Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (14 page)

“He did not know you were leaving?” Gaston asked with sincere curiosity.

“Non. He wished for me to accompany him to Spain and then Panama. I did not wish to spend the rest of my life posing as his manservant.”

“Why would he even ask such a thing?” Gaston snapped.

“Non, non.” I smiled at him. “I am ill using his intent. In the end, he offered to go elsewhere with me. But for us to remain together, one or the other would have had to sacrifice a great deal. And as I have explained several times over, I did not love him as I love you.”

He took the letter and smoothed it flat and slid it back before me.

“Please,” he said solemnly. “Now I am curious.”

I could refuse him nothing. I read Alonso’s letter.

It started angry. He had woken to find me gone, without even a note. He had been incensed that I would leave him in such a way. Then he had either let time pass or indulged in a bottle. The sweep of his handwriting relaxed and yet became tidier. He admitted he had been corresponding with his family for some time, and that he had broken the trust between us first. Then he began to list all of the things he wished he had said to me. Some were simple, such as “I love you,” which I realized he had never truly said. Others invoked shared memories, such as complementing me on insulting a don who had given us a bit of trouble. This was interesting, in that I remembered Alonso being furious at the time. In this letter, he admitted that he had actually admired my courage, or stupidity, in the face of insurmountable odds. He wrote of his fondness for our lovemaking, and how he honored that I had trusted him after all that had happened to me. That was something he had never told me, either. Toward the end of the letter, it was obvious, as I had noted when glancing at it, that he was deep in the wine. His script became quite difficult to read. He went on in detail about how he did not know if the letter would ever reach me, or if it would be read by others, and how he did not care even though he had said things that one man should never commit to paper concerning another. He even said that he realized now, that if he had been willing to take those risks, if I had been more important than his family honor, then perhaps I would have stayed with him.

It was not what I expected. It led me to hidden veins of emotion I had long since thought banished or dissipated. I finished the letter in tears. Thankfully, Gaston did not question me as I buried my face in the side of his neck and cried. I was grateful for his comforting arms, as I thought again of all the things I would miss of Alonso.

I mourned him as if he were dead, because he was dead to me now.

I would never see him again, and I doubted I could ever get a letter to him, even though I knew his family name and estate just as he had known mine. I was sure a letter from England would be questioned, and if his life had followed the course he had described to me, then he would already be in the New World. And knowing what I did now of political matters here, I would never be able to go to Panama. So he was dead, and I had received this last letter from a ghost.

When most of the emotion had passed, the cynical portion of my spirit roused itself, and I wondered how hard Alonso had tried to retrieve this letter after he posted it.

I wiped my eyes.

Gaston regarded me with concern and curiosity. “Was it hateful?”

“Non, on the contrary.”

He frowned.

“Let me read it to you,” I said.

“You do not have to,” he sighed

“I want to, because I want you to understand. You wanted me to read it, now you have to listen.”

“Is that how it is?” he asked. “So what am I to understand, how much he loved you?” His tone was light but his eyes were hard.

“Not… precisely. Your Horse truly fears all others, does it not?”

He snorted. “This is not a thing of my Horse.” He sighed. “Not entirely. And it is not fear,” he added with vehemence. Then he shook his head and rubbed his temples. “I do not want to argue. Not tonight.”

“I am sorry.”

“Will,” he sighed. “I think of this man touching you and it fills me with frustration. You shared things with this man. He was with you before me. I have been with no one except…” He shook his head. “Every time you touch me, it is new to me. When I touch you, I want you to feel the same. I realize that is selfish. I wish to possess you… even in the past.”

“You do. My love, you overshadow all that has ever occurred in my life. I can think of no other I have known without comparing them to you. They do not exist to me now except in your shadow.”

His smile was slow in coming, but it finally lit his eyes. He handed me Alonso’s letter again. “Read it to me.”

