Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (86 page)

As if conceding defeat now that we were in sight of familiar land, the winds relented in their effort to impede us as we sailed along the southern shore of the island; and at last we were able to make good time in the final leg of our journey. However, since we had spent so much time reaching our destination, Captain Norman warned us that he wished to sail quickly after our arrival, and those of us with business ashore should best tend to it within a day. I had rather gotten used to attending to business in Port Royal quickly. It always seemed to be the way of it. I knew not what I would do if I were ever to spend more than a week in the place.

We finally anchored in the Chocolata Hole, on an evening late in April.

Pete, Gaston, and I made our way directly to our house. We were greeted warmly by the dogs – once they got a good whiff of us – but little else. We walked in and looked about. The front room had new furniture: a nicely-carved sideboard, some graceful chairs, and a set of shelves.

However, by the look of the legs, the table gracing the center of the room appeared to be the old dining piece we knew well, though it was now covered by a fine cloth and a crystal vase with fresh flowers. Theodore’s old desk, which Bella had used as a den, had also been moved back into the front room and placed against the wall. It was filled with neat stacks of papers.

The back room had been converted into a sleeping chamber behind a clever screened wall. There was a cot, with stacks upon stacks of books about it. I was minded of Rucker’s room at his sister’s, and realized that this must be where he now lived.

We glanced at the small servant’s room at the back of the house, and surmised Agnes still inhabited it, unless they had let it to some other artist. Then we made our way upstairs and discovered that one room was occupied by a woman, presumably Sarah, and the other by a man, presumably my Uncle. I was pleased to see they had settled in here. I was not pleased to see that my uncle was sleeping in a great bed wrapped all about by heavy hangings, as if he sought to ward off the chill of an English winter. Sarah’s bed was thankfully hung with fine netting to keep the bugs at bay but not the breeze.

I wondered if my Damn Wife still lived in the King’s House. Surely there had not been enough time to complete the dwelling planned for her. “Your uncle has been ill,” Gaston said from that doorway with a wrinkled nose and a grimace.

I looked again at the room. I was relieved to see that he did not appear to be dead: his things were not packed away. Upon closer inspection, I could smell what Gaston had, a certain sickly odor lying beneath a nearly viscous stench of vile excrement. I thought it likely he had contracted the flux. I opened the shutters to let the air flow through and whisk some of it away. I thought the bedding should most likely be burned, though. I doubted it could be cleaned sufficiently to ever seem fresh again.

I stuck my nose in Sarah’s room and sniffed. It smelled fine.

When I turned, I found Pete behind me. He frowned at me and then peered into the room.

“We feel my uncle is or has been ill, but Sarah has not,” I said.

The hard lines that had been drawn on his face relaxed somewhat, and he appeared relieved.

I left him standing in the doorway and joined Gaston downstairs.

“There is a fire banked in the cookhouse,” he said.

“So they are out but briefly, perhaps,” I noted.

I sat in a comfortably-stuffed chair in the back room and petted a curious dog. Our puppies had continued to grow tremendously; and now, though they were still less than six months of age, they were larger than my father’s hunting dogs.

Gaston settled to the floor, and Bella came to greet him with greater thoroughness than she had shown at the door.

Peering around her huge head, he frowned at Rucker’s things. “Was not the other fool to guard your sister?”

“Ashland? Oui, he was,” I said as I too peered about.

We had seen no evidence of where he would be sleeping if he were living here.

“Damn him,” I muttered. “I wonder if he has left her.”

The front door opened, and the dogs rushed off in greeting.

“Who is here?” Sarah’s voice called firmly.

“Your brother,” I said.

She was in the room and flinging herself upon me before I could stand.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Well enough, no wounds,” I said. “We brought you…”

She pulled away and looked about. “Where is…?”

“’ENa’ Be’Ere,” Pete said from the base of the stairs.

“Why?” Sarah gasped. “Is he…?”

“’ENa’ Be Dead.”

She frowned with consternation. “Is he well?”

“He was quite hale when we sailed here,” I said quickly. “He sent us.

