Captive Splendors (15 page)

 

Malcolm Weatherly stood in the lavender shadows of early dawn, his torn and ragged cheek throbbing painfully. He couldn't see at all out of his left eye. He was afraid. More afraid than he'd ever been in his entire life. More afraid than when he had heisted the jeweled collar right from under the King's nose. What would become of him now that his handsome face had been ruined by that bitch Wren? If he ever got his hands on her, he'd be certain to do the same thing to her, so that she would have to hide out for the rest of her life. He'd make certain no man ever looked at her again.

He glanced around to get his bearing. For a moment he was confused. Somehow he thought he had come farther, was closer to the wharf and Farrington's derelict gambling ship. The deep, black fear rose in him again as he realized the sky was getting brighter by the minute. He forced himself to think and to take stock of his situation. He looked no worse than some of the water rats who frequented the seamy wharves and the taverns scattered along the rancid alleyways. In his condition he doubted if any of his acquaintances would recognize him, and the rats would take him as one of their own. The worst that could happen to him was that he would get rolled and beaten as just another drunk. He raised his good eye to the east and quickly closed it. Christ, he must have pulled the muscles in the injured side of his face, and now it was bleeding again, the blood seeping into his eye. Rage at his circumstances swept through him, and in that moment he swore to himself that if Farrington gave him one false look or word, he'd kill him on the spot and take back his booty. If he got caught, then that would be that. He was ruined in society now, so nothing really mattered anymore.

He moved crablike, his injured shoulder slumping, along the grime-infested walls flanking the alley. When he came to the end of the cul-de-sac, he blinked at all the activity down on the docks. There was young van der Rhys, shouting at Farrington in a harsh voice. Malcolm was too far away to make out the words, but even from this distance the gambler looked afraid. That's good, good for me, Malcolm told himself. Farrington was leaving, his elegant walking stick making quick, light taps on the rough boards. Malcolm would give him just enough time to clear the wharf and then would follow him and take matters into his own hands. The gambler was a spry old gent, crafty and cunning, but he would meet his match in Malcolm Weatherly.

The moment the old man made his way onto the deserted open street, Malcolm shouted hoarsely and waited. Aubrey Farrington turned, his blank look quickly dissolving into one of fear when he saw the dandy's injured face. “Lord luv a duck. Weatherly, what happened to you?”

“Never mind what happened to me. I want to talk to you in your rooms and get myself taken care of. Help me.”

“And why should I be helping the likes of you? We had a business deal and it's over. I owe you nothing except your share of the gems, and you agreed to wait till they were sold. I owe you nothing,” he repeated firmly, making a move to walk away.

“You bastard,” Malcolm gritted through clenched teeth. “Either you help me or I swear I'll find my own way to your rooms and set fire to them and roast you like a chicken.”

Aubrey Farrington abhorred violence and threats, especially those made against his person. “Very well,” he said coolly, “but let me tell you that I am no doctor and the sight of blood makes me ill. I can't tend to your wounds; I know nothing about them and I have no intention of learning. A physician is what you need. From the looks of things, you might lose that eye if you aren't careful.”

“It's my eye, and if I'm not worried, then you need not be, either. You'll take care of me, you old sinner, or you'll never set foot outside your rooms again. I mean it, Farrington.”

The gambler knew this was true. Weatherly was worse than Cal. His faded eyes went skyward and he begged silently, Why me? All I did was cut a few corners. I take a little from here to pay there, and if it weren't for me, those poor souls, the Puritans, would be sitting here waiting for the ax to fall. Remember that when You judge me. He lowered his eyes, careful to note that Weatherly's feet were just behind him. Even if he managed to shake loose of him, where would he go? Best to get on with it and rid himself of the vermin.

Inside his comfortable quarters, Aubrey fetched a basin of water and set to work. His touch was not gentle as he poked and prodded Malcolm's slashed cheek. His tone was cold and clinical as he spoke. “There's a smart cut on your eyeball and your face needs to be sewn. I can't do it.”

“What happens if it isn't sewn up?”

