The Winds of Fate Page 3

She hesitated. Her mind spun with the importance of making such a promise. What if this man broke free? She had no doubt he was the kind of man who would hunt her down to claim what was due him. Yet his execution remained certain.

  Claire held an incredible sympathy for him. A little white lie she reasoned would be a kindness to him. Besides, her nerves were overwrought. She did not have the fortitude to tell him any different. He had married her. He enabled her freedom. He had none. She owed him at least that. If mere words gave him comfort in his last hour, so be it. A twinge of guilt pawed at her breast from her insincerity. At the same time, something intangible nagged at her, warned her of the future, the price of a lie. She shook that feeling aside. This time she grasped his hand.

  “A promise.”

  Sir Edmund Jarvis sat in his library. Where was the little twit? Gone for hours with that goose-eyed cousin of hers and no one knew where they were. Never did he expect the damned duke to appear and demand to see his prospective bride. A growing stack of bills from the money he spent on Claire to hook a fat benefactor lay stashed in his drawer. Creditors camped on his doorstep. He swallowed hard against the pinch of his cravat and nodded a tight smile to the duke seated across from him. If his niece did not return, he’d lose everything he risked on his hated brother’s progeny. He still remained in the shadow of his handsome, intelligent, and prosperous first-born brother. It ate at him like acid. This business with Claire reminded him of all his failures. His fingers tightened on the top of his cane.

  After his brother’s death, he had assumed his role as baron. His habit for women and gambling had forced him to sell off his estates in England. There was not enough to pay off his debts. His recourse was the plantation in Jamaica where he had eked out a living for the past ten years.

  What luck to run into Claire on his first trip to England. Even if the clerk in the store had not called her name he would have recognized her. To think he had paid to have her dropped off in St. Giles when she was nine to get rid of her. She had been rescued by the meddlesome cook. Jarvis smirked. He had covered his trail well. No one could point a finger at him. As the affair turned out, fortune smiled for she had grown into a lovely young woman. He saw the diamond in the rough and decided to capitalize on her. How easy to enforce his guardianship. The taste of money swelled his palate.

  The front door opened. Jarvis scrambled into the entry hall of his rented townhouse. The luxuriant appointments at an appropriate London address, window dressing, orchestrated to dupe a wealthy lord, forgotten for the moment. He narrowed his eyes, skewering his niece yet she maintained a benign expression as if she trumped him. How like his hated brother. Her cousin fidgeted with her spectacles. “Where have you been at this late hour? The duke demands to move up the wedding to crush the rumors of you proposing to that nobody, Sir Durham. What a mess you’ve created.”

  “You can tell his Grace there will be no wedding.”

  Did he hear right? The twit dared to challenge him.

  “Sir Jarvis?”

  Drat. The duke followed him from the library. Jarvis swallowed bile.

  “I hope you can rectify this insubordination,” the duke rasped.

  Rectify? He longed to beat every inch of her. Rumors insinuated the duke possessed a sadistic trait. He’d let the duke have his own fun. “Claire, you will marry the duke.” He clenched his cane but he wished it was her neck.

  His niece shook her head and said calmly, “I married a felon at Newgate.”

  “You what?” Jarvis choked. A coldness hit his core.

  “The betrothal is off,” said the duke and hobbled to the door, his servant running to open it for him. I refuse to have my name linked with scandal.”

  “Wait, your grace. There must be something we can bargain,” Jarvis cried. He gritted his teeth. How he hated groveling. At this point, he’d do anything to keep the negotiation going.

  The duke turned and sniffed, studying his intended from head to toe. “How am I to know she is pure?”

  His niece gasped. Jarvis rocked back on his heels. “I would have her checked even if I have to do the task myself with your lordship in full audience.”

  The duke sneered apparently pleased with the prospect. “To learn obedience.”

  Jarvis had him. His niece’s humiliation drew the old lecher as a leech to raw meat. Claire’s face paled. Victory smoothed like warm honey over his tongue. If he had to, he’d throw her on the hall floor and begin the inspections immediately.

