Beloved Castaway (15 page)

“Some contacts you’ve got,” Jean taunted his son. “Like as not they know more about what goes on in the back rooms and bars.” Andre’s silence told the tale, as did Jean’s cackle of laughter. “Still not able to find that bride of yours, either, are you? Well, she’s aboard, too.”

A moment before the men came to blows, Hezekiah stepped between them. “Settle this tomorrow, gentlemen. Tonight, I shall re-quire the use of your carriage.”

Jean’s brows rose once more. “For?”

“I’m an old man, and I refuse to walk to the Dumont home when you have a perfectly good carriage to take me there.”

Andre shouldered his way past his father and strode to the door. “If anyone is paying a visit to the Dumont home tonight, it is me.”

Hezekiah suppressed a smile. “I must protest, lad. I—”

“You have no grounds to protest. Your son is the cause of this unfortunate situation.” Andre paused to shout for a servant to fetch his hat and cloak. “And I, sir, intend to be the solution to it.”

“As you wish,” Hezekiah said, “but I will accompany you.” When the fool turned to protest, Hezekiah raised his cane. “You under-estimated Miss Dumont, to your disadvantage. I urge you not to do the same with me. Unlike the woman, I will leave more than a mark on your face.”

“A minor misunderstanding, I assure you,” he said calmly. “Once I secure the fastest ship in the Dumont line, I shall catch up to the
Jude
and remedy the situation.”

“How?” Hezekiah said. “By finishing the job you started on the cathedral steps? And do not think you will harm a hair on my son William’s head, for you will not live to hurt another should any injury befall him.”

Josiah, as well, although his fate may best be left to the whims of his heavenly Father rather than to me.

The younger Gayarre ran the back of his hand across his cheek and glowered at Hezekiah. Without a word, he turned on his heels and strode to the door.

Hezekiah made to follow then stopped short to turn around. Jean Gayarre sat slumped in his chair, seemingly studying the pianoforte. “Are you with us, Jean?”
 

The Frenchman shook his head. “Tell my son I’ll have a traveling satchel at the ready when he returns from the Dumonts. It will contain plenty of funds to finance this venture.”

“Of course, but—”

“There’s one more thing.” Jean rose and walked toward his desk, then pulled down the family Bible from the bookcase. “See that Emilie gets this. There are letters inside. She will know to whom they are to be delivered.”

Hezekiah took the Bible and held it against his chest. “Yes, of
course, but aren’t you going to accompany us?”

“There will be no ‘us,’ old man.” The door opened once more, and Andre walked across the parlor to snatch the Bible from Hezekiah’s hands. He attempted to hand it back to Jean. “This is useless aboard ship.”

The elder Gayarre straightened his shoulders and stared at his son. “My mistake, Andre, was in loving you too much to discipline you. That is about to change. Hezekiah can attest that I have already seen to the legalities should I meet an unfortunate illness or accident, or should something happen to your sister.”

Andre looked confused; then amusement colored his features. “Is that so?”

“It is. Go and find your sister, and you will be rewarded handsomely, but only if she returns in good health and with this Bible and the letters it contains.” Jean glanced at Hezekiah, then returned his attention to his son. “You depend on me, Andre. Without me and my money, you have nothing.”

Chapter 13

I
sabelle tore a strip of cloth from a petticoat most would call far too precious for binding wounds, then set the ruined garment aside.
 

A full three days had come and gone, and still the sailors wounded in the fire cried out for care. In the hold, fresh air and sunshine from above met murky darkness. It was a place to which Isabelle had grown accustomed, yet it was hardly fit for the sick. Thus far, not a man aboard the
Jude
had been lost to his injuries, although more than a few trod dangerously close to death’s door. The vessel, near enough to seaworthy to proceed, aimed to the southeast and the open ocean.
 

The mademoiselle’s delicate sensibilities and Miss Viola’s traveling malaise prevented the ladies from attending to the ill for very long, leaving Isabelle and two cabin boys to do the work. The scent that Isabelle had first noticed in the folds of the captain’s cloak was magnified a thousand fold here. She recognized it as the smell of death and the dying; it hung in the air like Mississippi River fog.

