The Bride of Blackbeard (22 page)

“You were not jesting about your station,
were you?” Lucian said darkly.

Abernathy didn’t reply. He remained silent
the whole way up the stairs to the sleeping rooms.

“I am across the hall, in case of any
disturbances. Just give a holler.”

Sometime later, Abernathy was just entering
a dream—a wonderful dream about his home when he heard shuffling
and a commotion outside his door.

Opening it a crack, Abe peered out into the
hallway. A lady of the evening appeared to be attempting entry into
Lucian’s room.

Lucian was closing the door as gently as
possible, saying, “Please, ma’am, there is some misunderstanding, I
made no inquiry as to a visitor to my room.”

As soon as Abernathy sensed the danger, it
was too late. A pistol flashed out from under the woman's shift and
she pointed it at Lucian's chest. Abe sprang across the hall, but
Lucian managed to redirect the shot from his heart to his arm.
Lucian was shirtless and Abernathy watched in horror as blood
spurted from the gunshot wound.

Abernathy restrained the woman. “Help!
Someone call a doctor!”

~ * ~

Lucian had been gone only a few days, but it
seemed like an eternity to Stanzy. It was amazing how she hadn’t
realized the extent to which he had colored her life. A note lay
open on the cottage table. She’d just returned from checking on
another of the ill slaves, when she sat to read it.

It was in Sarah Hopkins’ hand:

“Constanza.

“Your presence is formally requested tonight
at the Manor to dine at five in the evening. We are expecting
guests and Ian insists that you attend. Wear your best.

“Mrs. Hopkins”

The absolute last thing I wish to do is
feign politeness and sit in a room with a bunch of tittering women
who wouldn’t know substance if it introduced itself to
them
.

Knowing that refusal was useless, she
relented to the task of making herself presentable.

As she walked slowly toward the main house,
she felt like she was being led to slaughter instead of a party. On
approaching the porch, she noticed one of the men arch an eyebrow
when he saw her. Looking down at her dress, she flattened it
self-consciously. Did men actually find her attractive?

Maybe I will wave to him with my left hand,
and watch his expression change.

The party consisted of three women and three
men, all of whom were equally vapid. Their names escaped her,
though they had been introduced only moments before. Her brain was
fixated on Lucian.

All sat to dine, and her face flushed so
violently she thought she might faint when none other than Edward
Teache slid into the empty chair next to her. Everyone in the room
greeted him as if he were a long, lost brother. Her stomach churned
to see every female eyelash in the room bat at him.

He, however, didn’t take his eyes from her.
“Allo, Constanza! How are you? I bring greetings from Bath.”

After his hand
accidentally
brushed
hers for the fifth time, it became apparent he was trying to touch
her in any way possible, and it made her skin crawl. It became
increasingly difficult with each passing second not to scream and
run from the table. She quit speaking after about five minutes, not
trusting what might burst forth from her mouth.

After dinner the men retired to the drawing
room for brandy, and the ladies for tea in the sitting room.

Stanzy excused herself. In the hallway she
leaned against the wall, willing it to hold her up. She cracked
open the front door and deeply breathed in fresh air.

“I think the salt air would be preferable to
the smell of manure,” said a deep voice from down the hall.

The shadows hid his face, but she knew it
was him. It was glaringly obvious he’d been waiting for her to
leave the company of the women to confront her.

He ambled up beside her, cockily propping
his arm against the wall and peering down into her face. “I have
something for you.”

For one wild moment, when he reached into
his coat pocket, she was certain it would be a pistol. But no—he
extracted a tiny silver box and opened it for her to see what was
inside.

Stanzy had never seen a piece so beautiful.
The ring was encrusted with every jewel she’d ever seen and some
she hadn’t. Plucking it from the box, he held it up to the light,
the flickering candlelight making colored prisms dance around the
entryway.

“I wanted to be sure that you had not
changed your mind, and wanted to ask you to reconsider being my
bride.”

