Sea Change (34 page)

Physician, heal thyself.
Easy to say, hard to do, but each morning when she awoke and saw the circles beneath her eyes, and Dr. Wilson's concerned face, she vowed to move forward with her life. Longing for David would not bring him back, so she could only go on, and she threw herself into the study of being a young woman, just as her godfather wished.

When Charley protested the amount Dr. Wilson was spending, he brushed aside her concerns.

"I should have made inquiries into your welfare long ago, Charlotte. You are my goddaughter and this is an opportunity for me to make up for not being there for you when Horatio passed on."

Charley conceded when she realized how much Dr. Wilson wanted to do this for her, and she allowed herself to be swept away in a billowing cloud of sarcenet and silks as the clothing continued to arrive. After months of having two coats to choose from, and one pair of trousers for when the other was being washed, Charley was buried under slippers and fans, stockings and chemises, petticoats and shawls. There were hats for the day and for the night, and gloves for all occasions.

Tilly demonstrated in her gentle, unassuming fashion why a maid was vital to a young woman of fashion, to get her in and out of her complicated garments at least twice each day.

"It all seems like a great deal of bother, Tilly," Charlotte groused following a tiring afternoon of fittings. "When I had only two coats and two pair of trousers I didn't have to think about an entire ensemble with the proper gloves, stockings, reticule--what a chore!"

"But you looked so elegant in your new riding habit, Miss Charlotte, the one with the gold braid and the military jacket" Tilly murmured. "Wouldn't you rather wear that for your outings than your old clothes? And what would that habit be without its own little hat? Not nearly as striking or fashionable!"

"I bow to your superior judgment, Tilly," Charlotte conceded. She did love her new habit of bright green broadcloth, embroidered down the front and cuffs
à la militaire.
The riding hat was black beaver trimmed with gold cord and tassels, and she thought it made her look elegant indeed. It had been ages since she'd been riding and Dr. Wilson, himself an excellent horseman, was patient with her while she re-learned how to handle her spirited little mare. They would take morning rides around town, and he'd introduce her to matrons and their daughters, and on occasion to select young men.

"Some of these fellows are scoundrels of the worst stripe, Charlotte," he warned after one encounter. "They are sent to the islands because of their misdeeds in England, and you must be careful of them."

She looked at him sideways as the breeze ruffled the tassels on her hat, but her godfather appeared completely serious. Apparently he'd chosen to forget she'd spent months amongst American "scoundrels" who would make these English ne'er-do-wells look like choirboys.

"Yes, Uncle," she said demurely, hiding her own smile.

After a few weeks, the hairdresser Mrs. Norton recommended took Charley's short locks and brushed them forward from the crown, using his scissors judiciously. What had been a severely masculine style was transformed, with soft curls framing her face and fringing her cheekbones. She had to acknowledge the style was not only fully feminine and easy to care for, but it did interesting things to her eyes.

Finally, the dance master who'd been hastily found to teach Charley the dances she'd need to know pronounced her ready to be seen in public, and Charley was thrust into a whirl of social events.

Winter in Jamaica was an endless round of balls and picnics, teas and horseback rides up into the cool mountains. A new face was always welcome and Charley was introduced to the younger members of Jamaican society, the sons and daughters of the planters and merchants, and some children of the aristocracy.

Word also leaked out that Dr. Wilson was establishing a very nice dowry on his goddaughter. Charley found herself to be far more interesting than she otherwise would have been to the bachelors, many of whom had been sent to Jamaica to make their fortunes.

"I suppose marrying well is one way of making one's fortune," she said to Dr. Wilson as she sipped her morning coffee--then she paused. Wasn't that exactly what David Fletcher had felt compelled to do?

Despite her new wardrobe and her new skills, Charley felt adrift. She was trying, really, to fit in for the sake of her dear Uncle Curtis, but she simply could not work up any enthusiasm for conversations with other young ladies about ribbon trims and where the waistband on dresses would be this year. After one or two outings Charley also learned that what gentlemen wished to talk to young ladies about was themselves, or the weather, or other commonplaces.

