by Angela Hunt
“Your devotion is most praiseworthy, madam,” the Portuguese said, turning to face her. His grin was an open and shameless confession of his eavesdropping, but he turned to John White and Jocelyn felt hope rise in her heart. “Let the lady return to her father if she chooses.”
John White’s expression gentled. “If you still want to leave us when we return to Portsmouth, I will not stop you,” he said finally, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Far from satisfied, Jocelyn followed Audrey into the bowels of the ship through a series of steep and narrow stairways the sailors called “companionways.” There were at least four decks under the main upper deck, Audrey told Jocelyn. The upper deck was reserved for the seamen who worked the ship; the deck under that was for the passengers. Below the passenger deck was a deck for cooking and the storage of cargo, and at the bottom of the ship, barrels of water, food, and stone for ballast jammed the orlop deck.
Jocelyn did not care to tour the ship, for she had no intention of remaining on it for more than a voyage to Cowes and the return to Portsmouth. When Audrey led her to Eleanor, though, Jocelyn felt her anger soften. She could not be angry at her uncle and cousin once she saw how badly Eleanor fared on the ship.
Her vivacious cousin lay curled on a stuffed mattress, her skin a sickly gray-green. Agnes Wood sat devoutly beside her, her expression screwed into a sour snarl, but her face cracked into humanity as she tried to explain Eleanor’s condition. “‘Tis seasickness,” Agnes said when Jocelyn looked at her cousin in horror. “Master Ananias said ‘twill pass once we reach the open sea. ‘Tis only the harbors that are so choppy.”
Jocelyn didn’t have the heart to remind Agnes that they would be in the harbor for many days to come, so she sank onto the wooden floor next to Eleanor. “I don’t know which of us is sorrier to be here,” she said, trailing her hand over her cousin’s glistening brow. “Mayhap you should come off the ship with me when we return to Portsmouth. Let your father and husband go to Virginia without you.”
Despite her weakness and nausea, Eleanor’s pale blue eyes flew open in protest. “Leave?” she croaked, struggling to raise her head. “Why, never, cousin! I couldn’t leave my husband. Ananias isn’t—well, I won’t leave him. This is only something to be borne, and I bore the sickness gladly enough when I was first with child. ‘Tis just—” she paused and gestured frantically toward her maid. Agnes expertly pulled her mistress’ head toward a low basin while Jocelyn turned away.
Why had her father put her aboard this living purgatory? She could not wait to be rid of it.
When Eleanor lay quiet again, Jocelyn looked down at her cousin and was surprised to find a brave smile on the elder girl’s face. “Ananias was granted a coat of arms before we left, did you know that?” she whispered. “All of Papa’s assistants were given them by the royal Garter King of Arms. My children will be gentlemen and ladies, not middling folk.”
“I thought all men were to be equal in your new city,” Jocelyn answered, not caring that her remark sounded less than charitable.
Eleanor’s smile twitched. “And so they will be. But gentle men will always be gentlemen. And I’m glad Ananias is a bricklayer, for his skill will be sorely needed. Do you think the gentry can sit around all day and let the city build itself? Papa says the men of Raleigh must be men of ability, and my Ananias will be one of the best.”
“I’m sorry to upset you,” Jocelyn answered, genuinely contrite. She patted Eleanor’s hand. “My head hurts horribly, and I can’t stop thinking about my father. At first I was angry to find myself here, but when I think of how sincerely Papa wanted me to leave, I am even more desperate to return to him.”
Eleanor grimaced as a new wave of nausea hit her. “Are you sure you won’t stay with us?” she whimpered, clutching her stomach. “I need you, coz.”
Jocelyn gave Eleanor a sympathetic smile. “My father needs me more.”
John White stalked into his cabin and slammed the door behind him. Roger Bailie, his chief assistant, winced at the noise, then smoothed his face and returned his attention to the parchment on the small table that served as the governor’s desk.
At sixty, Roger Bailie was one of the oldest colonists to make the journey, but he had been a devoted friend to John White for years. He stood five feet two inches tall, had sincere blue eyes, and was completely bald but for two hanks of blonde hair tied together at the nape of his neck. His chief attributes, White had discovered, were his loyalty and attention to detail.
