The Pirate's Widow (8 page)

  
“And who is this Jem Sir Thomas mentioned?”

  
“A boy.
 
He was a passenger on one of the ships Kit took.
 
He begged to be taken on as a seaman and his
people on the ship didn’t seem to care so we took him on.
 
Everyone thinks he is my son, and so he is,
in my heart.”

  
“Is he the ginger-haired boy who comes
around sometimes?”

  
“He is.
 
He told me he’d met you.”

  
“He talks about the sea.”
 
He caught the look Callie threw him.
 
“Don’t worry, I never told him I was a pirate
myself.
 
Doubtless he’d want to hear all
about old Blackbeard.”

  
“He misses it.
 
He’s a little buccaneer at heart.
 
I worried when we first came that one day I
would wake up and find him run off but Finn Blount has taken him under his
wing.”

  
“Finn’s a good man.”

  
“That he is.
 
A very good man, I think.”

  
“Do I hear a note of fondness in your
voice?
 
Gossip points in another
direction, you know.”

  
“Toward Sir Thomas?”

  
“Aye.
 
The general expectation in the village is that you’re to be the new Lady
Sedgewyck.”

  
Callie sighed.
 
“Sir Thomas has been paying court to me but
Walter; I don’t want to marry him.
 
It’s
just that I do not know how to discourage him without angering him and I do
nott
think he’d be a man to take rejection kindly.”

  
“I think you’re right there, my girl.
 
And if he found out either of our histories .
. .” Walter made a slashing motion across this throat.
 

  
“Bit of hypocrisy there, don’t you think,
considering the Sedgewyck fortune came from piracy.”

  
“Aye, but there’s none as pious as the
reformed sinner.
 
Still, old Madam
Louvain would be pleased to hear you say you’ve no interest in becoming Lady
Sedgewyck.”

  
“She wants Sir Thomas for her own Flora,
doesn’t she?
 
And Flora?
 
Does she want to be the lady of the manor?”

  
“So badly she can taste it.
 
Her sister, the last Lady Sedgewyck, was kind
enough to take Flora and her mother in; even gave Flora three London Seasons to
try and find a husband though the girl had neither a fortune large enough to
tempt anyone nor beauty to make up for the lack.
 
But Flora always resented her half-sister’s
marriage.
 
I do not believe she was sorry
when Charlotte died in childbed.
 
I think
she already had an eye toward replacing her.”

  
“That’s dreadful!”

  
“Aye, she’s a schemer, that one.”
 
Walter shrugged.
 
“But keen enough for a bit of slap and tickle
on occasion.”

  
“Walter!
 
You and Flora Louvain?”
 

  
He chuckled.
 
“
She’d
 
not
admit it if you stretched
 
her on the
rack, but the girl has a bit of a taste for a man’s attention now and
then.
 
Doubtless her mother would string
her up by the thumbs if she knew.”

  
They had reached the manor house and Sir
Thomas’ carriage which stood waiting, coachman perched high on the box.
 
Walter handed Callie into the carriage and
closed the door with its gilded coat of arms.

  
“Take care of yourself, Caroline Jenkins,”
he said with a wink.
 
“And tell young Jem
he’d be better off taking after Finn than following his heart to the sea.”

  
“You take care of yourself as well, Walter
the hermit,” Callie replied.
 
“And don’t
break too many hearts.”

    
He stood back as the coachman slapped the
reins and the carriage started off.

  
Above their heads, Sir Thomas shoved open
the door of Flora’s room and stood, dumbfounded in the doorway.
 
The usually immaculate room was a shambles;
chairs were knocked over and ornaments smashed.
 
Flora cowered in a corner while her mother, bosom heaving, stood over
her with a riding crop.

  
“What the devil is going on?” he demanded.

   
Venetia stared at him for a moment.
 
“A mouse, Sir Thomas; Flora has seen a
mouse.”

Chapter Seven

  
“What’s wrong, Jem?” Callie asked after ten
minutes of watching Jem stir his soup with his spoon without so much as tasting
it.

  
“Nothing,” he said, not looking up from his
bowl.
 
“I think I’ll go to bed, Callie.”

  
Callie frowned.
 
The sun had barely set and Jem seldom went to
bed without being told.
     
“Are you
ill?” she asked, leaning across the table and laying a hand on his forehead.

  
“No,” he replied, laying down his spoon and
rising from the table.
 
“Just tired,
that’s all.”

  
Callie watched as he slowly left the
room.
 
She heard his footsteps climbing
the stairs and, soon after, the sound of his bedroom door closing.

  
“Did he not like the soup?” Gemma asked,
coming to clear away the bowls.

