The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  The steward came out of his little room, carrying a bucket of charcoal for the stove. “All right, sir?”

  “I am. My wife isn’t. How many others are ill?”

  “Mr. Dacre, Captain Norton, the colonel, and his older son.” The man lowered his voice. “Testy about it, if you see what I mean.”

  “My wife’s testy, too, but she won’t let me tend her.”

  “That’s the way they often are, sir. Seasickness puts even angels in a mood.”

  “I have to do something. Are there any steerage passengers?”

  “Just one family, sir. We don’t normally take steerage other than servants, but as there’s a light complement of servants this time, Major Beaumont wanting his men with him, the captain took on one family of eight. Respectable enough people who took against Canada when one of them died.”

  “Any woman I could hire?”

  “There’s the young widow, sir. Any extra money might be welcome.”

  “See what you can do. Tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” The steward refueled the stove and disappeared.

  Simon found himself alone in the cuddy, surrounded by moans and sounds of vomiting. He’d go on deck but for the bitter cold. Jancy was right. People would be better off flying. Perhaps balloons would someday carry people across the oceans. But then, people would probably be air sick.

  And where the hell was he to sleep?

  He heard a door open behind him and turned just as the ship lurched. He caromed into an easy chair, cracking his ribs against the wooden edge.

  “Hell almighty!”

  “Sit down, damn you.” Hal thrust him into the chair.

  Simon was clutching his side. “God, I’m so fed up with this.” But then he looked at Hal’s empty sleeve. “How petty of me to complain.”

  Hal shrugged. “Brandy?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Hal went to a cupboard and took out two heavy-bottomed tumblers and put them on the table, managing remarkably well in the tossing ship. Then he took out a silver flask and undid the cap one-handed.

  When the brandy was poured, Simon sipped it. “Good stuff.” But then something about Hal’s movements made him ask, “Are you drunk?” He’d been wrapped up in Jancy, but he thought Hal might have been drinking a lot since the voyage began.

  Hal took another mouthful of brandy. “My arm was badly broken, but it might just have been some use to me.”

  “Ah. Maggots.”

  “A troubling thought. Brandy helps.”

  “It could become another kind of infection.”

  Hal’s mouth moved into a bitter twist. “What would they cut off then? Dammit, a leg would have been better. Or an eye. I’m sorry. Not good form.”

  “What are friends for if not to share grief?”

  Hal looked at his glass. “Yes, grief. That’s what it is. Do you think I’ll be reunited in heaven?”

  There was nothing to say to that, so Simon changed the subject. “Jane’s turning inside out and I don’t know what to do for her. She was badly affected on the way out. Her cousin died of it.”

  He hadn’t admitted that deepest fear until he spoke it.

  Hal carefully sat down opposite him. “But Jane didn’t die on the way out, did she?”

  “No. No, she didn’t. But she screams at me every time I go in there.”

  “That’s a good sign of life. Oh, you don’t have a bed. Why not cram into my cabin? We’ve already got one hammock slung for Oglethorpe. Your papers are under the bottom mattress, by the way, if you ever want them.”

  They seemed irrelevant now. “Abandon her?”

  “You’ll be more use to her after some rest.”

  Simon went to ask Jane if she approved this arrangement. Though her response couldn’t be described as sweet and loving, it did sound fervently sincere.

  The next morning, when Jancy heard the door open, she groaned. She knew Simon meant well, but she couldn’t bear him seeing her like this. She’d managed to sleep now and then through the night, and if she lay very still her stomach only churned and ached. She knew she had to be a mess and she knew she’d scream at him again.

  Like a fishwife.

  Like two Haskett women fighting over a stolen skirt.

  “Jane?”

  There he was again.

  “This is Grace Pitt. She’s going to assist you.”

  Jancy opened her eyes a slit and saw a looming figure, but the door had closed and she thought Simon had gone.

  “Grace?” she managed from a dry mouth. She was dying for a drink but she knew she’d throw it up.

