~ Nine ~
THE LIBERTÉ CHISELED ITS PATH through a choppy bay. Its sails were full with the wind. Its captain, Maurice de Brabant, stood bent over the bulwarks staring at the receding shoreline, now barely visible in the night.
The moon lit up his face and he saw that his men exchanged glances with one another. His sadness was all over his countenance. It was difficult for all of them, he knew. This was his, and because of their loyalty, their last break with France. He had been given no choice in the matter. Robespierre, who he had once called friend, had given his captain no alternative.
Thus, the Comte de Brabant and his men would never return to their homeland. His ancestral home had been savaged and absorbed into another way of life in France. The government had taken the small estate he had as a second son, and thus, he and the people who had always served his family had become homeless as the ‘new regime’ took over.
No matter, he told himself. His home now was in Barbados, well out of the Reign of Terror’s reach. He sighed into the wind. Indeed, he had jumped at the opportunity when his older brother had gifted him with his schooner, Liberté, eight years ago. He had, in fact, relished the idea of creating a life on the tropic isle.
Barbados! His brother had made certain he was granted a charter from the English King to begin a sugar plantation, and he had luckily been successful and his plantation thrived.
When the letters from home, from his beloved brother began slowing down, he had become concerned. He knew what the political climate was in France and he was filled with fear for his brother, his family, and all their close friends.
When he received the news that his older brother, the comte, had gone to the guillotine, he had been devastated. Thus, he lost no time in making sail for France, as he still had a dear and beloved sister in danger. He could not allow her to go the same route as his brother.
As it happened, he and Robespierre had an old friendship—and he was determined when he went before the powerful man. So it was he stood before Robespierre, who held the blade between life and death. He fought for his sister’s freedom, he drew on their long friendship and in the end, Robespierre granted him his sister’s life. One condition had to be met. He and his sister had to leave France forever. Gladly, he accepted. After all, his sister had been made a widow by the guillotine, and both their ancestral homes had already been deeded to the citizens!
He had no choice. He agreed.
Thus, it was, the present comte and his widowed, childless sister, made for the haven of an English island.
What would become of France, he thought as his schooner cut through the sea and into the open ocean.
* * * * *
“Bunky! Bunky!” Heather whispered directly into her companion’s ear as she nudged him. “Wake up!”
“OW…no need to shout,” he grumbled as he ran a hand over his face and then rubbed his eyes.
Heather was beside herself.
They had talked long into the night, telling each other about their lives, their pasts, and their hopes until they had each fallen asleep.
Something, she wasn’t sure what, had roused her.
As she stretched, she realized with a sinking heart it was the slapping of the waves against the hull. The boat was on the move!
“Not shouting, but, Bunky…we are in trouble,” she said on a hushed note.
It was still too dark to see anything in the storeroom, but Heather was certain because of the strips of light filtering through the cracks above that it was day.
Bunky came to life and exploded with, “What the devil?”
Heather smacked a hand over his mouth. “Hush.”
“We are moving!” he said on a groan as she slowly removed her hand from his mouth.
“Indeed, and I rather think we have been for some time,” she said on a heavy sigh. She had lost all control of her life. Nothing she had done had brought her any closer to Godwin.
“Saints preserve us,” Bunky said woefully. “They’ll throw us over, they will. Make no mistake, ‘tis what they do with stowaways.”
“But we are not stowaways. We are here by accident. We can explain it all…oh, Bunky. If we explain that you saved me…that we only wish to get back to England, perhaps the captain will be kind?”
“Nay, ye be daft if ye think that. Ye don’t know the ways of these things. If this is a Frenchman’s yawl, they’ll never set us in Cornwall. What’s more, they might do much what Colin had in mind,” he said, and shook his head. “They might sell us into servitude.”
“We fell asleep. I can’t believe we didn’t get off before we fell asleep,” Heather said, and put a hand to her eyes. She had to be strong. Crying would not help. She put up her chin and said, “Time we faced them above and beg for some mercy.”
“No…they ain’t got mercy in ‘em. Don’t ye see, Miss Heather? They ain’t never had it easy. They give what they got, the seamen. No…no, we won’t see mercy. Not blaming them either. It’s a hard life and they work and work for their bread, they do. I know.”
“And yet you are good and kind,” she said softly.
He shuffled in place. “If I had been good and kind, I would have run towards town with ye when I had ye on horseback…that’s what I should have done.”
