Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  She walked out of the infirmary. Yes, she longed to learn of the Lilliputians, because it reminded her of home and the happy laughter of her family, but enduring Derrick’s insufferable air of superiority was more than she could bear. Especially since she had struggled all week, laboring to save one young sailor who now stood a chance of returning home.

  Home. She formed the word on her lips and a moan escaped. Her heart ached. How she missed the familiar faces of her dear ones. This endless journey with danger, death, and disaster threatening the ship at every moment kept her nerves on end. The book—with its tales of the little people—might cheer her. The twins had acted out some of the scenes last winter, when it had been bitterly cold, and the snow piled deeper than anyone remembered. What good times they’d had.

  On deck, she took in great gulps of fresh air, but it didn’t help the emptiness gnawing at her soul. The ship plowed through the water in the darkness, and she clutched the memories as they circled within her mind.

  Sobs threatened, but she held them back. Though one, lone tear dripped down and mingled with the huge salty ocean where it made not one bit of difference. Would she ever see those sweet countenances again? Did they miss her as much as she missed them?

  Reaching Broadcraft Hall seemed a hopeless dream, unattainable and out of reach. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture the image of the evening, with everyone sitting around the fireside in their cozy house. She longed to listen to their stories of the day’s activities. What mischief had the twins gotten into today? Had cute Harriet learned her letters yet?

  When would this ordeal end?

  From the bow, came the dulcet notes of Miss Cavendish’s singing. The young woman’s honeyed voice carried along on the clear night air. No doubt, a group of passengers had gathered around to listen. The tremolo in Cecelia’s harmony reminded Margaret of the trill of a warbler.

  You’ll hear birds soon.

  “Oh, Derrick,” she whispered to herself. “Why must you act so high and mighty?” His condescending attitude made everything worse. It should not bother her. She would never see him again after this journey. She struggled to control her emotions and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She glanced up at a sky which held no moon.

  Standing in deep shadow against the rail where the weak rays of the lantern would not reach, she fought to control her anguish.

  * * *

  Derrick stared at the brown leather cover of Gulliver’s Travels and a cold band squeezed around his heart. The book had belonged to Julian. Even though Derrick had read it twice, Julian loved it more than any other novel and had memorized passages of it.

  “The want of which knowledge will ever produce many prejudices, and a certain narrowness of thinking, from which we and the politer countries of Europe are wholly exempted.” Julian had spoken those lines from the text as if he was an actor on a stage. Then he’d turned and slyly stated, “But you, dear brother, are never narrow in your thinking.”

  Derrick would explode and go on a tirade about science and knowledge.

  Julian laughed, which made Derrick even madder. Of course, his brother knew the truth.

  Derrick had achieved his relative success in life through a twist of fate. His mother, though from an impoverished family, was a rare beauty with raven hair, blue eyes, and clear skin. She’d married a poor cobbler, and probably would have starved if the man had not promptly died after Derrick’s birth. His mother sold the shop and became the wife of a sea captain who owned two ships.

  He’d never really known his true father. The sea captain adopted him. Julian was his half-brother. Whenever Derrick prided himself on his superiority, his brother never failed to remind him of his origin in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

  Often, he’d had the uncanny notion that Julian was tapping him on the shoulder and reminding him exactly what a fool he was. His reflection was tinged with bitterness, for over and over again, he proved his brother was correct in the assessment of his character.

  His conscience troubled him. Was Margaret the granddaughter of an earl? Did she intend to toss away all the patriots had fought and died for to claim her birthright and live a life of ease?

  Yet clearly, until this point, she had not been living in the lap of luxury. Should he hold her political affiliation against her when she probably knew nothing of politics?

  Though she argued with him about his methods, her tender hands were a comfort to the afflicted. He found no fault in her dedication when tending to the sick.

  Margaret wanted to read his book, and he’d deliberately made it clear he knew the truth behind the story, which she would never glean from reading it with her limited view of the world.