So I did, explaining my observations as I went, and ending with my thought that he probably tried very hard to retrieve the letter once he was sober. When I finished, Gaston took the pages from me and folded them neatly, compressing the creases until the poor battered papers were flatter than they had been.

“I wish to meet him,” he said as he set it aside.

“And what? Kill him?”

“Non,” he grinned. “Make him jealous. He lost you.” He handed me another letter. “He is a fool. And you are correct; he is no one to be jealous of.”

“Thank you.” I chuckled at his change of heart and mood. I regarded the feminine script and broke the nondescript seal with a shrug. I flipped to the last page to read the signature. “Sarah.”

“Your sister, oui?”

I nodded and read. She had been delighted by the letter I sent her. I calculated, based on the date, and realized this was in response to the first short note I had written her, and not the massive volume I wrote on our return voyage from Île de la Tortue. I would not receive a response to that until the ships began to arrive in January.

She apologized that hers was short, as it had to go on a ship soon.

She wished to come here someday and see it all for herself. She asked several questions of matters and details she wished clarification on.

She mentioned that she had made the acquaintance of Master Rucker, and he had taken to providing her with a steady supply of political and historical tracts on the subject of the West Indies, and she was quite fascinated by them and by his company. I was greatly pleased to hear it.

She joked that she was going to tell me to give greeting to Gaston, but realized I would let him read this, so she addressed a paragraph directly to him. She thanked him for making me happy, and wished us both well. Gaston was pleased and amused by this. I was pleased she had given such credence to my mention of him; despite the rapport I had established with her, it was not a thing I would have expected.

Then her letter took a more serious tone. Shane had been furious at his plans being thwarted. Our father had decided it was best to keep them apart, and she had only seen Shane briefly at our mother’s funeral and our sister’s wedding. At which point, she changed her tack, and spoke of our mother’s passing. Sarah had felt a great and unexpected sorrow over this: but not of the loss, rather guilt and sadness that she did not feel any great need to mourn. So she postulated that perhaps she was truly mourning not having a mother, rather than feeling the loss of the woman who had filled the post in name only. I decided that I truly adored my little sister, and that at least I could say I had one family member in the world.

“I wish to meet her as well,” Gaston said as he finished.

“And make her jealous?” I teased.

He smacked my arm painfully, and toyed with Rucker’s and my father’s letters.

“This first.” He handed me Rucker’s letter.

It was much as I expected from the man, and I reminded myself that when he wrote it he had not yet received the letter I wrote him that would answer many if not all of the questions he listed in this one. I put it aside after explaining this to Gaston.

He shrugged and handed me my father’s letter. “Then we must read this now.”

I grimaced and nodded. It did not match the dour tone I had expected. My father mentioned Elizabeth’s wedding and my mother’s passing in a few brief sentences, as if it were a perfunctory duty that must be gotten out of the way so that serious things could be discussed.

He seemed pleased I was enjoying myself and had found something to do with my time, as he had not expected planting to suit me. In actuality, I supposed, he was relieved I was out making war on the Spaniards, and not gambling and whoring with his good name all over Port Royal. To my dismay, he appeared to have a very specific agenda for the rest of the missive.

He suggested that, since I was engaged in dangerous enterprises, perhaps it would behoove me to produce a legal heir. He said he would be very pleased with me when I married. He assured me that marriage need not be a thing of love. It was a thing of duty, and any sensible young woman would understand that and turn a blind eye to my philandering with whomever I chose, as long as I practiced a modicum of decorum. He went on to offer the proceeds of the plantation as a means of support for my starting a family.

It was extortion. Thankfully, I did not need his money.

Then he put the noose around my neck. He said that, as incentive for producing an heir, he would give me the plantation upon the birth of my first son. To that end, since he was sure there were few young ladies of sufficient breeding available, he was arranging a marriage for me and would send a bride as soon as one could be procured.

Gaston and I regarded one another in shared horror.

