Pretty Poison (2 page)

Chapter Two

Emily rolled over and twisted from beneath bedcovers that had become hopelessly entangled around her legs, her knee slamming into the wall on which the tall berth was bolted. For a moment she was disoriented, confused by the roiling pitch of the ship, by the unfamiliar sound of water lapping against the hull.

Realization came slowly as she pried open heavy eyelids and peered about the tiny, cramped cabin she shared with her maid Tilly.

Her throat felt as if a hot poker had been scraped along the sensitive flesh. Her head pounded to the beat of some far off drum, her temples taking the brunt of the steady tattoo. And God almighty, she’d never been so hot in her life. Surely her skin was slowly roasting, pulling away from her bones.

She tossed her head restlessly on the pillow, hoping beyond hope to find a cool spot on the warm, damp cotton, if only for a moment, a moment in which she might find some relief from the heat that licked at her flesh and pricked her scalp.

“Miss Emily,” Tilly whispered from above Emily’s head. “Let me bathe your face now.”

Emily looked up into Tilly’s pretty, caramel-skinned face, into her warm brown eyes and allowed the girl to bathe her face with a soft cloth wet with lilac water.

“There’s a good girl,” Tilly crooned as she tucked her mistress back under the down comforter.

“I’m going to die,” Emily panted, kicking feebly at the covering.

“Now, now, Miss Em, you been saying that for a week and it ain’t come to pass yet,” Tilly said with a smile. “Your father won’t let you go without a fight.”

As if the girl’s words had conjured him, her father opened the door to the small cabin.

“How’s my girl today?” He’d been asking the same question for seven days.

“I’m dying,” was Emily’s daily reply.

“Now, Em, don’t say such. You’ll not die on me.”

Emily eyed her father, noticing that he came no farther into the room than the doorway. She could no longer smell the stench of sickness that lingered in the room but clearly her father wasn’t as fortunate.

“You’ll be happy to know that we picked up a physician when we made port in Bermuda.”

Emily could have wept at the pronouncement. A physician meant medicine, a respite from the pain in her head, the fire in her throat, the fever she feared was slowly draining the life right out of her.

Dr. Peabody was an odd little man dressed in a garish gold waistcoat and sapphire blue coat, a wilted cravat tied just beneath his chin. As thin as a rail, he peered down at Emily from pale, watery blue eyes, a sort of wistful smile all but hidden beneath a bushy gray mustache. His gray hair hung lanky and oily down over one eye, forcing him to continuously push it back with one gnarled, shaking hand. Whiskers dotted his chin and along his left jaw, as if he’d missed entire sections of his face while shaving.

“Putrid throat,” he proclaimed after peering deep into her mouth.

“Hell, man, I know what ails my girl,” her father replied gruffly. “What I want to know is what you’ve got in that black bag of yours to fix her up right and tight?”

“You’re in luck, my good man,” Dr. Peabody answered with a grin, showing off yellowing teeth. “I’m on my way to Bristol to sell my patented tonic. A cure for near every malady known to man, from the megrim to cholera to—”

“Laudanum, is it?” Charles Calvert interrupted impatiently.

“Not just any variety of laudanum,” the physician insisted. “I have found the perfect combination of essence of poppy, oil of sassafras, ginger root and a touch of treacle.”

“Will it ease Em’s pain?” her father demanded.

“Your daughter will be right as rain this time tomorrow,” Peabody promised.

Emily was not right as rain—not the next day. She did feel a bit better when she awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, the first truly restful sleep she’d fallen into since she’d failed to convince her father to forego this trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Two days later she was well enough to venture on deck, to sit quietly in the crisp winter air, a fur-lined cloak buttoned up to her chin.

Staring up at the gray sky, at the clouds that appeared low enough to reach up and touch, she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that she was on her way to England, on her way to a life far away from everything and everyone she loved.

She’d avoided that truth since the night her father had called her to his study and told her she was to journey across the ocean to marry a man she’d never met, never so much as seen.

