Easton's Gold (11 page)

“You meant to give me to him in return for the passage.”

She turns back toward the door, opens it and glances back once more. Her dark eyes fix on me for a second, her expression a combination of pride and reproach. This scalds me far worse than any words she might have chosen.

She disappears into the corridor beyond the cabin, and I hear her quiet footfalls beyond. I sit still for some while, a throbbing pain in my chest.

__________

G
ABRIELLE STARES THROUGH THE
porthole at the sloshing grey waves. The ship rocks and pitches. Although they still follow the coast, Gabrielle feels lost and unanchored.
The Marquis was my only friend
, the thought comes to her again and again in waves,
and I am going to the other side of the world.

There is a soft creaking outside her cabin door again. It seems Philippa is back. At first Gabrielle can't even be bothered to turn to the door.
Let her stand there listening for a hundred days if she wants to.

Then she tries to imagine what this journey will be like day after day, isolated as she is.
Will I not be begging even for Philippa and Maria to speak to me before long
? She turns slowly and watches the cabin door. There is another creak.

Gabrielle's muscles tighten and her breaths grow rapid. She knows she has made up her mind.

Gabrielle rushes the entrance. It takes only four bounds. She flings open the door, grabs hold of Philippa's forearm and pulls her inside, shutting the door after her.

Philippa cowers in front of her, her hands held over her face. Her skin has gone very red and her eyes are huge, like those of a child listening to a story.

Gabrielle takes half a step toward Philippa, and Philippa dodges to the side. Gabrielle makes another move, and Philippa repeats the evasive action. The same thing happens twice more until Gabrielle feels as though they are a pair of fighting crabs.

“Why were you outside my door?” she demands, grabbing Philippa by the forearm again.

“I wasn't,” Philippa gasps, trying to back away from her.

“You were. You were today and you were yesterday. What are you expecting to find?”

“Nothing,” says Philippa, moving toward the door and pulling Gabrielle with her.

“There must be something. There must be a reason.”

“No, there isn't,” Philippa says, twisting her forearm this way and that, trying to loosen Gabrielle's grip.

“Don't go,” says Gabrielle, trying not to sound threatening. “Tell me what you were doing there.”

But Philippa has backed into the door and is reaching behind with her free hand for the handle.

Gabrielle tries to hold Philippa, but Philippa has the door open and wriggles her forearm like an eel. Gabrielle gives up and lets her go. She catches a final wild stare from Philippa, then she closes her cabin door.

She hears Philippa clatter up the three-step ladder, turn and run along a corridor then clomp down into the ship's honeycomb of cabins.

__________

T
HE COOL BRINE STINGS FLEET'S
eyes, but he holds his head in the barrel as long as he can, until his mouth and nose fight so hard to inhale he knows he won't be able to stop them. Then he throws back his head and gasps. He lays his hand on an upright beam until he regains balance. Then he takes the leather rag and begins to scrub first his arms, then his shoulders and chest.

When he hears the knocking, he stops dead.

He grabs his tunic and makes for the alcove, which is not visible from the cabin door. The knocking comes again.

“One moment!” Fleet shouts, throwing the tunic over his wet trunk and buttoning it all the way up. He checks his cuffs come down to his wrists then marches toward the brine barrel and slides the hatch closed. “Yes, come in,” he says at last, turning. The door opens and Captain Henley bundles through.

The captain's pale eyes dance around the dimly lit cabin. He seems to take in the brine barrel behind Fleet, then the three barrels by the wall near the door. Then he fixes on the sack hanging from the bedpost, its spherical contents not quite touching the floor. Fleet goes over to the sack, lifts it onto the bed and buries it in his bedclothes. His face burns at the obviousness of the concealment, but when he turns back, it seems as though the captain hasn't noticed.

“Mr. Fleet,” he stammers. “I'm afraid I have caught you in the midst of washing.”

The captain stares dumbly at Fleet's dripping hair.

“I have finished, Captain,” Fleet says, feeling the cold water trickle down his neck. “I prefer to dry slowly. Dampness is good for the chest.”

