Passion's Joy (9 page)

"Indeed I am," she admitted. "Tis hard to imagine how the parlors and sitting rooms of the great English houses could have created such a ... a formidable man."

"Ah, very insightful of ye, lass." Bart continued the battle with the damned gnats, trying to figure out how the tiny beasts kept up with the horses. "The truth of it 'tis, Ram has seen precious few parlor rooms. 'E was removed from 'is class at birth."

"Why was that?”

"Oh"—he waved his hand and a marked bitterness sprang in his gaze as he remembered something—"I don't suppose 'tis me place to say, except that thar were trouble between father and son. Lady Alisha, Ram's mum, died at his birth. No one—not me own da even—no one in the whole entire 'ouse'old could do anythin' fer the lad. Oh 'tis a sad tale; strong and willful as Ram be, I don't think 'e would of survived to 'is fifth birthday if 'tweren't fer the sweet blessed Mary."

Joy’s shock stopped Libertine momentarily. "He's religious?"

"Oh, 'eavens no! I mean Mary Seanessy, Sean's mother— ye know, the captain ye saw back in the tavern. Sean and Ram are as close as brothers, raised as such. Mary was jest common village folk, poor and strugglin', but Mary—she owned a 'eart as big and brave as the best. She raised the lad! Imagine it! To this day, no one knows why she took it upon 'erself—not even Ram—save for her goodness. And oh, Mary were not a’ tall afraid of Ram's father. Once I remember 'er givin' the man a tongue lashin', unmindful she was of the consequences. Anyway, 'twas Mary Seanessy who raised Ram with her own Sean durin' the years that Ram's father tried to forget 'is boy lived. Lord," he chuckled dreamily, remembering, "ye never saw two such wild and unmanageable lads. Oh, but they were a terror fer miles around! And poor Mary aged a good twenty years to the day, trying to chase the two of 'em down."

Joy smiled at this, despite herself, imagining the unenviable task of trying to raise two wild hellions. As her curiosity peaked, and with but a tiny prod, Bart provided a brief outline of Ram Barrington's startling history.

Ram Barrington was ten and four years old when his great uncle, Admiral Byron, finally discovered how his sister's daughter's son was being raised, and assumed the responsibility for his welfare. This information held an unnerving coincidence for Joy, though she wisely kept it to herself. The admiral had Ram removed to the proper schools, but only to find he was far too late.

"The lad never even stayed long enough to be expelled, and after three tries, the great admiral took 'is charge directly under 'is wing and onto 'is ships that sailed the waters of the dark

continent in the bloody effort of tryin' to control this. God forsaken slave trade of yours ..." Bart's voice trailed off. Slavery! Yet another horror in this place!

Joy quickly assured Bart that she had naught to do with her adopted country's great evil, though this part of Ram's history brought a flurry of questions. Here Bart disappointed her, for he had not been with Ram upon his voyages, nor afterward, when the Admiral accepted a position in India and they stayed there for two long years. "But that heathen place put the queerest notion in 'is 'ead, I don't mind tellin' ye. Ram struck up friendships among these Muslims and Hindu sepoys— ferocious men indeed!—and to this very day, Ram keeps a friendship with an Indian king." He shook his head, "Imagine Muslim and Hindu friends! We got some as crew, too!"

Having never met a Muslim or a Hindu, Joy could not in fact imagine such an exploit.

The road gradually became busier as Bart told of how Ram's father died and Ram finally came into his inheritance. "He returned to England, or rather Ireland, reunited with Sean. Somehow he got it in 'is 'ead that Sean and 'imself were in need of polishin'. So," Bart laughed, '"E bribed Sean into spendin' four years with 'im at Oxford; Ram's position provided admittance of course, while 'is fortune was more than enough ta keep the promise that if Sean completed the polishin', Ram would give him 'is very own ship." Bart chuckled heartily, slapped his thigh, causing his horse to dance as he recounted this tale. "Sean stayed, while to nobody's surprise, Ram lasted five minutes into the headmaster's first indoctrination speech afore, 'e ups and heads fer the nearest bawdy 'ouse and got 'imself drunk with two pretty loves—" Bart stopped suddenly, remembering who he was talking to, but Joy had been so engrossed in the details of Ram Barrington's life that, to her further embarrassment—as though she hadn't enough mortification!—she forgot to be properly shocked by this. If the truth were known, the bigger shock lay in how quickly they had reached the outskirts of New Orleans.