  …a certain narrowness of thinking.

  He picked up the novel and went in search of Margaret.

  On deck, he found a gathering in the bow where Miss Cavendish monopolized everyone’s attention with her fine singing. He shook his head. He had examined her eyes and informed her the condition would progress, for there was no cure. Still, she believed Dr. Mesmer capable of restoring her sight. Though he told her of those who doubted Mesmer’s claims, she remained convinced in his methods.

  “I will see again,” she had smiled. “All the bright colors and all the sweet faces—especially Louisa’s shy countenance, which is as dear to me as my own. I can only sing about the beauty in the world now, but I like to remind those who enjoy the gift of sight of the loveliness surrounding them.”

  The image of Julian’s tortured features flashed in Derrick’s mind before he willed it away.

  Oliver sat beside the beautiful chanteuse. Judging from the expression on his face, the carpenter was smitten. Mrs. Ulery held up a wooden mug when she saw Derrick as if she intended to toast his health. Obviously, someone else supplied her with her favorite beverage. Even Anthony seemed cheered by Miss Cavendish’s performance. However, Miss Boulton was not within the circle of adoring listeners and neither was Margaret.

  Derrick stood still and scanned the deck. A furtive movement at the rail near the stairway caught his attention. With her bright hair covered by a dreary shawl and her drab dress, Margaret blended into the woodwork due to the dim light.

  If she saw him approach, she would hasten in the opposite direction to avoid him. He decided to go around to the other side of the ship and come up behind her as quietly as possible. Not a single board creaked as he stepped across the wooden deck.

  As he approached her, she sniffed several times.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  She made a sound like the squeak of a hare caught in a trap.

  “A-a bit of-of-of dust tickles my throat.” She made a furtive movement with what appeared to be a handkerchief. “Is something wrong with one of the patients?”

  “No, they are doing well.” When her shoulders quivered, he doffed his jacket and wrapped it about her. “You will get a chill out here.”

  “The air is far fresher than it is inside in my cabin.” Her words sounded strained and tight.

  “Aye, I don’t doubt that, but you should lie down and rest.”

  “You tell me the same thing every day.” She snuggled more deeply into his coat.

  “I remain concerned about the injury you suffered.” A delicate thread tugged at his heart whenever he thought of her lying insensible on the deck.

  “My head is fine.”

  He touched the spot where he had sewn his small stitches, and she winced.

  “It’s—it’s—the atmosphere,” she protested. “Old wounds ache when dampness is in the air.”

  He decided to forget about who she was and who he was. The deep longing in his soul refused to listen to logic. Perhaps a spell wound through him in the dark night filled with sweet song. He unleashed his pent up emotions as he wrapped her in his arms. At once, a deep sense of contentment settled upon him. The tension of the day dissipated faster than if he had drunk down a large quantity of whiskey. Amazed by his reaction, he gloried in the moment.

 
Most wonderful of all, she leaned back against him. “I long for this journey to end.”

  “The political satire in the book is disguised. I should not have spoken of it, as most women do not care for politics. Please take it.” He tucked the volume into the cradle of her hands.

  “I will have no time for it.” Pride rose in her voice, but she did not pull away from him. “Besides, I am a simpleton who milks cows and bakes bread. Most likely I cannot read at all.”

  He closed his eyes. What a dolt he had been with his arrogance and pride.

  “You are literate, for you drew this one book out among all the others.” He marveled at the tenderness of her curves as he held her.

  “I write down only the ingredients necessary for my baking.”

  “Good, for I like to eat.” He did not want food at the moment. He longed to taste her, but the shawl held him back. He considered removing the obstruction.

  “Nobody likes to starve.” A touch of humor rose like honey in her voice.

  “I am taller than most, and it takes a lot to fill me up.”

  “You are not as gaunt as you were. The journey has strengthened your appetite.”

