Dangerous Waters (3 page)

William Quintrell gave a bark of laughter. “Fate and good fortune. By the time I was thirty I owned three ships. One of the plantations I was buying from ran up huge debts in freight, shipping and sales charges. In the end I had to foreclose.” He shrugged. “Still, it's an ill wind, as they say. Louise loved Grove Hill. My wife,” he explained before Carina could ask. “Pretty girl, and a wonderful hostess. Loved entertaining. Good thing really, as there's not much else for ladies to do, except increase the family of course.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Though she wasn't much good at that, unfortunately. Lost four before she managed to produce Rupert. And the next one killed her. Still, she'd done her duty and Grove Hill had an heir.” He roused himself, drained his wineglass, and beamed around the table. “Did I tell you he's doubled the yields? He knows what he's about. No overseer would dare try any tricks on Rupert.”

“He certainly has an advantage over absentee owners,” George Oakes said.

“They're mad,” William Quintrell stated. “Leaving supervision of their estates in the hands of an attorney with ten or twenty plantations on his books? It's asking for trouble. Attorneys don't have time even to make regular visits let alone take a close interest. So the overseer is left to his own devices. Foolish,” he shook his head. “Very foolish.”

“So how many owners actually live on their plantations, Mr Quintrell?” Carina enquired.

“On the largest estates, very few. And all of them send their children back to England to school.” Disapproval clouded his ruddy complexion. “Waste of time and money. Boys can learn all they need to know from their fathers.”

“But what about girls?” Phoebe blurted, earning herself a frown from Carina.

William Quintrell's wiry brows rose in astonishment. “What do girls need education for? They have slaves to do all the cleaning, cooking, needlework. Slaves look after the children, go to the markets and shops and tend the gardens. Their biggest concern is thinking up new ways to amuse themselves.“

Phoebe looked at her uncle.
He thought she would be happy with such a life?
She saw desperation in the glance he exchanged with Carina who turned smoothly to their guest.

“Indeed, it sounds a delightful existence, Mr Quintrell. Though I daresay those who desire more may find it?”

William Quintrell's surprise was laced with cynicism. “
More
?”

“Someone like dear Phoebe, for example,” Carina explained. “Who has been of such assistance to our local community.”

Watching William Quintrell's frown dissolve into an expansive smile it seemed to Phoebe that he appeared
relieved.
She could not imagine why. Unless he had misinterpreted what Carina meant.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he beamed. “And I'm sure Miss Dymond's skills will be of great interest. But I confess I should be astonished if after a few months she does not feel drawn to a more relaxed and leisurely lifestyle.” He turned to Phoebe with a roguish smile. “Especially once the babies start coming.”

Feeling heat flood her face Phoebe immediately lowered her gaze, not wanting to betray her discomfort at such a personal remark from a man she had met for the first time only two hours ago. She tried to make allowances. Perhaps ill health had made him more susceptible to the effects of the wine. Maybe Jamaican society was more relaxed and such topics of conversation topics were perfectly acceptable in mixed company. Besides, as the father of an only child, a son to whom he was clearly devoted, it was not to be wondered at that a grandchild, an heir to Grove Hill estate, would be very much on his mind.

“I'm not
against
education,” William Quintrell continued, oblivious to Phoebe's discomfort. “A certain amount – being able to figure and so on – is damned useful. That's why I employed a tutor for Rupert.”

“What a very sensible idea,” Carina's smile poured admiration like cream.

William Quintrell nodded, proud and complacent. “Well, I couldn't leave. And I didn't want to send the boy to England by himself. Not that he'd have gone. He overheard me talking about it to someone and got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Little devil ran away. Hid in the woods with one of the mulatto children. Nine years old he was.”

“My dear Mr Quintrell,” Carina's frown mingled disapproval and sympathy. “You must have been beside yourself with anxiety. Children are so selfish. They have no conception of the worry they cause.”

Phoebe bit her tongue.

“Good God, I wasn't anxious.” His bark of laughter sent Carina's eyebrows towards her hairline and a spasm of irritation crossed her face. But like a summer cloud it passed swiftly leaving a puzzled smile. “No, not at all. I knew he could take care of himself. And I soon discovered where he'd gone. Though it took me two days to find out. The children wouldn't tell. They were frightened of what he'd do to them if they said anything.” Pride lit William Quintrell's smile as he shook his head. “Within a year he was riding the estate with me. And on his fifteenth birthday I made him my overseer. He took to it like a duck to water.”

“What exactly does an overseer do?” Carina enquired.

