The Jezebel's Daughter (9 page)

I did, however, bestir myself to attend Christmas Mass at Christ Church. I donned my best gown and sat in the congregation, listening to the story of the birth of Our Savior. It was my favorite of all the stories in the Bible. It filled me with hope and I prayed fervently for salvation, for rescue from my plight. I also lit candles for my father, mother, and Mattie and Gunnar.

That night, I went down to the tavern, expecting to see Graves and the rest of his crew there. I was surprised to find Mr. MacIsaac sitting alone at the hearth, nursing a flagon of ale. After accepting a small glass of port wine from the girl behind the bar—port was something I'd come to relish in the brief time I'd been imprisoned in Nassau—I joined the quartermaster at the fire.

He stood as I seated myself and bowed over my hand. “My lady Weymouth,” he said before retaking his seat. “How have you been spending your Christmas Day?”

“Reading the lovely books the Captain left behind,” I answered. “And you?”

Mr. MacIsaac grunted and looked away, a frown marring his brow. “Drinking, mostly.” He raised his flagon to his lips and took a deep draught. “Acting as nursemaid to a bunch of drunkards, paying off angry tavern owners when those self-same daft drunkards destroy tables and stools in fits of churlish anger.” He bit off the rest of what he was going to say and sighed angrily. His Scotch accent had broadened, due mostly likely to the ale or his mood.

“I'm sorry,” I said awkwardly and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I would stay long enough to finish my port and then extricate myself as politely as possible. I'd never been at ease in the face of anger. It was a foreign thing to my upbringing. Raised voices and corporal punishment were unheard of in my house. My parents rarely fought or argued and beyond a few childhood altercations—which never came to blows—neither had my brothers or I.

Mr. MacIsaac looked up at me and gave me an apologetic smile. “Your pardon, my lady. Bad news has soured my wame.”

“Bad news? Of what sort?”

“It isn't anything to worry your pretty head over, my lady. And I certainly don't want to be guilty of ruining your Christmas celebrations with something so boring as politics.”

I bristled. My father had never spoken down to me like that, nor had my brothers. I was just as educated in matters of war, politics, and strategy as they were, and MacIsaac's patronizing me set my teeth on edge. “There is a mind inside this pretty head, I assure you, Mr. MacIsaac,” I said in my coldest tone. “I find great fascination in British politics and probably understand more of it than does the rest of your crew, including, I dare say, their captain.”

One side of his full mouth drew up in a smirk and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of my jab. “My apologies, my lady.” He studied me minutely for a moment. “On what side did your family fall during the Revolution?” I assumed he was referring to the Glorious Revolution, when William of Orange and his wife, Mary, deposed Mary's father, the Scotch James VII, to unite England beneath a Protestant banner and force the Catholic Stuart into exile in France.

“Why, on the side of William III, of course. Though I hardly see how that...” I broke off and raised my brows in shock. “Oh. You're Scottish,” I said dumbly. “And Catholic?”

He nodded curtly. “Aye, that I am. There's been a rising, though I'm sure by now it's been put down.”

“I see,” I said lamely. I didn't dare express my happiness or relief that any sort of rebellion against the rightful king had been put down, if indeed it had, as Mr. MacIsaac feared. I finished my port and held it awkwardly between my hands, mind reaching for a polite way to leave the tavern and retreat to my room.

Thankfully, Mr. MacIsaac sensed my discomfort and stood. “Again, I must apologize, my lady. I have made you uncomfortable. I'll take my leave.” He bowed and left the hearth, moving to the bar and sitting down heavily on a tall stool there. I left shortly thereafter, going up to my room and thinking about the quartermaster. Despite his politics—and his religion—I rather enjoyed his company. He was well-educated, possessed gentlemanly manners, and was kind to me. I fell asleep soon after, my last thoughts dedicated to wondering how fast my father was spinning in his watery grave because I was entertaining kind thoughts about a Scotchman, and an admitted rebel to compound things.

VIII

House of Earthly Delights, Nassau, New Providence Island

January, 1716

The
Jezebel
spent a week at anchor and I saw Graves every night. He didn't speak to me again as he had during the Christmas Eve; instead we ate in silence and he went about his attempted seductions, which I rebuffed. Though I knew he was angry with me, he never raised his hand to me. Instead he took what he wanted and then slept all night in my bed. After seven nights of sleeping in Ben's cot, I promised myself I would get him a new mattress, if only to save my back and neck from the morning stiffness.

On two occasions, Graves took me downstairs to the tavern to drink with his men. I supposed that he was showing off his prize, letting the sailors see him with me but not allowing them to speak with me. He did, however, allow Mr. MacIsaac to sit at the table and my impression of the man remained unchanged, despite our Christmas Night talk.

“How are you enjoying the books?” Mr. MacIsaac asked me while the captain was playing at cards with some of his crew and other residents of Nassau.

“They are wonderful,” I replied, smiling at him. His face lit up with pleasure at my words and I knew in that instant that it was the quartermaster who had made gifts of the only means of escape I had. It endeared him to me even more. “You'll have to thank the captain for me again.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile and he gave me a secretive nod. “I'll be sure to pass on your compliments to Captain Graves,” he said loudly, as if to cover the conspiratorial expression. I felt a small warmth bloom in my belly at Mr. MacIsaac's smile.

