Amalie watched as each woman nodded agreement. This time she allowed her timid smile to flourish, not out of gratitude, but rather at the long hairs jiggling at the corners of the woman’s mouth. “Whiskers,” she blurted out aloud, unable to stop the word from escaping her lips.
“I beg your pardon?” the woman said stiffly.
Amalie smiled, showing perfect pearl-white teeth. “Forgive me. My Dutch is not so . . . bad . . . good?” The little girls at her side giggled knowingly. Amalie’s command of the “master tongue,” they knew, was perfect.
Heads held high, the dowagers hiked up their skirts and marched back to their waiting carriage. Amalie waved cheerfully as they drove off without a backward glance, and the moment they were out of sight she broke into gales of laughter. To the children’s delight, she mimicked the town women, down to tweaking a set of imaginary whiskers. When she had had enough of her little frolic, she clapped her hands.
“Enough! Back to work, and there shall be a treat when I ring the bell.” The children scattered, each to an assigned job.
It was over and done with, the visit she’d dreaded for weeks. Now she could breathe easier and get on with the business at hand. She looked around, pleased with what she saw. The stone cutters were making wonderful progress on the house. Another two months and her father’s house would be restored. In just one month Lucy, the oldest of the girls, had transformed the surrounding jungle into a profusion of brilliant, fragrant flower beds. When the house was finished she would have flowers in every room, on the veranda, too. A pity, though, that it took so many hours to weed and cut back the jungle.
Amalie’s tawny cat’s eyes looked to the sun; it was time for her daily walk to the cove, to search the waters for some sign of her ship. It should arrive today, tomorrow at the latest, if they were on schedule.
She hurried back inside, into the kitchen, where she searched for and found the footgear she’d bought in town two weeks before. One pair of ladies’ opera pumps, in sumptuous black silk, and a set of high walking boots in soft black leather . . . She loved them, but she hated the way they felt on her feet. The children had giggled and teased her when she paraded in front of them, turning her ankle with each step. Each day she forced herself to wear them for a little while, first the silky black shoes with the narrow heels and then the buccaneer boots, which encased her legs up to the thighs in leather, rubbing and chafing against her tender flesh. Already she had several blisters on her feet, but it was worth it. Soon she would be able to wear the dainty black shoes with ease—just as the town ladies did.
Amalie slipped on the leather boots and reached for her father’s spyglass, which she kept on the kitchen shelf. Each time she used the glass she knew she was one day closer to seeing her ship arrive. The knowledge sustained her though all the long hours of waiting and watching. It had become a ritual—walking down to the cove and watching for her ship—and, like most rituals, it was now an end unto itself.
The footpath was neat and well tended, flowers on each side, to guide her through the jungle. Each day, as they worked, the children managed to cut away a little more, clearing away the vines and plants that seemed to grow overnight. In another week the entire path to the rise where she stood sentinel each afternoon would be free of growth.
Today there was one less worry riding her slim shoulders, one added cause for jubilation. The thin-lipped, narrow-minded Cape Town ladies were back to minding their own business and would stay out of her affairs—for the time being. When next they came to call—if they did—she would be able to meet them at her guarded gates dressed in her finest and tell them what they could do with their good intentions. She laughed, a devilish sound that sent the birds squawking and fluttering to the tops of the emerald-leafed trees.
By the time Amalie set foot on the rise that afforded her a clear view of the cove, she was drenched in perspiration and had to drop to her haunches to rest. All about her the jungle steamed in the midday sun, sending out spiraling, heady, intoxicating scents.
