The Pirate Captain (52 page)

“Miracles in minutes,” Sally sighed in private wonderment. “Gonna require Providence’s hand in this one.”

Cate raised a self-conscious hand to her tangled mass. Never had she been made to feel so inadequate with efficiency.

“Well,” Sally said, filling the basin. “My experience is cleanliness is the best place to start. Let’s see what what’s to be found under all that grime.”

The water was hot, the soap finely-milled, impregnated with bits of lavender and rose petals. Once the layers of road grit, salt, and sweat were removed, Cate’s skin was its softest in months, nay, years.

Once past her austere shell, Sally proved to be a kind-hearted soul. Her business-like air stemmed from coping with a doddering mistress, for whom she nurtured a boundless love and tolerance. Her first suggestion for Cate’s hair was a proper cap. Following a brief contretemps in which Cate flatly refused, Sally seized the brush and set to work.

As Cate sat on the stool before the dressing table, it occurred that Nathan would have enjoyed witnessing Sally’s exercised attempts to bring her snarled bramble into order. “Oakum is more orderly,” was often his comment. Given sufficient attention, her hair could be tamed into long curls about her shoulders without a touch of the iron. Too mindful of the timepiece on the mantle, Sally was disinclined to do so.

“Tea is at three sharp. M’lady sets great store in everyone attending. The miller’s cat can expect the hospitality of this house time out of mind, but only if it attends with an open heart and promptly.”

Sally ultimately resorted to severely pinning Cate’s hair back. Piled high at the crown, it cascaded in semi-orderliness down her back. With a flourish of ribbon, and several flowers from the vase tucked in, victory was declared.

The chambermaid returned with a freshly ironed kerchief, edged with delicate lace. Making no attempt to hide her disapproval at Cate’s sun-exposed skin, Sally muttered a soliloquy of “too tall,” “nothing decent,” “won’t answer,” as she tucked it into the edge of Cate’s bodice. Cate’s apron, fashioned from lightweight sailcloth by dear Billings, the ship’s sailmaker, was taken. Stained and sullied with blood and all manner of ship’s filth, it was carried off with two-fingered disgust, while another was passed around her waist and tied off with a crisp bow.

“Make you at least a little decent” was Sally's final assessment.

Feeling somewhat refreshed after the hurried
toilet
, Cate was guided from the bedchamber to downstairs. She felt prepared to face whatever was to come, when she was handed off to the downstairs footman, who led her down the highly polished hall. Gilt-scrolled double-doors were opened, and there she stood in the drawing room. The drone of conversation stalled as the attention of its dozen or so occupants swiveled around. The men launched to their feet and bowed. An awkward silence hung in the air as the seconds were ticked off by an unseen clock. Clenching her hands in the folds of her skirt, Cate felt like an insect in the yard, the chickens eyeing their next morsel. Smiling nervously, she wondered again how she ever came to be there.

“My sweet dear.” Lady Bart’s shrill shattered the silence. She pattered across the room on incredibly tiny feet. “Everyone, pray allow me to name…Oh dear, what was it? Oh, yes, how dreadfully silly…This is Madam Catherine Harper, a particular friend to our dear Diggie.”

Diggie?

Leaning heavily for support, Lady Bart towed Cate from person to person, while rattling off names, titles and an endless array of staggeringly irrelevant bits of information. Cate strained to connect names to faces, but abandoned all hope after the third person: a woman in bright green watered-satin dress, a towering powdered wig, and a voice befitting of a five-year-old.

Introductions blessedly complete, Cate was ushered to a gilt chair—dubious in both size and strength—near the window, teacup in hand. Having seen her seated, Harte took up the chair’s twin opposite a low tea table. An elegantly hosed calf extended, cheeks gleaming from a recent shave, he was freshly linened and powdered, a pert bow finishing off his tightly queued wig. He was one of those people who would be regal if dressed in rags.

“Rags” was exactly how Cate felt. She drew her feet under herself, in order to hide the indecent display of unstockinged ankle and sadly worn shoes, barely more than clogs. Her petticoat wouldn’t have been considered short had the room been occupied by those who toiled for a living. Aware of her hands, now tar-stained and tanned, she buried them into the folds of her apron as best as could be managed while holding a cup and saucer. Compared to the powdered and pink tones of those present, she felt as brown and leathery as Nathan’s hat.

