Dangerous Waters (17 page)

Clewes shifted uneasily. “M-Matcham, p-please.” He laid a hand on his colleague's arm. It was shaken off.

“And then there are the visits.” Matcham's tone was boisterously enthusiastic, but his narrowed gaze was as cold and sharp as splintered ice. “Not morning calls. Oh no, in Jamaica things are not so brief or so formal. It's the distance, you see. Estates are often many miles apart. And even those considered close neighbours may find themselves cut off by a river in flood, or find the road is washed out after a heavy storm. So the usual short call of an hour or less isn't feasible. Instead families come to stay, sometimes for weeks, bringing their slaves and their pets: the entire household in fact. And of course they must be amused. Mr Rupert Quintrell is exceptionally generous in this respect. The entertainment provided for his male guests has made him famous throughout the island.” His sly mocking smile made Phoebe's skin crawl. “Nor does work on the plantation stop, despite so many of the ripe young slaves being taken out of the gangs – “

“Enough, f-for G-God's s-sake.” Creased like a withered apple from anxiety, Clewes's face was deeply flushed. “Miss D-Dymond, take n-no notice I b-beg you –”

“Take no notice? My dear Clewes, I'm doing her a favour. She must surely want to know what will be expected of her.”

“Miss Dymond.” Touching her elbow Jowan rose from the bench. His face might have been chiselled from stone. “Perhaps you will allow me to escort you to the saloon?”

“Thank you.” Her own face felt hot and her head throbbed. She wanted to get as far away from the merchant as possible. What did he mean
entertainment?
What had the slaves to do with it? Glancing down at Romulus Downey to bid him goodnight she saw he was gazing at the merchant with a thoughtful frown.

“I b-beg you w-will excuse m-my c-colleage,” Clewes pleaded, his face shiny with perspiration. “He's n-not hims-self,”

Matcham drained his glass. “A lamb to the slaughter,” he muttered, seizing the bottle. His hand shook and the wine spilled onto the table forming a small crimson pool that instantly reminded Phoebe of blood.

“Miss Dymond?” Downey's voice shattered the spell.

As memories of the previous evening receded she looked up, grateful to be freed from their grip.

“I'm so sorry, Mr Downey. I didn't quite catch that.”

“I was saying that I hope Dr Crossley has told you what a valuable contribution you are making to the welfare of everyone on board.”

Not everyone. Certainly not Mr Matcham. Why had he taken against her? It was almost as if he wanted to punish her. But that made no sense. They were strangers. Then it must be something to do with the Quintrells. He appeared to know a great deal about Rupert. Yet he denied any personal acquaintance. Was that where the problem lay? Had something happened to make him feel slighted? In a small community, especially where business was concerned, a snub
 – real or imagined – could assume an importance out of all proportion to the event.

“Miss Dymond?”Downey's voice held a note of concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No, no, I'm fine. I was just thinking about all that's happened since we left Falmouth.” Phoebe rested her arms on the rail. “It is so strange to realise that only because of Dr Crossley's cruelty am I able to stand here and look out at the sea.”

Downey's brows climbing as his face mirrored shock. “Cruelty?”

Phoebe nodded. “That was how it felt at the time. Though of course I see it very differently now.”

“I beg you, Miss Dymond, explain.”

“When I first came aboard I was absolutely terrified of the sea. But Dr Crossley encouraged me to face my fear and by doing so to overcome it. He was very kind and very patient.”
So why is he now so cold and withdrawn?
Suddenly aware of the risks she was courting by talking of him, the danger of betraying thoughts and feelings to which she had no right and of which she should be – and was – deeply ashamed, she straightened up and forced a smile. “I understand you have visited several plantations, Mr Downey. Were your experiences anything like those described by Mr Matcham?”

“My interest was in the slaves, Miss Dymond, not social activities at the big house.” He began to tell her how the Revolution in France had created profound unrest on Jamaica's neighbouring island. By the time she realised he had not answered her question it no longer seemed so important.

“When the uprising on Saint Domingue began four years ago,” he said, “everyone believed it would soon be crushed. But the slaves were better organised than was realised. They had formed themselves into armed groups bound by a blood oath and their sworn aim was to kill every white man and free every slave. You can imagine how terrified the plantation owners must have been, especially at night when the drums began.”

Shivering at the thought of the fear and bloodshed, Phoebe wrapped her arms across her body. “It must have been terrible for them. And yet I'm amazed the slaves had not rebelled before.”