Amalie loved this little sanctuary, as she referred to it. No one, not even the children, could find her here once she’d left the portion of the path that had been cleared. She’d discovered this copse with its wild ferns and brilliant jungle flowers long before she’d embarked upon her present course, but even then it was a place to daydream and make plans. This was where she had come to read her father’s journals; here she’d always felt like a queen. Once she’d come at twilight when the first stars dotted the velvet blanket of night. Childishly she’d called on the heavens to avenge her for her mother’s sake . . . to grant her the power to destroy those who would stand in the way of her rightful inheritance. For hours she’d cried out her anguish—begged and pleaded, bargained and wheedled—and in the end she’d returned to the mission convinced that it wasn’t enough simply to wish for what you wanted. You had to scheme and plot and then act on your plans the way she was doing. And, she mused, you had to be prepared to eliminate anything and anyone who stood in the way. The determination to succeed was what had brought her to where she was.
On her feet now, oblivious to the steaming jungle and her own sweat-drenched body, Amalie brought the spyglass to her eye in search of her ship. Blue sky merged with sun-spangled ocean as she scanned the horizon. Nothing.
Angrily, she shook the spyglass and looked again. Damnation, where were they? Was it possible she’d made a mistake in trusting Wilhelm to get her ship to her in time? Of course, weather conditions hadn’t been the best of late, and repairs had probably taken longer than anticipated. She’d wait a few more days before she sent out an inquiry. What else could she do?
Amalie tossed the spyglass to the ground and followed it there. Glum-faced, she watched as a brilliant feathered parrot flew down from its perch in the jungle shrubbery to peck at the glass with his beak. Then, with a sigh, she turned away to contemplate the horizon. Her wonderful new future seemed to be growing more elusive with each passing day. Was it doomed to failure? The thought had never before entered her mind, but what if—
Suddenly she bolted upright, squinting into the distance. Startled, the parrot squawked loudly, ruffled its emerald plumage, and flew off to a nearby branch. Amalie snatched up the spyglass and focused it carefully. Yes, there it was—a small dark dot on the distant horizon. It had to be her ship; it just had to be! She waited, hardly daring to breathe. The moment her eyes could see the ship without the aid of the spyglass, she let out a whoop of pure joy.
The black ship was finally here.
Her black ship.
Amalie rushed to the edge of the rise, forgetting about the parrot now sitting serenely in a low-lying cluster of colorful frondlike branches. He squawked once and then again as Amalie’s wildly swinging arms knocked him from his perch. Instantly he retaliated by diving at Amalie’s left arm. His beak ripped into her, digging tenaciously at the soft flesh on her inner arm, and he was dragged with her as she tumbled over the side of the rise and rolled to the bottom. Screaming in pain and outrage, Amalie tried to shake him loose, but he only clung harder, his beak buried in her flesh. The moment she rolled to a stop, the parrot gave a vicious tug, tearing her arm all the way to the inside of her elbow before freeing himself and flying high to safety in the trees.
Her eyes filling with horror, Amalie stared at her injured arm and at the blood spurting in every direction. Hurriedly she tore at her skirt to bandage the wound, leaving dirt and bits of leaves clinging to the edges of the jagged opening.
It was a good ten minutes before she had calmed down enough to think rationally. She knew she could bleed to death if she didn’t close the wound and wrap it tightly. But first it would have to be cleaned. With water. . . .
On that thought she leapt into the cove and thrust her arm into the cool, clear water, shivering in the sunshine as all around her turned pink with her blood. Then she waded out, trying to keep the wound closed while she searched the underbrush for a plant with healing properties. In a frenzy she slapped three
pale green leaves onto the bleeding wound, unsure if they would help or not, then bound her arm, using her teeth to pull the cloth into a tight knot.
Eyes full of alarm, she watched as blood continued to soak through the makeshift bandage. The next moment-just as the black ship weighed anchor—she was back in the cove, floundering in the water with her arm submerged. Again the sea around her turned pink. Amalie moaned. She could feel herself growing weak from fear and loss of blood; if she fainted, she might slip under the water and drown. The realization made her scream, the sound carrying over the water like an eerie wail. She thought she saw one of the men from her ship dive overboard just before she surrendered to darkness.
When Amalie regained consciousness, she was on the ground and surrounded by several of the scurvy-looking men she’d hired to crew her ship. All wore looks of confusion. She fought off a wave of dizziness as one of the men helped her to her feet. Her arm, she noticed, was neatly bandaged with a filthy rag. “Has the wound stopped bleeding?” she asked hoarsely.