“So I have heard,” says the captain.

“Please,” Fleet entreats with a gesture. “Will you sit down?” Fleet pulls a stool from the wall and hands it to the captain. He takes an unlit candle and holds the wick over the flame by the barrel. A second halo spreads more light. He lifts the first candle and places it upon the brine barrel, then he takes the second and, crossing the cabin, places it in a holder in the door.

The captain, now seated, coughs gently. Fleet goes to his bunk and sits.

“How do you find your accommodation, Mr. Fleet?”

“Admirable, sir.”

“I am glad of it,” says the captain rather absently, “glad of it.”

Fleet shifts a little on his bunk and clears his throat. “I am indebted to your crew, Captain Henley,” he says. “They have provided me with a barrel of brine. I wash frequently and use sea water often in my medicine.”

The captain looks toward the barrel in question.

“I am glad of it…glad of it,” he repeats, but in such a manner Fleet suspects he is only half listening. “And are you comfortable in your cabin, sir? You must get very little natural light.”

“I'm quite comfortable, Captain,” Fleet reiterates. “I must congratulate you on the ship's progress,” he says stiffly. “We are swifter and more steady since morning.”

“You must congratulate the Marquis, Mr. Fleet,” the captain mumbles. “He begged that I indulge him and lend him the reins of my command until midnight. He was most eager to see what he remembers. So,” he continues, “I gave him my astrolabe and bade him good luck.” He attempts an indulgent laugh, but it dies on his lips. “I hope this cabin pleases you,” he says looking around again. “Is there anything I can do to make it more comfortable?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he stands and walks over to the row of barrels near the door. “You know, the work of an apothecary has always fascinated me,” he says. “I imagine you must have a cure for every ailment under the sun.”

Fleet watches the captain slowly pace the far wall and stare at each of the barrels in turn.

“If I were to suffer from a fever, for instance, I imagine you have the cure somewhere in your supplies. Am I correct?”

“Well, yes, it depends upon the fever, of course, but I would likely possess a remedy to match the ague.”

“And if I were to be wounded and if the mouth of the wound were to be infected, I imagine there are means to redress such a problem?”

“Indeed, I would do all in my power.”

The captain comes to a halt, his hand in front of his mouth.

“Is there a particular distemper which worries you, Captain?”

The captain seems to think for a moment. Then he sighs, turns and paces back the way he came. “Not I, sir. Not I.” He stops again, his hand touching the door. For a moment, Fleet thinks he means to leave the cabin without another word. But then he turns toward Fleet and leans back upon the cabin door.

“It is a malady of the heart, Mr. Fleet.”

“The heart?” Fleet repeats.

“I have lived my life upon the roaring waves. Sea ice and tempests are my only foes; fair winds and seabirds my only friends.” He sighs deeply then circles the cabin like an animal trying to escape a trap. “How then, sir, I ask you, how then am I to react to such eyes, such softness?” He bites his lip, looks to the ceiling and passes his weight from one foot to the other. “My heart is on fire, sir, and will scarcely survive another night.”

“Gabrielle,” Fleet says quietly.

“Ah,” says the captain, turning a half-circle and back again as though in practising a dance. “How easily you know me! How transparent I am. You saw how cold she was with me the night before last.” He glances at Fleet briefly, perhaps hoping for contradiction. Fleet looks to the cabin floor and frowns. “I have sent her an invitation to dine at my table again tonight. She has refused. I have no access, no means of making her love me.”

“You wish me to cure you of lovesickness?” Fleet asks.

“No, sir,” the captain says, his pale eyes suddenly fierce and flickering in the candlelight. “I wish you to make her as smitten as I.”

“Oh,” Fleet says, sighing.

“Tell me you can help!” The captain comes closer, and his body blocks the light from the candle in the door. “It cannot be hopeless. Would I have been sent these torments if not for a purpose? I have read that love can move mountains. Cannot my love move one woman's heart?”

Fleet shifts to the side and pushes himself off his bunk. The captain's bull-like frame, his uneven breathing—the warmth of which he can feel at such close quarters—makes him feel uneasy. He crosses to the far wall and leans back against the barrel containing the snails.