  A flame smoldered inside him. “It has, but I believe you would taste better than any of the food on this ship.” He nudged the shawl with his chin, sliding it down a few inches and revealing the glorious golden strands beneath. Despite the darkness of the night, the pale glow of the nearby lamp caught in the flaxen mass. He buried his nose in the precious silk of her hair and drew in the scent of her.

  “You never tasted my sweet buns.” She giggled. He decided it was the most delightful sound in the world.

  “I am sure I would enjoy them.” He intended to kiss her, but a horrible screech interrupted the blissful moment. He looked up and saw Miss Boulton dash across the deck as if the Devil nipped her heels.

  Miss Cavendish ended her song. “Louisa! Come to me!”

  “She is in the grip of her madness again.” Margaret shoved her way out of his embrace. “She’ll hurt herself.”

  Derrick’s heart paused for a moment when he realized Mr. Spillane was right behind Miss Boulton and he had a rope in his hand.

  “Spillane! Stop!” he called.

  Spillane ignored him.

  “I’ll go around in the opposite direction,” Derrick said. “You stay here in case she changes course.”

  Despite her crazed state, Miss Boulton evaded Mr. Spillane. The first mate ordered other sailors to join in the chase.

  Derrick had seen men perform incredible feats on the field of battle, but it surprised him to watch a woman do the same thing. She ducked, leaped, and climbed with amazing agility.

  “Louisa!” Miss Cavendish called from the bow. “Louisa! I will keep you safe! Come here! Do not listen to the voices!”

  Louisa screamed again. The horrible sound welled up from deep within her, sending a chill through Derrick’s bones. Still, despite her dodging and jumping, he managed to close the gap between them. When he reached out to grasp the skirt she wore which flew behind her like a sail, Spillane shouted at her. Her face contorted in abject fear at the sight of the first mate, she bounded to the top of the rail and dove into the sea.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her. Amen.” The captain snapped his Bible shut.

  Margaret started at the sound. Had the memorial ended? Why such a paltry amount of words for Louisa’s poor lost soul? The horror of the tragedy left a black pall over everyone. Though the captain had ordered the ship to heave to, and boats had been lowered into the water, they found no trace of Louisa. She had vanished beneath the waves.

  Mrs. Ulery handed a silk flower taken from one of her hats to Cecelia. Cecelia tossed it over the rail.

  Margaret kept a firm grip on Cecelia’s right elbow as the distraught woman wept for her dear cousin. Oliver supported Cecelia on her left side.

  “She never had any peace unless I sang to her,” Cecelia cried. “They tortured her mind...”

  Margaret didn’t ask who they were. She witnessed many of Louisa’s ravings. Did demons tell Louisa to jump off the deck? Or had Mr. Spillane frightened her? Margaret shivered.

  One of the sailors led the singing of a hymn, and soon everyone joined in.

  Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,

  Seal it for Thy courts above.

  O that day when freed from sinning,

  I shall see Thy lovely face…

  Margaret’s throat grew tight. She closed her eyes and envisioned her family singing the same hymn in the little church in Leedsville with her brother-in-law at the pulpit. Would she see them again? Though the day had turned mild, she shivered, her hands like ice. She opened her eyes and stared out at the ceaselessly rolling waves.

  The comforting song ended, and everyone offered their formal condolences to Cecelia. The memorial service came to a close as the men climbed back in the rigging. The bosun’s whistle sounded, the sails unfurled, and the ship headed east once more. The remainder of the crowd dispersed.

  Margaret stayed with Cecelia at the rail as she wept. Oliver remained there as well, patting the inconsolable woman’s hand.

  In her mind, Margaret searched through all the familiar platitudes she knew, hoping to think of one suitable for the occasion which might offer some comfort to the grief-stricken Cecelia, but nothing seemed adequate. Louisa’s abrupt death had been horrible as well as tragic.

  “What will I do? How can I go on without her?” Cecelia moaned.

