Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  He also was plotting out a map of his own, or so she presumed. What actually was written between the covers of the notebook he'd somehow procured was anyone's guess. Like a spoiled child, he took elaborate pains to keep her from seeing what he was writing down, though he took equal steps to make sure she saw him scribbling. Only her fear that he might stumble over some Atlantean artifact while conducting his haphazard operation kept her from taking any amusement in the situation.

  But today, neither of them would make any progress in their search, for it was Sunday.

  “Me an’ my crew, we not be workin' on the Lord's day,” Rolle had gently rebuked her the night before even as she had been making plans for the next morning's search.

  She had been swift with an apology, recalling that most of the Biminians were devout Christians. Indeed, she knew that they were unique among the Caribbean peoples in the fact that, with few exceptions, their religious life had no underpinnings of African-based spirit worship.

  Rolle graciously accepted her quick words of regret and countered by inviting her to join him and his family for Sunday dinner following services. Knowing that this sort of hospitality was rare among the islanders—the usual custom was to entertain outside and often in a public place—she agreed to his offer with alacrity.

  Rolle's reminder that this was a day of rest had pricked her conscience. At home, she was an indifferent church member, attending services only on holy days. Something about the island's unhurried pace, however, seemed conducive to matters of the spirit. Feeling as if a bit of such nourishment might do her no harm, she impulsively decided to attend services before joining Rolle and his family.

  She learned that her host's house lay not far from Saint Stephan's Anglican Church, though Rolle explained that he himself attended the Methodist chapel farther down the road. She had asked Lally to accompany her but, as usual, the Haitian woman declined, assuring Halia that she would worship in her own fashion...which meant exploring the island in search of new herbs.

  Wilkie had been within earshot of their brief exchange. According to Lally, the dour Englishman had spent most of the past few days lounging on the veranda playing patience, so that Halia wondered what had induced him to follow Malcolm here in the first place. He had caught her by surprise this morning as he expressed a desire to accompany her to church.

  “That is, if ye don't mind, miss,” the man had haltingly offered. “Malcolm, 'e ain't much o' a church-goer, but I can do wit’ a bit o' spiritual comfort e'ery so often.”

  Swallowing back her opinion that Malcolm was probably more in need of spiritual guidance than either of them, she had summoned a smile.

  “I'd be pleased for your company, Mr. Foote,” she had replied, realizing as she did so that she spoke the truth. Wilkie's blunt if dour personality could only prove a pleasant change from the self-serving attitude of a certain other Englishman.

  Now, she caught up her broad-brimmed boater and tied it firmly over her tightly braided hair, then reached for her reticule. She already had donned a prim, white starched shirtwaist and sensible gray skirt, along with a pair of sturdy boots. Though less comfortable in the tropical heat than her usual garb, the outfit was more appropriate for the Sabbath.

  She and Wilkie made the walk in short time. Saint Stephan's proved to be a rather impressive hilltop structure with its own school and cemetery. Built almost entirely of planking from wrecked ships—or so Halia learned from chatting outside its doors with various members of the church—the house of worship could seat almost two hundred. Its spiritual shepherd for the past twenty years had been one Father Philpot, whose ringing oratory Halia later decided was the reason for his burgeoning congregation.

  Unfortunately, his sermon that morning was on the subject of tolerance and forgiveness...virtues she'd not much cultivated of late. When services finally ended at noon, she left the church rather more ruffled in her mind than she had been when she entered.

  Wilkie noted her mood, offering his blunt assessment of the situation once they stood on the avenue again.

  “Right stubborn, the both o' ye,” he declared with a dour air as they strolled beneath the hot noon sun. ”Ye bark an’ snap at each other like a pair o' pups over an old shoe, an’for what? 'Tain't nothin' out there but fish, if ye're wantin' my opinion.”

  “If, by pups and old shoes, you are referring to my relationship with Mr. Northrup, then I believe you are exaggerating,” Halia countered in a stiff tone. “As for what is out there, I am convinced we are on the verge of a major discovery.”

