The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood

Chapter 16

Rosalind had departedEngland an unattached young lady and was now arriving in a strange new land as a married woman.

She had not expected her lot to have changed so drastically or so quickly.

But it was not her fortunes which concerned her today.

Today was about Cherry.

Today her dear friend and newly-made sister would, God willing, receive long-awaited answers.

All through the voyage, Rosalind had not doubted that Cherry would step off the ship and into her waiting—and no doubt, adoring—husband’s loving arms.

That is, until yesterday, when she had seen the truth lurking in Philip’s eyes as he watched his sister.

Philip did not believe Charles lived.

It was early morning and she was up on deck before anyone else in their party. The sun was rising over the deep turquoise waters, casting shades of golds and violets.

Much farther off, a dark low rise on the horizon signaled the promise of land.

She rested her arms along the rail, closed her eyes, and began a silent prayer for Cherry’s husband and Philippa Rose’s father.

Eventually it became a simple refrain: Please let him live. Let him live. Let him still be living.

But when she finally turned away from the vast eternal waters, her mind was no less troubled than when she had arrived.

It pained her deeply to know that she could be so happy while Cherry might soon be devastated by loss.

And what would the answers lying in wait for them mean for her new husband?

Could the man who had stolen Philip’s first wife have had something to do with Cherry’s husband’s disappearance?

If he had, what events would follow as a result?

Rosalind feared her own happiness might prove just as fleeting.

The lush hills of Tortolarose out of the sea like a cluster of turtle shells. The capital, Road Town, was so called due to how it lay along a sheltering roadstead—a natural body of water where ships could safely anchor. What were now rolling emerald islands were actually the tops of ancient mountains, long buried under the ocean waters.

As the Witch emptied its cargo and passengers out onto the quay, Rosalind looked along the docks to where the wooden boardwalk ended and white sand beaches stretched ahead.

“I’m going swimming,” a small voice declared in her ear. Gracie stood there with a canvas bag slung over her skinny shoulders. Perita was a little way off, turning in circles as she tried hopelessly to catch her own tail.

Her sister was still wearing trousers, Rosalind noted in horror.

“You can wait until we have at least settled into our lodgings,” Rosalind hissed back. “Why are you still wearing those things?”

“I have nothing else,” Gracie replied, her face stubborn.

“What do you mean you have nothing else?” Rosalind asked grimly, hands on her hips. “Where are the clothes you came aboard in?”

“I came aboard in Henry’s old clothes,” Gracie retorted. “And then Duffels found me some of the old ship boy’s clothes to wear that had been left behind.”

“What about the dress you wore on the docks that first day?” Rosalind narrowed her eyes, certain she would not like the answer she was about to receive.

“Oh, that.” Gracie shuddered with disgust. “I threw it away.”

“You threw it away? Your only dress and you threw it away?”

“I didn’t need it. I had plenty of shirts and trousers,” Gracie explained.

“And when exactly did you throw away your only dress?” Rosalind asked, with a sneaking suspicion.

Gracie set her mouth in a firm line. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It was yesterday, wasn’t it?” Rosalind said, throwing up her hands. “Or perhaps this morning? Oh, Gracie! How could you?”

“I don’t want to be Gracie,” her little sister said sullenly. “I want to keep being Grayson, the cabin boy.”

“We have talked about that already. You may be Grayson on the voyage home—and that is already exceedingly generous of Captain Merriweather, now that most of the crew know you are not who you claimed to be when you came aboard.”

Gracie crossed her arms and looked away. “Well, then, I don’t see why I should bother behaving like a girl while we are here if I am allowed to be a boy once we are back aboard ship.”

Rosalind threw up her hands. “Gracie Gardner, be whoever you want to be. The only thing I know I don’t want to be is your mother! Nor do I want to have to tell our mother that I lost you to pirates. If you would prefer to masquerade as a boy until you are back home again, so be it, but other than that you will do as I tell you and go where you are bid. Which right now, is to our lodgings.”

A hand touched her arm and she jumped.

“Everything all right?” Philip asked mildly, smiling a little as he saw Gracie’s expression.

“Wonderful. I was just conversing with my younger brother,” Rosalind said, rolling her eyes.

