Dangerous Waters (2 page)

His understanding and his confession brought a lump to Phoebe's throat. Fifteen years ago she had come to this house, to this family, an orphan. Aunt Sarah had gradually taken the place of a mother she could no longer picture. Uncle George had welcomed her, provided for her. That she had been of less importance to him than his two sons, who treated her with the same careless affection they might have bestowed upon a stray kitten, was perfectly understandable. He had always been kind, and this was the only home she could remember. But it was beginning to look as if she had outstayed her welcome. She forced a smile.

“If you have found happiness again, Uncle George, then I'm glad for you. Naturally you will want – When – I mean, how soon would you like me to leave?”

“Dear life, Phoebe! I'm not about to throw you onto the street. For Heaven's sake! Do you really think me so shabby?”

“No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean – I certainly didn't intend to – “

“Yes, well, enough said. We'll talk later.” He cleared his throat. “Now, about dinner tonight. I've invited two guests. Mrs Bishop – “

“Not Mrs Tonkin?” Phoebe asked in surprise.

He shook his head, and his face twisted briefly, half-embarrassed half ashamed. “Martha is a good woman, and I'm fond of her. But there was never any question – I don't know where she got the idea – Truth is, you're right about those children.“ He shuddered. “I couldn't be doing with all that again, not at my time of life. No, it's Carina – Mrs Bishop – who's coming tonight.” He seemed to find his neckcloth suddenly tight and loosened it with a forefinger. “As you know, she never had children. She told me she used to consider it a great sorrow. But since she – since we – got to know each other,“ he cleared his throat again. “Her thoughts on the matter have changed.”

Astonished, then touched as once again colour darkened his complexion, Phoebe was intrigued.

“Carina says,” he went on, losing the struggle to contain both astonishment and pride, “that without other demands or distractions in her life, she's free to devote herself entirely to my comfort. Now then, what do you think of that?”

Her uncle's delight told Phoebe that this was an extremely shrewd woman. Carina Bishop would be aware that William and Joshua, Uncle George's two sons, both in their early twenties and established in the Packet service, were courting. Both would soon marry and set up their own homes thus removing them permanently from the house.

She would also be aware that Sarah had often stayed through the night with a woman in labour, or at the bedside of a sick child until the crisis passed. Returning home at daybreak Sarah would, if George were home from sea, join him for breakfast where they would talk over the night's events. Sometimes after he had left for whatever his day held, she retired to bed to catch up on missed sleep. But often there were other clients to see, or remedies to be made. Sarah had shared her time and her energy between her family and those who sought her help.

So with that one statement Carina Bishop had transformed her barrenness – something once perceived as a failure – into an advantage. Also, without a word of criticism against her predecessor she had made it clear that, for
her
, total fulfilment lay in devoting herself solely to the care of a husband.

After two years' grieving Uncle George had stopped looking back and was beginning to look forward. Who could blame him for being tempted by such an offer? Phoebe couldn't. She moistened dry lips.

“You mentioned two guests, uncle. Who is the other?”

“Oh yes.” He cleared his throat again. “His name's Quintrell, Mr William Quintrell.”

“Is he new to the service?” Phoebe enquired. “I don't recall hearing his name before.”

Rising from his chair George Oakes turned away. Crushing his cousin's letter into a ball, he tossed it onto the fire. Phoebe watched the flames lick, then flare brightly as the paper blackened and fell into ash. “He's not a packet man. He owns a sugar plantation in Jamaica. Built it up from almost nothing so I understand. It's doing very well now, very well. He's been out there over thirty years. I first met him about ten years ago when I was on the West Indies run. But he's not in the best of health. That's why he's come back to Cornwall. Well, one of the reasons. Stroke of luck meeting up with him again. In fact, it couldn't have – Yes, well, I'm sure you'll like him. A very interesting man.”

Phoebe suspected he'd started to say something different but changed his mind. On his way to the door he glanced back.

“Tell Mrs Lynas to do something special for dinner.”

Phoebe smiled. “Of course.” As he went out she stood perfectly still and drew a slow deep breath. So there it was. Uncle George was going to remarry. And Carina Bishop, with exquisite tact, had made it clear she did not wish to share married life or her new home with an indigent relative.