Bart offered no more of Ram's history, finding a better use for the short time they had left together; he found it necessary to impart his wisdom on the question of wild young ladies, never realizing Joy was of an age where advice went in one ear and out the other, never stopping in between. Besides, after this most awful day of her life, she had far more weighty matters to consider.

After already writing late into the night, Joy skipped her morning chores to seek the solace found only in the pages of her diary.

Dear Diary,

My dearest friend! I am even more distressed now. Every few minutes my panic pushes me to my feet for a fast furious pacing, but finding no outlet, I turn in desperation to these pages.

Finally, the Reverend has returned. Never before have I seen the Reverend turned belly up

—like a cowardly mutt—humbled and meek, and from naught but Lord Ramsey Edward Barrington’s tongue lashing! I begged, pleaded and finally threatened to no avail, for the Reverend insists on confessing to Joshua, which he is doing at this very minute!

How much will he tell? Surely not all! Dear God, please don't let him tell all! Joshua couldn't bare it; the discovery of my duplicity would distress him endlessly, and his health—

I shall not think of that.

Nor shall I think of Ram Barrington's threat to me, the threat that made explicit just what he would do if he ever caught me leaving the house without an escort, let alone dressed as a boy— what business is it of his?— for every time I think of that threat, I flush, jump back to my feet with embarrassment, more indignation and no small amount of alarm.

The one thing I cannot seem to stop thinking about is his kiss. Why oh why did I let him kiss me so? As you well know my dearest friend, it was not my first kiss. Not really. The night of the Beauchamp's soiree, when Joe Campbell's spurs tore my dress as we danced, he kissed me in the garden as he apologized. Yet that chaste kiss was in no way similar to Ram Barrington's!

And why oh why, with everything else that happened, can I think of nothing else? I am beset with embarrassment as I remember that kiss: My face flushes, I feel this queer tingling that forms a knot at the bottom of my stomach and the emotions! Emotions and emotions, I cannot think through them!

That kiss put me on the edge of a knowledge that in my innocence I never really knew. It is the difference between putting the words of a poem to heart and grasping the poetic beauty. The poetic beauty is wonder. I wonder if this is what fuels the physical aspect between men and women

—the sweep of sensation that banishes thoughts, morals, virtue! I wonder if that's why women, especially girl's mothers, make it sound so wicked. I wonder if I have at last discovered why escorts and chaperons are so necessary, if this is why there are such sad creatures as fallen women. For it occurs to me that I would not just have fallen, rather I would have dived into the sweeping currents his lips pressed—

A knock at the door interrupted Joy's fanciful, always dramatic words. The Reverend opened it and stepped inside her small room. She calmly set her quill down and looked up. Still not able to meet her gaze, the Reverend motioned with a nod for her to attend her guardian.

Joy anxiously searched his face for a clue of what to expect. The search revealed nothing but the same uncharacteristic humbled and meek countenance. She rose nervously and walked softly down the stairs into the dark light of the study.

Joshua sat up on the divan, his thin arms rested— shakily, she saw—on his knees. His hands held a cup of the expensive medicinal potion. She met his eyes but briefly, for the disappointment there was punishment enough.

Dr. Joshua Reubens had never been a handsome man. Fairly tall and lean—a man who routinely forgot to eat, his mind pressed so by infinitely more important things—his long thin face, wild red hair, large thin nose and most of all the frightening intensity in the bright blue eyes absolutely forbid handsomeness. One realized at once, though, this was a man of consequence.

He was a rare man indeed. Even as a young boy, he—with some horror and alarm— confronted his vast ocean of ignorance and subsequently developed the desperate need to learn, which his father, a well to do country parson, bookish by nature, encouraged. Knowledge had been the first guiding principle of his life and, over the years of study, there sprung a deep rational belief in man and his science. Just as his older brother turned to the study of languages, he turned to the study of medicine. Yet both his father and his brother imparted a deeper sense of moral purpose, one naked without the guidance of their religious faith, that was until the abolitionist cause.

