Easton's Gold Read online

  “Nothing is impossible for the Marquis’s apothecary, you know that yourself.”

  What is going on? Gabrielle’s tongue moves in her parched mouth prodding her toward a clue. The saltiness; Fleet’s look of sympathy, or perhaps guilt, as he left the table; the captain’s weird rambling about how Fleet said he would help.

  A galloping starts in her ears. Like a great herd entering a landscape, this new emotion supersedes her fear, rolling every cloud and tree of her imagination into the same whirling mass of tumultuous energy. At first she does nothing but shrink toward the wall and brace herself, her heart pounding like a hammer.

  The captain lumbers a pace or two forward then halts, arms outstretched, hands splayed in some mute offering. Gabrielle shrinks still further, awaiting the moment. The captain leans forward without taking another step, again lifting his palms to her as though to show her his spiritual wounds. Suddenly Gabrielle flies like a rock from a catapult—one bound and a sharp upward kick. The captain makes no noise at all as he folds and then crumples, knees up to his chest, on the floor. Gabrielle is at the door before she hears his first soft gasp of pain.

  __________

  “SO WHAT WAS THE WHITE powder you gave me before?” Jute asks.

  Fleet busies himself spooning the dried oyster powder into the rag. “A less common preparation. I’d forgotten I had this one.”

  The flame on the barrel flickers with the swaying of the ship, although things have been generally calm since Easton took over.

  “How is the captain getting on with Gabrielle?” Fleet asks, pulling up the corners of the rag and winding a string around the newly formed neck of the medicine sack.

  Jute does not reply. When Fleet looks up at him, he finds the serving man staring rather pointedly, his blue eyes penetrating and oddly forbidding.

  “How do you think he is doing, Mr. Fleet?”

  Fleet picks up the medicine sack and hands it to Jute. Jute doesn’t blink as he slowly takes the string and lets the bag hang from his fingers.

  “Perhaps this one will work better,” he says, tossing the sack in the air and catching it again. “I have personally never heard that sea salt can be used as an aphrodisiac.”

  Fleet tries to give a puzzled frown, but the serving man just smirks and turns to the door. He stops at the cabin entrance and turns.

  “I have served Captain Henley since I was nine, Mr. Fleet, and I will not see him cheated.”

  He leaves, and Fleet hears his footsteps die away. Then, as though in reply, he hears a different set of footsteps clattering somewhere above. There in an urgency in the sound. A moment later they are thumping down a staircase, then running along a passage, all the while getting louder and nearer.

  __________

  GABRIELLE THROWS OPEN THE door and strides into the cabin. She spins to the left. Fleet is leaning over one of the barrels against the near wall. When he sees her, he lets the barrel lid drop and quickly pulls down both cuffs with damp looking fingers. Gabrielle stands breathless, ready to spit the fire on her lips. Only one thing slows her down, a freak effect perhaps, from the bobbing candle flame. For the second, Fleet’s exposed forearms seemed as dark as furrowed earth.

  Fleet now straightens himself, his dark eyes intent and waiting.

  “You traitor!” she gasps at last, her breath still burning.

  “What?” he replies, frowning slightly.

  “You sprinkled a love powder on my meat and then left me with the captain.”

  Gabrielle feels her heels twitch. She had imagined herself springing upon him with words or fists or both, but something holds her back.

  Fleet merely sighs and gives her an odd, knowing smile.

  “I sprinkled salt on your meat and left you with the captain,” he says. “Excuse me one moment.” He crosses the cabin to another barrel, passing right by Gabrielle as he does so. He opens the hatch and begins washing his hands.

  “What?” says Gabrielle, taking a step forward. All the anger has drained from her more suddenly than she would have thought possible. She feels deflated and foolish.

  “Salt,” he repeats, now picking up a rag and drying his hands. “But you’re right,” he continues quietly, his back still turned, “I am a traitor. I was going to betray you, my family, myself, everyone I once held dear.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gabrielle says, surprised by the desperation in her voice.

  Fleet turns around slowly, leans back against the barrel and folds his arms. An inch or two of exposed flesh above his wrist repeats the curious illusion; the skin there is dark as oak. Fleet smiles and gazes down at his folded arms.

