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PART IV

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JANUARY, 1781
ORANJESTAD, SINT EUSTATIUS
CARIBBEAN

ELLIOTT SAT AT his chart table at dawn, writing in his ship’s log whilst his crew took on provisions for their next cruise around the Caribbean assisting the American, Dutch, and French vessels evade capture or destruction by the British.

There was little else he could do whilst he awaited his wife’s return, and as Sint Eustatius was part of her normal route, he wanted to stay as close as possible and still assist the Yanks.

“Cap’n! Iron Maiden’s on the horizon!”

He heard the bellow in his cabin, all the way from one of the platforms. Arising, he went to his stern windows and put his glass to his eye. Alas, he could not see it, for he was not an hundred feet above the surface of the ocean. He dropped the glass on the chart table and strode out of his cabin.

“Jack?” he called up to the watch, hands cupped around his mouth.

“Nay, Sir. Dunham alone. Twenty miles out or thereabouts.”

“Dammit,” Elliott whispered, wondering if Dunham was looking for Celia or bringing news of Celia to Elliott. Either way, Dunham’s appearance without Celia could not be good.

It would be dusk before the Iron Maiden sailed into the bay, and though Elliott had planned to weigh anchor within those hours, he now could not do so.

“What’s this?” Elliott asked Dunham hours later, dreading the answer, even as he took the large tooled-leather and gold-embossed box Mary handed to him. It announced quite proudly in gold leaf that it had been crafted in Bruges.

“A missive, she said,” his father-in-law rumbled solemnly, “but ’tis rather large for that. Anyroad, she bid me give it to ye the minute we saw ye.”

“Is she—”

But Elliott could not finish the thought.

His mother-in-law laid her hand gently on his arm and said softly, “Elliott. Go. Read your letter, and then … we must talk.”

That was in no wise reassuring, but he took the package to his cabin, gave orders he was not to be disturbed for the rest of the night, and barred the door behind him.

He lit lamps and settled onto his bunk, then opened the exquisite box to see a sheaf of folded and sealed foolscap and parchment tied with a silver ribbon. It gave him his first reason to smile.

He untied the bundle and fondled the one on top. It was, sensibly, marked “1.”

He studied the seal—emerald wax with the impression of a cat—then broke it.

15th August 1780
My Dearest Elliott,

That was promising.

His eyebrow rose as he scanned the tiny but flowing handwriting. It was written entirely in French.

My Dearest Elliott, he read again.

I am no Poet, as you know. But there are Things I wish to say to You I cannot but write. My Words, as always, will be clumsy. I have been without You in my Bed for the whole of one Day since we set sail. I miss your Arms around me. I miss your Mouth on my Neck. I miss your Hand on my Breast (even though I cannot feel). Most of all, I miss your Voice in my Ear. I miss your clever Quips and Jests. I miss your Laughter, ever ready and generous. I miss your Thoughts on diverse Subjects. I even (God help me) miss Lord Macaroni.

Elliott grinned.

You are ever a Mile behind me and will remain so until we have leave to establish our Farm together. I would that it were not so, as I have Things to discuss with you, even if only to decide what Breed of Dog would be best to assist us in our Endeavors. I despise Dogs, as you know, Pugs most of all, and thus you should be utterly grateful I am willing to countenance owning One, and then only for the most Pragmatic of Purposes. I have not yet decided what to do with your Sister. We cannot truly keep her in Coventry without sending her to the Hold, as she must be given orders by Someone. George has been tasked with it thus far and carried it out with great Glee. It may be that being accountable to G will be all the Flogging the grand Lady Camille can bear.

Elliott’s grin widened and he rubbed his mouth, continuing to read. The missive continued in that vein, some of which read as if she had copied it from her log book, but he did not care.

I am,
as always,
your loving Wife,
Celia

“God, I miss her,” Elliott whispered as he continued to read down the long sheet:

16th August 1780
My Dearest Elliott
Last night I dreamt you nibbled at my Ear, tempting me to Sin with you. I nearly succumbed to your Seduction until Dindi protested my Tongue on her Nose.

Elliott laughed out loud.

I am not convinced she would put You to any Shame as a Lover, but it has occurred to me that requiring her to attempt it may be Unreasonable.

He could hear her voice coming from the parchment, her dry humor poking fun at herself as often as anyone else.

There was a weather report, as in the first missive, as well as headings and times, but he thought that might be simple habit. Or else it was her way of keeping his log for him, since she had never trusted his now-dead navigator.

Elliott smirked. She might not trust his new one any better.

I am,
as always,
your loving Wife,
Celia

Still not a word about the child, but if she had not spoken of it in Amsterdam when she could count on his comfort, she would not likely speak of it now.

The next entry was dated 24th August 1780, a full sennight after he had sunk the Indigo. It had no salutation, no signature, and only four words that told him everything he needed to know:

I miss You desperately.

Eventually he came to the end of that sheet of foolscap. He tossed it aside and went on to the next one, marked, still sensibly, “2.” The night bore on thusly with letter after letter. She had written to him nearly every day, likely when she kept her logs and her journals.

