The Pirate's Widow (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

Finn
and Callie were sharing a breakfast of bread, cheese, and cider when a pounding
at the door startled them both.
 
Finn
rose from the table, took up his pistol, and held up a hand to silence Cyrus’s
barking.

  
“Finn?”
 
Jem’s voice sounded from the other side of the thick door panel.
 
“Finn?
 
It’s Jem.
 
Callie’s missing!
 
She never came home last night!
 
You have to help me find her.”

  
He laid aside the pistol and opened the
door.
 
“Come in, Jem, Callie’s fine.”

  
Callie rose from the table.
 
Finn had given her one of his shirts to
replace her ruined bodice and she wore it over her chemise tucked into her
skirt.
 

  
“I’m here, Jem,” she told him.
 
“I had a disagreement with Sir Thomas last
night and it was nearer to come to Finn’s than to walk all the way to Hyacinth
Cottage.”

  
Jem breathed a sigh of relief.
 
“I was worried that that poxy bastard was
holding you prisoner.”

  
“No, I’m here and I’m quite all right.
 
I’m sorry you were worried, though.”

  
Jem looked from one to the other and his
eyes moved to the rumpled bedclothes on the bed in the corner of the
single-room hut.
 
A roguish grin broke
out across his freckled face and Finn and Callie laughed at his delight.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*

  
“Flora?”
 
Venetia let herself into her daughter’s bedchamber.
 
“Where the devil are you?
 
Have you gone back to bed?”

  
Flora lay face down on the satin counterpane
of her four-poster bed, her eyes swollen nearly shut and her face blotched with
red from crying.

  
“What’s wrong with you?” Venetia demanded.

  
“He’s gone!
 
He left me!
 
How could he?”

  
“Who’s gone?”
 
Venetia’s eyes widened.
 
“Not your gallant lover, by any chance?
 
Can it be he’s not the noble prince you
believed him to be?”

  
“How could he leave me?” Flora asked
again.
 
“And after I told him that we . .
. that we are going to have . . .”

  
Venetia thought her senses would leave
her.
 
Surely the fool could not mean—

She
went to the fireplace and tugged at the embroidered bell pull beside it.
 
When a maid answered, she sent for her lady’s
maid and her smelling salts.
 
Something
told her she was going to need both.

  
“How far gone are you?” Venetia demanded of
her daughter after Sawyer, her maid, had revived her with the smelling salts
and then taken her leave.
 
“Answer me,
girl, how far?”

  
“A month, a little more,” Flora
replied.
 
“I have missed one monthly
course.”

 
“All right, then, there is no time to be
lost.
 
But I will need help to put my
plan into motion.”

  
“Mama, surely you cannot still mean for me
to marry Sir Thomas.
 
I am carrying
another man’s child.”

  
“Who is to say whose child it is?” Venetia
said.
 
“First children often come
early.
 
And you could suffer some
accident; a fall perhaps that will bring on your labor early.”

  
“Mama, to perpetrate such a deception . . .”

 
“Listen to me, you little fool,” Venetia
hissed.
 
“Unless you agree to this I will
expose you and toss you into the street.
 
How will you provide for yourself and your bastard then?
 
You have one chance, one, to salvage a decent
life out of this calamity and I am willing to help you.
 
Make up your mind now; will you do as I say
or will you leave this house at once and be dead to me forever.”

  
Flora bit her lip to still its
trembling.
 
She had never felt so alone,
so unloved, in all her life.
 
Walter had
betrayed her, had betrayed the innocent child she carried inside her.
 
Life was not kind to young women cast out to
fend for themselves and their bastard children.
 
Infant mortality was appallingly high even among the nobility; for a
woman on her own not knowing where her own next meal was coming from, it was
almost a certainty that her child would die before its first birthday.
 
If she fell in with her mother’s plans, she
could at least have a comfortable life and a decent chance at providing a life
for her child.
 
And she could get her
revenge on the man to whom she had given her love—the man who had shattered her
heart and her dreams.
 
Sir Thomas would
help her, oh yes, if she was his wife, his pride would not allow him to
tolerate slights on his honor or that of his wife.

  
“I will do as you say, mama,” she answered
meekly.

  
“Finally you’ve come to your senses.
 
Wash your face and make yourself presentable.
 
And for heaven’s sake, if you should see Sir
Thomas, make an effort.
 
As for me, I
must go out.
 
I need to put my plan into
motion.”

  
An hour later, Venetia Louvain sat in the
parsonage parlor sipping tea with Olivia Dougless.
 
And is there news from the manor, Mrs.
Louvain?” Olivia asked, offering her guest a plate of biscuits freshly made in
her kitchen that morning.

  
“Indeed there is, Mrs. Dougless,” Venetia
replied.
 