“Ah, I see.” Philip scratched his head. “Well, everything is arranged. The hotel is within walking distance. Or we may ride in the carriage with Cherry and Philippa Rose.” He gestured to a small open wagon, loaded with their belongings. Cherry already sat on the narrow bench, baby Philippa in her arms. Her head was bowed and her eyes downcast.

“Oh, Philip,” Rosalind said quietly. “She looks desolate. Surely you cannot have had news yet?”

“No,” he replied. “But as soon as we arrive, John and I will begin our investigations.”

“Does Martin live close to here?” She asked, tentatively.

Philip’s mouth hardened. “I believe his land lies a way outside of town. That will certainly be one of our first stops.”

“I see,” Rosalind said softly. “Cherry looks as if she would prefer not to be kept waiting. Perhaps the sooner the better...?”

Philip nodded.

The wagon soon pulled away from the quay, Gracie and Perita seated on the back, Gracie’s long legs swinging happily into the dusty road as they rolled along.

After the clean but cramped quarters of the ship, their lodgings looked downright palatial.

The Grand Hotel was not grand by London standards, but it was a large and inviting building, whitewashed with brightly painted shutters in many colors, and wide sweeping arches. A long veranda stretched around the outside, replete with low lounge chairs and sofas, all made of woven wicker.

Their suites were on the third floor. A porter led the way, taking them up through stairwells which had been constructed with open sides to let the cool breeze drift through.

“Here you are,” he said, pushing open the door and exposing a pleasant sitting room with three doors leading off to bedrooms.

Philip touched the man’s arm before he could begin his trek back downstairs.

“Before you go, I wonder if you might be able to tell me where I might begin to make inquiries regarding a missing relative of ours.”

The porter’s eyes widened. “A relative? Who came to Tortola?”

“Yes, my sister’s husband,” Philip replied, nodding towards Cherry, who stood silently watching the interaction, bouncing Philippa Rose distractedly. “He left England for Tortola on business over eight months ago. We have reason to believe he arrived—but we received no word once his ship left the port.”

“An Englishman,” the porter repeated, looking at Cherry and the baby and shaking his head a little. “A Black Englishman, I expect?”

“My husband is white,” Cherry said, speaking up. “With fair hair, fair features.”

“Ah, I see,” the porter said, his eyes widening a little. He looked at the babe. “Hair like the little one then, I take it.” He gazed at the sleeping little girl a moment, then shook his head again. “Well, I hope the fellow you are looking for is not the one who caused the fuss a while back.”

“A fuss?” Philip frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, fuss is perhaps not the right word,” said the porter slowly. “There was a man, an Englishman, who arrived around the time you speak of. He was to stay at this very hotel, in fact. But on the day of his arrival, a wagon loaded too full with cargo came barreling along the quay...”

Rosalind watched as Cherry covered her mouth.

“...and the poor sod was run right over. Now,” the porter swiftly added. “He didn’t die. At least, not right away. I don’t rightly know what became of him. But he were out of his mind. Couldn’t say who he was or where he was from. No one had any idea what to do with him.”

“What did they do with him?” Cherry whispered.

“Well,” the porter said, scratching his chin. “He was taken up, charitable-like, by another Englishman. A man who owns a sugar plantation in the area, as would have it. He claimed to know the injured fellow. But after that, I can’t say I know what became of him. He might have died of his injuries, I suppose—” Cherry gave a little sob and the porter quickly bowed his apologies. “I’m sorry, madam. If you think this man might be the same fellow, I’ll ask the hotel owner if he knows anything more.”

“Yes, please do,” Philip said quietly. “I will be down very shortly to see what else can be learned. I do not suppose you recall the name of this estate owner?”

When the porter began shaking his head regretfully, Philip offered, “I don’t suppose the name Martin Price would be familiar...”

The porter’s eyes had already begun to widen in excitement. “I believe that was the name, sir, now that I hear it, yes. Do you know him then?”

“We were acquainted in England,” Philip said shortly. “In that case, I will need a conveyance as soon as can be arranged, to take me to the Price plantation. This very afternoon if possible.”

“I’ll have it arranged,” the porter said, still looking sympathetically towards Cherry and eager to assist.

“Oh, Philip,” Cherry whispered, once they were inside. She lay Philippa down carefully in a wicker basket they had procured on the quay, and the baby’s eyes stayed peacefully closed. “Could it be Charles?”

