by Lorri Dudley
A salty spray cooled the heat of the sun’s already-strong rays. It would be a hot one today, for certain.
“Napoleon’s nose!”
“What’s the matter, Cobble?” Captain Fielding checked over his right shoulder.
Cobble shaded his eyes with his gnarled hand and peered up at the mainsail. He turned to face the captain. “The stitches didn’t hold. There was a tiny tear in the mainsail, so we had Charlie stitch it while we was on land, but last night’s storm added a good five feet to the tear.” As if in blatant mockery, the wind gusted, and the sound of ripping cloth split the air.
“Cannonballs and cutlass,” Cobble muttered.
Nathan scanned the deck for Charlie. The lad might have nimble fingers, but he couldn’t wield a needle if his life depended on it—which it did, along with the lives of the crew.
“Baby and Tucker!” Captain Fielding yelled. “Lower the mainsail before it splits in two.”
The two large crewmen jumped to do his bidding. The sun gleamed off Baby’s bald head as his plump fingers worked the knots holding the sail. Tucker untied the opposite side.
“Charlie!”
“Yes sir, Captain.” Charlie jumped down from the rat lines and stopped below the helm where the line rested.
“For Pete’s sake, Charlie.” Captain Fielding turned his gaze heavenward. “It’s the first lesson we taught ya. Never stand in a coiled rope. If the line goes tight, you’ll find yourself upside down hanging from the rigging.”
He quickly removed his foot. “Aye, Captain.”
“Repair the mainsail, and fix it well this time.”
“Aye, Captain.” The lad’s tone lost its enthusiasm.
Baby called after him, “Remember its tiny stitches like those flowers ya put on the handkerchief ya embroidered for yer ma.”
“I don’t embroider.”
The whole crew laughed.
“Charlie.”
“Aye, Captain?” He secured the line and hustled to stand at attention in front of the captain.
“How fares Franny with Lady Winthrop?”
“The lady hasn’t been needin’ her none. Franny’s upset thinking she’s not doing a good enough job.”
Nathan sighed. He’d have to teach her a lesson about how one treats the help.
“But then I spoke to Cook.” Charlie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And she told me Lady Winthrop has been refusing her meals.”
Brilliant. His wife was throwing a tantrum. His sister used to pull a similar stunt when she was four. What was next? Was she going to hold her breath until she got what she wanted?
“She hasn’t had a thing to eat since the night we set sail. Franny thinks she may be ill. She hears her crying, but when she asks if she can do somethin’, the lady sends her away.”
A pinprick of unease raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. What if she was sick? No, she’d told him she didn’t get seasick.
Captain Fielding turned a pointed look on Nathan, his message easy to read.
“I’ll check on her. But if this is some sort of tantrum, I’m going to threaten her with swabbing the deck. A little hard work will take the wind out of her sails.”
After descending the stairs, Nathan waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light below deck. Pans rattled in the galley as Cook prepared supper.
“It’s a bloomin’ shame, that’s what it is.” Cook’s voice resonated in between clangs. “It’s been days, and he’s not even come to the door…”
Cook and the lady’s maid that accompanied Charlotte froze upon spying Nathan.
He eyed Franny. At least, the servant understood that everyone worked on a ship. He couldn’t begin to understand the rational of his new wife, but if she wouldn’t use her lady’s maid, at least cook could benefit.
Franny wiped her hands on her apron and bobbed a curtsy.
Cook’s bottom lip shook as if she might say something, but she grabbed a knife and chopped away at some carrots. The aroma of fresh bread was heavenly, overpowering the stench of sweat and unbathed men. Despite having broken his fast a few hours ago, Nathan’s stomach growled.
“Smells delightful.”
“I’m baking the bread fer yer wife,” Cook said. “Hoping it will lift her spirits.”
“That’s kind of you, but she must adapt to being less pampered. She’s to get the same treatment as the other crew members.” He’d have to protect his crew from his wife’s masterful manipulation. The new sailors Fielding hired to handle the cargo might be an exception, but the rest of the crew had sailed with Nathan since he was a lowly swabbie. They’d kept his neck above water through battles and rough seas. He wasn’t about to let his wife turn his capable crew into cabin boys.
