Easton's Gold Page 3

  An odd, comfortless feeling descends on him as he turns and leaves. He finds his pace quickening, as though propelled toward home. Soon he dodges his way through the still-thickening crowd, bumping against people but pressing on. Someone yells, probably at him, but he continues weaving and jostling his way as fast as he can, feeling in his purse for a penny. When at last the tiny wharf comes into sight, he shouts at the boy he left to guard the boat and throws him the coin. The boy catches it without effort and smiles. All in a single movement, Fleet hauls the loop of rope from the wet post, jumps into the punt, picks up the oar and begins pushing against the muddy bank with it. Once clear of the wharf, he starts rowing hard, aiming farther west than his destination so that the current will carry him in an arc. The yellow crescent moon burns low over the opposite black skyline of roofs and steeples. The sky over the river is crisp blue, and breezes skim along the water’s cold surface. Fleet doesn’t try to make out Easton’s house this time. There is a far more urgent need; the hands that pull at his wooden oar now long for a different kind of touch. He realizes that this is why he has been rushing home.

  Finally he reaches the north bank and pushes into the inlet of Fleet River. He comes to his pier swiftly, as there is no current here. Jumping out, he ties the punt-rope to the wharf. Every texture—oar, rope, wharf post—feels alien to him now. Turning, he nods to the watchman and strides up the wooden steps into the darkness of his street. He takes the long key from his tunic and, with a little effort, clatters the lock open. He pushes the door and thuds it closed behind him. In complete darkness now, he finds the drawer with the tinderbox and begins working for a flame. His hands tremble slightly with the flint, wood, cloth, and candle, but in a moment, the room comes alive under a wavering glow. He lights a second candle with the first and moves toward the shelf.

  Shaking now with anticipation rather than cold, his hands reach toward the shelf. He lets his fingers come down slowly on the dome of the skull and lets out a warm sigh of relief as his hands smooth over the pale ivory surface. Lifting the skull from the shelf with both hands, Fleet holds it to his heart. He remembers the name his mother and father gave him long ago, a name he has since abandoned, and he feels a warm pulse between skull and heart, heart and skull. Less happily, he thinks about the “wonders” and how he missed the chance to keep his promise. He looks down at the skull and remembers how his mother’s features—gaunt, yet kind and wise—once graced the surface of the bone. He grips it tighter so he can feel the hard cranium against his ribs. Then he sends out a simple, one-word prayer. “Sorry.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I have emerged at the surface at last. Salt water is still upon my tongue, and I am overcome with the weariness of a half-drowned man. I am lying on a raft in calm waters, it seems, though how I reached this refuge in a storm so vicious is a mystery.

  Light skims over my face, and I have to raise my hand to shield my eyes. It makes no sense that the sunshine comes in a vertical strip when it should be a bloated sphere. On either side of the light, where there should be an endless blue sky, there is only a darkened interior.

  I realize I have been dreaming. My present life comes to me in flashes: the scrape and roll of carriage wheels on gravel and cobbles—I am in London again; Gabrielle’s smooth, cinnamon skin and the exotic curve of her smile; Jacques’s pink, smiling lips; two whispering maids; the Thames outside my window. In my dream I was aboard my old flagship, The Happy Adventure, being swayed and tossed upon a storm. I dreamed of knives and blood, of a young man’s gurgle as my sword slices through his neck. I dreamed of the rolling cannons and the whiff of gunpowder, of a slave galleon—a writhing mass of humanity, chained, with a thousand speechless eyes.

  I grope the dark space between nightmare and reality, measuring the passage of time—a decade or more must have passed since those days on The Happy Adventure. I am over fifty; no, it’s longer than that. Years multiply like hungry starlings landing on a field of seeds. Before long I can count dozens. No, no, please don’t let me be eighty!

  A sound echoes from my dream, nagging some long stretch of sinew between my heart and my brain. It is the faraway crying of a newborn child—my child. The mysterious cord pulses with each imaginary cry. Soon everything in me aches to the sound; my legs pulse rhythmically each time the baby wails.