Emily hadn’t believed he meant his words, not that night and not in the weeks that had followed. As she’d dutifully traveled to Baltimore for a new wardrobe, as she’d packed up her belongings, as she’d bid her brothers and sister goodbye, she’d honestly believed Da was bluffing. She’d convinced herself he was simply punishing her, giving her a taste of what her future would hold if she did not curb her wayward behavior, if she did not settle down and choose a husband from one of the nearby plantations.

It wasn’t until she’d stepped aboard the
Silent Night
that she’d begun to suspect she was truly in trouble, the sort of trouble from which there was no escape.

Too shocked, too horrified by the truth, Emily had silently followed her father down the narrow steps and into the cabin that was to be her home for the next four weeks. That night she’d cried herself to sleep, her sobs ripping from her throat, her tears soaking her pillow, until exhaustion had finally claimed her.

Now, as the ship sped across the waves, she forced herself to contemplate her future.

What she found was a vast ocean of uncertainty where once there’d been conviction. She’d had a plan for her future, one that did not include fleeing across the sea to marry a stranger. She’d only ever dreamed of remaining in Calvert County, close enough to Emerald Isle that she might continue to work alongside her father in the stables. She’d imagined setting up house with a kind man, of filling that house with laughing children, all of them born of the same mother and father, all of them content in the knowledge of where they belonged in the world.

Now that dream was disappearing with each mile she traveled from home. She wanted to resign herself to an uncertain future, to look upon it as an adventure, to hope that her journey would end with a man who might love and respect her enough to remain true to her. But she was finding it a daunting task to remain optimistic. As the wind whipped through the sails overhead, she imagined her hope, her dreams falling into the wake of the giant ship, bobbing and floating on the waves before sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like so much lost treasure.

Blinking back tears of sorrow and an unfamiliar loneliness, Emily reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled forth a squat glass bottle with a fat cork shoved into the neck. She wrestled the cork out and tipped the bottle to her lips. Dr. Peabody’s patented tonic burst upon her tongue, glided down her raw throat to settle like a heavy, syrupy lump in her belly.

In minutes, she was cocooned in soft, undulating warmth, her head pleasantly woozy and her eyelids heavy. All her anxiety fell away, as if she’d tossed off a heavy yolk. She felt light and airy, untouched by worry for her future. She was at peace for the first time since she’d set off across snowy fields in search of that wily buck.

“Miss Em.” Tilly’s soft voice came to her as if from a great distance though she could see the girl standing before her on the deck. “What’re you thinking about that’s put such a pretty smile on your face?”

“Was I smiling?” Emily asked, her hand rising to trace the smile that lingered on her lips. “I suppose I don’t find things to be quite so terrible up here on deck, with the sun beating down on me.”

“Lord above,” Tilly replied, peering down into her mistress’s pale face. “The sun’s not put on a show for days now. You come on below deck with me before you catch a chill.”

“Just a few more minutes, Tilly,” Emily pleaded even as her eyelids drooped.

“Come on now, Miss Emily, ‘fore it starts to raining.” Tilly took hold of Emily’s hands and pulled her to her feet.

“So bossy,” Emily muttered.

“Now, if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Tilly retorted as she ushered her mistress across the deck.

As they approached the narrow steps leading to the cabins below, a great gust of wind lashed the sails, setting them fluttering wildly, filling the air with the sounds of canvas rustling and metal rigging clanging. The wind rushed over Emily from behind, plastering her cloak to her legs and settling like a heavy hand on the small of her back. It seemed as if that cold sea breeze were urging her onward, not toward her cabin but rather toward the end of her journey.

Emily contemplated the possibility as Tilly assisted her down the steep stairs and into their cabin. Perhaps she ought to heed the wind’s counsel and simply embrace both the journey and the future that awaited her on the other side of the ocean.

“Perhaps England won’t be so terrible,” Emily whispered as the girl tucked her into her berth.

“Now that’s the Emily Ann Calvert I know,” Tilly replied, pushing a wayward curl back from her mistress’s brow. “Ain’t nobody can keep you down. Why, them English won’t know what hit them when they get a good gander at you.”

“And Mr. Avery, will he know what hit him?” Emily asked drowsily as she turned on her side and burrowed her head into the pillow.

“You’re going to lead that poor man on a merry chase, and make no mistake,” Tilly answered around a laugh.

