Hope gathered a mound of soft plantain leaves, then squeezed her arm beneath Mrs. Hendrick’s shoulders and gently lifted her, easing the makeshift pillow beneath her head. Mrs. Hendrick groaned and pried her eyes open. Hope turned away, swiped the tears from her cheeks, and avoided her gaze—avoided the question she knew would rise to Mrs. Hendrick’s lips and the answer Hope knew she must give.
On the other side of Mrs. Hendrick, Abigail gathered bloody cloths, a quiet sob escaping her lips. Her eyes met Hope’s, and she laid a gentle hand upon her arm.
“There was naught we could do.”
“I know.” Hope swallowed, not allowing her eyes to wander toward the tiny bundle in the corner of the hut. The tiny bundle who would never have a chance to live, the tiny bundle who would never grow to be a man.
Mrs. Hendrick’s agonized screams continued to blare through Hope’s ears, drilling holes in the calm exterior she’d managed to maintain during the ordeal. Each torturous wail had brought Hope back to Portsmouth, sitting in the hallway outside her mother’s chamber, trembling in anguish and fright. Only this time, Hope had been forced to watch as Mrs. Hendrick writhed in agony, watch the pain etch lines of misery on her comely face, watch as she expelled the lifeless child from her body. And Hope saw her mother in each dreadful trial. The physicians could do naught to ease her mother’s pain, just as Abigail and Hope could do naught to ease Mrs. Hendrick’s.
Hope lifted the bloodstained sailcloth covering Mrs. Hendrick and peeked beneath it. A shudder ran through her. “She’s bleeding again.”
“I’ll go get some more bedding and fresh cloths.” Abigail stood, her arms full of stained rags. “And some water.”
A warm night breeze wafted in through the open flap as Abigail left, bringing with it the smell of smoke and salt. It danced through a strand of Mrs. Hendrick’s mahogany hair lying on her forehead, and Hope brushed it aside, admiring the woman’s beauty.
Mrs. Hendrick moaned and grabbed Hope’s hand, startling her. Another breeze swept in, sending the two lanterns perched on either side of the hut flickering their light like sparkling jewels across Mrs. Hendrick’s eyes.
“Boy or girl?” she rasped.
“Boy.” A tear slid down Hope’s cheek, and batting it away, she grabbed a cloth and wiped the perspiration from Mrs. Hendrick’s forehead. “You must rest now.”
Her breathing grew ragged, and she eased her other hand over her flat belly. “A boy. William, like his father,” she whispered, then squeezed her eyes shut. A tear slid from the corner of her eye and trickled down into her hair. “I know he didn’t survive.”
Hope caressed her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Hendrick’s eyes popped open, and she studied Hope. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Mr. Hendrick will be angry.”
Hope flinched. “Nay, how could he blame you for what happened?”
“I never do anything right.” Mrs. Hendrick struggled to rise.
Hope gently pressed her shoulders down. “That’s rubbish, and you know it.” Fury raged through Hope. Fury at Mr. Hendrick’s stubborn pride. He should not have taken his wife and child on a raft upon the open sea. If the child’s death was anyone’s fault, it was his and his alone.
“Elise.” Mrs. Hendrick gripped Hope’s arm, her eyes wide.
“She is well.” Hope patted her hand. “She is with her father. They are both worried about you.”
The lines on Mrs. Hendrick’s face folded, and gasping, she threw both hands to her stomach. “You’ve been so kind to me, and I’ve been naught but …” She wailed then slumped onto the bed, panting.
A spark of fear shot through Hope. The pains of birth should be over now. “It matters not, Mrs. Hendrick. Just rest. Abigail has gone for some more bedding and some tea so you can regain your strength.”
“Please call me Eleanor.”
“Eleanor.”
Laughter coupled with profane curses rumbled in the distance like thunder, reminding Hope they were no longer alone on the island. At least Captain Poole had allowed her and Abigail to attend to Mrs. Hendrick during her lying-in. And he had provided the cloths and lanterns they requested. Perhaps the pirate captain possessed some measure of compassion despite the vile behavior he demonstrated when they had first come ashore.
“He loved me once.” The soft, scratchy sound of Mrs. Hendrick’s voice brought Hope’s attention back to her. Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the roof of the hut, and a slight smile teased her lips.
“I am sure he loves you still.” Hope ran her fingers through the damp hair around Eleanor’s face, wondering all the while where her adoring husband had gotten himself off to.
