Beloved Castaway (6 page)

It was silly, this gnawing fear in her belly, brought on no doubt by the nearness of the infidel Carter and the surprise that her escape from New Orleans would not be made alone. And what of the mademoiselle and her companion? Why had a day so anticipated in the Gayarre and Dumont households ended in an alley where heretics and thieves roamed rather than in the glorious cathedral, home of the wealthy and pious?

And where among this confusion was Monsieur Andre Gayarre, the mademoiselle’s brother? Had he not been betrothed to this woman who now rode among them? Did his hand spill the blood staining the fine lady’s bridal gown?

So many questions.

“Isabelle, how are you faring?” Emilie called.
 

“I am well, thank you, mademoiselle,” she answered.

Isabelle fixed her eyes on the blackness above, preferring the nothingness of the night to the details of the day. It gave her some assurance that while the world seemed to spin in endless circles, ever changing and never certain, the Lord Almighty remained a sure, steady rock on which to stand.
 

The wagon rolled past a neat line of vessels, each bobbing at anchor with mast posts disappearing into the evening sky. Here the docks swarmed with activity, and the chattering of many tongues made understanding impossible. The occasional crash of wood against wood punctuated the constant sound of water lapping against the quay.

The scents were stronger than in the alley or back on Burgundy Street. Rotting timber and humid night air competed with the odor of many sorts of cargo and the stench of unwashed bodies to form a pungent mixture. Above it all hung the thick, wet scent of impending April rain.

Isabelle held her cloak over her nose and stared at the straight backs of the captain and the two mademoiselles while the wagon rolled and bounced over the rutted lane. Beneath the canvas cover, the cargo, presumably her trunk along with those belonging to the ladies, jolted, then shifted.
 

Something soft rolled toward her, and she attempted to push it away. To her surprise, it resisted.

She tried once more, placing the palm of her hand on the widest point of the bundle. This time the valise rolled backward and thudded against something hard.

“Ouch,” a muffled voice cried.

Isabelle started, jerking her gaze to the women. Neither appeared to have spoken, nor did they seem to have heard the noise.

Shaking her head, Isabelle leaned her shoulders against the rough boards of the wagon and took shallow breaths of the rancid air. Obviously her imagination had bested her. Still, she stared at the canvas until the wagon rolled to a stop and the fancy folk began to climb out.
 

“Which vessel is yours, Captain Carter?” Isabelle heard Emilie ask. The captain answered, although what he said came and went before recognition could strike. Through it all, Isabelle watched the covered baggage for signs of life.

It moved. Someone had hidden in the mademoiselle’s wagon. But who?
 

Isabelle reached for the edge of the canvas and lifted it slightly. At the realization of who lay hidden among the trunks, her heart began to pound, and she clutched at the sides of the wagon like a lifeline.
 

She had been followed.

Chapter 6

Mama Dell?” The name fell from her tongue in a whisper barely carried on the last of her breath.
 

Images of years spent with Mama Dell flitted by, each memory just beyond her touch and yet so near.
Walk like this for the gentlemen, Isabelle. Smile for the gentlemen, Isabelle. Above all, keep your silence about the gentlemen, Isabelle.
 

The thoughts ripped a path of terror from her head to her heart, lodging in her belly. A wave of nausea followed as she fled the wagon. Only Emilie’s hand on hers kept her from fleeing the docks.

“Delilah, you may come out now,” Emilie called.
 

Isabelle’s gaze danced from the wagon, to her sister, then back to Mama Dell. “I don’t understand,” she somehow uttered. “She works for
him
.”

Emilie linked arms with Isabelle and turned her away from the wagon. “She never worked for him, Isabelle. She was
owned
by him.”

“But she—”

“When I sent for your things, she returned with them.” The
mademoiselle leaned closer and lowered her voice. “She is a child of God the same as you and me. How could I deny her the wish to accompany us?”
 

“But I’m not the only girl she’s prepared to send off to—”

“Hush,” the mademoiselle whispered as she leaned close and motioned to the dock where the captain stood in conversation with a rather sordid-looking character. “Captain Carter need not know our business.”