“If so, Martin has him,” Philip said, looking grim.

“From what the porter said, it sounded as if whoever took the injured man did so in order to care for him,” Rosalind said quickly. “Not for any nefarious reason...”

“Yes, well, that remains to be seen.” Philip’s jaw stayed clenched, even when Rosalind put a hand to his arm.

“Surely he would have no reason to harm Cherry’s husband,” she suggested gently. “And every reason in the world to offer your family any service he could.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Philip said, rubbing his forehead. “But I gave up trying to understand Martin two years ago, Rosalind. I have no idea what his motives were then, when he destroyed my wife and our friendship. And even less today. It seems too great a coincidence...”

“I’m coming along,” Cherry announced suddenly. “I would like to leave as soon as possible.” She began moving her bags around, searching for a fresh change of clothing.

“What about Philippa Rose?” Rosalind asked, carefully.

“She must come along,” Cherry replied absently, without looking up.

Cherry was nursing and a newborn baby could certainly not go the hours the trip would take without being fed.

“Gracie will come to help. Won’t you, Gracie?” Rosalind offered. She waited for her sister to balk or demand to be addressed by her pseudonym, but admirably she did not offer a single word of protest. Taking up a watchful position next to the sleeping baby, she pulled out a piece of rope from her pocket and began to practice elaborate knots.

Within a quarter of an hour, the group was ready to depart and emerged in the lobby.

“I should have been glad to have John accompany us,” Philip said, looking at his sister reluctantly. “Perhaps we might wait until he arrives.”

Captain Merriweather had remained on the Witch to oversee the unloading of cargo and was to join them at the Grand later that afternoon.

“Please,” Cherry begged, wringing her hands. “Let us go now. I have waited long enough, Philip.”

Philip pursed his lips but nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Rosalind watched him walk off, then turned to Cherry.

“Here, my dear, let us sit down a moment,” she suggested. “You have hardly rested since you rose. Have you had anything to eat or to drink?”

“I am not hungry,” Cherry said, distractedly, her eyes scanning the room as if she might see her husband at any moment. “I only want to find Charles.”

Rosalind’s heart ached to see her friend this way. All of Cherry’s bravado had fled and what remained was a woman terrified of what she might find.

“I have to know,” Cherry whispered, looking down at Rosalind finally. “Don’t you see? I need to know. I cannot go another day not knowing, Rosalind. I simply can’t.” She pulled off her gloves and began to wring them as if trying to draw out water. “And now that we are finally here, I must confess—” Her voice broke. “—I fear the worst.”

“The man the porter mentioned may be someone else entirely,” Rosalind suggested. “He had no idea what Charles looks like.”

“A fair-haired Englishman who arrived at that time and had a serious accident leaving him unable to contact his family? How many of those do you suppose occur in such a small place as Road Town?” Cherry pulled her gloves back onto shaking hands. “Here is Philip. He must have arranged a carriage.”

The drive was long and hot.

Rosalind wished she had thought to bring flasks of water along with them. After an hour, she was parched. After two, she was exhausted.

But she did not complain.

All she had to do was look across the seat at Cherry’s countenance to be filled with pity and remind herself that things could be much worse.

“How much longer?” Cherry whispered, gazing across at her brother with a tormented expression.

“The clerk said the plantation was about two hours outside of Road Town. It has been at least that long,” Philip replied. “We must be near.”

“Does Martin own slaves?” Rosalind whispered, recalling the source of much of the islands’ sugar wealth. She was suddenly conscious of Cherry, sitting silently in the shadows across from here, in a new way.

What had it been like for Cherry? For Philip’s mother, as a white-passing woman with a Black daughter? Had Philip’s father even provided in a material way for the other half of his family when he discarded them so heartlessly?

She could not imagine growing up in such a place, where such a small part of the population held so much power over the majority primarily by virtue of their lighter skin.

Virtue was altogether the wrong word for what it was.

Abruptly, Rosalind felt a surge of loathing for the house they were traveling towards, the plantations around them, the town and everything British on Tortola.

She had begun her journey as if she were going on holiday—eager to explore new parts of the world—utterly regardless of the freedom she possessed to do so or the fact that none of them were truly even “new.” Even though a single woman, she nevertheless had the wealth and the acceptable skin color to pass through places such as this with relative impunity.

