The Lady and the Captain

Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

Rockland, Ontario

Copyright © 2013 Beverly Adam

Exclusive cover © Laura Givens

Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

ISBN
978-1-927555-31-6

A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

from the
National Library of Canada

Ebooks are available for purchase from

www.lachesispublishing.com

ISBN
978-1-927555-30-9

Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For my children Natasha and Julian,

and to my dearest friend, Major Hye-Kyoung Kim,

with love.

My thanks to the team at Lachesis Publishing.

You have polished this tale into a real gem.

The Spinster and the Earl

The Widow and the Rogue

T
HE
L
ADY
AND
T
HE
C
APTAIN

West Coast of Ireland—Varrik Island

Rain battered against the glass pane of the cottage window. Sarah Clogheen drew the heavy woolen curtains to prevent the damp cold from seeping in. She shivered and wrapped her shawl more closely about her, then set another piece of turf onto the fire. She was Irish, born and raised, and yet she could never get used to her country’s temperamental weather. As the turf sparked into a warming flame, she heard an unexpected pounding on the front door. A dark silhouette framed the window, but with the rain pelting down, it was difficult to tell who it could be.

Perhaps a lost sailor seeking shelter from the storm? Or another one of those religious zealots come to trouble them? One of those interfering simpletons who foolishly believed that the reclusive wise women were practicing black magic instead of the healing arts. Frowning with concern, she wondered if she should open the door. But what if it was someone in need? A stranded sailor whose ship had gone off course because of the storm?

She sighed, putting down the heavy poker. As a wise woman, she was obligated to help all who came to her door. It didn’t matter who stood there. Priest or pirate, she would offer them hospitality. She could not go on and blithely ignore them

Slowly, she pulled back the latch—

A heavy gust of wind swept into the room, sending everything a-flutter. She looked out into the darkness and was greeted by the sight of a man standing on her doorstep.

The stranger stood slightly stooped over, his left shoulder leaning tiredly against the doorframe. To add to his unexpected appearance was the astonishing fact that he was carrying another man on his back.

Sarah’s cornflower blue eyes opened wide in surprise.

The cottage was located on a steep hill. Yet this stranger had somehow managed to carry a grown man all the way up. It was a feat never done before. Most of the ill brought to the island were either left on the beach in a lean-to or carried in a handcart manned by several relatives.

Faith, she thought, this stranger certainly is no feeble fop. Here is a man who by mere action demands my respect.

She quickly noted that he was a few years older than her and had a head of thick, black hair. She thought him to be somewhere in his late twenties. There was another unsettling fact to their presence. They were both ranking naval officers, as evidenced by their fitted dark blue wool uniforms, undoubtedly from an English warship located somewhere nearby. But before she could ask any questions, she noticed the standing officer wince. His grip was loosening. The heavy body of the pale-faced man he carried slid down one side of his back.

A quick glance at the other officer and she knew by the twin gold epaulets attached to his coat that he was a captain. More unsettling than this observation was the obvious reason for their unannounced visit. The gentleman was gravely ill. He was, if she could discern by the pallor of his face, on the verge of complete collapse. This was not going to be a simple matter of offering shelter from the storm.

It was evident why the English stranger came to her door in the middle of a tempest. He and his companion were seeking help. Her skills as a wise woman were once more about to be put to the test.

*    *    *

“Who are you?” she asked.

Lieutenant Robert Smythe had seen many beautiful women in his life, but this young woman left him speechless. His dark brown eyes widened in an open stare. Clearly, she wasn’t disconcerted by his reaction.
She must leave everyone she meets in awe at her beauty
.

For a witch, as the wise woman was considered by the superstitious, she was an unexpectedly becoming one. Her light blue eyes and shiny hair, the shade of a glowing halo, gave her an almost angelic appearance. She was not the ruddy-faced wise woman one typically saw by a sick bed. She was something else entirely . . . lovely and alluring.

A brisk wind whipped around her long layers of skirts, molding the dark wool against her shapely legs. He caught a scent of lavender and sage from her clothes. It reminded him of a field of wildflowers.

Belatedly, he realized she was staring up at him expectantly.

“I’m Lieutenant Robert Smythe of his majesty’s warship, The Brunswick,” he said, at last finding his voice. “And this is Captain Jackson,” he gestured towards the sick man. Not wearing a cap, he saluted her with two fingers to his forehead.

“I’ve come to ask the help of the healer, Gladys Clogheen of Varrik-on-Suir. May we enter?”

“I am Sarah. Gladys Clogheen is my mother. Come in,” she said and gestured them inside.

He carried the ill captain into the main room. Pushing against the wind, Sarah bolted the door behind them. She pointed to an empty lounge chair located next to the fire. Gently, he lay the sick captain down.