“I believe Sir Thomas did make
an offer for Mrs. Jenkins’ hand in marriage last night.”

  
“Never say so!”
  
The parson’s wife’s hand shook so that she
had to put down her cup. “Oh, Mrs. Louvain, it cannot be so!
 
It would be a disaster for St. Swithin if
that horrible woman ever became Lady Sedgewyck.”

  
“I agree,” Venetia assured her.
 
“That is why, I am happy to tell you, she has
apparently refused him.”

  
“Refused him!
 
Is she out of her senses?
 
A poor missionary’s widow refusing Sir Thomas
Sedgewyck?
 
She must be mad.”

  
“Or she is trying to whet his appetite even
more.
 
A man like Sir Thomas is not used
to being refused whatever he sets his heart upon.
 
It may be that she thinks to whip his
affection into a frenzy and thus gain some advantage over him in the marriage
settlement.”

  
“The cunning trollop!”

  
“In any event, her refusal affords us a
little time; I still have hopes that he will see that his happiness lies not in
marriage with that proud harridan but with my own dear Flora.”

  
Mrs. Dougless beamed.
 
“So much more suitable; why, Mr. Dougless was
saying only last Sunday that Miss Louvain would make a lovely Lady Sedgewyck.”

  
“And I believe it would have happened before
now had that woman not come to the village flaunting her charms.”

  
“I do not doubt it.
 
But how do you propose to bring this happy
event about, Mrs. Louvain?”

  
Venetia set her cup down and leaned toward
her hostess.
 
“I have a plan; you may
find it a bit shocking but desperate times call for desperate measures.
 
And I would need your assistance and that of
the parson.”

  
“I think I may speak for Mr. Dougless when I
say that his dislike for Mrs. Jenkins is such that he would gladly perform the
ceremony today binding Sir Thomas and Miss Louvain as husband and wife.”

  
“I knew I could depend upon you, dear Mrs.
Dougless,” Venetia purred.
 
“Now, here is
what I believe we should do.”

  
Flora looked up as the studded oak front
doors of Sedgewyck Manor slammed shut with window rattling force.
 
She saw Sir Thomas striding across the
entrance hall looking like a thundercloud.
 
Putting aside the book she’d been reading, she ran after him.

  
“Sir Thomas?
 
Sir Thomas, what can be the matter?”

  
“That miserable wretch Walter!” he
growled.
 
“He’s abandoned his post.
 
Stolen

away
like a thief in the night!
 
By God, he’d
been paid until the end of the year; I’ll have him before a magistrate!”
 
He pulled off his hat and gloves and threw
them at the butler who’d come running when he’d heard the doors slam.
 
“And that’s not all!
 
It seems he’s run off with Jenna Brown, the
smithy’s daughter.
 
Apparently she had a
bastard by him and they’ve run off and taken the child with them.”

  
Flora’s mind reeled.
 
Not only had Walter run off leaving her alone
and pregnant, he had chosen the common daughter of the village blacksmith and
her child over Flora and their babe.
 
Well, he’d pay for that insult!

  
“It is not surprising, Sir Thomas,” she said
tremulously, “considering what he was.”

  
“What he was?
 
What do you mean?”

  
“He was a pirate, well, a former
pirate.
 
He sailed with Blackbeard.”

  
“What!
 
How do you know this?”

  
“I went for a walk one day and I chanced to
pass the hermit’s cave.
 
Walter waylaid
me.
 
It was plain he was in his cups.
 
He . . .” She shuddered delicately.
 
“He made advances toward me.
 
I was repulsed, of course, and it made him
angry.
 
That was when he told me who he
really was.
 
His name was Walter Bartlett
and he was the first mate on the
Queen
Anne’s Revenge
.
 
He was ashore when
Blackbeard’s ship was taken by the navy.
 
He made his way back to England.
 
I suppose he thought telling me who, and what, he really was would
frighten me into succumbing to his advances.
 
But I ran away and he, being as I say the worse for drink, could not
catch me.”

  
“And it did not occur to you to tell this to
me or to your mother?”

  
Flora widened her eyes.
 
“I could not, Sir Thomas!
 
He said that if I told anyone, he would
murder us all in our beds.
 
And he would
do the most terrible things to me before he killed me.”
 
Covering her face with her hands, Flora flung
herself into Sir Thomas’ arms.

“Oh,
Sir Thomas, I’ve been so frightened!
 
I
am glad he is gone!
 
I am!”

  
“What sort of terrible things?” Sir Thomas
asked.

  
“What?”
 
Flora looked up at him.

  
“Never mind.
 
He will not be allowed to go free.
 
I have no doubt there is a warrant for his execution.
 
I will send to the Admiralty for it and I
will set men to tracking down this villain and bringing him to justice!”

  
He smiled down at Flora, her cheek resting
against the soft, sage wool of his coat.
 