  “That’s right, mum,” the woman said in a thick accent that sounded like the Midlands. “I’ll take away yer slops, shall I, mum?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Perhaps without that stink in the room she’d feel better. But she knew she wouldn’t. She knew the whole course of this misery. Including death.

  There was a thumping and a clanking and the door closed again. Jancy simply lay still. She didn’t want to die, not now, not when she had Simon. Yet at the same time, she’d welcome death as an escape.

  Grace Pitt. Where had she come from? An ungracious-sounding woman, but that was hardly surprising. No matter what Simon was paying her, this was a horrible job. Even tending for Jane, Jancy had found it vile. But she was grateful to have someone other than the overworked steward to help her. Someone who was not Simon.

  Perhaps she dozed, for she seemed to wake up to Grace saying, “I’ve some gruel here they say as you should try, mum.”

  Jancy wanted to put nothing in her mouth ever again, but she knew that was impossible. “Help me sit up, please.”

  The woman did so, proving to be big, strong—and pungent. Jancy was sure she stank herself, but her attendant had another sort of smell. The sour odor of a long-unwashed body.

  Jancy took a mouthful of gruel, commanding her stomach to stay calm. Grace was short and stocky with an enormous bosom and arms like a strong man’s. She was probably about thirty, but the rough square face was impossible to assess. She wore a skirt and laced bodice over a grubby shift in a style of fifty years ago.

  Jancy took another mouthful. Perhaps it would stay down.

  “Water, please.”

  “Yer wants to wash?” Grace asked.

  “I wants to drink.” She hadn’t meant to mimic, and the woman didn’t seem to notice.

  “Beer, then, mum?”

  “No, water.”

  “I wouldn’t drink water misself, mum, especially not on board ship. Nasty stuff, water is, especially out of barrels.”

  The woman had a point, though the water should still be good. But what if drinking stale water caused the sickness?

  “I’ll try the beer, then.”

  Grace was back in a moment with a pewter tankard, and she helped Jancy drink. It was small beer, thin and weak, but that was exactly right for thirst and it felt wonderful in her mouth and throat. Jancy sat there, praying, but clutching the bowl in case. Just as she’d begun to hope, her stomach cramped and she threw up again.

  Over the next days, every time her stomach calmed, she hoped. Every time she felt the vomit rise, she truly wished she were dead. Even the bells that marked the sailors’ days felt like knives through her throbbing head. A shrill screaming one day made her sure some poor soul had given up hope.

  “Don’t you worry none, mum,” Grace said. “They’re just killing a pig. Roast pork for dinner t’night.”

  Jancy threw up again at the thought, wishing the hellhole called the Eweretta would crash on some rocks and bring her happy release.

  Memory of poor Jane’s fate began to seem a blessing. Death would solve everything. Her wickedness would never be discovered, Simon would be free to marry a lady of his own station, and she’d escape this never-ending torture.

  Simon came to check on her every morning and evening, knocking and asking Grace for news. Jancy huddled under the covers praying he wouldn’t insist on seeing her, fo
r she knew she was a haggard crone. He never did, and then she wept for being abandoned.

  He’d realized he didn’t really love her. That she was a lowborn wanton, not suited to be his bride. He was probably wooing Eliza Ransome-Brown, who was connected to the Manners and the Wallops. He wanted her to die. She lost count of the days and waited for death, and even wept wet tears and dry in Grace Pitt’s burly arms, praying for the end.

  That was, as they said, the darkness before dawn. Jancy woke to a real dawn feeling steadier. Weak as a blind kitten, but in some way settled inside. It helped that the weather seemed calmer and the ship only rolled.

  When Simon knocked to check on her, however, she again pretended to be asleep. Her hair was a tangled, sticky mess, and she smelled worse than Grace.

  She heard Grace at the door whispering that there was no change, but Jancy knew she’d be able to eat a bit today and keep it down. Tomorrow she might have the strength to get up and move around the cabin. This time she wouldn’t have grief to crush her, so perhaps in a few days she’d be almost normal again.