  There is something about the crying that’s too painful to remember, yet my dream has unearthed what my thoughts would keep hidden. A knife was intended for the baby’s breast. I could see the dagger clearly in my dream, its handle bejewelled and ornate, its blade curved in the eastern fashion. He was an African boy and no use to me as an heir. The vitality of his blood, I had been promised, would lend years of health and fortune to any man courageous enough to shed it.

  A nightmare, not a memory; it had to be. But my cheeks burn with shame. Don’t deny it! Don’t deny it! He who repents of the mightiest of sins receives the mightiest reward. This memory has been sent from a higher power to test whether I would be strong enough to accept its truth. It is a hoop of flame through which I must jump for my redemption.

  “Yes,” I sigh out loud, “I meant to do it. I meant to do it not only in my dream but in reality.” There is such tenderness in my breast now, such a welling for the child, that I know God must be leading me to forgiveness. Why would I feel such sweet pain if not for a purpose?

  I breathe unevenly under the weight of this passion. Sunlight flickers in my face—a cloud has passed—and I shield my eyes again. It is soon after dawn. The sun must be low and gaining power as it skims over the Thames. It is all a sign: the dream, my heartache, the blinding rays on my face. I must follow where it leads. I must discover the fate of the lost child and find where this penance is leading me.

  The infant was stolen from me almost thirty years ago. I remember a rash young Captain Dawson who slipped away from my ship with Jemma, sister of the child’s mother and, I thought, my own loyal slave. They disappeared into the night carrying my baby with them. It was early morning as my cabin creaked and the dawn breezes wafted overhead. I was waiting for the sun to rise over the crags of Hispaniola when one of my crew broke into my cabin, wild-eyed and breathless with the news.

  “Dawson and Jemma have gone with the baby!”

  I set out at once with fifty crewmen. I followed from the beach to the headland, climbing the swampy hill. They didn’t have a chance. My expert hunters could discern human tracks from the patterns in the dew. We came to a cave, and there, on the very brink of recovering the child, I was called back to the ship. A Spanish fleet had been sighted.

  I had long since discovered the modern alchemy: mingle Spanish ships with musket fire and a liberal draft of Catholic blood, and a harvest of gold will invariably be the yield. I could never say no to this call, nor delay even for an instant. As a monk is to prayer, so was I to open battle with Spaniards. It was dearer to me than life.

  Much later I had intelligence that the child survived. Captain, slave, and infant were outlaws first in the Indies, then in London, and finally on the cold and windblown shores of Newfoundland. The information was nothing to me then, a useless piece of my flesh fallen away in battle. The child could wither or prosper in obscurity, it was nothing to me. I could sire another at my leisure. And I did.

  So why is Providence leading me toward this African child now? And how in the world can I find him after so long?

  __________

  IT’S AS THOUGH NOTHING happened at all last night. Philippa’s eyes are a little red, and it’s a few minutes before she and Maria begin to chatter. By the time they are in the scullery at breakfast, however, the two women are giggling as usual about Jacques, the length of his legs, and other women in the neighbourhood who might have their eye on him.

  Englishmen wear breeches longer these days and show less stocking, a fashion blunder no one had warned Jacques about before he arrived here. Judging from the lively reaction of London women as he walks the streets, it seems his French style is taken as an effort
to entice.

  As usual, Maria enjoys the bawdy talk but goes quieter when Philippa brings up the subject of other women. Maria tries to laugh at this too, but it’s clearly a strain, even when Philippa nudges her under the table.

  When Jacques himself comes in and sits down, Maria gives an audible gasp, straightens herself, and when she raises her warm milk to her lips, Gabrielle notices her hand tremble. Maria throws Jacques a mute, longing glance over her cup.

