Anne
The carriage drove away the next day in the pouring rain, the last of the houseguests safely inside it, along with Master Drummond himself. He was going with the Herveys in an attempt to smooth things over between the baron’s daughter and his son. Their estate was a few hours’ ride from the city, and they planned to discuss in which Hervey property Miss Patience and Teach would live. Coming from one of the oldest baronies in the country, the Herveys maintained four separate properties.
Standing alone in the doorway, Anne stared after them, wondering what she’d done to deserve such a heinous punishment. She was to tend to Teach until he was well, because he was too ill to travel with the rest of the party. Lady Hervey and Miss Patience had practically pushed each other out of the way to exit the house once Teach’s illness had been confirmed.
Anne was not sorry to see them go and hoped they would not return before she quitted the house for good.
Behind her, Margery clucked like a mother hen, handing her some tea. “Here you go, Anne. Take this up to Mr. Edward now. See if his fever is any worse.”
Resigned, she took the tray from Margery’s hands. “I don’t see why Sara can’t take it up to him,” Anne said. “Now that the master is gone, she should be free to leave the kitchen.”
Margery shot her a sharp look. “Last night the young master requested that you bring the tea up to him in the morning, not Sara.”
With his father no longer at home, Teach apparently got what he wanted. Anne was quite sure the Drummond men wouldn’t know what to do if somebody outside the family ever said no to them.
The back stairs were dim, the rain hitting the windows with an intensity that rattled the panes. The sky outside fit her mood perfectly.
Anne reached the door and tapped it with her foot.
There was no response.
Should I take the tea back down? Or simply leave it by his bedside and hope that he wakes up before it’s too cold?
Pushing the knob, Anne stepped into the shadowy interior, the room so dark that she could barely make out a form lying in the bed. After setting the tea on the table, being careful not to wake him, she turned to leave, and tripped over something on the floor.
It was a book, the pages weathered and worn. Crossing to the window, she held it up to the sliver of light falling between the heavy curtains, so as to read the title. A New Voyage Round the World by someone by the name of William Dampier. This was most likely the same volume he’d gone searching for yesterday after the picnic. Right before he’d vomited on his bride-to-be.
This was not some silly book. A “voyage” meant “traveling other than by a land route.” It meant the open sea.
It meant freedom.
Curious, she read a page, for it had been more than a year since she’d last held something this dear in her hands.
I first set out of England on this voyage at the beginning of the year 1679, in the Loyal Merchant of London, bound for Jamaica, Captain Knapman Commander. I went a passenger, designing when I came thither, to go from thence to the Bay of Campeachy, in the Gulf of
Anne did not face the bed but suddenly knew he was awake. The skin prickled on the back of her neck, and she turned slowly, guilt causing her features to flush.
Teach watched her, no longer reclining but sitting up in his bed, his features pallid. “Are they gone?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
It took her a moment to register his words, for she saw that his nightshirt gaped open at the collar, clinging to his chest, drenched with sweat.
He repeated his question. “The houseguests. My father. Are they gone?”
“Ye . . . yes,” Anne stammered. “About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.”
He nodded and closed his eyes.
Returning to the bedside, she placed the book next to the tray and poured him a cup of tea. “Drink this, sir,” she said, holding it out to him.
Opening his eyes, he glanced in her direction. He took the cup but had trouble holding it, and she did not release her grip. His hand clasped hers as he brought the cup to his parched lips. Her skin fairly burned beneath his touch, but he continued to drink like a person lost in the desert, seemingly unaware of any assistance.
Anne had trouble reconciling this image with the person who’d confronted her about the price of shrimp, and was surprised by an unexpected twinge of sympathy.
After replacing the cup in the saucer, she walked to the other side of the bed and wetted a damp cloth in the washbasin. His black hair was plastered to his brow, and she smoothed it away, just like her mother had done for her when she’d been sick with fever. She wiped the cloth across his forehead, and he turned in her direction, a relieved sigh escaping his lips as he watched her through heavy lids.
Anne pretended not to notice and wet the cloth once more.
“You’re not going to run away again, are you?” he asked softly.
Every impulse told her she should, but for some reason she could not. “I should call a doctor,” Anne said, still trying to cool his fevered skin.
He shook his head. “I don’t want a doctor.”
“But you need—”
“Read to me,” he said.
Her hands paused, for his words were unexpected. “Sir?”
Leaning to the other side of the bed, the blankets pulled taut, he picked up the book. “Read to me. I know you know how.” It was not a request.
Anne swallowed, the blood quickening in her veins. She remembered the familiarity with which he and Miss Patience had addressed each other. “It would not be right for me to read to you. You are betrothed to another.”