  Then she heard Grace say, “She might be a bit touched in the head, sir. She were weeping in the night, and told me she wun’t a lady, but a basket!”

  Jane was puzzling over that when Simon touched her brow. She knew his touch and her eyes flew open. “Don’t. I’m filthy!”

  “The question is, are you mad?”

  “Don’t bend like that.”

  He smiled his beloved smile, and tears spilled from her eyes.

  He wiped them away. “You’ve been in here ten days, love. I can dance a jig by now. I suppose if you can nag me, you still have your wits. Did you really say you were a basket? What kind? Straw? Willow? Best Leghorn cane?”

  Unwillingly amused, she muttered, “I don’t know—”

  But then she stopped, horrified.

  Not basket. Haskett!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A child’s rhyme came into her mind.

  A tisket, a tasket,

  A green and yellow basket . . .

  Her mind changed it to:

  A tisket, a tasket,

  Your mother was a Haskett . . .

  What else had she said in her raving?

  “What’s the matter, love? What do you need?”

  “Just a cramp,” she lied. “I feel so foolish to be ill.”

  “Remember Nelson. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  His hazel eyes were full of love, but her heart was sour with fear. What else had she said to Grace Pitt? “I feel so weak. Literally, I mean.”

  “You’ve hardly eaten for ten days. What about some broth with bread in it? Do you think you could eat that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He kissed her forehead and left.

  Even sitting up to eat was a strain, but the broth stayed down, then some gruel, then some tea and toast. By afternoon, she could move around the cabin, though shakily, and that could just have been due to the motion of the ship.

  She was intent on getting well so she could get rid of Grace, though she couldn’t decide whether to try to find out what else she’d babbled, or ignore it. Clearly the woman didn’t think “basket” had any particular meaning.

  She looked out of the porthole but quickly turned away from the tilted, swaying view. She clutched one of the bedposts, eyes tight shut, trying not to think of the way the ship heaved beneath her feet. The clamminess started again, but she fought it, fought it, and things settled.

  More or less.

  She opened her eyes again and almost shrieked at the filthy, matted-haired hag with cracked lips in the mirror.

  A tisket, a tasket,

  Your mother was a Haskett.

  She sat on the chest, panting with effort and panic.

  Grace came in, swore, and hoisted her back onto the bed. “Don’t you be trying to do too much, mum!”

  Jancy obeyed, letting the woman think that it had been moving around that had caused her distress. In a way it had been, but in her frail state she felt as if her deepest shame could be revealed at any moment.

  When Simon knocked that evening, Grace whispered to him, “She’s eating well, sir. She’ll soon be into roast pork.”

  Jancy’s stomach roiled.

  “Excellent.”

  He began to come in. Jancy pulled the sheet over her head, “Please don’t. I’m in a horrible state.”

  “Jane, love . . . Grace, leave us for a while.”

  Jancy heard the door shut. “Sweetheart, you’ve seen me as badly off.”

  “No, I haven’t. We bathed you every day.”

  He leaned closer and whispered, “Would you like me to bathe you?”

  Part of her stirred, but she didn’t want him touching her when she was like this. “Go away.”

  “Very well, if I can’t tempt you that far, would you like to bathe yourself?”

  “Bring me hot water, then.”

  “I can do better.”

  She lowered the sheet enough to look at him. “How?”

  “Dacre complained of the lack of a shower bath. The Eweretta cannot lack anything, so now we have one.”

  “What is it?”

  “A half barrel to stand in and another above with a pierced metal opening to let down warm water upon pulling a string. Very clever design. It uses seawater, but it has rained in plenty, so there’s fresh for rinsing.”

  It sounded like paradise. “When?”

  “Don’t try to do too much too soon, love. Wait until tomorrow.”

  “I long to be clean.”