By contrast, a woman like Cherry, who was clearly of color, might see only unhappy memories and harsh dangers where Rosalind had merely seen the opportunity for adventure and excitement.

Now she felt a fool.

If she and Philip were blessed some day with children, some of them would very well share their lovely aunt’s complexion.

Would such a trait leave them more exposed and vulnerable as a result?

Rosalind had never considered such things. She had never had to.

They were unpleasant to think of. Yet she was beginning to realize the necessity of contemplating them, and to understanding that true ignorance had been the unequal luxury she had possessed to refrain.

“He did,” Philip replied. “It was one of the things which would have driven us apart in the end, I believe. Even if all the rest had not happened. When Cherry came into my life and I learned our true family history, the idea that my best friend’s wealth was continuing to grow off the backs of enslaved Black men and women was a horror to me. Yet to Martin, it was all he had known and the idea of losing profit through what he saw as a selfless act of ridiculous sentimentality was antithetical to his very nature. The traffic in slaves may have become illegal nearly two decades ago, but the law did not and does not force slave owners to relinquish what slaves they already have. It merely prevents them from being able to add to their gruesome collection—ineffectively, I might add. When I suggested ways in which Martin’s business might evolve and change, by joining with other plantations to form cooperatives, for instance, and holding more selling power in that way, rather than by simply continuing to take terrible advantage of cheap, exploited human labor, he laughed. It took some time to convince him I was not jesting. Which says a great deal about the man I was before Cherry arrived, does it not? A man my father would have been proud of. Now I take pride in hoping I would be utterly unrecognizable to him.”

He looked Rosalind directly in the eyes. “What was worse was that Sarah saw no issue with it at all. She would scold us to stop our ceaseless arguing on a topic she found abhorrent—not for its ethical implications but for its dullness and indelicacy.” He gave a rueful little laugh. “No wonder she and Cherry never got on as well as I would have wished.”

Rosalind could not imagine. The idea of Cherry—so formidable and self-assured—coming into Philip’s life and forcing such a profound evolution of ideas must have been upsetting for the naïve young woman of the ton who had already been his wife for the previous three years.

Had their dislike of Cherry and their confusion over Philip’s changing views caused Martin and Sarah to come together more readily than they would have otherwise, she wondered?

“The friends of our youth are not always the friends of our life,” Rosalind said softly. “I am sorry. I cannot imagine.”

“Imagine finding out that you were of mixed birth? Or imagine realizing you existed in a world all too willing to exploit that difference whenever it could?” Philip gave a wry smile.

As if waiting for him to finish, the carriage began to slowly roll to a halt.

“Here is the house,” Cherry said, abruptly, peering out. “Do you know it’s story, Philip?” Her lower lip curled in distaste.

Rosalind leaned forward to look out the open window.

They were pulling up before a large white house which straddled a low hill. A long winding set of stairs twisted and curved its way up from the drive below.

Rosalind could see a patio opening off a portico up above. Wide latticed balconies stretched around each level of the house, backed by tall sash windows which were open to let the breeze from the ocean drift through.

While the shutters were open, the house appeared oddly empty.

There was no sign of life anywhere as the carriage stopped on the sandy drive.

Her brother looked surprised. “Price Hall? It has been in Martin’s family for three generations, but I admit I have never had reason to visit before now.”

“Many on the island consider it cursed,” Cherry said, looking out the window with a remote expression that masked the tumult she must have been feeling. “Fifty years ago, one of Martin’s great grandmothers took a slave as her lover. When her husband, William Price, found out, he murdered the man. Undeterred, she took another. Then another. Until four men had been dispatched by her jealous husband and her reckless lust.”

“I little wonder Martin never spoke of the tale,” Philip remarked. “Hardly the kind of family story you wish to have brought up in the drawing rooms of London.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Cherry gave a small tight smile.

“What happened to them?” Rosalind asked, in horrified fascination. She glanced to where Gracie sat beside Cherry, holding the basket with the sleeping Philippa Rose. Her sister’s eyes were as wide as saucer’s.

“What happened?” Cherry looked at her blankly.

“Did they simply get away with the murder of four men?”

