The Birthright (10 page)
Without warning, a great black hump appeared a mere stone’s throw from where they stood. The water rolled white and foamy off the broad back. Then there was an enormous puff of breath and a geyser of white water shot high as their heads, which was immediately followed by a sucking hiss sound when the whale inhaled. The tail large as the ship’s rudder flapped once, then the whale rolled down with the sea closing swiftly in around it. Soon no sign remained that the beast had ever appeared.
Nicole released the breath she had not realized she’d been holding. The air was biting, and the salty tang sparkled deep with each breath she took. “I love the sea.”
“Aye, there are grand moments to the life on board a ship.” The captain’s second officer stepped up to her other side. Gordon Goodwind was a tall, rakish man with copper-colored hair and a long saber scar down one cheek. He doffed his hat and gave a stiff bow. “Captain’s compliments, Miss Harrow. He has granted me the privilege of seeing you into dinner.”
Nicole had always found the man frightening. She was intimidated by the combination of his dashing looks and officer’s poise. But tonight she offered her hand as she saw Emily do to Andy Potter, and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
As they proceeded down the passageway to the great room the young officer continued, “Of course, there are the harsher faces to the world afloat. And they temper one’s affection for the sea, if you catch my meaning.”
The captain directed each man to his position, the lieutenant holding Nicole’s chair as Potter did for Emily. Only after the women were seated did the men then take their places.
“That’s as may be,” the captain said, “but with the wind steady out of the north quarter, we may well make landfall before we run out of fresh provisions.” To Nicole he explained, “A diet of hardtack and salt pork might nourish the body, but it does little for the spirit. But when the sea shows a mean face, we have little choice but batten the hatches and wait her out.”
It was at this point that Nicole ordinarily dropped her head and held to a tight silence throughout the ordeal of dinner. But she caught both the captain and his wife studying her, waiting, clearly offering her a chance. So she took as great a breath as she could and said, “I have known an Atlantic storm.”
“Ah?” The captain’s eyes sparked. “And when was that?”
“Last summer, off the Virginia coast. I was traveling up with my father’s brother and his family. That is, my French father.” Then she stopped, ashamed of her accent and clumsy words.
Before she could lower her head, the lieutenant beside her said, “Pray do go on, Miss Harrow.”
Nicole risked a sideways glance, finding no derision there, only a keen gaze fastened intently on her. She cleared her throat quietly and said, “We were becalmed for almost a week. It was very hot and very still. Day after day we sat and cooked.”
“Well do I know those times,” the captain replied. “The diabolical waiting, searching the horizon, praying for wind.”
“Just so,” Nicole agreed. “But none came. The sun beat upon the sea like an anvil on a great steel mirror. I have lived most of my life in the Louisiana bayous, but never have I known a heat such as this. Then at midday on the eighth day of our waiting, there came a single sudden breath. And all the ship’s crew raced to the side and searched. No one spoke, not for the longest time.” Nicole then realized all eyes were upon her. She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I beg your pardon, I am carrying on too long.”
“Quite the contrary, Miss Harrow!” The captain’s words were echoed by all those at the table.
Nicole saw Emily giving her an approving smile.
The captain continued, “Cook tells me the crew landed six fine halibut this very afternoon. We should be dining upon a stew fine as you’ll have anywhere on earth.” He waved at the waiting crewman, who turned and left the chamber. “Pray continue, Miss Harrow, if you will.”
“They searched and they searched,” Nicole said, suddenly caught up in the memory. “Then, for no reason that I could see, the entire ship exploded into action, racing up the masts and across the booms, the captain and all his officers shouting orders and running with the men. Everyone moved so fast, I did not know where to look next. Then I happened to glance out over the rail and I could not believe my eyes. Out of nowhere a great black mass of clouds had appeared and was moving toward us rapidly. It looked like nature was sending an invading army, all aimed at us.”
“Well said, Miss Harrow. Most well said. There is nothing like one’s first glimpse of a nor’easter. Nothing at all. What did you do?”