“Aye, but it needs tending,” the man holding her said gruffly.
She tried to see his face in the fading light. He was the youngest of the crew and the least verbal, if she remembered correctly. Later, when she wasn’t so weak, she’d think about the fact that he and the others around her had probably saved her life.
“I have to return to the house,” she said, “but I don’t think I can walk.”
“Aye, we thought of that. I’m to carry you,” the young man said in broken Dutch. Portuguese, Amalie decided as she allowed herself to be cradled in the man’s arms. She turned her head in the direction of the crew.
“Stay with the ship until I tell you otherwise,” she ordered them, then sank back with a moan and allowed herself to be carried away.
There was disgust on the faces of the men as they marched to the jolly boat waiting at the shallow end of the cove. Delays for whatever reason meant money lost—and all because of a woman’s weak stomach and faint heart.
“She damn well better be prepared to make us rich,” grumbled the oldest of the crew, a man named Miguel.
“Women are good for one thing and one thing only,” sneered another. He massaged his groin openly to make his point.
The others smirked as they remembered the way Amalie’s thin, wet shift clung to the curves of her body. Miguel fished his one and only coin from the knot in his blouse. “Her nipples are this big!” He pursed his mustached lips into a round O. “When the time is right, lads, we’ll all have a piece of her, and that’s a promise!”
“What’s your name?” Amalie asked the young man who was carrying her so effortlessly.
“Cato, miss. Are you feeling stronger?” He liked the way she felt, all warm and wet with her long hair swirling about his bare arms. He’d never had a woman the way the others had, although he’d boasted about it along with the rest of them. “I see lights up ahead. Would you rather walk now?” he asked tentatively.
Amalie smiled. “I think I can walk if you’ll allow me to hold on to your arm. It was kind of you to carry me home. Are you the one who bandaged my arm?”
“Aye, miss. You lost a lot of blood. The dressing should be changed right away. The saltwater helped to clean the wound, but then you put those dirty leaves on. . . .”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid I would bleed to death that I did the first thing I could think of. I’ll have one of the girls clean and dress the wound. I’m sorry you had to ruin your shirt,” Amalie said softly as she looked at the man’s bare arm.
Cato shuffled his feet as he stared into the clearing. The large house looked grand to him in the yellowish light, grander than anything he’d ever seen.
As Amalie neared the house, the four girls from Christabel’s ran up to her, smiling shyly at Cato. “It’s all right, Clara,” Amalie said quietly. “This is Cato. He’s a friend. Lucy, fetch some food for him before he leaves.” She turned to Cato. “I’ll send word to the ship when I’m ready to sail. Thank you for helping me.”
Cato shrugged and shuffled his feet, refusing to meet Amalie’s gaze. As he was led away, he glanced back at her, his gut churning as he remembered the way the crew had leered at her limp body when he’d pulled her from the cove.
“Handsome and dashing, even if he’s a common seaman,” Clara crowed as she removed the bandage on Amalie’s arm. A moment later she exclaimed in horror at the sight of the open wound. “Mother of God!”
She ran off to the kitchen for medical supplies and was startled to find Amalie laughing wildly when she returned. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.
“Fetch me my father’s journal, Clara, I want to show you something,” Amalie said. When Clara returned a moment later with the tattered book, Amalie leafed through it until she found the page she wanted. “See this!” she cried delightedly.
Clara gazed down at the drawing of a woman in scanty attire, her left arm poised in midair as she brandished a cutlass. Down the inside of her arm ran a jagged-looking scar, which the artist had magnified with red ink. Her eyes widened as they returned to the site of Amalie’s injury.
“If I’d planned it, I couldn’t have done it better,” Amalie told her, grinning. “Some things, I’ve come to learn, are better left to chance.”
“Is there much pain?” Clara demanded as she sprinkled on the healing powder brought along from the mission.
