Dangerous Waters (23 page)

Up in her tower she sank onto the side of the bed, hugging herself, her heart hammering against her ribs as Rose and Ellin's conversation replayed in her head.

Rupert and the slaves: Rupert cruel and selfish: Rose Stirling not after all a respectable widow but William Quintrell's ex-mistress.

When she accepted this match she had also accepted, trusted, believed, the picture William Quintrell had drawn for her. Yet knowing what his son was he had looked her in the eye and lied.

Her uncle could not have known.
He couldn't.
William Quintrell must have lied to him as he had lied to her. Even to allow the possibility that – No, she could not afford such thoughts for they would destroy every good and happy memory of her uncle.

Suddenly she recalled Rose's reaction to the birth of a son to the vicomtesse, Jenny's claim that her master cared more about getting another son than he did about his wife, and Rose's statement that a man of wealth and position must have an heir. In that moment Phoebe recognised the stark truth.

Her sole reason for being here was to provide the Quintrells, father and son, with an heir for Grove Hill. It was clear to her now that despite his wealth Rupert's behaviour must be too well known throughout the island for him to be acceptable to any family who valued their good name.

She, on the other hand, had been perfect for William Quintrell's purpose. An orphan in the care of her widower uncle who was very much preoccupied with his forthcoming marriage, she knew little about Jamaica, and nothing about his son except what he chose to tell her.

Unable to keep still, chilled and shaking despite the warm sunshine that filled the little tower, Phoebe leapt up. Arms clasped across her body as if to hold herself together she paced between the window and the short wooden rail that guarded the stairs: three steps one way, three steps the other.

Her first impulse was to tell Jowan. Instantly she knew she must not.
He had been made her guardian against his will.
Though he had been kind and they had developed a professional relationship that exceeded all her hopes, she could not burden him with this. His duty to her uncle would demand that she honour the engagement. If she persuaded him this was impossible, that same sense of honour and duty would compel him to take responsibility for her himself.

She recalled the bitter expression she had glimpsed when she caught him unawares. She shuddered. Such an imposition was impossible. He would resent and despise her. The thought was unbearable.

But what was she to do?
How could she marry such a man as Rupert Quintrell? Yet what choice did she have? She was alone: a stranger in a strange country. Back and forward she paced, rubbing her arms.

Possibilities flared like a sparks from a burning log. She could return to England on another ship.
Did
she have enough money for a ticket?
And if she went back, where could she go? Not to her uncle and his new wife, nor to cousin Amelia in London. None would not welcome her, and in all fairness why should they?

She could not return to England. But she would not marry Rupert Quintrell. So what was left?
She could stay in Kingston
.

That was impossible.
Why was it?
Because she had very little money and nowhere to live.
But she had skills.
Hope flowered. Given the desperate shortage of doctors, surely it wouldn't be difficult for her to find work as a midwife? And provided she could pay for her keep perhaps Rose would allow her to remain here?
And face Rupert Quintrell's wrath?
Rose's response to Ellin had made it clear she had no intention of putting her home and income at risk.

Phoebe would have to find somewhere else to stay.
In a town overrun by refugees, where there was not a room to be had?
Pressing icy palms to her cheeks Phoebe fought rising panic.
What was she to do?

A sharp tap on her wooden door made her start. She heard the latch rattle then Julius shouted up. “You there, Mizz Dymond? Doctor's come.”

Phoebe moistened dry lips. “Please tell him I'll be down directly.” As the latch clicked shut at the bottom of the stairs she adjusted the muslin folds over her bosom, picked up her hat and drew a deep breath. She had made her decision. She could not, would not, marry Rupert Quintrell.

However, courtesy demanded she tell him in person. But to wait for news of her arrival to reach him, then for him to come to Kingston – she couldn't. Events aboard the ship coupled with the effort of concealing what she felt for Jowan Crossley had stretched her nerves almost to snapping point. To continue with the charade and at the same time cope with the stress of what she had learned this morning would demand strength she wasn't sure she possessed.

She had to settle the whole unfortunate business as swiftly as possible. There was only one way to do that. Instead of waiting for Rupert to come to her, she must ride out to Grove Hill.

She could not go alone. As her guardian Jowan would never permit it. Though he would be angry at the inconvenience he would nonetheless insist on accompanying her. And there was no one with whom she felt safer.

But because she could not tell him the real reason for her desire to leave at once for Grove Hill, naturally he would assume she was anxious to be with her betrothed. In truth she would have given what little she possessed to be spared a meeting she dreaded.

“Ah, here she is,” Rose looked up, beaming as Phoebe descended the carpeted staircase.

How can she smile at me as if she were my friend?
Phoebe widened her mouth, desperately hoping it looked more natural than it felt. “Good morning, Mrs Stirling.”