“We were bundled down into the central hold, where we crouched for a day and a night and most of the next day. The waves crashed and tossed us about like peas in a great wooden pod. The children were terrified, and sick, of course, and the lanterns were doused. They shut the hatches, so there was no light and very little air. Then it was over. It passed like it came, there one moment and gone the next. I shall never forget the beauty of walking back up on deck, seeing sunlight again, and breathing calm, clean air. Never, as long as I live.”
“Was there much damage, Miss Harrow?” someone down the table asked.
“We lost one mast, chopped down like a felled tree. Ropes were scattered everywhere. The men exhausted. And we were leaking badly. The ship put in at Boston for repairs.”
“You made it, though, and that’s the important thing. You survived.” Lieutenant Goodwind’s brow furrowed in thought. “But why, may I ask, were you placed in the central hold and not in the aft cabins where you belonged?”
“Because we did
not
belong there, sir,” Nicole replied simply.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Harrow, but—”
“No, no, it’s time we gave the young lady a respite. That tale and all the rest shall await us another day.” The captain paused until the servants’ settling of their steaming plates blocked his actions from notice; then he rewarded Nicole with an approving nod.
Cyril started to rise and protested, “Anne, you really must let me get up.”
“I won’t do anything of the sort.” She was able to force him back with the gentlest of pressure. “You’re still not well. You must rest, and that’s that.”
His face looked more flushed now, lying as it was on the stark white pillow. “But my patients—”
“Must wait,” she interrupted. “The doctor is ill.” Anne feigned a calmness she did not feel. With one hand supporting the small of her back, she straightened and walked to the window. She swept back the drapes, revealing a second curtain of falling flakes. “Look at the weather, my husband.”
“Snow in late May. Whoever heard of such a spring?” Several strands of hair lay plastered to his forehead with perspiration. “Warm and bright one day, freezing the next. No wonder so many remain sick.”
“Momma has gone to see Dr. Camberly and tell him he must carry on.”
“I’ve been down a whole week now,” Cyril said. “I cannot let the old fellow continue to cover for me.”
But it had not been a week. Today was in fact the tenth day Cyril had been in bed. He had lost three days to delirium. But there was nothing to be gained by sharing this with him. Nor the panic that threatened to choke off Anne’s breath as she had stood by helplessly and watched her husband thrash and cry and pour forth his feverish sweat. At least this had passed. Never had she prayed so hard. Never. “You must rest, Cyril. Now, no more arguments.”
To her great relief, he subsided. Then the familiar tenderness flickered faintly from his gaze. “You are such a dear good wife,” he whispered.
Walking back over to his bedside, Anne took up a towel and dabbed the beads of sweat from his face and neck. “My beloved, would you take another cup of peppermint tea?”
“Never have I grown so tired of anything as I am of peppermint tea. I taste it in my dreams.”
“I must return to the kitchen. I am preparing another poultice.” Anne needed both hands to straighten herself. She gave her patient another love-filled look, then left the bedroom.
Midway down the hall, she was halted by the baby kicking. The baby had taken on such a strong kick, Anne was certain she carried a boy. She stood there, her hand cradling the tautly stretched belly, and wondered how it was possible for her to manage both this weight and the worry over her husband.
Finally the baby eased, and she continued on to the kitchen. The room reeked of fumes from the poultice. She opened the pot that simmered on the iron rail above the fire. Anne shielded her face the best she could, hoping the fumes would not affect the child. Using the wooden ladle, she plucked out the cheesecloth sack. She held it over the pot for a while, allowing the excess water to drip back in. A few drops fell on the fire, sending up puffs of foul-smelling smoke.
When her arms grew tired, she turned and laid the sack into a waiting bowl. Then she grabbed a large piece of cotton bunting—cloth she had originally purchased for making diapers—and stretched it across the kitchen table, folding it twice. Picking up the bowl and the ladle now, she walked to the basin for waste water, tilted the bowl, and used the ladle to press out the remaining water. Then she walked back to the table, pulled out the cheesecloth sack, and settled it on the bunting. After wrapping it up, she lifted the bundle and walked swiftly back to the bedroom.
As soon as she opened the door, Cyril groaned a wordless protest.
“None of that, now. Peel back your bed linen.” Anne waited as he pushed down the blanket and sheet. “Now open your nightshirt.”