Amalie shook her head. “It’s a pain I can live with. Go to bed, Clara. If I need you, I’ll call. Tomorrow we have much to do now that the ship is here.”
“I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” Clara insisted. “You thrash about in your sleep, and you might injure your arm.”
The moment Amalie had drifted into a sound sleep, Clara left the room with the journal in her hand. In the kitchen, she turned up the wick in the lamp and stared down at the drawing. This wasn’t God’s hand, of that she was sure. It was the work of the devil. God’s wrath was going to come down on all of them, she was sure of it. She blessed herself.
She owed her life to Amalie, as did the others. Without her intervention the four of them would still be working in Christabel’s brothel. She’d prayed to God on a nightly basis to be freed from Christabel’s bondage, and nothing had happened until the day Amalie appeared. Was she one of God’s emissaries, or had she been sent by the devil?
The others, younger than Clara, saw Amalie only as a savior and didn’t think beyond the fact that they were finally free of Christabel and had a roof over their heads and all the food they could eat. Should she talk to them? She wondered, frowning. But what could she say? Was it wrong of Amalie to want what was rightfully hers? No, she decided, but it was a sin to plunder ships at sea. Of course she was a sinner too. They were all sinners. But they’d been forced into sin. This plan of Amalie’s was deliberate.
Clara squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. Please, God, forgive us for what we’re going to do. And as soon as Amalie has enough to restore this fine house, make her stop so we can all live simply and honestly.
Her hands trembling, Clara walked down a long hallway to Amalie’s room. Satisfied that her benefactress was sleeping peacefully, she left the journal and returned to her own pallet, where she said a rosary before falling into a restless slumber.
It was a full week before Amalie was able to move about with ease. Tired and weak from a three-day fever, she allowed the girls to coddle, admitting only to herself that she rather liked the attention. Clara insisted that she spend part of every day sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, her wounded arm free of its bandage, to receive a dose of the sun’s beating rays. “It will help heal and dry that monstrous scab,” she said knowledgeably.
After several hours, when her arm started to itch badly, Clara would move her to the veranda and pour whiskey over the wound, wincing when Amalie screamed in agony. But it had to be done. And as the days passed, Amalie found that the process grew less painful, a sure sign that the wound was almost healed.
&n
bsp; One afternoon, after she’d awakened from a brief nap in the sun, Amalie became aware of a commotion at the far end of the veranda. The children were squealing with delight. They had a visitor.
She stared at the stranger through narrowed eyes. He was taller, more muscular, than any man she’d ever seen. More handsome in his fine lawn shirt and ink-black trousers. What was he doing here? she wondered. What did he want? Her heart took an extra beat when the man turned to stare in her direction. He was devilishly handsome.
When he continued to wave his arms and point in her direction, Amalie swallowed fearfully. Surely Clara and the others wouldn’t allow him near her. She didn’t want to see anyone. Nervously she waited as Clara approached her, certain the jeweler’s death was about to be laid at her feet.
“What is it, Clara?” she called out. “Who is he, and what does he want?”
“His name is Luis Domingo, and he’s from Spain,” Clara replied, eyes sparkling. “He said the Spanish Crown paid him to bring a trunk here to you. And you have to sign this paper because he has to return it to Spain. He’s a sea captain on his way to Java. He wants to talk to you, Amalie.”
“No,” Amalie said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk to him. And I can’t use my hand yet—you’ll have to sign the paper for me. Here, stand in front of me so he can’t see what you’re doing. Did he say what’s in the trunk?”
Her tongue caught between her teeth, Clara signed Amalie’s name in a shaky hand. “No, it has a seal on it. He’s handsome, isn’t he? Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him?”
“I’m sure. You told him I was ill, didn’t you?” Clara nodded. “Good, now return this paper to him, thank him, and offer him a cool drink. And while he’s drinking it, find out what he’s carrying on his ship. Be vague, as though you’re making polite conversation.” She watched with narrowed eyes as Clara hurried away.
Captive Secrets Page 12
