A horn blew, the paddles stopped, and the Tiburon bobbed on Richardson’s Bay.
“Let’s go starboard. I haven’t given you your gift yet.”
Curious, Isobel followed her twin to the starboard side, where the celebrants were gathered on deck. Masts bobbed in the night, and distant lights blazed from Sausalito’s Water Street.
Riot stepped up beside her and handed her another glass of wine.
“A toast,” Lotario said, raising his own glass. “To the bride and groom. To my twin. My reflection. Your happiness is mine, and the day would hardly be complete unless you sailed into what’s left of the sunset.” Lotario smiled at her. “My gift to you.” He swept his hand towards the bay in a grand gesture, and with that signal Tim lifted a hooded lantern and shone the light on a moored boat.
Isobel was dimly aware of Riot rescuing her wine glass as it fell from her numb fingers. Her feet took her to the rail as she stared at the shape of a familiar cutter.
“It’s the only way I’ll ever get rid of you,” Lotario drawled in her ear. It was her cutter, the Pagan Lady, polished and gleaming, and whole. “Try not to sink her again.”
The Gift
To her credit, Isobel retained her composure through the farewells, and tolerated more hugs than she had in her entire lifetime. It was, after all, a special sort of day.
After giving Jin a laundry list of things she was not to do, Isobel handed over her daughters to their grandparents.
Catarina inclined her head to Isobel. “You’re fortunate the ferry didn’t sink and drown us all,” her mother said by way of farewell. “I would have preferred St. Mary’s Cathedral, but I’m glad you’re properly married now.”
“It was lovely seeing you too, Mother.” Isobel’s only consolation was that Catarina would have to keep watch on Jin for an undetermined amount of time. Marcus hugged her, and then grabbed his son-in-law into a typical German embrace, and then her again. Where Catarina lacked in displays of emotion, Marcus made up for in spades.
Hop took her hand warmly, and Isobel kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know who I’m more worried about, mother or Jin,” she whispered. “Either way, I’m sorry.”
“No one can compare to you, Wu Lei Ching.” Fox spirit. It was an insult, of a sort. But he meant it fondly.
Riot helped Isobel into a dinghy, and a seaman rowed them over to the Pagan Lady to cheers and waves. By the time the Tiburon chugged towards the Sausalito ferry terminal, Isobel stood on the Lady’s deck, exhausted. “I think I’ve sprained my cheeks,” she admitted, exploring the injury with her fingers.
“It’s fortunate I don’t intend to make you smile tonight.”
“Really?” Isobel stepped into the cockpit, inspecting the Lady. Lotario had replaced the tiller with a proper wheel. Freshly varnished wood gleamed: pine and oak, and a new hollowed mast of Douglas fir. “What do you intend?” she asked.
Riot glanced at the hatch. He had a calculating look about him. Moving with uncanny speed, he hopped into the cockpit, and hoisted her over a shoulder.
Isobel squeaked with surprise, then laughed, as Riot attempted to carry her below deck. It was a tight fit, and she only bumped her head twice. He set her down in the saloon, and kissed her smile. And then each burning cheek.
“You’re lucky I’m too intoxicated to mind.”
“I had noticed,” he said, tossing his hat on a hook and shrugging out of his coat, tie, and collar.
Isobel stared at her new cabin in amazement. “Lotario must have completely gutted her.” New wood, new design, everything shining in the lantern light and smelling of fresh wood and varnish. A tight pilot’s desk with nooks for maps was tucked beside the galley. The double settees still lined the sides of the main cabin, but Lotario had added bunk-like shelves above the seats. For the girls, she realized. With curtains for privacy. Her gaze followed the curves and cubbies, a masterpiece of design.
“How did he manage it?” she asked, breathlessly. At some point the shock had floored her, and she realized she was sitting.
“Lotario commandeered your family’s shipyards. The design and a good amount of finish work was all his doing.”
Isobel glanced at her husband. He was properly disheveled in his shirtsleeves. He knelt in front of her, and started unbuttoning her shoes. Isobel let him, too exhausted and overwhelmed to deal with details. He tugged her shoes free, and his fingers drifted up her silk stockings, before slowing unrolling them. He helped her with the buttons of her gown, and finally the laces of her bodice, until she could breathe again.
Wearing only a chemise, she slid onto his lap, and his arms came around her. “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream,” she quoted Poe softly.
