The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2 (4 page)

Mrs. Narvel sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, this is going to be a long trip. We should get better acquainted.”

She nodded, but glanced at the lady's tummy. "You're about four months?"

The woman smiled and patted her belly. "Almost five, but don't tell Lord Welling. It will make him more anxious. My husband will be so surprised."

"Why? It's his right." Precious covered her mouth, but it was too late, the awful thing had sprung from her lips.

"Of course." Mrs. Narvel angled and leaned down, fishing off her cream boots. "His leave in London was so short. I didn’t know until he was gone. How long have you worked for the baron?"

What could Precious say? Four years, two years, a few weeks since she had papers. A knock at the door gave a much-needed reprieve, a moment to think of an answer that didn't evoke sympathy or make her less than. "Let me get that."

Opening the door, she allowed two men to ferry in a trunk. They set it in the corner, taking up a good chunk of the small room. Once the men left, she turned to Mrs. Narvel. "I'd been with his late wife for a long time, but only in his household the last four years." She started digging in her bag to avoid more talk. She’d save the chatter for the voyage.
 

The air was warm in the small room, but hints of cedar offered the scent of newness. A little bit of hope stirred again. But what if this land of Port Elizabeth was just like London, or worse? What is she walked around free, but others who looked liked like her were enslaved. Her heart sank and all the hope died.
Oh, let it not be so.
 

Trying to think of something else, Precious smoothed the rumpled sheets on the bed. What about this fellow, Grossling? “That man who the baron kicked out of here, do you think he could be a problem for Lord Welling?”

“No, he’s too smart for Grossling to make hay, but we’d better mind the captain's warnings.”

“I suppose.” But how much trouble could two women cause on a boat this big? And what consequences would befall Lord Welling?

Gareth climbed the ladder to the deck. His palms felt slick with sweat, making the task a little harder than it should be. Back on deck, he wiped his palms on his breeches and surveyed his dominion. Men prepped lines, readying to launch. Others worked the gasket straps to unfurl the mainsail. One hand had begun to swab the deck boards to erase the footprints of the laborers loading the crates. The chimney-stack of the brick oven below gleamed. The cook would soon be baking fresh bread and biscuits. His mouth watered, thinking of the delights. The Margeaux was in tip-top shape. This would be an uneventful voyage to Port Elizabeth.
 

He took a whiff of the fresh salty air, listened to the cacophony of gulls yelping overhead, and trudged to the rail. He lived more or less a solid life. Since the passing of his youth, he'd counted the costs of every action, like the digits on his hand. To date, he’d only claim to have made three mistakes, losing his first pay billet in a game of marked cards, not measuring the distance he needed to jump away from an exploding cannon, and choosing to attend his uncle’s last moments on the earth rather than being at his wife’s. Could bringing Miss Jewel and Jonas be the fourth?

Rubbing at his skull, he chuckled to himself, like a drunk trying to deny the need for a bottle. The headstrong girl was too caught up in admiring his schooner to notice the hungry looks of his crew. Her emerald bodice fit snugly on her grown-up limbs, showing off all manner of curves. He chided himself, too, for she'd gotten his attention.

Swinging her around with his hands about her small waist was a mistake. Teasing the lively miss needed to be avoided at all costs, no matter how enchanting she was, or how much it amused him to see the crinkle on her brow deepen when he confused her.
 

Just like Eliza.
 

There was no doubt in his mind the two were related. By God’s grace, he stumbled upon a piece of his wife. This time he’d do right. He’d keep Jewell safe, just like he should’ve done Eliza. That might pay the debt he owed; to right that third mistake.
 

“Captain.”

He pivoted to see Ralston, a tall, stocky man with a girth as bountiful as the jokes that often came from his mouth.
 

His first mate put his hands behind his back. “Captain, we are ready to make sail and be underway, but the women… are they stayin’?"

The man's thick Irish brogue butchered the King's English almost as badly as Jewell did upon occasion, but somehow Ralston's didn't sound as cute.
 

Fingers crossing behind his back for luck, he nodded. "Yes, they are. I assure you they will not be any trouble."

Ralston fingered a button on his short coat. "Aye. The two females making the trip. Is the redhead a mail-order bride for a colonist?”