Nathan pulled an apple out of a bin and headed towards the captain’s quarters.
“If we pampered her any less, she’d be dead,” murmured Cook.
The comment raised another warning to Nathan, but he focused on the task at hand. He stopped in front of the oak door and beat on the panel with the side of his hand. “Charlotte, open the door. It’s time to put an end to this little act of yours.”
Nothing.
He jiggled the handle, and increased his volume. “Open the door. I command it.”
A muffled whimper sounded as if from far away, but it must have been a squeak of the rigging as the wind shifted the pullies.
“Why must you be so difficult?” He dug into his pocket, pulled out the key, then shoved it into the lock. “You are to obey my orders. Do you understand?” It turned easily, and he pushed the door open. “I’d break the door down if I had to.” He scanned the room, expecting to find her sulking or waiting for him with a defiant look on her face. Instead, he saw only a pitiful lump huddled in the far corner of the bed. It could have been another pillow except for the wave of red hair peeking out from under the covers.
He had a lot of work to do to toughen up his wife before they reached St. Kitts. “Do you have the mind to sleep the day away? On the island, we start work at the crack of dawn and consider laziness a sin.” He walked over to the bed and yanked the pillow off her head. Her hands covered her face, and she groaned.
Nathan’s jaw tightened. Traveling to the Leeward Islands was her own doing, and he’d have no patience for homesickness. She should have thought about the consequences before she decided to get drunk in a dark study. “There’s no going back now, sweetheart. Better start getting used to the idea. Now, shake off your self-pity, get up, and eat something.”
He stood over her with the pillow in one hand, but she didn’t move. Tears splashed onto the already soaked mattress, and he realized the pillow in his grasp was damp. He leaned forward and peeled one hand away from her face. Her skin was pale, and deep purple circles surrounded her eyes. Her lips quivered, and her entire body shuddered in successive jerks as she sucked in a breath. She was still in the same traveling dress she’d worn the night of dinner, and her hair was matted.
Ice ran through his veins and seized his heart. “Are you ill?”
Her head gave the barest of shakes, then slowly nodded. Her voice cracked in a dry whisper. “Yes…maybe. It comes in waves when I least expect it.”
“You must eat something.” His voice pitched a bit high.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Don’t speak of food.”
With a slow, cautious movement, Nathan handed her back the pillow. She cradled it against her chest, once again burying her face.
He backed away, his steps wary until he reached the doorway. He turned and hastened back to the galley. Spying Cook he said, “What’s the matter with her? Is it seasickness? When did this start?”
The image of Charlotte’s pained expression couldn’t be erased from his mind. What kind of husband was he? He should have checked on her sooner. Franny stopped stirring the pot on the stove and burst into tears.
“Franny, hush yerself. It’s not catching.” Cook flicked an end of a dishcloth in her direction.<
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Then Cook crossed her arms under her ample bosom and rounded on Nathan. “I’m not a doctor, but it looks to me like the girl not only is seasick, but has a case of melancholia.”
“Melancholia? Are you certain?”
“It’s worse than seasickness. She’s real sad—bone-aching sad. My mother had the same disease after my papa passed. I remember the weeks she wouldn’t get out of bed and wouldn’t eat. She eventually succumbed to the sickness. They say she died of a broken heart.”
His breath caught. Was Charlotte’s life in danger? “Why didn’t anyone inform me of her condition?”
Cook snorted. “One shouldn’t have to tell a newlywed husband the condition of his own wife.”
He flinched. Cook was right. Charlotte was his responsibility, and he’d let her down. “What can I do?”
“What worked best for Mama was when we got her out among people. Yer going to need to spend some time with her.”
But there were navigational charts to discern, friendly and foul ships to be on the lookout against, and men to oversee, especially Charlie, who needed constant supervision lest he get caught in the lines. However, the same strong pull he’d felt when he agreed to marry her tugged on his heart now. Even though she’d gotten them into this mess, her life was in his care, and it was his duty in sickness and in health.