Farrington treated him to a disgusted look. “I told you, I'm no doctor. The wound will heal the way it is if it's kept clean, but your face will be distorted. Forget the eye—it's gone. If the cheek wound is taken care of and sutured, you might end up with a red welt running from your eyebrow to your chin. In time it may fade, and then again, it may not. For God's sake, man, I told you I know nothing about these things.” As he carried the basin to a table in the corner of the room he couldn't resist a parting shot. “You just might secure employment in Newgate or Bedlam and scare the prisoners and patients into obedience.”

Malcolm ignored the callous words. The next time he peered into a mirror would be time enough to determine the state of his looks. For now, with his wound clean and bandaged, he had other matters to attend to. “Is it true that van der Rhys' ship is sailing today? No lies, Farrington.”

“Yes,” Aubrey said, returning to the center of the room, “his ship sails tonight with a full hold of passengers. Why?”

“Because you're going to get me on that ship. It's not safe for me here any longer. What's her destination?”

Farrington drew in his breath sharply. “The colonies, and then on to Martinique to sell our little . . . prize.” He cast a quizzical glance in Weatherly's direction, uncertain whether he should have told him the collar would be leaving England with the Sea
Siren.
“What's the matter, man? You're white enough to have seen a ghost.”

“I . . . I didn't know van der Rhys would have any part of this.” He thought of the toughs he had sent down to the wharf to nose around the ship for any hint of jewels. If he were to lose the collar now, he would be left with nothing.

“The captain of the
Sea Siren
knows nothing about the King's collar. He thinks he's on a mercy mission to help some Puritans escape the country. And you can rest at ease; the collar has not yet boarded the ship. Why your sudden concern?” Farrington asked uneasily.

“It's just some talk I heard. You're certain no one else knows about the jewels?”

“As certain as I am of my own name,” Farrington assured him. “However, if you think for one minute that you're going to ‘guard' the prize, you're mistaken. You're a thief.” the old man exclaimed.

“And just what the hell does that make you?” Malcolm spat.

“A fence. And an honorable profession it is. I just make sure everyone gets what he wants, and then I take my commission. Thievery,” he continued in a pious tone, “is the work of the devil. My hands are clean. I deal only in honorable professions.”

Malcolm tried to sneer but gave it up and let his facial muscles relax. “And I suppose gambling is an honorable profession?”

“What's a man to do? If people want to throw their money away, can I stop them? I'm an honorable man dealing in honorable professions.” Farrington's tone was virtuous, his eyes sly as he observed the effect of his words on the wounded, suffering man.

“Bah! You talk like an old fool, and I'm losing my patience. I want to be on that ship when she sails. Arrange it, Farrington. I don't care how you do it. Just do it. You'd be wise if you smuggled me aboard without van der Rhys' knowledge. I know I can trust you, Farrington, to do whatever is necessary.” Malcolm's voice was cold, his face deadly with its disfigurement.

“You're insane, Weatherly. Van der Rhys has the sailing list, and there's no way an extra person can be smuggled aboard in broad daylight.”

“You'll think of something. Arrange for some food for me, get me some decent clothes and put it all on my tab.”

Aubrey's mind raced. What in the hell was he supposed to do? Cal was breathing down his neck; this vulture was threatening to kill him. Even if he managed, somehow, to smuggle Weatherly aboard the
Sea Siren,
he knew he would never see his share of the profits from the King's jeweled collar. His contact in Martinique would pay over the vast sum to Weatherly, and that would be the end of Farrington. If there was one thing he hated, it was missing out on the final result of anything, especially if he had been in at the beginning. The only thing he hated worse was an empty pocket or purse. He had no choice but to make the crossing with Cal to protect his investment. He would confide in Cal to be certain he didn't find himself dead. A three-way split was better than no split at all. As long as he retained possession of the collar, he could call the shots. Yes, he would confide in Cal and then figure out a way to smuggle Weatherly aboard. Cal's cabin, a few greased palms—well—greased—and the matter should be settled to his and Weatherly's satisfaction.

I must be getting old, he mouthed silently as he made his way down the narrow stairwell to see the landlady, who, for a few flowery words and a quick peck on the cheek, would supply him with food for the vermin resting upstairs in his favorite chair. The things he had to do to stay alive in this cruel, heartless world! He sighed heavily as he knocked on the landlady's door and flinched when she opened it and said, “Coo! And if it isn't himself this beautiful day.”