“Oh, they had. There have been several revolts in the past hundred years. One was led by an African slave called Macandal whose ambition was to drive out all the whites and turn Saint Domingue into an independent black kingdom.”

“What happened to him?”

“Like so many men who acquire great power he began to believe he was immortal. He was sufficiently bold, or foolhardy, to attend a dance on one of the plantations. Of course he was recognised and arrested. His sentence – intended as a warning to others – was to be burned alive. As he was tied to a stake on top of a pile of wood he was still shouting that his captors would not hold him, that he would escape.”

Phoebe shook her head, awed by such mad courage.

“Do you know, for one brief moment it looked as if he had.”

“How?” Phoebe was both appalled and fascinated.

“As the flames leapt up around the stake his desperate throes wrenched it free and he plunged off the pyre. There was uproar as word spread through the huge crowd that he had disappeared. Of course he hadn't. He was tied to another plank and – well, suffice to say that the sentence was carried out.”

Phoebe swallowed hard as she nodded.

“Others tried to imitate him. One leader used voodoo ceremonies to inspire his followers, promising that the soldiers' bullets would not harm them.” The new harshness in Downey's voice was reflected in his expression. “The only weapons these desperate slaves had were knives, hoes and sticks. Believing they were protected, the bravest thrust their fists into the cannon barrels to stop them firing and urged their comrades forward, promising to stand fast.” He shook his head. “They were blown to bits.”

“When – “Phoebe cleared her throat. “When was this?” Please, please let it have been in the distant past.

“Two years ago. I was on Saint Domingue when it happened.”

Her skin tightened and her mouth grew dry. Would the unrest in Jamaica explode into something similar?

Chapter Thirteen

Jowan dropped suture needle and scissors into the bowl and passed them to Grigg.

“That's some 'andsome job, Doctor,” the seaman perched on the stool gazed at the neat row of stitches on his brawny forearm.

Jowan bit back a smile. “Thank you, Sykes.”

“He's the last of 'em, Doctor,” Grigg announced. “Want me to bandage him up?”

Flexing his shoulders, Jowan nodded. He needed fresh air. As the sick bay opened directly off the fo'c'sle he had swiftly grown used to the thick fug of stale stew, damp wool and unwashed bodies. But several days of wet weather meant he'd had to take sick call below deck. This morning alone he'd drained an abscess and stitched two bad cuts by lantern-light. Though this was not the cause of the tension encircling his skull like an iron band he needed to get out of the cramped and foetid space. Perhaps looking out at the vast expanse of ocean would help him find fresh perspective on a situation that was causing him too many sleepless nights.

“Here, you got any of that there stuff Miss Dymond put on Jenkins's stump?” Sykes asked. “Healed him up a treat, it did. And he never had none of that green muck coming out. Not like poor Janner. Poor bugger stank like a midden. Afore your time that was, doctor.”

As Grigg glanced at his superior, his brows rising, Jowan shrugged and nodded. Though sailors were reputedly the most superstitious bunch of men regarding anything to do with women and the sea,
Providence's
crew had taken Phoebe Dymond and her remedies to their hearts. He didn't blame them. How could he resent something that made his job so much easier? Yet sometimes – when he recalled the long years of work and study – it was hard not to.

She could not match his knowledge of anatomy or the required balance of humours, tones and acidity. Yet her success in preventing putrefaction of wounds put his efforts to shame. A man would have boasted, demanding acknowledgement and praise before sharing. She had willingly given him whatever he needed. He had never met anyone like her. Nor would he, for she was unique.
And it was his duty to deliver her to a man she had not met, did not know, and who might not value her as she deserved.

“I'm going topside, Grigg.” Opening the door into the mess he almost collided with Romulus Downey who was hovering on the threshold apparently waiting for him.

“Might I have a word, doctor?”

Resisting the temptation to put him off Jowan forced a brief smile. “Certainly. Are you not well?”

“I'm fine, thank you. I wish to speak with you concerning –” Glancing round the empty mess he pointed at the closed door of Matcham's cabin from behind which issued loud rhythmic snores, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think we might find somewhere more private? It's important we are not overheard.”

“If the master is not in the saloon we could – “

“He is on deck. I saw him myself a few minutes ago.”

Jowan gestured. “After you then, Mr Downey.”

Once inside the saloon Jowan closed the door and indicated the padded stern seat. Both men sat. Downey hunched forward, rubbing his hands together.

Jowan recognised deep unease in the gesture. “What's the matter, Mr Downey?”

“This is very difficult. And yet I see no alternative.” He paused, chewing his lip.

