She would need somewhere to house these new goods when they arrived. Perhaps Nico could help her find somewhere to store them before they were to be collected. Better still, a place where her father would never see them. Perhaps she could arrange for her brother to take them directly to the English.
She could even turn it into an advantage – no one else she knew of directly delivered goods of that sort.
Morwena was overwhelmed by a yawn. It would not surprise her if the midnight hour had now passed. She would need to be up at dawn to set the fire and bake the bread. She carried her journal and slipped it amongst her undergarments – a place her father would never dream of going near.
As for the earnings...
In a box slid underneath the legs of her wardrobe was her mother’s wedding gown, a gown that Morwena herself was expected to marry in. At the age of twenty-four, such dreams were beyond her, but somehow it seemed only right that her late mother share in her fortune. She found an unused leather-tooled purse and quietly poured the money in before secreting it beneath the gown, closing the box and shoving it back under the wardrobe.
It was the best she could do for now. Step by step, that’s how we go.
Camina chi pantofuli finu a quannu non hai i scarpi. Walk with your slippers until you find your shoes.
CHAPTER SIX
March 1811
The bundle of coins sat like a little silver pyramid on the table between them.
Morwena watched her brother's eyes flicker over them, but his hands lay flat on the table, sphinx-like.
She shook her head to clear it of random Egyptian musings.
“It doesn't feel right, taking money from you.”
“Why not? It’s yours, you've earned it.”
She watched her younger brother's eyes flicker to the pile and then back to her.
“It should come from Papa.”
“It's not his money to give. It's mine.”
“And I'm supposed to feel better taking money from a woman? Like... like a gigolo?”
Morwena felt her teeth grind slowly and decided it was not enough. She leaned forward until her face was just inches away from his.
“Are you calling me a prostitute?”
The pallor on the young man's face might have made her laugh if she wasn't so damned furious.
“N... nun... no!”
“Then why? Are you ashamed of me?”
Nico looked down. “It's Papa I'm ashamed of. He should not be letting a daughter run a business.”
“Papa is sick.”
“He doesn't look sick.”
“It's not a sickness you can see. It’s a sickness in his mind. And you cannot know it unless you live with him day after day like I do.”
“Are you blaming this sickness for the evil things he said to Pietro?”
Oh dear, this argument again...
Nico hero worshipped his older brother; as far as he was concerned, Pietro could do no wrong. Morwena knew better – she saw her older brother as he truly was, a flawed man who was a lot more like his father than either man would admit.
“Father is a hard man, we all know that, but Pietro was equally to blame for that fight. Do you think Pietro would not take the money he rightly earned?”
Nico's attention turned to the pile of coins before him.
“It's too much.”
She shook her head. “It's only what you've earned.”
Nico stared at her a moment, and Morwena didn’t wonder why. Thomasso was a miser with his money; coin was doled out reluctantly. When Nico was at home, only father handled the takings. The amount sitting on the table before her younger brother would have been more money than he’d ever seen in one place before.
The young man hesitated, then nodded his head. A sign he had given in. It was a small victory, but a terrible blow to his pride.
Perhaps she could do something about that.
“I need you to do something for me. Something I cannot do myself.”
Nico's shoulders, which had slumped further and further down during her visit, were now straight and squared.
“I will not move back home, Wena, not while Pietro is unwelcome.”
“I would never ask such a thing of you, Brother. You are a good man. No, this is something else.”
His dark brow furrowed. “What is it?”
“I need you to rent a warehouse for me.”
“A warehouse?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, part of a warehouse. A quarter will do, but I need more than an eighth.”
“Why on earth do you need a warehouse? What's wrong with the storeroom behind the shop?” Nico’s brow furrowed a moment before it dawned on him and his eyes brightened. “Papa doesn't know about our enterprise, does he?”
She shook her head slowly and grinned right along with him.
“Papa doesn't know,” she confirmed. “And I'm expecting a shipment from the mainland in three weeks. There is too much to store at the shop, and Papa will start asking questions.”
“Then I will do it to help you,” Nico announced.
Morwena doubted that. In truth, Nico was doing it to thumb his nose at their father. A small act of rebellion to avenge Pietro. From her wicker basket in which she had brought food – jars of tuna, fresh vegetables and fruit preserves – Morwena pulled out a weighty leather sack.
“There’s enough here for a bond and rent for three months,” she said. “I want a receipt for the money and a contract in writing when I come to see you next week.”
Nico’s eyes remained on the purse that dwarfed the pile of coins on the table.
“Are you listening to me?” Morwena didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.
“Yes, yes, receipt and contract. I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a bambino, I’m not that much younger than you.”
Morwena raised her hands in surrender. One must never offend male pride. She rose from the table and looked about the small room Nico had rented, and was no doubt being charged a small fortune for.
Apart from the table and two chairs, there was a bed – neatly made, to her surprise – a stove for warmth and just large enough to heat some water, and a ewer and bowl. For a young man, he would not need much more, and yet he had a spacious home where she would gladly cook for him.