“He was so agreeable, so attentive and caring. A real gentleman. All the women adored him. But he had eyes for only me.” She winced and pressed a hand to her belly, then caught her breath, and her smile returned. “He had everything a woman could want: wealth, looks, wit, and charm. I must admit, I was quite captivated.”
Eleanor’s description brought another man to Hope’s mind, a man much like Mr. Hendrick—Lord Falkland. Shaking the vision away, Hope mused over Eleanor’s words. Mr. Hendrick. Attentive? Caring? He seemed anything but those things—especially with his beautiful wife. “He is a fine man, I’m sure.”
Eleanor laughed. “He is a cad, and you know it.” She closed her eyes. “Elise is the only good thing that came from him.”
Hope raised a brow at the woman’s honesty, then peered beneath the sailcloth once again. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to keep the fear from her face. Where was Abigail? The bleeding had grown worse.
Mrs. Hendrick’s moist eyes flickered with sorrow. “Can I tell you something?”
Hope nodded.
“Elise was conceived before we were married.” Eleanor searched Hope’s face tentatively, and then she released a sigh. “I knew you would not judge me. Perhaps that is why I loathed you so much when we first met. I saw myself in you and hated you for it.”
Shock held Hope’s tongue. She never would have thought this fine lady would have behaved with such impropriety as to give herself to a man before wedlock, nor divulged such an indiscretion to anyone—especially Hope. That Mrs. Hendrick hated Hope she had not kept secret, but Hope never could have imagined her true reason.
“He married me, of course.” She waved a hand through the air, then dropped it as if the effort exhausted her. “But soon after the wedding, he changed. He stopped spending time with me. He rarely paid me a compliment. He spent hours and hours away from home. He drank heavily, and I oft smelled perfume on his clothes. Nothing I did was good enough for him. He criticized the way I managed the household, the way I dressed, my conversation, even the way I laughed.” Tears poured from her eyes and dripped onto the leaves beside her head. “And of course I disappointed him with Elise. He wanted a son.”
“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” Hope could not imagine the despair of such rejection. Would Lord Falkland have done the same thing had they been married? Yet as thoughts of his recent betrayal burned in her memory, she already knew the answer. Even amidst the torment of the past month, even amidst the despair of the present moment, a bud of relief sprang up within Hope. Though she and Eleanor had traveled down the same road, Hope had thus far been spared the same tragic fate. Why? She certainly did not deserve a reprieve.
“I fear he’s never warmed to Elise.” Agony cracked Eleanor’s voice.
Hope pressed her hand over a tangible pain in her heart—a pain for both Eleanor and Elise, but especially for Elise, for Hope knew what it felt like to grow up without a father’s love.
“I gave myself to him wholly, thinking I could win his love.” Eleanor struggled to catch her breath. “But in the end, all I won was his hate.”
“Shhh, now. You must rest.” Hope took her hand, shocked by how cold and limp it suddenly felt.
Eleanor shifted her misty eyes to Hope. “I used to be beautiful like you.”
“You are still comely, Eleanor.” Hope brushed her fingers across Eleanor’s cheek. “I was most jealous of you when I first saw you.”
She smiled and looked away. “William says I have lost my youthful glow.”
“William has gone blind.” Hope no longer tried to hide the disdain in her voice.
A breeze blasted over them, sending the lanterns flickering and shadows crouching across the ceiling of leaves. Abigail entered, her arms full of tattered cloths.
Kneeling beside Eleanor, Abigail lifted the sailcloth and peeked beneath her bloodstained petticoat. Her face went white, and she raised a tremulous gaze to Hope.
Terror curdled in Hope’s belly, and once again she was in Portsmouth, this time beside her mother’s bed, holding her mother’s hand as she now held Eleanor’s.
Eleanor groaned. “I feel so weak.” She let out a ragged breath and turned to Abigail. “Thank you, Miss Sheldon. You both have been beyond kind. I wish I hadn’t been so reserved and had gotten to know you better.” She smiled. “Perhaps we could have been friends.”
“I am sure we shall be. There will be plenty of time for that.” Abigail cupped her cheek in her hand.
“You know what the worst part is?” Eleanor faced Hope. She swallowed, and a foggy sheen covered her eyes. “I still love him.”
Tears burned in Hope’s eyes, and she squeezed them shut, releasing streams down her cheeks. She understood that kind of love just as she understood the heartache of giving it to someone who did not, or perhaps could not, return it.