“I've just been telling Dr Crossley how delighted the vicomte is with his baby son. He has much to thank you for, Miss Dymond, as I'm sure he knows.”

Glancing towards Jowan Phoebe saw his eyes narrow and realised he had been watching her. As the crease between his brows deepened she knew it would be an uphill battle to convince him all was well.
Maybe she'd be wiser not to try.
“Good morning, Dr Crossley.”

“Do I find you in good health, Miss Dymond?”

The fact that he asked indicated doubt. “Yes, thank you. Though I think perhaps I'm still a little tired.”

“You need make no excuses for that, Miss Dymond,” Rose said. “Yesterday afternoon left me as limp as a rag.”

Ignoring her Jowan turned to Phoebe and cleared his throat. “I was going to suggest visiting an apothecary, but if you are not feeling up to – “

“No,” Phoebe blurted. “I mean yes. Yes, I would – I do –” Feeling the flush climb from her throat to her hairline she stopped, then started again. “Thank you, Dr Crossley. I would like that very much. I do need to replace quite a few of my herbs. But I think perhaps I'd better find out the prices before I – “

“Forgive me,” Jowan broke in. “I should have mentioned this as soon as I arrived. I have a message from Mr Burley. He presents his compliments and apologies. He had intended you to be reimbursed before you left the ship.”

Bewildered, Phoebe stared at him. “Reimbursed? For what?”

“Any and all remedies from your supply that were used to treat passengers and crew aboard the packet. Naturally such expenses are the responsibility of the ship's master.”

Relief poured through Phoebe like a warm tide. Though she had been only too happy to help, and to prove how useful herbal treatments were, she had feared she might have to use her own money to buy replacements. Even if William Quintrell's assertion that her skills would be welcome had been the truth – and she no longer knew what to believe where he was concerned – it might still have been weeks before she had time or the facilities to make fresh tinctures and decoctions.

“How very kind of Mr Burley.” Yet even as the words left her lips shadows of suspicion were forming. “But when did he – ?”

“Yesterday,” Jowan was abrupt. “When I got back to the ship. I – I was able to – We had dinner together. I have the money with me.” Jowan patted his well-cut coat. “You may buy whatever you need.”

Chapter Nineteen

“I should also tell you,” Jowan continued, “that the ship will remain here for at least five days while repairs are made. Mr Burley has insisted that during this period I am to continue as your guardian and escort. So until your… until Mr Quintrell arrives and my obligation is fulfilled I am at your service.”

“Oh, well said, Dr Crossley,” Rose clapped her palms together.

Phoebe was too wretched to care whether Rose's gesture was mocking or sincere. By making his announcement in front of Rose and Ellin, Jowan had indicated that responsibility for her was a duty he took seriously. Yet though he was bound by honour she could tell from his set expression and the timbre of his voice that he wished with all his heart he were not.

Stiffening her resolve and her spine she turned to him. “Thank you.” She swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat. “But I don't wish to cause any further inconvenience either to Mrs Stirling, or to you. So I think it would be best if, instead of waiting here, I travel to Grove Hill as soon as can be arranged.”

Shock blanked his expression and his face turned pale. Taking a breath he seemed about to speak but compressed his lips instead. Then he inclined his head, the movement jerky and abrupt.

“As you wish.”

“Why, Miss Dymond, that's an excellent idea.” Rose's smile softened her face and warmed her eyes. And Phoebe realized that this was the first genuine emotion Rose Stirling had shown since their arrival. Even her professed delight at the safe delivery of the vicomtesse's baby had been tinged with irritation at the inconvenience. “Of course you would rather be on your way, I am sure if I were in your position I would not be able to wait to see my new home.”

Knowing Rose would be glad to see her gone and cared nothing for her safety or happiness, it cost Phoebe a huge effort to smile in response. But it was vital she keep up the pretence that all was well and that her decision was based simply on the desire to be with her betrothed. “I thought – hoped – you would understand.”

“Indeed I do. Now – “

“You are truly determined on such a course?” Jowan demanded, sounding both shaken and angry.

“I am.” Phoebe knew she must not betray even the smallest doubt.

“Then I must arrange mounts for us both – “

“There is no need – “

“Miss Dymond,” Jowan interrupted sharply. “I hope you do not intend to tell me there is no need for me to accompany you. You are in my care. The matter is not for discussion. Now as I was saying, I must arrange mounts for us both and for your luggage.”

Phoebe remained silent, biting the inside of her lip as her cheeks burned.

“There is an excellent livery stable across the square,” Rose said. “Mention my name and they will give you a good price. But if you are travelling on horseback, Miss Dymond, it will be impossible to carry a trunk with you. Might I suggest that you pack some essentials into a saddlebag and leave your trunk to follow next week on the supply cart?”

