"Oh, Catherine, you poor child. If only I had known!" Amelia said, visibly upset. "When Belinda died, I should have sent for you."
Cat shook her head. "How could you know? And, besides, I was content until Edward came."
"He’ll never find you here, a world away," Amelia said. "We are far from the fashionable circles, thank heavens. You’re safe now, and you must forget about the whole horrible experience."
"I will never forget," Cat said softly. Seeing the concern on Amelia’s face, she hastened to reassure her. "Oh, you needn’t worry, aunt. I’m sure you are right, and he’ll never find me here. In fact, I doubt if Edward is worried about me at all," Cat said, absently fingering a flounced pillow. She spoke lightly, but her grip tightened on the delicate material. "But he should be."
Amelia blinked at her vehemence. "It would be very difficult to prove his guilt," she said, shaking her head. "You would need a powerful ally, and I have no contacts there anymore."
"Yes, I know," Cat said. "And I have no plan to bring him to justice. But he should hang." She looked down and released her hold on the now-wrinkled pillow.
"No one should get away with murder."
***
Amelia’s efficient dressmaker soon had several lovely gowns ready, and for days boxes arrived from town loaded with slippers, shifts, stockings, hats, and all the necessities of a young lady of fashion. The quantity of accoutrements staggered Cat, who had never taken an interest in the world of fans and reticules and spangled shawls. While others her age were being introduced into society, she’d been climbing the ratlines, which had made for quite a gap in her education.
Still, Cat made the transition from cabin boy to gentlewoman with surprising ease. She abandoned her nickname along with her breeches, and her young boy’s swagger shortened into more measured steps. She made an effort to speak with more delicacy and looked to Amelia for guidance in her manners.
Soon she only rarely committed a faux pas, which often went unremarked. Although Cat denied it, Amelia claimed that her niece’s beauty was such that all else went unnoticed.
Whether it was the island heat or the warmth of Amelia’s welcome, Cat seemed to blossom. Her short, sun-lightened hair was perfectly in vogue, and her breasts burst from their former bondage.
Still, she stood in sharp contrasts to the other European ladies, with their pale skin and languid movements, for Cat’s face was always rosy or browned by the sun, much to Amelia’s dismay. And she moved with an unconscious confidence that came from meeting the kind of challenges her more sheltered counterparts couldn’t imagine.
Although her stint on the seas had calmed her restlessness, Cat was eager to keep busier than those misses, too. Luckily, Amelia was glad to have her help. After the death of her husband, Amelia had sold the plantation and great house to Lord William Claremont, baron of Whately, retaining the guest house where she now lived, along with several acres in which she indulged her interest in botany.
There was always something to be done in the orchards and gardens where Amelia attempted to grow "everything under the sun," as Lord Claremont put it. And the woman was not content simply to direct her servants. She enjoyed working with the soil herself and would have been disappointed with a missish niece who feared to dirty her hands.
Having no qualms about such things, Cat soon was assisting her aunt each day, happy to be occupied with something less frivolous than making afternoon calls.
"Of course, society does not approve of a gentlewoman doing anything interesting, but they view me as a harmless eccentric," Amelia explained to Cat one day as they pruned roses. "Let the old fool putter around with the plants, if she wants," she said, laughing.
"Surely, Lord Claremont doesn’t feel that way," Cat said above the clip of the shears. "He seems quite interested in your work."
"Pooh! You’ll find that very few men appreciate a woman who thinks for herself. They like to call her a bluestocking and treat her as something less than human. Thankfully, my Horace was not one of those. He was very forward thinking. Such an intelligent man."
Cat wondered about Ransom’s views on the subject, but considering his poor regard for women, she could only imagine the worst. The thought irked her. How could he lump all women together? Why, look at Amelia. How could anyone not care for this gentle lady?
"You were very lucky in your marriage," Cat said.
"Oh, yes, indeed," Amelia said, pausing in her work. "He was a wonderful man. Fortunately, he had inherited a tidy sum from his grandmother or my father would never have consented to a love match. Of course, he had practically given me up for a spinster by that time, so he might have let me have my way, but I doubt it. He was not in favor of your mother’s love match, and when your father’s death left her penniless, he felt justified."
