Chapter Four

 

The light streaming through her bedroom window penetrated like a million fiery darts, almost blinding, even with her eyes closed. In the distance Rosalyn heard the grating sound of carriage wheels braking in front of her father’s house. As her fingertips fumbled over the familiar quilted pattern on her coverlet, she was flooded with a sense of relief. Hopefully the nightmare she only vaguely remembered, as it emerged from the darkest recesses of her mind, seemed only vaguely due to a sudden hallucination or delirium. For here she was, safe in her own comfortable bed. Voices whispering out in the hall pierced her senses with exaggerated clarity, adding to her splitting headache. All this and the fuzzy coating on her tongue only seemed to confirm her worst fears: None of it was a fantasy after all. It was the result of her own intemperate actions.

Rosalyn moved her head to gaze toward the door and winced. The slightest movement made her head pound.

The door knob turned slowly, as if the person in the upstairs hall was hesitant to disturb her. The door opened slowly, and Mercy peeped in. Seeing her worried look of concern produced a guilty rush of grotesque memories.

Sitting up in sudden horror, Rosalyn clutched her head in agony, for the person who had been behaving so strangely in her dreams had been...herself! Aghast, she closed her eyes, hoping to block out the night before, but only saw herself more clearly: Dancing until her head spun like a top. Drinking herself into a stupor. Taking a pratfall in her beautiful gown. And then, telling her father off in public!

Silently the young servant came into the room and, supporting Rosalyn’s shoulders, gave her a sip of sour tomato juice. “This should fix you up in no time,” she said softly.

Rosalyn gulped it down and made a wry face. “Oh, Mercy, how could I have behaved so abominably?”

“It was like no other Puritan wedding I’ve witnessed,” Mercy agreed. “But perhaps it’s merciful that you passed out.”

“Merciful! Because I can’t remember how foolishly I behaved?” She clapped her hand over her mouth with a moan, fighting another wave of nausea.

Mercy shook her head, her eyes full of compassion. “Nay, merciful, because you didn’t see what followed.”

"Wh-what are you saying? Did I do something even worse?” She braced herself, seeing Mercy’s ominous look. “Did all the gossips’ tongues start wagging?” She snickered, thinking that nothing could be as terrible as the day she’d just lived through—and survived. Since she was in her own bed, with no signs of that terrible old pirate or her father, she saw no real cause for gloom. What could possibly eclipse the disgrace she'd already brought upon herself?

“Ah, lass, I find it hard to break it to you, but—” Mercy paused to put a wet compress on Rosalyn’s forehead. “Your father and the Captain exchanged harsh words last night. Your father blamed him for your drunken condition, and things became very heated. The Captain suddenly got red in the face—him being under the weather and all—and he started making strange noises, like he’d lost the power of speech, and, well, to make a long story short, he suffered a paralyzing stroke.”

Rosalyn lay there, stunned and disbelieving. She barely remembered what he looked like, and yet they were married, sort of, and now—? “Is he dead?” she whispered.

“No, but he’s gravely ill. He can’t speak or move. The doctor is doing what he can, but things don’t look good.”

Rosalyn swallowed hard. “If it weren’t for me, none of this would have happened.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Mercy patted her shoulder. “Death and sickness come to us all by divine providence. It’s out of our hands to prevent such things.”

“I shall pray for the poor man,” Rosalyn said with a sudden attack of piety. Seeing Mercy’s incredulous look, she added, striving for complete honesty, “Otherwise I shall always have his death on my conscience.”

“Good idea,” Mercy agreed. “But first you must get dressed. Your father sent me to fetch you. There’s a man from your husband’s ship downstairs, asking to speak with you.”

Assailed by a premonition of great danger, Rosalyn took the coward’s way out, lest a relapse of last night’s intemperance should overtake her. “Oh, Mercy, I couldn’t possibly see anyone. Not now. Please make my excuses.”

And she disappeared beneath the quilts and pulled the pillow over her head, hoping to shut out the world. If only she could sleep, maybe this terrible nightmare would go away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The church yard, with its grim granite tombstones declaring “Memento Mori” and carved winged death’s heads depicting the fearsome Angel of Death, seemed an appropriate place for Rosalyn not only to bury her husband of five days, but the last vestiges of any love she had for her father, who’d forced this tragedy upon her. As icy November storm clouds gathered overhead, Rosalyn stood numb all the way down to her slender fingers, stiffly clutching her prayer book.