Phoebe looked up, her relief intense. “Of course. That's an excellent idea.” What to do about the trunk had been one of many anxieties that had kept her awake until the early hours. To take it would have meant she had to bring it back again. But to announce she was leaving it behind might have aroused curiosity or even suspicion. Now Rose had solved the problem for her.

Suddenly aware of Jowan's frowning scrutiny and Rose's puzzlement, Phoebe realized that because they didn't know the real reason for her relief her response to Rose's suggestion appeared exaggerated.
She must not arouse curiosity.
Swallowing, she spread her hands. “You will think me very silly but I had been worrying about how to carry it on horseback. Obviously it is not possible. I should be very grateful if I could leave it here – just for a few days,” she added quickly.

Shifting his gaze from Phoebe who sensed his uncertainty, Jowan inclined his head to Rose. “You are most helpful, madam.”

“It is no trouble. Now, you will need a guide and at least one guard. Ellin will know – “

“I shall take the vicomte's slave,” Jowan announced.

“Matthieu?” Rose's expression betrayed her astonishment.

“That is the name the vicomte gave him. But his real name, I learned yesterday, is Quamin.”

“Why take him? He is as much a stranger here as you are,” Rose pointed out.

“That may be so. But I know him to be brave and loyal. Besides, the vicomte told me he has served his purpose and will be sold.”

Shocked, Phoebe turned to Jowan. But before she could speak the door opened and Ellin entered.

“Ellin,” Rose said, “who would you recommend to escort Dr Crossley and Miss Dymond up to Grove Hill? They have decided not to wait for Mr Quintrell to come to town.”

Ellin's glance darted from her mistress to Phoebe and back again. Phoebe wondered if her hesitation was more than just a search for a name. But when Ellin spoke the certainty in her voice was matched by her nod. “Oscar. He knows that area well.”

“Is he also a slave?” Jowan asked.

Ellin shook her turbaned head. “No. He's a free man, so he'll expect to be paid. But he's more honest than most and he's reliable. He's got his own gun too.” She looked at Jowan. “You carry a pistol?”

Jowan stiffened. “I'm a doctor.”

“And you're safe enough here in town. But doctor or no, in the hills you should be armed. You heard about the trouble?”

Jowan nodded, then turned to Phoebe. “Miss Dymond, are you sure – “

“Yes,” Phoebe said quietly but with absolute determination. “I want to go as soon as possible.”

Phoebe was up before dawn the following morning. Ellin brought hot water, then a breakfast of fruit, bread spread with guava jelly, and a cup of hot fragrant coffee. Though her stomach was tense with nerves Phoebe forced the food down. She would need every ounce of strength during the coming days. The prospect of leaving Kingston and riding into territory where armed guards were a necessity would have been daunting enough without the additional stress of concealing her real reason for the journey.

The sun was up, the air already hot and humid when Jowan arrived. Phoebe met him in the hall. His bow was punctilious, his greeting polite. But he avoided her eyes and her heart plunged at his set expression. Had her decision cost her his respect?
What did it matter? He would sail with the packet and she would never see him again.
She closed her eyes at a stab of pain so sharp it took her breath away.

Julius had carried her medicine chest downstairs. Setting it on the floor he grunted as he straightened up, pressing one hand to his back. “You sick, miss?” he murmured.

Forcing a smile Phoebe shook her head. “No, I'm fine. I was just – I'm fine.”

Ellin came to tell them Oscar had arrived. Phoebe followed Jowan through to the kitchen to meet the man they would be relying to lead them swiftly and safely to Grove Hill. Of medium height and heavy-set his dark skin was already beaded with sweat. He had a broad nose, thick lips, and hair as tight and curly as a black lamb cropped close to his skull. His check shirt and canvas trousers were faded but clean and in large scarred hands he held a frayed straw hat. Beneath the red cotton kerchief loosely knotted round his throat Phoebe glimpsed a thin leather cord and wondered at its purpose.

Dispatching him to find a couple of mules, Jowan suggested Phoebe visit the vicomtesse and her baby son and check that Jenny remembered her instructions. Meanwhile he would re-dress the wound on Quamin's arm. Fifteen minutes later they met again in the hall.

“All is well?” Jowan inquired.

“Yes,” Phoebe's voice was husky and she swallowed hard to try and shift the lump in her throat. Seeing the vicomtesse, still marked by exhaustion but clearly captivated by her new baby, had been a forcible reminder that this was something she would never experience. For she would not marry Rupert. And Jowan, her first love, the only man she wanted, was becoming ever more cold and formal. She clasped her arms across her waist to try and contain misery that was a physical ache.

With a nod Jowan picked up her medicine chest, freshly stocked after their visit to the apothecary, and carried it outside where a boy from the livery stable waited with two horses.

Ellin hurried from the kitchen with a canvas bag that she thrust into Phoebe's hands. “There's cold chicken, fresh bread, fruit and two bottles of juice.”

“Thank you. Is there enough here for Oscar and Quamin?”