  “Tomorrow. First thing. I’ll arrange it.” He went to the door but turned to smile. “Welcome back, my love.”

  Over the top of the dirty sheet, she smiled back at him.

  He left but didn’t close the door because Grace was outside. Jancy heard the woman whisper, “Pardon me, sir, but did you call your wife Jane?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well, sir, when she were at her worst, she called out for a Jane. ‘Jane, oh, Jane!’ she cried. ‘Don’t die.” ’

  A clammy sweat broke out over Jancy’s body.

  “She must have known some other Jane,” Simon said. “At such times our minds can reach back.”

  The door clicked closed and Grace took up her watching post, sitting on the chest. Jancy lay there surprised her heartbeat wasn’t shaking the ship. Twice, she’d as good as declared her deception to the world.

  That night she tried to stay awake in case she talked in her sleep. But then Grace was snoring in the upper bunk and nature had its way. The next she knew was daylight through the porthole with even a bit of sunny brightness to it.

  It was a new day and she must face her future. She knew now, however, that it would be as treacherous as the sands of Morecambe Bay—so smooth and unthreatening on the surface, but turning to quicksand when the tide rushed in.

  And in her case, the tides would be unpredictable. First there’d been her slips in the way she referred to Martha. Then the arrival of Dacre. Now the babblings of sickness. What would it be next time?

  And when would it suck her down?

  She was almost too weary to fight, but like a thing apart, her brain began to come up with ways to explain away the inconvenient Jane.

  They said stealing became easier each time a person did it. So, it would seem, did lying. Perhaps she could blame everything on Tillie and Martha, who’d made her a liar at a young age. Sick at herself, she wove a new thread into her tapestry of deceit. A childhood friend called Jane—who had drowned. When they were both . . . six. An age a person could remember, but long, long ago.

  Carefully she sat up. Grace wasn’t in the room, so she climbed out of bed. Her legs felt weak, but that would correct with movement. She staggered over to the chest to find clean clothing. If she had such a thing after what—two weeks at sea? She’d not changed during the past ten days, however, so there was still plenty.

  When Grace came in, she sent her to ask that the bath be prepared and the
n sat to attempt to comb her hair. It was in such a state she wondered if the woman had combed it properly once during her sickness.

  Combing out Jane’s hair so it lay like silk even as she faded and died . . .

  She pulled back from that and worked at the knots, feeling the filth. Seawater was terrible for washing hair, but it would have to be an improvement.

  Simon came himself to say the bath was ready. She would have hidden from him if there’d been any way.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “In the corner of the cuddy, behind the stove. There’s a curtain.”

  “Is anyone out there?”

  “Just Shore. Everyone else is on deck enjoying the sunshine. I’ll persuade him to do the same for a while.”

  Jancy gathered her clean clothes, dragged a blanket from the bed to hide in, and scurried to the curtained area.

  Half an hour later, she felt like a different person.

  The bathing arrangement was surprisingly pleasant and the stove kept the chill off this corner. Every time she pulled a string, a bit of warm seawater poured down on her. Even though her soap wouldn’t lather, the smell of it refreshed her, and there was something about scrubbing with warm saltiness that made her feel especially clean. The shower arrangement definitely made it easier to wash her hair.

  When she’d finished, she poured fresh water over herself from a jug. It had been heated but had cooled by then and she shivered. She toweled herself dry and pulled on her shift, bodice, and gown, and then combed her wet hair. A small mirror hung on the wall and she checked herself before emerging. Ah, that was better.

  No trace of Haskett.

  She came out from behind the curtain to see only Simon in the cuddy.

  He smiled. “My love, you’re alive again.”

  She went to him with her hands outstretched. “Yes, I think I am. I do apologize.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Grace and Kirkby are cleaning our room, so sit and have some tea.”

  “I’m afraid that will be quite a job,” she said, doing as suggested but braced for questions about the Jane who had died, or even Hasketts/baskets. She suddenly wondered if Lionel Dacre knew about Hasketts.