He is a captain. He could not come away.”

“Oh,” she said with great disappointment. “I see.”

“The first town we raided did not yield much,” I said to fill the silence that followed. “And now the fleet is careening and preparing for another target. We came to see to any business here. We will sail the morning after next to meet up with them again.”

“So soon,” she sighed, and gave me a wan smile. “And then how long?”

“Months,” I sighed.

She nodded sadly. Then she smoothed her skirt and tried to compose herself. “Well, it is good you are all well. Gaston, Pete, I am pleased to see you. We will do what we can for you as guests in your own home. As you can see, we are somewhat tight on accommodations.”

Beyond Pete, Agnes stood carrying a wrapped parcel. She nodded at all of us. I was pleased to see she was well.

“We see that.” I said. “I assume that our Uncle and Mister Rucker reside here. What of Ashland?”

Sarah sighed heavily. “He died of the flux. Uncle nearly went with him.”

“We… smelled that,” I said.

She groaned. “He will not listen to me about any of the instructions you left regarding water or sleeping with adequate breezes. He says it is all nonsense.” She gave a grim and somewhat sarcastic smile. “We have been well and he has not, though. And Ashland also called it poppycock, and look where that left him.”

“Where are our uncle and Rucker?” I asked.

“Uncle Cedric is at Ithaca, and Rucker is who-knows-where,” she said with a dismissive wave. “One makes the habit of going visiting planters, the other makes a habit of strolling off and sometimes getting invited here or there for dinner, and sometimes neither of them return home for days; and when they do, they are full of tales of some new acquaintance they have befriended. I swear between the two of them they shall know the life of every man in town before long.”

“You are left here alone?” Gaston asked with a touch of the ire I was feeling. Of course, we had left her alone, too.

She sighed and nodded. “It is not quite a matter, yet. There have been letters, not only from Father, who cannot be trusted, but from others we can trust. Shane will not be traveling here this year, if at all.

He is disfigured and can barely walk.”

“The Damn Cousin is not the only danger,” Gaston said.

Sarah pulled her pistol from a slit in her skirts. I saw that she had ingeniously suspended it from a lanyard to hang at her side. I had not realized she had it, and I had embraced her.

“Agnes and I practice quite a bit,” she said. “We carry daggers, too.”

“We have a roast ham,” Agnes said, “if you are all hungry.”

“Is there enough?” I asked.

“We buy for four people, with the scraps going to the dogs,” Sarah said with a sigh. “It will serve a small army.”

She led us into the front room and went to the sideboard for plates.

“I have letters I have written for my husband,” she said. “I did not know if I would be able to send them, but… Well, at least the letter I write tonight will not need to be as long.”

“’Ere,” Pete said, and thrust a sealed missive at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and regarded it with trepidation.

“Go on and read it,” I urged. “We can see to ourselves.”

Agnes nodded enthusiastically and shooed her from the room. Sarah retreated upstairs with the letter.

“We should wash up,” I suggested, and led Gaston and Pete to the cistern.

I looked to Pete. I had not known Striker sent a letter, but I had guessed it. I wished I knew what it said before she read it.

Pete washed his hands diligently and made great work of smoothing the golden stubble upon his scalp. He grimaced as he rubbed his hand over his jaw. He usually kept his beard short and his lip shaved, but he had been lax these last few weeks.

“We should all shave,” I said casually.

He nodded but would not look at me.

We groomed and donned clean tunics, even Pete, and returned inside. Agnes had laid out the table quite nicely, complete with mugs of watered coconut milk. In addition to the ham, we were to have pineapple and cheesecake.

Pete’s eyes went wide at the food, and he sat gingerly at the head of the table before looking about as if anyone would challenge his choice of seats. As was our habitual inclination, Gaston and I sat beside one another with our backs to the wall so we could watch the doors.

Sarah had not returned downstairs yet; or if she had, she had since withdrawn again. Or perhaps, my vivid imagination suggested, she had slipped out of the house to escape down the street while we washed.

Agnes was playing quite the part if she had, though; the girl kept looking toward the stairs with concern.

