Passion's Joy (36 page)

"You're not going to faint again, are you?"

Joy shook her head uncertainly. “Though I do seem to be making it a habit around you. I hate it, too," she said in a still shaky voice. "I remember when Madame Peters returned from abroad and told my friend Katie and I at some soiree, 'All the best ladies are doing it! One has only to tighten one's stays till they pinch. Then the slightest distress sends one into a swoon! Oh, it is so tres jeune fille...'" Ram chuckled affectionately and she said, "I don't mean to be such a simpering ninny, truly, but... but—"

"It's different now," he said for her as his hands ran lovingly through her hair.

"Yes. I used to be afraid, of course at different times, but I always felt safe with Libertine. I knew I could escape. Now, I'm so ... so big and awkward, I can hardly bend to lace my boots, let alone get away from anyone."

She looked away with an embarrassed blush, not able to say the rest. There was something about carrying a child that made her dependent and ridiculously helpless. She knew no other words. She needed him in a way that frightened her. She hoped fervently the feeling would leave once the child was born ...

"I will never let anything or anyone harm you, and so you, my love, have the luxury to be dependent. Just for now. The words drew her eyes to him and he was smiling. "And whereas your condition sits uneasily with you, it plays differently with me. I have never found you more beautiful."

He kissed her then, tenderly sweeping a warm rush of desire through her, that different kind of tremor she remembered so well. Just as the kiss would have deepened, she felt a sudden shudder go through his huge body, a tensing. He broke the kiss chastely, looking at her with a question.

How could a single kiss, a relatively chaste taste of those lips, send that force of desire through him, a force that shook him? She was large with his child; her beauty should be shrouded in the halo of the Madonna herself. My God, what did this bode for the not distant future? It would be bad enough just knowing she breathed the air in a distant, far away land, but to have her as his wife spelled certain disaster better named tragedy. What would he do? Would any distance ever be enough? God forbid they ever relive that night!

He could do nothing for now. He could not put distance between them now. Her condition brought out a tenderness and protectiveness he had never known before, and he simply could not hurt her now...

He saw the love in her eyes as she stared back. "God girl," he swore softly and low, "you are indeed my curse."

With confusion and a question in her own eyes, he lifted her off his lap and onto the seat. He gently kissed her forehead, and he clicked open the door, leaving her wondering what curse?

What did he mean by that?

Joy brought the quilt around her, leaned against the side and closed her eyes with a smile. Was it truly possible? After all that's happened, could she possibly hope for a happy ending? Were they to be happily married?

Oh, the agony of imagining she'd never feel his arms, taste his kiss or hear his laughter again! Despite all her fear, despite her determination not to let him see his child, she had always known she loved him, as she knew he loved her. She knew, too, the love was forever; she felt it deeply, playing the innermost strings of her soul. Yet it had hardly a chance to begin...

Once the child was born, once he knew the child was healthy and well, once he was certain of it, then all would be well. He would know his children would all be well both in heart and mind. The old woman prophesied it. Was it hoping too much to imagine many children from their marriage?

She didn't know but put the happy thought aside, content with the deep and sweet longing she felt now, as she imagined—after the birth of their child and she was recovered—a kiss that would know no restraints.

Dear Diary,

We have been out to sea four days now, and this is the first day the seas and weather are calm enough to allow a steady hand put to paper. The storm was fierce indeed the first day of sailing, as the rain pounded the deck and the wind blew like blaring trumpets—the howling seemed so ominous, like a warning to me— and well, I've no real excuse for the sudden panic I felt.

I opened the door to this fierce weather and stupidly braving it, I ran out, searching for Ram. By the time I found him on the upper deck, working with his men to get a sail hoisted, I was soaked. He took one look at me and flew into a rage, lifting me where I stood to carry me back to his quarters, cursing all the way—cursing me and my wits, my sex in general and on and on he went, much like a time I remember so well. My, what a temper he has! Though I have learned, like his men, that if his rage explodes in a verbal thrashing, one is far, far safer than if he controls his anger in that deadly calm of his—a calm that signals certain demise!

