Beloved Captive (3 page)

Benning? He started to correct the old man, then thought better of it.
 

Instead, Caleb called to the surgeon. “Have this man moved to my quarters, then inform the captain to raise all sails and make for Santa Lucida at full speed.”

The youth nearly disappeared around the corner before Caleb called him back. “And give the order. All eyes will be watching for the vessel
Hawk’s Remedy
. Should she be sighted, I will have her burned to the water line and her crew left to swim with the sharks.”

A cheer went up all around. Fletcher alone kept his silence. Only later, when he’d been settled in Caleb’s bunk, did Fletcher broach the subject.

“Where is the lad whose concern for the law would not allow him to plot revenge?”

Caleb set down his quill and pushed away the logbook. Several responses came to mind, but out of respect for his teacher, Caleb remained silent.

“Ignore me if you will, lad,” Fletcher said, “but the truth is and always will be the truth.”
 

“ ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’
 
” Caleb swiveled on his seat and rested his elbows on his knees. “See, old friend. I’ve not yet forgotten what you insisted I set to memory.”

“
 
‘Dearly beloved,’
 
” Fletcher said, his voice strong and clear, “
 
‘avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’
 
”

Caleb heaved a sigh. “For that I have no rebuttal.”

“That’s a relief.” Fletcher shifted positions. “It’s of some comfort to know that even the grandson of Ian Benning knows he cannot trump the Word of God.”

Even as the watch bell rang overhead, Caleb had to wonder if perhaps he couldn’t have both religion and revenge.

Chapter 3

From the silks and satins adorning her cradle to the silks and satins she wore to the finest balls in New Orleans, Emilie Gayarre wanted for only two things: a father who stayed sober past dark and a mother to offer a kiss and a bedtime prayer.

Neither seemed terribly important until this moment. What she lacked, she’d made up for in the early and unwavering understanding that faith filled the empty spaces in her heart and held her in the blackest of nights.

“Might I. . . ?” She reached for the miniature, and the effort of keeping her fingers steady made speaking impossible. Only the knowledge that Papa seemed too absorbed in studying the pattern on the bed coverings kept her from making an excuse for it.

“It’s yours,” he said as his fingers traced the petal of a rose on the bed curtain, “for I’ll be seeing her soon enough.” A shuddering sigh silenced him for a moment. “Although like as not, St. Peter will bar the gates once my list of transgressions are read.”

“The Lord forgives,” she said. “As far as the east is from the west, that’s what He does with our sins if we ask Him.”

Her father’s silence continued. This discussion would go no further tonight. It never did.

“Thank you, Papa,” she finally managed to say as she felt the cold weight of the portrait balanced on her palm. “I shall treasure this image of my mother as no doubt she did.”

“It was done from memory. She never saw it.” A fierce look came over his pale, drawn features. “Leave me now. Go.”

Emilie bit back a sharp retort and tucked the miniature into her pocket then patted her father’s shoulder. “Of course. Your rest is most important.” She affected a smile that nearly cost her composure. “I’ve many stories of the children under my tutelage back on the key. Perhaps tomorrow I can tell you more.”

“Tutelage?”

Emilie swallowed hard, then proceeded carefully. “Yes. In a curious twist of events, I’ve found myself an educator. The island children are quite eager to learn, although they often lack for the most basic of—”

Brittle laughter shook the silk-covered walls, then faded into a fit of gasps. “You, a cosseted pet, now a common tradeswoman? A teacher?” he finally managed.

The word seemed to taste ill in his mouth, such was the expression on his face. In his struggle to rise from the pillows, Papa slid dangerously close to the edge of the bed.

Emilie remained rooted in place. Heartless as it might seem, she had no further desire to comfort a man who took pleasure in laughing at her expense.

“Do be serious,” he finally managed after settling himself nearer to the center of the bed.