All this was before the insidious ravishment of the disease. Though he had only met his forty-second year, the affliction had aged him at least ten more long years. Frail and as weak as a kitten most days, his thinned hair lay flattened against his head, his face looked drawn, weary and tired, and the most telling sign was his color. There were days like today, when he had a faint grayish pallor—as though the darkness of the beyond hovered nearby. Joy absolutely refused to see this; she only saw his unchanged eyes, eyes that were alert, serious, intelligent and filled with love for her.

Joshua cleared his throat to speak, coughing weakly as a result. "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

She shook her head, nervously twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

"I have lived too long with the Reverend's mendacity to be surprised by it, Sammy more so, but you, Joy Claret," he said gravely. "I don't know which is more distressing: the fact that you behaved with such great wanting of discretion, propriety and plain sense or the fact of your deception."

A long awkward pause followed.

"Doesn't it matter that my indiscretion helped lead souls to their freedom?" she finally asked in her defense. "Does not the moral purpose negate such a small, insignificant thing as the want of propriety? And Joshua"—her gaze finally lifted—"I did not deceive you—I meant only to spare you worry and concern, thinking of your health—"

"How dare you use my health as your excuse, young lady!" His gaze intensified as his face reddened, and the sudden emotion sent him coughing again. "You did not consult me because you knew I would forbid the undertaking! How far has your own mendacity grown? My God girl, have you learned more from the Reverend than from me?'

She had never seen him so angry, and it frightened her, bringing home the magnitude of her crime as nothing else could. Tears sprang in her eyes, and with a rush of skirts, she fell before him on her knees.

"Joshua, I’m sorry—"

With a heavy sigh, his arms came around her, and for a long tender moment he held her. "My anger rises from my fear, Joy Claret." He lifted the tear-streaked and lovely young face. "Do you know how many deaths I would have to face if you had been hurt? Can you imagine how a man feels when he is too weak to extend protection to those who he loves and cherishes most?"

"But... my absolute safety seems a small price to pay for the good I have done. The Reverend and Sammy need me, and so long as I have Libertine near me, I can always escape. Joshua," she pleaded, "two people are now on their way to Boston because of it! And obviously, I am not harmed!"

"Yes, but thanks only to the most advantageous appearance of one Lord Barrington. The coincidence seems too great to comprehend. Admiral Byron often mentioned his nephew in the long years of our correspondence, and the idea that it was him who rescued you from that place is both a source of great gladness and, admittedly, embarrassment. I can only hope his own correspondence with his uncle does not include amusing anecdotes about a wild, young American abolitionist."

Joy Claret paled, mute with the shock of Joshua's full knowledge; the Reverend had not even spared names and titles! She had of course learned of the connection between Ram Barrington's uncle and her own guardian from the unknowing Bart, but this she had fervently prayed to keep from Joshua.

Would the horror of that day never end?

"The Reverend has already dispatched a note from me to Lord Barrington that naturally cannot express the full extent -of my gratitude. I can only hope he'll accept the invitation accompanying it so that I might have the chance to personally express—"A sudden coughing fit interrupted him, and he missed the growing alarm lifting over Joy's pale features as he spoke. "Naturally, you will send your own note of thanks—" Again he coughed.

Each cough brought her quick pain.

She would not dare tell him why his request was impossible. If not for Ram Barrington's interference, she would not now be the source of Joshua's distress, nor would she now be begging for his forgiveness.

"That however, is the minor point." He recovered somewhat. "The main point is your promise to never take on the danger of actually leading people to their freedom again."

He recognized the familiar spark of rebellion in her widening eyes and it alarmed him. He had seen the exact same spark three short years ago when he had tried to send her back to the finishing school in Virginia, which she had run away from.

"Joy Claret," he said slowly. "I will hear your promise that you will never do this or anything like this again, that you will from this day forward confine your abolitionist practice to that which can be accomplished with quill, ink and paper."

Joy's nod came on the heels of a long hesitation, and Joshua, fortunately, was too tired to notice that the rebellion had hardly left her face. All she knew was it wasn't enough to write long letters to editors that nobody read, even longer letters to congressmen, or to give speeches at garden parties to ladies who were far more concerned with their neighbor's dress than they ever would be with a Negro's suffering. It was in no way comparable to the thrill and joy of loosening a Negro's chains directly. Joshua could not expect so much of her.