Returning to the kitchen Phoebe wondered why William Quintrell had been invited to join what was, after all, a family celebration. Still, an additional guest would make an even number at table and ensure conversation remained general. Considering the past hour that was something to be grateful for.

Chapter Two

Phoebe sat with her hands out of sight in her lap, the starched white napkin crushed in her fists. Trained by Aunt Sarah never to betray fear or anxiety – for a woman in labour or the mother of an ill child needed to feel reassured, to have confidence in the person helping her – Phoebe maintained her expression of polite interest and somehow kept a smile on her lips.

The meal over which Mrs Lynas had taken such pains had been a great success. Mrs Bishop and Mr Quintrell had both praised the salmon with shrimp sauce, the chicken vol-au-vent, ham garnished with broccoli, and roast fillet of veal all served with a selection of vegetables. The cabinet pudding, lemon cream, rhubarb tart and meringues had also been greeted with exclamations of pleasure.

Phoebe had forced herself to eat, taking tiny amounts from a selection of dishes, anxious that her loss of appetite should not attract notice or comment. Swallowing had required real effort and now the food lay heavily in her stomach. Only pride and stubborn determination kept her back straight and her smile intact.

Watching Carina Bishop lay her fingertips lightly, possessively, on Uncle George's arm as she murmured something to William Quintrell, and seeing her uncle's normally taciturn expression soften in open adoration Phoebe felt anew the shock of betrayal. And under that the first stirring of fear. Mentally she slammed a door on it.
Not now, not yet.
If she allowed herself to dwell even for a moment on –
No. Concentrate.

She could not blame her uncle. She didn't
blame
Carina Bishop. Even William Quintrell seemed a pleasant enough man, if somewhat over-indulgent in his drinking. What cut so deep was the realisation that they had arranged it all between them. Her future had been discussed and planned in considerable detail without her knowledge. Everyone except her had sat down to dinner already knowing what was intended.

Couldn't Uncle George have given her a hint, a clue? Had he feared rebellion? Feared delay or disruption to his future with Mrs Bishop? Did he not know her better than that? How could he imagine, after all his kindness to her, that she would stand in the way of his happiness. But for him to do this…

“Well now, Miss Dymond,” William Quintrell's jovial tones broke into thoughts she was glad to escape. “I have no difficulty at all understanding why your uncle speaks so highly of you. I daresay this evening's news came as a bit of a shock. In truth I'm astonished at my own good fortune. I hadn't expected the matter settled so swiftly. But meeting your uncle again – well, it has all worked out most satisfactorily. Yes, indeed.” He turned the stem of his wineglass, clearly expecting it to be refilled.

“Would you care for a little more wine, Mr Quintrell?” Carina Bishop enquired. The fractional lift of her dark brows signalled her surprise at Phoebe for neglecting her role as hostess. “George?”

Phoebe watched her uncle start, then jump to his feet. Refilling his guest's glass, he paused beside Carina who demurred. He glanced briefly, anxiously, at Phoebe. She gave her head a single brief shake, afraid to accept: afraid the tremor in her hand would reveal the depth of her distress. Topping up his own glass he replaced the bottle on the sideboard and resumed his seat.

William Quintrell drank deeply, released a gusty sigh of satisfaction and addressed her again. “I admire your style, my dear. That I do. I must say I wouldn't have been surprised at a few tears or even an attack of the vapours.”

He would never know. None of them would ever know what it was costing her to deny them such a spectacle.

Carina Bishop clicked her tongue, saving Phoebe from the need to respond. “For shame, Mr Quintrell. You do Phoebe an injustice. She is made of sterner stuff. And, of course, she is very sensible of the compliment you are paying her.”

“Isn't that just what I'm saying?” He turned to Phoebe once more. “To be mistress of a sugar plantation requires very particular capabilities.” He leaned forward, enveloping her in warm wine-tainted breath. “I've heard all about your skill with herbs and such like. And George here tells me you're not afraid of hard work. Not that you'll be expected to do anything that might soil those pretty hands. The slaves see to all that. There were a dozen taking care of the house before I left. But if you want more then more you shall have.” He beamed, making an expansive gesture. “Just remember to keep them on a tight rein. It wouldn't do to let them get the better of you. But from what I've heard you've got more sense than to allow anything like that.”

