Blaggard's Moon (8 page)

He shook his head. He was not smiling, but he was not angry, either. He picked up a cup, scooped it almost full, then held it out to her.

She put her hand on it. He held it just a moment longer than he needed to. “You didn't come over here for the punch. Did you?” he asked.

His directness took her off guard. She heard no accusation and no pretense. She glanced around to see if any of the others had overheard him. It was rude behavior, she knew, but no one was paying attention, and she found herself unable to react negatively. In fact, it had the opposite effect. “Well, my mother tells me I have a bad habit of picking up strays.”

“Is that what I am?”

She looked into the cup, studying the deep red liquid. She smelled strawberries. But she did not drink. “I don't know what you are.”

He looked into her, studying her bright blue eyes. He smelled the honeysuckle of her perfume. “But these others belong here. You don't.”

“Do you know me?”

“No. But I don't belong here, either.”

She felt suddenly his sense of purpose, and it surprised her. It was startling. It was not unattractive.

A talkative crowd now gathered around the punch bowl, surrounding them, ignoring them. He made a quick gesture with his head, hardly a formal invitation, but when he walked away she walked with him.

They stood on the back porch of the inn, looking out over the street. It was quiet here, a perfect summer's evening. The music sounded farther away than it was, and more melodious, more wistful somehow, from this distance. A watchman in a soiled frock coat walked to a lamppost, set down his stepstool, climbed up, and began trimming the wick, brightening the street by a shade or two. Now from behind them, a matronly woman creaked heavily onto the porch and crossed her arms.

“There's your guard of the punch bowl,” Damrick whispered, cutting his eyes to the chaperone.

She smiled, but did not laugh.

“What's your name?” he asked. He seemed much more at ease out here.

She wanted to tell him. But for some reason, she didn't. “Do you ship out in the morning?”

He nodded. He looked out over the street again. “Three years of service, starting at dawn.”

She wished she hadn't brought it up. That was his focus. That was his sense of purpose. Of course. “Will you look for me when you return?” She asked it impulsively, but she held his gaze when he turned to question her. She felt a sting as he searched for an answer. His eyes grew distant again, though he looked at her still.

Finally, he looked back down the street. “It's hard to know what three years will bring.” Then they spoke about the Navy, about pirates, then back to cotillions. But they never got back around to her question.

“That was a conversation Jenta never did forget,” Ham informed his audience. “She talked to her mama about it, and when she spoke about the dark young man, her pulse quickened. Shayla saw it, and warned her about the risks, the attraction that a woman could feel for a dark, mysterious fellow with a trace of danger about him.”

“That's us!” someone called. The others sang out in hopeful agreement.

“She told her mother he'd behaved as a gentleman, but Shayla was quick to point out that in fact he was not one. Jenta countered that neither was she a lady, and what ensued was…a serious clash of conflicting convictions.”

“A serious
what
?”

“An
argument.
The upshot was that there would be no more cotillions for Jenta unless they were truly of the higher social order. And so, there would be no more cotillions. Three years later, the most beautiful young woman in the city, nearly twenty years old and refined of heart and mind, lived with her mother and two cats in a cramped, dank cellar below a rich man's house, smelling of lye and linens, not even allowed the light of day of the servant's quarters.”

Many of the men growled and groused on her behalf.

Delaney was one of them. He had seen a fair number of those born to rank and privilege up close, after he'd turned pirate. He had brought the favored, the slammers of social doors, to unfavorable ends. He had done his part to blast those doors down, using cannon fire and gunpowder. He had watched as gentlemen, and even a few ladies, trembled with fear when set upon at sea.

Fear and terror, that was something Delaney expected. But disgust, that he did not expect, and it had chafed him raw inside. More often than not he saw disdain in the haughty faces of the rich, heard scorn from lace-trimmed throats, felt contempt in their defiant refusals or grudging compliance. It made Delaney feel bitter and small and exposed somehow, even though it was he who held the pistol.

The truth was, the haughtiness of the high and mighty could make pirating a satisfying line of work.

“Damrick, on the gangway that day,” Ham continued, “looking into her eyes as he'd done years earlier, felt the fanned ember of that single evening years before. And just as the slightest spark falling from a flint can smolder on a forest floor among the dry leaves and pine duff, almost invisible, in the same way, that evening spent in conversation on a porch burned within each of them. Now the winds of fate that drew them close once more also blew that ember to flare up suddenly, a flame that could not be denied by either, drawing them silently but surely back toward one another.

“But let's not jump ahead of ourselves. For Jenta's voyage south began not on that gangway, nor with that rekindling moment. No, it began just a bit earlier that same day, when Shayla rushed down to the cellar and
announced to her daughter that all must be left behind. She hurried them both through the packing of clothes into laundry sacks, and they rushed out and up toward a waiting carriage, fleeing at last the servant's life in Nearing Vast.”

“Mama, is that carriage for us?”

“Try to act as though you've seen one before. And I'm your mother, not your mama. We are in public.”

Jenta stiffened, looked at the driver, a man quite a bit older than Shayla but plenty spry. He hadn't overheard; Shayla had been discreet, as always. A striped tabby cat wandered up, eyes questioning. Her long tail flicked back and forth at the tip. “Poor Moggie,” she said, picking her up. “Who will feed you table scraps?” The cat let herself be held tight.

The driver stepped down and looked at the two sorry sacks, stained and ragged. “Are these your traveling bags, madam?” Shayla said nothing in response to his bewilderment, but instead waited silently at the carriage door. He shrugged, put out a hand, and helped Shayla in.

