Easton's Gold (13 page)

“Oh!” sighs Fleet, sitting down again on the bed. “You will perhaps advise the captain that I have not settled upon a course of treatment as yet.”

“I will, sir,” the man says, again with a bow. He turns and goes to the door.

“Just a moment, please,” Fleet says. The man stops and turns. “Is Captain Henley navigating the ship at the moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And where are we?”

“On the open Atlantic now, sir. We cleared Land's End early this morning.”

“Thank you,” says Fleet.

The young man nods once again and leaves.

Fleet stands and goes over to the opposite wall. He lifts the latch of the barrel to the right.

The daylight streaming in through the gaps in the ceiling is just enough for him to gauge the contents of each jar and sack he lifts. Something tingles deep in his belly at the idea of feeding an aphrodisiac to Gabrielle. He remembers the shape of her arms, both slender and full, and the shape of her full lips. He longs to start afresh, to meet her for the first time with no secrets or hidden schemes. Their intimacy, he knows, is a freak accident. They are like two creatures caught in the same trap, each alien to the other, yet joined in fate.

He roots around and lifts up a jar of kelp then puts it aside. Everything is packed tightly together. This is his contingency barrel, and he had hoped it would not have to be used. It contains every remedy an apothecary might need but each in a small quantity. He picks up a sack and shakes it. Opening the cloth he sniffs the bitter powder of the coco plant, the physic once used by Aztecs and now spreading in England and France. He puts it back. Dried oyster powder, somewhere in the bottom, is the only ingredient he possesses from which a love philtre can be prepared. Even so, he is quite unsure of its efficacy. Physic that can induce love unbeknownst to the taker is not good medicine, and Fleet is merely toying with the idea. He knows he cannot acquiesce to the captain's demands, yet he delights in the theoretical search. He picks up a bag that is half-open and threatening to spill. He looks at the colour—white—and sniffs, but there is no odour. He wets his forefinger with his tongue then touches the powder and tastes: sea salt.

__________

“I
FEEL REMISS AS A HOST
,” says the captain raising his goblet. A thin mist seems to rise from him as he turns from the Marquis to Gabrielle. His skin is the colour of iron in a forge.

“We entirely understand the obligations of a captain, sir,” the Marquis replies, smiling, “and we devote ourselves, like you, to the success of our voyage.” The Marquis now catches Gabrielle's eye as he raises the goblet to his lips; his gaze is kind and affectionate.

Gabrielle feels a great movement in her chest, as though her heart, long missing, has just returned home. This is the first time she has been in the Marquis's presence since they argued. Her universe has been in disarray ever since she left his cabin. Stars have fallen; burning comets have raced across the dark spaces of her soul; she has shed tears; she has spilled secrets to a man about whom she knows next to nothing.

How easy it is for the Marquis to put everything right with one warm half-smile.

“Is he not merely acting like any father?” Fleet said to her in his cabin. And this was the beginning of her reclamation. This is a man's world, after all. Scheming and bartering are the way things are done. It never meant the Marquis did not care for her. Men do not understand the repulsive nature to women of marriage without love. Nor could the Marquis, or any man else, understand how her own secret shame could explode into anger, as it did in his cabin. All that matters now is that he has forgiven her.

The man in the blue tunic comes before her with an individual plate.

“Ah,” says the captain. “For the lady.”

Puzzled, Gabrielle leans back and lets the server place the dish in front of her.

“Am I to eat alone?” she says, looking from the captain to the Marquis then to Fleet, whose fingers move up and down his goblet stem.

“Indeed, but this, my dear, is flesh from that most graceful of birds,” the captain says in a nervous whisper.

Gabrielle looks down upon the white meat in front of her. The server has moved off toward the side table. He returns now to the table with a dish of sliced beef.

“I thought it appropriate,” the captain continues with a cough.

Gabrielle feels her cheeks burn. She watches the Marquis fork a slice of beef onto his plate.

“Is it a riddle, Captain?” she asks finally. The server now goes over to Fleet, who has been avoiding her eyes for some while.