“No matter. Here we are and they will find us when they open the hatch for supplies,” Heather said matter a fact. “So, I say, let’s open it ourselves and face them with our story.” Godwin would never find her now. Would she be able to find her way back to him? And if she did, how long would it take? Then there was Sara. Would Sara attempt to murder him if she returned?
“What I suspicion is this, Miss Heather. If this be a French yawl, she may be putting in for one of the islands. We might yet be able to slip away when she docks if we can stay hidden here behind the grain bags.”
“Oh, Bunky, I don’t believe you have thought this out. We can’t stay holed up here for days and perhaps weeks on end. We shall starve…and we need drinking water. We must present ourselves to the captain and pray he is a merciful man.”
“That be a queer start if ever I heard one,” Bunky snorted. “They ain’t merciful…these Frenchmen. Didn’t ye hear what they be doing to their own? Taking their heads off without a care. Danged if I know what we can or can’t do, but I ain’t showing meself any time soon.”
He was adamant and she could see he had made up his mind. She decided to let it go for a bit longer. Sooner or later, his thirst and hunger would ease his resolve.
She waited another twenty minutes as they sat in silence and listened to the seamen above them rattle off in French. They seemed a jolly crew and she tried again. “Bunky…I think these sailors will be kind, and you must be hungry by now. I know I could eat an entire table full of food.”
“The sharks are hungrier…and that is all we’ll end up as, food for the sharks,” Bunky insisted.
Heather sighed and gave it up. She would not go against his will. If he was right, it would mean that she would be the cause of whatever harm was done to them. “Very well. We will try it your way.”
Soon, for the lack of better activity, they both drifted off again and when they next woke, no more light showed through the cracks of the hatch door.
* * * * *
Chaos reigned at Ravensbury Castle. Godwin couldn’t get himself together. Sara wasn’t feigning her injury. She couldn’t walk. Her fall had crippled her.
The doctor came and went, but in the end, he gave it as his considered opinion that her ladyship would probably never walk again.
Godwin’s hate for Sara permeated every ounce of his being, but he was a compassionate man, and this news was a terrible blow.
His plans, his life was over.
He could not divorce Sara now. He could not do that to a disabled woman, no matter how much she deserved it, no matter how much he hated her.
Still, he would find Heather and he would bring her back, and if they had to live in sin, providing Heather did not object, so be it.
As soon as he was able, he made his way to the vicar and discovered not from Heather’s uncle, but from Mabe the cook that Heather had been sent out alone and without very much money.
She would go to the cottage, he thought immediately. Hope rose in him. All he could think was let her be safely at the cottage, waiting for me.
She simply had to be at the cottage. It was with joy that he galloped his horse across the downs to the small creamy colored stone building with its thatched roof.
He jumped off his horse while the animal was still moving and hurried to open the door, but Heather was not there.
Sara, however, had made an error. She had forgotten to dispose of Heather’s portmanteau. Her baggage sat still where she had left it, unpacked and untouched.
He ran his hand through his hair and his thoughts were frenzied. Where was she? Had someone taken her? Footprints in the dust told him that was indeed the case. Who had done this? Where had they taken her?
He went outside and found tracks in the soft earth. A woman’s boot…Sara no doubt, and two men had been here. His beloved had been abducted.
He took to horse, slowly making his paces this time, and was hailed by Farmer Burns, so he stopped for the man, though he was impatient with distress.
“Well, now, yer lordship. ‘Tis that glad I am to see ye.”
“Yes, thank you, how is the family, Burns?” Godwin returned absently.
“Well, they be well, aye, that they be. Wanted to let ye know, I saw her ladyship the other afternoon, riding over the downs toward Land’s End, but she didn’t note me as she passed,” he mused out loud, and scratched his weathered beard.
Godwin turned his head sharply. “You say you saw her ladyship…here…?”
“Aye, going in the very direction ye jest came from…where that pretty little cottage sits. She had two sailors with her,” the farmer answered, and gave him a very direct look. “I had an uncomfortable feeling about it, that I did.”
Godwin’s heart sank in his chest. This confirmed it. Sara had abducted Heather. The information that two seamen had been with her was unwelcome. Had they taken Heather to the port, and if so, what had they done with her?
“Thank you, Burns, thank you,” he said as he turned his steed sharply for home. The port was too large to offer answers without more information. He had to see Sara and get to the bottom of this before he could hope to find Heather.