Brisk gusts of wind whipped the bare tree limbs and, like ghostly fingers, pulled at the soberly dressed mourners’ clothing. The trees looked as lifeless as she felt, their bare branches as brittle as her nerves, as the winds lashed about her. She felt strangely detached among this odd assortment of Puritans and rough seamen gathered to pay their last respects to Captain Nathaniel Watermann.

Shivering violently with chills, she felt as trapped by circumstance as the corpse being lowered into the frozen earth. As soon as the pinch-faced minister uttered his last “Amen,” the first shovelfuls of dirt signaled the conclusion of the graveside service. Captain Watermann’s coffin was a reminder to those staring down into the deep, open hole that most mariners’ graves in the cemetery were empty, marked by a granite stone to commemorate their deaths at sea.

To the Captain’s somber-faced crew, it seemed ironic that the Fair Winds’ master had weathered over thirty years of voyages across the rugged Atlantic and numerous skirmishes in the Caribbean, only to meet his end during his wedding festivities to a mere chit of a girl. Knowing his reputation as a ladies’ man, it wasn’t surprising that his men regarded the old salt as virtually indestructible.

Suddenly nauseated, Rosalyn turned abruptly, walking rapidly away from the gravesite. She could no longer stand the sight of her father and some of the well-wishers and neighbors who had been her worst critics in the days following the wedding reception.

Blinking back angry tears, she no longer cared what the shocked minister and the other mourners might think. She was glad to be free of this marriage. Not that she had anything against the deceased—other than the fact that he’d conspired with her father to get her wedded and bedded against her will! She felt a fresh surge of outrage, that a daughter could be disposed of as casually as bought goods! How could her father have actually paid a dowry to have a stranger take her off his hands?

In her haste to quit this macabre scene, her shoe struck a pebble, and she broke stride. As she stumbled, suddenly a man’s hand reached out and grasped her arm, seemingly to steady her, but stopping her flight. Glancing up, she met the unsettling glare of a man she’d been too upset to notice before at the gravesite.

“What’s your hurry, Mrs. Watermann?” he growled, pulling her around to face him.

Startled by the man's contemptuous sneer, Rosalyn flinched at the burning fury in his eyes. She had a vague recollection of his being at the wedding, but couldn’t place him. That entire day had passed in an alcoholic blur, driven by the pain of her father’s betrayal. “I beg your pardon?” she murmured, confused by his fierce hostility. As she sought to pull away, he flung her from him, causing her to take a few halting steps backward.

“Why so much haste to leave the grave of your dearly departed husband?” His biting sarcasm cut through her and sent a shiver up her back, as chilling as the sharp winds.

“I believe in a merciful God!” she declared, refusing to suffer abuse from any man. Her icy stare and the tilt of her defiant chin gave fair warning: She would do battle with anyone who dared to challenge her.

“What a pious hypocrite!” he rejoined. “Don’t tell me the Old Man abused you so ill! You were only married a few hours!” His lips tightened with barely controlled anger, and his piercing hazel eyes conveyed an unspoken threat.

A wave of color swept over her features, and Rosalyn swallowed nervously. “I only meant that I barely knew Captain Watermann,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “He and I only met briefly three times. The wedding was part of a business arrangement between the Captain and my father. I was just tossed in as part of the bargain!”

Forced to meet his stormy gaze in such proximity, she wondered why she even bothered to explain her situation. He apparently knew the Captain. Perhaps he was a member of the crew, but that hardly excused such bad manners.

“I doubt the Old Man would marry a wench without trying out the merchandise first,” he said, deliberately insulting her.

Rosalyn gasped at his affront. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t left the company of mourners. They would have provided some protection against such shocking remarks. Who is this stranger? she wondered. And why was he so determined to humiliate her? Had not the events of the past week been a cruel enough assault on her pride? No, by heaven! She would not tolerate being addressed in such a manner by this ill-bred, insensitive boor!

She bit her lip and, whirling about, made haste toward the waiting carriage. Over her shoulder, she couldn’t resist one final parting shot: “Sir, you are no gentleman, and I, for one, am glad the Captain is dead!”