The things he had to do!

Lydia Stoneham woke up and lay perfectly still. She always woke up with fear in her throat. She went to bed with fear churning throughout her body, she ate in fear and she existed in fear, as she had done every day of her life since she had married Bascom Stoneham at her parents' insistence. She was afraid of everything—if she ate too much or if she didn't, if she spoke too much or too little, if she soiled her dress or kept it spotless—which meant, in Bascom's eyes, that she did nothing, even though her hands were red and cracked from the harsh lye soap he made her use. Cleanliness, he enjoyed repeating, was next to godliness. But most of all, she was afraid of her husband, Bascom. Of what he was and what he made her do. Obscene, filthy things that he insisted she perform in the name of the Lord so that she would be purged. How, she wondered anew, could those disgusting acts ever purge her? They were degradations matched only by the ugliness contained in his gaunt face and needle-thin body. She admitted to herself that she hated him with a passion she had never known in love.

As always when she thought of her deep aversion to him, like now in the early hours of the morning, she trembled and shook, and tears welled in her hyacinth-blue eyes. They were tears of self-pity and remorse, for herself and for others like her who were forced to live out this farce of a life.

She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears, when Bascom's skinny leg reached out to touch her foot. He would feel her trembling and, like the insane person he was, assume it was a trembling based on sexual desire. If she lived to be a hundred and protested every hour of the day that she trembled from fear and not from any sexual desire, he would never believe her. He was convinced that she lusted after him even in her sleeping hours. And, wonderful husband that he was, first he would allow her to give in to her bodily urges, at his insistence, and then he would force her to pray to God for forgiveness. If there was a God, why didn't He intervene? Why did He permit her to be subjected to Bascom's madness?

She had to stop her trembling, had to force herself to get up and dress. Once she was fully clothed, Bascom couldn't see or feel her quaking body. But it was too late. His clawlike hands were working their way up under the thin nightdress. She wanted to scream as one bony hand cupped her full breast and the other stroked her flat stomach. She fought back a retch and lay still, hoping that he would tire and fall asleep again. That had never happened yet, but she always hoped and sometimes even prayed.

Bascom's head moved slowly toward the back of Lydia's neck, and then his tongue flicked out to lick at the warm spot at the nape. His head burrowed into her skin, her bright red hair shielding him from the sunlight filtering into the room. His tongue worked slowly while his hands were feverish in their pursuit of her soft, yielding flesh. Roughly, never releasing his hold on her breast, he rolled her over onto her stomach. Her eyes were closed. That is good, he told himself. She is begging for forgiveness, as I have taught her, while allowing me, her beloved husband, to have my way with her and to bestow on her unparalleled delight. Every muscle in her body was quivering, and behind her closed lids he knew her eyes were burning, fervently for him, and for the sexual pleasure he could give her.

He played with her, fondling each breast till its rosy crest became taut and erect. His hands moved slowly downward and began to explore the soft, warm place between her thighs until her tightly closed mouth opened and she moaned . . . in desire . . . for him. Always for him. His mouth found its way to the hollow in her throat and again his tongue flicked this way and that, traveling to the cleft between her breasts and then to the taut tips, which he licked and sucked on greedily, her moans ringing in his ears. He removed her nightdress and his own nightshirt and edged closer to her, the sharp, protruding bones of his emaciated body digging mercilessly into her. He was behind her, his organ between her thighs, his hand crushing the softness of her breasts. “It's time, Lydia. Say it now.”

“Forgive me, Lord, for lusting after my husband's body. Deny me that which my body seeks for fulfillment. Forgive me, Lord, for my weak flesh,” Lydia intoned loudly to be sure Bascom heard and did not make her repeat the words.

“I hear you, child, and I shall deny that which you ask. I am your lord and your savior!” Bascom shouted, his voice dramatic in the quiet of the room, as he thrust his throbbing manhood into her.

