Easton's Gold (8 page)

Gabrielle opens her eyes again, giving up on sleep. There is too much going on inside her. Worry and grief are restless like bad digestion. Tomorrow is Sunday, and she will kneel again on the hard tiled floor and hear the coughs and sighs of those around her. Maria and Philippa will whisper to each other and mumble prayers to themselves. Gabrielle understands it all so little. She can't always tell prayer from idle chatter.

The church they go to here is not like the one in Savoy. It is as bare and austere as a barn. No ornamentation, no statues save for the crucifixion. As there is nothing to distract her eyes from the cross, Gabrielle finds the wounds on the slain Messiah's hands and feet burning all the more deeply. She usually imagines that Maria and Philippa are whispering about her. In the past they probably were, but now that seems to be over. At dinner Jacques said something about special sleeping arrangements on the ship. Maria began to giggle, nudging Philippa and glancing at Gabrielle. Philippa abruptly shushed her.

But even if Philippa has ceased calling her “gypsy” or “whore,” the cross will still torment Gabrielle when she goes to church; her ears will echo again with the taunts and accusations which bruised her soul as she raced up the chalky path. She will gaze at the cross with the Messiah and see the white stone nail entering the white stone flesh. She will feel herself tremble with guilt.

__________

I
STAND AT THE WINDOW, AWAITING
the sunrise. The latest draft of powder is the most effective yet. I feel firm on my feet at last and ready for the journey ahead. My view of everything around me is clearer too. As the breeze warms my face and plays with my hair, I sense I have broken open a great mystery. There are two types of energy in the universe: remorse and ambition. These are the forces fuelling the stars that burn above me; these are the powers that move the planets and cause the earth now to tip toward the sun.

I feel like Galileo without a telescope—a blind version ofthat heretic prophet, feeling out truths through intuition rather than science. The darkness whispers its secrets to me, and the strengthening pulse of my body confirms them. Remorse and ambition recalled me to life. Those twin desires now drive me forward.

H
er cabin hardly sways. The only sign that the ship is in transit is the faint creak and yelp of timbers, like far-off minstrels tuning up for a performance. Gabrielle knows it will be quite different when they reach the open water of first the North Sea and then the English Channel. She hardly dares to wonder what it will feel like in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

But this solitude is so unexpected. The joy of having her own room and the relative quiet feel like half-forgotten friends returning to her after a long absence. The bed upon which she now lies is comfortable too. The top blanket is even embroidered. It is as though this small, elegant room with a night table and chair were designed for a lady of standing. The sun, which is sinking to the horizon now, scatters its gold through the porthole, setting the mirror on the opposite wall blinking.

But why have I been given my own cabin
? It seems almost absurd that she should be travelling like an aristocrat. At first she thought the bursar, Sykes, had got it wrong. But he knew the names of all of the servants and brought them all through the maze of stairs, sharp turns, and corridors, dropping first Jacques in a dark, single-hammock cabin the size of a larder, then Maria and Philippa in a tiny space with two bunks, one on top of the other. Maria jumped on the top bunk. Philippa turned, confused, as the bursar gestured for Gabrielle to follow him. She did so, and the two continued, turning right and then tramping up a long flight of stairs. They turned twice more in quick succession then went down a three-step ladder until they came upon this above-deck cabin.

“You must excuse me, lady,” he said as he opened the door and bade Gabrielle enter. “I was told by your master, the Marquis, to treat you no different from the other servants when you were with them. Please let me know if I can do anything to make your stay more comfortable.”

With a courtly bow he was gone.

Gabrielle still does not know what he meant. She doesn't know what Maria and Philippa will think if they catch sight of her room. All that they once accused her of without cause will now seem so plausible she would suspect it herself if she were in their shoes. How could a woman like her—let's say a “gypsy,” the name they used to call her, it's near enough—possibly receive such preferential treatment? There is only one way of which Gabrielle is aware.

She gets up and goes to the window. Beyond the sunringed waves stretches a dark and featureless land—the northern shoreline of the Thames. The great river is opening up to the North Sea. The swaying of the ship becomes more pronounced as she watches. In a day or two, they will be rounding the county of Kent and entering into the English Channel. Gabrielle finds herself smiling and thinks of the adventure ahead. She wonders if the breeze will carry scents from the Normandy vineyards to her cabin, whether she will glimpse porpoises again as she did on the journey north.

But then a familiar worry returns, dampening her excitement.
Will the Marquis survive
?

The apothecary's late arrival gave her a shock from which she has not yet recovered. A few hours ago she was standing on a deck swarming with sailors, sailors' wives, and playing children. A commotion erupted, and a couple of ragged, grim-faced strangers were escorted down the gangplank by a few of the crew. Gabrielle looked all around, scanning the unfamiliar faces milling around the dockside below. She searched each huddled group that seemed to approach the ship, their shoulders laden with sacks, their carts crammed with barrels. Most passed, making their way to other ships. No Fleet.

A new urgency overtook the deck. She saw the captain make a signal. Some barrels resting on the wharf were quickly secured on rope hoops then heaved up the side; a young red-haired man in a blue tunic untied a goat from a post and led it up the gangplank. As the goat trotted up, women and children began to walk down. One or two wives were crying now. Some began to wave at the ship. Sailors waved back.

Fleet was nowhere in sight. Gabrielle could barely breathe with the worry. She went to the Marquis, who stood indomitable, hands behind his back, surveying crew and visitors as though he himself were captain. She tugged at his shoulder.

