The Bargain (4 page)

"Stop." Precious wrung her hands. Her voice sounded too loud. Clara was delicate and didn't need scolding. "Sorry, Clara."

"Precious, your name is on the crate. It's yours. I don't understand."

 
"The box has my name, but it was Miss Eliza's dress. It can't be mine."

Clara seemed to squint and then looked toward the oil painting of the late Mrs. Conroy, Gareth's Eliza. "Well, she can't use it now. I don't see any harm in you having it. Your chestnut eyes will glow in it."

"Miss Eliza's eyes did. We have the same eyes. But I have to stop wanting things that were hers. It's not right."

Clara folded her arms as her smile faded. "I see. She pivoted fully to the painting. I'm surprised that you haven't moved this back to the mantle in the parlor, the main room in the house."

"Ga…Lord Welling placed it here."

"Well, why don't you put candles about it and pay your respects daily." Clara's tone wasn't sweet. It bore an edge Precious didn't think the lady possessed.
 

"Come on, Precious. Let's get them now. Then you can teach Jonas and me how to be stuck in the past."

Precious pushed at her brow. "You're a widow. You've months before you can go on about your life."

"When I'm able, I may go out in black crepe as proper for a widow, but I won't blanket it about my heart or cut myself off from feeling."

"You don't understand."

"I understand plenty. So does Lord Welling. We've loved and lost, but I believe I can love again. I know he's found love again."

Precious put her hands to her ears. Fire crept up her neck. The scar hurt as if it burned. She stuck her hands in the water again and patted her throat. "He can't love me. He just can't. He doesn't realize what I am."

"I think he does. I think he sees you and your beautiful spirit. Surely, you're not thinking of race? Black and white didn't matter much when he jumped into the ocean after you or when you dove headlong after him to save him from the Xhosa."

Precious wasn't thinking about their difference in skin. Something far worse was branded in her skin. Scars that wouldn't go away.

Clara came down the last step. Before Precious realized it, the woman grasped her hand. "I don't know why you can't let yourself be happy, but you should be happy. No one as loving or as caring as you should keep herself away from love. No memory or claims from the grave can begrudge you."
 

She kissed Precious's knuckles. A wince crossed her face as she did.
 

The baby. Enough of her own foolishness. Her friend needed help. Precious put her arms about her and guided her to the stairs. "I told you, you need to be laying down."

She put her weight on Precious and slowly took the stairs. At the top, she pressed Precious's palm against her big belly. "He's mighty active in there. Hopefully, Lord Welling will be back soon. I hate that he will miss this one's arrival."

The kick felt like a foot. That baby was still pointed the wrong way. "He rode off to a Dutch settlement." Precious's voice croaked on the word settlement. "But he'll be back tomorrow."

"Now you sound nervous. You don't think he'll be back?"

How could she tell her friend? Maybe if she just blurted it out, the knots in her stomach that kept showing up and twisting would finally leave. "He's going to try and stop the Xhosa, but I don't think his head is on straight. He's gonna be reckless."

Clara shook her head and waddled to her door. "You mean he might try to run out in the middle of a snake forest to get rue for me?"
 

Precious wanted to pull her mobcap over her eyes. Instead, she drew back her shoulders. "Yes, I've been reckless. But I had good cause. He needed savin' and you needed rue. Wouldn't you have done so for your husband?"

Smoothing the front of her robe, Clara nodded. "For a friend, I'd like to think so. For my husband. For the man I love, I'd survive just about anything. Is that how you feel?"

Pressured to admit things that she couldn't possess, Precious backed away. "You need to be going and resting. You'll need your strength when that little one starts pushing to come."

"Why is it so hard for you to admit how you feel? Why won't you let him love you?"

Desperate, she bunched her collar and came up with the first excuse she could. "A servant can't love her employer. It's not done."

"It's been done. And I know several governesses who've married their employer or his son and changed their stations. So social class can't be a hindrance. What is the real reason?"

"Woman, open your eyes. I am not like your governess friends. I was enslaved by his wife and by her marriage, enslaved to him. How can I covet his love?"