If she'd thought to provoke him, she succeeded beyond her wildest expectations. She found herself grasped violently by both shoulders, and for an instant, she thought he was going to strangle her. She shrank back from his rage, fully expecting him to strike her.

“You bitch!” he snarled. His hands gripped her arms and slid down, pinning her elbows to her sides. He shook her, then dropped his hands with a look of disgust. “Maybe the Old Man’s lucky to be in his grave, so he can’t see what a bloodless excuse for a woman you are.”

Shocked by his language—and most especially by the strength of his hatred for her, Rosalyn felt her own anger rising to match the white heat of his fury.

He scanned her chalk white features, her heavily fringed spitfire’s eyes, and slightly parted lips. Her breathing came more rapidly, yet she stood her ground with fists clenched. How could his father have been duped into marrying such a lying, deceitful, uncaring she-witch? Why, if she were a man, he would gladly have finished her off, tossed her in on top of his father’s coffin, and personally shoveled dirt over that beautiful, frigid face!

Tight-lipped, he made a mocking bow, as other members of the funeral party approached on the path. Resuming a conversational tone, he took another insulting jab: “It must be convenient, Mrs. Watermann, not to perform any of the duties of a good, submissive wife, and yet reap all the benefits due a wealthy man’s widow! I wager you can hardly wait to meet with your lawyers and see how much you’ve profited by the Old Man’s death!” His hazel eyes flashed like a dangerous lightning storm.

The force of their brief exchange left her slightly disoriented. Turning aside, Rosalyn only knew one thing: I must get away from this place and my father at once!

Later she scarcely remembered how she managed to escape that savage, vindictive man. Fortunately Reverend Thatcher was suddenly there with his plump wife. Hoping to be shielded from any more unpleasantness, she accepted a ride home with them and Mrs. Cottington, her next door neighbor.

The tawny-eyed savage who had accosted her, and the rest of the Fair Winds’ crew, announced their intentions to walk back into town to the Rams Head Tavern to “hoist a few drinks in honor of the Old Man.” And since no reception had been planned at the house, Rosalyn sank back against the carriage seat with a sigh of relief.

“What will you do now, my dear?” Mrs. Cottington asked solicitously, as the carriage pulled up later in front of the Morgans’ house.

“I have no idea,” Rosalyn said, barely able to think, much less converse. She desperately needed to be alone, to sort things out and plan her escape.

The Captain had planned to take her on a wedding trip, while he made a routine voyage to Jamaica. Now, as Rosalyn entered her father's house, her eye caught sight of her trunks in the recessed alcove beneath the stairs, where they had sat since the ill-fated wedding. Instantly she knew that she had no choice but to leave at once. Otherwise her father, still intent upon pursuing his courtship of the Widow Blankenship, would seek out another husband for her.

The odds of escaping a loveless marriage twice seemed highly unlikely. God might be merciful, but such providential good fortune, like lightning, rarely could be counted upon to strike twice. It was up to her to make her own luck, without delay.

Mrs. Cookson emerged from the kitchen to see her young mistress trembling with cold, her face bloodless and pale. “Mercy sakes, child! Off with your cloak now.” The kindly housekeeper bustled her into the parlor. “Sit by the fire. A hot cup of tea will do you a world of good.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cookson,” said Rosalyn. Uncontrollable shivers swept through her like the ague. She wasn’t physically ill, but she was nearly consumed with anxiety.

While Mrs. Cookson fussed over her, pouring out a cup of tea with extra sugar and cream in it, Rosalyn tried to focus on where she should go, and how to manage it. She must decide quickly. Perhaps she could persuade her father to help her relocate elsewhere in the colony, perhaps with her cousins. No, not that; definitely not. Providence was entirely too close! Until she put an entire ocean between her domineering father and herself, she would never know another moment’s peace. Still mulling over her next move, Rosalyn closed her eyes before the cheerful, crackling fire…

Sometime later she was startled out of an exhausted sleep by the sound of her father and Captain Watermann’s lawyer, Mr. Benedict, entering the house. Stomping his boots to restore circulation, her father clamored for Mrs. Cookson to hang up their coats. “Hurry, woman!” he called.