“No, indeed,” says the captain, smiling. “I meant to say it is that most graceful of birds, the swan. We brought three of them on board and slaughtered the first this morning.”

The captain forks a slice of beef onto his own plate. “ I wanted to show my…,” he replaces the fork with a clatter on the serving dish, “my…,” his eyes dart around the table, “my esteem.” He coughs and puts his handkerchief to his lips. When he picks up his knife, Gabrielle sees his hand tremble.

Fleet begins to eat, his eyes steadfast upon his plate. The Marquis looks across at Gabrielle, smiles and nods.

“Try it, Gabrielle,” he says. “There is no taste quite like roasted swan.”

Gabrielle smiles, cuts a piece and raises it to her lips. She feels the concentrated gazes of both the Marquis and the captain upon her

The meat is cool and moist, but there is a curious gritty aftertaste.
It has surely been over-salted
. But she nods and smiles.

“It is delicious,” she says. “Not how I imagined swan to taste.”

“How so?” asks the Marquis.

“It is flavoured more of the ocean than the air.”

“Most curious,” says the Marquis.

Fleet coughs and furrows his brow, as though needing to concentrate while he chews.

The captain turns to the serving man in the blue tunic. “Jute,” he says, “did you make sure the swan was well-bled?”

“Yes, Captain,” says the serving man. “I saw to its preparation personally.”

Jute glances at the table and seems to catch Fleet's eye.

Fleet quickly looks away and takes a gulp of wine.

“Perhaps, my dear,” says the captain, “you are merely unused to the taste. I'm sure it will grow upon you.”

“I'm sure it will,” says Gabrielle, clearing her throat. “May I have some more water?”

The serving man—Jute—immediately turns, lifts a jug from the side table and comes over to Gabrielle, filling her goblet. The surface of the water ripples as Gabrielle raises the goblet to her lips.

The swell is rising.

“How is your treatment going, my lord? Does our young friend here continue to equip himself admirably in the dispensing of remedies.”

“Indeed, sir,” replies the Marquis. “He remains the very prize of his profession.”

Gabrielle watches as Fleet looks up from his plate. There is a sickly, grudging expression on his face.

“We all count on it,” replies the captain, raising his goblet at Fleet. “The doctor is ever the most important man upon any ship. All our plans, sir, all of them are ultimately in your hands.”

He drinks. The Marquis does the same, and Fleet follows suit with a tight smile.

The ship lurches to one side. Wine splatters onto the table like the first spill of a rainstorm. Jute turns and holds onto the cabin wall to secure his footing.

“Looks like we might be in for a little weather tonight,” says the captain, gazing across at Gabrielle and smiling awkwardly. He raises his goblet again and takes a quick second gulp.

“Good seafaring weather, Captain,” says the Marquis. “We can ride waves like these all the way to Newfoundland.”

Henley laughs. “You would no doubt relish cataracts and tornadoes, my good friend, but I prefer nature when she is predictable!”

“I love the storm, Captain,” replies the Marquis, “and the storm loves me. After last night's watch, sir, when you were good enough to let me direct the wheel and the sails, the good Mr. Fleet here told me nothing could have improved my health more than the stern sea breezes.”

“What?” Fleet exclaims, vexed. But the captain doesn't notice.

“I wonder if you will indulge me again, Captain,” the Marquis continues. “You have had so little time to relax, and I long for the smell of salt water and the hiss of sea foam about my feet.”

Henley looks troubled and watches the ripples on the surface of his wine.

“Would you let me take over again tonight?” says the Marquis, smiling. “I'm sure Gabrielle would be delighted to have your company for a full evening.”

Henley glances up at Gabrielle and bites his lip. “It would indeed be delightful. But my men are not used to seeing me so long from the deck. This voyage I have already been much—”

“Ah, you are too modest, Captain Henley!” interrupts the Marquis, laughing. “Your men are already drilled to perfection and defer to you as though you were Neptune himself. You need not worry about them.”

The captain smiles and blushes an even deeper red than usual.