  
“I don’t know; he wasn’t himself.”

  
“He’s not happy about going to school, I
think.”

 
 
“No,
he’d rather be following Finn about learning how to be a smuggler and a
salvager.
 
But it only been a few days,
and he might like it better when he’s been going longer.
 
I think I’ll go up and see if I can discover
what is ailing him.”

  
Callie climbed the stairs and went to Jem’s
room.
 
Tapping lightly at the door, she
opened it and saw him standing, shirtless, before the looking glass.

  
“Jem, what is—?”
 
Callie gasped.
 
In the looking glass she saw the reflection
of his back.
 
The pale skin was crisscrossed
with angry welts, some of them dotted with flecks of dried blood.

  
Jem tried to cover himself with a nightshirt
but Callie went to him and snatched it from his hands.

  
“Who did this to you!” she demanded.

  
He twisted away from her but the movement
made him catch his breath and several of the scabbed over welts broke open and
began to bleed.

  
“Tell me, Jem, who did this!”

  
“The parson, Mr. Dougless.”

  
“The parson!
 
He caned you?
 
But why?”

  
“I was playing with the other boys.
 
I had my dagger, the one I got in
Africa.
 
They asked to see it and I told
them how I got it.
 
They didn’t believe
me.
 
They told the parson I was a liar
and he said this was what happened to boys who lied.”

  
“That evil bastard!
 
I’ll have his guts for garters!”

  
“It would be different if I had been lying,
Callie, but I wasn’t,” Jem reasoned.

  
“If you had been lying, Jem, it would have
been up to the parson to tell me and for me to deal with it.
 
He had no right taking a cane to you.”

  
“He canes the boys in the school all the
time.”

  
“And Sir Thomas wanted me to send you
there?
 
And these are so-called civilized
people?”
 
She smoothed his tousled red
hair.
 
“Now you lie down on the bed and
I’ll go and get some warm water and salve for your back.
 
And tomorrow, young man, I’ll go have a talk
with Mr. Holier-than-thou Dougless.
 
He’ll be lucky if I don’t take his own cane to him!”

  
It was mid-morning of the next day when
Callie marched up to the parsonage that sat beside the church in the center of
St. Swithin.
 
She knocked at the door and
a young maid opened it.

  
“I need to see the parson,” Callie told her,
pushing the door wider and entering the house.

  
“Wait!
 
The parson is in the schoolroom.
 
He is not to be disturbed.”

  
“Well, he is going to be disturbed!
 
Where is the schoolroom?”

  
“In the study, under the stairs, but you
cannot . . .”

  
Callie marched toward the door tucked
beneath the wide staircase centered in the entry hall.
 
She pounded on the heavy wooden panels before
pushing it open.
 
The parson stood before
a group of about a dozen boys pointing with a thick cane toward the map
fastened to the wall.

  
“Here, you cannot simply barge in, Mrs.
Jenkins!”

  
“I can do as I please, Reverend, and I
please to hear how you dared use that cane on my son!”

  
The Reverend’s cheeks reddened.
 
“Boys, go outside for a few moments.”

  
Whispering excitedly, the boys left the
schoolroom casting glances between Callie and the parson.

  
“I do not tolerate liars, madam,” the parson
told Callie when the door had shut behind his pupils.
 
“A lying tongue is the tool of the devil.”

  
“My son does not lie.
 
I understand there was a dispute over a
knife.”

  
“There was—he told some fantastical story
about an African king.”

  
“The King of Ashanti.
 
And that fantastical story happens to be
true.
 
The knife was given to my husband
after he helped rescue the king’s daughter from a band of slavers who had
abducted her from her home.”
 
Callie did
not tell the parson that Kit had attacked the slave ship thinking it a merchant
vessel.

  
“And how was I to know there was even a
place called Ashanti let alone a king of it?”

  
“You call yourself a teacher?
 
Is not geography one of the subjects you
teach?”

  
“We are speaking of darkest Africa, madam, a
heathen place.
 
What matter who lives
there or what airs and titles they see fit to bestow upon themselves?”

  
“I have found more kindness and morality in
so-called ‘heathen places’ in the world, sir, than I have found in this
village!”
 
The parson opened his mouth to
reply but Callie went on:
 
“I did not
come here to discuss foreign lands, sir, I came here to tell you that if you
ever—ever—brutalize my son again, you shall have cause to regret it to your
dying day!”

  
“Are you threatening me, madam?”

  
“Yes, sir, I am most certainly threatening
you!”

  
“How dare you!”
 
The door burst open and Olivia Dougless, the
parson’s prune-faced wife appeared, eyes blazing.
 
“How dare you threaten my husband?”