Charley never expected she would miss conversations over who could piss the farthest after a night of drinking ale in a dockside tavern, but even that was better than talking about the weather! Uncle Curtis would not discuss his more interesting cases with her, insisting such conversations were inappropriate for a young lady. Her suggestion that she volunteer time at the Naval Hospital in Port Royal was met with stunned silence. Charley did not make that offer again.

"I have high hopes for this evening, Charlotte," Dr. Wilson was saying to her now as they drove through the evening dusk. "The Erskines are famous for their hospitality and their home is one of the area's finest."

The Erskine home, or "great house" as these buildings were styled, was built in the combination of Caribbean and English fashion that was uniquely Jamaican. A broad stone staircase led up to the lower portion, while the upper story with its wraparound veranda, opened to the soft breezes, spilled light and music out into the evening.

The carriage rolled to a stop and Charley was assisted down the step by the footman, his shining black skin a sharp contrast to the white wig he wore for the occasion. Dr. Wilson took her arm and smiled.

"I am fortunate to be escorting the loveliest lady here. I will have to arm myself against the young men who will flock to you, Charlotte!"

Charley smiled, for she felt fine indeed. That morning Mrs. Norton had delivered her last creation, just in time for the ball. The evening dress was of blue crepe the color of a stormy sea, over a silver-gray satin slip. The combination made Charley's eyes glow and even her smallish bosom looked fuller with the double fall of silver lace framing the round neckline. No one would mistake her for a boy in this attire!

"That gown requires a certain sophistication to make it work," Mrs. Norton had said as she tweaked the hem. "On another those colors might look dull, and it's not for a young girl during her first season, but you are one of the rare women who can do a gown like this justice, Miss Alcott. And that means more accolades for me," she added with no bashfulness at all.

There were gray satin slippers with silver-gilt rosettes, a lace fan, and a shawl of deepest sapphire with silver thread that would provide all the protection needed from the tropical breezes.

Even Dr. Wilson had ordered new evening clothes for the occasion so he would complement his goddaughter, and Charley thought him dashing in his midnight-colored evening coat and sparkling white linen, and told him so.

Dr. Wilson patted her hand where it rested on his arm.

"This evening is for you, my dear, and that is all that matters."

Charley tamped down her guilt, again. Uncle Curtis was trying so hard, and she should not be ungrateful.

"I vow, Uncle, the ladies of Jamaica must be sun-touched to have let such a handsome bachelor slip through their fingers all these years!"

Charley smiled at her Uncle's fond chuckle. She would try tonight, truly she would. But she very much feared that if she had to endure one more conversation about whether or not it would be a nice day on the morrow, she couldn't be responsible for her actions.

Charley was introduced to her hosts, and received a pat on the arm from the rotund hostess, whose red face gleamed in the lamp light.

"Your godfather brought all of my babes into the world, Miss Alcott, and is practically one of the family."

"Not surprising considering how many hours I spent here setting bones, Mildred, after one boyish adventure or another," Dr. Wilson said.

"You know the lads thought being pirates and whacking each other with wooden swords was just part of what they owed their Jamaican forebears," Mr. Erskine added. He was as skinny as his wife was round, with a hectic flush to his cheeks that concerned Charley.

"Mr. Erskine has consumption, doesn't he?" she said in a low voice as they walked into the ballroom.

"Charlotte..."

"I know, I know, I'm not supposed to diagnose."

Dr. Wilson sighed. "You are correct, however. Jonathan Erskine does have consumption, and the fact that he's lived long enough to see his sons grown is a great blessing and a comfort to him."

"I wonder if the climate here in the tropics ameliorates the affects of consumption..."

"Enough, Charlotte."

"Yes, Uncle," she said, adding her own sigh.

Charley already knew some of the young people from previous social events, and other young men crowded around asking for introductions, so her fears that she would end the night as a wallflower weren't realized.

Charley danced, and if she wished each of her partners had been one particular man, at least she did her dancing master credit.