“Well, if Mr. Fleet insists it is good for your health,” says the captain with a glance at the apothecary, “I will certainly stand in nobody's way. You may take over with my blessing whenever you are ready.”

“Good!” says the Marquis, slapping his palms on the table and rising. “That's settled. Will you come with me now, Mr. Fleet, and administer my medicine.”

Fleet rises slowly and bows first to the captain and then to Gabrielle. His dark eyes hold Gabrielle's gaze for a moment longer than natural, and she catches a look of sympathy.

The Marquis has set a trap, Gabrielle realizes as the two men go to the door. Her heart sinks again as she tries to take in the fact that he has once more crossed the dividing line between friend and enemy. She feels as though he is slowly but surely wearing out her loyalty, just as repeated buckling can wear out the strength of iron.
Sooner or later, I may have to give up on him
.

Yet as the cabin door closes, she almost calls out to him as a child might call out for her father.

__________

“W
HAT DID YOU GIVE HER
?” I ask.

The apothecary says nothing at first but merely hands me the medicine cup. I know not to delay while it is frothing, so I take it down in one as usual. My stomach leaps, but I hold my fist over my mouth until I am sure the mixture will stay down. For a few moments I am breathless, and the bitter taste tingles on my tongue. I look up at the young man, who takes the cup from my hand.

“A powder,” he says quietly.

“What's in it?”

“Nothing special. You know my cures. They are commonplace.”

“Will it work?”

He shrugs slightly.

“If she is disposed toward the captain, if it was meant to happen, it will.”

“We both know perfectly well she is not disposed toward the captain,” I say getting up. “So we'll have to try something better.” I make for the panelling and bend down to slide open the section with the strongbox. “What about oysters? I thought they were supposed to help.”

“For men, not for women.”

I pull out the strongbox and feel, not for the first time, an aura of distaste emanating from the young man behind me. I slide in the key until I feel the bump that tells me it is time to turn.

“I should double your wage while you are treating two of us,” I say.

“It doesn't matter to me,” comes the apothecary's answer.

I know he is not lying. Still, I open the lid and count out twenty gold sovereigns rather than ten. I stand up and turn to him. He puts his hand out, but as the gold touches his palm I know for sure things are not as they should be.

I have seen a thousand men react to the feel of gold. I've seen pupils enlarge like shining onyx. I have seen tongues emerge to touch lips already moist. I've seen hands unfurl like timorous young ferns, itching to feel the shining metal. Never have I seen such stone-like indifference as exists now on the face of the young man. His eyes are quite dead.

“Mr. Fleet,” I say. “I need your help with Gabrielle.”

“You said. I am helping.”

“And yet I sense something has changed.”

The young man looks to the carpet and frowns. This is as much feeling as I have ever seen in him, and I feel I have found a key. “Mr. Fleet, I need you on my side. I am crossing a quarter way around the globe to search for a family I lost many years ago.”

I watch the apothecary's face struggle. His lip trembles; his gaze does not dare to lift from the floor. “I can see you too have suffered from family loss. It is easy for an old man to tell. I have brought my household with me because I have no choice. I may never return, and there is no one I can trust to manage my estates.”

I watch moisture form on the ridge of the young man's lower eyelid. I have indeed hit the mark.

“However,” I continue whispering, “I cannot let these people suffer because of my quest, however urgent. My servants must have a chance of returning. Gabrielle is the only one among them who has any chance of a marriage that might at once improve her situation and bring her back to England or France.”

The young man looks up at me suddenly with watering eyes, and I can see his resolve to resist me is gone.

“She may scorn Henley now, Mr. Fleet,” I continue, “but years on the desolate shores of Newfoundland will change her mind. Then, however, it will be too late. That is what I am trying to avoid.”

“Yes,” gasps the young man, “yes, I understand.”

“Is there any other way you can help?”

Fleet shakes his head and puts his palm to his temple. “Maybe. There might be something else.”

“Good,” I say taking hold of his shoulder. “Good man. Try it tomorrow if what you did today doesn't work.”