It is true . . . my flesh is weak, Lydia sobbed silently. If only he would . . . just once . . . How can he do this to me day in and day out? She felt him move away and knew what was coming. He got out of bed and stood by the edge, pulling her upright toward him. His skull-shaped head, its stringy hanks of hair falling over his eyes, bent to her breasts and he nipped at their pink erect circles. His hands caressed her haunches and then slid slowly upward till they rested on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees till her mouth was level with his manly pride. He lowered his eyes and watched her open her mouth. How obscene she looked. How could a woman degrade herself this way? He would make her do penance for this. He would make her kneel and pray till her knees were raw and bleeding and she was hoarse from her entreaties. Disgusting harlot! His eyes became glazed and a convulsive urgency seized him, causing him to shudder and cry out repeatedly. He was in agony because of what she had forced him to do in the name of God.

Lydia sat back on her haunches, her eyes downcast and full of shame. She took the blow squarely on the side of her face and didn't flinch. She had to pay for what she had done, what she had made Bascom do in order to save her soul from the devil.

Bascom reached for his Bible on the night table and opened it. “We must pray now for your wantonness. We will both ask God to spare us of more of these doings. He knows you for the harlot you are, and He will come to me in a vision and tell me what to do with you. Pray, Lydia,” he commanded.

“Dear Lord, I am the harlot Your disciple says I am. I am full of lust, which must be driven from my body to purify it so I may serve You in any way You choose. Forgive me my weakness and make my husband strong of mind and body so he can bear my defects. Spare me, God, from Your wrath, but take pity on me and show me mercy.” Her voice was flat and dull, and she repeated the words over and over until Bascom was fully clothed.

“You may get dressed now. Tonight, aboard ship, we'll pray again for your soul. Tell me that you want me to pray for your soul, Lydia.”

“Yes, Bascom, I want you to pray for my soul,” Lydia said tonelessly.

“My parents and my sister, Sara, are waiting for us downstairs. When we go into the dining hall, be sure to keep your eyes lowered, or everyone will know what you've just done. They'll all see you for the obscene harlot you are, and then they'll be forced to pity me. Pity me!” he screeched, his eyes burning madly. “If that happens, God will punish both of us. It is only you, Lydia, who need to be punished. It is you who must constantly fight these bodily urges and conquer them. Perhaps one day, if you pray long enough and hard enough, you will be saved from yourself and will relieve me of this cross I bear.”

“Yes, Bascom, I will do as you say,” she agreed, pulling her petticoat over her head and tying the laces across her bosom. I know there must be another God besides the one you pray to, she said silently, and to that God she dropped to her knees and prayed, tearfully, not for forgiveness, but for help in ridding herself of the insane zealot who was her husband.

 

Lottie opened the door leading to the maze, tilted her head to one side and listened. Three pairs of footsteps. The men were returning. Quietly she closed the door and sat down in the cane rocker. A scrawny yellow cat leapt into her lap and purred loudly. Lottie's dirty fingers, their nails cracked and split, stroked the cat gently, her unseeing eyes on the sleeping girl. What was going to happen to her? In her heart Lottie had know that one day Wren would escape the maze and marry a fine gentleman who would love her devotedly for all his days.

Three quick knocks on the stout door, the low-placed kick, and Lottie was off the chair, the yellow cat spitting his outrage at being dumped so unceremoniously on the hard floor.

“No wasted words, just the quick of it,” Lottie commanded the men.

“The
Sea Siren
sails at midnight. The ship carries no cargo, only passengers to the American colonies. Puritans. We managed, at great expense, to purchase this outfit ” Bart handed Lottie a parcel. “The girl should be able to slip aboard and go unnoticed. If they have an accurate head count, then we'll have to divert a woman passenger. Lucas here has agreed to that little task. Either way, the girl will be aboard when the ship sails. Seth pawned the ruby and got nearly two hundred pounds by holding a knife to the pawnbroker's throat. Did we do well, Lottie?”

“Very well, Bart. I couldn't have done better myself,” Lottie said, laying a hand on his arm to show she was proud of his accomplishments. How well these thieves looked after her since she lost her eyesight. Why, even old Seth gave her a bath twice a year and never once paid attention to her flabby body. He soaped her like a baby and dried her off as if she were his own mother. These little things made life bearable.

