31: A Stranger In Her Own Skin

Cate roamed about her little cabin, picking things up and putting them down. A home of her own had been a dream—still was—but this wasn’t it.

The space was hers; the sign over the door said so; Nathan said so. And yet, she had the odd sense of being a guest in someone else’s home. The furnishings, the things sitting about were familiar from the Great Cabin, but in this setting, they were foreign. She tried handling them frequently, trying to make it hers, but to little avail. Guilt added to her burden, for it smacked of ingratitude, and she was far from that. She would be eternally grateful to Nathan, and his men, for providing her with this little haven. Having to exist amidst two crews, on a beach, was incomprehensible just then.

She suspected a large part of her oddness stemmed from the strong sense of displacement. She was a creature out of its element. Earth had replaced the sea; trees had taken over the sky; the warmth of the sun had disappeared in the shade. She had been snatched from a world saturated with hues of blue and plunged into one of green which pressed in around her.

She felt a guest in her own body, for that matter, a creature out of its shell, with no place to hide. The terror and agony she had suffered during her captivity were gone, but they had left a residue which covered a soul with a coating, like molten wax on water, to which no emotion could stick. It was an unnatural world in which she currently existed, one without taste, ambition, desires or joy. All in all, however, it was a safe world, one which a part of her—a very large part—didn’t wish to leave, for neither did it contain sadness, fear, anger, hunger, thirst or a host of other noisome sensations or emotions.

She smiled when it seemed expected, spoke when questioned, often after a lengthy, awkward pause, before she realized a question had been posed. She ate when she was bid but without tasting and drank out of necessity. Instead of a convivial gathering, meals tended to be scenes of confrontation, with everyone shoving various supposed temptations before her. Anything which was met with any level of success she could expect to reappear ad nauseam.

When all that grew too wearisome, she slept with no notion of how long, and neither did she care, for it mattered to no one.

The crew still had their routine—she could hear as much on the beach—but the bells no longer rang. Now, she was back to having to look to the sun, what little of it there was to be seen through the heavy canopy of branches. Besides, time was of little relevance. She slept when she wished and roamed about her little haven in between. A stack of books, care of Nathan, sat expectantly in the corner, alongside her sewing box. She had no hands functional enough for the one and no mind for the other.

Only Nathan or Thomas came to see her, Kirkland or Ben, on the rare occasion. From her sentry post in the yard, Beatrice announced their arrival, a different curse for each, a stream of guttural squawks and curses to be expected if anyone unexpected approached. The voices on the beach were a constant backdrop, and men were sometimes glimpsed at a distance, as the foraging or hunting parties returned to camp, but they kept their distance, thankfully. Faces poked before her, stern with worry. Kind things were said, or so she assumed, for their mouths moved and they smiled. Merriment came with effort on their part, her presence cold water on their good humor. Nathan and Thomas’ bantering and jests were flung back and forth past her like an odd child’s game of catch, she being the obstacle to avoid.

The only thing which could pierce this protective shield was Nathan. He was her salvation and, in her numb existence, her light. The joy of having him alone, with no bells, ship or crew to call him away often brought tears to her eyes. Her increasing dependence on him was a worry. She had prided herself on not being a woman whose identity hinged upon a man, but there was no denying the delights and comforts of having one in one’s life. Inner voices warned of the hazards which awaited when that man was gone, a definite point in her future… but not just now. For now, he was there. Her mind couldn’t stir to contemplate beyond that.

One month… and then?

She sat on the bed and took her small bag of belongings from the post. She went through the ritual—one established years ago—of drawing out each item and arranging them in precise order before her: a discarded horse brush, living a second life as one for her hair; a tin can, with pebbles inside; bits of ribbon; a needle stuck into a fragment of cork; a length of thread wound around a stick, now brittle with age. The sgian dubh was gone; Nathan had desired her to have it near, and now it was lost. The parchment, yellow and crackling with age, she didn’t open, but could see clearly in her mind’s eye the lock of russet hair within, snipped from Brian’s head their last night together. The green-and-white wool, cut from Brian’s plaid and almost as fragile as the paper, was unwrapped from around a shard of looking glass. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she peered into the narrow piece as she had every day of those years alone. As before, she looked to see if anyone looked back. Now, she wished to see if she recognized herself. Her hope also was that, by some miracle, the bit of mirror might retain a part of her which might be rediscovered.

