Chapter 4
A
s Jessica enjoyed another surprisingly delicious evening meal in the great cabin, she glanced repeatedly across the table at Alistair Caulfield. She couldn’t help marveling at the man he had become. He easily held his own against the formidable, and much senior, captain. The ship’s surgeon—a man who’d been introduced only as Morley—also deferred to him in a manner beyond that of employee to employer. Both men seemed to admire Alistair and respect his opinions. In return, he spoke to them as equals, which impressed Jess very much.
As she had the night before, she endeavored to ease the flow of conversation by directing it toward topics the gentlemen were most conversant with. Presently, they were discussing the slave trade, a subject she knew was a heated one in some circles. At first, Caulfield hesitated to expound upon his views and the manner in which he supplied labor to his plantation. But when Jess showed interest, he indulged her. She remembered how she’d once derided the ease with which he deviated from established mores, but now she appreciated that trait in him. Neither her father nor Tarley had ever discussed business or political matters in her presence. Caulfield’s willingness to do so emboldened her, giving her the courage to broach areas she would never have otherwise.
“Do most plantations still rely on slave labor?” she asked, well aware that the abolition of the slave trade had not abolished slavery itself.
The captain tugged on his beard. “Like pirates, a law of the land won’t change a trader’s ways. The Preventative Squadron is too small as yet.”
“Are pirates a problem for you, Captain?”
“They’re a plague on all ships, but I’m proud to say no ship under my command ’as ever been boarded.”
“Of course not,” she said with conviction, which earned her a beaming smile from Captain Smith. She turned her attention to Alistair, steeling herself for the impact the sight of him would have. The effort was made in vain. The effect of his comeliness on the female senses did not lessen with time or exposure. “Is Calypso reliant on slave labor?”
Alistair nodded. “Most plantations remain dependent upon it.”
“Including yours?”
He leaned back in his seat. His lips pursed before replying, as if he had to contemplate his answer before offering it. She appreciated his circumspection, a trait she had not attributed to him before now. “From a business perspective, slavery is cost effective. From a personal standpoint, I prefer to have individuals working for me who desire to do so.”
“You are evading my question.”
“I do not use slaves on
Sous la Lune,
” he said, watching her in a way that indicated an interest in her reaction. “I use indentured servants. Mostly Chinese or Indians. I do have several Negroes under my employ, but they are free men.”
“Under the Moon …” she murmured, translating the name of his plantation. “How lovely.”
“Yes.” His smile held a secret. “Call me sentimental.”
Gooseflesh swept over Jess’s arms. Once again, he seemed to reference that night in the Pennington woods. But if so, he was not going about it in the manner she would have expected. His tone was warm and intimate, not mocking or laden with indiscreet suggestion.
But why would such a lewd incident hold sentimental value for him?
Caulfield lifted his glass to his lips, his gaze lingering on her over the rim. His cool blue eyes held such appreciation, she felt it on her skin as she would the rays of the sun.
Jess reconsidered her own view of that night. The act he’d been engaged in had been obscene, and for so long she had thought only of that aspect. Yet in those moments when their gazes held, there had been …
something else
as well. She couldn’t understand it, nor could she explain it, which was part of what frightened her. If someone were to describe the incident to her, she would be appalled and find nothing positive to attach to it. But it had happened to her, and her subsequent discussion with Tarley that night had changed her life irrevocably. She’d been incited into recognizing unknown needs and given the tenacity through desire to make those needs known to the man she’d wed. The six years of her marriage had been precious to her as a result. Perhaps Alistair had gained something, too? She hoped to muster the courage to ask him one day.
“Why did Tarley continue to use slaves if there were alternate means available?” she asked, needing to find something less personal to focus on.
“Do not think ill of him,” Alistair replied. “He was not directly responsible for the oversight of Calypso. There is a foreman and steward who handle such details, and they act in the best interests of their employer.”
“They act in the interests of profit.”
“The two are one and the same, are they not?” He leaned forward and gave her a hard look. “I pray you appreciate that. Ideals are all well and good, but they will not feed, clothe, and keep you warm.”
“
You
utilize other means,” Jess argued. It did not sit well with her to think that her gowns, jewels, sprightly curricle, and a multitude of other luxuries had been purchased at the expense of the labors of enslaved men. She knew well what it felt like to be powerless and at the mercy of the whims of another.
“My other business interests afford me a bit more license.”
“So I am to understand that ideals are bought with coin? Those who have enough are provided the means, while those who do not must—in effect—sell them for gain?”
“Unromantic, perhaps,” he said unapologetically, “but true.”
There he was. The young man who would accept any wager and take coin for stud servicing. She had wondered where he’d gone and now saw he hadn’t gone anywhere at all. He had simply acquired some polish to disguise the rough edges.
“Most enlightening,” she murmured, taking an overly large swallow of wine.
As soon as she was able, Jess excused herself and headed directly toward her cabin. She traversed the passageway with as much haste as decorously possible.
“Jessica.”
The sound of her given name in Alistair’s deep voice was enervating. She waited until she reached her door before halting and facing him. “Yes, Mr. Caulfield?”
As he had the night before, he took up all the space in the narrow hallway. “It was not my intent to upset you.”
“Of course not.”