Ellin hesitated. As Phoebe realized that no food had been put aside for the guide and the slave Ellin said, “It's in the kitchen,” and bustled away.

Returning with another napkin-wrapped package, Ellin thrust it into the bag then frowned at Phoebe. “You all right?”

Phoebe forced a smile. “Yes.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Just a little nervous.”

“That's only to be expected. Listen –” But whatever she had been going to say remained unspoken as Jowan strode back in.

“Are you ready, Miss Dymond?”

Phoebe nodded.

Ellin turned to Jowan. “You got a pistol?“

He shook his head. “A Ferguson breech-loading rifle. From the packet's armoury,” he added glancing at Phoebe. “At Mr Burley's insistence.”

Ellin's brows shot up. “You know how to use it?”

“I do now.” His tone was grim.

“Please God you won't need it. But make sure you can reach it fast.”

Phoebe felt her skin tighten. Jowan was a doctor, dedicated to saving life. Yet it was clear that since leaving the previous evening he had spent time learning to use a firearm. Guilt consumed her. This was her doing, her fault. But there was no going back.

She put on her straw hat and tied the ribbons under her chin with shaking fingers. On the doorstep she turned and thanked her hostess. Though Rose's kindness had been rooted in fear and lies, nonetheless Phoebe was grateful for fresh food, clean clothes, two nights' rest between crisp sheets, and the peace and privacy of the little watchtower.

Jowan had strapped her medicine chest to a pack behind his own saddle. Cupping his hands for her foot, Quamin tossed her up onto her mount behind the leather bags resting on the horse's withers. Phoebe's murmured thanks earned her a startled look then several bows from the slave as he backed away. There was a brief hiatus as Oscar – who had a musket and a machete strapped to his pack, pointed to Quamin who was tying a musket to the roll slung over his mule's back and asked Jowan what he was thinking of allowing
a slave
to carry a weapon.

Phoebe's heart lurched. They hadn't even begun the journey and already there were problems. Jowan drew both men aside. Glaring at Oscar Quamin spoke quietly but fervently. With a nod Jowan sent him to his mule. After a final word to Oscar, who shrugged, Jowan swung himself into the saddle.

Then with Rose Stirling's farewells following them down the street, they set off, Oscar leading, Quamin bringing up the rear.

The streets were already busy. Dust kicked up by feet and hooves swirled in the hot humid air. The sky was a clear pale blue, the sun painfully bright. As perspiration broke out on her forehead and upper lip Phoebe pulled the brim of her hat down to shade her eyes from the glare.

Acutely aware of Jowan alongside her, aware also how important it was that she did not inadvertently betray her real feelings about the journey and the inevitable repercussions she pretended great interest in her surroundings. She had been afraid he might try to make conversation. When he didn't she found his continued silence a relief yet unsettling.

Her mind bombarded her with memories: conversations they had shared aboard the packet: the range of subjects they had covered, the arguments, the different things she had learned from him, and her shock and delight at his admission of how much he had learned from her. Her eyes burned and filled and she turned her head away, mourning the loss of an unexpected friendship that had meant more to her than she could ever have dreamed: a friendship that had so swiftly and unexpectedly deepened into love.

Enough.
She straightened her back. If these few weeks were all that was possible between them then she would be grateful. Jowan Crossley had treated her with kindness and respect. She knew from experience and observation that few women were as fortunate. And she had her memories. No matter what happened those were hers forever. Nothing could touch them, nor anyone take them away.

They left the town and followed the road northwest, through rough grassland and brackish swamps where clouds of insects hung over stagnant pools heavy with the sweet smell of decay. The sun rose higher turning the sky brassy and intensifying the heat. Phoebe was wearing her lightest long-sleeved gown. Though she was protected from sunburn and insect bites, the primrose muslin dragged uncomfortably against her damp skin.

She ran her tongue over dry lips. As this had been her idea she could hardly complain of discomfort. But her throat was parched and she was not accustomed to riding for hours without a break.

The road began to climb through low wooded hills. Moving out of the blazing sun and into dappled green shade was a huge relief. Cornish woods always inspired feelings tranquility. But here she felt tense, uneasy. She tried to shrug it off. It was the trees. They were unfamiliar. Instead of oak, lime, sycamore and alder there were thick stands of bamboo, different kinds of palms, and huge ferns whose fronds erupted like a fountain from trunks that looked like matted hair.

In their own way the vivid greens were as intense as the sun's glare. She gasped as a sudden shriek brought her heart into her mouth. She jerked on the reins and her mount skittered sideways, colliding with Jowan's which flattened its ears and tossed its head.

“Steady.” Quickly controlling the fractious horse he turned to Phoebe. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, though her heart was hammering painfully. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – The scream – it startled me.” Even to her own ears she sounded breathless, her voice pitched higher than usual. “What on earth was it?”