“My lord,” she called above the hubbub on deck. “He is not here. Please let us not sail without him.”

The Marquis looked down at her and smiled. “My course is fixed,” he said, “I cannot control the actions of other men.”

“But let us get the captain to delay, and I will fetch Mr. Fleet.”

Just then there was a holler, and Gabrielle turned to see that down on the wharf some way distant was a cart with two barrels drawn by a sturdy grey horse. The man beside the horse, signalling the crew, was Fleet. Secured around his neck was a sling holding some round object that bounced against his chest as he walked.

The moment held instant relief, yet now she realizes the episode has made her question the man's character for the first time. Gabrielle stares at the bloated sun and thinks about Fleet, about the curious whiff of mystery that hangs about him along with the scents of powders and roots through which he affects his cures. Why did he leave turning up for such a vital mission until the last second? Is he someone to whom she can safely entrust the health and well-being of the Marquis? She feels ungrateful for even thinking this way. He has, after all, done all she has ever asked of him. And she has more than once felt warmth for him, something that went quite beyond his looks, which are pleasing enough. She wonders how well she will get to know Fleet over the voyage. She imagines how he would look standing in her cabin now, the golden sunlight upon his too-pale skin.

A sharp rap comes at the door. Gabrielle turns from the porthole.

“Come in,” she says quickly.

The door opens and Captain Henley enters.

Gabrielle takes a step back toward the bed and smiles uncertainly.

The captain smooths his palm over his lank hair and then stands motionless, holding his hat like a shield in front of his chest. His pale blue eyes dart around the room, avoiding Gabrielle, it seems.

“Is everything quite comfortable for you?” he asks at last.

Gabrielle sees his feet are restless. Now a thought strikes her.
It is a mistake. I am not supposed to be in this cabin, but he doesn't know how to tell me
!

“The Marquis was quite insistent that your accommodations should be appropriate,” he says, still perplexed. His twitching fingers turn his hat as though it were the ship's wheel. “And I too,” he continues hurriedly. “I too wish to make sure everything is to your best comfort.”

“It is most kind,” Gabrielle replies quietly. “But are you rather not in danger of making me too comfortable? I require and expect very little.”

The captain looks at her strangely for a moment, his brow furrowing. Then he breaks into a smile and nods. “Of course, of course, the Marquis told me about that. Your natural modesty does you credit, if I may say so.”

Gabrielle opens her mouth, but no words suggest themselves.
What can he mean?

A timber groans and there follows a woodpecker-like tapping as the boat sways.

“But anyway,” he says, turning his hat another half revolution and staring down at his feet. “It is my pleasure to invite you to dine at my table tonight.”

Gabrielle's throat tightens, but she manages to smile and give a short nod.
Why would the captain want to have a passenger's servant at his table
?

“I will send the bursar in five minutes to escort you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Gabrielle says hoarsely.

__________

F
LEET STANDS BACK A FEW
paces as Easton raps on the door. There is an answer of sorts, more of a cough than a “come,” but Easton enters and Fleet follows. The cabin is only twice the size of his own, but the furniture is finely wrought—an oval table of some fine dark wood with four elegantly prepared places; a side table with jugs and silver serving bowls; a mantle shelf with polished or painted sea shells; a pair of deep red curtains between two spiral-patterned oak posts, concealing, no doubt, the captain's bunk.

The captain himself stands oddly erect and pink-faced by the dinner table. His hands seem to fidget behind his back. At first Fleet thinks it must be bad news, that the ship has sprung a leak and he is about to tell them. But then he steps forward and extends his hand to the Marquis.

“My dear lord, welcome to my table.”

Easton takes his hand and gives a short bow.

“I thank you, Captain Henley, for your hospitality. May I present Mr. Fleet, my apothecary.”

Fleet steps forward and accepts the hand proffered to him. The formality of the situation has taken him by surprise, and he is further thrown by the curious dampness of the captain's palm.

“Welcome to my ship, sir,” the captain says. “The Marquis's accounts of your cures have already reached my ears. I am privileged indeed to have you at my table.”

Fleet is lost for words and decides to bow modestly and take a step backwards.

The ship sways a little, and a mast creaks. The three men stand close to each other in a triangle. Fleet surreptitiously wipes his palm dry on the back of his breeches.

“We are awaiting your lady guest, I take it?” says Easton.

“Indeed, my lord,” replies the captain, gazing at his shoes and sighing.

No one speaks further, and Fleet notices the captain's forehead is damp with sweat.

Presently footsteps approach from beyond the door. The captain coughs and clears his throat. There is a short rap and the door opens.

The bursar, Sykes, stands aside in the doorway, and Gabrielle enters. Her eyes flit from Easton to Fleet then to the captain.

“Welcome, dear lady,” booms Henley. His face is overtaken by a jovial smile that somehow doesn't suit his features. He bundles past Fleet and Easton and holds out his hand.

Gabrielle seems to wince at his words but returns the captain's smile and puts her own hand into his. As the captain presses her fingers, Gabrielle gazes at Easton, her expression helpless. But Easton merely smiles and turns to look through the darkening porthole.

Keeping hold of her hand, the captain leads Gabrielle to a place on the far side of the table, closest to the cabin wall. Gabrielle takes her place very quickly, grateful, it seems, to be released from Henley's grip. The captain gestures Easton to his place at the foot of the table, and Fleet to his, facing Gabrielle. The captain himself sits, with a little cough, at the head of the table and rings the bell at his right hand.

A red-haired young serving man in a blue tunic enters the cabin and goes to the side table.