Blaggard's Moon (27 page)

He looked around, wishing there was another rustle in the reeds, or maybe the
Chompers
would disappear again, and he'd have something else to think about. But all was quiet, and his mind went back where it wanted to go—where it needed to go, it seemed—but where he didn't want it to go.

One of the priests who had caught him once as a boy had read to him from a big, dark book of Scriptures. He'd spoken in a somber voice that sounded like it came from the inside of a barrel, and it had filled the room and his head at the same time. Delaney didn't remember the exact words, but he remembered enough.

Hell, the priest had read, was a place of eternal fire, where souls burned forever and ached for even the simplest pleasure. One old fellow that Delaney never forgot had even cried out, there in hell, for a drop of water. Not a cup, just a single drop of water to be put on his tongue. But those souls in torment, they could never get even that. If that book was right, then Skeel wasn't doing any dancing with the devil. He wasn't telling any jokes. He was sorry to the core he'd only, all his life, laughed and killed people.

Skeel's life was sort of like Delaney's, but with more jokes.

Heaven, though, that was different. The priests talked about that, too, and now that it came into his mind, Delaney felt a great sense of gladness just thinking that there was such a place, even if he'd never get there. Heaven was light, like dawn on summer days, with big mansions made by God just for the good people. Men and women didn't turn into angels when they died, which was what Delaney had been told by Yer Poor Ma. No, the priests said, angels were a whole different kind of being, and God used them to send messages to the earth, and to pour out judgment on the bad people. Whenever someone went to heaven, that person was happier than ever he'd been on earth. All the crying and hurting was over,
and all was peaceful. No jokes, maybe, but also no pain, no wishing you hadn't left your girl behind all those years ago.

There was love there, too, they said. Not the kind of love between a man and a woman that got all fouled up back on earth, what with turning of heels and batting of eyelashes. No, not that. Just deep, deep, serene sort of love. All bound up in what the priests called
joy
.

Delaney hadn't believed it then. He figured if he believed heaven he'd also have to believe hell, and he didn't want any part of that. But now, now he felt different for some reason. He thought he'd very much like to believe some of that about heaven, even if he had to believe some of hell to do it. He'd like to have some of that joy they talked about, particularly with Maybelle Cuddy. Even though she would never ever be his wife in this world or the next. The more he thought on it, the more he was sure he would like it. A kiss on the cheek. A hug around the neck. And a knowing, deep down, that there's no way you could love anyone more, and no way you could ever hurt them again, and what you share is forever and no one can take it away.

Maybe there was some good in him not marrying Maybelle, now that he thought it out. He'd have probably made a mess of that, too, and made her miserable. Sure he would have. And maybe even she him. Most men he knew did that to their wives, and it worked the other way around just as often. Men and women tied those knots hard, and yanked them tight for a long, long time, and when they untied, if they ever did, they left bad kinks and wrinkles. Wrinkles that ran real deep.

Poor Jenta Stillmithers had gone through a lot of that. That was pretty much her story, now that he thought about it. Knots tied and untied, and kinks and wrinkles, all in her soul.

“How should I put this?” Ham began the very next night. “Let's us just say that no one could fairly accuse Wentworth Ryland of being tempted to stray in the early days of his marriage to Jenta. For temptation is known only in the resisting. No, sadly, Jenta quickly learned that her dear Wentworth gathered bad habits and bad company like a hunting dog gathers burrs. His secret marriage proved to be a poor windbreak against the gales of humiliation that blew his social sails to tatters.”

“What gales and what sails?” Dallis Trum asked.

“Just tell the devil blasted story, will ye, and leave off with the poesy,” Sleeve added. “The boy's right.”

Dallis looked at Sleeve in shock, and then a great, proud grin spread across his face. Mr. Sleeve had agreed with him.

“Sleeve, you are a man of many surprises,” Ham answered. “I was unaware you were acquainted with the concept of poetry, much less capable of recognizing it. But apologies. Perhaps I grow giddy with the praise from our captain of yesternight. I shall drop the language a notch or two, that the simpler souls among you might not miss the point.”

“And keep it dropped,” Sleeve said firmly, taking no apparent offense.

“Let me try again. Marrying Jenta had no effect on Wentworth. He chased women and drank, and stayed about as pure and wholesome as the inside of a spittoon. Everyone with me?”

The “ayes” carried the floor.

“Jenta, however, was a good wife. That is, a good fiancée. The need for secrecy, for keeping up the appearance of a respectable engagement, gave her all the reason she needed to avoid Wentworth in private, and that's what made her life bearable. Though just barely.”

While Jenta and her mother lived in a stone cottage just at the edge of the Ryland estate, propriety demanded that Wentworth visit only with an invitation from Shayla, and then only when chaperoned by her, or by someone of her choosing. Whenever Wentworth was sober, he was content with this arrangement. At these times, he walked with Jenta in the garden, or spoke with her with grace and decorum over dinner at the Stillmithers' table. And of course, he was heartily apologetic for any previous bouts of boorish behavior. He grew practiced at thanking Jenta for not judging him according to his baser impulses, but rather forgiving him and helping him to become a better man.

When he wasn't sober, he was tolerable because she could lock him out. During these times, so long as the locks and the hinges and shutters held, he could be safely ignored. There were no neighbors near enough, or perhaps indiscreet enough, to complain about his raging tantrums. And so within a few months Jenta and her mother became accustomed to the banging on the front door, the demanding through locked shutters that she let him in. Jenta only needed to wait until he gave up or passed out, knowing that once sober, he would again become the repentant gentleman.

“How do you put up with it?” Shayla asked her one midsummer evening when Wentworth had finally gone quiet. For nearly an hour he had alternated between piteous begging and horrendous cursing. Mother and
daughter had not heard him walk away, but neither could they hear the heavy breathing that signaled sleep. At the moment, they were unsure of his whereabouts.