“No, she’s my lieutenant’s wife.”

His man frowned then swiped at his mouth. “Well, what about the other one? She’s black, but not as black as some we’ve seen in Port Elizabeth. I’m thinkin' she’ll get prettier with a little rum or a little time at sea.” Horrid, schoolboy-like giggles came out of the lecher. "Yes, I'm thinkin' she'll do."

Something primal rose up in Gareth at the thought of Ralston harassing Jewell. A growl inside almost ushered out, but he smoothed his fisted hand along his coat. “Let Miss Jewell be. She’s under my protection.”

The bubbly laughter poured harder out of Ralston's mouth, making his jet-black mustache twitch. Even his stomach jiggled with the horrible noise. “I’m not thinking of harming her. No, I had much more pleasurable thoughts of how to spend the time with the pretty blackamoor.”

Pounding forward, he got into his first mate's face and talked really slow, so the lout wouldn't mistake a syllable. “Ralston, leave her alone. Don't force my hand.”

The man stepped back; his laugh had diminished but still sounded. “Oh, why didn't you say the chit was yours? Good for you, Captain. But if you tire of that little piece, give me first go.”

He yanked the man by his ratty coat. “Ralston, so help me, you touch her and I’ll…”

The laughter finally stopped from the fellow. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple vibrating. Then Ralston wrenched free. “Don't get so mad. And don't blame me for looking for an opportunity. And when they aren't waiting on you, you know what those black are good for. Why else would they breed ’em like cattle in the Americas?"

He leapt backward, out of hitting range. "Well, Captain. Take your time with that one. Learn the ways to control her, and I bet that knowledge will be of use in Port Elizabeth. It'll give you an advantage over the warring tribes. Why make war, when there are more pleasant things to be done?”

Stunned at the man’s logic, Gareth mumbled a command, though it could have been a curse. He cleared his throat and started again. “Ralston, go check the main sail. We push off in the hour. Belay this foolish talk. That's an order.”

His first mate saluted and trudged away.

Gareth pivoted back to the ocean, his ocean, and tried to put his mind upon a cresting wave, upon the gentle white foam, not the ugliness of Ralston's words. How would things in Port Elizabeth improve if all of the colonists held this attitude?
 

The Xhosa, the powerful warrior group that inhabited the inlands of South Africa, had sent a representative to the last council meeting. The man had claimed that all the whites felt like this. And, fool that Gareth was, he said the tribe's experience was with the Dutch and the Spanish, not the English. English were different; English laws had spoken for equality since the Somerset decision.

But how truly different were the Port Elizabeth colonists?

And how different was Gareth?
 

He’d ignored parts of that decision to keep Jewell close and under his influence. For her own good, he couldn't risk her staying in London without his protection, and, like Eliza, she was too willful to be reasoned with, not without a bargain.
 

His conscience had been wearing on him since he presented her with the option of staying with Palmers or coming to Port Elizabeth as an indentured servant. Yes, England did afford slaves the right to choose not to leave her shores, but life in England was cruel to outsiders, those of different skin. The thought of the willful miss being tricked into prostitution or living in abject poverty wasn't something he could allow. That would never honor Eliza.

Maybe he should've trusted Jewell, but telling people what to do was in Gareth's blood. Growing up as a peer-in-waiting, with privilege and being set apart, a whole sphere apart from everyone, was all he’d known. Even when his funds were low, his assured elevation and family ties proved enough for the Marsdale family to consent to his betrothal to Eliza.
 

Perhaps his need to control things made him no different than his base first mate. Hadn’t Gareth been fine with Eliza owning another person? To enslave, didn't that come with assumption of superiority, or worse, a belief that the enslaved was less than, not equal?

He reached for his hat to swat at his disturbed brow but found it missing. It was with Jonas. The happy little tot giggled with it, showing Gareth the same affection he offered Miss Jewell. The boy's smiles held Jonas's full love, with nothing held back. Though he too would follow in Gareth’s footsteps and claim the barony, the child hadn't yet learned to look down upon anyone, any race, or any color.

Could he become like Jonas? Could Gareth unlearn these sentiments to help a colony of multiple races survive?
 