  Bold as brass, his niece drew herself up and moved to within inches of the duke. “The marriage is consummated.”

  Jarvis’s blood pounded in his ears. The bitch. She destroyed all his hard work.

  The duke’s face flushed red. “The contract is broken, Jarvis. Your niece’s conduct is offensive. My family’s name is above reproach. I won’t have malicious gossip and public disgrace bring it down.”

  With Claire’s lack of maidenhead, Jarvis’s fortune vanished, perishing with the duke’s departure. The nightmare of prison loomed. He had no other option than to depart for Jamaica. By God, he’d force the girl to go with him. He could feel his blood pulsating through the veins in his throat. He raised his cane. He’d teach her to fear.

  Claire took in the heavy fragrance of honeysuckle, nutmeg and logwood flower. She listened to distant seagulls and grew lulled by the steady clomping of the horses as the carriage drew along a sandy path beneath a warm tropical sun. The sharp turn of events rolled over in her mind…how she found herself in Jamaica−a God-forsaken wild outpost of the King’s realm.

  A clearing of her uncle’s throat drew Claire’s attention to his disproving gaze. She could never get over his resemblance to a large toad on its hind legs.

  “I detest this heat, but the savages have arrived this morning. The governor warned me, I must arrive early to get the best of the lot,” said Sir Jarvis.

  Claire winced. She dreaded being forced to accompany her uncle and worse yet, to a slave auction.

  “Who are they?” Claire asked. Three months before she had learned the truth of the backstairs advice she’d received on marrying the felon to be in mortal error. Consultation with her solicitor, an old family friend confirmed her uncle’s complete control over her life. Her solicitor who shared an immense loathing of Sir Jarvis, spun legal rhetoric to mislead and informed the knight his niece would not be able to marry until far into the future, governed by the strict rules of her widowhood. Yet the most disastrous consequence remained. Jarvis informed her of their immediate departure to a plantation he owned in the Caribbean. Her dreams of living on a quiet little corner of London for the rest of her life evaporated.

  “Scoundrels. Rebels,” Jarvis spat. “Those moved and instigated by the Devil to stir up war and rebellion against the King. They’re a savage lot taken up against his Most Illustrious and Most Excellent Prince, Lord King James II in an attempt to strip him of title, honor, and regal name of the imperial crown with no fear of God in their hearts.”

  Did her uncle have a heart? Claire would have done anything to stay in her beloved London. Trapped, she had cried as she packed. When would she return to England? Everything she had held familiar and secure would be left behind. An outright railing at all her misfortunes, and fears of traveling to the unknown ends of the earth had plagued her. To minimize her cousin’s and Cookie, their guardian’s fears and concerns, she kept her worries hidden. She had to be strong enough for both of them. She had boarded a ship with Lily and Cookie, realizing nothing would ever be the same.

  Jarvis’s lips compressed, forming a veritable sneer. “They deserve to be executed for their crimes, but the King, bless his soul, has sent them to us to use as slave labor. By God, the touch of the lash and years of labor toiling in the tropic sun will teach them the value of disturbing the peace and tranquility of England.” He rapped his cane on the carriage door.

  Claire cringed. Her limbs shook. Images of Jarvis striking her with that cane again and again, raging that he would not be able
to marry her off.

  In the bright light of the day, she shaded her eyes and looked about as their carriage neared Port Royale. She sat impressed with the town now as when she first laid eyes upon it. On the ship, she had fretted, expecting mud-huts with cannibals lining the shoreline. With surprise, her initial impressions were corrected when her eyes beheld homes built upon European archetypes boasting imposing proportions without the crowding seen in European cities. A church with its tall spire reached heavenward above a collection of red roofs while a fort guarded the entrance of a broad sweeping harbor, cannons thrusting their muzzles between merlons.

  She read the common English street names as their carriage rambled through the city. Thames Street, St. James Street, Oxford Street. The city bustled with activity. Everywhere carpenters, goldsmiths, pewterers, sailmakers, shipwrights, and seamen plied their trade. In the fullness of ease and plenty, merchants arrayed in opulent fashion scurried about, attended by their slaves. Rounding to the docks, they passed a large number of Port Royal’s notorious taverns and brothels primed to serve numerous merchant ships moored to careen, repair and trade.