Well, I endured his wrath with quiet fortitude and without interruption—this being the best, the only means of handling it. He was wearing only a canvas vest, breeches and boots against this weather, water dripping from his person, the wet clothes and bare skin outlining every carved muscle of him, and I do not pretend to know how he looked so handsome to me then.

Finally, he lost wind, and I was able to ask the question pressing on my mind, the source of my anxiety and panic: "Are you certain we'll reach England in time?"

"Is that what this was about?" he asked calmly enough but while looking as though he might tear his hair out.

I nodded. "My fear came upon my introduction to the ship's surgeon, Bret Holland. He looked like any of the other sixty or so crew members: huge and fit, half naked like a savage. The older man had an unkempt graying beard and hair too long for convention. His shiny dark eyes prominently set against tan, weathered skin. He looked like no surgeon to me, and after but a few well-chosen questions, it was immediately clear that Dr. Holland knows everything about scurvy, broken limbs and pulling teeth, but as he said to me, “You'd better hold your horses my lady, for the only birthin' I've witnessed was Missy, the ship's cat!'"

"Joy, Joy." He placed his hands on my shoulders. "We have two months. The longest it has ever taken my ship to reach England is six weeks and that was with the worst imaginable weather. This weather is in our favor! We should reach England in three weeks. I promise to have you in Barrington Hall a month before your time."

I tried to be reassured by his confidence, but I can't explain my apprehension. I just have this awful feeling…

An orange ball of sun seemed to hover on the distant blue horizon as Ram and Sean followed Bret to the crew's quarters. The older man held up a hand and both Ram and Sean stopped, starring in growing alarm at the man laying in the hammock. His skin held a ghastly pallor, his cheeks flushed with fever and he groaned with delirium.

"Black fever," the doctor said. "The worst kind."

A memory played in Ram's mind. Less than a week of sails, and Joy, already bored with the tedium of sailing, looked up from her breakfast tray and said: "How I miss the fresh fruit of the Orleans' Market."

That was all she said, all she had to say for him to march outside and give orders to the quartermaster to change the bearings and head for a quick stop to the nearest isle where fruit could be got. He was absolutely confident the week's delay would mean nothing.

"God's curse, not now!" Sean was the first and last to speak, because that summed up the situation and the sentiments perfectly.

Dear Diary,

I don’t know what is amiss, but something terrible is happening. First Ram tells me I am not to stroll on deck anymore because of the chilly north wind. Yet there is no chill to the air! It is warm and breezy, as though after all this time we have not sailed far from the tropical waters. Now I no longer see Bart or Sean or indeed anyone, but Ram. He is waiting on me. He brings me food and fresh water at regular intervals, and my, but I could swear he teeters on the brink of exhaustion. Sharp lines are etched on his face, he seems worried and concerned, and I know he is overworked. It is as if his crew has abandoned him.

Ram sidesteps my every question and concern, somehow making me feel foolish for all my worrying. I am offered excuse after excuse, but today the quiet haunting the ship is worse. When I looked out, there were but a handful of men—-Sean and Ram among three others—minding the sails and the tasks. The ship seems to be hardly moving. It is as though his crew didn’t just abandoned their tasks, but that they all jumped overboard. There is now only two weeks left, and if one judged by my size, the child could come any time!

I asked Ram what the black flag meant, worried that he was planning to do some pirating along the way and with me like this! It is the first time I saw him almost smile in long weeks. He said only, "Nay, my lady, there will be no pirating for us." Then he asked me only those endless questions: "How do you feel? Warm? You ate well?" and so on.

"Ram, tell me what has happened?”

"A setback, that's all. The wind and weather, you know. It's certain to change. Don't worry..."

So, still he side-steps my every question. There is another queer thing. He no longer touches me. He never draws near. He sets the tray down, then stands back to stare at me. Now, not with amusement, fondness, desire or any of those things I am used to seeing in him, but with concern. I know what he is afraid of, too; he is afraid he is going to have to deliver his own child! I am afraid, too, for at this rate we will never reach England ...

