Brenda Joyce - A Lady at Last

Was her father mad?

“I’m not a lady—I couldn’t ever be one. I love the island. This is my home! I love sailing—I love the sea,” she protested with real panic.

“In that, you’re my own true daughter,” Rodney said, proudly and sadly at once. “God, girl, I don’t know what I was thinking, to teach you how to sail my sloop and fire the cannon, to fence better than a master, to shoot a pistol and mend sails. You climb the masts better than my best topmen. You’re a woman, not a lad! You should have stayed with your mother. I know that now.”

“No!” She seized his hand through the bars. “Papa, I love you.”

He drew his hand away from hers and was silent.

Amanda fought not to cry again, but it was a losing battle.

“Promise me,” he finally said, “that when I’m gone, you will go to her. You got no one here. You need to go to Dulcea, Amanda.”

Amanda was terrified. How could she make such a promise? Mama was a great lady. She was a pirate’s daughter. While she believed her mother had loved her once, that had been long ago. She was very afraid her mother would not care much for her now.

“I’m your father and a dying man,” he cried, furious. “Damn it, you’re to obey me!”

She knew that if the bars didn’t separate them, he’d whack her one. “You’re not dead yet. Maybe a miracle will happen!”

He snorted. “There’s no such thing.”

“There was a miracle today,” Amanda cried. “Cliff de Warenne saved me from—” She stopped abruptly.

Rodney stared, the whites of his eyes showing. “He what?”

“He saved me…I tried to seduce the governor,” she whispered.

Through the bars, he hit her on the side of her head, hard. “You’re no whore, damn it! If there’s one thing I did right, it was to keep you innocent. You’re to give that maidenhead to a good man—to your husband!” he shouted, enraged.

She held on tightly to the bars, until the stars spinning in her head dimmed and vanished. Then she inhaled, shaky from the blow. “I was trying to save you, Papa.”

But her father didn’t seem to hear. “De Warenne’s a gentleman, never mind his command. You make him take you to England. He’s one you can trust.”

Amanda was in despair. Her father was about to hang and if this was his dying wish, she would have to obey it. “He’s odd,” she heard herself say slowly, musing aloud. “Why would he help me, a stranger? Why would he fight with his own friend to do so?”

“’Cause that’s what them blue bloods do—they get all high and mighty and offer charity to poor sots like us. It makes them nobles feel even higher and mightier when they do so. He gives you charity, you take it, girl,” Rodney said. “And never mind your damnable pride!” He hesitated, then said strangely, “Did he notice that you’re a beauty?”

Amanda was taken aback. In her entire seventeen years, her father had never once mentioned that he thought her beautiful. But now he was talking about her as if she were truly beautiful, like her mother. “Papa? I’m no beauty. I’m skinny with ratty hair. I wear boy’s clothes. And I have very odd eyes. Everyone says so.”

Rodney was serious. “”Did he look at you like that fucking Turk did in Sicily?”

Amanda hesitated. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Rodney exhaled. After a long, grim pause, he said seriously, “He’s the one to take you to your mother. I mean it, Amanda, I trust him. He’s a gentleman.” He stopped.

She knew he wanted to say something more. “He is a gentleman, but what is it, Papa? What aren’t you saying?”

Rodney stared. “I wouldn’t mind if he decided to keep you for a time.”

Amanda gaped. “What? You mean, as his mistress?”

“He’s rich as sin and he’s an earl’s son!” Carre cried, slamming his fist against the wall. “I always wanted to see you properly wed, but with me gone, I don’t know how that is possible. That will be up to your mother, and you haven’t seen her in years.”

Amanda began to tremble. De Warenne’s strong, bronzed face came to mind, his gaze so peculiarly intense, so strangely piercing, as if he could look into her mind, her soul. She recalled his carrying her from Woods’s rooms. She tensed, confused. She might not mind giving him her maidenhead, or not very much, anyway. And he had seemed kind.

She must be mistaken, she thought, shaken now. While the Queen Street baker’s wife gave her stale bread for free, and the boy who swept the apothecary shop was pleasant, no one else in her world was that way. Maybe de Warenne had rescued her in order to seduce her, never mind that she wasn’t the kind of noble lady he preferred. After all, hadn’t he tried to get her to stay in his Kingston home?

“Papa, he would never want me as a mistress. He has lovers, all prettier than me.”

“You just make sure he’s the one to sail you to your mother,” Rodney said grimly. “I meant to leave you with something, Amanda, and there’s nothing, damn it, not a single pound. I am sorry.”

She was more ill inside now than ever, because Papa never apologized for anything and this was the second time he was telling her how sorry he was. “Don’t apologize,” she said fiercely. “You’re the best father a girl could have!” She meant it, and unbidden, tears began again.

“I tried, I really tried,” he gasped, crying now, too. “Girl, you got to go.”

Amanda realized that the sky was turning boldly orange above the rooftop of the courthouse. The sun was rising—it was dawn. “No,” she cried.

In a few more moments, she would have to leave. And the next time she saw her father, he would be on the hangman’s block.

“You better go, girl, before they catch you here and find out about the tunnel you dug under the fence.” Carre was hoarse.

This could not be happening. She had never been quite sure if she believed in God, but now, wildly, she prayed. “Papa, let me stay. I don’t care if they find me.” She reached through the bars, desperate.

He hesitated, then clasped her hand.

Oh, God. His hand was warm, strong, calloused and scarred. Years ago, a Scot had severed one of his fingers in a brawl, the blade catching the flesh of his palm. But Amanda held on for her life—and his.

Because once she let go, she was never going to be able to take his hand again.

AT THE LAST POSSIBLE moment, he’d leaped onto his finest Thoroughbred and galloped every mile to Spanishtown. Now Cliff scanned the crowd that had gathered beneath the hot midday sun in the square between King’s House and the courthouse. Beautifully garbed ladies with white parasols and well-dressed gentlemen with walking sticks ambled about the hanging block beneath the shade of towering palm trees, chatting casually while they waited for the festivities to begin. Roughly dressed sailors sipped grog and pinched their whores; a few sailors were dancing with their trollops to the heady island tune a Negro fiddler was playing. A group of young boys were throwing stones at the scaffolding as if it were a bull’s eye target. They were laughing and becoming vicious. He turned away, scanning the other side of the square. A regiment of soldiers stood at attention outside of the courthouse, and more soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the park, in case the prisoner decided to escape. His heart beat hard, fueled by adrenaline. Where was she?

In a matter of minutes, Carre would be escorted from the prison to his fate. Cliff was certain La Sauvage was present.

He hadn’t slept a wink all night, obsessed by the fate of her father and her part in the terrible drama. He suspected she would not resign herself to being a spectator that day, but what could she possibly think to do? He knew one thing: he was not going to let her throw her own life away after her father’s. If she thought to attempt to save Carre’s life, he intended to stop her before the soldiers did.