will not be disappointed.”

  Laura allowed herself to be taken arm-in-arm up the path toward the villa.

  I may not be disappointed, Laura mused, but what of everyone else when I give away the baby?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dearest Laura,

  You poor dear! I received your last letter and I didn’t know whether to laugh or sympathize with your plight!

  Baking bread, making cheese, milking goats and collecting eggs? It’s a far cry from being a diamond of the first water, isn’t it? Well, good for you in finding some humor in your appalling situation.

  Victoria begs to remind you to take care of your hands and leave the hard work to others. Hardacre is wealthy enough to have servants, isn’t he? He certainly was not ashamed to flaunt his wealth as I remember.

  What of your painting? You’ve not mentioned it once in your last few letters. You were always so keen on your little watercolors.

  You’ve also put my mind at rest with your decision to remove yourself to Sicily. I’m sure there are plenty of orphanages there will help you put an end to this unfortunate incident once and for all.

  I note from my bank that you have used very little from the account. Is Sophia supporting you? I don’t feel comfortable being in her debt because of her husband, so be sure to settle accounts with her as soon as you are well enough to do so. I will advance another £100 to your account.

  You would also put my mind at rest by telling me more about this Elias Nash fellow. I’d rather you didn’t stay at the home of a bachelor. Isn’t another of Hardacre’s friends married? Can’t you stay with them instead?

  I sound overbearing, don’t I? I don’t mean to be, my dearest sister. Please know I only want to put an end to this nightmare which has stolen so much from us. If there was some way to completely erase what happened, then I would do so in a heartbeat.

  Write me again soonest, Laura,

  Your loving and devoted brother,

  Samuel.

  At least Samuel acknowledges that he’s overbearing. Laura smiled to herself. She added the letter to the growing pile of correspondence from her brother and tied it together with an old hair ribbon.

  She told everyone she needed to rest after lunch, but that was only half-true. She needed time alone without so many people fussing about her – particularly strangers. She fo
rced herself to smile and reminded herself she was a guest in someone else’s home.

  But now, with the door closed behind her, she felt she could breathe again. Her room was simply, but tastefully furnished. The walls were whitewashed – as was everything in the villa. Hanging from the picture rail was a small mirror, alongside it a crucifix. And on her bed was a beautiful coverlet of stylized flowers in jewel-like colors. A gift from Morwena, no doubt.

  An inlaid mahogany dressing table stood opposite. It was simple in shape – an oval mirror with three drawers below the table and two smaller drawers either side of the knee hole. The small turned ivory drawer knobs were the same color as the maple inlay. The legs were squared and tapered.

  It was an expensive item, one that would not be out of place in her rooms at home, and the washstand was a companion piece. The wardrobe, however, was simple, homemade furniture – most likely out of an inexpensive wood. It had been painted in soft cream with naive hand-painted flowers in cartouches on the doors.

  Hanging inside it was a silk pelisse, dyed maroon. It was too elaborate for a life in the country. She reached out to touch the beautiful garment. This was Victoria’s doing – Laura recalled seeing a similar garment in one of the copies of The Lady’s Journal. Joining it were two cloaks – far more practical. Inside one of the long, pull out drawers were day dresses, one in an evening primrose yellow with pretty white lace at the sleeves, and another in a soft rose pink. The third was in a powder blue and, all three, she suspected again, selected by Victoria. It would be a wonder if she could ever fit into them.

  In another drawer, lay two cotton nightdresses. Pintucked from under the bust, the neckline had been designed low enough when untied to breast feed. Laura closed her eyes at the thought and felt an unfamiliar ache.

  In about a month’s time, she would be a mother. She glanced across to the anteroom which Morwena had proudly announced was the nursery. Laura couldn’t bring herself to enter, going only so far as to stand at the threshold. She saw a miniature wardrobe, decorated like hers, a table, a cot, a rocking chair.

  No, she couldn’t do it! She wanted to go home! She didn’t want a baby. She didn’t want to be pregnant. She couldn’t, she couldn’t, she couldn’t!

  Laura panted hard and squeezed her eyes shut until the moment of panic passed, then hurried over to her travel trunk and pulled out the small travel stationery box. She drew out a piece of paper and a bottle of ink. Line after line flowed from her pen, frightened, anxious words written without consideration, just as she felt them. Like Christ in the garden of Gethsemane who sweated drops of blood in his torment, Laura’s pen sweated drops of ink, putting her utter desolation into words.

  Yes, she had told Sophia she would be all right to make the journey to Palermo on her own. It was only right her cousin spend time alone with her husband. And it had made her feel good to see the look of delight in Sophia’s eyes when she revealed her decision. But it had been tempered with caution. Sophia had asked more than once whether Laura was certain. Each time, she confirmed she was, knowing that one hint of hesitation from her would have Sophia leave Kit to be her caretaker and keeper once more.

  She eased her grip on the pen, lest ink spots mar the page, then returned the pen to the holder. The paper was covered in dense blue lines, her cursive script usually open and flowing replaced with short, sharp strokes.

  She couldn’t bear to read her words again so only waited long enough to let the ink dry before folding the letter and sealing it.

  There, she had done everything she could.

  *

  Elias watched Morwena read through the contract for his olive harvest. Arcadia was one of the smallest suppliers of olives in the region and he knew very little about the business. What interested him was providing a sustainable livelihood to some of the villagers.