Joy woke from a particularly long sleep. She mentally prepared her confrontation with Ram to finally discover what was wrong. If he didn’t present a full explanation for the motionless ship, the startling absence of a working crew, she would break her promise and appear on deck to find someone who would explain.

A knock came at the door. She opened it to see John, one of the crew members. He held a tray in his hands.

"Where's Ram?"

"Oh ... ah, he's very busy—what with the queer wind that's turned us back a bit."

This was the newest of the lies they told her—that a queer wind had been turning the ship in circles, and she might have believed it, except, "There is no wind!" She felt dangerously close to tears.

"Well, no wind is a problem, too, you know," he said, still standing nervously at the door. "No I don't know! I don't know anything except that I want to see Ram!"

"Now, now, my lady, 'tisn't—"

Joy pushed past him to the bright sunshine of a beautiful cloudless day. She stopped instantly upon seeing the handful of men milling about in the sun. The men all ceased their activities and stared back at her. She slowly approached one of three men nearest, taking in his ravished frame, his ghostly pallor and she knew.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

The man looked to the others for help. None was offered. For a long time no one said anything. Finally, John spoke in a solemn voice from behind. "Black fever, my lady. Meself, I've recovered now, while a handful of others—yourself included—are the only ones it hasn't hit yet. We've lost twenty-eight men so far. I dare say, we're safe now but you, what with the child—''

Joy thought of the strange splashes—things dropped overboard—she had heard periodically for the last week. Black fever once swept through Orleans. Many people died. Initially the fever lasted about two weeks. Sometimes it returned after a period of recovery, and unfortunately no one survived that second coming. "Ram?"

"He went down last night, after pretending for days he didn't have it."

"Nooo—" came as a whispered plea, and she started running, running as fast as her condition allowed before any of the men could think to stop her. She nearly stumbled down the galley steps, blinded by the sudden darkness. She covered her mouth and nose against the odor there; a terrible foul smell permeated the space. She forced herself onward and pushed down the dark space to the crew's quarters.

She stood aghast. It was a small space for so many men, nothing but hammocks hanging in a chaotic array, trunks arid trunks throughout. Men lay listlessly in the hammocks, each in various states of undress and each in various stages of the fever. Those few men who had recovered, or the fever who had not succumbed, were tending to the dozens and dozens who were in the throes of it. These men were the only ones who noticed her.

"My lady!" One man started toward her. "Leave at once!" "Where is he?”

"He's in the carpenter's room with Sean, but—"

It was too late. She was off and gone. She managed to find the carpenter's room only because the door was open and she heard Ram's voice. His voice was strong and well, and a small gasp of hope escaped her as she stepped in the room. He lay in a bunk, covered with blankets. His face was flushed with the fever, and as she stood there for a moment in pain, she watched violent chills shake him. Still he was awake and conscious, unlike Sean above him, and he sat up on an elbow, instinctively turning to where she stood and said only, "Get her the hell out of here, Bart!"

"No," she said sternly in a voice that alarmed him far more than the fever stealing his strength and health, leaving him as weak as a kitten.

"Bart, you go help the others. Get those men on deck to start cleaning the filth from that room. I dare say that's half the problem right there. Scrub everything with salt water— we've got plenty of that—the bodies, the pots and the floors—everything. Start washing the blankets, too, alternating them till each has been cleaned. Do you understand?"

Bart had been one of the fortunate few who had not succumbed to the disease, and seeing Joy standing there, so obviously well and in control, tore him between immense relief and more worry. "Yes, my lady, but—"

"Where's our doctor?" "Sick with the others, but—" "Is he conscious?"

"Not for some time."

"Are you taking proper measures? The highest fevers need constant dousing and fluids— forced if necessary—while the lower ones need warmth. Is that clear?”

"Yes, but—"_.

"Bart, you're not moving. Don't worry. I'll take care of these two!"

"Over my dead body!" Ram finally spoke after listening incredulously to the onslaught of her instructions. "I said—"