“Diggie represented you were taken captive by that vile Captain Blackwater,” announced Lady Bart, alighting in a high-backed chair.

“Black
thorne.
Captain Nathanael Blackthorne,” the Commodore said tolerantly through an enduring smile.

“Pardon? Oh, yes, well, of course.” Lady Bart shuddered for what appeared to be only for drama’s sake. “Dissolute creatures. The civilized world would be
so
improved if we were rid of those despicable beasts. Diggie, I beg, can’t you
do
something about those people?”

“Not to worry, my dear Bart,” began one of the first gentlemen to be introduced, be-laced and blue-satined. The Honorable…oh, something! “Our Diggie has eradicated virtually every pirate ship in the West Indies. Blessed few remaining now. A dying breed, praise God, thanks to him.”

“Hear him! Hear him!” came a restrained murmur.

Coldness pricked between Cate’s shoulder blades.

“That Blackthorne chap has managed to give you the slip several times, has he not?” mused a younger man standing near the fireplace.

Henry, no Harry! No, wait, Fordshaw!

His outward demeanor unchanged, the muscles in Harte’s jaw flexed.

“Yes, a few.” He turned to Cate with intense conviction. “But mark me: that gnat shall be swatted from existence.”

Under the conversation of the room, she heard a tapping noise. From the corner of her eye, she could see Harte’s finger rapping on the black-lacquered surface of the tea table between them, marking a rhythm similar to the clock ticking on the mantle.

Cate looked to her lap, the tea forming an icy knot in her stomach. If someone had asked, she would have said sailing was a noisy business, but not until it was gone did she realize the degree. A seaman’s voice was perpetually raised to be heard over plank, block, canvas, wind, and water. Well over a hundred men lived elbow to elbow, and yet one was required to shout to be heard by his mess neighbor, anger and conversation often at the same volume. Having become accustomed to noise that one could lean against, she was left swaying by soft, reserved voices, the delicate titter of laughter, the clatter of china and rustle of silk. Here, the clearing of a throat was a vile disruption. The once-moving air was now still, to the point of near suffocation, heavy with perfume, pomade, and pomanders.

A surge of heat rushed from her chest and up her neck. Just as it touched her cheeks, it turned to ice, and gooseflesh shot down her arms. She closed her eyes against the high, thin ringing in her ears. The room pitched violently and she snapped them open once more.

No reprieve there.

“…that horrible slaughter,” finished the woman in green. She pivoted her attention to Cate and peered down her nose. “Oh, my dear…Madam. Harper, was it not? Yes, of course. The Commodore informs us you were aboard the
Constancy,
when it was set upon by those pirates in such an egregious manner. Such fortune, to have escaped with your life from that shocking incident.”

“You were there!” exclaimed…Fordshaw—she was sure that was his name. Eyes rounded with anticipation, he hunched forward, teacup forgotten in his hand. “Oh, I beg, pray tell us of it…unless, of course, it was too shocking,” he added with a miserable attempt at compassion.

“Well, of course it was shocking,” Lady Bart interjected from her chair, with a vigorous flourish of an ivory and silk fan. “The thought of that sweet dear, little Lucy Littleton begging for her life, after those men had…” Her mouth moved, fish-like, as she groped for an appropriate word. “Well, you know…had their way with her—”

“No!” Cate was surprised by her own vehemence.

There was a unified rattle of teacups falling to their saucers.

“Beg pardon, dear?” It was Lady Bart who ended the stunned silence.

Every eye in the room swiveled on Cate. Literally perched on the edges of their seats, they leaned in for the sordid details.

“No,” Cate repeated, more quietly but no less fervent. She drew a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, but no, that is
not
what happened. The Littletons died of a fever—”

“By what account?” demanded the honorable elder across from her.

Cate met his challenging look. “Mine. I was there.”

Sympathy befell every face, with pitying eye-rolls and murmurs of “Poor thing,” “Deranged,” and “Shocked.” Her sense of entombment in lace and satin, hosed legs, and slippers deepened.

There was a value, however, in being thought deranged: no one is comfortable in the face of it, hence conversation swerved away. Having failed to provide the amusement sought, they moved on, leaving her unobserved. Deflating with relief, she leaned back and closed her eyes, only to be swept by another wave of giddiness. The room spun again, sloshing like the
Morganse
’s bilges. She clutched the arm of the chair and opened her eyes in search of a solid fix.