Or was this notion of equality a passing notion, something made easier because of Jewell’s connection to Eliza?

Water lapped against the hull, pounding against the outer walls of the cabin. The whispers and coughs of the men below had finally ceased, but it still felt as if they were listening or commenting on her or Mrs. Narvel. It was too much for Precious. Her spirits swung too high. She couldn't sleep. Her soul stirred, and she couldn't be caged anymore in the small room. Every time the door opened from the cabin boy or another sailor fetching them food, she could see the changing shadows of light coming from the deck. The world moved topside, and she wanted to see it.

Being a guest was crazy and beautiful. It had to last. She looked up from the pallet to where the young officer’s wife slept. Mrs. Narvel wanted to trade each night, like equals, but Precious let the pregnant woman have the bed. It was the right thing to do. Having the freedom to make the choice meant more than a soft mattress.

Precious lay back and set her restless head on her quilt. A year ago, a few weeks ago, she'd have no choice in her duties or where to sleep. The last time she traveled over the ocean, Eliza lay in bed snuggled up in blankets, with hopes and dreams of a marriage to come. And Precious felt lucky to flop on a similar wooden pallet on the floor. Eliza treated her well, but she wasn't sleeping on the ground for anyone.

Choices. Yes, choices were a good thing.

Another wave crashed, but the rhythm soon blended with little Jonas's puffy breaths. He slept alongside her, his tiny little mouth puffing air. He'd adjusted well to the boat. Or maybe it was the joy of having his father about for more than a few days.
 

The hurricane lamp grew bright, casting an orange glow about the stark room.

"Precious, are you up again?"

The sleepy, high-pitched voice grated, but the woman, Mrs. Narvel, seemed to be a nice one.
 

But what did Precious know of things? She'd just spent two years thinking she was free. Oh, Lord Welling must've had a good laugh on that one. Well, at least he was laughing again. Two years of no joy was wrong, even for an infuriating man.

Sitting up fully, Precious set each foot on the floor, her bare feet thudding against the smooth warn boards. "Sorry to be shifting. Sleep doesn't have much use for me tonight."

Mrs. Narvel's apple-shaped head bobbed up, her red curls plastered to the sides of her butter-colored cheeks. " What are you going to do with another sleepless night? I haven't seen you slumber much."

The woman had been watching her? Precious bounced up and leaned against the wall. She took a finger and traced a crevice between boards. "Guess I'll just do what I did the night before. I'll manage."

The hurricane lamp on the small table showed the lady's lips pinching. "You can trust me, Precious. I know some may give you trouble, but that's not in me. I know Lord Welling has faith in you, so you must be a good person. He doesn't trust just anyone."

Lord Welling trusted her? So much so that he couldn't let her be fully free, so much that he wouldn't let her go up top without his permission. Precious swallowed a bit of gall. Mrs. Narvel didn't need to know the particulars of the arrangement with her employer.

The lady picked up her book from the small table by the bed and waved it. "When I'm anxious, I take a hold of my Bible. I settle down with a Psalm. It's well with my soul. Here, read a little."

She'd like to trust those wide hazel eyes, but only Eliza's were ever good to her. And Eliza's word was bond. What good was that book with the golden leaves? With all the bad in the world, it couldn't be a good book at all. "I think I need some air."

The woman bounded up, tugging at Precious' grey robe, clasping her hand. "No, girl. You don't know how the men get up there. We haven't been to port in four weeks. A pretty thing like you could be in danger."

Raising a brow, Precious searched her companion's face for guile but found none. "I don't understand."

"These aren't regulars, soldiers bound to duty, but a crew of misfits put together by money. The Crown's hired mercenaries to try to keep the peace in South Africa." She tugged harder on Precious's fingers, as if keeping them would keep all of Precious safe. "We'll dock in another couple of days. Then you can stroll out, while they're onshore. Why do you think Lord Welling hasn't come for us?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, fear reached out and clapped her mouth, keeping her from uttering anything, just like it had before. Precious closed her eyes and shook her head, pushing away the bad memories of a small shed in the woods of the plantation. Almost panting, she pressed toward the door. "I have to have some air. I'll go mad if I don't."