Hot Winds From Bombay (18 page)

She had no way of knowing that the stranger across the pond was sharing similar disturbing feelings or that he had been wondering who she was and why the sight of the woman dressed in black with her face hidden by a heavy veil should cause a painfully pleasant surge in his loins.

When the woman across the pond disappeared, Captain Zachariah Hazzard climbed up into his sleigh and urged the horses toward the Old Post Road, headed back to Boston.

No need to linger here, he thought. The memories were far too disturbing to endure. And Persia was gone—as good as dead to him.

It wasn’t much of a wedding. In fact, it almost wasn’t one at all. But to this very day, those interested in York County history can find it recorded in the old church ledger: “Married this tenth day of November in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred & Forty-six, Miss Persia Whiddington of this village, by proxy, to the Reverend Cyrus Blackwell, Bombay, India.”

Still, at the time, Reverend Osgood took great exception to having a tattooed heathen stand in for his bridegroom and almost refused to perform the ceremony.

“It simply isn’t fitting! The man is more cannibal than Christian!”

“See here, Osgood, that’s no way to talk about my man,” thundered Captain Widdington. “Fletcher will be traveling with my daughter to see her safely to her husband in India, so I find it more than fitting that he should take Brother Blackwell’s place. I demand that you proceed!”

They were gathered in the tiny church office, not the sanctuary where most nuptials were celebrated. The Reverend Mr. Osgood had stood firm in his conviction that Persia’s checkered past precluded any thoughts of allowing her to marry in the usual sight of God. Captain Whiddington tried to kick up a fuss about it, but Persia persuaded him to be still. There was more than ample space in the church office, the bride pointed out, to accommodate the wedding party—herself, the preacher, Fletcher, and her father. Europa had been notified, but purposely not in time for her to arrive for the ceremony. She would be coming in on tomorrow’s stage from Portland. Besides, holding the wedding in the church would have only pointed up the fact that no guests were in attendance.

The whole town was in a furor over Persia’s marriage to Cyrus Blackwell. If Persia thought she had been gossiped about before, that was nothing compared to the wagging of tongues now. Still, it would have been worse had she planned to journey all the way to India unwed. That would have been a scandal to end all. But at this point she could endure whatever was whispered about her. It wouldn’t last much longer. Soon she would be on her way, leaving her old life, her old name, and her old enemies far behind.

Right now, she just wanted to be done with it. Ever since the meeting with Reverend Osgood a few days before, her mind had been straying in odd directions. Years ago she’d given up all hope of ever seeing Zachariah Hazzard again, or so she’d thought. But these past few nights she’d lain awake, dreading sleep and the dreams it brought. He came to her in these dreams—bold, naked, and ready to bed her—forcing her to relive every intimate detail of the time they had shared so long ago. The visions of him gave her an eerie, unsettled feeling. It almost seemed as if Zack had been far, far away for a long time, but was on his way back even now. She could almost sense him drawing nearer. That was ridiculous, of course. Why, after all these years, would he suddenly decide to drop back into her life?

It was probably just the idea of marrying a man she didn’t know that had her emotions in such a turmoil. After all, this was a big step. And her only other brush with wedlock had been with Zack. She was sure that was all it amounted to. Still…

Reverend Osgood was clearing his throat, bringing Persia’s thoughts back to the business at hand.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the sight of God, to join this man and this woman…”

Persia barely heard the words. She was conscious of the stiffness of her horsehair petticoats against the dark taffeta of her skirt, the creaking of whalebone as she breathed, the spreading coldness in her heart. It was almost as if she were closing a door on something… or someone.

“In the name of His Most Holy Lordship, the Reverend Mr. Cyrus Blackwell,” Fletcher intoned importantly, “I do.”

In spite of her agitation, Persia made the required responses to the proper questions. She had spoken these same phrases in her mind a thousand times. But somehow they now sounded odd to her ears. She didn’t feel like a bride. She felt strangely removed from the whole scene, as if she were floating somewhere overhead, watching and listening to strangers.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the—” Reverend Osgood looked stricken suddenly as he gazed up into the blue patterns of Fletcher’s face. He cleared his throat, trying to cover his slip. “No, I don’t suppose you’d better.”