Resisting the urge to hurry him Jowan held onto his patience and his temper, and waited, experience telling him that silence would prove more encouraging than questions.

Downey drew a deep breath. “As you are Miss Dymond's guardian it is only right that you be informed of anything that affects her wellbeing.” He paused again and it took all Jowan's strength to maintain an outward calm that masked the fact that every nerve was taut, every fibre of his body willing the man to get a move on.

“Mr Clewes is upset and deeply uncomfortable about the way his colleague is behaving towards Miss Dymond. Unfortunately his remonstrations have been ignored.” Downey moistened his lips. “I intend no criticism when I describe Mr Clewes as a man – shall we say – less robust in personality than Mr Matcham. And having tried and failed in his efforts at dissuasion he was in a quandary. To come and tell you the reasons behind his colleague's behaviour would have meant betraying a confidence.”

“Yet he's told you?” Jowan enquired, having great difficulty holding onto his temper.
He
was Phoebe's guardian. Clewes should have come directly to
him.

Downey shook his head. “Not willingly. That's the point. I came upon him alone last evening. No, I must be honest. I followed him up on deck with the express intention of questioning him. Had you been aware just how unpleasant things have become I'm sure you would have acted. But when it happens you are usually elsewhere busy with your duties. I think – no, I'm sure – the timing is deliberate. And of course Matcham is often drunk. Though I –”

“When what happens?” Jowan interrupted brusquely.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Matcham's manner towards Miss Dymond has always been…difficult. But just lately it has bordered on persecution.” Jowan opened his mouth but Downey forestalled him. “Clewes has tried, but seems unable to stop him. Yet someone must.”

Jowan's surprise and his gratitude for Downey's intervention were thrust aside by urgency. “So you questioned Clewes. What did you learn?”

Downey's deep sigh told Jowan the information had been hard-won. “Mr Clewes's speech impediment does not respond well to stress. And every reply was hedged about with explanations. But as I understand it the facts of the matter are these. As the only child of an overbearing widow Horace Matcham was raised with an exaggerated idea of his own importance. He is able to turn on charm when it suits him, but turns arrogant and spiteful if thwarted. However, his self-esteem was severely dented when, one after another, the families into which his mother hoped to marry him declined any match. Apparently she was absolutely furious. Eventually, using contacts of her late husband, she found him his current position which requires him to make regular voyages to Jamaica.”

Jowan's impatience gave way to admiration for Downey's detailed but succinct presentation.

“There he received many invitations to social gatherings. But none of the young women he met was acceptable to his mother. Then for the first time in his life he fell in love. Annette Kendall was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, a widower. She had recently returned to Kingston from England where her education and social debut had been supervised by her aunt.” He cleared his through, darting Jowan an apologetic glance. “I assure you this is all relevant, doctor.”

Jowan nodded. “Please go on.”

“According to Clewes, Matcham tried desperately hard to impress Miss Kendall's father. The young lady appeared to encourage him. They danced together as often as decorum permitted, and she frequently allowed him to escort her to supper at balls and parties. Naturally, Matcham took these as signs of her particular interest in him and spoke in confidence to me about his hopes of a future with Miss Kendall.” Downey paused, running his tongue across his lips, and Jowan realised the recital was nearing its climax.

“Another regular guest at these events – despite his reputation – was Rupert Quintrell.“

“Reputation?” Jowan queried.

Downey cleared his throat again. “At best a flirt, at worst a rake and a libertine. But apparently Miss Kendall found him very agreeable.“

“I'm astonished her father did not warn him off.”

“You have to understand that Jamaican society is much less rigid than English. The owners of the biggest estates rarely set foot in Jamaica. They leave their plantations in the hands of attorneys, agents and overseers, most of them single men. The smaller estates are owned or run by men who were either born on the island or came to it as bachelors and started out as merchants. Because they greatly outnumber white women their domestic lives are less – formal – than would be acceptable in England. Also, despite Miss Kendall's
apparent
advantages of education and a London season, she was in fact far more naïve than Jamaican-born girls her age.“ Downey paused again.

Guessing what was coming, hoping he was wrong, Jowan remained silent.

“Can you imagine how Matcham felt when Miss Kendall told him she was in love with Rupert Quintrell and wanted his help with an elopement?”

A pang of sympathy caught Jowan by surprise. But it dissolved instantly as he recalled the merchant's smirking attempts to unsettle and embarrass Phoebe. “What did Matcham do?”