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Isabelle watched Mama Dell climb out of the wagon and begin to smooth the wrinkles out of her dark skirts. “But, mademoiselle, she—”

“Isabelle, really,” the mademoiselle interrupted, “we share a common father and a year’s worth of company. Do call me Emilie.”

She lowered her eyes to study the toe of her slipper. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

The mademoiselle placed a finger beneath Isabelle’s quivering chin and lifted it. “Impropriety is what we’re fleeing,” she said softly as the captain stalked toward the gangplank and his gray-haired companion raised a hand to beckon them. “Vi, dear, join us, will you? It appears we shall be boarding the vessel now.”

Mademoiselle Dumont slid off the wagon seat and followed Emilie while Isabelle turned her back on Mama Dell and placed one foot in front of the other. Each step she took, she knew, was a step toward the liberty she would find on the English shore.

She inhaled a deep draft of the rancid air and proclaimed it sweet as perfume. Awful as it was, this would forever be the scent of freedom.

Aptly named for the Catholic’s patron saint of lost causes, the vessel
Jude
rocked at anchor among ships of a higher caliber. Gently tattered in the sails and in need of a carpenter’s care, she rode high on the water with lanterns illuminating her deck and casting eerie shadows through the rigging.

“If you ladies will follow me, please,” the older man said. “We’ve made a place for you below decks.” He cast a rheumy eye at each of them, then shook his head. “Didn’t expect there to be a female population aboard, so don’t go expectin’ nothin’ fancy.”

“I’m sure the accommodations will be quite suitable,” Emilie said. “Please lead the way.”

Again a peculiar scent, the same one she had noted on the captain, assaulted Isabelle. It meant something, this odor, something frightening. Pinpoint daggers of thought jabbed at her, frustrating any attempt at understanding.
 

A fresh breeze blew away the smell and danced around the hem of her cloak and the lace gown beneath. The first fat drops of rain plopped around her as she scurried to catch up with the group boarding the
Jude
.
Two pair of roughly dressed deckhands, scarcely of age to leave home, gave her little notice as they pushed past her to hurry to the wagon and collect the trunks.

Other crewmen of a more advanced age had gathered in a tight knot at the forward bow. In contrast to the four young porters, each of the questionable characters stared openly. Several offered smiles, showing off the gaps in their teeth, while one took the greeting a bit further to offer a formal bow.

Isabelle ignored them as she had been trained to do by Mama Dell.
Your attention belongs to the one who pays for it, Isabelle.

“To work, sluggards! Make ready to weigh anchor.”

Starting, Isabelle turned to follow the sound of the booming voice. A deck above her stood Captain Carter, silhouetted against the sails. His dark hair blew wild in the gusty wind.

“Have you a wish to join them?” he called to Isabelle.
 

Rather than respond, Isabelle hurried to follow the mademoiselles and Mama Dell. The captain’s laughter chased her down the dark hallway and skipped past the little group to echo against the rough wood of the cabin door. Isabelle huddled against the wall and picked her way carefully forward, following the dim light as it disappeared into the corridor.
 

“This way, ladies.” The sailor lifted his lantern to illuminate the way. “It’s a mite small but cozy. I warrant your things will arrive presently.”

The door swung open to reveal a tiny cell, barely larger than the outdoor kitchen behind Isabelle’s home on Burgundy Street. Unlike her kitchen, nothing indicated humans had trod there in ages.

“Really, sir,” the mademoiselle protested as she surveyed the mess, “we cannot possibly be expected to—”

“You’ll be goin’ in without a fuss, ma’am, or it’ll not be pleasant.” He backed up his words with a sudden and surprisingly angry glare, reflected in stark relief against the sickly yellow light of the lantern. His face softened. “Captain says you’re to stay here, and that’s all I know.”
 

The mademoiselle opened her mouth to protest, then obviously thought better of it and wrapped an arm around the Dumont woman’s shoulder. With a nod to Isabelle and Mama Dell, Emilie ushered Viola into the small chamber as if she were striding into the French Theater for an evening’s entertainment.
 