“Come, girl,” her mother said from within. “And no, we cannot take that with us.”

“She wouldn't be any trouble. Would you, Mogs?” She scratched the cat behind the ears.

Shayla gave her just a moment, then said, “There are strays everywhere. Pick one up on the way.”

Jenta whispered softly to the cat. When she set it on the ground, it promptly ran toward the house. “Won't even miss me, will you?” she said after it. But Moggie turned and sat, and watched.

Jenta admired the carriage even more on the inside, though she kept that to herself. It was polished mahogany and walnut wood, smelling of lemon oil and leather. The upholstery was blue velvet. She heard the thuds of the duffels hitting the roof, the creak of leather straps as the driver buckled them down tight, and then the cluck of a tongue, the slap of reins, and finally the plod of hooves on the dirt street. The carriage lurched and creaked.

“Wait!” The voice came from the lawn behind them.

“Don't stop, driver!” Shayla called out.

But the carriage ground to a halt.

Jenta, facing backward, watched the approach of a familiar white-haired man, slightly bent, whipping his cane ahead of him and planting it with conviction at each step. He popped his head into the window. Thin
white hair flowed back from a lively face punctuated with bright, kind eyes. Shayla looked calmly at her employer.

“Ma'am,” he said by way of hello. Then to Jenta, “Miss.”

“Good morning, Mr. Frost,” Jenta answered as brightly as she dared. She had always liked him.

“You seem to be leaving in quite a hurry. Is everything all right?”

Shayla blinked once. “Yes, thank you. I apologize for our haste, but we must not miss our ship.”

“Your ship? I see. So it's Runsford Ryland taking you…where? South?”

“We are his invited guests. And yes.”

He nodded. “I don't suppose I could talk you out of it?”

“I don't suppose you could.”

“You don't know him well.” Now the old gentleman looked concerned.

“I suppose not. But he has promised us…introductions. And a place to live above ground.”

“Yes, I understand. A step up.” He fumbled in his pocket. “I don't blame you for that. Here, take this.” He held out two gold coins.

“For what possible purpose?” Shayla asked, as Jenta watched in silence.

“You may find you need independent means.”

Shayla looked at him carefully. “For nineteen years I have washed your socks and changed your bed linens and served your tea. You and Mrs. Frost have kept me in a cellar. I care not about myself, but I would have liked some small foothold for my daughter, so that she would not be condemned to the same life. And yet you could not, or would not, provide it.”

“We have tried.”

“Have you?”

“
Mother!
” Jenta whispered. She had felt the sting of Shayla's displeasure often, but had never known her to aim it toward Mr. Frost.

Shayla didn't pause. “You lent us money to buy the clothes we wear, which I repaid in extra hours and extra duties. And you introduced me to Runsford Ryland. For those two things I thank you, but you will excuse me if I find your parting gift rather dubious. Now that your scrubwoman is already gone, you offer her independent means?”

Jenta's jaw dropped.

Mr. Frost closed his hand around the coin, but did not retract it. “Dear
Shayla. I have given you a place of refuge in which to raise your daughter, protected from the scorn of society. You need not know the scorn I myself have received for my troubles, but I can tell you it does not reflect well on the society you are so eager to join. And I apologize if I have been unable to alter centuries of social stigma. But you must be aware that you are leaving troubles you know for troubles you do not. I am not stopping you; I am simply offering you a hedge against those troubles, whatever they may be.” He opened his hand again. “Take it. Please.”

“I will not.” Her face showed no emotion, not even determination. “Driver?” she called.

“Mother, take it!” Jenta intervened.

“Accepting a gift binds you to the giver, girl. The greater the gift, the greater the bond.”

Windall Frost closed his hand around the coin again. “And yet you accept the gift of an entire new life from a man you barely know.”

Shayla's right eyebrow twitched. Jenta could see anger in her mother when others could not. It ran dangerously deep at the moment. “Runsford Ryland is a gentleman with a reputation to uphold,” she said, perfectly controlled. “And
he
did not offer me
money.
”

“I see.” Windall Frost withdrew his hand and his offer. “Then I wish you the best, both of you.”

“Thank you,” Shayla said. She knocked on the hardwood above her head. Still the driver didn't move.

“Thank you for everything you've done for us.” Jenta had never said a word that she meant more.

“You are welcome, dear girl,” he answered. “And don't worry about your cats; we'll take good care of them.” His eyes danced.

“That would be so kind.”

“Please instruct the driver,” Shayla said coldly. “He apparently cannot hear a woman of few means when a man of many stands nearby.”

“Write to me, Shayla. Should you need anything.”

“Do not wait at the post office.”

Mr. Frost stepped back. He tapped the wooden door frame with his cane. The carriage creaked and lurched forward.

“Who is the gentleman?” Jenta asked after a respectful pause.

“What gentleman?” her mother asked calmly.

“Mr. Ryland.”

“Runsford Ryland is a man of good family and better connections.”

“You must have impressed him greatly.”

Shayla heard the shade of accusation. “It's not like that. He's married. His motives are selfless. He is a centerpiece of society on the island of Tortugal. He has a home in Mann, but he lives most of the year in the south, where he conducts his shipping business.”

“The Warm Climes.” It was so far away. “Is there a city?”

“Yes, of course there is a city. We are not farmers or fisherwomen.”

Now Jenta was silent, brooding. The horses' hooves clattered against stones as the carriage moved from the dirt road onto the paved streets that would take them through town to the docks. “And what are we, mother, exactly?”