It was a bit of a shock to see the same face, although altered by swelling, scabs and discoloration, looking back: the same bold jaw, curving mouth, nose which turned up slightly at the end, and wide brow. Amid the fading bruises, the eyes—ones which had been proclaimed to be capable of seeing into people’s souls—were the same color, but those which looked back now were vacant and dull. Tipping the mirror into better light, she looked deeper.

There, through the black pits of her pupils, she saw herself, sitting hunched. A small shivering, quaking soul, who shrank at every unexpected noise or movement.

She reached to tip the child’s face up and asked, “Is it you?”

Sniffing, her lower lip quivering, the child hesitantly nodded. “Yes, it’s me. I’m still here.”

Lowering the mirror, Cate slowly crumpled to the floor, curled around the mirror and sobbed. Not in sorrow or fear, but a purging as could only be achieved when one was alone.

Beatrice’s cry of “Thrice-damned princock!” was her announcement that Nathan was coming up the path.

Cate barely had time to push herself up from the floor when there was an obligatory rap of knuckles on the door frame and the curtain was shoved aside. She turned her head, closing her eyes against the shaft of blinding light which sliced the gloom.

Nathan drew up sharp, failing to contain his frustrated gasp at seeing her on the floor. Squaring his shoulders, he assumed a more nonchalant attitude as he continued in. “I came to help you dress.”

“I don’t need help,” she said, blinking against the light. “I’m fine.”

Nathan exhaled heavily through his nose. “Yes, I know,” he said, patently patient. “We’ve been over this bit several times, darling: I ask if you need help, you say you don’t.”

Standing over her, he crossed his arms and demonstrably patted his foot. “Do you desire me to actually leave the room? Or shall I linger, because you know well, you will be required to bid me to return.”

She raised a hand in surrender, and he bent to help her up.

“I hate being so dependent,” she huffed. She kept her head turned away until she was sufficiently composed. “I’m a grown woman that should be able to—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he interjected, with a flip of his fingers. “We’ve been through this, as well, several times over. When you’ve two good hands, then you can be as blazing independent as you desire. Until then, you shall suffer my attentions.”

He eyed her and the banyan she wore and then plucked her shift from a peg and dangled it before her between two fingers. “Would it placate your precious sense of self-reliance if you were to manage this?”

The quizzical look on his face and the perturbed sound of his voice made her sputter a snicker. “Am I so bad?”

He stepped closer, bearing a crooked smile. “Aye, so you are and quite probably justifiably so. Now, arms up and let’s get on to it, then.”

The banyan was slipped off; she put up her arms and allowed the shift to be slid on over her head, the soft fabric settling over her hips with ease. The skirt, with its hooks and ties, the stays next.

Life is full of dreams, each woman’s treasure unique unto herself. Her current dream was of stays which laced in the front; they would have been her gateway to independence. Realistically, as much as she hated to admit it, her hands were too wooden and virtually useless. Even if Providence delivered the treasured stays, she still would have been incapable of managing hooks, buttons or ties.

And so, she stood like a little girl being dressed. She glanced ruefully over her shoulder at Nathan’s scarfed head, bent to his task. Her throat tightened at seeing Captain Nathanael Jonathan Edward Blackthorne, pirate extraordinaire, reduced to the role of nursemaid. Her embarrassment and frustration at being so helplessness was elbowed aside by a new wave of tenderness for him. No, not many men would suffer this. A pragmatic voice pointed out that, if he didn’t wish to do it, he had nearly two hundred others upon which he could have called. She shuddered at the thought, but many a man wouldn’t have subjected themselves. Or he could have just put her off somewhere and be done with her.

But he hadn’t.