Then she took a deep breath. “I am serious,” she said carefully.
“I have found a gift for educating. I rather enjoy it, actually, although I must say I perform my work under the most primitive of conditions. In fact, there is a serious deficit in funds. I had hoped…”

Emilie let the though trail away as her
father reached for the silk handkerchief on the bedside table. Likely an announcement that she’d decided to sell her wares in a bordello or sail off to a life of pirating would have displeased him no less.

“Why did you summon me, Papa?” she demanded.

He paused to study her, or at least that is how it appeared to Emilie. “You’re afraid.”

“Should I be?” she asked in lieu of admitting the truth of his statement.

He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the silk square and then let the handkerchief fall unnoticed. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You should. Isabelle was my property and you saw to her escape. And you?” He paused but this time looked past her rather than directly at her. “You are my property as much as Isabelle.”

“Your property?” The words flew out, too late to retrieve them. “I am your daughter,” she corrected in a tone she hoped would meet the gap between challenging the old man and placating him.
 

“Yes, you are my daughter,” he said softly, his gaze now solidly fixed on her. “A pity neither of us is proud of that fact.”

Anger, her well-hidden companion, bested the last vestiges of her fear and threatened mutiny. “I shall leave on the morrow, Father, likely never to return. I do, however, extend the warmest invitation for you to visit my humble home in Fairweather Key once your recovery is complete. And lest you forget it, I did return at your request, so if I cannot be counted as proud to be a Gayarre at least I can be counted as the one Gayarre under this roof whose word is worth something.”

“Go then. You’re no more her that…” He looked away. “Just go.”

She turned on her heels and made for the door, eyes focused on the ornately carved wood. A rustling behind her signaled her father had moved, but she continued walking. Only if he begged her to stay would she consider it.

Too soon her fingers touched the cold doorknob. Deliberately slowing her motions, Emilie gave her father one last chance to cry out, to stop her.

Silence.

The door swam before her as renegade tears pooled. Emilie straightened her backbone and blinked hard, refusing to swipe at her wet cheeks lest her father be watching. She yanked hard and the door opened. Before she could change her mind, Emilie stepped into the dark hallway, disappearing, she hoped, into the shadows.

There she remained for an eternity, the only sound the ticking of the monstrous clock at the opposite end of the hall. Finally, shaking knees threatened to give way, so she turned to glance one last time into the bedchamber of her father.

In the pale firelight she saw—or perhaps she only imagined—a tear sliding down his cheek. His right hand held tight to the coverlet, fingers clenching and unclenching as if making a fist, then thinking better of it.

As if even now in the throes of death he fought on.
 

Emilie clutched her hands across her middle as the realization struck. Death would soon take another Gayarre. Had it been only two years since she lost her brother Andre? Soon there would be none left save her and Isabelle.

She spied the miniature and felt the sharp pain of reminder. Indeed, she had a mother somewhere. Philadelphia, she’d once overheard, but that was so long ago.

“Father, forgive me,” she heard her father whisper as his fingers stilled. “For I knew exactly what I did and cared not.”

She waited for him to move again, prayed he had not stepped into the afterlife while she watched. Finally she could remain still no longer.

“Papa?” She burst from the shadows, compelled to move toward the curtained bed.
 

“Leave him be, child. He gets this way of an evenin’, but he’s generally recovered by breakfast time.”
 

Emilie whirled around to see a familiar face standing in the doorway. The woman who’d once conspired to help her now seemed sorry to see her. “Mama Dell. I wondered if you were still in his employ.”

A movement stirred beneath the blankets, and her father’s voice crackled once more. “I daresay Delilah will be in my employ as long as my wretched life continues.”

“He’s right,” she said, her dark eyes never straying from the old man’s face. As soon as the words were out, her expression softened, and she moved toward them. “You look tired, Mademoiselle Emilie.” Her petticoats swished as she walked. “Perhaps Sadie can draw you a bath.”

In reality, such luxury was the farthest thing from her mind. “Thank you, but I think not,” she managed to respond.
 

“Indeed, she shall,” her father said. “But I would have you see to it yourself.” He paused. “Immediately.”

The old woman looked as if she might argue but apparently thought better of it. “Of course,” she purred softly.
 