“Do not fear, Flora, he will not carry out his threats.”

  
“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” she murmured.

  
They were still standing there, Flora
languishing in Sir Thomas’ arms, when the door opened and Venetia appeared with
the Reverend Mr. Dougless and his wife behind her.

Chapter Thirteen

  
“Sir Thomas?” Venetia said as she and the
Douglesses came into the entrance hall.
 
Footmen appeared to take their outer garments.

  
“Flora was telling me about Walter,” he told
her.

  
Venetia felt the world tilt around her.
 
Her eyes frantically searched her daughter’s
face.
 
“Indeed?
 
And what about him?”

  
“Apparently he threatened her, and all of
us, the wretch.
 
He tried to have his way
with your daughter.
 
Did you know?”

  
“I did not.
 
Had I, I should certainly have come to you.”

  
“Quite right.
 
I am going to dispatch men to find him.
 
Apparently he is a former pirate and must be
made to pay for his crimes.”

  
“A pirate!” Olivia Dougless squeaked.

 
“Good Heavens!” the parson cried.

  
“One of Blackbeard’s crew.
 
Never fear, I shall see him dangling from a
rope or know the reason why.”

  
Sir Thomas’ eyes lingered on his
mother-in-law’s companions.
 
“Reverend
Dougless, Mrs. Dougless, you have come to visit with us?”

  
“There has been a disaster, Sir Thomas,”
Venetia told him.
 
“A fire in the
parsonage kitchen; not a very serious one, the damage will soon be put to
rights, but I felt certain you would not object to Mr. and Mrs. Dougless
spending a few nights here while the servants are dealing with it.

  
“Certainly not,” Sir Thomas agreed.
 
“Tell the housekeeper to prepare a room.
 
Now, if you will excuse me, I have business
to attend to.”

  
Callie and Finn, followed by Jem, Cyrus and
Rascal, strolled hand in hand along the beach toward Hyacinth Cottage in the
warm morning sunshine.
 
Callie had
abandoned her ruined bodice in favor of one of Finn’s shirts that was now
tucked into her pink brocade skirt which trailed, unheeded, in the water as the
waves rolled in.

  
As they passed St. Swithin harbor, Callie
was aware of more than one set of eyes watching them.

  
“We’ll be the day’s gossip for certain,” she
told Finn.

  
“Do you mind?” he asked.

  
“Not at all; I’ll go into the town square
and make an announcement if you’d like me to.”

  
“And what would you say, my bold and
beautiful lass?”

  
“That I love you.”

  
Finn stopped in his tracks.
 
Taking her hands in his, he looked into her
eyes.
 
“Say that again.”

  
“I love you, Finn Blount, I do.”

  
“And I love you, Callie Llewellyn,” he
replied.
 
“I love your courage and your
spirit.
 
I love your beautiful face and
your soft skin and I love the way your eyes go all misty when I . . .”

  
“Finn!” Callie chided looking to see if Jem
was within earshot.

  
Finn laughed and pulled her into his
arms.
 
She twined her arms around him
burying her fingers in his thick brown hair and, heedless of the eyes watching
or the tongue that would doubtless we wagging, they clung to one another, lost
in a kiss that seemed to promise everything their hearts desired.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*

  
In Sir Thomas’ absence, Venetia, the
Douglesses, and Flora made their plans.
 
By the time the master of Sedgewyck Manor had returned his fate was
sealed and the conspirators satisfied that their plans could not go awry.

  
It was at dinner that evening that the first
fly landed squarely in the ointment.

  
“You have been made comfortable?” Sir Thomas
asked Olivia Dougless.

  
“Very comfortable, Sir Thomas,” she
replied.
 
“Your housekeeper has given us
the most beautiful room overlooking the gardens.”

  
“Very good.
 
Is there anything you need from the parsonage?
 
I can send a footman to collect anything you
might require.”

  
“Not at all. The maid from the parsonage
came up in the pony cart with all the necessities Mr. Dougless and I should be
needing.
 
We will not impose upon your
generosity for too long.”

  
“You must remain as long as you need to,”
Sir Thomas told them.

  
“You are too kind,” the parson said,
smiling.

  
“I didn’t have the opportunity of telling
you what my maid said when she was here, dear Venetia,” Olivia said.
 
“The village is abuzz with the scandal of
it.”

  
“I disapprove of gossip, Mrs. Dougless,” the
parson reproved, solely for Sir Thomas’ benefit for in truth there was nothing
he liked more than hearing about other people’s disgrace.

  
“It is not gossip, Mr. Dougless,” his wife
said, “it is merely an illustration of the old saying about trying to make a
silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  
“Of whom are you speaking?” Sir Thomas
asked.

  
“Mrs. Jenkins,” Olivia told him.
 