  She thumbed the gold ring on her finger she had purchased in London after her marriage in Newgate. Under normal circumstances, the ring represented an outward expression of two hearts united as one for eternity. Claire flinched. What a fraud she was.

  Why did she think about Devon Blackmon, the felon who had given his name? Claire let her hand with its fraudulent reminder fall to her knee. Was it sympathy? His circumstances by outward appearances seemed unfortunate. Yet he was a felon, and his words were not the most reliable. She had traveled to Newgate Prison to confirm his execution and burial, but obtained little information. For additional coin she could ill afford, Mr. Goad pointed to four fresh mounds in the church cemetery, one of which, he explained lay the final resting place of her husband. Since they were unable to tell which one, Claire had paid to have flowers laid over each of them. It had been a final token farewell to her husband and released her from any lingering sentiments.

  But the sentiments still lingered. No matter how she tried to forget her fateful day with Devon Blackmon, he had made an impact on her life. She remembered how he infuriated and toyed with her. She remembered the richness of his voice, the strength of his hand wrapped around hers, and the warm intimacy of his fingers as they brushed over hers. Then she remembered her promise. She could feel those fingers of his sweep over her. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She reached up, hands fluttering at her bodice, dampened beneath the sun. The carriage came to a stop.

  “Ooh. Look at the fine ladies. Lordy, come on up. I’ll give you a job, loveys.”

  Claire glanced from beneath her bonnet. A woman with all her charms hanging out for the world to view laughed at her.

  “Sir Jarvis, when will I see you again?” trilled the woman, her bright rouged lips and cheeks, a harsh contrast to her white skin. Claire dared a glance at Lily, whose expression beneath her spectacles remained a study in stern restraint.

  Umph, grunted Jarvis. He tapped the door for the coach to stop and heaved out his bulk. “Stay in the carriage.”

  “We will stretch our legs,” Claire objected.

  “You must resign yourselves to the carriage, I’m afraid.” It was a petty command.

  As he moved away, Lily spoke low and confidingly. “You should never provoke him.”

  “I do not fear him.”

  “Nevertheless−” Lily cautioned, seeing through Claire’s careless bravado. “So Jarvis patronizes the foul woman above us?”

  Claire found herself laughing. “Oh Lily, it is so good you came with me to Jamaica. How could I have withstood my horrid uncle and the loneliness without you?”

  “It is I who am grateful to you. I see it as a challenge. I am failing to achieve a sense of order about this deplorable wilderness, but I am working on it.”

  Laughing again, Claire marveled at her cousin who was related to her on her mother’s side. Fortune smiled on Lily for she was not related to Jarvis. Claire’s parents raised Lily after Lily’s mother died in childbirth. Claire emerged the outgoing one while Lily grew adept in practicality and order. Claire laughed easily and Lily’s nature leaned more serious. Never one to shirk her duty, Lily had helped Claire make lists and pack everything for the journey in a meticulous, logistical manner that would have done the King’s admiralty proud.

  “She’s the most celebrated woman of ill repute in Port Royale,” Lily began, never ceasing to amaze Claire with her scandalous knowledge. “Her name is Annie Jensen. Born in Canterbury, her penchant for thieving doubled with bigamy resulted in her arrest and transport to Jamaica. She is cunning, crafty, subtle and in hot pursuit of her designs. Her shocking behavior is likened to a barber’s chair. No sooner is one out, but another is in.”

  Claire put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Look Claire.” Lily pointed to a raven, settling on top of the carriage seat. “That’s a good omen. The Greeks and Romans believed ravens were connected with the art of the healer. The Welsh believe it is a bird of prophecy. I believe he is a creature of paradox.”

  She turned and observed its feathers, black as coal. The raven moved its head from side to side, eying her. Small hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stirred. “I don’t think a raven passes as a good omen. It appears to be a mischievous rogue. Really Lily, isn’t a raven synonymous with devilry and destruction?”