She pulled out a wad of printed flyers in English and placed it on the table. “The Terpsichore is back soon,” she said. “Ask the captain or his first officer if they have heard of any new English arrivals. I’ve heard rumors that the English ambassador will be coming to Palermo and that will mean even more business. Perhaps they know more.”
She rose. “Is there anything more you need before I go?”
Nico rose from the table also and enveloped her in an embrace. Although he was two years younger, he was already a couple of inches taller.
“You’re a good sister. I could not ask for anything more.”
Morwena squeezed him tight and shut her eyes, and squeezed them also to stop the tears she could feel pricking behind them.
“I should be asking what you need from me.”
Morwena took a deep breath and looked into her brother’s warm, brown eyes. There was one thing she wanted – her brothers to come home – but she had come to accept that it would not happen any time soon.
“No, there’s nothing more, Nico. Only that you take care of yourself.”
The look in her brother’s eyes told her that he recognized what was unsaid between them. After a moment, he offered her a lopsided grin. “A warehouse, a receipt, and a contract by next week. You are a slave driver, that’s what you are, Sister.”
The tension between them broke and Morwena burst out laughing.
“Then you be sure to deliver,” she said in mock seriousness, swatting his arm for emphasis. “There will be great trouble if you don’t!”
“All right, stivali prepotenti, my bossy boots. I can’t possibly have you mad at me.”
She looked about as she stepped out onto the stree
t. Of all the places Nico could have rented, Morwena knew there were lodgings much worse than this in even more disreputable areas. But even so, she preferred to begin making her way home now while there was still light to see without lamps.
She traveled with the last of the sun on her back, propelling her forward through streets and past buildings that seemed to take on a different character after dark. She was far too old to believe in the ghosts who sometimes walked the streets – they were tales for children. And yet, even now as a grown woman, the residue of fear followed her, making her cautious of what lurked in the shadows.
Ahead, she could see the broad thoroughfare of via Vittorio Immanuel illuminated by the golden shafts of the fading spring sun. If she hurried, she would be home in time to make preparations for dinner.
She heard the echo of something banging in an alleyway behind her. She quickened her steps. After another minute, she became sure of the sound of footsteps behind her. As she crossed a street, the shadows lengthened. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of shadow that was not her own.
She drew closer to the crossing where a sliver of the verdi gris dome of the Church of San Matteo emerged between the storied apartment buildings that crowded the narrow street down which she traveled. In the sunlight, the sandstone trims and pediments gleamed gold. Carried on the breeze were notes from the organ inside. Surely the man who followed her would not harass her in a church.
She ventured a glance back. Indeed she was being followed, by a tall man and lean, his features unknowable in the silhouette of the setting sun.
A few more paces and she chanced another glance behind her, then searched among the throng of people going about their business on this fine late afternoon. She did not see anyone sinister.
Bah! You’re being foolish, Morwena. It’s probably Nico trailing behind to make sure you reach the center of town safely.
She emerged out onto the via and bumped into an old woman, her hair covered, clearly heading for the church across the road.
“Forgive me, la vedova nobile, can I aid you across the street?”
The dowager’s sour expression lightened immediately at the apology and the offer of an escort. Now in the more familiar part of town, Morwena relaxed. This world was one she knew.
She glanced back once more and was pretty sure she caught a glimpse of her brother slipping back into the shadows. What a rotten trick to play! She would be having words with Nico the next time they met.
The last peal from the mantel clock calling the sixth hour sounded as she walked through the door. Morwena stuck her head through the curtain that divided the house and the shop.
“I’m home, Papa! I have scacciata ready to bake.”
Thomasso lifted his head from his ledgers.
“How did you enjoy your day, my dear? Good to catch up with friends no doubt. How is Cettina? I haven’t seen her family in such a long time.”
“Papa, we dined with them after church three Sundays ago.”
“Did we? Ah yes, of course we did, we spoke about Napoleon and the war, didn’t we?”
“I imagine you did. I was with Cettina and her mother in the kitchen.”
Thomasso’s face softened. There was a faraway look in his eyes.
“My darling little Morwena, how much like your mother you look every day. Perhaps, I am being selfish keeping you with me.”
“Papa?” Morwena put down her basket and entered the shop. Old habits died hard, and she did the rounds of locking the door and tidying the display until she reached her father’s side. “You don’t want me to stay with you?”
“You ought to be married and having a bambino of your own.”
“What’s brought this on again, Papa?”
“You’re taking this far better than I thought you would be.”
He was making no sense; was his illness coming upon him again?
Morwena shook her head. “Taking what better? I don’t understand.”
“All young girls are excited by the news of an engagement and don’t think I’ve not noticed that you’re fond of Cettina. I spoke to her father today. The families have picked the date for the wedding.”