Out of pure spite, and appreciation, too, Persia reached up and gave her father’s servant a peck on the cheek. Fletcher smiled. The minister bristled.

“Well, I suppose that takes care of it,” Asa Whiddington said.

Persia stared down at her left hand and the gold band encircling her finger. It had been her mother’s wedding ring. It felt tight and heavy, as if it didn’t belong there. She was tempted to remove it, but that would only create more gossip. She let her hand drop.

“Can we go home now, Father?”

“By all means, Mrs. Blackwell.” The captain grinned at her, but his eyes looked pained when he spoke her new name.

Persia Whiddington Blackwell’s wedding night was not as she had imagined it would be. Following a light, silent supper shared with her father, she excused herself and went to bed. She had eaten little, but the emptiness she felt deep inside had nothing to do with her slight appetite. She longed for something else far more than she craved food.

Slowly, she undid the buttons on her black wedding dress. The somber fabric reflected her mood, and threatening tears stung the insides of her eyelids.

She tried to imagine what her wedding night would be like if her husband were here with her. Would he be gentle and patient, taking her mistakenly for a virgin? Would he find her disgusting and hate her once he discovered she was not pure? Or would the holy missionary simply spend their first night together praying over her, asking God to make her worthy of their mission?

“No!” she gasped. “Please, God, not that!” The tears she had been holding back flooded her eyes as she realized for the first time that it wasn’t merely a husband she needed, but a husband’s love.

On sudden impulse, she went to her bureau and rummaged through the bottom drawer. Buried deep down beneath a pile of shawls and blouses that needed mending, she found what she was looking for. She caressed the fine white fabric lovingly. This was the first time she had set eyes on it since she’d hurriedly packed it away on another tearful night almost ten years before.

Dare I? she wondered.

She drew out the gown and placed it to her cheek. The feel of the soft linen against her skin brought back a rush of memories. Her heart swelled with emotion. Her hands trembled.

Quickly, she shed her underthings and slipped into the gown—the same one she had worn that night in Boston with Zack. She could still remember the thrill that had coursed through her as his fingers had fumbled at the ties in their urgent haste to find her breasts only moments before he’d left her that long-ago morning. But, oh, how precious those few moments had been!

This was the purest kind of folly. She was only inviting unhappiness. But she couldn’t help herself. This was her wedding night! She would wear the gown her mother had made for the occasion.

Slipping between the cool sheets, Persia felt almost wicked. Zack’s hands had touched this gown, and then they had touched her. She closed her eyes, remembering. All the need and love and passion came flooding back to drown her senses. Her tears flowed freely.

In her mind, she saw his face, his body—throbbing its need for her. She remembered how she’d caught her breath in that wonderful, terrifying moment when his weight had sagged the bed. She could still feel the shock of his first touch, the urgency of his kisses. She twisted in her bed now, moaning softly, aching through and through.

She tried to recapture the memory of his first thrust. But all she could remember was that following the sharp stab of pain, she’d felt filled and whole and infinitely loved. After that had come such sheer ecstasy that there was no way for her mind to recreate it. She would recognize the feeling, if ever she was lucky enough to experience it again. But for now the memory of that magic moment eluded her.

She hugged herself, trying to imagine that Zack was there with her—holding her, kissing her, possessing her totally. But it was no use.

Suddenly, a great sadness swept over her. She realized in that instant that this was the end of it. All these years, she had waited and hoped. She had always believed deep down that she would find Zack again. But now, she had killed whatever glimmer of hope still existed. She had severed the final bond between them by sealing her marriage to Cyrus Blackwell.

In a moment of perfect anguish, she tore the linen gown from her body and tossed it furiously across the room, then collapsed on the bed, sobbing in utter torment. She cried most of the night away. And before sleep from exhaustion finally overtook her, she experienced a hopelessness, and emptiness, a bitterness toward life like none she had ever known before.

