Chapter Twelve
Torrential rains had pounded St. Thomas for days, making it impossible for a carriage to safely navigate the steep road to Blackbeard’s Tower. Finally, the morning sun shone again. Mercy hurried through her daily duties as manager of a large business enterprise. She was anxious to get back to the tower, to once again be in the place where she felt connected to her lover, father of the child growing within her.
Until recently, Sairy’s skill with a needle had hidden the fact of Mercy’s pregnancy. Her frocks had been artfully designed to conceal the growing bulge. But it was becoming obvious Mercy was with child. Mr. Sprague had known for a long time, of this she was certain. He never spoke of her condition, but he treated her with extra care.
After settling in at the manor house, the Queen Anne’s first mate had replaced his tattered clothes and availed himself of the never-ending supply of soap and fresh water Whitaker Hall offered its guests. Once he cleaned up, Mercy thought he could almost pass for a gentleman – until he opened his mouth.
Mercy was still surprised the man she once regarded as a rough pirate had been blessed with such sensitivity and insight. She knew it was his fear she’d suffer some sort of pregnant female spell and tumble from the heights of the spiral staircase that had him climbing the steep steps behind her each time, like a patient nanny following a toddler. When they got to the top, he would circle the room, peering out each window for any sign of danger approaching the harbor.
Once he assured himself she was safely ensconced in the tower, he would take his leave. Claiming the need for a smoke or conveniently running out of rum in the flask he carried everywhere, he’d leave her alone to be with the captain in her memories. No matter how long she stayed, she’d find Sprague leaning against the stone wall near the base of the circular stairway, patiently waiting to see that she made it back down safely.
The day the rain ended they began the journey later than usual, after the tropical sun had dried out the steep road enough to navigate it. When they arrived, Sprague made his circuit of the room. He left hastily, and Mercy settled herself in the sturdy chair in front of the window facing the open ocean, scanning the horizon with the captain’s looking glass. There was no sign of the ship she hoped to see heading toward the island.
The sickness that had plagued Mercy early on in the pregnancy had disappeared, and her appetite was back. But she tired easily and often felt the need to lie down for a nap.
In her haste to go back to the tower, Mercy had left the manor right after a lengthy meeting with her overseer. She looked longingly at the bed between two tall windows overlooking the mountains that lay to the east of the harbor. She’d never allowed herself the luxury – or the heartache – of lying on the bed. Mercy feared the essence of the captain in such an intimate place would be so strong it would make her grief at losing him unbearable.
With a sigh, Mercy gave in to a moment of weakness and sank down onto the bed.
She fell asleep to the memory of lying cradled in her lover’s arms.
***
Outside, Sprague kept watch. He’d seen the Queen Anne’s Redemption docked in the harbor when he went to Charlotte Amalie that morning and realized Teach must have arrived under cover of the heavy rain. Since there had been no word at Whitaker Hall of a new ship in the harbor over the last few days, Sprague surmised the captain had made port only a short time ago. Saying nothing to Mercy, he kept his vigil, awaiting the captain’s arrival.
***
James was once again in a foul mood. He stood in the vast entrance hall of Whitaker Manor, impatiently tapping his foot on the gleaming wood floor. He’d been informed the mistress was unavailable. Miz Sairy, the woman Mercy credited with everything from her healing skills to her very survival, had been fetched and would soon be with him.
Damn the wench! It was just like her to be out and about somewhere instead of seeing to her responsibilities at home like any respectable woman.
He’d hurried through his duties when they arrived in St. Thomas, overseeing the unloading of cargo, arranging the sale of merchandise, and then giving his men three days’ leave. Mounting a stallion rented from the stables in town, he set off at a gallop toward Whitaker Hall.
James had imagined this moment for weeks, planning just how he would rid his soul of the images plaguing him. He’d only to broach a subject and make a comment with which he knew she would disagree. Then he could sit back and dispassionately view the harridan as she argued, anxious to convert him whether it be to her God or her opinion.
Listening to the tirade, hearing her decidedly unfeminine manner of speech – it would be like a bucket of seawater in his face, waking him from the dreams he carried of the passionate lover. After all, a man couldn’t bed his woman twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he’d have to endure her intrusion into his affairs. And he knew from experience this female would not sit quietly by and allow him to go about his daily life without benefit of her unceasing advice and opinions.
***
Sairy studied him from the hallway leading to the servant’s quarters. Ah, but he was handsome, this man the Spirits had chosen for her child.
He wore a blue linen coat, dark breeches, and a soft white shirt with a bit of lace at the sleeves, like a proper gentleman. Tall and strong, with powerful shoulders built for bearing the burdens the master of Whitaker Hall must bear – or for hoisting a young lad onto his back for a romp.
Silently, she approached, carrying a tray with a delicate china pot and two cups and saucers.
***
James whirled at the sound of her steps on the wood floor. So this was Miz Sairy. Hatcher of plots, foster mother, accomplished medicine woman. Standing barely above his waist, she looked as though the weight of the tray she carried would be too heavy a load for her slight frame. She wore a simple gray frock with a white apron and her dark hair wound around her head in an elaborate arrangement of braids.
Her brown face was unlined, making it impossible to tell her age. From what Mercy had said, he guessed she was old enough to be his grandmother.
Piercing black eyes met his. James felt as though she stared straight into his soul.
Apparently what she saw met with her approval. Sairy nodded slightly.
“Captain Teach, ah’m Sairy. Miz Mercy will be right sorry ta have missed being here ta greet ye. Ah’d be pleased if ye’d join me fer a cuppa me special brew whilst we wait fer ’er return.”
James bowed. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Miz Sairy. Miss Whitaker spoke very fondly of you. As it happens, I am in your debt. I owe you my very life. One of your potions saved me from the dreaded fever that took the master and mistress of this great hall.”