With a sinking heart, Rosalyn smoothed the skirt on her widow’s weeds and waited for both men to come warm themselves by the fire. This was the moment she'd been dreading, when Mr. Benedict went over the details of her late husband’s estate.

Finally her father cleared his throat. “Rosalyn, you’ve been avoiding me for days, but it’s imperative that you know about the agreement Captain Watermann and I drew up the day of your marriage.”

The sallow-faced attorney, sitting in his ungainly Dutch coat and limp cravat, opened his writing case. “In the event either your husband or your father died, the agreement stipulated that you would be well provided for.”

Rosalyn stirred uncomfortably. “I won’t listen to this.” Already overwhelmed by the events leading up to the Captain’s death, the idea of listening to the pair of them discuss how she might benefit from his demise was absolutely appalling. “I’ll take no part in picking the man’s bones when he’s barely dead and buried!” she said loftily, barely holding onto her Welsh temper.

Her father reached out and grasped her wrist. “Rosalyn, I know you’re angry,” he began, hoping to reason with her. “Certainly we both have cause to be unhappy with each other.”

“I shall never forgive you!” she cried. How dare he blame her for their rift?

“Forgiveness is a prerequisite for a right relationship with the Almighty,” he reminded her.

Rosalyn searched her father’s stern features, but found there no sign of regret for his actions. “After what you did to me?” she whispered, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.

“It’s useless to argue, but for your own sake, daughter, I urge you to hear Mr. Benedict out. Alas, I have business to attend at the shop.” Her father turned abruptly and left the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Reluctantly she watched the lawyer shuffle through a stack of legal papers. “Mr. Benedict, this is a very difficult time for me, so please be brief.” She looked him square in the eye, for though she was young, he needn’t think she would allow herself to be pushed to the wall or bullied. Those days were over!

He hesitated, seeing the warning in her stormy gaze. “You have come into a sizable inheritance,” he said, clearing his throat. “Of course, no currency—there are currently no liquid assets. Everything is pretty much tied up in land and other valuable assets for the present. But over time, there should be more than enough to keep you quite comfortably.”

As the truth sank in, any hopes for living independently began to wane. “Alas, it seems I am no better off than I was before the marriage.” she said, forlornly gazing into the fire.

“On the contrary, ma’am, you have inherited Captain Watermann’s share of the cooperative venture he formed with your father and several other businessmen here in Boston.”

Her fingers toyed with a piece of carved skrimshaw on a nearby table top. She knew nothing of business, and given that her father was involved, she felt even less inclined to trust him.

“What kind of venture?” she asked skeptically.

Lawyer Benedict sighed, as if sorely tried by the need to explain such details to a mere female. “A shipyard here in the colonies,” he said in his flat, nasal voice. “You also own a half-share in the Fair Winds.”

She frowned, trying to understand the advantages of being part owner in a ship. “I get half of what?” she frowned.

“You get half of all the ship’s profits, each time a cargo is sold. That means that every time goods are bartered or sold, and money changes hands, you are entitled to half.”

“That’s more like it!” She smiled, already calculating the possibility of future earnings. “But what about right now?”

At once Mr. Benedict’s manner became fawning. “Surely it has crossed your mind, being an attractive young woman, you might consider marrying again,” he smirked.

Rosalyn recoiled involuntarily. “How odd that marriage should be considered a woman’s only recourse,” she said. “What a repugnant way to get out from beneath my father’s iron rule!” She looked down at her hands, thinking, What if Captain Watermann had miraculously survived? Would her fate have been any less unbearable? She thought not. Widow or wife, it made no difference. Either way, it appeared, she was caught in a marriage trap.

Crossing to her, Mr. Benedict captured her hand between his clammy palms in a grotesque, almost lover-like gesture. His eyes were rather close together, and he licked his lips with a cunning little smile., “Please call upon me to assist and advise you anytime.”

Releasing her ice-cold fingers, he made an awkward bow. “I am at your service, ma’am, at a moment’s notice.” His business concluded, he made his way to the front hall, where Mrs. Cookson handed him his cloak and hat.

Pondering all the facts at her disposal, Rosalyn gripped the back of her chair until her knuckles ached. She knew now without a doubt that she must make her own way, and soon, if she was to have any kind of a life at all.