“I am going to kill your father,” Gaston said.

“May I hold him down?”

“Will it be necessary?” he asked.

“Non, but I feel I will garner great satisfaction in being a participant.”

We sat in silence for a time, each contemplating the coming wave of disaster. I was roiling in anger. I had truly expected this at some junction; why should I be surprised now?

“Will,” Gaston whispered into the growing darkness. “The Horse is very distraught.”

His fists were clenched and there was fury in his eyes. I was not sure where he could vent it. The object of it was not present.

For my part, the room appeared to be reeling. I decided retreat was in order, and perhaps a den. I slipped out of the chair and around the desk, pulling Gaston after me into the knee space. He curled against my chest and we held each other like scared children, or perhaps puppies.

I did not feel that I had teeth or weapons, and I very much wanted someone to come and protect me. But it was not to be. We only had each other. I assured myself that was far more than most were blessed with.

I heard footsteps a while later. I supposed it was time for dinner. I also supposed the person who had entered the room was our host.

“Theodore?” I queried.

The steps approached, and so did a lamp. Theodore peered under the desk at us. I nodded a greeting. He perused the letters on the surface.

“May I read your father’s letter?” he asked.

“Please,” I said pleasantly.

He scooped it up, and to my amusement, pushed the chair aside and sat on the floor next to us. He gave me a curious look, and his gaze flicked to Gaston. I looked down; my matelot’s eyes were tightly closed.

“We are not having a good day,” I said. I was thankful I had been forthright with Theodore as to Gaston’s madness in October. It made additional explanation unnecessary now.

Theodore nodded. “Due to this?”

“It added to a prevailing situation,” I said. “Coming to Port Royal has been… difficult.”

He nodded and read. When he finished, he sat it on the desk above us. “It is much as he wrote me, only friendlier.”

“I will not do it,” I said.

Theodore took a large breath, preparatory to sighing, but he held it in and shrugged instead.

“Non.” Gaston stirred in my arms and extricated himself enough to turn and look at me. He appeared calm again, his face truly a mask.

“Non, what?” I asked in French.

“It is a thing you must do if you are to inherit. You are a nobleman; it is expected. Non, it is required. You can do much good with the title.

You must do this to gain it. It will be meaningless to us, non?”

His words did not sit well with me, and I could not at the moment name the reasons why. I told him, “We will discuss it,” and switched to English and my attention to Theodore.

“I do not wish to wed or bed a woman, especially not one my father might select. I do not wish for any but my matelot to think they have some claim over me.”

“Of course,” Theodore sighed. “I did not think you would feel otherwise on either count. As for the latter, under English law a wife is not a thing to be concerned about when compared to a man’s legal partner in any enterprise. As you have already, you are free to establish whatever ownership of property and disbursement of your assets at death that you wish. She and your father will have no say in any of that, and your father will only be a consideration concerning matters of the title or property associated with it, such as your family estate in England. The plantation, however, once he gives it to you, can be owned jointly with Gaston. None can gainsay that. As for the former, if you do not wish a bride of your father’s choosing, then make your own choice.”

“And how am I to do that here?” I asked.

“I have taken the liberty of researching some of the better families here,” he said carefully. “I have determined that there are three possible candidates with sufficient breeding that your father might not demand an annulment if you were married to one of them upon the other bride’s arrival.”

“So you have been planning this for months.” I was oddly amused.

“Well,” he sighed, “this conversation surely.”

I snorted. “Well, I have said I feel you to have my best interests at heart. I suppose I should allow you to pick a bride for me. Better you than my father. I mean no sarcasm in that.”

He smiled sadly. “Oh, Will… You have met one of them,” he said brightly.

“Truly? I can not recall meeting any…” And then I could.

“Miss Christine Vines,” Theodore said. “Her father is the second son of the Baron of Hapsmarch, and by some twist of fate and romance, he married above his station into a noble Austrian house that was in dire straits.”