  “I disagree. Like the Greeks and Romans, I believe he is an omen for good things to come.” Lily gave a perfunctory nod of her head to emphasize her point. “And that’s a promise.”

  Promise? Claire flinched. Was the raven prophetic? What if the raven was a premonition for disaster? Would her lie come back to haunt her? The felon was dead in a cold grave an ocean away. She could live her life in peace. So why did she have a terrible sense of foreboding? She thrust her parasol at the creature and watched in fascination as the raven lifted on sea winds then circled to the roof of the brothel, crowing at her in rebuke. Or was it fair warning?

  A raised murmur of voices from the brothel interrupted her uneasiness. Several more scantily clad women leaned out windows. Claire followed their gazes to a ship. A gangplank had been lowered. Several ill-kept men, starved and sick, laden in heavy chains shuffled single file onto the docks. Claire’s insides railed, condemning the injustices of men.

  “They are wretched,” Lily whispered behind her.

  “These are a terrible lot,” her uncle cried, but without Lily’s compassion. His sympathy tendered for his purse. Beneath his tri-cornered hat, a powdered wig covered his balding pate. His simian face stayed bloated, smooth of all wrinkles.

  Under the guards’ wary supervision the convicts were examined by a number of planters and merchants. There remained something about the cowed group of rebels, their heads bent low that struck a chord with Claire. “Lily, we are leaving the carriage.”

  “But your uncle said not to−”

  “I no longer care for my uncle’s dictates,” Claire said as she descended from the carriage. “Governor Stark stands over there and will desire female companionship. Uncle will not dare to challenge the governor.”

  Lily gave her a long speculative look. “I should rescue you from your impulsive nature, but I have noted you have our dear governor wrapped around your finger.”

  With their availability and lively camaraderie, both girls were often invited to teas, dinner parties and other celebrations at the Governor’s House. Claire and Lily took full opportunity of their open invitation as a way to get out from under her uncle’s roof.

  “Good day to you, Governor Stark,” Claire addressed him. “It is a fine day, is it not?”

  “Mistress Lily, Madame Hamilton,” he acknowledged, slightly bent over his cane, his regal bearing evident despite his age.

  Claire had chosen to keep her maiden name. The islanders did not need to know different. In London, there had been no time to legally change her name to her husband’s
surname. Why had her uncle booked their passage the day after she had announced her marriage to the prisoner?

  “It is always a bright day when you two are around. But this infernal heat. How I long for my native England.” The governor mopped his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “It is good you’ve come to keep me company. It will take my mind off my sufferings.”

  “Your foot? Is it acting up again?” Claire threaded her arm through the governor’s and patted his hand. “I guarantee your sufferings will be laid to rest while we are here.” Claire maneuvered her cousin to her left to make a united front in case her uncle looked behind.

  The formal bidding began. Sir Jarvis took the lead since he held special office as the largest and only titled planter. “Faith, they are a scrawny lot, not to be much value on a plantation.” He moved up and down the line of prisoners. His contempt of them seen in the set of his shoulders and haughty lift of his chin. “They are in terrible condition. Captain Johnson, I wish to have a word with you.” Jarvis poured over lists that the captain produced.

  “You have first choice, Baron Jarvis, at your own price. Hurry now so the auction may begin for the rest of the planters.” The governor’s high-pitched voice wheedled.

  Her uncle thrust the lists at the Captain and walked the row of rebels-convicts. His cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such tight dealing implied.

  Lily moved to Claire’s side, startling her. “I feel so sorry for him. He reminds me of a lost stray I cared for once.”

  Claire turned to stare at her cousin. Lily normally repressed her feelings. Claire followed her cousin’s commiseration to a fair-haired, young prisoner, his head bent low. Unremarkable at best, he stood under the scrutiny of her uncle.

  “This is awful business,” her cousin whispered. “He doesn’t belong, does he?”

  Claire had no reply for her. She resisted the irrational inclination to release the prisoners from their bonds and tell them to flee. The rational side of her mind realized it was the world of men and their means. Wasn’t she just a woman struggling to find her own freedom? What was the difference?