“A plague on that Portuguese!” White shouted, flinging his hat against the wall of the cabin. “He argues with every decision I make. I am the governor of this colony, hence the commander of this expedition, but because he is master of this ship I am thwarted at every turn! I don’t care how good a pilot he is, Raleigh was a fool to entrust the ship to him.”
“What has Master Simon Fernandes done now?” Bailie asked, looking up from his parchment.
“Nothing that need concern you,” White mumbled, sinking onto his narrow bed in frustration. He had tried to keep his suspicions to himself, but with every hour that passed he became more and more convinced that the Portuguese navigator was a traitor at best, and a spy for the Spanish at worst.
“You don’t know him like I do,” White said, folding his hands across his chest. “I’ve sailed with the braggart before. The last time, Fernandes endangered our entire fleet and ran aground through sheer carelessness one of Her Majesty’s largest ships at Roanoke Island. Fernandes cares nothing for the colony or the colonists. His ambitions are centered around privateering and whatever treasure and goods he can pluck from Spanish and French vessels who are unlucky enough to cross his path.”
“Sir, I have the final count of colonists.” Roger Bailie waved a sheet of parchment. Confound the man, wasn’t he even listening?
“What?”
“Forty and eight seamen aboard the Lion, twenty and four each aboard Spicer’s flyboat and the pinnace commanded by Captain Stafford. We have boarded upon our three ships ninety-seven colonists. Fifteen additional colonists, all men, are to join us at Plymouth.”
“And the families?” John White threw an anxious glance over his shoulder. “How many families have we?”
Bailie scanned his register. “Fourteen. Four include a mother, father, and child. Two women, including your daughter, are due to deliver a baby soon. Six are married couples without children, four are fathers and sons whose wives have agreed to join them next year. I count nine children and seventeen women, eight of whom are serving-women.”
“My niece and her maid will be leaving the ship at Portsmouth,” White murmured, absently scratching the two-day growth of beard on his chin. “‘Twill leave fifteen women.”
“Sir, there is one peculiar notation on this register,” Bailie said, looking up. “There is a Reverend Thomas Colman listed among the men, and a ‘Colman’ listed among the women. But though the lady must be his wife, I can find no record of her Christian name. Nor have I seen a wife with the minister.”
White stared at the ceiling for a moment, then smiled. He might solve one vexing problem, at least, before the ships departed England. “Thank you, Roger, I am glad you have reminded me, for the matter is of some importance,” he said, sitting up and nodding to his assistant. “Would you find this Reverend Colman and send him to me forthwith? I will settle the matter of his wife once and for all.”
Roger Bailie stood from behind the desk and bowed politely, then turned to fulfill his orders.
“My niece—your intended bride—was most unhappy to find herself on the ship,” John White explained to Thomas Colman in the privacy of his cabin. The young man stood as straight as before, the same hat in his hand, the same severe black doublet and hose. “She has made me promise to give her the opportunity to leave when we dock again at Portsmouth. But she must not leave, Reverend Colman. I have promised my dying brother that I would keep her with me.”
“Surely the girl is reasonable,” Colman answered, c
lenching his hat as he had in White’s dockside office. “If she wishes to go—”
“Unless you wish to give fifteen years of your life as my servant, you will not let her go,” White said, pulling a rolled-up parchment from the desk beside his bed. He unrolled it before his dark-haired visitor, whose face emptied of expression when he recognized the signature on the page.
White dropped the parchment onto the desk. “We will be anchored here at Cowes for six more days before we return to Portsmouth,” he said. “You have six days, Reverend Colman, to win yourself a bride. Her name is Jocelyn White, and you will find her either in the company of her maid, Audrey Tappan, or my daughter, Eleanor Dare.”
He paused and studied the dark eyes of the young man before him. “Do we have an understanding, Reverend Colman?”
“Yes.” The eyes that stared back at him were strangely veiled. “We do.”