What a clod!
She wanted to scream at
him and pummel that bloody barrel chest with her fists—but he was
huge and could snap her like a hollow reed, if so inclined.

“I thought your heart belonged to my sister,
Katrina? She has told me that you have asked for her hand.”

He looked straight in her eyes. “She is just
a substitute for you, Constanza. But you know that already, don’t
you? Never met a woman as shrewd as you before.”

She dropped her eyes, her brain frantically
weighing all of her options. “You know I am already married.” She
held up her ring for him to see, its tiny stone glimmered
faintly.

“To a man who would so easily cast you aside
for another woman? Like a common whore?”

“How dare you! You do not fool me. You may
fool my sister, because she is young and was born foolish, but I
see you for what you really are. And even if my husband did lay
with another woman, he is still a greater man than you could ever
hope to be!”

Half expecting to feel a lead ball in her
back, she turned and, head held high, strode straight out the front
door. When it didn’t come she bolted full force toward her
cottage.

~ * ~

Stanzy sat at the hearth in the cottage by
the fire. Unable to sleep, she held the musket on her lap.

Ben and Will were in bed, sound asleep.
After she was sure all of the guests had departed from the manor,
she’d checked on Megan. Satisfied she was all right, she’d returned
to the cottage. Megan hadn’t protested being taken to the manor
instead of the cottage—probably anywhere was better than the
asylum.

Comforted everyone was in bed safe, yet
tonight it felt tainted, like the taste of cider in your mouth
right before it turns rancid. She shot up and paced back and forth.
At this rate she would wear a hole in the floor by year’s end. She
felt if she had to stay in the house tonight she would go mad.
Hastily, she scribbled a note so, if the boys awoke, they would
know where she’d gone. She propped it against the bowl sitting in
the middle of the table.

Angry at herself was an understatement.
Never had she permitted someone to see inside her mind, making her
thoughts vulnerable,
even admitting she could be
vulnerable.

Pilot protested at being taken out in the
dark, but she saddled him anyway. She rode him through the fields,
where Lucian toiled every day with the slaves he considered and
treated as brothers.

She rode past the manor to the stone wall
surrounding all the acres, and began to trace her way along it. She
had to sort out her feelings.

Do I still love him?

Unfortunately, yes.

She thought of Aunt Rose, and the way she
spoke of him. A forthright woman, very much like herself.
Reflectively, she considered what she would say to a woman if
Stanzy knew Will were being unfaithful. No question in her mind,
without hesitation she would tell the woman and give Will a
what
for
. Stanzy would let him know in no uncertain terms she’d
raised him better than that.

For the better part of an hour she rode,
coming to the conclusion that Rose most likely would have done the
same for her. Now she’d misjudged him, possibly undermining their
relationship in her lack of ability to trust him.

When she saw the sun rising in the east, she
knew her responsibilities would not wait. Self-indulgently
permitting herself a dream, Stanzy wondered what it would be like
to refuse to take the correct and proper course, and just return
home and stay in bed all day.

As she came up the lane to home, the mail
rider approached. One letter was addressed to her. She ripped open
the envelope so quickly, she tore part of the letter off in her
haste.

“Dear Mrs. Blackwell,

“I am writing on behalf of your husband,
Lucian, whom I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of
in Nags Head. There has been an accident and your presence is
requested...”

~ * ~

Stanzy couldn’t believe it. She checked out
the covered coach window again, trying to assess how much farther
it was to Nags Head. Her stomach reeled with anxiety and on several
occasions, she had to talk herself through not forcibly removing
one of the team horses and riding it bareback to speed up the
trip.

During the night she’d obsessed over the
whole situation—cried, gotten angry, cried again. Now, she was just
plain anxious. How could she have thought Lucian would do such a
thing? He was the most openly honest man she’d ever encountered.
The more she thought of it, Lucian would have admitted committing
adultery before trying to deceive her.