  Still, standing there watching her frown over the document reminded him of standing before his schoolmaster and waiting to hear whether he had passed or failed his exams.

  He looked out through the French doors of the sitting room to see the last of the clouds disappear down the valley, beaten back by a victorious afternoon sun that glistened so bright, the sea beyond looked molten.

  “Well?” Elias asked, his patience at an end.

  “It’s a fair price,” she conceded.

  “Then why don’t you look happy?”

  “Because I know how much Lisetto sells olive oil for.”

  Elias shrugged. “Every man has to make a profit. And besides, I don’t produce nearly enough to make it worthwhile to press and bottle oil myself. It would take years to establish a market and recoup the costs.”

  “But what if I tell you there is another way?”

  The way Morwena asked the question should have had him suspicious, but there was something about the sparkle in her eyes, the rise of her sharp eyebrows, the playful smile around her full mouth that had him falling under her spell. He glanced at Jonathan who looked close to bursting with laughter.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Laura whose head was bent over a piece of embroidery, and he was pretty sure he didn’t mistake a smile on her face either.

  “What other way?” he asked, reluctantly pulling every word from his mouth.

  “There is a friend of my father’s, Ignazio Florio. He has an ambitious, young nephew he has brought into the family business. Vincenzo. He has some interesting ideas and is quite the inventor, but he is cautious. He will only share them with me because of our family connection – and the fact I have no plans to be in competition.”

  “So, he needs olive oil,” Elias prompted.

  “Yes. For preserving tuna.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Elias could see Laura set down her embroidery loop and frown quizzically at Morwena.

  “Is there a reason why he can’t just buy some?” asked Elias. “From the Lisetto’s perhaps? Anyway, isn’t that a job for the family’s housekeeper?”

  “This is not for his kitchen.” Morwena shook her head as though he were dense. Perhaps he was.

  “Vincenzo needs too much. With his family name, everyone watches what he does carefully, especially since he has spent time in England. They expect him to be full of clever ideas.”

  Elias considered himself a patient man, but this was like pulling teeth. “And these ideas are?”

  Morwena took a deep breath, before quickly glancing about as though looking for eavesdroppers.

  “To can tuna in olive oil – many, many thousands of tin cans.”

  “Preserving tuna?” The idea was intriguing.

  “Vincenzo saw it done in England. Food, like beef, preserved in tin cans. It can travel all over the world for months and months – maybe even years, who knows? – and be as good as fresh. A few months ago, he asked me to import a large number of empty cans from London under the Gambino name. What if I can convince Ignazio and Vincenzo to pay twice as much as Lisetto is offering, and we press the olives here?”

  Elias thought for a moment. The extra work would be welcomed by his tenants over the lean winter months and, if the experiment worked, there would be even more employment.

  “So I can tell the Florios, you agree?” It may have been phrased as a question, but it certainly didn’t seem that way – more like a fait accompli.

  He nodded, and Morwena’s smile grew bigger.

  “What happens if Senor Florio’s experiment is a success?” All eyes turned to Laura. She had the same expression of knowing guile that Elias had seen on Morwena’s face. If anything, he imagined his own expression was one of being three steps behind.

  “I suppose, for a start, he would need more cans,” Morwena answered, “but the ones we bought for him were expensive.”

  “Would it help if he could make them himself? My brother has an engineering works. Father started it to make steam engine pumps for the mines but it makes other things now. I can’t see why they can’t make an engine for making tin cans. I could write to him and ask. Perhaps Flo
rio could even pay him a visit.”

  “You would do that for us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maravigghiusu!” Morwena leapt out of her seat and kissed Laura on each cheek.

  Elias thought her flushed cheeks were quite becoming. Her bright disposition gladdened him. For the first few days of her arrival, he worried that Laura was becoming withdrawn. Yet over the past week or two, Laura had seemed at peace.

  Elias gave silent thanks. Long may it last, he prayed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Laura plucked leaves and stems from the basket of olives and tossed the fruit into one of the large, wooden crates before her.

  Perhaps she would not tell Samuel what occupied the eighth month of her pregnancy. Her brother seemed to have trouble enough trying to reconcile his debutante sister with the one who could confidently tend a grapevine and milk a goat, let alone the one sitting here like a fat, old, farmer’s wife, working alongside drunkards and petty thieves as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  She wiggled her feet – they were aching and sore, even though she was seated. She had seen so much and done so much. How could she expect Samuel to reconcile the woman she was now, when even she had yet to come to terms with it?

  Time. All it would take was time.

  Not that there seemed to be a lot of it here at Arcadia. Harvest season for olives was short and they were already running behind. Every available man from the estate and some of the other villagers – about a dozen in all – had joined Elias in the fields to pick every last fruit from the trees. They worked from first light to last, barely stopping for a midday meal.

  In the big storehouse closest to the olive grove, kept warm by the large stove used to dry the fruit, Laura sat beside another heavily-pregnant girl and, together, they continued with the task of stripping leaves.

  Laura learned from Serafina, the housekeeper, through a mix of broken English and Laura’s own rudimentary understanding of Sicilian, that this girl, Gina, had gotten herself “in trouble” with one of the local boys. The girl looked about sixteen years old. Laura didn’t know where she had come from, only that she was an unfamiliar face that appeared at the kitchen table three mornings ago.