  When Wilkie only made a sound of disgust, she heatedly went on, “You surprise me, Mr. Foote. I thought you and Malcolm were partners, that he could talk you into any manner of wild schemes. This, at least, is a scientific venture. Don't you want your share of whatever treasure he finds?”

  “All I want is a bit o' peace an’ quiet,” he retorted, then looked mildly surprised at his own answer.

  He knitted his blond brows, his pockmarked face taking on an even more doleful expression as he continued, “Tain't that I don't enjoy the life, takin' from them wot's got too much to begin wit’. Tis just that Malcolm, 'e ain't never satisfied. We make ourselves a potful o' blunt one day, an’ e's off lookin' for more the next.”

  “Indeed? I wonder why that is so?”

  With an effort, Halia kept her tone free of anything other than polite interest, though in truth Wilkie had piqued her curiosity. She knew nothing of Malcolm but what she'd read of him in the unsigned letters, along with what she had observed first-hand these past days. All that she really knew for certain was that he was a charming scoundrel…a coolly dangerous dandy.

  Suddenly, she had a keen desire to learn just what lay behind the man's contradictory facade.

  Wilkie appeared to be giving his answer more than casual thought. Finally, he replied, “'E wouldn't admit it, were ye to ask 'im. But e'ery time 'e takes a few bob off a rich bloke, 'e's takin' a stab back at ‘is father.”

  The thought of Malcolm's having any family was surprising enough, but before she could pursue Wilkie's last words, the man continued, ” 'E comes from right good stock, 'e does. ‘Is father is Charles Northrup, Earl o' Sherebrooke.”

  “Earl of Sherebrooke?”

  She stopped to stare at Wilkie, recalling the coat-of-arms she'd seen engraved on Malcolm's pocket watch. “Then he wasn't lying, after all. He really is—”

  “—a bastard, right enough,” Wilkie unexpectedly finished her statement. “‘Is Lordship 'ad an eye for the ladies. An’ Malcolm's mum, she were a right pretty girl, for all she were just an upstairs maid.”

  “So the earl seduced her?”

  Wilkie nodded. “When she turned up in a family way, 'er Ladyship were all fer turnin' 'er out, but ‘is Lordship said no. Malcolm grew up fer a time wit’ ‘is 'alf-sister, which is 'ow 'e learned to talk like ‘is betters. But then ‘is mum died, an’ the earl left for Dublin to take care o' some business. 'Er Ladyship saw 'er chance an’ bundled the poor lad off to London town. She left 'im there in the streets, threatenin' to 'ave 'im 'orsewhipped if 'e ever came back. 'E were but twelve years old. That's when 'e an’ I hooked up.”

  “But how horrible,” Halia cried, filled with sympathy for the boy that Malcolm had been. “Did his father never come after him?”

  “'Er Ladyship told the earl that Malcolm 'ad run off o' ‘is own free will, an’ I'd say ‘Is Lordship were probably right relieved. Malcolm, 'e were a wild lad an’ too clever by 'alf. 'Tweren't until ten years later that 'e an’ ‘is father met again. That were the day that Malcolm pinched ‘Is Lordship's gold pocket watch,” Wilkie finished with a grin.

  Halia, however, saw little to smile at in this tale. “So that's why he so despises the upper class. But can he truly believe that his ill-gotten gains somehow make up for Lord and Lady Sherebrooke’s sins against him?”

  Wilkie shrugged and resumed his leisurely pace. “I only know wot 'e tells me,” he said as she fell in step beside him again. Then, with a
sharp look at her, he added, “‘Ere, now, ye're not to let on to 'im wot I said.”

  “I'll not breathe a word,” she agreed and, indeed, she could imagine no time when she might bring up this remarkable bit of conversation to Malcolm. Still, it had given her a whole new outlook on the man.

  By now, they had reached the side street that led a brief, twisting length up to the King's Highway. Bidding Wilkie farewell—he would spend the afternoon, he informed her, fishing in the harbor—Halia started up the narrow, sandy avenue.

