My Lady Pirate (43 page)

Now, it was too late.

Do it, Maeve.

But even as her heart tried to retreat behind the walls it had hidden behind for seven long years, she knew there was no turning back. She had been affected these last three weeks by watching Gray’s family revel in the love they had for each other. It was time to put the demons behind her, to face the truth.

“I love you, Gray,” she whispered to that magnificent man in the portrait, and indeed, she did. For if her admiral had not taught her about vulnerability, love, courage and trust, she would never have been contemplating what she was about to do.

Head high, the Pirate Queen pushed open the door to the study and saw the sunlight, like a beacon from God, touching nothing in the room but the carved oak desk beneath the window.

She closed the door behind her and walked across the room, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

Around her, the silence pressed.

She looked at the quill pens laid out on the desk. The inkwell. The sheets of blank paper, set there as though awaiting the outpourings of her heart.

Stop delaying.

She picked up a quill, running her fingers over the soft feather. Her heart thundered in her breast. Slowly, she pulled one of the pieces of paper toward her.

Far down the hall the clock chimed the hour, reminding her that time was trickling by,

bringing back memories of her beloved Grandpa Ephraim and the obsession he’d had for

timepieces.

What are you waiting for, Maeve? Do it.

Once again, she picked up the quill in her trembling hand, bit her lip, and began to write . . .

DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

As I write this, the sun is coming up and I am in England. I think you should know I’m
getting married today—

She paused, reading over her words. They seemed cold. Impersonal. With a little sob, she

snatched up the paper, wadded it into a ball, flung it to the floor and tried again.

DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

This is your daughter, Maeve. I know you think I’m dead, but—

No. That was even worse. Frustrated, Maeve crumpled up the letter, shot to her feet, bolted for the door, and paused, her lungs heaving and the tears choking the back of her throat. She stood there, watching the orange sunlight getting stronger, brighter, whiter, hotter. She touched the door and thought of the portrait just outside. She could flee this room and no one would ever know but her; or she could stay and confront her worst fears. She looked back at the desk, the pen lying across that stack of paper, the chair pushed aside and waiting for her to come back to it, and made her decision.

Fisting her hands at her sides, she slowly went back to the desk, sat down, and weeping

quietly, began to write once more.

Dear Daddy and Mama,

I don’t know how to begin a letter, and I especially don’t know how to begin this one. It’s
awfully hard to write a letter of apology after seven years of believing the worst about
somebody, especially when it’s your own family, but I am forcing myself to do it and if this letter
never reaches you at least I will have made a start . . .

She bit her lip, her teeth bringing the blood to the surface as the pen gathered speed and her thoughts began to pour out upon the page . . .

The most singular set of circumstances have occurred in my life to bring about my writing to
you at last, not the least of which is my meeting a wonderful man who has shown me what it
means to love, to trust, and to be willing to take chances. Were it not for him, I would not be
writing this letter; were it not for him, I would still be nursing my anger and bitterness and
broken heart in the Caribbean, where I’ve made my home these past seven years. Now, I realize
that all the time I was nursing
my
broken heart, you were both nursing
yours
. Oh, Daddy, oh,
Mama, how can you ever forgive me? How
can
you . . . ?

The tears were flowing now, uninhibited by barriers of distrust and fear, racing down her cheeks and beginning to spatter upon her wrist. Her arm. The paper on which she wrote. She did not see them. She did not hear the harsh sounds of her own breathing anymore, her sobs, the sound of the dogs barking outside, the thump of feet on the floor of an upstairs bedroom, nor see the sun pulling itself up through the clouds in a magnificent dawn of beauty and glory and hope.

Mama, Daddy, I am so very ashamed of myself, for believing you have turned away from

me. How can I apologize for that belief? I’m crying as I write this; I’m crying for all the lost
years, all the sadness and grief and hurt and pain, the misunderstandings, the fact that I ran
away from home and never came back. I’m crying because I love you, never stopped loving you,
will always love you whether you can find it in your hearts to forgive me or not, crying because
I’m getting married today and—
She paused, her chest heaving in great, convulsing bursts of grief—

and you shall not be here to see it . . .