He obeyed, but with a grimace. Cyril hated the poultices almost as much as he hated lying sick in bed. “I have decided this is my punishment for ordering my patients to use them.”
“It helps and you know it,” Anne said as she settled the steaming bundle on Cyril’s chest. The poultice was made according to Cyril’s own recipe and contained fresh mustard leaves, two entire peppermint plants, twice-boiled tea leaves, and a dollop of camphor. “You always say there’s nothing better for drawing out the contagion.”
As she started to move away Cyril captured her wrist. His grip was feeble, his hand moist with sweat. “I have never appreciated you enough.”
“Oh, stop that.” But something in his countenance and the desperate way in which he spoke the words left her heart feeling pierced straight through. “You’re talking—”
“Or loved you as well as you deserve.” His hand dropped away. His eyes began to close. “You are the embodiment of everything I ever dreamed for myself.”
“Oh, Cyril.” She had to stop and swallow a sudden desire to weep, for the words did not bring the joy she might have expected. Not at all. “My dear darling husband.”
Sleep and illness drew his eyelids closed, yet the words continued as a soft murmuring. “The clearest vision I have ever known of God’s love has been the moment you awaken, looking into your eyes.”
“Shah, my love.” She stroked his brow and felt her fingers scalded by his unnatural heat. “You must rest now.”
Although the bent-over position pained her mightily, Anne remained there till she was certain he was asleep. Finally his rasping breath eased, and she used both hands to push herself erect.
As Anne left the bedroom, she heard the front door open. She walked into the parlor, where Catherine stood unbuttoning her snow-dappled coat. “This weather is positively atrocious!”
“Even so, Cyril wanted to go see to his patients.”
“Perhaps that is a sign he’s improving.” When Anne did not say anything, her mother demanded, “How is he?”
“I…” Suddenly it seemed as though the parlor no longer held any air. She worked her lungs again, then said, “I fear his fever is returning.”
“Oh, Anne, no.”
“It happens, you know.” She tried to be the doctor’s assistant, speaking an honest summary. But the words caught in her throat, until it was a struggle to make any sound at all. “He has been so weakened by this, I cannot help but fear he may be struck by another bad night.”
Catherine moved up beside her daughter. “Have you eaten?”
“I am not hungry.”
“Yet eat you must. There’s a child growing within you who must have nourishment.”
She allowed her mother to guide her back toward the kitchen. Thankfully the poultice’s fumes had lessened somewhat. “I hope the baby does not grow too much more. I feel tight as a drum already. I honestly don’t see how I can carry this child another month.”
“Just sit yourself down and rest. You do far too much as it is. I’ll warm you up a nice bowl of stew and then prepare some good fresh bread for baking with the evening meal. That should do you and your husband both a world of good.”
Anne blinked away the morning’s second wash of tears. “I don’t know what I’d do without you here, Momma.”
“That’s what mothers are for, haven’t you heard?” Catherine’s voice was overenthusiastic, as though seeking to dispel the surrounding gloom with the force of her words. “Now as soon as I’ve fixed your stew, I am going to go upstairs and write your father. It has been three days since my last letter, and I am certain he must be wondering what on Earth has happened to us.”
The Portsmouth docks held the largest collection of men and ships Nicole had ever seen. With the midday light strong as the westerly wind, she was forced to shade her eyes with her hand as she came up the stairs from the captain’s great room. She had stood at the railing and watched the ship’s furious activity as it had maneuvered down the long channel, finally answering the port’s signal gun with cannon fire and flags of its own. Then at Emily’s suggestion she had gone down to change into the dress of midnight blue. Though it would make for a warmer overland journey, Emily felt the somber air would make a more fitting first impression. “After all, my dear,” she had reminded Nicole, “it is not just your uncle who will be greeting you. There will be the servants and the coachmen and any friends or relatives who might be gathered.”
“Charles has no other living relatives in England,” Nicole said, but her mind had become preoccupied by the word
servants
. How ever was she going to cope?
Emily noticed the sudden rush of anxiety and patted her hand. “Rest assured, my dear, you will do fine.”