The Elusive Flame (4 page)

“Oh, mum, this is terrible,” she fussed amid her weeping. Lifting a trembling hand, she wiped at the wetness trailing down her cheeks. “I could hardly believe it, ye bein’ set out o’ Mrs. Winthrop’s house without so much as a place ta go. Mr. Alistair can’t really do that, can he, mum?”

“I’m-m afraid h-he can, Bridget. Mrs. Winthrop’s will gives him that right.” Cerynise touched the maid’s hand gently with icy fingers. The raindrops falling on her face seemed just as frigid. “Y-you must go b-back. No one c-can afford to be dismissed w-without references. Now here…t-take your cloak…and g-go…”

She tried to drag the garment from her shoulders, but the maid shook her head. “Nay, mum. ’Tis yours now, as sorry as it be. Mrs. Winthrop gave me one o’ hers last
Michaelmas. So’s ye see, mum, I’ve got a much finer one ta replace this ol’ rag.”

“Are y-you s-sure?” Cerynise queried, unable to stop her teeth from chattering.

“Aye, mum,” Bridget affirmed, nodding with unswerving conviction. “I might not be able ta leave Mr. Winthrop’s employ, but at least I can send ye away knowin’ I’ve done the best I can for ye.”

“Thank y-you, Bridget. You’re a dear friend,” Cerynise whispered, her eyes once again filling with moisture. “I shan’t forget you.”

Hastily the servant informed her, “Right after Mr. Jasper o’erheard what Mr. Winthrop was plannin’ ta do, he set us ta movin’ yer paintin’s ta the storeroom below the stairs. He said he didn’t care that he’d be lyin’ ta the scoundrel, he was goin’ ta tell Mr. Winthrop the paintin’s were sent ta some gallery or another, an’ that we don’t know which one. Ye’ve gots ta find a way ta get ’em back, mum. Ye’ve just gotta.”

“All of y-you could b-be t-taking an awful chance,” Cerynise stuttered, deeply moved by the loyalty of the staff. “Y-you mustn’t endanger y-yourselves t-trying to s-save them. I-I’m going to the d-docks…t-to…obtain p-passage t-to Charleston, s-so I might n-never return f-for them.”

“All’s the same, mum, we’ll keep ’em hidden for ye. ’Twill be our own revenge for what Mr. Winthrop did ta ye.”

“G-go back n-now,” Cerynise implored, giving the serving girl a gentle push toward the house, “before Mr. Winthrop sees you out h-here talking to me.”

A sob crumpled the maid’s countenance, and in a sudden show of affection, she flung her arms around Cerynise. “Bless ye, mum!” After a moment she sniffed and retreated to meet the other’s gaze through swimming tears. “Ye’ve always been the soul o’ kindness ta us. We’ll count the days till that rascally Mr. Winthrop gets what he deserves.”

Weeping bitterly, Bridget tore herself away and raced back toward the house, her black skirts flapping wetly around her legs, her small feet sending geysers of water splashing upward as she crossed ever-deepening puddles.

Cerynise pulled the woolen hood over her head and huddled deep within the garment, seeking as much protection from the pelting rain as the garment could afford. Beneath it she was already soaked, and with the intensity of the howling wind and the slashing downpour, the cloak would only serve to lessen her discomfort rather than banishing it altogether. Even so, she was grateful for the gift as she made her way along the street, for even in so short a time it seemed that the air had gotten colder.

It was some moments before Cerynise realized that a curious numbness had settled down within her after her confrontation with Alistair. To some degree it cushioned the harshness of her plight, for she no longer dwelt on how cold and miserable she’d be without warm clothing and food. Instead, she kept telling herself over and over again that she could walk as far as she had to. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Encouraging herself with that simple bit of logic, she eventually found herself near the bridge that crossed over the Thames into the district of Southwark.

The storm had gathered over the city, deepening the twilight into a brooding darkness, but in the strange eerie gloom, she could still make out several ships proceeding upriver where they would at some point along the wharves drop anchor. Her eyes flitted toward the distant banks in search of the taller masts which clearly distinguished the seagoing vessels from the smaller fishing boats. Whenever her family had visited her uncle at his house near the waterfront in Charleston, she had been given ample opportunity as a child to view the various sailing vessels gliding through the waters toward the southern port. While Uncle Sterling had fished nearby, she had perched on the wharf with sketchbook in hand, drawing contentedly as he talked to her about the different sailing ships and taught her how
to recognize one type from another. She still remembered much of what she had learned from him.