Phoebe glanced at her uncle. Already flushed from good food and wine his colour deepened. He avoided her gaze.

“You'll be an ideal wife for my son,” William Quintrell stated. “You're exactly what he needs.” He emptied his glass.

Somehow Phoebe managed to hold her smile in place as she silently dipped her head in a gesture she hoped might be construed as modesty. Already her shock was being crushed beneath helpless resignation.

She had told her uncle she could not accept as a husband any man unwilling to allow her to continue her work. And Carina Bishop, her uncle's intended, did not want her included in their new household. A match between herself and Rupert Quintrell resolved both problems at a stroke. It was the perfect solution. Most marriages were the result of family discussion and approval. It wasn't unheard of for the two people most concerned to be unfamiliar with each other.

Nor was there any other branch of the family to whom she could apply for asylum. Uncle George was her mother's sole remaining relative, and he was only a half-brother. Her father's family had disowned their wayward son when he contracted a marriage they deemed beneath him.

So if she was to travel to the other side of the world to marry a total stranger, the responsibility was entirely hers for refusing to accept those earlier proposals. There was no doubt that this match offered far more in terms of wealth and status. And at least William Quintrell approved her skills rather than condemning them.

What would be his son's response? But with an ocean to cross first
would she live to meet him?
She swallowed hard as hysteria bubbled in her throat.

“If I had come back to England when Rupert first took over I would have spared myself a couple of bouts of fever. But I didn't like to leave him by himself. Not until I was sure he could handle it.” William Quintrell's smile radiated pride. “I needn't have worried. In the last couple of years he's expanded the cane fields and almost doubled the production of sugar, rum and molasses. I tell you, Miss Dymond, my son and I have built Grove Hill into an estate of considerable importance. Ooops, I nearly forgot.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a miniature. “Should have given you this earlier. There, that's Rupert. Handsome fellow, isn't he?”

The tiny painting was exquisite. Executed in finest detail it portrayed a dark-haired man with blue eyes beneath thick brows, a straight nose, jutting chin, and a sculpted mouth that curled up at one corner.

“He is indeed,” Phoebe agreed. But as she studied the smiling image the candlelight flickered, and the expression she had interpreted as amusement became sneering cynicism. Her skin tightened in a shiver and she caught her breath. She was being foolish, fanciful. It was just nerves. Which was hardly surprising but
not
to be indulged.

“Do let me see.” Carina Bishop held out a slim white hand. “Isn't it exciting? My dear, I imagine you can't wait to start packing. Such a wonderful opportunity.” Taking the miniature she glanced at it then smiled at plantation owner. “I see your son takes his looks from you, Mr Quintrell.”

“And you have dipped your tongue in the honeypot, Mrs Bishop.” William Quintrell guffawed, his nose and cheeks crimson-veined and shiny.

“As we are all family – or soon will be,” Carina smiled around the table, “I shall speak freely. Phoebe, I think I know how you must be feeling.”

“I beg leave to doubt that, ma'am,” Phoebe said softly.

“No, no.” Carina Bishop was determined. “Were I in your place, I am sure I should be just as nervous. But I'm equally sure that as you think about it you will become ever more aware of the great advantages this match will bring you. Among those at this table it is no secret that the sad circumstances of your arrival into the care of your uncle and aunt mean you are without dowry or independence. Marriage to Mr Rupert Quintrell will instantly elevate you socially and in terms of your financial security. Am I not right, Mr Quintrell?”

“You are indeed, ma'am. She won't want for anything, I can promise you that.”

“And as the island is desperately short of doctors,” George Oakes began, his expression tinged with entreaty. “I have no doubt – “

“Is it?” Phoebe's shock and dismay were momentarily eclipsed by surprise. “But why? I understood there is a Naval hospital – ?”

“Oh, there is,” William Quintrell nodded grimly. “But it's a known fact that the Admiralty staffs it with doctors too poorly qualified to be accepted at Haslar or Plymouth. And of those who survive the voyage out and the risk of yellow fever, at least half will develop too great an attachment to rum.”