She pulled back, sobbing wretchedly, and was about to crumple the letter in her fist when a hand closed over her own.

She looked up, the tears streaming down her face and splashing onto the back of that hand.

His
hand. The letter itself, blurred and smudged with her tears of grief.

“Leave it be,” he commanded, quietly.

“I can’t do it, Gray, I can’t send this, it’s stained and they won’t be able to even
read
it—”

“Leave it,”
he said again, softly.

She shot to her feet, her hand still pinned beneath his. “I’m a coward, really I am, I should never even have thought I had the courage to do this—”

“You
do
have the courage, and you have done it.” He moved around to join her behind the desk, taking care not to read what she had written. He made her sit back down in the chair, and kneeling down so that he was on a level with her, looked steadily in her eyes. “Maeve,” he said gently.

She looked up at him, miserable, wretched.

“Leave it be,” he said. “And let the tear stains remain. Nothing else could stand as proof of your love for your family as they can.”

He was right, of course. The admiral was always right. She lunged out of the chair and

hurled herself into his arms, crying bitterly, feeling his hands stroking her hair and soothing her.

He held her for a long time, and then he gently set her back, gazing lovingly into her eyes and thumbing away the wetness upon her cheeks.

Then he stood, tall, dark and splendidly handsome, and gave her an encouraging smile.

“Finish your letter, Maeve,” was all he said, and, turning on his heel, left the room.

###

here, but they won’t come, I know they won’t come, it’s already late, late! And they have not come—”

“Nelson,” she said soothingly, “it’s six o’clock in the morning. Not everyone rises as early as you!”

‘They won’t come, and here I’ve already told Falconer they would, dear God, what if he’s

told
her?
Oh, Emma, I should never have told him, I should never have written that damned letter in the first place, I should never have interfered; this, if nothing else, shall be the death of me, the very death of me!”

He was so distraught he hadn’t shaved, hadn’t even washed his face yet this morning, his

dear, sad, suffering little face that she loved so much. And how could he? How could he, with only one arm?

She took his hand, sat him down in a chair, filled a basin, and lovingly did that intimate task for him, trying to remain cheerful and brave despite the knowledge that he would soon be

leaving her once again to lead the British fleet against the might of Bonaparte’s navy.

“It’s early yet,” she said again, dipping the washcloth in the bowl. She kissed his scarred brow, touched his lid, the eye beneath still bold, still penetrating, despite the fact he could barely see out of it. With love and tenderness, she washed his face, taking care to keep the soapy cloth away from his eyes, touching the lips that were now pinched tight in a perpetual frown of worry and despair. “Besides, the wedding ain’t ’til this afternoon. For all you know, their carriage might’ve broken down, a horse thrown a shoe; why, they might even ’ave got lost!”

‘They said they’d be here
yesterday,
Emma!”

“And so did the girl’s cousins, but
they
’aven’t arrived yet either. And you, of all people, know that Admiral Sir Christian Lord is as true as the shot from a carronade. ’E’ll be ’ere.
They
will be ’ere. Now sit still, would you? All this fidgeting of yours’ll make me slip and get soap in your eye.”

He reached up, caught her hand, pressed it to his lips, and on a resigned breath, murmured,

“Emma, dear, sweet, Emma . . . what would I do without you?”

“You’d get on just fine,” she joked, “for you are Nelson. Now be still—we ’ave much to do before Sir Graham and ’is bride-to-be arrive!”

She laughed, but in her heart were tears and sorrow and misery, for soon he would depart for the
Victory
at Portsmouth, and she had the strangest, most awful feeling that he wasn’t coming back.

###

with a little river affectionately renamed the Nile in honor of its owner’s famous victory, a pond filled with pike, grassy sloping lawns bordered by shrubbery, and a gravel drive that grumbled and crunched beneath the wheels of their carriage as the lathered steeds pulled up before the stone steps.