Amelia stared into the distance, as though looking into the past. “Oh, my, but they were happy - Belinda and your father - if only for a little while.” Returning to her task, she spoke more briskly. "Of course, our father wasn’t about to let her do the same again and married her off in a trice to Lord Wellshire." She shook her head.
"I’m a firm believer in love matches," she said. "Now, we must find someone for you. He should be an islander, so you can stay close. Who catches your fancy?"
Cat ran her mind’s eye over the few eligible men she had met, and try as she might she could not picture one as a future spouse. They all seemed to fall far short of her imaginings, and the vision of a tall, dark figure, laughing into the wind, kept intruding.
Glancing at Amelia, she found the woman studying her a little too intently. Cat dismissed the question with a laugh. "I’m happy with you, so please don’t cast me out yet."
"Oh, I won’t, my dear," Amelia said. "But I can’t help looking," she added, with a wink. "Mark my words, I’ll find you a husband."
***
Ransom didn’t even look up at the sound of Bert’s footsteps.
"I’ve brought your dinner, sir," the first mate said.
"Just put it on the table," Ransom said, continuing to make notations in his log book. He heard the thump of a tray, but no retreating footsteps and glanced curiously at his first mate.
Bert stood stiffly by, hands clasped behind his back. "Captain?"
"Hmm?"
"We’ve sailed together a fair number of years now," Bert began, eyes downcast. "I’ve sailed with you because you’re a good man and know how to run a right ship."
"This sounds like the prelude to a dressing-down," Ransom said, dryly.
"Aye, that it is."
Ransom lifted a brow and leaned back in his chair.
"You’ve been hard on the men for weeks now - ever since Cat left." The first mate paused, his voice gentling. "Captain, we miss the boy, too."
"Ha! That pesky whelp." Ransom snorted in derision. He told himself he was well rid of the youth, considering the manner in which they had parted.
Bert shook his head. "You miss the lad, and what’s wrong with saying so? There’s piddling few aboard that don’t, and I don’t mind telling you some of these fellows never cared for anyone in their misbegotten lives."
Ransom’s eyebrow rose again, and the look he shot Bert would have sent anyone else from the room. Yet the first mate remained where he was.
"But they’re not mad at the boy for following his own path," Bert said. “Each man has his own destiny, as well you should know.”
A full minute passed before Ransom trusted himself to answer.
"You’re getting pompous in your old age, Bert," he said. "I never thought the day would come when I’d hear you preaching philosophy."
Bert shifted uncomfortably, but withstood Ransom’s withering gaze. "He’s not dead," the first mate said, softly.
At the words, Ransom’s head jerked involuntarily, as though the older man had struck him. He felt like leaping to his feet and returning the blow, but forced himself to remain seated.
"You’re right," he finally said, in a deliberately light tone. "But what can you expect from such a misbegotten - I believe that was the description - sort such as I?"
Without waiting for a reply, Ransom leaned forward once more. "We’ll be making port soon to sell the cargo, and the crew may have some extra days there." He picked up his pen, indicating the conversation was closed. But it stayed with him long after his first mate had left.
***
Cat raised her glass to Amelia’s and popped up with a toast from her days as a cabin boy.
"One for me, and one for the crow, and one for them that lie below!" Cat said, sending her aunt into a fit of giggles.
Seated together in the parlor, they were enjoying a syllabub that Cat had prepared for the occasion. But the rum, much stronger than the light spirits available in Amelia’s household, was making her aunt giddy.
"Wherever did you learn such a thing?" the older woman asked, though Cat suspected she knew full well.
"From one of the crew," Cat said, smiling at the memories. Although she rarely discussed those days with her aunt, she often thought of them as a treasured interlude, an adventure that was increasingly unreal compared to her life on Barbados.
Amelia chuckled. "From what I hear, the London ladies are all dressing up as their pages," she said. "So it appears you were quite in fashion, my dear."
Cat was perched on her favorite chair, back straight, her gown of creamy ivory satin falling in delicate folds and her hair curling softly about her face, while Amelia shook her head in disbelief.