  
“Eavesdropping, Mrs. Dougless?” Callie
asked, “And do you also eavesdrop when parishioners come to discuss personal
matters with your husband?
 
I wonder if
that is not how you seem to have always the latest gossip at your fingertips.”

  
Olivia Dougless’ horrified expression and
flushed cheeks confirmed Callie’s suspicions. She waved a dismissive hand.
 
“I care little if you do or not since I have
no intention of discussing anything of a personal nature with either of
you.
 
I will leave you now but let me
repeat, should you—either of you—raise a hand to my son again, you will have
cause to regret it.”

  
“As you may have cause to regret this day’s
insolence!” Olivia retorted.

  
“Do your damnedest, madam,” Callie snarled,
turning with a swish of her skirts.
 
“I
care this for your threats!”
 
She snapped
her fingers beneath Olivia’s long nose and swept out of the room and out of the
parsonage.

  
The gaggle of young boys who had gathered
beneath the study window to eavesdrop parted as Callie strode past them.

  
“Mrs. Jenkins,” one young boy, son of the
chimney sweep, bolder than the rest, stepped forward.
 
“Mrs. Jenkins, was it true, then, that Jem
got the knife from an African savage?”

  
“Osei Tutu I is the King of Ashanti, Pip,
and he is a great man who rules over a great empire in Africa.
 
Just because people do not share our beliefs
or our way of life does not make them savages.
 
I daresay they would consider some of our ways barbaric.
 
And yes, Jem’s knife came from the King.”

  
The boys chattered excitedly among
themselves.
 
Callie started to turn away
but paused.
 
“Tell me, boys, does the
reverend use the cane on you often?”

  
They looked at one another and nodded.
 
“Quite often, Mrs. Jenkins,” Robert, the
plump son of the village baker, confirmed.
 
“Spare the rod—“

  
“And spoil the child,” Callie finished.
 
“And we call others barbarians.”

  
The parson appeared at the doorway.
 
“Boys!
 
Get in here this minute!
 
Your
parents will not thank me for allowing you to associate with less desirable
elements!”

  
Callie made no reply as the boys began reluctantly
straggling back to their lessons but she knew her days as a regular member of
Reverend
 
Dougless’
flock had come to an end.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*

  
“How dare she!”
 
Venetia Louvain, the wrist she’d sprained beating Flora cradled in a
silken sling, mirrored Olivia Dougless’ look of scandalized indignation.
  
“She actually threatened the poor
reverend?
 
That woman is no better than
she should be!
 
And her husband a
missionary.”

  
“Or so she says,” Olivia hissed.
 
“Who knows who he really was?
 
She doesn’t look like any missionary’s wife
I’ve ever seen!”

  
“Too true!
 
She is too bold by half!”

  
“Just look at the way she leads Sir Thomas
around by the nose; him carrying her about the village in his carriage and
buying her a fortune in clothing.
 
Who
knows what wiles she’s used to lure him into her web?”

  
Venetia looked at her daughter, Flora,
sitting by the window staring out morosely at the rain.
 
If only Flora had the dark, fiery allure her
older daughter had possessed.
 
But where
Charlotte had had the same dark hair and startling blue eyes as the Jenkins
woman and the same feminine curves that seemed to exude a promise of sensuality
hidden beneath a veneer of ladylike gentility, Flora was mousy, her hair a dun
brown, her eyes pale and protuberant, her figure undistinguished even with the
addition of extra layers in the bosom and hips of her corsets.
 
And she seemed to possess no notion of how to
flirt with a man through lowered lashes and an artfully fluttered fan.

  
She sighed.
 
She didn’t enjoy being reminded that Caroline Jenkins was stealing the
prize from beneath their noses without a least bit of competition from
Flora.
 
It was as if the girl didn’t even
want to step into her sister’s exalted shoes.
 
What were they going to do if she couldn’t capture Sir Thomas and charm
him to the altar?
 
Did Flora think
Caroline Jenkins, once installed as Lady Sedgewyck, would tolerate Venetia or
Flora under her roof?
 
Why, they’d be lucky
to be banished to the grim and drafty dower house on the edge of the village.
 
More likely, they’d be banished from the
estate all together.
 
And though Venetia
had a modest income from her late husbands’ estates, it would certainly not
afford them a lifestyle comparable to the splendor of Sedgewyck Manor.

  
“It would be a disaster,” she told her
visitor, “if that woman manages to trap our dear Sir Thomas into
matrimony.
 
It would be the ruin of the
House of Sedgewyck.
 
The very thought of
her taking my sainted daughter’s place as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor is enough
to make me reach for my smelling salts.”