  __________

  I’VE BEEN PLAYING WITH THE IDEA long enough. This girl came in here wanting to wound me; once again, her desires are at one with my own. If Gabrielle’s anger can burn a clear path through the maze of lies and confusion, let it be.

  “No,” Fleet finds himself saying quietly. “It wasn’t your imagination. I tried to tell you before. I am not what I seem.” He looks down at the exposed skin above his wrists.

  Gabrielle wavers and comes slightly closer. One hand reaches as if to point or stretch toward him. “You were burned?”

  “Not by fire,” Fleet replies with a bitter smile. Now he locks her gaze in his own. “Gabrielle,” he says, “I am Easton’s son. I am the African child he seeks.”

  Gabrielle continues to stare. She mouths something, but no words come. He imagines the thoughts that must be running through her mind, as her lips twitch and her eyes flit around his face.

  “I have been following him, Gabrielle. Following and watching for years.”

  “But, Mr. Fleet, it makes no sense,” she says, taking another step toward him. “Your arms are an accident of nature. You must be deluded.” She reaches out, her fingertips almost touching the brown skin above his wrist.

  Fleet sighs and circles away from Gabrielle. Her sympathy is too painful. She should be angry like before. He crosses the cabin to the barrel with the snails. “Gabrielle,” he says with a passion—almost an anger—that takes even him by surprise. “I have been suffocating both of us with my lies. Please let me tell the truth and believe me.” He turns to face her again. “Nature made me brown all over, like any other African. I have tampered with nature to change my face and hands.”

  “How?” says Gabrielle. She comes forward again, a tremulous smile on her lips; she clearly doesn’t believe him.

  Fleet pulls open the hatch. A cool steam rises. “The juices of a snail,” he says quietly. “Applied day after day for many months, these liquids will bleach the skin of colour.”

  Gabrielle looks at him and shakes her head. Fleet begins to unbutton his tunic from the top. Gabrielle takes half a step backwards as Fleet hauls the tunic from his shoulders. She stares wide-eyed at his torso. Fleet slips one arm and then the other back through his sleeves and begins to fasten the buttons once again.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he replies, amazed. “Have you tried living as an African in England or France?”

  “No,” says Gabrielle impatiently, taking a step back toward the bed. “Why are you following the Marquis? What are you intending to do?”

  Fleet sighs, turns and lowers the lid on the snail barrel. “My real name is George. He wanted to kill me when I was a baby. He would have killed the woman I called mother and the man who became my father.” He turns around to face Gabrielle again. She is sitting on the bed, the mound of his mother’s skull hidden under the bedclothes beside her. “My father was killed by pirates who came to our Newfoundland shore, my mother and I taken prisoner. We were sold by the pirates not as slaves, but as freaks—an African cannibal woman and her half-caste son. She died. I survived.”

  The candlelight burns in Gabrielle’s dark eyes as she listens. Fleet feels compelled to yield his story as if he were a spinning wheel and Gabrielle a weaver, tapping her foot patiently, pulling every strand together in her hands.

  “Every move I made from the mo
ment of my escape has led me to two things: justice and revenge. I want to break every chain that shackles the flesh of the innocent. I want to murder every man who trades in misery.” Fleet pauses; he notices Gabrielle flinch slightly. “I had to find the man who first made us outcasts. I had to find Easton.”

  “To kill him?” prods Gabrielle.

  A weary feeling comes over Fleet. He goes to the stool and sits. “That was the plan, yes,” he sighs.

  “But you cannot,” Gabrielle says, looking down at her hands.

  Fleet stares at Gabrielle. “How would you know that?”

  “You have had so many opportunities already, yet the Marquis thrives.”

  Fleet sighs and looks away.

  “Don’t tell me you are still waiting for a better chance. Revenge never waits.” Gabrielle is smiling now, perhaps sadly. “The Marquis tried to sell me to the captain, and I convinced myself he was doing it for my own good. Now he is arranging to have me drugged. Yet I cannot condemn him”

  “Why?” Fleet asks feebly.

  “Because we are orphans, you and I. Good or evil, he is the only father either of us have.”