His jaw clenched. “Which is exactly why there is no harm in it. You can rest assured that your virtue is yours to keep. I merely asked you to read,” he said.
Anne bit her lip, returning the cloth to the basin. He was mocking her. He knew she’d heard his exchange with Miss Patience. It was clear his and Miss Patience’s relationship was closer than either of their parents suspected.
Drying her hands on her apron, Anne searched her mind for a logical excuse not to remain. There were many.
Despite Teach’s assurances, it would not be appropriate.
Margery would come looking for her.
If Miss Patience found out, she would be livid.
Unfortunately, Anne did not give a whit about Miss Patience, and no matter if she read or not, there would always be chores to be done.
What could be the harm if she stayed? He was much too weak to get out of bed. He could be no threat in his present state, and she had been given specific instructions to tend to him.
If she left the door ajar as it was, there would be no cause for censure. He was to wed another; they simply needed to agree upon a date. There could be no harm in fulfilling his demand.
Teach waited, as if aware of the inner battle waging within her. In truth, Anne longed to find out more about William Dampier’s voyage round the world. She imagined it was filled with glorious images and descriptions from destinations unknown.
“You may sit there,” he said, pointing to the large armchair situated parallel to him.
Her mind made up, Anne took the book from his hands, walked back to the windows, and pulled the curtains aside. Settling herself in the armchair, she opened the pages once more.
Clearing her throat, she cast one last look at Teach. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and she began.
“Before the reader proceed any further in the perusal of this work I must bespeak a little of his patience here to take along with him this short account of it. It is composed of a mixed relation of places and actions in the same order of time in which they occurred: for which end I kept a journal of every day’s observations.”
For the next two hours Dampier’s story wrapped the two of them in a foreign world. While other travelers at the time robbed and raided, Dampier wrote vibrant and detailed notes, describing the vegetation and bringing to life the inhabitants of the places he visited. Anne was transported in a merchant ship, similar to her father’s, to the distant shores of the West Indies. She marched with the buccaneers through the jungles ahead of Spanish soldiers, raiding and pillaging small villages and large forts.
Anne felt Teach’s gaze on her face. Eventually he closed his eyes, drifting in and out of sleep.
She was fascinated by Dampier’s report of the Miskito Indians, a most remarkable race, and she was grateful he devoted several pages of his journal to their description. They were tall and strong, with copper-colored faces, long black hair, and stern expressions. Two Indians alone could supply an entire ship of buccaneers with food because of their fishing and hunting skills.
Anne paused, trying to picture such men. Her mother had told her stories about their ancestors, who’d come from the Spanish Main and settled on the island of Curazon. Mapmakers had later changed the name to Curaçao, but the early Spaniards had referred to it as the Isla de los Gigantes, because of the Arawak tribesmen’s formidable build.
There had not been enough gold or water to make staking a claim on the island worthwhile. The Dutch West India Company had eventually settled there in 1634, after the Spanish had left.
Because the land had been considered too dry to support large-scale plantations of sugar, coffee, or tobacco, hundreds of natives, including Anne’s mother and her family, had been forced to raise food to feed the thousands of slaves awaiting shipment elsewhere.
Anne couldn’t help wanting to know more about her mother’s past, especially now that she was gone.
Teach opened his eyes. “Why have you stopped?” he asked.
She was unsure how to respond, afraid to reveal her true feelings.
He had an uncanny way of seeing through her, discerning her thoughts when she least expected or wanted him to. “You favor them, you know. The Miskito Indians.”
“You’ve seen them?” she asked, incapable of hiding her enthusiasm.
He nodded weakly, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Oh yes. And if I were to ever command a ship myself, I’d want a whole crew of them. They’re bold in a fight and excellent marksmen if supplied with proper guns and ammunition. They have extraordinary sight and can spot a sail at sea farther and better than anyone else I’ve met.”
“I should so like to meet one,” she said.
At that moment Margery appeared in the door, a disapproving frown on her face. “Excuse me, sir, but I need Anne downstairs in the kitchen to help with the cooking.”
Teach’s jaw tightened, but he merely nodded.
Disappointed, Anne closed the book and laid it on the bed beside him. “In case you want to continue reading,” she said.
Teach shook his head. “No. When you bring me my dinner at noon, then we may continue the story,” he said, loud enough for his words to reach Margery.
Nodding, Anne took the tea tray in her hands, attempting to hide her smile, but he caught her eye and winked. As Anne left his room, Margery closed the door behind her, but not before they heard a pleased sigh coming from the interior.