“Captain,” he says quietly, “it is not so easy.”

“But for you,” says Henley, reaching out his hands, “for you—”

“—It's true,” interrupts Fleet, “there are medicines that can awaken the desires of any person. But they are not specific in regards to where and upon whom the newly engendered feelings will be expressed.”

“But I have heard of charms and spells—”

“—That is witchcraft, Captain, not medicine. Charms and amulets are not part of my work.”

“But you said there are medicines,” says the captain, approaching Fleet once more. “You said as much.”

“Let me look into it, Captain,” Fleet says quickly.

The captain holds out both hands in entreaty.

“Let me check what I have,” Fleet continues calmly. “I came prepared to treat only the Marquis, but it is possible I might find something you need.”

The captain bows and backs off to the door. “I will be forever in your debt, sir,” he says with some difficulty. He turns to the door and opens it. “No price will be too high,” he adds in a choked voice. He glances once more at Fleet, then his gaze skims away to the floor. In another second he is gone.

E
aston's cabin is ablaze with candles. He stares up at Fleet with shining eyes. The sea wind, Fleet notices, has blown a web of thin veins into Easton's cheeks.

“You should not have stayed out so long,” says Fleet, handing him the cup. “You have overexerted yourself.”

“No, sir, I should not have returned,” Easton replies between breaths. “I have declared war upon this ague, Mr. Fleet. I defy infirmity and age!” He holds the cup for a moment more, his chest still heaving. Then with a sudden gasp, he throws his head back and gulps down the medicine. Fleet watches his Adam's apple bounce up and down as he empties the cup. Finished, Easton snarls at the taste and throws the cup across the room.

“Ye gods, man! Your cures are too foul to be endured!”

He pushes himself up from his chair and strides over to a basin in the corner. He lowers his head over the water and splashes his face and the back of his neck.

“However foul the medicine, my lord, you must remember your condition. You must have been on deck for twelve hours.”

Easton turns and smiles. “Twelve hours of progress for the ship, I'm sure you'll agree.”

Fleet begins to bundle up his medicine bag. “While you were steering the ship, my lord,” he says with a touch of hesitation, “the captain came to me with a request.”

“Indeed?” says Easton, now crossing the room to the panelled wall.

“He is lovesick for Gabrielle and wishes me to fill her with the same passion.”

Easton, now crouching, glances back. Then he pulls out his strongbox and busies himself with the key.

“And what did you say?” Easton asks in a low voice, lifting the strongbox lid.

“I said I must think about it,” Fleet replies.

Easton remains bent over the box, counting out the coins for some while.

“I think you should do what the captain asks,” Easton says quietly, his back still turned. Fleet has to cock his head and think. Did he perhaps hear it wrong?

“You think I should help the captain?” Fleet says, taking a step forward.

Easton stands and turns toward Fleet. He doesn't answer straightaway but approaches and begins counting the coins into Fleet's open palm. “We want the captain to be happy during this voyage, Mr. Fleet. Our safety depends upon it.”

Fleet feels the increasing weight in his palm. “I thought you regarded Gabrielle highly, my lord. I know she adores you.”

Easton sighs and looks to the carpet. Fleet drops the coins into his purse, pulls the string tight and slips the purse inside his breeches.

“How am I not being Gabrielle's friend in promoting the match?” Easton asks, his dark eyes suddenly mournful. “He will look after her, house her in comfort, save her from toil and an early grave.” Fleet feels himself frown. Easton is right, he thinks. Though poets and playwrights may say otherwise, this is life and these are the rules. “I may be the cause of her discomfort, Mr. Fleet,” Easton continues, “but I will not be the cause of her downfall. If she does not marry a man of substance, all her beauty, all her virtue will decay like a wind-fallen apple.”

Fleet nods and takes a half-step backwards.

“Is there physic that could make Gabrielle love the captain?”

“I may have physic that will make Gabrielle love. The captain must be on hand to ensure she burns only for him.”