  Gabrielle has never seen Maria talk more than a few words to Jacques, although she always laughs at his jokes, even the ones that aren’t at all funny. Maria’s potential as an audience is not lost upon Jacques; he always catches her eye whenever he says anything that he imagines is witty. But whether he has any idea of the single-minded energy of Maria’s devotion, Gabrielle has no idea.

  Today Jacques is in no mood for joking. He sees Philippa nudge Maria under the table and Maria blush. He makes a grunting sound and mutters something which includes: “silly women…haven’t got enough work to do…” before clearing his own place from the table and leaving the room. Philippa and Maria start giggling again. Hearing this, Jacques pokes his head around the door and snaps, “Maria, you need to get to the butcher right away. We are out of pork.”

  Maria scuttles out of the room, as happy as if this were a declaration of undying love.

  Gabrielle and Philippa are left on their own. Philippa stares at the unfinished bread on Maria’s plate as though willing her friend’s return. Gabrielle thinks of clearing her place straightaway but knows it will seem too pointed. Both of them remain seated and very still. Finally Gabrielle can bear it no longer.

  “Philippa,” she says suddenly, startling herself as well as Philippa. It could well be the first time she has ever used her fellow servant’s name. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair so hard last night.”

  The air feels like shattered glass, the silence astounding. Philippa doesn’t say anything, but Gabrielle can hear her breathing. She watches while Philippa, still staring at the table, turns beet red. In another moment, her gaze flickers toward Gabrielle. There are tears in her eyes.

  Gabrielle feels utterly bewildered. How did I reach such a state of intimacy with this strange person?

  Philippa looks down at the table again. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quietly. Then, slowly, she stands, takes her breakfast plate over to the kitchen stand and starts wiping it clean.

  The city is alive with constant motion when Gabrielle steps into the street. Everything is in transit: tradesmen, carts, barrels and boxes, donkeys and full-size workhorses, their iron shoes clanking hard on the cobbles. There is a chill in the air, but the sky is clear. Gabrielle feels the kiss of the sun on her forehead as she skips past the reaching hand of an urchin. She dodges in and out of the crowd as she turns into the apothecary’s lane. Was it really him she saw last night, she wonders, thinking of the lone man in a punt, staring at the house at sunset. She would never have put money on his identity, yet she is not mistaken that the man, whoever it was, ducked under the rim of his boat very suddenly and, it seemed, in reaction to her own appearance at the window.

  Gabrielle comes to the door, smiling to herself. She hesitates, then she pushes it open. A small bell rings as she does so. The place is empty and dim, but in a moment Fleet emerges from a shadowy staircase descending into the shop. Peering toward the entrance, he seems to brighten when he sees her. Gabrielle notices that tucked under his arm is the skull she examined yesterday. Fleet strides toward the shelf, giving Gabrielle a tight, embarrassed smile as he lays the skull in its former place.

  “How was it?” he asks gently, turning to her again. There is a warmth in his voice that catches Gabrielle by surprise. It is as though their conversation has not left off from the previous day.

  “He is much improved, but I would like some more.”

  Before she has finished speaking, Fleet has gone behind the counter and is pulling out the drawer.

  “Well, now we know it agrees with him,” he says, taking a larger cloth than last time and laying it on the counter, “we’ll give him a higher dose.”

  Gabrielle nods agreement, but he isn’t looking. She wanders over to the shelves again and looks at the wizened, upside-down crow hanging from a nail on the upper shelf. “What’s that for?” she asks.

  Fleet, who is scooping the powder into the cloth, seems to hesitate for a second. “For sores,” he says, frowning, his eyes still on his work. “Feathers plucked from the bird are arranged on the affected area. It usually heals very well.”

  His discomfort makes him seem mysterious again. Gabrielle thinks about the man ducking out of sight in the punt; she imagines she was at closer quarters and gives the boatman Fleet’s features. Could it have been him?

  She saunters up to the counter. “Why would I need an apothecary for bird’s feathers?” she ventures. “I could collect them myself, couldn’t I?”