“Told Miss Kendall's father. Despite everything he was still willing to marry the girl. Though whether it could ever have been a happy union –” He shook his head. “In any case, she would have nothing to do with him. To Miss Kendall's shock and her father's chagrin Rupert Quintrell publicly disclaimed all responsibility, acknowledging he had dallied and flirted as he had with a dozen other young women, but denying he had ever intended, let alone promised, marriage. “

“And Miss Kendall?” Jowan ground out. “What became of her?”

“She tried to take her life. She had believed all Quintrell's pretty speeches; believed he loved her. So the shock and pain of such a brutal rejection coupled with guilt at the shame she had brought on her father, and the knowledge that everyone thought her a fool were all too much to bear. She was found in time. But it was a near thing. As soon as she was fit to travel she returned to her aunt in England. Matcham had already left.”

“What about Quintrell?” Disgust roughened Jowan's voice. “Was he still everyone's welcome guest?”

Downey shook his head. “A few took his side, blaming Miss Kendall's father and her chaperone for not being sufficiently vigilant, and citing her attempted suicide as evidence that she was emotionally unstable. But many agreed that this time he had gone too far. As invitations dwindled he responded by throwing riotous parties that lasted for days with dancing and other entertainment involving certain of the slaves.”

“Indeed?” Jowan's distaste coloured his tone. “And while he was occupied hosting this
entertainment
who was running his estate?”

“He was. No matter how wild the revelry – and rumour has it he often went without sleep for days – he was out in the plantation every morning organising the gangs for the day's work and checking to see it was carried out.”

“His slaves never took advantage?”

Downey stared at his hands. “A few of the men tried. He had their hands tied to a rope and made them walk behind his horse to the edge of a deep ravine where their feet were tied as well. Then he instructed the gang they worked with to throw them over. He warned that any man refusing to obey his orders would be shot, and for each refusal two children under the age of five would be turned off the estate to fend for themselves.”

Jowan felt the blood drain from his face.
“What?”
This was the man Phoebe was to marry?

“It sounds barbaric,” Downey said. “It
is
barbaric. But it must be remembered that slaves vastly outnumber whites. The threat of revolt is ever present. An owner who wants to keep his plantation operating must maintain control. He cannot afford to display the smallest sign of fear or leniency. Slaves who have been brutalised and treated as less than human mistrust compassion. They see it as a weakness to be instantly exploited.”

Jowan nodded. But his concern for the slaves was forced aside by his anguish over Phoebe. He looked up, met Downey's gaze, and saw his own uncertainty reflected back at him as he wondered what in God's name he should do.

Downey's shoulders were hunched in distress. “Will you tell her?”

“About Matcham's history? If I do she'll want to know how I learned of it.”

“I'm more than willing – “

“I'm sure you are, and I appreciate the offer, but that's not my point. Can you imagine how she'll feel knowing everyone in the mess is aware of her fiance's part in Matcham's misery? In any case, the fact that she knows the reason behind Matcham's behaviour won't stop it happening.”

“Not even if you tell Matcham you're aware of the bad turn Rupert Quintrell served him?”

Jowan realised he dare not take that chance. The voyage still had several weeks to run. Given the restricted space and lack of privacy, to inflame an already tense situation would be not just foolish but dangerous.

“I cannot imagine Matcham reacting well to sympathy: least of all from me. The blow to his pride and loss of face would be too great.”

“I fear you're right.” Downey sighed. “It would only make matters worse.”

Unable to remain still Jowan jumped up from the seat, raking his hair. “There's no doubt Matcham was ill-served by Rupert Quintrell. But why take it out on Ph – on Miss Dymond? What sort of a man makes an innocent young woman the target of his malice? What can he hope to gain?”

“This is only a guess,” Downey said. “But I wonder if Matcham's plan, once he discovered Miss Dymond's reason for making the voyage, was to pay Rupert Quintrell back in his own coin by trying to win Miss Dymond's affection.”

“Even to contemplate such an action shows the man is devoid of all decency,” Jowan snapped.

“Or reacting to the pain of a grievous wound,” Downey murmured.

Jowan swung round, glowering at the older man. “Surely you are not condoning –”

“Of course not. I merely seek to understand. In its twisted logic and hunger for revenge Matcham's response resembles that of a spiteful child rather than a mature man. However it is my belief that his efforts were doomed to failure from the start.”

“So I should hope.” Jowan spat. Then he glanced up. “What makes you say so?”

Downey lifted one shoulder: his gesture implying the answer was as obvious as the question was unnecessary. “Miss Dymond loathes him.”