When the door closed, Emilie felt her father’s hand on her sleeve. “I would have you remain here with me.” He paused to stare into her face. “I require it.”

The shock of his demand rendered her momentarily speechless. “You require it?” she finally managed. “I don’t understand. I came when summoned, and I am quite available to you while I am here, but. . .”
 

She searched for the proper way to tell her father that while she loved him, he had less need of her than the children who were going without instruction in her absence.

“But?” Dark eyes stared almost without blinking.

He is my father. The children are but my temporary charges
.
 

The cost too high to count, Emilie allowed a long breath and a short prayer. “As long as you have need of me, I shall stay.”

Later, while lying in a tub of water heated on the stove and infused with lavender, Emilie had to wonder why she had agreed so easily. The education of Fairweather Key’s youth gave her life purpose and meaning. Staying with her father only added to the pain she’d been building on since childhood.

Yet a part of her would never stop being the little girl desperately seeking her father’s approval. She blinked back a tear.
 

And looking for her absent mother’s love.

She’d finished her bath and donned her nightgown when Mama Dell knocked. “Might I comb your hair for you?” she asked, obviously reluctant to enter the room uninvited.

“Yes, please,” Emilie said. “And while you do, perhaps we can have a long-overdue talk.”

Emilie seated herself at the vanity, then handed Mama Dell the silver brush. For a moment she felt transported to childhood when, as a child of the manor, she’d done very little for herself. Indeed the dressing, combing, and everything else but the feeding, it seemed, was done by the servant women of the Gayarre house.

And of them, Mama Dell and Cook vied to be the leader until a truce was had. Mama Dell was queen of everything upstairs, and Cook reigned supreme over the downstairs. So while Cook might curry Emilie’s favor with her favorite sweet treat, Mama Dell would entertain her with stories and games.

In all, it came out a tie and gave Emilie a wonderful childhood, even though Mama Dell eventually left permanently to take on the raising of Isabelle.

“There,” Mama Dell said.

Emilie looked in the mirror, stunned to see that her hair had been combed and braided so quickly. “I’d forgotten how fast you work.”

Mama Dell replaced the brush on the vanity and stood a moment, giving Emilie the idea she wanted to talk. Emilie swiveled on the stool and turned to face her.

“He gave you your mama’s miniature.”

Emilie nodded. “We favor, don’t you think?”

Her dark eyes looked away. “I always did.”

“There’s a conversation to be had, isn’t there?”

“Only if you want to,” she said, her face unreadable as she looked back in Emilie’s direction.

Emilie gestured to the chair nearest her. “Please do sit.” She waited until Mama Dell complied before continuing. “Where to start?”

“I generally believe the beginning’s the place,” she said. “But you just go on and start wherever you think best.”

She smiled. “You know, of course, that after leaving New Orleans Isabelle found love with Reverend Carter’s son, Josiah.”

“The young man who was paid to take her away from here,” she said with a nod. “I do remember him. Oh, but he was a handsome thing. Rough around the edges but so handsome.”
 

“He still is,” she said, “but he does love Isabelle so. And Viola Dumont, she’s found a love of medicine. The doctor’s employed her as his nurse. She delivered Isabelle’s son a few days before I left.”

“And you? What is it that keeps you in that place? Some man, perhaps?”

Emilie smiled even as she shook her head. “The children.” She paused. “I’m their teacher.”

Mama Dell rose without any indication of surprise that the spoiled woman seated before her might actually be employed as a schoolteacher. “Then it’s all worked out as it should,” she said with what sounded like a strong measure of resignation.

“I suppose it has,” Emilie said before Mama Dell could escape. “I only hope Papa wasn’t upset at your part in our escape.”

She shook her head. “I know too much about that old man. He doesn’t dare get upset with me.” The older woman paused. “Child, you’re looking troubled.”

Emilie retrieved the miniature from her vanity and held it in her palm as she measured her words. “It has occurred to me that you may be able to tell me about my mother.”