Jenta looked hard at her mother, who was pushing a needle up through a piece of fine silk, pulling the thread high and tight, then driving the point back down through the cloth. They rarely spoke about Wentworth now. In the two months since that shipboard wedding they had tiptoed around the hideousness of the situation, the wreckage of what had been Shayla's headlong quest for respectability in a far southern port.

“Mother. Do I really have a choice?”

“Of course,” she answered. But she did not look up from her needlepoint. “Of course you do. We always have choices.”

She stared. “I'm married to him, Mother. Even if we could run, which we can't because we have no money, Mr. Ryland would find us and ruin us. You know this. Why bring it up?”

Shayla stabbed the needle into the cloth. “Let's not fight, girl.”

“He'd have his pirate friends hunt us, no doubt.” A gray tomcat jumped up into her lap. She ignored it. “In fact,” Jenta pressed, realizing suddenly that she wanted a fight, “maybe I should run to Captain Imbry for protection. He doesn't seem to care much for Wentworth or Runsford Ryland. Or for the law that scared us into compliance.”

“That's no way to talk.”

“But if we're to be treated as outlaws, why not simply join up and help scuttle a few Ryland ships?”

Shayla glared at her daughter. “I know you're not serious, but—”

“Why shouldn't I be serious? Conch is the wealthiest man in town, the richest pirate in the world. They say he has enormous troves of treasure hidden all over the world. And he's the toast of society! Just what you always wanted for me.”

“That is not what I've always wanted.”

“But we always have choices, don't we, Mother? Seems to me that's one of the few I have left.”

Shayla lowered the needlepoint, her words sharp and angry. “Men like Conch Imbry never help anyone but themselves.”

“Really? And how many men like Conch Imbry have you known, Mother?” The cat jumped from her lap, in search of a quieter place of rest.

But Shayla said nothing in response. She looked down, jabbed the needle into the fabric.

Now they heard a snore outside.

“Shall I go fetch a servant to collect him?” Shayla asked, mostly to change the subject.

“Mr. Ryland will send someone,” Jenta answered. “He always does.”

“I think he watches.”

“No doubt.”

Jenta let the argument drift off as she listened to the loud sawing on her front porch. What men ever helped anyone but themselves? Not Wentworth. He didn't love her, Jenta was sure, though he swore to the heavens he did. His jealous rages proved he had some sort of deep feelings, but when proclamations of undying love came laced with curses and threats of suicide, it just seemed all about Wentworth, not about Jenta. She thought again of the young man, dark and mysterious, at the punch bowl at the cotillion. Strolling down the gangway, in from his naval adventures. But even that private little dream was thrown into shadow now. Certainly at the bottom of his deep sense of purpose was something selfish as well. He was but a man.

A knock on the door jarred them both. It was quick and precise, four raps in rapid succession. Not Wentworth. Ryland servants? But they had never made their presence known before. Shayla stood. “Who is it?” she called.

“A wayfarin' sailor, ma'am. Come to ask about yer daughter's health.”

“Captain Imbry,” Jenta whispered into her mother's affirming eyes.

“What could he want?” Shayla asked in a whisper. But she knew. Jenta had already put her hands to her own hair, straightening it, trying to determine if she was presentable. Unfortunately, she looked stunning. “Step into the back,” Shayla ordered her daughter, “and do not come out unless I ask you. Much is at stake here.”

“Mother, I can—”

“Do not argue with me, girl. Not now!” she hissed.

Jenta set her jaw, but turned and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind her.

“Why, Captain Imbry,” Shayla said to the Conch as he filled her doorway. “This is a surprise. I had not been given notice you would be visiting.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

PIRACY, INCORPORATED

C
ONCH STOOD STRADDLING
the fallen, snoring Wentworth. He looked down at the young man, one cheek bunched up where it pressed against the gray paint of the wooden porch, mouth open and drooling. “Beggin' yer pardon fer droppin' by wif no notice. Jus' got in from Nearin' Vast, where I been dealin' wif some scalawags…”

“Successfully, I hope?”

“Oh, we settled 'em down some. Caught all but the one I most wanted, is the pity. So I was up visitin' the old man,” he nodded in the direction of the Ryland mansion, “and I saw the body lyin' here. Feared foul play. But looks like young Wentworth jus' took an odd spot fer his evenin' nap.”

Shayla nodded her thanks. The pirate had a hat in his hands, but he hadn't worn it anytime lately. His golden tresses were perfectly combed out, falling down to his shoulders in waves. He wasn't wearing his usual yellow vest, but a gold-colored one, fine satin trimmed in maroon, with fine piping at the seams. He smelled of expensive cologne and the open sea. The contrast between the confident, courteous captain and the slobbering, whiskey-sodden Wentworth could not have been more pronounced. Shayla hoped her daughter would not see it.

“Why, Captain, do come in!” Jenta said from behind her. Shayla felt the voice like a cold knife between her shoulder blades.

“Ah, Miss Jenta!” The Conch's smile was crooked, but no less sincere for that. He stepped forward, and Shayla had little choice but to back away and let him enter. He took Jenta's hand in his and kissed it gently.

Shayla warned Jenta with her eyes.

“My health is fine, Captain,” she said. “I see you're in better spirits than when we last met.” She had not forgotten his rudeness at her wedding, and she was not prepared to let him forget it, either. “Now, we're quite busy with plans for the evening. Was there something else you wanted?”

He pulled his head back, and a grin spread across his wide face, causing the tips of his moustache to angle upward. “Might be indeed, miss. Or rather, I suppose it's ma'am now. The three of us…” he glanced at the open door behind him, “…the four of us all know what's what, don't we?”