“Of course I’m delighted for them Papa, but I didn’t want you to think that I was a silly girl and bore you with plans for the wedding.”
“So, that’s where you were today,” said Thomasso with a knowing smile.
The thought of deceiving her father even more than she had already done made her feel ill once again, so she merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Better a sin of omission than an outright sin of lying.
“Thank you for thinking of me, Papa, but I am content to be a good daughter and look after my only father,” she offered, giving him a soft kiss on cheek. “I’d better stoke the fire for dinner, otherwise it will be late.”
She glanced down at the ledger and saw the smears of ink she had used to disguise her deception in business. Her already sour stomach twisted further.
“I’m sorry, Papa, I blotted the ledger. I was careless, it won’t happen again. I made sure I reentered all the figures.”
If she couldn’t be punished for one sin, she may as well face the consequences for another.
Morwena remembered that when Pietro was much younger, he had accidentally tipped over a bottle of ink that stained just a corner of the ledger book. The punishment was swift and unequivocal – a dozen stinging blows from a cane kept in the kitchen for such a purpose.
She watched her father look at the dark blue stains – and waited for her punishment.
“You were certain to have copied the numbers across properly?”
“Yes, Papa, the figures all add up. I’m sorry.”
“Then let’s forget about it. Accidents will happen, won’t they? Now… tell me what you have for my supper.”
Morwena’s heart started beating again. She was a tightrope walker where one misstep would lead to catastrophe. She would say the Hail Mary and the Our Father tonight and make confession at her first opportunity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ship ahoy!”
Jonathan watched Hardacre look up toward the disembodied voice, cup his hands, and yell. “What is she?”
The breeze took away the answer but the young English captain secured his telescope, grabbed a line and hauled himself hand over hand to one of the cross trees. Jonathan looked to the starboard and, indeed, some distance away was a dot of the horizon but it was too far away to discern what type with the naked eye.
He watched Hardacre open his telescope and study the vessel. He called down.
“Mr. Nash! Galiot off our port side. Let’s see if she’s spotted us. Prepare to change course.”
The first officer was at the helm and yelled out orders to the crew. Then he swung the wheel.
Above, the sails billowed wildly before being brought back into trim, reminding Jonathan of reining in horses after giving them their heads on a galloping run. Not only did the ship change course slightly, but he could feel it appear to pick up speed. There was also a snap to alertness in the crew as well.
He stood at the rail and watched the dot on the horizon. It did not get smaller. He watched a few minutes. Was it getting closer? After a few minutes more, it was obvious it was closing on the Terpsichore but he estimated it must still be fully over ten miles away.
He looked for Hardacre high in the shrouds and spotted him busily yelling orders to the sailors up there with him to maximize the afternoon wind. He then looked back to the helm where Elias was conferring with another man over maps.
Over the course of the next hour, the indeterminate dot became a blob then a distinct galiot. The lighter vessel with the extra power of oars drawn by slaves was gaining quickly on the heavier Terpsichore.
Jonathan considered if he should offer his help for what it was worth. He approached the helm.
“Give me options, Giorgio,” said Elias to the man beside him. The young man’s face was normally placid, but now there was an edge to h
is expression. The tension was contagious.
“We’re close to Catallus. If we can put it between the Terpsichore and them –” offered Giorgio. “But…”
“But what?”
“Well, you know I’m not good at this. I can’t quite figure the course after that last change in direction. I need a minute.”
“Well, hurry up!”
The galiot was gaining quickly now. Jonathan imagined that even over the expanse of sea that still separated them, he could hear the drum beats keeping the oarsmen in time.
“They’re firing!” came a yell from somewhere on deck.
A whistling sound flew past them before a thunderous report caught up a few seconds later.
“Man the guns!” Giorgio yelled.
Another sailor came hurrying up to them, his face pouring with sweat and slightly out of breath from quickly coming down the shroud.
“Cap’n says try and out run ’em first, we don’t have a lot of cannon shot left. He said the helm’s in your hands, Mr. Nash.”
Elias’ jaw worked, but he nodded once. Jonathan noticed how tightly he gripped the wheel. Then Elias looked at him. “You’d be best to get down below decks, Mr. Afua. It’s likely to get rough.”
“I will stay,” Jonathan replied. “How can I help you, Mr. Nash?”
The first officer glanced at Giorgio who pored over the charts and appeared to be struggling with the sextant. “There’s not a lot you can do, Mr. Afua, unless you can navigate…”
Jonathan examined the map unfurled on the bench and the log which showed the direction they’d been traveling during the day. They’d been heading in a northwesterly direction. If they made their course more northerly, there looked to be a large rocky outcrop.
“Is that Catallus?” he asked Giorgio.
“Yes – but that last turn threw me.”
Jonathan estimated the turn wouldn’t amount to much. Right now, simply changing course for this Catallus place would do and he could figure out the fine details on the run. Indeed, they were probably close enough that soon they could navigate by sight.
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