“I left breakfast for ye in the other room,” Lottie said happily. “Eat hearty, old friends. I'll wake the child now and ready her for her journey.”

Lottie stroked the sleeping girl's tangled hair and ran her gnarled hand over one smooth cheek. She showed no emotion when she felt her wet cheeks. The child was crying in her sleep. “Come, Wren, it's time to rise and make ready for a new day. Come.” She shook her gently, and when Wren sat up, she gave her the parcel. Quickly she explained what Wren was to do and where she was going, and patted her fondly on the head. Wren retired to a curtained-off section of the room to change her clothes. When she had finished dressing herself in the black Puritan garb, her hair pinned beneath the starched white cap, she came back and sat down next to Lottie at the table. She ate her breakfast quickly, ravenously, licking her fingers to indicate her appreciation of the food.

“Listen to me, child,” Lottie said, holding out a pouch. “Here is a hundred pounds. This other little sack is full of gems. Guard them both well, for it's all ye'll have when ye get to America. God only knows what ye'll be finding there, and this will be all ye'll have between starvation and survival. I'd give ye more if I had it, but I have the men to look after.”

Wren's eyes widened. “It's too much, Lottie. I can't take it all. Half will do nicely. I'm strong and I can find work when I get there. You may need this for yourself and the others.”

“Nonsense, child. We can always get more. This is to be yer nest egg against the future. Ye don't know what that strange land is like, and it might not be a fit place for a woman lookin' for work. Ye keep it and use it wisely.”

“I wish I weren't going, Lottie, but I know I can't stay here. To do so would be to place all of you in danger. I'll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“I need no payment. Seeing ye safely aboard ship will be payment enough. However, if ye have a mind to, ye can be doing me one small favor—if the opportunity presents itself, that is.”

“Anything. Just tell me what it is,” Wren urged.

“Seth said a man named Aubrey Farrington will be aboard the Dutchman's ship. He's known as the foxiest cardsharp in these here parts. A day or so before ye get to yer port, seek him out and engage him in a game of cards. Use every trick I ever taught ye. Fleece the old gent for every cent ye can. And after ye win, tell him the win was for Lottie. He'll know what yer talking about. Will ye do that for me?”

Wren nodded, a wide grin splitting her gaminlike face. “Every trick, Lottie?”

“Every trick,” Lottie repeated firmly. “Seth overheard him talkin' with young van der Rhys, and that's how I know he'll be aboard. It's an old, private score ye'll be settling for me. It was the one and only time in me life I got fleeced, and it still don't sit well. I want ye to even up the odds for me.”

“I'll do it, and as soon as I get to America I'll post a letter to you with your winnings or send them on the next ship that sails for England.”

“Child, I don't want no winnings. Keep them. I just want him to know I ain't forgot and that I don't need 'em. I want to see him bested. To do that, ye'll be using this deck of cards.” Lottie dug into one of the pockets of her tattered gown. “Whatever ye do, don't lose them. Ye remember the markings, don't ye? Seth was the best forger in all of England, and his steady hand has no equal. Just look at the tail feathers of them peacocks and ye'll see the markings clear as a bell.”

“I remember, Lottie. You have my word.”

The three men entered the parlor with smiles on their faces for Wren. “Me and Lucas will be leaving for the wharf, and Seth will be back for Wren when it's time,” Bart said quietly. Lottie nodded and the thieves went out, the yellow cat at their heels.

 

Aubrey Farrington stationed himself near a porthole in Caleb's cabin so that he could observe Malcolm Weatherly being brought aboard. Van der Rhys had eyes in the back of his head and the instincts of a cat. Keep him occupied and his mind clacking away, Aubrey told himself, and hopefully he won't get suspicious. When Cal learned of the gambler's little coup, he would be bug-eyed.

“All right, Cal, I can see that the gig is up and there's nothing to do but 'fess up to you,” Aubrey rattled away. “It's simple, really. With you gone and the gambling fever at a low, I found myself hard pressed for a little cash, so I agreed to—to put a friend of mine in touch with a . . . lady I once knew, and then he—”