Intent on his work, his fingers moved with amazing deftness and efficiency, a soft rustle of bells and the creak of leather the only other sounds in the room. Feeling her eyes on him, he occasionally glanced up to wink or offer a brief flash of a smile, the frown of concentration returning as he continued.

The shift and the new clothing all had a quality about them never before enjoyed. Her earlier ones, by Nathan’s own admission, had been stolen a few days after her boarding. Thomas had supplied her with another outfit, but that, and everything else he had bought her in Charles Town, had gone down with the Griselle. To her trained sempstress’s eye, the stays and skirt which Nathan now helped her with had a quality about them, in both fabric and craftsmanship, which suggested Thomas’ hand was in this some way or another.

“You’ve dressed women before, haven’t you?” she asked over her shoulder.

Nathan glanced up through his lashes and then back down. “I suppose it wouldn’t help if I said I had a sister, would it?”

He cocked a curious eyebrow reaching to the edge of his headscarf, waiting for the answer which never came. “Thought not,” he murmured, dryly. “In that case, I plead nemo tenetur se detegere! Me lips are sealed.”

“Coward.”

“Ah!” He leaned over her shoulder to waggle his brows. “But a wise coward, what will live to see the light of the morrow. Turn ‘round here, now, and let’s finish up.”

Cate did as she was bid, standing so very still as he lifted the hair from her neck and draped the fichu. The delicate scarf was another of the great number of items which had miraculously appeared of which Nathan couldn’t—or wouldn’t—account for how they had been come by. It was another finery, one among the many which had been bestowed upon her of recent, and she felt so very undeserving.

While Nathan tucked the fichus’ ends into her bodice—unable to do even that menial task for herself—Cate began to tear up. Helplessness and embarrassment made her teary. Hell, everything made her teary, and the frustration of that caused her to tear up even more. Once more, it all came crashing in: the helplessness, the trauma, the trying to forget what couldn’t be forgotten, the sense of disembodiment, and yes, the overwhelming guilt for having allowed it to happen. No, none of it made sense. An inner voice screamed that with great regularity, but to no avail.

The moment Nathan finished, she turned away, not wishing him to see her crying, yet again. In spite of her resistance, he seized her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

Unable to do else, she hung her head, sniffing. “I can’t do this! I can’t do this… not again.”

“Aye, you will,” he urged, shaking her in supplication. “You did it once, aye, but that proves you can do it again. Laugh in that bastard’s face, prove he didn’t best you.”

Shrinking away, Cate sniffed hugely as she looked down at her arm. The bandage was still firmly in place; she still hadn’t seen the brand, but could feel the skin pulling around the scab underneath.

Rest assured, we shall do this again and again and again…

Cate closed her eyes and shook her head until the voice stopped. She opened them to find Nathan staring at her, his brows now drawn together in concern.

“How did…?” She gulped. “How did you manage, Nathan?”

Head bent, Nathan stared at the canvas at his feet, his hands working at his sides.

“Time,” he finally said. “Trite, aye, but by the devil and thunder, ‘tis the truth, may whatever powers what might be strike me dead. Granted, some things time will never heal,” he said, wincing as he gazed down at his palm. “But, for many things, it will answer. That, and Thomas and Garrick; they were me salvation, God help them.”

They fell quiet, Nathan still staring pensively at his hand, Cate looking at anything other than him. The clamor of men working on the beach and the gurgle of the waterfall behind the shack filled the space between them.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Nathan finally said, raising his head. “Every moment, every sordid detail, if you wish.” Dread tightened his voice and pulled at the corners of his eyes. That, however, was overshadowed by his determination; he meant every word.

Cate was, indeed, dying to know. It was an odd brotherhood which joined them, now, which went beyond that of shipmates, friends or affection. They were bound by the unlikely tie of Breaston Creswicke and his cruelty, an elite although dubious club. Still, she knew how deeply one needed to bury such a past, and even more so, knew the price of unlocking it and allowing it free rein in one’s mind and heart. No amount of pain or anguish could compel her to oblige Nathan to suffer all of that just for her benefit. If he were to turn the tables, she wasn’t sure she could do the same.