Memories of that distant city flowed like a deep, surging river through her mind, and in a space of a few heartbeats Cerynise could almost hear the trilling birds nesting in ancient live oaks beside her family’s home, the drone of insects on sultry summer nights, and feel the soft flutter of Spanish moss against her face as she raced through the woods with the joyful exuberance of a child, and ever so much more. She could even imagine that she caught a whiff of honeysuckle and could taste the sweetness of pralines melting on her tongue. However brief those recollections were, she was pierced by a longing so profound that it was all she could do not to cry out in anguish.

Here she was, nearly frozen, exhaustion and grief enfolding her like a sodden blanket, her thin fingers rigid from the numbing cold, having no ken how she would ever obtain passage home now that she was bereft of funds. What sea captain looking at her now would permit her on his ship, much less allow her to sail on it? It seemed a farfetched idea even to her, but she knew that somehow…some way…she must go home.

Obeying a desire so powerful that she could not curb it, Cerynise began making her way across the bridge. Rain had collected in the depressions between the cobblestones, but by now her slippers were so thoroughly soaked it no longer mattered. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, she reminded herself, and eventually she would reach her destination.

The fetid stench of the river intensified as she entered the borough of Southwark. She kept close to the river, walking relentlessly onward until through the deep, stormbound shadows she could make out the lofty masts of larger sailing ships off in the distance. Heartened by the sight, Cerynise quickened her pace, painful though it was to walk with toes aching from the cold. She knew deep down that it was foolish for her to wander this area alone. In the security of Lydia’s coach, she had passed through
the district enough to have become cognizant of a bolder type of women who, along many of the streets and byways, openly offered their bodies to sailors or any man who’d pay out a few coins to be entertained in bed. Cerynise knew that she was seriously tempting fate, for she could be accosted, perhaps even mistaken for a female of loose virtue. But she pushed that cautioning logic aside, regarding it as a luxury she could ill afford.

The warehouses and shuttered tenements that she passed were dark. It was, after all, a place where every candle or ounce of oil was considered precious. The poor would understand her present plight, but they could not help her. It was up to her to find a way to go home. And find it she would!

Cerynise had no real sense of just how far she had come. Her steps had begun to drag wearily as she wove an unsteady path along the bank, but when her foot suddenly caught on something that felt amazingly human, she peered into the shadows beneath an overturned dinghy that had been hefted across two planks.

“What the bloody hell are ye doin’?” a slurred voice snarled from under the craft. “Can’t ye watch where ye goin’!”

Cerynise tried to focus on the small, wiry form that crawled out from under the boat. “Y-your pardon,” she stammered, wondering if it was fear or cold impeding her tongue. “I d-didn’t realize y-you were t-there, sir.”

“Well, I was, see,” the little man retorted peevishly, staggering to his feet. He was shorter than Cerynise, completely bald, ancient if he was a day, and had not a tooth in his head. Yet, for all of that, he was garbed as a seaman.

“W-what w-were you doing d-down there?” Cerynise managed to ask.

The tar fixed his gaze upon her in some exasperation and flipped the hood of his slicker over his head as he hunched within the garment. “If’n ye
must
know, girlie, I was catchin’ a li’l snooze whilst I was waitin’ for me cap’n ta go back ta our ship.”

“I’m-m terribly s-sorry for d-disturbing you, sir. I d-didn’t s-see you in the d-dark,” she answered as graciously as her clattering teeth would allow. Despite the man’s irascibility, she hoped he might be persuaded to help her. At the moment, he seemed her best chance of getting the information she needed. “I d-didn’t h-hurt you, did I?”

“Hurt me? Ol’ Moon, here?” the sailor asked incredulously. Thrusting out his scrawny chest, he hitched up his britches as if tempted to strut for her benefit. “Girlie, it’d take a whale ta hurt ol’ Moon.”

“I’m-m r-relieved to k-know that.”

Much placated by her cordiality, Moon eyed the girl more closely. In spite of her stuttering tongue, she spoke like some of the rich class who came to the ship to which he was assigned to make inquiries about the quality of accommodations. Usually, after viewing them, they went in search of another one. But a blind man could see that this slender slip was several leagues above the sort of women who normally roamed the docks looking for men to entertain. “What cha doin’ out here in the rain all by yer lonesome? ’Taint no fit place for a nice li’l girlie like ye.”