We were nearly done eating when Sarah at last joined us. She had been crying. She paused upon sight of us at the table, and then without meeting any gaze, made her way to the opposite end from Pete and sat.

Pete did not appear to wish to look at her, either, as she filled her plate. I wondered if he knew all the letter had said.

He stood abruptly and went to his bag to retrieve a familiar oilcloth-wrapped object.

“We Got This,” he said, and presented it to Sarah.

He did not return to his seat, but stood there, looming over her.

She opened the parcel carefully and pulled the golden Indian plate from the cloth.

“Oh,” she said with sincere appreciation. “Rucker has books with crude renderings of this design. It is said to be a calendar. It is lovely, if a little vulgar. The craftsmanship is extraordinary.” She turned it over in her hands and examined the hooks on the back. “We will have to find a suitable place to hang it.”

“That much gold in Port Royal, “Agnes said. “We had best not hang it close to the door.”

Sarah was looking up at Pete expectantly. The Golden One seemed reluctantly pleased, and I knew she had passed a test.

“Pete was quite taken with that plate,” I said. “He convinced Striker to use all of his shares as captain to obtain it when the booty was shared out.”

Pete grinned. “’EThinks It Be Ugly.”

“Well,” Sarah said quietly with a small smile. “That is unfortunate, since I feel it should hang in the bedroom…” She paused, and looked up at Pete again with trepidation. “That is, if you will have it there. Since it will be… our bedroom too… and…”

“Aye,” he said gruffly.

She flinched and he appeared apologetic.

He glared at us and I realized what we must do. Thankfully, Gaston had the same good sense about the matter and we stood as one. We pulled Agnes from the room a moment later.

“It is good that we did not appear to be needed after all,” I said in French as we reached the yard.

Gaston snorted. “Oui.” He looked as if we had just narrowly avoided a harrowing battle.

“Lord... Sir, what is happening?” Agnes asked in English.

“As Striker and Pete were matelots,” I said carefully, “and it is sometimes the custom for buccaneers to share a wife, my sister offered to take Pete as husband. Pete has decided to take her up on her offer.”

Agnes turned back to the house, but stood there tautly, her body a bow unfired; and I keenly felt her need to return.

“How have you been?” I asked. “Have any of the things you ordered from England arrived?”

She fidgeted from one foot to the other at the change of subject, but she did turn back to me.

“I have been well, I suppose,” she sighed. “With no servants, we have had much to do every day.”

I sighed at this. It was a matter that would have to be remedied. My sister could not be seen as a scullery maid by the planters’ wives.

“And, no,” Agnes continued, “the lenses and such have not arrived yet, but the apothecary was able to provide me with paint. So I have been painting.” At this last, her mien brightened considerably. “If we can sneak into my room, I could show you. Would you like to see?”

We professed our interest, and Gaston slipped to the back door to listen. Then he stepped inside. When he returned to our view, he waved us over.

“They have gone up,” he said, as we passed him in the doorway.

Agnes picked up a candle from the back room and remarked, “We will need another chair or two.”

In the dim candlelight I could see enough not to trip as I stepped down into her room. It contained a chair, a large trunk, a shallow desk, several shelves, and a cloth-draped easel. There was a hammock hung in the corner. I silently applauded her not trying to fit a bed into the cramped space, which was truly nothing more than a low shed attached to the back of the house. My head brushed the ceiling.

Gaston brought a chair from the front room. I did not see where we could fit another in with his and hers.

“You will need to have a proper room in the new house,” I remarked as I sat on the trunk.

“There is a room for me,” she said with a smile. “With a large window on the outside and louvered doors on the inside facing the courtyard. Or at least there will be. The land has been acquired, but the men who will build it are working on your house now.”

“My Damn Wife’s house,” I corrected.

She grinned and continued lighting a lamp.

“I do not paint in here,” she said.

As there was only one small window, I could see why.

The small space was soon filled with light. The desk was covered with paint pots, brushes, charcoals and the like. She had tacked her sketches up on all of the walls. The shelves were filled with paintings.