  Margaret bit her lip. Though Cecelia was blind, Louisa had never been much help to her cousin. Cecelia was the one who took care of Louisa.

  “I will cherish you forever.” Oliver pronounced with sudden boldness. “The captain can marry us.”

  Cecelia sobbed louder and threw herself into Oliver’s arms. “Yes, yes.”

  He kissed and caressed her.

  Margaret stepped back. Lightheaded and emotionally drained, she needed to sit somewhere and recover from the shock and distress of the day. She wandered to her favorite spot under the ladder leading to the poop deck. A large cannon took up most of the space, but she sat on the cannon’s truck, put her elbows on her knees and rested her head on her palms. She thought of praying, for she longed to let the Lord’s grace comfort her, but a new fear edged into her thoughts. Simply considering it chilled her to the bone.

  “I was but a hands breath away from grabbing her skirts.”

  She glanced up at Derrick, who stood before her with clenched fists. Weariness etched deep lines in his face.

  “I know. You tried.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I wish I had been able to gain her trust. Sometimes…with her incomprehensible speech,she frightened me. If only I knew of…a special tea, or perhaps a tincture…”

  “We know little about the mind. As I mentioned, Dr. Rush believes conditions like Miss Boulton’s are caused by an inflammation of the brain. The illness confuses the patient who becomes unable to distinguish the difference between reality and fantasy.”

  “Cecelia said the devils told her to jump.” Her lip quivered. Would the same thing happen to her? “What if my head injury causes me to develop the same condition as Louisa?”

  He moved to sit beside her, all six feet and some inches of him. Slightly alarmed by his nearness, she pressed against the bulkhead so the small space would accommodate him. He rested his elbows on his knees and propped his head into his hands. “In general, from what I have observed, injuries such as yours do not appear to cause the type of mania Miss Boulton had.”

  “If you had bled her…”

  “I asked Miss Cavendish to allow me to treat her cousin, but she refused any of my suggestions. She set her hopes on Dr. Mesmer, who by many accounts is suspected of being a charlatan.”

  “Will everyone on this ship go mad?” She whispered in an unsteady voice. “Is madness like the plague?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “You are not certain.”
/>   He shrugged, “Few things are assured in this world.”

  Her fears spiraled, but she forced them to the dark recesses of her mind. “I will reach England,” she stated with conviction. She intended to carry out her responsibility. She must not let doubt into her heart.

  “You forgot the book.” He held out Gulliver’s Travels.

  Her hand trembled as she took the volume. Settling it in her lap, her fingers trailed over the soft leather cover. She glanced at him and watched as uncertainty crept into his expression.

  “It is amusing, perhaps others would welcome the chance to listen to it as it is read,” he suggested.

  “Your voice is far more resonant than mine.”

  His great sigh sent a shiver through her as she recalled the way he had held her before Louisa’s scream had shattered the moment. The comfort she discovered in his arms wound all through her, but such nearness was unseemly. Aunt Sally had impressed upon her the necessity of maintaining her virtue. Allowing him to hold her was dangerous.

  She straightened and set her jaw. When the journey ended, he would go his way. She must not rely on him, and encouraging him to dally with her was foolish. The possibility of ever seeing him again was remote.

  “Perhaps some mild entertainment is warranted after this unfortunate tragedy,” he agreed.

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone needs a mild diversion.” She handed him the book, but he didn’t take it.

  His dark, soulful eyes smoldered and his arm came round her. Shocked, she attempted to pull away, but he held her close.

  “I am…sorry,” he muttered into her ear.

  He kissed her, gently, on the cheek. A moment later, his generous lips slid downward and claimed her mouth. Caught in a lurch of excitement, their tender joining thrilled her. She forgot the horror of Louisa’s last moments. She forgot her fear of madness, too. In fact, everything about the external world around them faded away as she breathed in his scent. Stirred by new sensations, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment as all her firm commitments—and Aunt Sally’s stern warnings—dissolved into pale wisps.