“Here we are,” Sir Graham said cheerfully, and waited while the footman opened the door.

“Now stop looking so sad, my love. You are getting married today and I shall think you don’t want me after all!”

Maeve nodded, and tried to smile. She had finished the letter to her parents. She had posted it. Several weeks from now, they would be reading it.

Oh, if only she’d written it months ago. If only her family could be here today, on this
happiest, yet saddest, day of her life . . .

The door to the big house opened and a woman rushed across the dewy lawn, the morning

sunlight gilding her voluminous, cream-colored gown. Maeve put her hand on Gray’s sleeve and allowed him to help her out of the carriage.

“Why, what took you so long?” Lady Hamilton grabbed Sir Graham, clasped him in her

arms, kissed him unashamedly and affectionately on the cheek, and, without skipping a beat, turned and embraced Maeve too, her emotions as naked and guileless as were those of Nelson himself. “Come, come, let me look at you, this woman milord has told me was the only one who knew where the French ’ad gone, this woman who’s done so much for our glorious an’ gallant navy! Oh, you’re lovely, beautiful, so exotic, an’ you’re going to make our friend Gray here very ’appy, very ’appy indeed! Are y’ nervous, love? Are y’ scared? ’Ere, let me take your things, and do come inside, we’re just ready to sit down to breakfast and you simply
must
join us!”

Emma’s inelegant and unaffected voice was that of a country woman, loud and bawdy and

full of fun and life. Maeve stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of her personality. This was the woman whose charm and sensuality had won Nelson away from his

cold wife, the woman who had been friend and confidante to the queen of Naples, the woman whose doings, past and present, had the gossipy tongues of all England wagging—the woman

whose portrait hung in Lord Nelson’s cabin, around Lord Nelson’s neck, in every room of Lord Nelson’s kind and generous heart.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hamilton.”

“And it’s a pleasure to meet
you,
an’ please, you must call me Emma! Come, come, we ’ave much to do before the guests start arriving! Really Gray, you’re such a rascal, why didn’t you bring the poor dear yesterday? We ’ad room, you know we ’ad room, and you ’ave always been welcome at Merton!”

Gray merely shrugged, smiling distractedly and gazing at the two women; one tall and slim and honed with muscle, the other effusive and matronly and as stout as a flagship. Both had chestnut hair, both were faultlessly beautiful—and both were sailor’s women, which in the end, of course, assured him they would get along famously.

Emma was shamelessly hugging the very stiff Maeve to her ample bosom. “Come, come,

let’s go inside,” she cried. “Milord ’as told me all about 'ow you saved Sir Graham's life! Such courage! Such valor!” She clapped a hand dramatically to her heart. “No wonder our dear Sir Graham is so taken with you!”

With her two guests on either arm, Emma hustled them back toward the house, chattering all the way and hollering for Nelson. He, just coming around the side of the house, met them on the lawn; at first, Maeve didn’t recognize the admiral, for he was dressed as a civilian, in black gaiters, green breeches, a somber black coat, and a little tricorne hat, to which was attached a small, lime-colored visor to shade his good eye from the sun. He carried a walking stick in his hand, and his melancholy face was a study in anxiety, despair, and, as he saw Gray, relief.

“Gray,” he said, in that severe tone reserved for use by admirals, generals, and the like, “I must talk to you.
Now.
”

“Is there something amiss?”

Nelson jerked his head, indicating the garden, where servants were busily setting up tables and chairs for the afternoon ceremony. “I hope not. Can you come? Oh dear, forgive me, you must have some breakfast first—”

“No, no, that can wait,” Gray said, concerned at Nelson’s obvious distress. He looked at

Maeve, but Emma was already folding her in the circle of her arm and drawing her away.

“Go on, the two of you!” she said, waving her hand. “Perhaps you can reassure our Nelson

that
everything will be fine.
And you, Maeve? Come with me, we ’ave much to do before the guests arrive. . .”