  “But you wouldn’t know to, would you?” he replies. Smiling slightly, he bunches up the corners of the bag and begins to tie it. “It’s the knowledge people come to me for, not the ingredients. Nature wouldn’t hide its cures in obscure cocktails anyway. It’s all around. You just have to know what works.”

  She watches the veins on the back in his hands as he ties the bag. He has nice hands, she thinks, nimble and sensitive and, like his face, very pale.

  “You are not orthodox, Mr. Fleet. Is that not dangerous?” She leans with her elbow on the counter and her chin in her palm. Fleet finishes tying the bag and leaves it on the counter for the moment.

  “Who’s to say what’s dangerous?” he says. “Tomorrow danger and safety may change places. The world may be tipped upside down.”

  “You’re talking of religion and war. I am still quite new to England, but I have heard of such things.”

  “There may be dangerous years ahead,” he says softly. He picks up the bag and hands it to Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle takes her elbow from the counter and stands up straight. She takes the bag in her open palm.

  “How much?” she asks.

  “A shilling.”

  “It was a shilling last time, but this is more.”

  “But you’re a repeat customer now,” he replies softly. “I can rely on you.”

  Gabrielle stares at Fleet’s brown eyes, and she feels a curious sensation radiate from her belly to her fingers and toes. For some reason this man seems closer to her than he logically should.

  “Give it all to him and come back tomorrow.”

  Gabrielle holds onto Fleet’s gaze for a moment longer. Then she turns, smiles at him hesitantly and hurries away.

  When Gabrielle enters the room, the Marquis is propped up on the pillow.

  “My lord!” Gabrielle exclaims, running up to the bed. “You are getting better!”

  But already her voice trails off a little. His face is full of anxiety, not joy, and his eyes are red as though he has been in pain.

  “But what is it?” she asks, leaning over him.

  “I have to go to Newfoundland.”

  “What!” Gabrielle exclaims, laughing. Then, seeing the pain and worry in the old man’s eyes, she stops. “But, my lord,” she says, turning now and sitting on the corner of the bed, “you cannot travel again, and not so far!”

  The Marquis gasps for breath as though just holding himself together. “I must,” he stutters, his face reddening. “I must find my son!” His lips quiver alarmingly, and Gabrielle eases closer. “I lost him,” he splutters. “A half-caste boy without money or protection.”

  Gabrielle has never laid her hands on the Marquis before except to move him, but now her arms gently enfold his head. She feels its weight drop like a cannonball into her breast. She strokes his thin white hair and pink scalp. The sobs are stifled at first, but gradually, as the Marquis’s pink, swollen hands grope for her shoulders and take hold, he starts to let himself go. A loud wail rises like a storm from deep inside him. Gabrielle keeps stroking his head as her body is sh
aken by the steady rhythm of his crying. Soon the warm moisture of his tears seeps through her bodice and touches her skin.

  They haven’t said a word since, though it must be two hours since she entered. Now he has exhausted himself with crying, and Gabrielle knows he is ready to sleep for a while. She walks quietly around the bed to the night table, pours water into the cup and unties the bag of powder. She lets the contents fall into the cup. The heaped powder stays on the surface for some time before it begins to get soaked around the edges. Then, like before, it begins to fall.

  “This will make you feel better,” she whispers.

  He stares toward the curtains. “I will have to go,” he says quietly, as though to himself.

  Gabrielle sighs and watches as the medicine begins to foam.

  “You don’t believe me,” he says.

  “Let’s get you better first.”

  She waits another few moments for the foam to increase then hands him the cup. The Marquis’s fingers tremble as he takes the stem. He holds it tight for a second then throws back his head, gulping the potion down in one. He hands the cup back to her and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Gabrielle places the cup back on the nightstand and helps him slide further down the bed. She adjusts the pillow under his head then takes the blanket and smooths it over his shoulders. Just as she is about to withdraw, her wrist is grasped with surprising strength.

  “You must promise me, Gabrielle.”