Smoldering peat bricks scented the air. Robert made as if to speak, to ask a question, but she held a finger to her lips silencing him. Her full attention was now upon her new patient, the ailing captain. Immediately, she began to examine him. Holding the ill man’s wrist, she checked his pulse. It was erratic. Occasionally, she nodded, counting softly in a strange tongue. She uttered foreign words that he couldn’t follow. He frowned slightly. It was the first time he’d ever heard Irish spoken.

He had some smattering acquaintance with Portuguese, Spanish, and French. But this Celtic tongue was new to his ears. The native language of the region was seldom heard outside of the western and more remote regions of Ireland.

The English had almost successfully conquered the people and language of Ireland, supplanting their language with their own. But the Irish people well understood the old saying that went, “A country without a language is a country without its soul.”

Stubbornly thumbing their noses at their invaders, the Irish continued to secretly use their language and practice their unique music. This they did despite threats and deprivations. Here on the southern part of the Emerald Isles, they lived beyond The Pale, the invisible dividing line separating Irish-speaking Ireland from the English speaking.

The officer mentally shrugged off any uneasiness he may have normally felt about hearing the ancient language. As an officer in his majesty’s service, he ought to have been appalled at the wise woman using the forbidden tongue. Astonishingly, he did not.

The way the woman spoke made the foreign language sound musical to his ears. There was a serenity in her voice—both soothing and natural. She had a self-assurance about her steady manners that inspired confidence. Clearly, her mother had taught her the healing arts, as well.

Robert watched her open the captain’s long overcoat, and loosen his shirt. Putting an ear against his chest, she listened more closely to his unsteady heart. Lastly, she examined his tongue, prying open the officer’s mouth. Robert made a brusque gesture. He silently protested at this final intrusion of his captain’s private person. She had no right to touch him this way.

The wise woman waved a hand, effectively warding him off. “You’re interfering, Lieutenant,” she said, a note of stern displeasure in her voice. “I need to see how your captain’s insides are faring. So kindly do us both a grand favor and stay out of my way. If ye can’t abide seeing me touching him, I suggest you go outside and cool off in the rain and think about why you came here.”

He said no more. Silently, he acknowledged her authority. Keeping his tongue in his head, he continued to observe her, wondering what made such an innocent and lovely young woman such as this take on the very challenging and quite intimate work of a healer.

Moving her hand gently over the semiconscious man, Sarah tried to detect where he felt the most discomfort. By the painful tightening of his face, she discerned his innards were causing him the sharpest pangs of agony. Cramps, no doubt, were making it painful there, she noted. This was no ordinary case of indigestion. Something far more sinister was at work.

Restless and full of deliriums, Captain Jackson sat up. The chaise lounge creaked with the abrupt movement. He reached his hands out and shouted frantically, “Pull that sail tighter, lads! Tie that rigging you bit of yellow-bellied shark bait before she tears. The devil take it. What are you standing around here for, boy? Get below to where you belong! Blithering fool. Move your carcass out of the boom’s way before you end up in the dink.”

Sarah and Robert exchanged concerned glances as Captain Jackson thrashed about.

“Man overboard!” He made a gesture as if he were throwing a rope to a drowning man, grasping at the air in a hand-over-hand gesture, pulling on the invisible rope as he tossed and turned in his fevered delirium.

Sarah looked into his glazed eyes. They were wide open. Captain Jackson acted as if she wasn’t there. He was oblivious to her presence. Shaking her head, she started to mumble a few words that Robert could barely make out.

“
Musha, musha
, what have they done to ye? How did ye come to be like this? Poor wretched man . . . what’s to be done?”

Abruptly, she stood up and left his side.

*    *    *

Robert watched Sarah enter a curtained-off part of the cottage on the opposite side of the large hearth. Behind the curtain was a bed. Robert could see an older woman, propped up by several large pillows. The lady was about the captain’s age, in her mid-forties. The woman’s wavy black hair was streaked with gray and modestly pulled back under a white lace cap. He realized that she must be the wise woman, Gladys Clogheen.

Her face was strangely wise and noble with high cheekbones and a serene expression in her eyes. Those light honey-colored eyes were assessing Robert now, as if weighing his person against what the blonde angel was telling her in Irish. He could discern that this seemingly frail woman had some power over the young healer.

The young, wise woman listened respectfully to her as the ailing healer spoke in gasping breaths. She softly responded in kind to her questions. The older woman nodded in agreement to whatever was being discussed. At last they finished their conversation. The blonde woman gave the frail, older woman a gentle squeeze of her hand and tucked her back into bed.