“Have you read them?” I asked.

He nodded. “I have. I especially enjoyed Perrault's stories. I found the tale of the talking cat the best.”

“
Le chat botté
,” I said and nodded. “The story of Puss in Boots. I'm not entirely sure the boy deserved such a devoted servant. It seems to me the cat's reward was less generous than it should have been, considering what his service did for his master.”

Mr. MacIsaac looked at me sharply. He shrugged after a beat and said, “At least he was rewarded for his service. Ofttimes, a servant's exertions on behalf of his master—or mistress—go unacknowledged, let alone unrewarded.”

“That is true. But he chases mice in the basement of the castle, while his master shares his life and his bed with a beautiful princess. One would think that if the cat had the skill and cleverness to arrange those things for his master, he could also arrange such things for himself.”

The quartermaster's expression changed, becoming serious and somewhat remote. “And you, Lady Weymouth? Which is your favorite tale?” It seemed he would not pursue further discussion of his service aboard the
Jezebel
.

“Briar Rose,” I answered promptly.

“You await your prince, someone to rescue you from this?” he asked, his voice soft, as he gestured around the room.

I darted a glance toward Graves, finding him with his attention on the card game, ignoring Mr. MacIsaac and me. My gaze swept the rest of the room, finding no one with any sort of overt interest in our conversation. Still, I did not dare risk such a bald admission, so I merely nodded and arranged my features in a sad smile. While I dreamt of such a prince and such a rescue, I was fully aware of the fact that it would never come. I would likely serve in Madame Dupris's brothel until I was ragged and wrinkled. Then I would be turned out onto the streets, where no one would want me and I would slowly starve to death.

“Perhaps he will come, my lady.” As if sensing the downturn in my mood, he stood and signaled to Ben, who was sitting with two of the house's girls. Tansy, I noticed, was not present. “The lady wishes to retire to her room,” he said to my guard.

Ben nodded and led me away from the tavern. He cast longing looks behind him as we ascended the stairs, and I chuckled softly. “You don't have to stay,” I said to him. “Lock the door and return to the tavern.” When he looked as though he was going to object, I said, “I'll take care of Graves. Don't worry.” He hesitated until I shut the door firmly in his face. I heard the key turn in the lock and a murmured word of thanks before his feet pounded down the stairs. At least one of us would be having a pleasant evening.

I went to the table and picked up Perrault's book, flipping through it until I found Mr. MacIsaac's story. I dragged the chair over to the windows again, bringing with me a candlestick, and sat down to re-read the story. When I finished it, I hoped that Mr. MacIsaac didn't identify too much with the cat; he shouldn't be satisfied with mice when he could have a princess of his own. He deserved at least that.

That night, when Graves came to me with his carnal demands, Mr. MacIsaac's face was what I saw when I closed my eyes. It was his mouth I tasted, his hands stroking over my flesh, his body moving inside mine. I felt a flush of pleasure thinking about Mr. MacIsaac, stronger than I'd ever felt before, pleasure that made me feel as though I was being consumed by a raging conflagration that started low down in my belly and swept up my spine to explode like cannon fire in my head.

Later, when Graves was finished, he lay next to me and said into the darkness, “I told you I could give you pleasure if you let me.”

I made an acknowledging sound, content to let him think it was him who had made me feel as I had. It would be my secret, though, that it was his quartermaster instead who have given me my first hint at what Tansy and the other girls had been talking about.

* * *

The night before the
Jezebel
left port was an especially awful one. I wanted to spend time in the tavern, talking with Mr. MacIsaac, memorizing him—the sound of his voice, the smell of his body, his gestures, his expressions, the color of his hair and eyes, the texture of his hands—to fuel my daydreams. Graves, of course, wanted me all to himself and refused to take me downstairs to see his crew.

I was feeling churlish and petulant, and did not submit meekly to the captain's attentions. I was rigid in his embraces, unresponsive to his touches and kisses, and lay beneath him like a wooden board, passive and distant. It frustrated him, probably even angered him, and he climbed off of me, his member limp and useless, dangling ignominiously between his thighs.

“Damn you, girl!” he thundered and grabbed my arm to drag me out of my bed. He pointed to Ben's cot and threw on his breeches, hastily doing up the buttons before throwing open the door. “She's not to leave this room,” he told Amos as he passed him in the corridor and pounded down the stairs. Amos glanced into the room, where I was huddled in my shift atop Ben's cot. He merely arched a brow and went back to watching the stairs.

Graves soon returned with Katie, one of the house's girls, and a bottle of rum. She resembled me a little—blonde, blue-eyed, slender—but was probably five hard years older. She glanced at me and then at the captain and shook her head sadly.

“What's the problem,
cher
?” she asked Graves, sliding up to him, her hips swaying seductively. She reached out and trailed her fingers down his chest and I looked away. “Is
le petit oiseau
not doing her job tonight?”
Little Bird
was what Madame and the other girls had taken to calling me. It chafed.