Seeing her struggle, Nathan ended the awkward silence by saying “Come, let’s see if there is a miracle left in the day that we might master this maddening tangle.”

He fetched her brush—a new one, with a silver back and a matching hand glass—and sat on the bed, his back against the wall, Cate settling between his legs. She felt immediately better; it was always easier when they were touching, even if it were only his legs at her hips.

The luxury of someone brushing one’s hair was usually reserved for someone who was lucky enough to have several sisters, the high-born or royalty… and one pirate’s woman. Nimble fingers which had seduced her so many times, now worked out the worst snarls. She had tried to do so each day, but between near useless hands and lacking the strength to hold her arms above her head for more than a few moments had failed miserably. Cate’s heart skipped a beat at remembering what else those nimble fingers had done in another time, another place. It then raced at the prospect that someday… someday, they might do so again.

The smooth, long strokes, the soft rasp of the bristle through the strands, had a hypnotic effect. Nathanael Blackthorne working his magic. His hands skimming down her back and shoulders and up along the nape of her neck, she closed her eyes to pretend it was another time, another place… anywhere, but there, some place away and a time before all of this happened to either of them, back to a time when she and Nathan were so pure and unscathed they mightn’t have recognized each other.

“I knew he was a spineless cur, liable to bite any hand what sought to feed it.”

Cate was so far afield, it took her a moment to realize Nathan had spoken, or to sort out his meaning. “He” was Breaston Creswicke.

“Thomas knew him even better. Their fathers were with the East India Tea Company, Creswicke Thomas’ father’s superior. Thomas warned me not to cross him, but I had damned little choice.”

One night on a beach, Thomas had told her of Nathan’s first command: sailing for the newly – chartered Royal West Indies Mercantile Company, Breaston Creswicke, presiding. Creswicke had made overtures to Nathan, essentially promising him the world, if Nathan would just surrender himself body and soul into Creswicke’s hands. In retaliation for Nathan’s flat refusal, Creswicke tricked him into carrying a cargo of white slaves, children to be sold. Knowing Nathan’s scruples wouldn’t suffer that, Creswicke had his men lay in wait for when Nathan tried to set the child-slaves free. His ship burned to the waterline, Nathan was arrested and delivered into Creswicke’s custody.

“Somehow, he knew about what happened… happened before,” came out in a tight rasp. “He put a bag over me head that stunk of a privy, and so wet I choked at every breath. He stripped me naked, put a rope about me neck, and left me to a bunch of sodding arse-bandits.”

The brush stopped, and he audibly swallowed. The gnarled scar at his throat was the remnant of his first voyage as a boy away from home. He had been accosted by his shipmates, a rope tied about his neck to keep him still as they used him, nearly hanging him in the process.

Several moments ticked by before the brush started moving again, now in stiff and jerking motions.

“When they were done, he used whatever pleased him, so I would remember his hand, not theirs. He knew things about me, things I hardly knew about meself. He told me what I liked and that he could make me want him as I had wanted others. He tried to break me, in every way he could. He beat me, sometimes with a cane, sometimes with a chain wrapped in flannel so I wouldn’t be too bloodied for the trial,” he added, bitterly. “He broke me fingers, one at a time. And then stomped me hands so I couldn’t attend meself. I was covered in blood, shit, snot, and vomit, and still he put his arms about me like I was his sweetheart.”

Nathan spoke in flat, emotionless tones as if reporting events which had happened to someone else.

“All the while he talked like I was his father, in between kissing me and begging me to say I loved him. He couldn’t rise,” he said, with a small note of satisfaction. “But he made me do so, time and again, telling me it proved that I loved him.”

“Did you… tell him… say it?” she asked, quietly, hesitant to interrupt.

The brush stopped. Nathan was so quiet for so long, she thought perhaps he wasn’t going to answer.

“I don’t know,” he said, so low she could barely hear him. “There are great stretches I don’t remember. I don’t think so; God knows what he would have done, if I had.” A jingle of bells marked a shudder.