“So you see, Phoebe,” Carina said brightly, “your skills will be very much in demand if only on the plantation.”

Survive the voyage out…
Phoebe tried to ignore the sickening surge of fear. She saw the plea in her uncle's gaze for her to
s
ay something, anything.
Running the tip of her tongue between her dry lips she turned to their guest, seeking among the topics of conversation one with which she could identify. “Mr Quintrell, you mentioned that your son had recently doubled production?”

Beneath his embroidered silk waistcoat, William Quintrell's chest swelled with pride. “I did indeed, Miss Dymond.”

“I imagine he would have needed to employ more labour?”

“Employ?” William Quintrell grinned at his host. The lass has a fine way with words.” Shifting his gaze back to Phoebe he nodded. “We – Rupert – has upwards of two hundred slaves now. But don't you fret about the revolt on Saint Domingue.” Though his smile was meant to be reassuring, its underlying anger tightened the skin on Phoebe's arms. “The French managed that very badly, which I'm sure is no surprise,” he was scathing. “But there's no trouble in Jamaica. Nor will there be. For if the slaves
were
foolish enough to try anything, the British soldiers and militiamen would very soon make them wish they had not. So don't you worry your pretty head. As for those other tales,” his dismissive gesture was at odds with the glitter in his eyes. “Rupert made it very clear what would happen if he learned of such doings on
our
property. And you may believe, my dear, my son is not a man to cross, and so the slaves know.”

Phoebe guessed he was referring to the articles that appeared at intervals in English newspapers hinting at devilish practices involving torch-lit dances in secret forest glades, poisonings, and tall poles crowned with dead birds appearing at roadsides.

The first time she read of such things she had asked her uncle what they signified. But declaring he knew no more than she did, nor did he wish to, he had abruptly changed the subject.

Later, Aunt Sarah had told her that before becoming a senior captain and transferring to the Lisbon run, Uncle George had made several voyages to Jamaica. One night, while his ship was anchored in Kingston harbour, the wind had carried the sound of drums, complex hypnotic rhythms that reached deep inside a man's head. The sound had upset and unsettled him. Nor was he the only one affected. The whole crew had been glad to leave.

“You set my mind at rest, sir,” she said politely. “Would I be right in thinking that as well as male slaves you also have women?”

His smile became fixed, and beneath the joviality Phoebe glimpsed a different, altogether harder man. “Naturally. The strongest work alongside the men in the cane fields. Others do domestic work, look after livestock, tend the gardens, and,” he added as an afterthought, “raise their children of course.”

“Mr Quintrell, you must forgive Phoebe all her questions,” Carina Bishop broke in with a trilling laugh and a flashed glare across the table. “Yet what a delight it is to see her interest already so deeply engaged.”

Ignoring her, Phoebe continued as if there had been no interruption. “I ask, sir, because it occurs to me that whatever arrangements were in place for their welfare, or for treating sickness and injury, they must be hard-pressed with such an increase in numbers.”

“
Welfare
?” William Quintrell repeated, bristling eyebrows signalling his incredulity. “These are
slaves
, Miss Dymond. They certainly don't warrant –” He stopped, an arrested expression on his face. “Then again – by Jove, you may have a point there. We're been lucky to get ten years out of each man. Some of them don't even last that long. And there's no doubt that having to buy replacements eats into the profits.” He slapped the table, his good humour fully restored.

“Damme if your uncle wasn't right about you, my dear. You're as shrewd as you are pretty. You'll do very well for my boy.” His bloodshot eyes travelled from the top of her head to her waist. Concealed beneath the table, Phoebe's fingers tightened convulsively on her crumpled napkin. “Yes,” he nodded. “He's a lucky fellow.”

“Do tell us, Mr Quintrell,” Carina leaned forward slightly, her posture intimating fascination. “Were you born in Jamaica?”

“No, ma'am. Rupert was, of course. But I went out to Kingston in '56. My uncle was a merchant out there. He had no children so he sent for me. Wanted to keep the business in the family. When he died of the fever I took over. In five years I doubled our trade.”

“So what took you from trade into production?” George Oakes enquired.