Eleanor coughed and struggled for a breath. She gasped. Hope drew nearer, gripping her hand. “Eleanor!”
Mrs. Hendrick’s eyes focused on the leafy roof, then went blank. Her chest fell, and one final breath escaped her lips.
Abigail dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.
“No!” Hope grabbed Eleanor’s shoulders and shook them. “No!” Not again. “Mother. No!” Falling onto Eleanor, Hope embraced her. “Don’t leave me.”
“Hope.” Abigail pulled her from Eleanor and drew her close, wrapping her arms around her. “Shh, shh.”
Leaning on Abigail’s shoulder, Hope opened the floodgate of years of sorrow and loss and allowed her tears to flow unrestrained for Eleanor, for her baby, for a brother Hope would never know, and for a mother she never had. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.”
Abigail planted a gentle kiss upon her head. “Life isn’t fair.”
Numb, Hope trudged from the hut, the tiny, cold bundle cradled in her hands. The sultry night air struck her like a wall, thick with sorrow. She barely felt it. She barely felt anything save the agony wrenching at her heart. Crushing her toes into the sand, she peered into the darkness. In the distance, flames danced high into the night, circled by a raucous band of pirates flinging chortles and curses and lewd ballads through the air. Enjoying themselves as if two precious lives had not been snuffed from this earth.
Her gaze moved to five shadowy figures sitting on a log outside the mob of pirates. One pirate, armed with pistols, stood guard over them, yet his attention and his body drifted toward his companions.
Pressing the bundle against her chest, she started toward the men. Over the sea, a full moon flung sparkling diamonds upon the liquid ebony. The crash of the waves offered a soothing alternative to the boisterous revelry of the pirates, but she didn’t want to be soothed right now. She wanted justice. She wanted revenge. As she approached the log, Nathaniel’s gaze shot to hers, as did Gavin’s. The major lay upon the sand, snoring, and Kreggs and Hanson seemed oblivious to anything save the pirate’s unrestrained festivities.
She halted before Mr. Hendrick, glancing only briefly at Elise, curled up in a ball at his feet.
His drowsy eyes widened, and he rose. “’Tis the babe?” He held his arms open to receive the wee bundle.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hendrick. Your son did not survive.” Hope took no care to soften the blow with a sentimental tone. Her only thought was to whisper the ill tidings so as not to disturb Elise.
“What’s this? What are you saying? My son?” He took the bundle in one hand and peered beneath the cloth. For a moment his expression registered grief and sorrow and perhaps a bit of remorse, and Hope felt a spark of sympathy for him. But then his eyes flashed dark with anger. He shoved the dead child back into Hope’s arms and stormed toward the hut.
Nathaniel shot to his feet as Hope turned and marched after Mr. Hendrick. Though he couldn’t make out what she’d said to him, from Mr. Hendrick’s reaction, Nathaniel assumed the child had been stillborn. He deduced from the fury on Hope’s face that a barrel of trouble would soon explode.
Grabbing Mr. Hendrick’s arm, Hope jerked him around to face her. Her words were muffled, but their effect boomed louder than a broadside. “Gone! Of all the—gone where?”
Nathaniel reached her side as Gavin circled around Mr. Hendrick, taking a stand behind him.
“The childbirth was too much for her. She is dead.” Hope’s tone was laced with anger, giving Nathaniel pause.
Mr. Hendrick took a step back, his mouth contorting into an O, yet his face devoid of any emotion. “Dead.” He glanced at the hut and then at the bundle in Hope’s arms.
Nathaniel’s throat constricted. Mrs. Hendrick dead. Her ear-piercing screams had trumpeted through the camp all day and half the night, but he assumed they were a result of the normal birthing pains. Hope’s expression was drawn, her shoulders sagging—with exhaustion or sorrow? Perhaps both. What she and Abigail must have endured.
Anger tightened Mr. Hendrick’s otherwise placid expression. His jaw twitched. “Stupid woman! She couldn’t do even this right without killing herself and my son.”
As if in protest to his scornful affront, a roller crashed on the shore, reaching its foamy fingers toward them.
Gavin shook his head. “Sink me, man, but you are a heartless beast.” He voiced the sentiment that rang through Nathaniel’s dazed mind.
“What would you know of matters of the heart?” Mr. Hendrick dismissed him with a wave.
Hope shoved her face into his. “You dare call your wife stupid when it was your choice to take her upon the open seas!”