“He supervises the two bookkeepers – gives them their orders for each day's work. They're called bookkeepers but they have nothing to do with figures. During crop they divide their time between the boiling house where the cane juice is turned into syrup and sugar, and the still house that produces the rum. Outside crop season they supervise the field Negroes and look after the keys for the stores.”

“And does your son have other responsibilities?”

Phoebe marvelled at Carina's display of absorbed interest.

“Oh yes. His next job is to take the daily roll call of slaves and make sure any claiming to be sick are not simply trying to evade work. Not that we have much trouble in that direction. Rupert won't stand for it. Then the rest of the day he's out riding over the estate making sure everything is as it should be. Of course during crop he also has to keep checking the quality of sugar and rum as it's produced.”

Phoebe watched her uncle nodding thoughtfully. “Sounds like a busy life and a heavy responsibility,” he murmured.

“Indeed it is,” William Quintrell nodded. “But Rupert's more than equal to it. What he needs now is a wife: a steady sensible girl to smooth away a few of the rough edges.” Grinning at his host, he gestured with his free hand, the other tilting his empty wineglass. “You know how it is with young men. They work hard and play hard. But it's time he put that behind him. Even he sees that now. So I don't want you thinking this is my idea, or that my son is being forced into anything against his will. Truth is,” he confided,” I doubt there's a man born who could make Rupert do anything he didn't want to. A woman now,” he directed a waggish grin at Phoebe. “That's different thing altogether. Any sensible woman knows that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. He's a proud man, my son, and can be stubborn as a mule when the mood takes him. But you, my dear,” he patted Phoebe's arm. “If you're even half the girl your uncle says you are, you'll have Rupert halter-broke within a month.”

As Carina gave a trilling laugh and clapped her hands together, and George Oakes nodded eagerly, Phoebe dropped her gaze to the miniature lying beside her plate and Rupert Quintrell's enigmatic smile.

“Well, Oakes,” William Quintrell announced, “I see no purpose in delay. Now the matter's settled you might as well get the lass packed up and on her way. When does the next Jamaica packet sail?”

Phoebe's heart contracted as she glanced at her uncle who would not meet her gaze.
Surely he must know how afraid she was?
Perhaps he did. But he would not jeopardise his final chance of happiness.
And in all fairness, why should he?

George Oakes cleared his throat. “The end of next week.”

Chapter Three

Jowan Crossley drained his glass. The spirit burned his throat, matching his anger. But drinking prevented the escape of words he knew he would regret.

He looked across the table at his father. The remains of dinner had been quietly removed from the polished mahogany leaving only a crystal bowl of tulips and narcissi in the centre. His mother had retired to the drawing room to weep slow silent tears over her embroidery.

“I'm astonished and disappointed in you, Jowan.” Leaning forward in his carver chair at the head of the table, Captain Richard Crossley cradled his brandy in an unsteady hand. “With England at war and Ellis dead –” his voice broke and he stared hard into the glass, swirling the liquid then tossing it down his throat. Jowan saw him shudder and knew his father had not even tasted the fine old spirit. It simply deadened the pain. “Your brother gave his life defending this country from the French. I should have thought honour and a sense of duty might demand
some
kind of response from you.”

“That's hardly fair – “

“I never have and never will understand your refusal to follow family tradition and join the Royal Navy,” his father continued, heedless of Jowan's attempt to reply. “A long established and proud tradition, I may add.”

Jowan clenched his teeth. “I thought I had explained my decision.” He kept his voice even, determined at least to appear calm. “I don't know what other words to use, or how much more plainly I can speak. The reason I have not joined the Navy is because I want to
save
life, not destroy it.” Meeting his father's red-rimmed glittering eyes, Jowan recognised in the purple-brown shadows beneath them too many sleepless nights and aching irreplaceable loss.

“Any man worth the name would be proud to defend his country.” Richard Crossley threw down the words like a challenge.

“As Ellis was,” Jowan nodded. “The Navy was his life, father.”
His life and his death.
“Ellis chose the sea. I chose medicine.”

“You are selfish.”

Aware that his father was reacting to the stress of battle and grief at losing his elder son, Jowan clung grimly to his temper. But he would no longer hold back what needed to be said.

“I'm not Ellis, father. I cannot take his place, no matter how much you might wish it. Yet you are wrong to accuse me of not caring about the war. I qualified as a physician. But I took additional courses in surgery so that I would be able to treat the wounds of men injured in battle. We are both fighting the French, but in different ways. You are trying to take the ships and lives of the enemy's men. I am trying to preserve the lives of ours. Now, if you will excuse me.” Pushing back his chair Jowan started to rise.

“No, I have not finished.”

“With respect, father, there is nothing more to be said.”