  Fleet feels as though his feet have turned to lead. “I was going to drug you properly the second time,” he mumbles, bowing his head.

  “Of course you were,” Gabrielle says calmly.

  Fleet cannot look at her, but he hears her shift from the bed and come over to his stool. Her shadow overhangs him for a second then descends. He feels first the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, then the prickle of her hair against his cheek. Fleet’s hands reach blindly, touching her hot cheek. Slowly he pulls her to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The moonlight streams through the clouds, scattering its silver kiss over the multitudinous waves. The hiss and whistle of the storm comes from every direction, and the sting of salt water is in my eyes. I hold the wheel steady, and the ship rides forth with a constant, plunging rhythm. I have angled the sails to catch every breath.

  If the young apothecary’s medicine should work tonight, my access to the ship and its crew may be unlimited, and we will arrive on the shores of Newfoundland much sooner than expected. The captain has not appeared since dinner, and my hopes are high. The fool is quite lovesick enough to disappear into his cabin with Gabrielle for the whole voyage.

  The ship plunges once more, and the masts creak under the weight of the pregnant sails. The ocean comes hissing along the deck again, scooping up the man on watch. He tumbles and slides twenty yards along the boards, coming to a thumping halt against the port deck rail.

  “Mind your footing there!” I call. Then I notice he isn’t moving.

  Next time I see the first mate, I must ask for another watch.

  __________

  GABRIELLE COMES AWAKE TO A loud disharmony of creaks and groans; the cabin is rocking. She reaches out quickly and holds on to the side of the bed with one hand and Fleet’s shoulder with the other. Then she pulls herself up into a seated position.

  Fleet groans, wakes and puts his hand around her wrist.

  “There’s a storm. We fell asleep,” she says as though the two facts may be somehow connected. “I should go back to my cabin.”

  “No,” Fleet groans, hauling himself into a seated position. “Stay here. There’s a storm in your cabin too.”

  “I know,” she says, pushing his chin away with her palm, “but there are too many people watching us.”

  She eases herself off the bed and straightens her clothes as she goes to the door. She opens it quickly, feeling a lump in her stomach. The corridor is quiet and empty. She turns and smiles quickly at Fleet, then she steps out of the cabin and closes the door.

  When she reaches the upper deck levels, she sees the scattering of a golden dawn through the portholes. She winds her way along to the three-step ladder, her hip bumping against the side as the ship tips sharply. She runs down the ladder, turns the corner then stops. Seated with her back propped up against her cabin door is Philippa. Philippa turns toward her suddenly and, pushing herself up with her knuckles, tries to stand. But the ship sways to the side, and she loses her balance, falling back into the same seated position. Gabrielle approaches slowly, hoping she will run away as before. But Philippa doesn’t try to stand again. Rather she turns and licks her lips, apparently getting ready to speak.

  “I know it isn’t your fault, Gabrielle.”

  Gabrielle stops a few paces from her. It is the oddness of hearing her name on Philippa’s lips, rather than the incomprehensible nature of her words, that causes Gabrielle to hesitate.

  “What?” she says feebly.

  “I know you must do what the Marquis says,” Philippa says, her gaze darting from Gabrielle’s dress, to the corridor beyond and back again but never raising itself to Gabrielle’s face.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Gabrielle says tiredly, gazing past Philippa’s head to the door handle she longs to be turning.

  “I know that if you are with a man tonight, or any other night, it is because of the Marquis’s plans, not your own free will.”

  Gabrielle’s face burns. It was bad enough being insulted by Philippa. To be forgiven by her now seems even more humiliating. Gabrielle shakes her head. “I did not lie with the captain tonight and will not, whether the Marquis wants it or not.”

  “The captain,” Philippa says, suddenly frowning. “Yes, I know that. He was here looking for you.”

  Gabrielle feels suddenly sick. “What did you say?” she asks.

  “He was here looking for you. The captain.”

  More than ever Gabrielle wants to get into her cabin and bar herself in. She lurches toward the door handle. Philippa cringes beneath her, as though she believes she is about to be struck. Gabrielle turns the handle, pushes open the door and steps over Philippa. She is about the close the door, but the sight of Philippa’s wide-open, terrified eyes staring up at her causes her to delay. She holds open the door and gazes down at the woman.