“Honestly, Father! I simply don’t know what to say!
Married?
How could you have condoned such an impetuous action?”

Europa Whiddington Holloway—still pretty, but plumped out considerably by having borne six sons in nine years—stood in the entranceway of her childhood home, hands on her hips and her cheeks bright red from more than the cold wind outside. She had just arrived; Seton and Fletcher were still hauling bags inside from the pung, but already her tirade was under way.

“I’ve begged you and begged you to send her to Portland,” Europa continued. “I could have found
someone
for her there. No one in Cumberland County knows about her indiscretions. But to permit her to marry a stranger!” Europa gave a little snort of indignation. “Mother would never have allowed this to happen!”

“It’s not Father who got married yesterday, Europa. If you have something on your mind, please address me directly,” Persia said, coming down the stairs.

Europa huffed in exasperation. “I don’t see any use in talking to
you\
Obviously you’ve misplaced whatever wits you once had.
Married
!” she repeated.

“Yes, married, sister, the same as you.” Persia was determined not to be bullied by Europa. She’d had enough bullying from her own memories the night before.

“Well, I’d hardly say that your marriage to this… this
missionary
is the same as mine to dear Seton.”

“Perhaps not at the moment, but give me a few months. I’m sure I’ll soon be carrying my first son, just as you were immediately following your wedding.”

“Persia Whiddington!”

“The name is
Blackwell
now, Europa.” It still felt queer on her tongue, but Persia didn’t let that show. “Please try to remember it.”

“Girls, girls!” interrupted their father. “Must you lock horns the moment you set eyes on each other? Really, Europa, your sister’s marriage is quite legal and official. And she will be sailing for Bombay on the
Madagascar
in a few days to join her new husband.”

Europa’s hand flew to her trembling lips. She looked as if she might faint at any moment. “You can’t mean it! She’ll be traveling
alonel
This so-called
husband
of hers is allowing her to journey halfway around the world all by herself? Why, Father, that’s the most indecent thing I’ve ever heard in my life! What will people say?”

“I won’t be traveling alone. Fletcher is escorting me.”

Europa cut her eyes in a quick glance at the manservant, and the rest of the blood drained from her face. “Fletcher is
hardly
a suitable companion for a lady!”

Persia smiled smugly in spite of herself. She knew that her next statement would silence her sister one way or another. “I don’t really need any companion, actually, since I’ll be sailing as a part of the ship’s company. You see, Father’s offered me the position of supercargo and I’ve accepted the job.”

Seton Holloway came through the front door with the last of the baggage just in time to catch his wife as she fainted.

“My word!” he exclaimed. “Did I miss something?”

Europa’s husband might have missed the first scene in the drama, but he got to see and hear it replayed almost hourly. His wife refused to let the matter rest, even though she knew there was nothing she could do to change things.

Finally, on a fine snowy morning after a particularly heated contest over breakfast, Persia stormed out of the house. Seton, always the peacemaker, ran after her.

“Wait, Persia,” he called.

She slowed her angry strides, kicking at clumps of snow on the path while giving him time to catch up.

“Will it help any if I apologize?” he offered.

Immediately, some of the anger left her. “Oh, Seton, you have nothing to apologize for. She just gets me so riled up that I have to get away from her or I’m afraid I’ll start pulling her hair like I used to do when we were children.”

“Maybe she could use some hair pulling from time to time. I’m afraid I’m too easygoing to keep her in hand.” He offered his sister-in-law a sheepish grin. “I can’t help it. I love her.”

Persia patted his arm. “Of course you do, Seton. I do, too. I have to admit, though, that I’m awfully glad you moved her off to another county and tied her down with all those babies. I’m afraid neither Father nor I would have survived her maternal bent after we lost Mother.”

Seton lowered his head and kicked at a clump of snow in imitation of Persia’s earlier actions. His voice dropped. “That was a sad time for all of us, in more ways than one.”

She sighed. “It was that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to bring up old memories.”