“On that subject perhaps.” Richard Crossley made a weary gesture, conceding defeat. “However, there is another matter of equal importance I would raise with you.”

Reluctantly Jowan resumed his seat.

“Ellis –” his father swallowed audibly. “Ellis is – no longer with us. And I will be returning to my ship very soon. The Mediterranean squadron has fought two major actions recently, and no doubt we will face more. Under the circumstances, and as you are now my heir, the question of your marriage –”

Jowan suppressed a sigh. “We have already had this discussion, father. You know my feelings.”

“Yes, but that was before – “

“I'm sorry. I know the Trevaylors are your close friends. And no doubt somewhere out there is a man for whom Celia would be the ideal wife. But it's not me.”

“Why not, for goodness' sake? What could you possibly have against her? She's pretty, and graceful. She has delightful manners, and can play the – “

“Indeed she is all those things. She may even have a brain beneath those copper curls.“ Jowan's impatience spilled over. “But during our few conversations it became painfully clear to me that we share no common interest.” He shrugged helplessly. “How could I love such a – ?”

“Good God!” Richard Crossley's frustration erupted. “What has
love
to do with anything? All that romantic nonsense is no way to choose a life partner. A decision of such magnitude needs solid foundations. Marriage should be based upon mutual respect, compatible backgrounds and suitable financial arrangements. There's time enough
after
the wedding for fondness to grow. That's how it was for your mother and me, and we have been very content."

But have you been
happy?
Jowan knew he could not ask. When his parents were young, marriage was viewed a means of cementing family and political alliances or acquiring property. The only emotion allowed consideration was active dislike. That was the way it had always been, and for many still was. But not for him.

“If you found contentment in such an arrangement then I'm very pleased for you, father. However, though Celia's background and dowry make her eminently eligible, her giggling would try the patience of a saint. I cannot claim that much tolerance.”

“Your flippancy does you no credit,” his father snapped. “It's small wonder the poor girl becomes nervous if that's the way you –”

“Father, believe me, I am as unsuitable for her as she would be for me. But quite apart from the fact that we would make each other utterly miserable, this is not the right time for me to be contemplating marriage.”

“There's none better. With Ellis gone you are now my only child, my only son. Is it so unreasonable that I should wish to see my heir married with sons of his own to continue the family name? Your mother and I had hoped you and Celia might – And I know the Trevaylors too were very favourably disposed – “

Of course they were. Celia had been out in society for two seasons without receiving a single proposal.
Jowan bit his tongue. Nothing would be gained by reminding his father of a fact he already knew.

“However, if the match is so abhorrent to you we will not mention it again. But that is no reason to reject the
concept
of marriage. Why, I can name at least half a dozen young women –”

“No, father. You misunderstand.” Jowan took a deep breath. He had first considered the idea three months ago. And when making enquiries he had been startled at the shortage and desperate need. But then had come news of Ellis's death. His own plans, still secret, had been shelved while he mastered his grief and took care of his mother until his father was able to get home.

But lately it had become all too clear that if he didn't get away soon he might never escape. And if he stayed he would suffocate: his own needs and plans crushed beneath the weight of his father's demands and expectations and his mother's loss.

“It's not
marriage
I'm against, father. It's the timing.”

“For God's sake, boy. Speak plain, can't you? What are you talking about?”

Jowan tightened his jaw, silently self-mocking. He was twenty-six years old. Unmarried and childless he was in theory free to go where he wished and do as he pleased. Ellis, firstborn and dutiful, had been their father's pride and joy. Yet it had been to
him
 – the renegade and disappointment – that both parents had clung during those terrible early days.

Devastated by their loss, isolated by their grief, Richard and Eleanor Crossley had found no comfort in each other. Jowan's training and familiarity with death had enabled him to distance himself emotionally from his father's desperate, white-faced suffering and the sight of his mother curled over in an agony of raw grief unrelieved by choking sobs. Nothing would ever fill the hole left in their lives by Ellis's death. But they would not be able to stop themselves hoping
he
might. It was an impossible responsibility. He had to go.

“I'm leaving Falmouth. I'm going to sea.”

Richard Crossley's jaw dropped. Jowan had never seen his father lost for words. Then a slow smile relaxed the strained haggard face.

“My dear boy,” he slapped the table, his voice choked with emotion. “You don't know how much this means – I never thought – And after all you'd said. I'm so proud of you. Just leave it to me. I'll get you warranted onto – “

“Father, wait,” Jowan interrupted gently, reluctant to spoil his father's pleasure, or shatter this rare moment of accord. But as usual his father had not let him finish, had not asked, had simply
assumed
. “I'm not joining the Navy.”