  “What is it you want from me?” she asks with at least some of the desperation she feels.

  Philippa jumps forward on her knees and grabs hold of Gabrielle’s skirt.

  “Oh, please,” sobs Philippa. “I never hated you. It was never that.”

  Gabrielle bends over, trying to peel Philippa’s fingers away from her skirt. “Don’t, it’s all right, all right.”

  “You’re like the Virgin, just like the Virgin.”

  “What virgin?” Gabrielle says, still trying to loosen Philippa’s hands.

  “Like the statue in the chapel. Your face…everything…”

  Gabrielle remembers the château’s chapel and how all the servants—Françoise, Maria, Jacques, and Philippa—used to pray there together on Sunday mornings, weaving their rosaries through their fingers and mumbling charm-like incantations. All eyes would be on the statue of the Virgin with the solemn, beautiful face.

  “Philippa, I’m not the Virgin Mary, I promise you.”

  Philippa’s knuckles have turned white with the effort of holding onto Gabrielle’s skirts. Gabrielle tries to ease her fingers away again and feels the warm dribble of Philippa’s tears on her own hands.

  “Philippa,” she says gently, and at last she finds the fingers letting go. “There’ll be other statues. You’ll find one wherever you see a church.”

  “It isn’t just the statue,” says Philippa, covering her mouth with her half-closed fists, “not anymore.” She shuffles away on her knees and, as the ship dips sharply again, grabs hold of a rail on the opposite wall. With one more longing over-her-shoulder glance at Gabrielle, she tries to get to her feet and does so at the second attempt. Then she is gone, her body thumping against the wall once, twice, then disappearing from view. Gabrielle hears her running up the three-step ladder and down the corridor beyond.

  Gabrielle closes the door and sighs, looking for something heavy to put up against it. She knows the captain will be back.

  __________

  FLEET DOZES, LI
STENING TO the creaking and tapping of the beams. The bed is still warm from Gabrielle, although she has been gone for some minutes. The rippling blanket feels like water washing him clean. Until last night he was suffocating in the multiple deceits of his own invention. Day after day, and for years, the garments brushing against his skin have been screaming “liar,” but he deafened himself to their protests a long time ago. Now, like a dead man rising, he feels everything with unnatural sharpness. He had been encased in a sarcophagus, and Gabrielle has cracked it open.

  He turns on his back and listens to the woodpecker-like tapping from the beams above his head. But another sound—unwelcome and blundering—interferes; heavy footsteps are approaching. Fleet puts his hand on the dome of his mother’s skull and pushes it further beneath the blanket. He raises himself on his elbows.

  One more footstep—very near. Fleet swings his feet to the floor, pulls his breeches on under his nightshirt and stands, sliding into his shoes.

  The door flies open. It is the captain, his face crimson, his hair damp and steaming.

  “Traitor!” he croaks breathlessly. His bows low like a bull ready to charge; his eyes bulge white and burning around the rims.

  “What’s the matter?” Fleet replies weakly.

  The captain’s chest heaves. “You lying, treacherous whoremaster!” he gasps, trembling with rage. He takes a halfstep closer. “She left here not ten minutes ago.”

  “Calm down,” Fleet says without much conviction. He takes a couple of steps sideways toward the medicine barrels. The captain’s eyes widen even more, and he blunders further forward and scans each of the three barrels to his left.

  “I’ll have you in irons,” he spits, “and I’ll take charge of your medicines.”

  “You can’t do that, Captain,” Fleet says as calmly as he can—the mention of “irons” has pricked his heart into motion. He hears a galloping in his ears. The captain moves closer, and his breath, heavy with sour wine, is overpowering. Fleet has to turn his face away, and then, before he has time to react, the captain’s thick, strong hands are about his neck. Fleet can’t breathe; he can barely even think. His knees buckle, and he is weighed down by the crushing power of the man above him. Fleet’s right hand has a grip on the captain’s left forearm, and he is trying to lever it sideways. But yellow stars are appearing before his eyes.