“No,” was Graves's gruff reply. “I want you to show her the proper way to service a man.” I heard his footsteps approaching me and then his fingers curled around my chin hard enough that I knew I would be bruised in the morning. He forced my head up and growled, “Watch,
my lady
. Perhaps you will learn something.”

He drew Katie to his side and undressed her. He embraced her, kissed her, touched and stroked her, just as he did to me. She responded more than I ever did, with little grunts and soft moans. She was enjoying his touch and even returned it, kissing him and reaching for his flaccid member, stroking it firmly in her closed fist. I watched with sick fascination as it grew long and firm and stood up straight, the angry purple head brushing against the captain's navel.

He pushed her to her knees in front of him and she smiled up at him before taking his length into her mouth. I looked away, horrified by her actions. “Watch her,” he barked and slapped me hard, my cheek stinging with the impact.

I burst into tears but forced myself to watch as he thrust in and out of her mouth, his hands gripping her head as his hips pumped against her face. She treated this act as though she was devouring something delicious, licking and sucking with gusto. He certainly enjoyed it; he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, still grasping her head and pushing in and out of her mouth. Finally, with a terrible groan and a shudder, he thrust the full length into her mouth and held her head against him. She closed her eyes and parted her lips; I could hear her gasping and trying to breath around him. He withdrew from her mouth and took a deep swig from the rum bottle before handing it off to her. She sat back on her heels and drank deeply, swishing the wine around in her mouth before swallowing.

He swaggered over to me and squatted down, taking my chin in his hand again. “That is how you please a man, you frigid bitch,” he growled at me and then shoved me backward, ripping the shift from my body and the quilts from Ben's cot. He threw them in the corner near the bed, leaving me naked and exposed. He led Katie to the bed and laid down with her, spooning her against his body.

I huddled on the cot, shivering with cold, though I should have been feverish with the burning hatred that consumed me. I listened to Graves and Katie as he bedded her over and over, all night. She enjoyed it, I thought; the sounds she made and the fact that she was a willing participant, even climbing atop him and riding him at one point, sickened and disgusted me.

Morning came and Graves and Katie left without speaking a word to me or casting a single glance my way. Once the door closed behind them and the key turned in the lock, I sprang from the cot and dressed quickly. Then I stripped the sheets from my bed and threw them into a pile in the middle of the room. When Tansy came with breakfast, I demanded she burn them to remove the stink of Graves's rutting.

“I'll boil them,” she said practically. “
La Metrès
don't like no waste.” She gave me a gentle smile and bundled up the sheets, taking them with her as she left.

The
Jezebel
left later that morning. I stood at the window and watched as it sailed out of the harbor. I hadn't seen Mr. MacIsaac again since we spoke last. I found I was upset at not being allowed to say farewell to the quartermaster. I decided in that moment that I could not stay in this place a single moment more. It would be the death of me.

I sat down on the floor and let my legs hang out the window. The breezes stirred my skirts and teased tendrils of my hair loose from my braid. In the harbor, there were two ships taking on cargo—an unfamiliar brig and the
Neptune
, a merchantman out of Portsmouth, England. A nascent plan formed. The
Neptune
would be my savior. I watched the jolly-boats and saw the dock where the merchantman's cargo was stowed.

I dressed quickly and found Ben's old haversack and stuffed it full of my precious books and some of my breakfast, the things I knew wouldn't go rotten too quickly—hard cheese, rolls, salted meat. Once it was filled, I went to the door and listened intently at it. The hall was silent and the house felt as though it was slumbering deeply around me. I tried the doorknob and found that it turned easily in my hand. Tansy must not have locked it when she left earlier with the sheets.

I opened the door slowly, expecting Amos to be lurking there in the shadows of the passageway. To my surprise, the hall was empty. I stole out of my room and down the stairs, rushing but taking care be as quiet as I could. The courtyard was empty and only Old Man Turner, one of the town drunks who depended upon the largesse of the captains to keep him in his cups, was in the tavern, snoring in a heap near the hearth.

I moved as fast as I dared out into the streets of Nassau, headed directly to the docks, not stopping to speak to any of the people who greeted me. I had to find a crate or box or something to hide in before all of the
Neptune
's cargo was loaded. I skirted around the tents on the beach; they were filled with pirates and whores, all of whom knew me and would inform Ben of my presence in the area, should he come looking. And he would come, just as soon as he woke and discovered that I was gone.

Soon I reached the docks and made my way hastily to the piles of cargo. I found a crate that wasn't nailed closed securely and stole inside. I was surrounded by half-full sacks of grain. It smelled a bit like a cow's byre and I snuggled in, taking care to pull the crate's lid closed after me. It was dim, but light was creeping through the boards, not enough to read properly by, but enough that it wasn't as dark as pitch.

I knew what I was doing put Ben's life in danger. It probably also endangered Tansy, but after the horrible night before and all the horrible months I'd endured, I couldn't stand one more day as Grave's prisoner. I felt no small amount of guilt over leaving this way, knowing what Grave would do to Ben and to Tansy, but the guilt I felt wasn't enough to keep me here. I was desperate enough to risk their lives; the only alternative was staying and I knew that would mean the end of my own life.