Leaning on the threshold, Clara lifted her chin. Her eyes closed. She was praying again. Something she did more often and more visibly since that time in her room when Precious broke through her sadness. "You are not enslaved now. I've seen the respect and admiration he holds in his eyes for you. He doesn't see you as less than. And I think he loves you too."

"I didn't do anything to cause it. I didn't lure him to me. I haven't been wanton."

"Precious, calm down. If you weren't so far away, I'd hug you and make you see the truth. You've done nothing wrong. Even when you pretended to be the captain's woman on the Margeaux, neither of you took advantage of the other. Nothing but respect and regard for one another is what I've seen. But this isn't about being property is it? I'm beginning to think that it's not about Miss Eliza. What is the real reason you are terrified of loving the captain?"

Precious bit her lip. Uttering anything about not wanting Eliza's man or dishonoring her friend wouldn't be accept by this wise woman. The truth was far worse.

Clara opened her bedchamber door. "No one could love Jonas more. The debt you feel to Eliza Conroy has been paid. If Lord Welling is in love with you, he's ready to move away from the past. No one can take a heart that's unavailable."
 

She turned, then paused again. "One day I hope to be as lucky as Lord Welling to find love again. To find someone who can treasure me and this child. I think my Mr. Narvel wouldn't want me to be alone. I don't think any true friend would."

Precious watched the door close. Tomorrow, she'd have the cabin boy gather up as much wood as possible to get the water warmed and linens washed. That baby would be coming soon. Hopefully, he would turn and make his debut without a fuss.

Taking a few steps, Precious' slippers slowed. She started thinking again on Jonas's birth and how it drained the life from Eliza. She couldn't let that happen to Clara. But how?

Head aching, filled with doubts, she sank and stared at her reflection in the wall mirror. Quivering lips and wet eyes met her gaze. Pitiful.

If she'd seen a thief or husband stealer in the mirror, then maybe the turmoil in her gut might just calm, but the reflection of a girl with scars on her neck poorly hidden by braids reminded her of what she was. These were the visible marks, nothing to the ones hidden about her. Eliza put balm on them, and took her to England to save her from more pain. Loving Jonas, maybe that debt was paid. But Precious's innards still felt bankrupt.

She put her face into her hands, and wept. Hot tears dumped against her palms as she tried to muffle her whimpers with her roughed skin. She was still those hidden scars. Gareth's proposal hadn't changed that. Nothing ever would.

Pressing closer to the Dutch settlement, Gareth slowed his horse. He'd spent too much time in Bethelsdorp. The little mission village with the rows of whitewashed almshouses seemed like the perfect place to hide the chief. Conversing with the locals, he heard more Irish and Spanish tongues than he had in a long time. The small plaque on the last row of pews in the
Van Der Kemps Kloof Church
was etched with the name Joseph Conroy, The Baron Welling. It reminded Gareth of his uncle's influence and how hard he'd worked at bringing different sides together for the good of this land. What would his uncle say now, with the peace threatened, and everything about to be lost?

The gong of a bell, probably the brass one hanging in the middle of the village filled the quiet. What did it announce? Prayer, a worship service, maybe a babe's birth? He'd never figure it out, but his mind was still there, listening and watching the missionaries.

Gareth knew the reasons he risked all, the need to make his uncle's work live on, the legacy of blood that pushed his uncle, now sat squarely on him, squeezing at his chest. But what drove these missionaries?

Converting the Xhosa to faith, as well as being a place for all the foreigners to stop along the coast and renew before journeying further inland touched him, more deeply than it should. Failing held dire consequences. He knew in his bones, the Xhosa wouldn't stop at punishing Port Elizabeth. Their new leader, Bezile, wanted all foreigners dumped into Angola Bay. He would turn his wrath to these people. Gareth had Fort Frederick and cannons to protect the colonists for a few hours against an onslaught. What did Bethelsdorp have? Almshouses and prayer? A brass plaque to a man long gone?