Although he looked composed, the sudden rough raking of his hand through his inky dark hair suggested otherwise. “I do not want you to think ill of Tarley for the decisions he made that helped to provide for you. He was not a fool; he took the opportunities presented to him.”
“You misunderstand,” she said evenly, feeling a rare exhilaration. As with Benedict, she did not fear reprisal for speaking her mind to Alistair. “I do not fault common sense, practicality, or even well-intentioned avarice. It is being underestimated that is bothersome to me. I know well enough not to weaken my interests, even for the sake of my higher sensibilities. However, I may renegotiate Calypso’s contract with you to gain the funds to acquire indentured servants. Or I may find that purchasing my own ship and crew will be more profitable in the long term, thereby freeing up funds in that manner. Or perhaps increasing the production of rum is a matter I should look into. In any case, it’s possible I can find the means to have ideals, if I so desire.”
His eyes glittered in the dim light of the flashlamps. “I am duly chastened, my lady. I was under the impression that you meant to sell Calypso, in which case your questions pertained to the past and not the future.”
“Hmm …” She remained skeptical.
“I once underestimated you,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back. “But that was long ago.”
Jess could not check the impulse to ask, “What altered your opinion?”
“
You
did.” He flashed his infamously wicked smile. “When faced with the choice of fleeing or staying, you stay.”
The sharp pang in her chest caused her shaky courage to flee. She turned to open her door, but paused to look over her shoulder before she entered her cabin. “I have never underestimated you.”
Alistair bowed smartly. “I suggest you don’t start now. Good night, Lady Tarley.”
Once inside her cabin, Jess leaned into the closed door and willed her heart to stop racing.
Ever prepared, Beth had a damp cloth waiting. As Jess pressed the coolness against her cheeks, she saw the knowing look in the abigail’s eyes. She turned and presented the row of buttons fastening her gown.
One person who could see right through her was enough for the night.
Hester had just arranged the last white plume in her upswept hair when her husband entered her boudoir in a state of partial undress. His cravat hung undone around his neck, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Regmont was freshly bathed and shaved, if his damp hair and shadow-free jaw-line were any indication. He was undeniably handsome with his honey-hued hair and robin’s egg blue eyes. Together they formed a striking golden couple—he with his boundless exuberance and silken charm, and she with her mantle of reservation and faultless deportment.
Regmont jerked his head toward her abigail, Sarah, who was smoothing out minute wrinkles in the new blue gown Hester intended to wear. “I was hoping to see you in the pink with lace. It’s ravishing on you, especially with my mother’s pearls.”
She met the maid’s gaze in the mirror and nodded, ceding to her husband’s wishes. The alternative was an argument best avoided.
The abigail quietly and efficiently exchanged the dresses. After the pink gown had been laid out on the bed, Regmont dismissed the servant. Sarah paled and looked miserable as she left the room in haste, no doubt fearing the worst. Although there was a pattern to the escalation of Regmont’s moods, violence defied reason.
When they were alone, he cupped Hester’s shoulders and nuzzled the tender spot beneath her ear. As his fingers kneaded, she flinched and he noticed. Stiffening, he looked at the spot he touched.
Hester watched him in the mirror, waiting for the remorse to cross his expressive features. In that respect, he differed from her father. Hadley never regretted his actions.
“Did you receive my gift?” he whispered, gentling his touch over the darkening bruise marring her right shoulder blade.
“Yes.” She gestured to where it sat on the vanity in front of her. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“But pales in comparison to you.” The movement of his lips tickled the shell of her ear. “I don’t deserve you.”
She often thought they deserved each other. For all the times Jess had interceded on her behalf and taken the brunt of their father’s fury, it had been her due to take it while Jess had found at least temporary peace during her happy marriage. It was the saddest sort of irony that Hester had once thought she and Regmont had a precious affinity because both of their childhood homes had been marred by paternal abuse. They understood the scars left behind and the particular traits a child acquired to survive, but she’d learned other traits seeped into the characters of those who suffered while too young. An imprint was left on the soul, manifesting itself in ways not readily evident. As was said, an apple does not fall far from the tree.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Long. I spent the whole of it thinking of you.” He urged her to turn and she did, sliding carefully around on the small vanity stool so that the mirror was to her back.
Regmont knelt before her, his hands moving to clasp the back of her calves. Laying his head in her lap, he said, “Forgive me, my darling.”
“Edward.” She sighed.
“You are everything to me. No one understands me the way you do. I would be lost without you.”
She touched his damp hair, running her fingers through it. “You’re not yourself when you drink spirits.”
“I’m not,” he agreed, rubbing his cheek against her bruised thigh. “I can’t seem to control myself. You know I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you.”
They kept no liquor in any of their homes, but he easily found it elsewhere. By all accounts he was a jovial drunk, a most entertaining and amusing fellow. Until he returned home to her, where the demons plaguing him resided.
She felt the wet of his tears soak through her chemise and pantalettes.
He lifted his head and looked at her with reddened eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
Every time he asked her the question, it became harder to answer. He was most often the perfect husband. Kind and thoughtful. He spoiled her with gifts and tokens of affection, love letters and favorite treats. He listened when she spoke and remembered anything she admired. She’d learned swiftly to be very careful with what she voiced a liking for, because he would attain it for her by whatever means necessary. But there were times when he was a monster.
There was still a part of her that was madly in love with the sweet memories they’d created in the infancy of their marriage. Yet she hated him, too.