Riot buried his nose against her neck. “I feel like I’m dreaming too. And oddly floating.”
“We are floating, Riot.”
“It may be the wine.”
“Or lack of sleep.”
“Or joy,” he added.
“That, too.”
“When did you sleep last, wife?”
That word. It sent a thrill down her spine. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometime before yesterday.”
Riot shifted his arms so they were under her, and stood, lifting her effortlessly. She let him, because it was one of those days, and he was that kind of man—a rare one who made her enjoy being a woman.
He carried her to the forward cabin. Lotario had changed that, too. Instead of a jumbled mess of ropes and sails, and four bunks that were never used, he had added a nook with a double bed across from the head. And a sliding door. Portholes let in air, and a hatch let them see the stars.
Riot set her down, and Isobel stretched out on the bed.
“Do you think Lotario kept the original secret compartment?” Riot asked, as he shed the remainder of his clothing. He looked on the verge of launching an investigation.
Isobel dissolved into a fit of helpless laughter.
Riot paused, and then finished folding his trousers. “Not really a reaction a man wants while disrobing.”
“Oh, Riot.”
He looked sheepish. “There isn’t a smuggler’s compartment, is there?” he finally asked.
“There was. After a fashion.”
Riot stretched out on the bed beside her, and propped his head on a hand. She turned to him. “Do you want to guess?” Isobel asked.
“Considering I’ve spent a good hour searching for this famed secret compartment, I think not. I’m all out of guesses, and I’m far too tipsy.”
“An hour?” she gasped. “For shame, Riot. Going through a woman’s things.”
“It was enlightening,” he admitted.
“Just so. I’ll make you work that sluggish brain. But I’ll take pity on you and give you a hint—that business with Curtis and the manner of my abduction.”
A light went on in his eyes, or thought returned northward. Either one, he had the answer. “The spare sail that used to be here.”
“Good show, Watson!” she exclaimed. “Lotario rolled one of his lovers in it when said lover’s parents sent the harbormaster to search for their son.” She placed a hand on his chest. “You look disappointed.”
“I really thought you two would have a smuggler’s compartment.”
Isobel raised herself up and looked out into the narrow corridor. “Maybe he added one? We could spend our wedding night searching.”
“I wasn’t planning on spending the night investigating anything but you.”
“You’ve spent many such nights already.”
“I like to be thorough.”
That voice. Deep and soft all at once, it never failed to capture her. Isobel felt her cheeks warm, and to hide her blush she quickly rolled on her back to study her new ring. They weren’t in any hurry after all. They had the rest of their lives together, and she was simply happy to be with him in that moment. “You managed a ring after all.” She slipped her gold ring off. “No more new hats for you?”
“It was Ravenwood’s ring. I wanted t
o give you a… an heirloom. Something from my family. I suppose Ravenwood is the closest I had.”
Isobel turned it in her fingers, and narrowed her eyes. A wave-like pattern decorated the outer surface, and two tiny screws were set on opposite sides. As she had noted before, it was thicker than it should be. She nudged the inner layer, and gasped. Four rings within one—it opened to form a sphere with tiny numerological symbols on the bands.
“An armillary sphere!” she cried with delight. An old device that navigators used to determine the position of the sun and stars. It was a symbol of Portugal, and it represented wisdom and knowledge—a model of the universe.
“I thought it might make the universe less daunting for you.”
The ring blurred in her hand. Before she gave in to the overwhelming emotion that threatened, Isobel reached for something familiar: sarcasm. “You found it, didn’t you?”
“I did find it,” he confirmed. “But…” Riot took the ring from her unsteady fingers and closed it, slipping it back on her finger. “I had to fight Jin and Sarah for it.”
“And they took pity on you after they won?”
“Indeed.”
The banter cleared her eyes. Thankfully. Her emotions had escaped from a box long ago, and she wanted to shove them back. But perhaps, for today, she’d let them have free rein. “I love it,” she said with feeling. “But not as much as I love this boat.” She turned to look him in the eyes. “And not near as much as I love you.”
“I’m heartened to know I rank above the Pagan Lady.”
Isobel kissed him, slowly, and his hands slid down her body, pulling her close against his own. A yawn cracked her jaw, and Riot chuckled in that silent way of his. He smiled against her lips. “Sleep first,” he whispered.