SIX
Audrey noticed the tall, dark-haired man first. For two days he had followed them through the long, twice-a-day meal lines. He always stood at a respectful distance, allowing two or three other passengers to come between him and the girls, and after a while Audrey realized that his eyes did not follow her, but her mistress. His dark gaze flickered over Jocelyn’s face and slender figure more than once, but he stared most often at her hands as if he judged her helpfulness or dexterity. Or did he search Jocelyn’s left hand for a wedding band?
On the third day, Audrey smiled when she noticed that the man had pressed his way forward in the line until he stood directly behind her and Jocelyn. Audrey chatted freely about trivial things, mindful that the handsome stranger stood close enough to hear their conversation, but Jocelyn’s thoughts seemed far away. She gave only the meagerest of answers to Audrey’s questions, and did not look up to glance behind her. Would her mistress never see who followed her?
After taking her wooden plate from the ship’s serving boy, Jocelyn led the way to a clearing on the crowded deck where she sank gracefully to her knees and tucked her skirts around her. Audrey sat next to her and bowed her head for Jocelyn’s prayer of thanks, but kept her eyes open to cast furtive glances to find the man in black.
Audrey stifled a squeal when the dark stranger took a seat on the floor near them. He continued his quiet surveillance as they ate, and Audrey nearly choked on her biscuit and dried beef, so nervous did his gaze make her. But Jocelyn ate silently, brooding about her father.
When they had finished, Audrey gathered their plates and returned them to the boy who had doled out the barely edible food. She lingered in the shadows to observe the man in black, curious about the obvious cat and mouse game of which her mistress seemed to be wholly unaware.
Still oblivious to the masculine interest that fairly sizzled from the man’s eyes, Jocelyn shifted her position so that she leaned against a wall. Modestly tucking her skirts around her so that no part of her leg showed, she pulled a booklet from her pocket and began to read. While Audrey watched from behind a wooden beam, the man rose from his place and walked directly behind her mistress, doubtless to discover what Jocelyn read.
Audrey covered a smile with her hand. If this man expected to find that her young mistress read romantic adventures or tales of chivalry, he would be disappointed. Audrey knew Jocelyn was reading the only book she had thought to throw into her mistress’ trunk—a compilation of the writings of Marcus Aurelius.
The man’s dark brows lifted in surprise when he scanned the book in Jocelyn’s hand, and Audrey expected him to dart away like a man from an angry bee. No man, she had heard, wanted a bookish woman or one who understood more than he did, and Audrey was sure Jocelyn knew more than any man on the ship, with the possible exception of John White. What place did a scholar’s daughter have among these uneducated ruffians; indeed, what place could she have in Virginia?
But the man did not move away from her mistress. He sank gracefully to one knee at Jocelyn’s side and gestured toward the book. Jocelyn, however, did not look up, and Audrey moved closer to hear what the young man had to say. ‘Twas her duty as chaperon, after all.
“Either the world is a mere hotchpotch of random cohesions and dispersions,” the man was saying, lowering his head near Jocelyn’s as he read a passage from the book she held, “or else it is a unity of order and providence. If the former, why care about anything, save the manner of the ultimate return to dust? But if the contrary be true—” he paused as Jocelyn finally removed her eyes from the page to look at him, “—then I do reverence, I stand firmly, and I put my trust in the directing Power.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Jocelyn’s voice was careful and reserved. “But I do not recall our meeting.”
“We have not met, except through the pages of Marcus Aurelius,” he said, motioning again toward the book she read. “But perchance our souls have met there hundreds of times, whilst we were unaware of the meeting.”
“Mayhap we should remain unaware of each other.” Jocelyn looked away, and her brows knitted in the stubborn frown Audrey knew well. “Despite my approachability in this unusual circumstance, sir, and the boredom which leads us to do things we would not ordinarily attempt, you should know that I am not available for discourse. Mayhap you would like to discuss Aurelius with some other young lady.”