Cook wrapped up a piece of bread and a slice of cheese in a napkin. “Here. Give this to her and bring her above deck. The sun and the breeze will do her good.”
He accepted the napkin.
“Franny and I will come with you to help make her presentable.”
Nathan knocked gently on the door this time before opening it. Charlotte hadn’t moved, but her crying had lessened.
Cook scooted around Nathan and pulled the covers off Charlotte. “All right dear, it’s time to get you above deck.”
“No.” Charlotte stretched the word on a moan.
“Franny, hand me the hairbrush. We’re going to brush your hair until it shines and get you into another gown. Then, you can take in the air above deck.”
Charlotte’s eyes flickered open for a second, but closed immediately.
Nathan stuffed his hands in his pockets, then pulled them back out again. He hadn’t felt this helpless since… No. He wouldn’t think about that.
“All right, here we go.” Cook dug her arms under Charlotte’s frame in a hug-like gesture and pulled her into a sitting position.
“I can’t.” Charlotte cried, and tears slid down her cheeks. “Mama warned me this would happen. Leave me be…please. I’m going to be sick.”
She sounded so hopeless and defeated. Her reddened eyes met his with a penetrating sorrow that shook Nathan at his core.
“Yer not gonna be sick,” Cook said. “Ya don’t have nothing in yer system to vomit up anymore.”
Nathan grabbed Franny’s arm. “What does she mean her mother warned her?”
Franny couldn’t meet his gaze and spoke to his shirt front. “I wasn’t there, but it’s said Miss Charlotte was frequently ill as a young girl and confined to a sickbed for most of her childhood. Her mother warned her not to overdo or she could relapse.”
Egad. His wife was prone to illness? His blood solidified into thick sludge. The islands were rampant with disease. He ran a hand over his head and stared at Charlotte’s gaunt face. What had he been thinking? He should never have married her. He should have fought harder to convince her parents of the dangers. He was to blame. His stomach twisted into a tight knot. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he’d allowed his attraction to her to cloud his judgment. Before her death, his mama had encouraged him to find a woman and marry, but females were scarce in the islands. He hadn’t been certain he wanted to be married, but if he had, he’d always known he’d have to find a woman in port and convince her to leave the luxuries and social life of England to live on a remote island.
The truth sliced through to his marrow. The scandal had made the decision for him. Marriage had been unavoidable, but also highly convenient. It allowed him to forego the wooing and courtship. He was returning with no effort on his part. He, too, had been selfish. However, now he knew the true consequences. By marrying Charlotte, he’d likely signed her death certificate.
“I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.” Charlotte’s lips were as white as her pale skin. “I’m sorry. If I could trade places with them, I would.”
A cold sweat broke on his forehead, and all the words he’d spoken rang through his mind. “They’re my responsibility, not yours. I said things I didn’t mean in anger.”
Cook held her as Franny crawled onto the bed and began to work on Charlotte’s hair.
“I’m gonna get her changed.” Cook eyed him. “Yer free to stay or to go.”
Nathan swallowed. “Uh…I’ll go.”
“Right then. Stay outside the door. I’ll holler when we’re ready.”
He stepped into the hall and sagged against the wooden paneling. He’d put those thoughts into her head. He’d taken her vibrant sparkle and snuffed it out in his anger. In less than a week, he’d reduced her to a shell of a woman. This was his fault, not hers. He’d let his anger distort his opinion of her.
Nathan paced the hall. When Charlotte’s father had stood in front of him and demanded an answer as to whether he would do the right thing by his daughter, Nathan had felt God nudging him to say yes. If God was for the marriage, then why hadn’t Nathan been?
Yes, Charlotte had made an unwise decision by not making her presence known in the darkness of Anthony’s study, but he’d made worse mistakes, and people had forgiven him. Yet, he continued to blame her. He wasn’t the only one who’d sacrificed himself on the altar of marriage. She’d left her family, her friends, her home, her country, to live in a foreign land with a stranger. Shouldn’t he have had some sympathy?