She listened to their banal remarks with a polite smile, and if she wished it were another speaking to her, one who would be sarcastic and funny and loving, she did a credible job of hiding it. Even from herself.

But as the evening went on Charley felt more and more like she was outside her body, observing a young lady who danced, and smiled, and made light conversation, but someone who bore little resemblance to the
Fancy's
Dr. Alcott. Bore almost no resemblance to the woman who had shared Black Davy Fletcher's bunk.

She had been invited to waltz, but had declined. The dance was too intimate, too enticing. There was only one man with whom she wished to waltz, and he was not here. Charley stood instead on the veranda, fanning herself while her last dance partner went to fetch her a lemonade. The air was full of the fragrance of flowering ginger and jasmine, and the scent of tobacco and the voices of young men also drifted up to her. No doubt they'd snuck out for a smoke before their mamas could drag them off for another round of dancing with eligible planters' daughters.

"...I think you exaggerated, William, she's not nearly the awkward long Meg you warned us about."

"'Lotta' Charlotte? That's what I call her because there's so much of her. At least a lot lengthwise. Not much up top for a man to hold onto."

Charley froze, her hand clutching her fan, and leaned closer to the veranda rail to hear. William Wilcox was one of the young men she'd danced with earlier. She remembered him more for his appearance than his dancing skills, but it was easy to pick out his voice as he discussed her.

The men laughed at William's quip, and he took it as encouragement to continue.

"I would not complain, however. I understand Dr. Wilson is putting a very nice settlement out for whomever marries Miss Alcott. With his plantation shares and no heirs of his own, a man could do quite well by marrying his goddaughter, no matter what she looks like."

"Money's all well and good, William," an unknown voice chimed in, "but I heard from one of the officers off the
Caeneus
that Charlotte Alcott was living for months with Americans aboard one of their privateers. Doesn't that concern you?"

William's reply was muffled, but Charley heard the lewd laughter of the men below. There was a sharp "crack" and she looked down to see the new fan she was using broken in half.

When her escort returned with her lemonade, he must have seen something in her face. He stuttered about needing to find his mother, and he hastily beat a retreat after pushing the cup into her hands.

But Charley was not after his carcass. She had other prey in mind. She set her cup down on the ledge with a thunk, tossed her broken fan behind her and returned to the ballroom.

"...I do not know why everyone was so upset. I thought pointing out the sore next to Mr. Wilcox's mouth and suggesting appropriate treatment for his condition would be appreciated. Especially if he is considering marriage. But I assure you, after what I heard and saw tonight, the list of eligible women will not include me!" Charley strode back and forth in the library, her steps hampered by the cut of her skirts and she finally stopped and threw up her hands in frustration.

"You would think someone would want to know if he has the pox or not, so he can take steps to treat it! We both know that's not going to be the only sore on his person!"

She happened to glance over at her godfather, then rushed to his side and helped him to a chair.

"Uncle Curtis!" Charley pulled at his neckcloth, opening it to allow some color back into his face. "Do you have a weak heart, Uncle?"

"I do not know," he said faintly. "I never suspected I might before this moment."

Charley hurried to get him a brandy. His color improved after he took a swallow.

"No, I do not think it is my heart. I think it was just the shock, Charlotte, of envisioning you discussing syphilis with Mr. Wilcox. In front of everyone at the Erskines' ball."

He looked at her, really looked at her, much as she'd seen him look at his patients.

"Charlotte, are you happy here?"

Charley opened her mouth to tell him what he wanted to hear, but she couldn't do it.

"Uncle Curtis, do you know the story of Atalanta?"

"Atalanta? Something from the Greeks, correct?"

"Yes." Charley sat next to him, and smoothed out her skirts. A thin gold bangle set with pearls, one of the few pieces of jewelry she owned that belonged to her mother, winked at Charley's wrist.

"Atalanta," Charley began, "was a young woman who lived in ancient Greece. She was raised by bears, and thought herself a bear until one day she was captured by a bear hunter. He raised her as his daughter and told her she couldn't be a bear anymore, and had to be a human and marry a man."