Before he could protest, she stood and walked away, her chin lifted in a no-nonsense posture as she crossed the wooden floor. The man lowered his head in defeat, and Audrey resisted the urge to clap her hands in victory. Jocelyn had certainly put him in his place! I’faith, despite his remote, majestic figure the man was as plainly dressed as a chimney sweep and had to be nearly twice Jocelyn’s age. Audrey shuddered at the thought of his age and poverty intruding upon the gentle breeding and beauty of Jocelyn White, then with a swish of her skirts, she turned to follow her mistress.
“Audrey, have you met everyone aboard this vessel?”
Jocelyn and Audrey lay in semi-darkness on their straw mattresses in the women’s section of the second deck. The bright colors of sunrise had been muted by a gentle rain falling outside, and a soft, humid mist had dampened everything aboard the ship, including Jocelyn’s already depressed spirit. But one intriguing man had crossed her path . . .
Audrey’s face wore a mask of innocent surprise as she turned to face her mistress. “My heavens, Miss Jocelyn, think you that I’m as forward as that? Of course not! I won’t talk to the seamen, for they’re too rough for me taste, or the married men, for obvious reasons, but of the unmarried men, surely ‘tis not a bad thing to acquaint oneself with one’s companions?”
“Don’t become too—acquainted—with anyone. We’ll be leaving for London as soon as the ship returns to Portsmouth.”
“Welladay, then, when will I ever have this chance again? Don’t take offense, Miss Jocelyn, but if ‘tis me fate to become an old spinster in London, why shouldn’t I have some fun with other gents before me time to settle down?”
“I was wondering, in particular—” Jocelyn hesitated. There seemed to be no subtle way to phrase her question. “There’s an older man, with dark hair, an interesting face. He wears a black doublet and hose. He stood near us yesterday in the supper line, and spoke to me after eating.”
“Aye, I remember him.” Audrey frowned, but leaned closer. “Though I don’t think he’s of your class, Miss Jocelyn, if ye have a yearning to know him better, I could put a word in among the men—”
“No!” Jocelyn whispered, horrified. She lowered her voice so the other women who still slept near them wouldn’t hear. “I just wanted to know his name.”
“Well,” Audrey snuggled closer and smiled brightly, eager to share her news. “Naturally, I did see ye talking to him the other night, and I’ve done some checking. They say he’s called Thomas Colman, and I hear he’s been made a gentleman with your uncle’s other assistants.” She paused. “On account of he’s a minister.”
A minister? So he had studied, that explained his familiarity with Marcus Aurelius. But why had her uncle elevated h
im to the level of his assistants?
“What else? What will be his role in the colony?”
Audrey shrugged. “Faith, Miss Jocelyn, I didn’t think you’d care anything about that. I believe he’ll do what other ministers do.” She giggled. “Probably means to convert the Indians, if ye ask me.”
Jocelyn leaned back on her mattress and folded her hands behind her head. From his expeditions to Virginia, her uncle had brought back fascinating portraits of the Indians he met on Roanoke Island. Jocelyn’s father had kept several sketches in his chamber where he could quietly envy his brother’s role in the exploration of a new world. Driven by the desire and need to show Christian love to the Indians in Virginia, he longed to go to Virginia himself. Did this same concern drive Thomas Colman?
Had he not been ill, Jocelyn knew missionary zeal would have propelled her father onto this ship. Like most people in England, he believed that God had reserved for England and Protestantism the area north of Florida and south of the French-owned St. Lawrence. Tales of Spanish cruelty committed upon American Indians in the name of the Catholic Church ran rampant in England. Like most of the English, Jocelyn and her father were convinced that the Spanish wanted nothing more than to crush England and bring English Protestants back under the iron rule of the pope.
But the Spanish had not yet made inroads into Virginia, and the English were eager to pave the way for Protestantism. “The Indians are truly capable of Christian love,” her uncle had once written her father, “for they naturally share all things in common and know neither jealousy, selfishness, or ambition. They believe that one god created the world, and another restored it after the great flood. They have part of the truth and part of the nature of Christ, but they worship idols, fallen spirits, and can be most cruel to their enemies. We have a most urgent responsibility to bring them to the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”