She welcomed the mind-numbing exhaustion that came with binding wounds and wiping brows. What Isabelle hated was the suffering she could not ease.
 

Without training or supplies save the meager contents of a box discovered in the darkest corner of the hold, Isabelle found her only recourse to be prayer and distraction. Here, she could forget the bounds of polite society, constraints that only loosely held her even then, and tend to those in need without fear of reprisal.

Counting the number of patients proved fruitless, for as soon as one left, two more arrived. In all, Isabelle estimated two score and ten members of the crew had suffered in some way.

The worst injured of the lot was the obstinate Mr. Banks, who declared in the first hours of their voyage that he’d not be nursed by the likes of a woman. Bad luck, he stated, had followed the females aboard ship, and he intended to steer clear of any worse fate than the busted leg and sore head he’d received.

What Isabelle hadn’t the heart to declare was that the leg he claimed merely busted was most likely ruined beyond repair, and his burns were such that any fellow of a lesser constitution would not have survived. Something about the incorrigible seaman appealed to Isabelle. While his stubbornness might very well be the end of him, he professed a loyalty to captain and ship that could only be admired.

If jumping ship to rid the place of women would bring Mr. Banks and the others back from the brink upon which they now teetered, Isabelle would gladly have taken the plunge. Alas, there was little she could do now save to keep her distance and read the scriptures over each soul who didn’t chase her away.

She cast about for her Bible and found it tucked beneath a coil of rope. There a sliver of light cast a fretwork pattern on the old boards. The words of her heavenly Father beckoned, and Isabelle rested against the ropes to oblige her need for comfort in this most horrible of places.
 

“Are we not yet t’ open water, miss?”

Isabelle looked up and placed her finger over the sixth verse of the fourth Psalm to hold her spot. “You’re speaking to
me
, Mr. Banks?”

The older fellow sent a hard look past her, then added a reluctant nod. “I’m just askin’,” he said. “Don’t make a fuss of it.”

“Forgive me. Yes, we’re more than three days gone from New Orleans. Mr. Harrigan says the Straits of Florida are soon ahead.” Gathering the Bible up along with her skirts, Isabelle moved past the sleeping patients to settle nearer the man’s pallet. “Perhaps you’d like me to read to you.”

He gave her a scornful look. “I’m no babe in the nursery.”

The man’s skin, already pale, had gone ashen, and his eyes wore a tired look. A scowl twisted thin lips. His very countenance dared her to answer.

“Of course you’re not. I merely, well. . .” She cast about for a better way to phrase the statement. “I merely wished to practice my reading skills and wondered if, well, you might oblige me and listen awhile.”
 

Banks looked doubtful. “I’m not much on that sort of thing.” His shuddering breath echoed in the chamber. “I reckon if you read quiet-like you won’t bother me much.”

“Of course.”
 

Isabelle began where she’d left off. “
 
‘There be many that say, Who will shew us any good? Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us.’ ”

“Aye, now, there’s a fine thought.”

She looked up to see the old man’s scowl had softened. “What’s that?”

“The light of thy countenance.” He shook his head. “What does that mean, do ya think?”

Isabelle pondered the proper response. “I’m not qualified to state for certain, sir, but the words give me certain comfort.”

“Aye. Read it again, would ye?”
 

Her throat raw and raked with smoke, Isabelle longed to deny his request. Yet a man hungry for the Word should never be refused, so she complied.

“Enough, sailor. The lass is done with her reading for tonight.”
 

She found the source of the familiar voice at the opening to the hold, a man in silhouette with the lamplight circling his face like an inappropriate halo. The captain’s tone brooked no complaint, and his stance indicated he would bodily remove her should she tarry in the hold.

“Tomorrow then, Mr. Banks.” She gathered her skirts and Bible, then rose. Josiah had not moved, nor had he softened his expression. Well, then, upsetting his good mood would not be an issue.
 

Isabelle knelt once more and set the Bible beside the aged sailor. “Mr. Banks, would you like me to leave this with you?”

The old man blinked hard, then looked up as if stunned. “Truly?”

“Truly.” She laid her hand atop his. “Before I go, may I pray for you?”