“The woman insisted on traveling with me.” Mr. Hendrick shifted his shoulders. “She insisted on constantly hovering around me.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Nathaniel could not hide the disgust in his voice. “’Tis obvious you did not honor her in her life. But fire and thunder, man, at least honor her in her death.”
Mr. Hendrick lowered his chin as if pondering Nathaniel’s words. He kicked the sand with his foot and sighed.
Hope held the bundle closer to her chest and lowered her gaze. “She loved you, Mr. Hendrick.” When she lifted her face, grief pooled in her eyes. “Though I cannot imagine why.”
The riotous sounds of the pirates’ merriment faded, and the hairs bristled on the back of Nathaniel’s neck as the sound of their boots sifting through the sand took its place. He had hoped they would have been too far gone in their drink to notice the commotion.
Mr. Hendrick snorted. “You can’t imagine why, you say?” The hint of moisture in his eyes dried into a hard sheen. “Many fine ladies set their cap for me—some in possession of quite a fortune, I might add—before I was forced to take Eleanor as wife.” He raised his dark brows. “How unfortunate for you that you were not as successful as she with your last beau. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have abandoned you to the auction block.”
The smell of unwashed bodies and rum wafted over Nathaniel as shadowy figures circled around them.
Hope’s chest heaved. She pursed her lips and took a step toward Mr. Hendrick. Nathaniel got the impression she would have struck him on the face if not for the bundle in her arms.
Taking her elbow, Nathaniel eased her back, hoping to quell her rage and her tongue before she sparked Mr. Hendrick’s temper further. The man was grieving, and no matter how heartless he seemed, he deserved to be left alone.
Turning toward him, Nathaniel stifled his own anger and put on his most sympathetic expression. “I realize this must be a shock, but you have no cause to insult Miss Hope. Your wife’s death was no one’s fault. It was simply her time.”
“But it is his fault!” Hope pushed her way toward Mr. Hendrick. His eyes bulged with rage. Bypassing Hope, he directed their fury toward Nathaniel.
“You could have healed her. You healed this strumpet.” He nodded toward Hope. “But you wouldn’t heal my wife.” His face darkened. “And now she is dead!”
The words rang ominous between a lull in the waves, and Nathaniel opened his mouth to explain he couldn’t heal anyone without the power of God. But grunts and groans filtered through the mob of pirates, followed by the crunch of sand beneath heavy boots. Captain Poole appeared beside Nathaniel, his hands planted firmly on his waist.
“Mr. Mason, the man has just insulted yer wife beyond what any man should tolerate. And yet ye stand here and do nothing?”
“He’s got the heart of a yellow dog, says I,” one pirate bellowed.
“Yellow blood runs in ‘is veins,” another chortled, and the pirates broke into a chorus of insults.
The captain snapped his fingers to silence his men. “Unless, of course”—his voice took on a sinister tone—“she is not yer wife and indeed a trollop, as the man claims.” Even in the shadows, Nathaniel could see the lust dripping from the captain’s eyes as he gazed at Hope.
Nathaniel ground his teeth together and glared her way. Would this woman’s unanchored emotions never cease to cause him trouble?
The apologetic look in her eyes did naught to appease his rising anxiety. He lengthened his stance, knowing he could not appear weak in front of these pirates. Their lives—all of their lives—depended on it.
“Mr. Hendrick.” He addressed the man in as calm a tone as possible.
Mr. Hendrick crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Nathaniel, a haughty smirk upon his lips.
“You will apologize at once to my wife, and to me.”
Mr. Hendrick’s eyes flickered between Hope and Captain Poole, igniting a flash of terror in Nathaniel. Would he give them away? Surely the man had enough decency not to put Hope in such a precarious position. If he would simply apologize and walk away, the whole matter could be put to rest. But instead he snorted. “I will not.”
Nathaniel’s heart fell to his feet. “Then you shall meet me at dawn.”
“It will be my pleasure.” Mr. Hendrick fingered his beard and nodded.
The pirates cheered, shoving muskets into the air, one of them firing into the night.
“Since you are the one being challenged, Hendrick, you may choose the weapons,” Captain Poole stated as if he often presided over duels.
“I choose pistols,” Mr. Hendrick said smugly.
Nathaniel’s blood froze. He stood a fair chance with swords, but pistols? He had little experience with them and had never been a good shot.
“Pistols it is!” Captain Poole shouted, then turned to survey his crew. “We have ourselves a duel, men.”
The pirates cheered. “To the death,” they chanted. “To the death!”