“I-I need passage h-home m-most desperately, and I was t-trying to f-find a ship that w-would be s-sailing fairly s-soon to t-the Carolinas. W-would you happen to k-know of such a vessel?”

“The
Mirage,
for one,” the toothless one replied without hesitation. “She be sailin’ under the command o’ Cap’n Sullivan. I’m his cabin boy.”

“And w-where m-may I find th-this Captain S-Sullivan?”

Moon twisted slightly and jabbed a thumb toward a tavern from whence a wedge of light streamed into the misty darkness. “The cap’n’s takin’ vittles at that there alehouse.”

A mixture of relief and trepidation washed over Cerynise as she saw where he pointed. She was greatly heartened
that her search would be shortened, but dreadfully afraid of entering such a place, for she was not so naive as to believe that sailors only wanted to imbibe in strong libations after reaching port. They would be looking for more lively entertainment, the kind that Sybil was probably well versed in providing. “I d-don’t s-suppose you w-would consider taking me to see h-him, w-would you?”

Moon cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered her bedraggled appearance. He wouldn’t normally have bothered himself for a stranger, but this young girl had evidently fallen on hard times and was suffering severely from the miserable conditions. Then, too, she had a gentleness about her that quickened a long-dormant gallantry within him. “I su’pose I could, seein’s as how ye’re gonna freeze ta death if’n ye stay out here much longer.”

“A-aren’t you c-cold, too?”

Moon rubbed a crooked forefinger beneath his hooked nose and snickered. “Not with me innards feelin’ all nice an’ warm from rum.” Leaning close enough to taint the air that she breathed with a strong aroma of the brew, he beckoned with a sweep of his arm. “This way, girlie.”

Cerynise stumbled along behind him as he tottered unsteadily toward the beacon of light. Upon entering the tavern, she stayed just inside the door while Moon made his way toward the back of the crowded establishment. The din that filled the place made her cringe. Sailors were shouting for service, banging their tankards insistently upon heavily planked tables, while others were talking at the top of their voices in an attempt to be heard over the discord. A few were guffawing uproariously as they made a game of pinching or slapping the bottoms of every serving girl who passed. A small handful of others were muttering in low tones as they idly caressed the strumpets who had nestled near. Carefully averting her eyes from the latter, Cerynise scanned the crowded room for Moon.

The tar was leaning over the hefty shoulder of a man who sat at a table wolfing down food, and though she saw Moon’s lips moving, she couldn’t hear a word he said
above the noise. Cerynise could only assume that it was none other than Captain Sullivan to whom he was speaking. The man was well past two score years with an unruly thatch of graying hair, bushy side-whiskers and a chin stubbled by bristles. He not only resembled a pirate, he seemed as prosperous as one as he flashed a weighty purse and silently bade a serving wench to fetch another pitcher of ale for the men at his table. Finally he glanced around at the tar and inclined his head in a brief nod.

Moon came scurrying back to Cerynise with a broad, toothless grin. “The cap’n’ll hear what ye has ta say now, girlie.”

Barely had Cerynise entered the human maze through which the tar had passed ahead of her than a hand reached out to seize her. With a gasp she managed to sidestep the seaman who grinned back at her with teeth blackened with rot.

“Eh, mates, what’s this the rain’s washed in?” he cried with a chortle, bringing his companions’ attention to bear upon her. “A drowned rat, if’n I e’er saw one.”

“Gor! Don’t look like no rat ta me!” another exclaimed lustily as he caught her cloak and whipped it free of her shoulders, in the process breaking one of the ties that secured it. His eyes steadily brightened into a leer as they swept the soaked gown she wore beneath. “A bit soppin’, al’right, but a real looker, she be!”

“Keep yer foul hands ta yerself, ye horny toad!” Moon snarled, stepping back to cuff the man. “Don’t ye knows a liedy when ye sees one?”

“A liedy?” the tar repeated with a sharp hoot of disbelief. “In here? Oo’s ye tryin’ ta bamboozle, Moon?”

“Ne’er ye mind!” the ancient tar snarled, snatching the lady’s cloak from the man. “I can sees for meself ye ain’t ne’er eyed a liedy afore in yer whole bloomin’ life an’ wouldn’t knows one if she stuck ye in the eye!”

The resulting laughter of those sitting near enough to overhear the insult made her erstwhile admirer glower in
bruised resentment. “Oh, I seen ’em al’right, but their sort ain’t o’ a mind ta be seen in a place like this.”