“I don’t rightly know.” He rubbed his bald head with his bandaged hand. “Nobody’s ever asked me that, but I reckon it can’t hurt.”

“Miss Gayarre, you’re stalling, and my patience is wearing thin. These men need their rest.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder in a weak attempt to placate the captain, then bowed her head and prayed for the injured man and for the eternal salvation of all those aboard the
Jude
. “Me, as well, please, miss,” she heard as she finished.

Isabelle opened her eyes to see the fellow next to Mr. Banks had leaned up on his elbow. She had thought the man, a victim of a nasty fall from the mainmast, to be comatose at best. Now he smiled.

“Those stories remind me of me mum back in Linconshire, they do.” He swallowed hard. “It’s a fine day when an aching head can see home again.”

“Aye,” another called. “A fine day.”

“Wonderful.” The captain’s boots echoed against the wooden floor. “You’ve turned my crew into babies longing for their nursemaids.”
 

Isabelle looked up to find him towering over her, his boots a mere finger’s breadth from her hand. She’d done it now. Her zeal for the Word had surely caused her to be banned from this place for good.

Please, Father, no.
 

The captain stared down at her for an interminable length of time. As Isabelle grew more daring, she broke her gaze to scan the hold. Every man who’d shown the slightest interest in her readings was now prone on his pallet, feigning sleep.

Except Mr. Banks.

When he caught her staring, the old man had the audacity to wink.

“Father,” she said, eyes downcast, “You say in Your Word that You hear the prayers of Your people. Hear these men tonight, and listen as they pour their hearts out to You. Give them peace and rest. Amen.” She paused, then opened her eyes. All around the hold, she heard the men adding their own amens.
 

Thank You for the words, Father. And for holding the captain at bay.

“Miss Gayarre, I must insist,” the captain said.

“Tomorrow then,” she said as she gathered her dignity and rose. “Please mark any passages that interest you, Mr. Banks, and we shall discuss them.”

Due in equal parts to fear of the captain and her training as a courtesan, Isabelle walked across the uneven boards with a straight back and a smile. The captain might have won this battle, but she had a weapon that Josiah Carter seemed unable to use: prayer.

As she swept past the guards posted on deck, Isabelle’s smile grew more genuine. The men on this ship needed the Lord’s Word; they were hungry for it. Perhaps that need extended to the captain.

She would keep him in the forefront of the Lord’s attention until such a time as he submitted to the Father’s instructions. That settled, she made way to her cabin and her pallet beneath her half sister’s bunk.

By now, Emilie would have begun her evening preparations for bed. Perhaps Miss Viola, as well. Isabelle picked up her pace; she would be needed. Emilie never could manage to brush her curls without snarling them. And Miss Viola would need treatment for her wounds.

“The damage a man can inflict,” she whispered as she made her way slowly down the darkened passage without aid of a lantern.

“I beg to protest.”

The captain again. She turned but caught sight only of his silhouette as he moved toward her.

“The damage a woman can inflict,” he said, closer now.
 

Something touched her. She flinched.

“Take it,” Josiah said. “It’s your Bible. You left it in the hold.”

Isabelle leaned against the wall. “That was my intention, sir. Mr. Banks expressed a need of it.”

“Banks has as much need of it as I.” He fairly spat the words, such was the passion in his voice.

“I beg to differ, Captain.” She kept her voice gentle, tender. “We have all fallen short and have need of the Lord.”

Silence.

Above, the great sails caught a fair wind and slapped against the mast. The boards creaked in protest, and the ship lurched to starboard.

Still no comment from its captain.

“Forgive me if I offend. ’Tis not my intention.” Isabelle paused. “I’m nothing but a woman and a slave, but I am a child of God. He welcomes all who but ask.”

A chuckle. “Ah, lass, if only it were that simple.”

The words, Lord, what are they? How shall I explain?

The ship gave a mighty shudder, and Isabelle leaned into the wall to stay upright. Far as she could tell, the captain never moved; a testament to his life at sea, she supposed.

 
“Again, forgive me, Captain Carter, but it is just that simple. God doesn’t wish complicated sacrifices or special rituals. He only asks that you give Him your heart. Nothing more.”