The Bastard (33 page)

“And his father?” Treynor knew the answer before he asked the question. She probably didn’t know who the father was.

“’E doesn’t want us. Ye don’t see ’im ’ere, do ye?”

Treynor felt Jeannette at his side. “Let me take him,” she murmured. “Perhaps she fears the babe will die anyway. She has nothing to give him.”

He sat back, weary despite the rapid progress of the birth. “But how can a mother turn her back on her own son?”

Jeannette’s expression softened, telling him she knew he was asking the question that had tormented him his whole life. Empathy filled her eyes, making him want to strike out, simply because she saw beyond the barricade that kept everyone else at a safe distance.

But then she touched his arm and he wanted to stand and enfold her in his embrace instead.

“At least now you can see that the blame doesn’t lie with the child,” she said.

Treynor felt raw, completely exposed. Deep down, he’d always believed that there had to have been something terribly wrong with him to make his own mother reject him. He’d never been able to outdistance that doubt, no matter the years that passed, no matter how hard he tried to forget the past, no matter what he achieved.

Jeannette took the child and wrapped it snugly in her shawl. “Sometimes we simply make poor choices.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I would never walk away from a son of mine.”

“Oh?” she replied evenly. “And does that apply equally to his mother?”

Treynor had no ready answer. He’d sworn never to marry, never to fall in love, even if he were to find a woman he admired enough, which he hadn’t. Until now. Jeannette was the first woman he’d ever wanted in such a way, and they didn’t stand a chance.

“I will get Surgeon Sivern,” he said. Amelia and the baby needed medical care. And he was no longer the man to provide it.

Joints aching from the time on his knees, he rose and headed back the way he had come.

Jeannette watched Treynor go. She longed to soothe him, but she could not. What he’d been through as a boy made it impossible for him to extend the same feelings of loyalty he’d expressed toward a child to that child’s mother. And although Jeannette wanted to gain the lieutenant’s confidence, she knew, ultimately, she could only betray it—or betray her family’s trust.

Sighing heavily, she felt the baby’s tiny mouth against her arm. She gave him a finger to suck, something she had seen her brother’s nurse do long, long ago. What would this child encounter? What kind of chance did he have?

None, if his mother continued to reject him. A frigate was not the easiest place to find a wet nurse. It was possible she could get some goat’s milk. But would that do?

Jeannette eyed the now silent form of Amelia. She lay on her side, her face averted. But unless Jeannette missed her guess, the babe’s sucking sounds affected her. The girl glanced back once, twice, then folded her arms across her chest.

“Take ’im away, I told ye. I don’t want ter see ’im.”

There were plenty of logical arguments Jeannette could use to convince Amelia to care for her son, but she feared none of them would work. So she tried another tack. “That is probably for the best,” she said, keeping her voice somber. “He probably won’t live long, anyway, ailing the way that he is.”

Amelia’s head popped up. “What do ye mean, ailin’? ’E was screamin’ ’is lungs out a moment ago. ’E’s a strong one, ’e is.”

Jeannette conjured a skeptical expression. “But he is awfully small. That may not bode well.”

“’E’s a newborn. ’E’s supposed to be small.”

“Still...now that he will have nothing to eat...” She let her words fall away. “It is just a matter of time. But, as I said, it is for the best. It will make things easier for you.”

Amelia propped herself up on her elbows and gave her baby a dubious look. “’E wouldn’t want a life with me, anyway. ’Ow would I work?”

“You wouldn’t be able to continue in your current profession. But...do you like it so well?”

“I ’ave to eat occasionally, and so will he.”

“Then perhaps you could obtain a position as—as a laundress for a large household.”

Amelia gave her a look that said she must be daft. “Oh? An’ with what references?” She slumped back down, laying her head on her arms.

“My own. I come from a good family and my English cousin is a nobleman who could be persuaded to speak for you.”

“It won’t work,” Amelia muttered. “I ’ardly look respectable. An’ I’ll not end up in a work’ouse with a passel of brats. I was raised in one of them ’ell ’oles.”

“No need. Truly, you could earn your bread and a shilling or two besides.” Hoping she’d be able to keep the promises she was making, Jeannette gave the unhappy new mother a confident smile. She was already planning to throw herself on Lord Darby’s mercy. How much more could he take? “Why not nurse the baby, just for now?” she asked. “We will manage something.”

Having gained no nourishment from her finger, the baby began rooting for something more productive. A distinctive squall rang out when he couldn’t find anything.

“’E’s ’ungry, no doubt,” Amelia said.

Now that the pains of childbirth were behind her, and she’d had a chance to regain her breath, Amelia seemed to have recovered a bit of her usual aplomb. Jeannette took this as a good sign.

“
Quel bon bébé
,” she cooed, moving closer so Amelia could better see her child.

The other woman's expression softened. “’E’s red and shriveled, that’s what ’e is. But ’e’s lookin’ for ’is mum.”

Jeannette held out the infant.

Still skeptical, Amelia looked from her to the child but allowed Jeannette to place him in her arms. “Look at ’is toes,” she said, marveling over the tiny, perfect features.