He sunk in his saddle and waited for the last toll to fade. An hour or two later, his concentration hadn't returned. With the sun lowering more and more, he might as well break for camp. He pulled at the reigns, made his mount stop and then jumped down. Leading the gelding to a grassy patch and tying him to a tree overlooking a river, he saw the midden pile and allowed himself to smile. Some person, either Xhosa or Strandloper had bedded in this spot and used the midden to dump shells, making an outdoor kitchen for abalone and crayfish. This was as good a place as any to get a few hours of sleep and start again fresh in pursuit of the missing Xhosa.

He spread out his bedroll and kicked a pink shell out of the way. Precious wouldn't like this outdoor kitchen with untidy shells. The orderly miss always had things in its place.

 
He rubbed at his face, released a frustrating grunt for thinking about the stubborn woman then started a fire. He cocked his head, and turned toward his gelding. "Hey boy, do you still think about mares? Maybe that one stubborn one, boy."

The horse ignored him, munching on the wild brown grasses.

As the fire blazed, he settled on to his bundle. Tugging on a blade of tall grass, he stared at the night sky. It was beautiful. Diamonds lit the dark strands of deep blue and purple. Oh, how his uncle loved this place. The man saw hope in the faces of the colonists and the tribes he negotiated.

His sturdy horse nibbled dry brown brush and edged closer to the water. Gareth couldn't blame him. The swirling noise of the river sounded peaceful. His own eyes grew heavier. Yet, if he closed them what would he see?
 

Precious's quivering lips trying not to show fear.

Or worse. Eliza. Would she approve of Precious taking her place, having the title she so craved but never claimed? A bitter chuckle sputtered from deep inside. No, that woman wouldn't want to give anyone anything that she felt was hers. Yet, she entrusted Jonas to Precious. What was the bond? Was it really Marsdale blood that threaded them together in this mashed up tapestry? Or was it something worse, something that transcended station, slave and slave mistress?
 

And how could he break it? What would he have to do or say to help the blasted jewel of a lady experience true freedom?

He was one to talk.

What could Gareth say of true freedom, when fear of acceptance kept him from being vulnerable to those he should trust? His mistrust had led him to alienate his own son. A debt he didn't know how he would ever repay.

Folding his arms behind his head, he pulled at his jacket. The letter from his uncle tumbled out. Luckily, it didn't fall into the flames. He tugged at it, quickly wrenching it back to his chest. Thumbing the well-worn creases, he unfolded it. His uncle's sturdy script filled the parchment. There was a section of pleasantries, the usual compliments over a sermon Dennis had preached, but then one solemn sentence.

Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.

Dennis was the colony's reverend. Temptation wasn't a problem for him, or was it? Maybe all men struggled with it in some form or another.

He shook his head as he pondered the matter. Until now, Gareth's own struggles with his war injuries made it easy to forego physical temptations. When his men would go ashore at the various ports or even to Madame Neeltje's, he never had the inclination to be a whoremonger. Even after Eliza's death, when such pleasures wouldn't be adultery, womanizing wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts. No, Port Elizabeth and seeing her survive was his only focus.
 

Until now.

Now his mind lay divided between his leadership of the colony and his household, bonding with his son and dealing with the delectably unpredictable Precious Jewell.
 

He hefted the paper again to his face. The firelight glowed behind it, outlining the words the Lord had promised to them that love Him.

Gareth closed his eyes. He was back on his naval vessel. He could see his men lighting the fuse of the cannon, the one that exploded injuring him and killing three others. He smelled the salt in the air, the flint, and the char of the fuse. His heart pounded. The small voice in his head grew loud. Why hadn't he listened? Why didn't he stand back? No, he trusted his own gut, the hunger for victory. The need to witness the enemy vanquished led to his own defeat. Laid up for the rest of the war. His proud command given to another. Then a bride arranged by his uncle betrothed to man, a wounded man sight unseen. Eliza's disappointment was understandable, hard to bear, and utterly humbling.
 

Pulse exploding, Gareth lurched forward. He thrust open his eyes and glanced about him. The night enveloped him, thick and black. Even the fire had grown cold and died. As he gulped the fresh clean air, the bitter taste in his mouth receded. The past was no more. He'd healed enough to relearn to walk, even sire a son.