Isabelle deferred to Mama Dell and allowed her to enter next. Before she could follow, the sailor clasped a gnarled hand on her wrist.

“You’ll be a-comin’ with me, lass.” He hauled her backward and slammed the door shut. “Orders o’ the captain,” he added as he turned the key and locked the women inside, then extinguished the lantern.
 

“I can’t see, sir,” she pleaded.

“Ya don’t need t’see.” He gave her arm a tug. “I know where I’m goin’.”

Isabelle followed blindly as the sailor led her by the hand, stumbling on the hem of her cloak as she went down rough stairs and lurched painfully into dark, unseen walls on her journey into what seemed to be the deepest recesses of the ship.
 

Each step forward sent a shaft of fear into her heart, and each obstacle she struck gave her pause to wonder if her companion had become every bit as lost as she. Then she heard laughter, deep booming sounds that shook the very timber of the walls.
 

Ahead, a slice of light appeared in a slender, horizontal yellow line. When her guide stopped short and began to knock, Isabelle realized they’d arrived at a door. The laughter, she surmised, had belonged to Captain Carter. Perhaps his good humor would save her yet.

As soon as the door swung open, she found herself being thrust into the glaring light. All laughter ceased, and once her eyes accommodated the change, Isabelle discovered the reason.
 

Their trunks had been removed from the wagon only to be brought to this room where the contents had been strewn on the floor. One of the sailors, a fellow of middle age and large girth, held one of Emilie’s lace camisoles in the air and waved it about as if it were a flag.
 

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Gayarre.”

Humiliation swiftly passed as anger took its place. If not for the certain peril her complaint would bring, Isabelle would have cried out. Rather, she clamped her mouth shut against the torrent of words begging to be spoken.

Refusing to acknowledge the crude man, she shifted her attention from the sailors to their captain. Seated at a table made of rough wood, Josiah Carter held her small traveling trunk open before him. Another chair sat vacant nearby, a curiosity since the room seemed near to full with people.
 

A feast had been spread before the captain, and it appeared the group had partaken of much of it. Only the captain seemed to wear a hungry look.
 

“You wish to see me?” she asked.
Of course he does, Izzy. You haven’t paid the man.

But the money was in the trunk. Isabelle stared at the ripped lining and knew the coins were gone. Her heart sank.

That same afternoon, she’d carefully filled the lining with the coins that would pay for her passage to England and set the trunk behind the summer kitchen in the courtyard for the mademoiselle’s messenger to find. The rest of her small savings, a pittance really, she’d sewn into the hem of her cloak. All of it had been done just as Emilie instructed.

Even now, with the eyes of the captain and several others watching, she could feel the weight of the coins pulling at the cloak. “You’ve opened my trunk,” she said. “I trust you’ve found the amount we agreed upon.”

To her surprise, Carter smiled. “I would have you properly greet my associate.”

From the ragtag group assembled there, he indicated a dark-haired man of approximately her age. Despite the condition of his clothing, something about him seemed to speak of wealth rather than poverty, and of being ill at ease among the half dozen others sharing the room.
 

“Good evening, sir.” She extended her hand, and the fingers that grasped hers were soft, lacking in calluses as if they’d been covered with gloves much of the time. When he smiled, a row of perfect white teeth spoke more clearly of his rank than his bland greeting.
 

The fact that no names were exchanged had not been lost on her. Isabelle recognized his type; she’d been warned about men like him. Another shaft of fear snaked up her spine and forced itself into her throat.
What if he demands more than coins from you, Izzy? How then will you pay for your freedom?

“May I join my companions now, Captain Carter?” she muttered.

The Virginian spoke a few words in rapid-fire Spanish to the man, and they shared a laugh. Finally, the captain regarded Isabelle with a serious look.
 

“As yet, you and I have pressing business.” He looked past her to the ill-disguised gentleman. “Shall we continue on the morrow?”

The man seemed to consider the question a moment before slowly nodding. Another round of quick Spanish followed; then one by one, the rough crowd drifted into the hallway. The last of their heavy footsteps faded away, leaving Isabelle standing in trembling silence before Josiah Carter.