  Like the Queens Highway that ran parallel to it, Kings Highway proved quite a bit less grand a street than its royal name implied. It overlooked North Bimini's west coast so that, had she wished, she might have managed a glimpse of the area where she had been searching the waves these past days.

  Almost before she knew it, she was standing before the address that Captain Rolle had given her. Like the neighboring houses, his was a neat, single-storied cottage. It was whitewashed and set back behind a low stone wall, the top of which was lined with dozens of conch shells. A lone silver-thatched palm provided welcome shade, while yards of trailing hibiscus blanketed the hard-packed dirt yard in a flurry of green vines and yellow flowers.

  All the shutters were thrown open to catch the late morning breeze that made the day's heat almost bearable. From one window wafted the delicious spicy aroma of conch stew, and Halia's stomach gurgled in anticipation.

  She made her way past a short wood gate, upon which someone with more enthusiasm than skill had rendered the word Johnesta in bright paints. Rolle already stood waiting for her in the open doorway, minus his usual blue cap and dressed in his Sunday best. Only the glinting gold loop in his ear hinted at his seafaring profession.

  “Do be comin' in, Miss Halia,” he urged with a flashing grin. “The wife an’ the childrens, they be waitin' to meet you.”

  He urged her inside to a neat parlor of whitewashed walls and bare wooden floor. The room was sparsely furnished as was common in tropical homes to preserve a sense of airy coolness, and it served double duty as a dining salon. Eight places had been laid atop the round table in the corner, and Halia frowned as she did the swift arithmetic. Surely that was one place setting too many.

  She put aside the question, however, for Rolle's wife and four small children stood, like a regiment on drill, in a dignified line against the far wall. The woman stepped forward and offered her hand. “I be Esta Rolle, Miss Davenport,” she announced in quiet satisfaction.

  Standing half a head taller than Halia, though still far shorter than her burly husband, Esta was a striking woman of middle years. Flashing green eyes against cafe au lait skin proclaimed her mixed heritage, as did her straight black hair caught in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. In her simple red calico dress, she appeared to Halia's eyes far more regal than any New York society woman wrapped in silks and satins could ever hope to be.

  Smiling, she grasped the older woman's hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you. And do call me Halia,” she added before turning to the children.

  The quartet, two boys and two girls, stood stair-stepped in height from the oldest, a solemn boy of perhaps ten years, to the youngest, a grinning toddler in pink calico who clutched the next older girl's hand. All shared their father's dark skin, and all had the earnest, well-scrubbed look that bespoke stern but loving parents.

  Esta took her hat and reticule for her, and then indicated the foursome. “Let me be introducin' you, Miss Halia,” she said, giving her brood a proud smile.

  Briefly resting the palm of her hand on each curly head, she moved down the row from oldest to youngest, announcing, in turn, “Willis, Maxwell, Winifred, Viola.”

  With a shy chorus of “Pleased to be meetin' you, miss,” all save plump little Viola made their respective bows and curtsies. Halia gave each child a nod and a smile in return.

  “What a lovely family,” she told Esta. “You must be proud.”

  “That we be,” the woman replied, then addressed Rolle. “And where be our other dinner guest, then?”

  So she had not miscounted, after all, Halia realized and shot the captain a questioning glance. He returned her silent query with a look of bland innocence, and foreboding swept her. Dear Lord, surely he hadn't invited—

  “Sorry I'm late,” came Malcolm's familiar voice from the direction of the open doorway, confirming her suspicions. “I had a bloody time even finding—”

  He broke off abruptly as he stepped across the threshold and caught sight of her. She met his gaze, allowing herself a niggle of triumph as surprise, anger, and resignation all struggled across his features in hasty sequence. True, his reaction mirrored her own feelings, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  Even as the two of them remained unmoving, Esta and Rolle hurried to greet their other guest. Esta gave no sign that she noticed anything amiss, though the captain's face reflected amused satisfaction, so that Halia knew the man had carefully planned his guest list, after all. As for the four children, they giggled and stared at the newcomer.

  Malcolm evenly accepted his hosts' greetings, a look of bland disinterest having finally settled over his features. “I hadn't realized we were making a party of this,” he said, raising a wry brow. “If we're rather too crowded today, I would be happy to stop by another time.”