He was burning with anger, but this time, he was in control. He had no choice. If he was to find his Heather, he needed to think clearly. He made his way up the main staircase to his wife’s room, and there he entered.
Sara was sitting up in bed, reading. She put down the book at his entrance and demanded harshly, “What do you want?”
“Where did they take her, Sara? I know most of it now. You were seen. You might as well tell me the rest.”
She laughed, and her tone lashed with bared claws. “Oh, very well, why not? I should like to see the look on your face when I tell you…because, by now, your precious tart has been bedded by a dozen men!”
Godwin closed his eyes. The meaning of this was not lost on him. Heather had been abducted and sold. His instinct was to kill Sara and relieve his pain. He wanted to throttle her until her eyes bulged. He wanted to pick her up and throw her out the window.
He controlled himself. His hands formed fists at his sides and his voice was low and rasping. “Indeed, do tell me more.” He needed the details if he was to find his dear-heart and bring her home.
“She was taken by Devonshire smugglers to France. There she was sold to a bordello.” Sara eyed him with glee.
Shooting stars took over Godwin’s vision. His precious Heather, carrying his child, subjected to such treatment. Would Heather be forever scarred? He would save her, he would bring her home and cherish her…he would drive the memory of the bordello out of her head. He would go to France and save her.
A buzzing sound drummed in his head. A sensation of nausea threatened, and his powerful legs nearly buckled beneath him. The thought of his Heather being subjected to this treatment was on him. All of it on him. His fault, all his fault.
And then he saw the sneer on Sara’s face. How could he stand for it? It was more than flesh and blood could bear. He took a step towards her and saw fear cross her face. She knew he was going to kill her then.
A small voice, a boy’s voice at his back called him to order, “Sir…sir,” Roderick cried out, and this got to Godwin as nothing else could. Roderick had, until the fateful night he had heard that he was a bastard, always called him papa…now it was always sir.
Godwin loved Roderick, but saw the lost look in the boy’s eyes and was saddened by it. He turned away completely from Sara and touched the boy’s fine head of black curls—gypsy curls, but it didn’t matter. The boy was his son.
He had to get away. If he didn’t, he believed he would actually kill Sara, and that was something he could not do to Roderick. She was an awful mother, but he couldn’t take her away from Roderick.
Godwin left the castle that night. He had but one person he could go to for help. They had been friends since childhood. It was to Captain John Pearson he went to. He stood pounding down John’s door, near to breaking it, blasting his friend’s name for both heaven and hell to hear and bear witness to his pain.
“John, for mercy’s sake, John!” Godwin raged outside the door.
His friend appeared and Godwin broke down.
* * * * *
Roderick was but a boy. He watched Godwin’s departure from the castle with something akin to longing. He adored the man he had believed was his father. Truth to tell, he loved him a great deal more than he loved his mother.
He knew more now, understood more. He heard the servants talking and listened to every word. He realized his father loved another woman outside their home. He knew that his mother had done something awful to that woman—wicked even.
He wasn’t sure what a bordello was, but he felt bad, very bad that his mother had sent this woman against her will to a place his father…who was not really his father, thought was evil.
He had heard it all and had understood a great deal for a boy his age.
He had seen pain on Godwin’s face. Godwin may have called him a bastard, but he still treated him like a son. All these facts swirled around in the young boy’s brain and came to rest in one place. Godwin was a good man who had married his mother and had loved him like a son, but he wasn’t Godwin’s son.
Roderick stared at his mother. His mother was to blame for everything, but she was now helpless and crippled. He had a young boy’s innocence and went toward her to comfort her, hoping to derive some comfort himself. He took on a man’s work that day saying, “It is all right, Mother. He will forgive us.”
She stared blankly at him for a long moment, incapable of understanding what he felt, what tortures he was himself experiencing, and her voice was cold with contempt when it came. “Your father was a gypsy, you need to know that. How dare you wish for Godwin’s forgiveness? You stupid little bastard. Get out!”
And thus, it was confirmed.
His mother had never really loved him. In the past, he had an overabundance of Godwin’s love…and it didn’t matter how little attention he received from his mother. Now, however, he saw a future with a coldhearted mother who did not love him, and hoped that come what may, Godwin would still go on loving him.
His young heart split open and a scar formed as he ran out of the room. He would not let her see him cry. He ran outside and into the weather, brokenhearted, rejected, lost, and a part of who he would be as a man took shape that night.