The coach pulled up at the SeaWard Inn, and
she practically bolted from the carriage, not waiting for the
driver to help her out
.

Why start being conventional now?

“Just leave my bags in the lobby!” she
yelled over her shoulder to him. She could barely breathe as she
bounded to the top of the stairs. A gentleman she guessed to be in
his late forties stood waiting for her.

“Constanza Smythe?”

“Blackwell, sir.”

“Well, it is a good sign you are still
acknowledging you've taken my last name…” issued a voice from
behind a partially closed door.

“Lucian?” She tore into the room and flung
herself about his neck, where he lay supine on a cot.

“Are you all right?” Immediately she started
to unwind the bandages covering his gunshot wound.

“They just dressed it!” He grabbed her face
with his hand and kissed her hard.

She broke his hold to regard him, her eyes
glistening, and she realized his were too. Each acted as stubborn
as the other and refused to speak first.

She capitulated, her voice barely a whisper.
“It wasn’t yours, was it?”

He met her eyes and shook his head.

“I think I always knew that.”

~ Chapter Thirteen ~

The sun was just a sliver in the east as
Stanzy made her way across the plantation. She pulled her wrap
tighter, the weather having turned colder by the day. Oh, it would
be wonderful to experience a few days of peace, but she was sure
that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. It seemed she was only permitted
precious few weeks out of the year where she could be happy. Since
Lucian’s near death experience with the whore, she awoke each
morning with unbidden anxiety.

Although you would never know anything
happened to look at Lucian. He is all kindness and joy. Unlike
me.

Lucian’s arm was healing well, and he often
refused her attempts to tend to it, reiterating, “It's fine, leave
it.”

Bess waited for her on the porch of the
slave quarters and shuffled her inside, shutting the door behind
them.

“Who is ill, Bess?”

“It is Stephen, the fool. I am not gonna lie
to you, Miss Constanza. That boy is always getting into the hidden
storehouses of rum at the main house. He is drunk as a skunk, as
well as ill. He is over there on the cot by the fire.”

Stanzy hurried over, knelt beside the cot
and proceeded to examine him. She gagged from the strong stench of
rum. His hands shook involuntarily and drool seeped from the side
of his mouth in a thick, white foam.

“Stephen. Stephen, answer me. Look at
me.”

The young slave made no indication he’d
heard her speak. His eyes slit briefly, revealing the whites before
rolling back into his skull once again. His body shook more
violently, setting the cot to banging off the floor.

“Does he drink often?”

“Yes, he does. Most every day he can be seen
sneakin’ somethin’ or other.”

“It is probably
alcohol
palsy. We saw it frequently in Bristol
.”

“What?”

“It is a drinking disease, Bess.”

She proceeded to tell Bess the ingredients
she would need for the herbal concoction she’d prepared so many
times in the past—cayenne, chili powder, cinnamon and sugar.
Relating to Bess how to prepare it, she then told her to have
Stephen drink it daily and, of course, stay away from the rum.

Sadly, she remembered the first time her
mother had taught her how to brew it for her father—she’d been only
seven years old. A mere whiff of it brought to mind her father’s
face... and fist.

As Constanza left the quarters, she noted
the roof. Moss grew everywhere, except running down the center was
a peculiar sight—a stark line with no moss. As if God's finger had
drawn an Almighty singular stroke. She made a mental note to
consult her walking, talking seasonal almanac as to what could
cause such a phenomenon.

~ * ~

Abernathy Hornigold's wits were trying to
pour out his ears. His strict puritan upbringing to control his
emotions wrestled with his righteous indignation as he slowly
unraveled the life of one Edward Teache.

A man of principle himself, a family man
with six children and one devoted wife, the more this plot unwound
before him, the more his hatred for Teache grew exponentially.

He knew to expose himself now would likely
find him a court-marshal and no effective way to support his
substantial brood of children, but emotions he usually held tightly
in check were boiling at the top of his searing mind. After seeing
the Blackwells off, he’d returned to his post.