From somewhere behind her, Cate heard the soft rasp of a thumb pensively raking the boar bristles of the brush.

“I tried to taunt him into killing me, but…” He blew a long sigh. “I figured with the trial, I’d be hanged and it would be over,” he went on, more determinedly. “But the diabolical bastard had other plans.”

From the corner of her eye, Cate could see his leg and his hand resting there, flexing, the cords standing out. According to Thomas, the trial had been a mockery, all aimed toward Nathan’s public humiliation, stripping him of all possibility of ever being a captain again. Diabolical, indeed: false witnesses, false testimony, false documents, Creswicke contrived to declare Nathan a slave, and Creswicke’s property.

“When it was over, I wanted to die; I tried to, but everyone around kept telling me I wouldn’t… so I didn’t.”

He shook himself, coming out of the trance he had fallen into. The brush began moving again, steadier now.

“No, it never goes away, darling. And, no, you never forget. But eventually, it takes up less and less space in your day.”

Cate felt ghoulish and dirty for having heard it, but she also wasn’t ashamed to admit that she also felt lighter in spirits. It would have been a sad waste, if she hadn’t, and yet Nathan had opened his Pandora’s Box for that very reason: knowing it would help. In his own way, with his own magic, Nathan had shown her what she already knew deep inside, and yet, had been reluctant to admit: yes, she had survived before, as she would this time, changed undoubtedly, but not unrecognizable.

The yearning to turn around and hold him in her arms was almost overwhelming. The only thing that stopped her was Nathan’s dignity: with her back to him, he didn’t have to face her as he revealed his humiliation and degradation. No one liked exposing themselves at their most vulnerable moment. In the diffused light, the dark walnut walls, their isolation, it was like a confessional. Instead, she leaned back against him. He slipped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. Her hand on his leg moved echoed his on her arm, slowly stroking, touching just for the sake of touching.

Finally, when he was sufficiently composed, Nathan turned Cate around to him.

“Thank you.” It came out far weaker than she would have wished. She leaned to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Anything more didn’t seem fitting.

His lashes lowered, hooding his thoughts. When they came up again, his countenance brightened, a glimmer of a smile making its appearance. The smile widened into one of surprise as he fingered a lock of her hair. After allowed a proper brushing, the maddening tangle was now reduced to her long smooth coils hanging about her shoulder.

“It would appear that we’ve wrought another miracle today: order has been proclaimed,” he declared, teasing.

Nathan rose and went to the hamper. He rummaged around for some minutes, finally returning with a length of ribbon. In spite of knowing it would be flung off directly, he tied a ribbon about her hair, finishing it off with a bow at her crown.

He sat back, admiring his work. “You look pretty.”

Cheeks heating—no, she wasn’t too old to blush like a maid—she couldn’t help but notice Nathan was far from at his best. He was gaunt and, under his tan, pale, with harsh lines around his eyes and mouth. He was always wry, but there was an unusual edginess in his voice. There was a tension in his movements, robbing him of the elegance she had noticed her first hours of meeting him. It could have been that fish-out-of-water thing, a creature-of-the-sea landbound. It could be worry for his ship, or worry for her, but whatever, it was visibly wearing on him.

“You look exhausted. You look as bad as I feel. Are you sleeping? I know you’re not eating, you never do,” she added, scolding. All of this, from her being taken, Hattie showing up… everything had taken a gargantuan toll on him.

Nathan dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “I’ll do all of the above, once I’ve seen you well.”

He sobered and shook her gently. “Just remember, darling, your best revenge is to survive. Insignificance is his greatest horror, and you can reduce him to that by forgetting it ever happened. Leave him nothing but your indifference to feed upon, and he’ll wither up and blow away.”

“I’m not indifferent,” she said coldly. “I want him dead.”

One end of his mustache lifted in a grim smile, the silver bells in it twinkling in the light. “As do I. Rest assured, luv, the last word he will ever hear is your name, before I slit his gut and feed him is own heart.”