“I detest this heat, but the savages have arrived this morning. The governor warned me, I must arrive early to get the best of the lot,” said Sir Jarvis.
Claire winced. She dreaded being forced to accompany her uncle and worse yet, to a slave auction.
“Who are they?” Claire asked. Three months before she had learned the truth of the backstairs advice she’d received on marrying the felon to be in mortal error. Consultation with her solicitor, an old family friend confirmed her uncle’s complete control over her life. Her solicitor who shared an immense loathing of Sir Jarvis, spun legal rhetoric to mislead and informed the knight his niece would not be able to marry until far into the future, governed by the strict rules of her widowhood. Yet the most disastrous consequence remained. Jarvis informed her of their immediate departure to a plantation he owned in the Caribbean. Her dreams of living on a quiet little corner of London for the rest of her life evaporated.
“Scoundrels. Rebels,” Jarvis spat. “Those moved and instigated by the Devil to stir up war and rebellion against the King. They’re a savage lot taken up against his Most Illustrious and Most Excellent Prince, Lord King James II in an attempt to strip him of title, honor, and regal name of the imperial crown with no fear of God in their hearts.”
Did her uncle have a heart? Claire would have done anything to stay in her beloved London. Trapped, she had cried as she packed. When would she return to England? Everything she had held familiar and secure would be left behind. An outright railing at all her misfortunes, and fears of traveling to the unknown ends of the earth had plagued her. To minimize her cousin’s and Cookie, their guardian’s fears and concerns, she kept her worries hidden. She had to be strong enough for both of them. She had boarded a ship with Lily and Cookie, realizing nothing would ever be the same.
Jarvis’s lips compressed, forming a veritable sneer. “They deserve to be executed for their crimes, but the King, bless his soul, has sent them to us to use as slave labor. By God, the touch of the lash and years of labor toiling in the tropic sun will teach them the value of disturbing the peace and tranquility of England.” He rapped his cane on the carriage door.
Claire cringed. Her limbs shook. Images of Jarvis striking her with that cane again and again, raging that he would not be able to marry her off.
In the bright light of the day, she shaded her eyes and looked about as their carriage neared Port Royale. She sat impressed with the town now as when she first laid eyes upon it. On the ship, she had fretted, expecting mud-huts with cannibals lining the shoreline. With surprise, her initial impressions were corrected when her eyes beheld homes built upon European archetypes boasting imposing proportions without the crowding seen in European cities. A church with its tall spire reached heavenward above a collection of red roofs while a fort guarded the entrance of a broad sweeping harbor, cannons thrusting their muzzles between merlons.
She read the common English street names as their carriage rambled through the city. Thames Street, St. James Street, Oxford Street. The city bustled with activity. Everywhere carpenters, goldsmiths, pewterers, sailmakers, shipwrights, and seamen plied their trade. In the fullness of ease and plenty, merchants arrayed in opulent fashion scurried about, attended by their slaves. Rounding to the docks, they passed a large number of Port Royal’s notorious taverns and brothels primed to serve numerous merchant ships moored to careen, repair and trade.
She thumbed the gold ring on her finger she had purchased in London after her marriage in Newgate. Under normal circumstances, the ring represented an outward expression of two hearts united as one for eternity. Claire flinched. What a fraud she was.
Why did she think about Devon Blackmon, the felon who had given his name? Claire let her hand with its fraudulent reminder fall to her knee. Was it sympathy? His circumstances by outward appearances seemed unfortunate. Yet he was a felon, and his words were not the most reliable. She had traveled to Newgate Prison to confirm his execution and burial, but obtained little information. For additional coin she could ill afford, Mr. Goad pointed to four fresh mounds in the church cemetery, one of which, he explained lay the final resting place of her husband. Since they were unable to tell which one, Claire had paid to have flowers laid over each of them. It had been a final token farewell to her husband and released her from any lingering sentiments.
But the sentiments still lingered. No matter how she tried to forget her fateful day with Devon Blackmon, he had made an impact on her life. She remembered how he infuriated and toyed with her. She remembered the richness of his voice, the strength of his hand wrapped around hers, and the warm intimacy of his fingers as they brushed over hers. Then she remembered her promise. She could feel those fingers of his sweep over her. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She reached up, hands fluttering at her bodice, dampened beneath the sun. The carriage came to a stop.
“Ooh. Look at the fine ladies. Lordy, come on up. I’ll give you a job, loveys.”
Claire glanced from beneath her bonnet. A woman with all her charms hanging out for the world to view laughed at her.
“Sir Jarvis, when will I see you again?” trilled the woman, her bright rouged lips and cheeks, a harsh contrast to her white skin. Claire dared a glance at Lily, whose expression beneath her spectacles remained a study in stern restraint.
Umph, grunted Jarvis. He tapped the door for the coach to stop and heaved out his bulk. “Stay in the carriage.”
“We will stretch our legs,” Claire objected.
“You must resign yourselves to the carriage, I’m afraid.” It was a petty command.
As he moved away, Lily spoke low and confidingly. “You should never provoke him.”
“I do not fear him.”
“Nevertheless−” Lily cautioned, seeing through Claire’s careless bravado. “So Jarvis patronizes the foul woman above us?”
Claire found herself laughing. “Oh Lily, it is so good you came with me to Jamaica. How could I have withstood my horrid uncle and the loneliness without you?”
“It is I who am grateful to you. I see it as a challenge. I am failing to achieve a sense of order about this deplorable wilderness, but I am working on it.”
Laughing again, Claire marveled at her cousin who was related to her on her mother’s side. Fortune smiled on Lily for she was not related to Jarvis. Claire’s parents raised Lily after Lily’s mother died in childbirth. Claire emerged the outgoing one while Lily grew adept in practicality and order. Claire laughed easily and Lily’s nature leaned more serious. Never one to shirk her duty, Lily had helped Claire make lists and pack everything for the journey in a meticulous, logistical manner that would have done the King’s admiralty proud.
“She’s the most celebrated woman of ill repute in Port Royale,” Lily began, never ceasing to amaze Claire with her scandalous knowledge. “Her name is Annie Jensen. Born in Canterbury, her penchant for thieving doubled with bigamy resulted in her arrest and transport to Jamaica. She is cunning, crafty, subtle and in hot pursuit of her designs. Her shocking behavior is likened to a barber’s chair. No sooner is one out, but another is in.”
Claire put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Look Claire.” Lily pointed to a raven, settling on top of the carriage seat. “That’s a good omen. The Greeks and Romans believed ravens were connected with the art of the healer. The Welsh believe it is a bird of prophecy. I believe he is a creature of paradox.”
She turned and observed its feathers, black as coal. The raven moved its head from side to side, eying her. Small hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stirred. “I don’t think a raven passes as a good omen. It appears to be a mischievous rogue. Really Lily, isn’t a raven synonymous with devilry and destruction?”
“I disagree. Like the Greeks and Romans, I believe he is an omen for good things to come.” Lily gave a perfunctory nod of her head to emphasize her point. “And that’s a promise.”
Promise?Claire flinched. Was the raven prophetic? What if the raven was a premonition for disaster? Would her lie come back to haunt her? The felon was dead in a cold grave an ocean away. She could live her life in peace. So why did she have a terrible sense of foreboding? She thrust her parasol at the creature and watched in fascination as the raven lifted on sea winds then circled to the roof of the brothel, crowing at her in rebuke.Or was it fair warning?