“Apparently after you had so kindly taken her
and dear Miss Louvain to dine aboard the warship in Penzance, she took herself
off to Finn Blount’s hut and spent the night with him.”

  
“No!” Venetia cried.
 

  
“Who is saying this?” Sir Thomas demanded.
 

  
“The entire village saw them strolling hand
in hand along the shore not long after dawn this morning.
 
Apparently they were kissing in full view of
anyone who cared to look.”

  
“Outrageous!”
 
Venetia breathed, “Flora, you should not be
hearing this!”

  
“Mrs. Jenkins was wearing what looked like
one of Blount’s shirts; no doubt he destroyed her bodice ripping it off her in
his vulgar haste.
 
With it, she wore a
pink brocade skirt that Mrs. Brown said looked like one of the gowns you
purchased for her, Sir Thomas.
 
Apparently it was dragging in the sea as she walked along.
 
Obviously she cares nothing for the kindness
of others.”

  
Apart from a reddening of his face, Sir
Thomas made no comment but soon after the meal had finished, he excused himself,
took a decanter of brandy, and retired to his rooms.

 
“Oh dear,” Olivia worried when they had
retired to the sitting room.
 
“Have I
miscalculated, Venetia?
 
I thought surely
the news of Mrs. Jenkins scandalous behavior would put Sir Thomas in the mood
to abandon his good opinion of her and turn to dear Miss Louvain.”

  
“Perhaps we must put off our plan for a
night or two,” Venetia allowed.
 
“But I’m
certain your news will have the desired effect.
 
Surely Sir Thomas’ appetite for the woman will wane now that he sees her
for the harlot she is.”

  
The evening passed in quiet conversation but
Sir Thomas did not appear.
 
When Venetia
asked, she was told that Sir Thomas had retired for the night and ordered that
he not be disturbed.
 
Disappointed that their
plans were apparently ruined for the present, she bade the Douglesses and Flora
goodnight and retired to her own room.

  
It was after midnight when Flora, reading a
romantic novel by the light of a single candle, heard the knocking at her
bedchamber door.
 
Throwing back the
coverlet, she went to the door and opened it.

  
“Sir Thomas!” she cried, clutching the
ruffled edge of her nightdress closer about her throat.

  
“Flora,” he said, and the brandy fumes
engulfed her.
 
“We were interrupted
before.
 
You were going to tell me what
terrible things Walter wanted to do to you.”

  
He propped an elbow against the doorframe
and his dressing gown fell open revealing his naked body underneath.
 

  
“Terrible things, Sir Thomas,” she breathed,
“terrible, sexual things—depraved, dirty things.”

  
Smiling, he pushed her out of the way and
entered the room.
 
Closing the door
behind himself, he took her by the wrist and pulled her toward him.

  
“Tell me more,” he demanded.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*

  
 
“Where can
Flora be?”
 
Venetia wondered when her
daughter did not appear in the breakfast room the next morning.

  
  
“Sir Thomas will not doubt be spending
the day abed,” Mrs. Dougless predicted.
 
“I’m certain he will have the headache this morning.”

  
“Doubtless you are right.
 
I hope he does not suffer too . . .”

  
“Madam, madam!” Flora’s maid appeared in the
doorway.
 
“You must come!
 
It’s Miss Flora!”

  
Venetia caught up her skirts and followed
the little maid up the grand staircase and down the corridor to her daughter’s
room.
 
Olivia Dougless followed and the
parson came right behind.

  
“What is it?” Venetia demanded, throwing
open the door.
 
“Flora, are you . . . oh,
my heavens!”

  
Flora Louvain and Sir Thomas Sedgewyck, both
naked, lay sprawled across Flora’s bed.
 
Sir Thomas, face down on the rumpled sheets, snored heavily, dead to the
world, lost in a haze of brandy and erotic exhaustion.
 
For Flora’s part, she was spread-eagled on
the bed, her wrists and ankles bound to the carved bedposts.
 
Her body was covered with welts and a
discarded riding crop lay on the rug beside the bed.
 
Blood spattered her pale skin and the white
sheets and teeth marks ringed both pale nipples on her small, bruised breasts.

  
“Help me, mama,” she whimpered.

  
The parson, pale and trembling with shock,
turned away but Venetia and Olivia rushed to Flora’s aid.
  
They drew a sheet over her and untied the
bonds that held her.
 
Olivia turned to
her husband who leaned against the wall outside the door.

  
“Mr. Dougless,” she said, “fetch Lord
Sedgewyck’s valet and have him removed to his own room.

  
As the parson hurried away to do his wife’s
bidding, Venetia looked at her co-conspirator.

  
“Well, well, Mrs. Dougless,” she said
smiling.
 
“What is that saying about
being hoisted by one’s own petard?”