Richard Crossley's delight faded to frowning bewilderment. “What do you mean, you're not – You just said – “

“I said I'm going to sea: but with the Packet Service, not the Navy. I shall be sailing as surgeon aboard a packet ship.”

The morning after the dinner party Phoebe woke with a start to the sound of Mary's knock. Her night had been restless, her sleep filled with unsettling dreams.

“Well, you kept that some quiet, Miss!” Mary half-scolded as she moved the candleholder, set down a cup of hot chocolate on Phoebe's nightstand, then bustled across to open the curtains.

“Kept what quiet?” Still dazed and disoriented Phoebe pushed herself up on the pillows.

“You, going off to Jamaica to get married. Dear life; gave us some shock when Captain told us. Come in the kitchen himself he did, not an hour ago. What with him and Mrs Bishop going to tie the knot as well, we shan't know ourselves. Like a dog with two tails he is, dear of him. Been some lonely he have since mistress went.” Mary sighed. “Lovely she was. We do still miss her.” She rolled her eyes and gave a knowing nod. “Be some changes now, there will. I'll fetch your hot water.” She bustled out.

Phoebe sipped her chocolate, cradling the cup in both hands as it clattered against her teeth. She understood why her uncle wanted to see her safely settled and her future secured. She thought she understood why William Quintrell considered eminently suitable for life on a plantation and as a wife for his son. But what she did not understand was why a handsome young man who was heir to a wealthy and productive estate would accept as his bride a young woman he had never met. It intimated great faith in his father's judgement. And why not? William Quintrell had started out as a merchant working for his uncle, had increased that business to the point of owning three ships, had then made the transition into ownership of a plantation that he had doubled in size.

And on reflection, was the situation so remarkable? Responsible for such large concern, and with his father now retired to England, what time or opportunity would Rupert Quintrell have for socialising and meeting a potential bride?

By the time she had drunk it all she felt a little stronger and reached for the pencil and notebook on her nightstand. Sitting up in bed, her dark hair in its loose braid falling forward over one shoulder of her white cotton nightgown, she made list of people she must see and jobs to be done before she left.

Her usually neat writing was erratic and spiky as the pencil trembled in her hand. This time yesterday morning she had been unaware of the momentous change planned for her. For an instant and with all her heart she wished she could turn the clock back. Immediately she saw Aunt Sarah clicking her tongue as she frowned.
Now, now, my bird. The good Lord don't give you a burden without He gives you the strength to carry it. So let's have no more foolishness.

Besides, while she had gone about her day's business in blissful ignorance, it had already been discussed and decided. She, the person most concerned, had been the last to find out.But what if cousin Amelia's letter had contained agreement instead of refusal? Would it have made a difference? Probably not. Why should a second season in London have met with any more success than her first? In any case the question was irrelevant. Amelia had refused,
as Uncle George must have expected her to.
Otherwise he would never have finalised arrangements with William Quintrell.

Phoebe's eyes burned. The paper blurred. But she rubbed away the tears before they could fall. Panic still fluttered beneath her ribs. As her mind flew back over the previous evening she relived the shock of rejection. She fought both emotions, struggling to rationalise. Her uncle wasn't being deliberately unkind. He had suffered a terrible loss. Now, after a painful period of mourning he wanted to make a fresh start with a new wife. It was natural they should wish to be alone.

She had known some kind of change was inevitable. And as she was only twenty and still in her uncle's care, it was he who controlled her future. But leaving the house was one thing. Leaving Cornwall and everything that signified home and security –
To have to go to sea –
terror engulfed her. Millions of tiny needles prickled her skin and she gulped air. A wave of heat gathered strength inside her, surged and broke, dewing her with perspiration.

Shutting her eyes she exhaled slowly, deliberately; forcing herself to keep on breathing out even when there seemed to be no more air left in her lungs and her chest began to ache. Only when she could bear it no longer did she allow herself to inhale. As the prickling stopped so did the silent screaming that had filled her head.

Ships left Falmouth every day for destinations all over the world and returned safely. Her uncle and her two cousins had been making such voyages regularly for many years. Just because her mother – It didn't mean that
she
 – Once again Aunt Sarah's words filled her head.
Now, now, my bird…no more foolishness.

It would be all right. She must think of it as an adventure. If Rupert Quintrell's nature were as pleasing as his image then they should get along very well together. She recalled the shiver that had taken her unawares while she was looking at his miniature.
It was simply the result of e
xcitement, or a draught
. His father had spoken highly of him.
But then, a father would.
Refusing even to acknowledge, must less examine, the worm of doubt – for the matter was settled and she must make the best of it – she concentrated fiercely on her list.