God, give me a chance to redeem myself in her eyes.
Chapter 9
Perhaps I haven’t married an insensible ogre. Lord, give me patience and help me remember we are all a work in progress.
~ Scribbled within Lottie’s prayer journal
The soothing motion of Franny brushing her hair settled Lottie’s spirit and, to some extent, her stomach. When she’d been younger, her mother would take over the task from her maid and brush her hair until it crackled. Funny how she’d wanted to get away so badly, and now she missed home so dearly.
She stood on her own as Cook and Franny eased a fresh gown over her head. The effort exhausted her, for her arms and legs felt as though they weighed a couple of stones each. They propped her in a chair, and her eyes followed Cook as she tidied up the cabin. Franny opened the door for Nathan, and his tall frame strode into the room. For a moment, his dark eyes looked remorseful, but why would he? He was the victim, she the perpetrator. She dropped her gaze to her hands.
He crouched in front of her and dipped his head to look her in the eye. “Cook said some fresh air and sun would do you good.”
His eyes held a gentle kindness. She wanted to cling to the hope that something had switched and maybe they could be more amicable, but she didn’t dare. She turned her head to the side.
He wasn’t so easily deterred. Gentle fingers touched her chin and brought her head back around. “Charlotte, I spoke out of anger. I didn’t mean the things I said. Yes, there are complications.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and her lower lip quivered.
“But my mother used to say, ‘Problems are the soil where the power of God blossoms.’”
The spigot of tears twisted open again and slid helplessly down her cheeks.
He wiped their tracks away with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry.”
He pulled her into his arms and lifted her, so he now sat in the chair with her cradled upon his lap.
She stiffened, but her muscles were too weak to resist for long, especially as he stroked her hair.
“Every miracle begins with a problem.” He shushed her sobs. “So we’re not going to c
ry. Mama would tell me we’re going to rejoice at what the Lord is going to do.”
She sniffed. “Your mother sounds like a lovely woman.”
“She was.”
Was. “I’m sorry. I would like to have met her.”
A weak smile touched the corners of his lips, but pain left a hollowness in his eyes. “She would have liked to meet you too.”
His warmth heated her skin as her head rested against the thin cloth of his shirt. The taut, sinewy muscles underneath revealed that her husband had not lived a life of ease. Only hard manual labor could sculpt a body so. Somehow that pleased her. Maybe if he’d worked hard to establish himself, maybe he’d work hard at their marriage. As she lay huddled in the warm cocoon of his protection, something stirred to life in her bosom, but it didn’t dispel the dark cloud. However, the sleep, that had eluded her for the past two nights, crept in and slowly tugged down her eyelids.
A rumbling chuckle vibrated Lottie’s cheek. The hazy fog of sleep lifted, and she stirred. The comforting scent of cedar and lemon oil filled her nose and reminded her of the trips to the parsonage when she’d accompanied Mama as a little girl. While her mother bent the vicar’s ear, she would sit curled in the lap of his wife, Mrs. Simmons, who’d tell Bible stories. A hand stroked her hair in long gentle movements. The rumble sounded again, but the vicar’s laugh wasn’t so deep.
Her eyes sprung open. She wasn’t in church. She wasn’t snuggled in Mrs. Simmons’s lap. She’d fallen asleep in Nathan’s arms. Good heavens!
“You were a young lad back then, swinging from the riggings,” said an unrecognizable elderly voice. “By His Majesty’s madness, if someone said you couldn’t do somethin’, you’d do it just to spite them.”
The din of the crew could be heard in the background, and a breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt around her ankles. She wasn’t in the confines of her cabin. She was above deck, inappropriately snuggled in Nathan’s lap. She pushed off his chest and blinked until her eyes adjusted to the sun. A crooked smile broke over Nathan’s tanned features, and Lottie realized how close she was to his full lower lip. She jerked back and straightened her spine.