  “We be wantin' you now, Mr. Northrup,” the captain jovially countered and motioned him closer. “Here, you must be meetin' my family.”

  He began the introductions a second time for Malcolm's benefit. Standing to one side, Halia watched in silent disapproval as the latter made the swift change from reluctant caller to accommodating guest.

  In honor of the occasion, he had returned to his usual formal garb and had exchanged his now-battered boater for a more appropriate felt bowler. His first move was to sweep off his headgear and bend over Esta's work-worn hand with a nobleman's lazy grace.

  He proceeded to shower her with a profusion of compliments that, coming from his practiced lips, sounded surprisingly sincere. Halia was dismayed but not surprised to see the older woman fall victim to his easy charm, protesting his bantering words with smiling demurrers that only underscored her pleasure at his nonsense.

  The four children, Malcolm won over quite as easily. He produced from his waistcoat pocket a handful of sweets— procured from where, Halia could not guess—and presented several to each youngster, in turn, with great fanfare. In a matter of moments, he was allowing little Viola to examine his pocket watch even as, with a surprising bit of sleight of hand, he plucked a silver dollar from young Willis's ear.

  Charlatan...scoundrel, Halia thought, rolling her eyes and forgetting the earlier sympathy she had felt for him. If she had not been there as witness, he doubtless would have contented himself with a nod and a handshake for the lot of them, rather than summoning up this blatant display of good-fellowship.

  It was while she was indulging in such uncharitable thoughts that Malcolm chose to glance her way. “Ah, yes, Miss Davenport,” he murmured in conspicuous afterthought and gave her the barest of nods. “I presume that you have already met everyone here?”

  “I have, Mr. Northrup,” she replied with an air of equal unconcern. “I was on time, you see, and—”

  “I think we should be sittin' down now,” Esta hurried to interject, apparently aware of the tension between her two guests. “We don't want the stew to be gettin' cool. Children”—she turned to her now fidgeting brood—“you be helpin' our visitors to their chairs.”

  Halia promptly found either hand clutched by small and—courtesy of Malcolm's candy—sticky fingers as young Winifred and her baby sister crowded around her. The boys made an equally swift beeline for Malcolm, urging him toward the table. Esta and Rolle followed at a more sedate pace.

  Like an India rubber ball, Halia bounced from place to place as the children battled for the honor of sitting beside their guests. Once the scraping of chairs subsided and the urgent pleas—“do be sittin' by me, miss
...you have to be takin' this chair, mister”—were silenced, Halia somehow found herself wedged in against the wall and seated directly beside Malcolm.

  Though she carefully kept her gaze averted, the fact that she sat practically shoulder-to-knee with the man made it difficult for her to ignore him. Despite the welcome cross-breeze the room was warm, and the heat of his body warmer still. She was close enough to him to detect the faint masculine scent of him—a scent that was oddly comforting even while it evoked a score of disturbing memories.

  But she had no wish to be on such familiar terms with him. It was almost frightening, the idea of being able to recognize him almost by instinct. Why could not her traitorous body simply follow the dictates of her mind and know the man for what he was?

  She had no time to indulge her dismay, however, for Esta spoke up. “Mr. Malcolm, might you be wishin' to say grace for us?”

  Halia sensed with satisfaction that the request had taken him aback. But even as she expected him to decline the request, he smoothly replied, “But, of course.”

  Rather than say a traditional prayer, however, he launched into an invocation worthy of the Reverend Philpot himself. From their recent successful voyage to the sweet potatoes on the table, he counted every imaginable blessing. Uncertain whether to laugh or be appalled, she settled on offering her own silent prayer for strength.

  “—may we be truly thankful,” he finally finished, earning a hearty round amens from the assembled Rolles.

  “Show-off,” Halia muttered under her breath amid that chorus and then raised her bowed head.

  Now, serving bowls were being passed her way. She was no longer quite so hungry, given her unsettled state of mind. Still, not wishing to offend Esta, she made certain to spoon a portion of every dish onto her plate.