She described their time in La Rochelle, spending it in a refit to look more believably like the Rose, and their struggle to find or make more British uniforms for their foray back through Gibraltar.

She described her arrival in Coimbra, made to much celebration—until she informed the university officials of Rafael’s death, at which time, the bells tolled and city swathed itself in black. She collected his belongings. His journals and scholarship she bequeathed to the university’s library. The rest of his possessions she had parceled out amongst those professors and scholars she knew would appreciate them.

I am not forgotten Here, and I am loved. I cannot say it does not pain me to leave these People, though they know of me far more than I know of Them.

Elliott winced.

Yet it would not take Them long to see the Truth of me now, not as an Adolescent and Student, but as an Adult and Commander. They would grow to like me no better than Rafael did.

Elliott’s brow lowered in confusion. Clearly Covarrubias had loved her, but never had it occurred to him the man might not like her.

She then described leaving Portugal and their near miss when they were stopped by the British Navy’s fleet commander. “Captain John Smith” had presented their forged orders to head to Menorca, but an officer had been suspicious of them, requiring a trip to the Rock.

‘No Man could write such a Letter as Rear-Admiral Marquess Rathbone if he were not, in fact, Lord Rathbone,’ says the Fortification Commander. ‘For God’s sake, man, what British sailor hasn’t heard of his Search for his Daughter?’ The poor Lieutenant was roundly admonished for his Theatrics, though he refused to waver in his Belief that we are Fraudulent and took a Flogging for his Insolence, too. I shall hire him do we encounter him again and he is Bitter enough. Elliott, I cannot be surprised if our Barbarian Yankees banish the Invaders from our Shores after such a Display of Arrogance. And I am tempted even to forgive the Admiral’s Hubris, for clearly he can know no better.

Although Elliott still did not believe the Americans could vanquish Britain, he did not disagree with the rest. He, Rathbone, and their long-lived cohorts—and that sharp-eyed lieutenant—had enjoyed such longevity because they were not in the habit of growing such arrogance.

14th September 1780
My Dearest Elliott,
Today we made Berth in Málaga. Tomorrow we go to El Candadó Covarrubias.

Elliott’s mouth tightened.

As I have no Wish to spend any more Time with Rafael’s Family than I must, I intend to slay Them all. I will report when I return.
Celia

He supposed he could forgive the lapse of the customary loving closure when he still had a month’s worth of letters to read.

20th October 1780
My Dearest Elliott,
It is done. El Candadó Covarrubias is no more. I will write More on the Morrow, as I am too Weary to explain now, but was compelled simply to write your Name.
I am,
as always,
your loving Wife,
Celia

21st October 1780
My Dearest Elliott,
After having spent a great deal of Time on the Back of a Horse over the last Month, I must append a Condition to our Agreement: I will never ride one again. Horses, you see, think for Themselves, and whilst I can tolerate this and sometimes encourage it in Humans, I cannot abide it in a Beast of Burden whose Purpose is to submit to my Will.

Elliott grinned. “But what if the horse knows better than you, my love?”

We have acquired three new Cabin Boys for G to command, as it seems She cannot have too many Minions. They are very Young, tho (five, three, & one, respectively)—

Elliott’s brow rose. So the earldom had not been entirely eradicated. He hoped she did not expect him to foster the brats.

—so I fear for Them in her Care. In her Zeal to collect loyal Subordinates, she has taken them into her and Kit’s Cabin. Inexplicably, they cry for the wee Tyrant when she is about her other Duties.

Elliott wondered what Kit thought of that, but then decided that would either serve the boy right or cement his unwillingness to wed Georgina.

One of my Crewmen, Muehl, who has sailed with me to finance his own Farm because he has no Sons, will be taking these Three to his Wife’s bosom to raise as their Own, as I did not suspect You would find adding them to our Family to be Wise.

Elliott smiled wryly. Trust her to have known he would not have taken Covarrubias’s nephews as his, and made arrangements to that effect.

In the meantime, G has commanded Camille to care for them when she is on Watch, which Duty I am not sure C entirely despises.

Elliott knew little of Camille’s affinity for children, so this was interesting, indeed.

Of course, that She does not despise it G finds most Unfortunate.

He laughed out loud at that.

We delivered many of the young Covarrubias Women to King Carlos and bade him see to their Welfare. He felt the Inconvenience more than Compensated by the fact that the Earldom is entirely returned to the Crown. In fact, he was so Happy, he bid me dine with him and we did not fall into Argument as we usually do, as we are not the most Bosom of Bows.

His eyebrow rose. Why did it surprise him she was on speaking terms with the king of Spain?

Rafael’s Mother suffered the same Fate as her Menfolk. If I could, I would raise her from the Dead thrice more and slay her anew each time in a Different and more Painful Manner than the last.

Elliott pursed his lips. If Dowager Countess Tavendish had any inkling Celia could be that cold and ruthless, she— Well, Elliott did not know what. He was simply happy his mother need never know.

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If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!