Cate cast an anxious eye toward the window, and then the clock. It was nearly four; the walk back to the longboat would require at least an hour, and stepping smartly at that. Somehow, some way, she had to extract herself from this horror. She was already sure to be late; Nathan would have to be patient.

She smiled at that thought. Now there was a contradiction in terms: a patient Nathan Blackthorne. Animated, circuitous, funny, imaginative, vociferous; many words could describe Nathan, but patient was not one of them.

As Cate idly sipped her tea, she caught a play of eyes over Big Wig’s fan. The room was quite warm in the late afternoon hour. The ladies’ fans were in full employment, but cooling was a secondary function. There was a language of the fans, a silent dialogue of suggestion, flirtation, and clarification. She was familiar with this particular tongue, as carefully schooled as was every female present. The target of most of messages was the Commodore. Judging by the hidden eyes, touches to the right cheek or heart, he more or less had his pick of the room.

Cate’s train of thought was interrupted by, “I’m given to understand our dear Lord Creswicke is sparing no expense on his upcoming nuptials.”

The comment came from the direction of the fireplace. Fordshaw?

“Readily achieved when you’re the head of the Royal West India Mercantile Company,” snorted His Honorable. “I shouldn’t care to imagine how many of our coins have gone toward payment for that.”

Snickers and murmurs of agreement passed around the room.

“Marrying well certainly does the pocket no harm, either,” sniffed Lady-in-Green.

“Poor thing,” sighed another dispassionately. “I suspect the girl doesn’t comprehend what awaits her.”

“No matter, if she does or not,” said Elder-in-the-Chair. “The arrangements are made, signed and witnessed, as I hear it.”

“Mutual advantages,” mused Mr. Fireplace. “Her father acquires direct connections to the Company—and a tidy empire our Lord has built—while Lord Creswicke receives thousands of pounds and exclusive access to Boston’s markets.”

“Fair trade all around,” cried someone.

Another wave of knowing laughter rounded the room. Underneath the titter of knowing laughter that came from around the room, the rapping on the table at her elbow grew more emphatic. Too slow for a heartbeat, it was just as unfailing, but weighted with menace.

“It might be said we all benefit. If it wasn’t for his privateers and our good Commodore,” Elder-in-the-Chair said with a deferential bow in his direction, “we’d be at the mercy of those wretched pirates. Heaven only knows what our lives would be, and not a hope of safety or peace.”

Approving murmurs were uttered, the Commodore bowing from his place.

Cate sat stiff, hoping no one would notice her white-knuckled grip on her saucer. She meant to take a sip, but the cup rattled, clattering even louder as she set it back down.

“Are you well, Madam?”

She looked up into Harte’s intent green gaze. She nodded, but judging by his frown, he wasn’t convinced.

“Diggie, I’ve been given to understand you’ve been made charge of Lord Creswicke’s more, shall we say, delicate arrangements?”

Harte reluctantly shifted his attention to Elder-in-the-Chair. “It would seem Lord Creswicke has found my services indispensable.”

“Do tell, Diggie!” Mrs. Big Wig declared, bouncing with child-like anxiousness. “What is His Lordship’s latest folly?” cried another.

Harte sipped his tea, allowing the suspense to build.

“Lord Creswicke’s
betrothed
,” he said, with disdainful emphasis, “will be under my charge, until her arrival to Bridgetown.”

“I thought she was in Boston,” Mr. Fireplace said.

“Indeed, until some weeks ago, she was,” said Harte, smug with importance. “As we speak, she is bound for the West Indies.”

“When is she to arrive in Bridgetown?” asked Mrs. Big Wig conversationally, nibbling a biscuit.

He cocked a brow in calculation. “Sometime in the next fortnight, but probably less, but she shan’t be going—”

Blessing her luck, Cate closed her eyes. It was for only the briefest of moments, but was stricken with another wave of violent dizziness. The room heaved like the deck of a ship. Her hand jerked as she grabbed for the arm of the chair, the cup and saucer crashing to the floor. She lurched to her feet and teetered. Harte caught her by the arm.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, touching a shaky hand to her forehead. “I beg your leave. I must be more tired than…Perhaps I should…”