“He is hungry, no? Why not feed him?”

Amelia fumbled with her dress, unbuttoning it far enough to reach her breast—and gasped when the babe latched on.

“He knew what he wanted, did he not?” Jeannette asked in the sudden absence of his crying.

“Aye. ’E did at that.” Amelia’s voice sounded wistful and her eyes filled with wonder.

Doing what she could to clean up, Jeannette hid a smile. Her friend would never be able to refuse the child again.

As dawn stained the eastern sky a shimmering magenta, Jeannette fell, exhausted, into her hammock. It had been a long night, one that could easily have turned out to be a complete disaster.

As it was, she felt good about seeing Amelia nurse her child. Even after Treynor and the surgeon had arrived, the girl had continued to examine the tiny body, unwrapping the shawl here and there for a peek.

The surgeon provided her with some folded cotton cloth for both mother and child, and charged Treynor with the practical task of commandeering more. Even the aspect of diapering the babe seemed to interest Amelia. The powerful bond between mother and child was already forming.

It had been almost as gratifying to see Treynor’s reaction to Amelia holding her baby. His weary confusion had vanished as his gaze returned to the pair again and again. When he’d noticed Jeannette’s interest, the crooked smile he offered her caused something inside her to twist and yearn.

From there, they’d been occupied moving Amelia and her child to the sick bay, but Jeannette could still feel the warm blush that rose to her face when the lieutenant looked at her. Something in his gaze struck her as personal and full of meaning. But any woman would be flattered by the appreciation in his expression. Lieutenant Treynor was a remarkable man.

Jeannette slept until one of the captain’s servants woke her with a knock. After she unlocked the door, he bid her a polite good morning and carried in a tray for her midday meal.

Still tired, she waited for him to leave with less than her usual good cheer. Her dreams had been plagued by visions of a wedding—her own, evidently, as she was once again wearing the sheer muslin over silk dress she’d worn at the chapel with St. Ives. She didn’t recognize the man with whom she made her vows. He was as old and decrepit as the baron. But she knew it wasn’t a stranger who came to her bed that night. It was Lieutenant Treynor. He thrilled her with the touch and taste of him, with the passion of their love, then disappeared into thin air.

Closing her eyes, she kneaded her forehead until the door closed and she was once again alone. Then she cut into the meat pie and steamed vegetables the captain’s servant had delivered. Because of Cunnington, the
Tempest
was taking her back to Plymouth. The first lieutenant had baited Treynor into defending her and was now using it against them both.

A card rested next to her plate. Jeannette turned it over and read a brief note from Captain Cruikshank. He wished her well, thanked her for her part in delivering the baby, and informed her that the situation was well in hand—which meant, she surmised, that both mother and baby were being properly cared for.

Perhaps it also indicated that Rulon Jones would be punished. How well he deserved a few lashes! Jeannette wondered if Amelia might still object, but she felt no leniency toward Mr. Jones. Amelia could have lost her life because of him, as well as her baby.

Jeannette chewed her vegetables without really tasting them as her thoughts circled back to her own worries. What would St. Ives do when he had her in his control again? What would her parents do?

A poignant longing to see her family rose up in her, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. They had to be worried about her. No doubt they feared something terrible had happened. And it had. Jeannette had met a man she could love. But she could no sooner have him than the land she had once called home.

She reached up to touch her hair. Would her shorn locks distress her mother? Or would the fact that she had stowed aboard an English frigate overshadow all else? She smiled ruefully at the thought that she was no longer the protected innocent she once had been.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Claiming a headache, Jeannette declined the captain’s invitation to sup at his table. Instead, she remained in her cabin and spent the time pacing and reading, although once the officers convened in the wardroom on the other side of the canvas wall, she couldn’t concentrate on anything except Lieutenant Treynor’s voice. He spoke with the others about the war, the ship, the weather—nothing particularly riveting. Just the sound of his voice was enough to hold her spellbound.

When they finished eating and said their farewells for the night, Jeannette tried to distract herself by reading poetry. The captain had given her a tattered volume by William Cowper, but she had to read each line, even those of her favorites, over and over to grasp the meaning. Her time with Treynor was dwindling to a close. The more minutes that ticked by, the greater Jeannette’s sense of urgency.

Eight bells signaled the hour to retire. The captain’s servant had delivered a light repast for her supper, along with tea, which she had enjoyed. But the food was long gone, and there was nothing to do now except sleep.

Scarcely tired, but depressed enough to climb back into her hammock anyway, Jeannette proceeded to shift and fidget. The lieutenant’s face, with his knowing grin, appeared every time she closed her eyes.

Finally, with a groan of despair, she rose and lit a lamp, determined to muddle through a last bit of Cowper.

There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;

And sinners, plung’d beneath that flood,

Lost all their guilty stains—

A light knock on the door made Jeannette drop her book. Ever mindful of the night Cunnington had visited her outside Treynor’s cabin, she drew the wrap the captain had provided tightly around herself, left the poems where they’d fallen and moved to the portal.