"How on earth did you manage?" her aunt asked.
With an easy grace, Cat set down her glass and smiled. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, she leaned over and whispered her secret. "Since I slept with the captain, there was no-"
Amelia, in the midst of swallowing when Cat spoke, broke into a fit of coughing, and Cat leapt from her seat to rush to her aunt’s side.
But Amelia brushed aside her assistance. "What?" her aunt asked, weakly.
"I slept in the captain’s cabin, so there was less chance of discovery," Cat explained. She settled herself comfortably on the floor at Amelia’s feet, thereby missing the relief that flooded the older woman’s features.
"My dear child," Amelia said, patting Cat’s shoulder. "As much as I admire your resourcefulness, you must promise me you will never speak of this to anyone else."
"I don’t have to promise you that," Cat said, with a wistful smile. "I doubt that anyone else would understand.” Cat knew that her past isolated her from others, but despite her apparent changes, she remained proud of her her seagoing experience. And the opportunity to share her exploits, if only with Amelia, was inviting.
Her mood mellowed by the syllabub, Cat wove delightful tales for her aunt, of storms, sunlit beaches, heart-stopping drops over the side of the ship, and the friendships she had developed with the many characters aboard the
Reckless
.
When Cat paused, Amelia was wearing a thoughtful expression. "Well, now, this captain of yours certain sounds interesting," her aunt said. "Tell me more about him."
"Ransom Duprey?" Cat sighed. "He is simply the handsomest man alive."
Amelia chuckled. "Is that all?"
"Well, he is tall, above six feet, with dark brown hair," Cat said, unconsciously moving her hand to her own golden locks. "And his eyes are an even deeper shade." She stared off into the window of memory, and for a moment the room seemed utterly still. "And his smile is... like no other."
Cat shook her head ruefully. "I guess he sounds like any other man, but he isn’t. He could be kind and gentle, yet strong and… exciting," she added lamely.
"He sounds most intriguing," Amelia said. “Presumably, he is quite popular with the ladies."
"Oh, yes," Cat said, with a grimace. "The first mate said he could charm the petticoats off any woman he took a notion to. But he doesn’t think too much of women, so he rarely makes the effort. He says they are silly, boring creatures." Cat frowned into her glass.
"I see," Amelia said. "Well, something tells me the young captain will have cause someday to change his opinion." Smiling slightly at Cat, she took another sip of her drink. "I assume you learned to prepare this delightful concoction while serving on his ship."
"Oh, no," Cat said. "I got this recipe from a brothel."
She spoke matter-of-factly, then jumped up to slap her aunt on the back, as the poor woman was stricken with another fit of coughing.
Chapter Six
Cooling herself with a fan of mother-of-pearl and kid, a birthday gift from her aunt, Cat scanned the group that had gathered in the largest receiving room of the Grayson plantation house. The heat seemed to rise in waves from the polished fruitwood floors, and she was grateful that the current fashion called for thin gowns. Even the puffed sleeves on her white spotted lawn seemed heavy tonight, and she had long since abandoned her lace-edged shawl.
Cat always looked forward to the parties held on the island. Most of the planters lived like country squires - drinking hard, keeping a good table, and nursing their gout. Life in the islands was a far cry from London’s annual Season of balls and routs. But Cat had never been to London or attended a party, so she found the evening entrancing.
She loved the lemonade sparkling in crystal decanters, the elegant supper laid out in the dining hall, and the dancing. She had received some lessons and had easily mastered the steps, a simple task for someone who had run the rigging with agility.
Tonight, however, even the dancing could not excite her. The glow of the candlelight and the scent of the gardenias had lost their power to enchant, her mood having been ruined by a visitor. A mincing fop from London, he had been hanging on her skirts the entire evening. In exasperation, she had finally sent him for some punch.
At the thought of Mr. Pettifer, Cat snapped her fan more vigorously. Because these entertainment were few, she liked to savor every moment, but how could she with that simpering fellow dogging her footsteps? Unfortunately, the heat had kept some guests away, making it difficult to find an escape from her admirer.