As much as she hated to admit it, forty-eight hours without a wink of sleep along with an unknown amount of wine had done her in.
“We’re doing things out of order again,” she said.
“I can think of nothing better than waking up next to you.” He tugged the quilt up, and they settled beneath it, listening to the lap of water against the hull.
Isobel snuggled into his arms, molding herself against his body. “All those months of talking sessions and relaxing baths,” she murmured. “And all I needed was you.”
“And your father’s wine.”
Isobel might have chuckled on her way to sleep, but she couldn’t be sure. It was a perfect end to a perfect beginning.
Historical Afterword
Mainstream history tends to focus on big events. But there’s a whole forgotten, or little mentioned, history that often gets overlooked—that of individuals. Especially women of color.
I first came across Mary Ellen Pleasant in a book on fantastical stories of San Francisco. It painted her as a criminal mastermind who performed Voodoo rituals on young women, so they’d seduce rich men and make Mrs. Pleasant rich. Although tantalizing from a writer’s viewpoint, I was skeptical. The newspapers of the time (and still today) relished sensational news and were extremely prejudiced against non-white races. SF papers published all types of rumors about Mary Ellen Pleasant. The papers had a love/hate sort of relationship with her, and coined the derogative name ‘Mammy Pleasant’ for her, a name she despised but used to her advantage when needed.
When I started digging further, I found that she was shrouded in mystery. It’s difficult to separate rumor from fact, but she was most definitely a shrewd businesswoman, who defied her social standing and gender to amass a fortune. She was an abolitionist who worked in the Underground Railroad, a civil rights activist, real estate magnate, entrepreneur, financier, and was even called the Mother of Human Rights in California for taking a case to the California Supreme Court for a ruling in her favor that outlawed segregation in the state’s public transportation system.
You may be wondering about Miss Lily’s hair product venture. That’s based on fact, too. Two women: Annie Malone and Madam C.J. Walker saw a need for hair products made especially for African-American women. The harsh products of the era were made using ingredients like lye, which caused severe dandruff and baldness. Annie Malone became one of the first African-American women millionaires, and Madam C.J. Walker came close to it, being the wealthiest self-made woman at the time of her death in 1919. Both were philanthropists and entrepreneurs who overcame harsh prejudices against race and gender to succeed in an intolerant business world.
And for anyone wondering if such a bizarre wedding between Bel and Riot was possible in the supposedly proper year of 1900, I’ll share this excerpt from the Los Angeles Herald in October of 1898:
Ex-Husband the Best Man
Baltimore, Md. —On Monday Mrs. Minnie A. Ostertag got a divorce from Albert Ostertag, on Tuesday she received a license to marry John Emmert, and last night the wedding took place over the saloon conducted by Ostertag, with the ex-husband as best man. There were many guests at the wedding. Mrs. Ostertag was dressed in her best and Emmert was in high feather. The wedding procession was unique. The musicians came first, playing a lively tune. Following them came two little girls with flowers, and then Ostertag, staggering under the weight of an immense wedding cake. In his wake were his divorced wife and the man she was going to wed. Ostertag advanced after the wedding and gave his ex-wife a hearty kiss, wishing her well with her new husband. Then he cried: "These people need something to drink," and went behind the bar and dispensed drinks to the guests. The neighbors say that Mrs. Emmert, who is the real owner of the saloon, agreed to keep her divorced husband in the house and give him $1 per week for his services.
Suddenly, Bel and Riot’s wedding seems positively mundane. But I hope, at least, it was romantic.
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Also by Sabrina Flynn
Ravenwood Mysteries
From the Ashes
A Bitter Draught
Record of Blood
Conspiracy of Silence
The Devil's Teeth
Uncharted Waters
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Legends of Fyrsta
Untold Tales
A Thread in the Tangle
King's Folly
The Broken God
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www.sabrinaflynn.com
About the Author
Sabrina lives in perpetual fog and sunshine with a rock troll and two crazy imps. She spent her youth trailing after insanity, jumping off bridges, climbing towers, and riding down waterfalls in barrels. After spending fifteen years wrestling giant hounds and battling pint-sized tigers, she now travels everywhere via watery portals leading to anywhere.
* * *
She is currently lost in South Carolina.
* * *
You can connect with her at www.sabrinaflynn.com
Uncharted Waters (Ravenwood Mysteries #6) Page 9