Emily drifted to sleep and dreamed she was home at Emerald Isle, riding Aristotle over the green fields, the wind in her hair, the sun at her back. From behind she heard the beat of a horse’s hooves coming up on her quickly. Turning in the saddle, she saw a man on a great black horse riding toward her. The man was a giant, even from the distance Emily could see that he was tall and powerfully built. His face was tanned beneath a flowing mane of golden hair. A smile bloomed upon his full lips, his teeth flashing white. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew they were brown, a rich dark brown.

Emily
. His voice carried across the field to her.
Emily, come back to me, love.

Emily came awake with a gasp, her heart thundering in her breast, her skin damp with perspiration. She sat up and looked around the dark room.

“Miss Emily, you all right?” Tilly’s voice came to her from below the berth where she slept on a pallet.

“Just a dream,” Emily whispered, reaching for the bottle tucked beneath her pillow and wishing she had remained asleep long enough for the smiling golden giant to catch up with her.

In the ensuing days Emily found herself remembering the dream at odd moments, remembering the smile, the husky timber of his voice, the way the wind whipped his curls about as he rode toward her. Unsettled by the dream man who would never be a part of her future, she resolutely pushed him to the farthest reaches of her mind, until she could not see his face or hear him calling to her.

Life aboard ship fell into a routine that made the long journey bearable, and on occasion even pleasant. She awoke each morning with the dawn, a faint ringing in her ears and a slight headache pulsing at her temples. A quick sip from Dr. Peabody’s elixir soon relieved her pains and had her feeling as if she’d wrapped a soft warm blanket around her shoulders, one that kept all of her fears and doubts at bay.

She had little appetite and happily agreed with her father when he proclaimed it must be the motion of the ship that was unsettling her digestion. Dr. Peabody prescribed a double dose of tonic to combat her stomach ailments and Emily was only too happy to follow his advice.

If the weather was fare Emily spent the mornings wandering around on deck, chatting with the other passengers, watching two small girls play dolls beneath the sails. In the afternoons she played cards with her father, both of them carefully steering their conversation away from any mention of the future, of the reason she’d been made to join her father on his journey. In the evenings, after she’d pushed her food about on her plate, she sat quietly while Tilly read to her.

Through it all, through rough seas and calm, from dawn until dark, Emily sipped delicately from the bottle that had taken up permanent residence in the deep pocket of her fur-lined cloak.

Each night she climbed into bed feeling wonderfully lighthearted and quickly fell into a deep sleep mercilessly free of dreams of a big blond giant with warm chocolate eyes.

Emily and her father arrived in Bristol to be greeted by a late winter snow storm. Fat white flakes fell from the gray sky creating an impenetrable curtain which hid the bustling port town from view. The journey to London was slow, the inns along the way crowded with stranded travelers.

On the third day of their journey Emily tilted her ever-present bottle to her lips only to find it empty.

“Tilly, when we stop at the next posting house, ask if there isn’t an apothecary nearby,” Emily told the girl.

“Is your throat paining you again?” her father asked, looking up from the map of England he was studying.

“My head aches something terrible,” Emily replied without meeting his eyes. In truth she could feel the effects of Dr. Peabody’s tonic dissipating. No longer enshrouded in a warm, hazy nest of contentment, she felt restless and irritable. Worse yet, her mind was beginning to clear, vague thoughts and dim worries swirling about like so much smoke. Soon they would coalesce into fear and anxiety as she was forced to confront the mess she’d made of her life and the unknown future that awaited her.

By the time their rented traveling coach rumbled into the next village, Emily was tapping her booted feet against the floorboards and drumming her fingers against her thighs in growing agitation.

“Land sakes, girlie,” her father muttered as the carriage came to a halt in the muddy yard of a small coaching inn. “You’re like to drive me batty with your fidgeting. Take Tilly and walk off your sillies or I’ll be forced to rent a horse and ride alongside for the remainder of our journey.”

“Sillies?” Emily replied angrily. “You’ve dragged me across the ocean against my will with every intention of abandoning me into the hands of some pompous Englishman and you’ve the nerve, the gall to name by fears silly?”