“Well, they would have. They were British, you see,” Cherry explained, matter-of-factly. “But after the fourth lover disappeared, a few days later so did William Price and his wife. They were never seen again. Their eldest son was abroad at some English school—Eton or Oxford or the like. He took over the planation and tried to put the stories to rest. He must have tried for the rest of his life, but never fully succeeded.”

“That must have been Martin’s grandfather,” Philip observed. He shook his head with a frown, as if to clear away the foulness of the story they had heard. “Well, we have arrived. Shall we seek out the unfortunate present-day owner?”

He stepped down quickly, then turned back to help the women out.

After speaking with the driver and arranging to have the carriage wait as long as was required, the party made their way up the narrow stairs to the house.

Rosalind and Gracie’s eyes met as they walked. Gracie was being unusually quiet, Rosalind noticed.

Cherry had given them a glimpse into a side of her they had never had opportunity to see on the voyage.

Furthermore, if the gruesome story and her casual manner of retelling it was any indication, then Philip’s sister seemed to be sinking into a state of despair completely contrary to her regular character.

“What if Charles is... you know,” Gracie whispered loudly, tugging on her sister’s sleeve. Rosalind slowed her steps to let Cherry and Philip go ahead.

“If he is dead, you mean?” Rosalind said, watching as Philip reached out an arm to steady his sister as she slipped on a crumbling stone step. “I pray he is not.”

“I think she already believes that he is,” Gracie said, frankly. “Will she be all right?”

“If she has really lost her husband, then I imagine that no, she will not be for some time,” Rosalind said, slowly, thinking of how long grief could last. Their own mother, Caroline, had her husband over ten years ago and had never remarried. Gracie had been born that same year.

She and her older sisters had grieved their father’s loss, of course. But for them it was different. Perhaps because they were so much younger. The pain had been deep but not debilitating.

Whereas Rosalind would never forget the way her mother had gone through the steps of life that year so sorrowfully, with none of her usual joy. It had taken years for it to return. But it had, in time.

“Cherry is resilient and strong,” Rosalind added, stoutly. “She will come through, no matter what we learn today.”

They had reached the top of the steps, only to find another leading up into the actual house.

These steps were of low stone, with iron balustrades. They were covered with dark green creeping plants that had been allowed to grow wild, tumbling down onto the steps and nearly hindering passage.

Finally, they entered the main house.

They passed through a broad set of doors leading into a spacious hall. Although they were miles from the coast, a cool sea breeze swept through with surprising force. The back half of the hall was an open sitting room, the sides and ends covered with tall shuttered jalousies.

The floor was a dark beautiful blood-heart wood. But instead of gleaming as it should have, it was covered with a litter of leaves and grass that had blown in through the open windows and never been cleared away. Turning about, Rosalind noticed a thick layer of dust lay on much of the furniture in the hall.

“Where is everyone?” Philip asked in wonder, looking about the hall. “There should be a few servants at the very least. If it is still a working plantation, then there must be hundreds of residents.”

“Perhaps it is not,” Rosalind said softly, coming to stand beside him and gripping his hand with hers. “Perhaps it has been...deserted.”

“We came for answers,” Cherry declared. “I am not leaving until we have them.”

Philip and Rosalind looked at one another, each unwilling to suggest the obvious—that there may be no one there to ask.

Cherry was already making her way to the bottom of a flight of steps leading up to the next floor. When she reached the banister, she paused and called loudly, “Is there anyone home?”

Her voice echoed up the stairwell.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Philippa Rose burst into tears, her shrill wails filling the hall.

Cherry looked towards her daughter and seemed to come out of a trance. Picking up the infant, she brushed dust off an armchair and sat down to nurse.

“Should I have a look around?” Gracie offered, eying the nearby rooms curiously.

Rosalind considered a moment. “Go, carefully.”

She did not think there was anyone to be disturbed, but the tale Cherry had told still weighed on her like a gloomy cloud.

“What will we do if there is no one here?” She asked Philip quietly, coming to stand before him.

He put his arms around her and drew her close, as if he needed the warmth of her presence for strength.

“I suppose we will have to make inquires directly with the authorities in Road Town,” he said. She felt him shake his head. “But it is strange, Rosalind. To have Charles disappear. Now for Martin...”

“Rosalind! Come upstairs!” Gracie’s voice called out from above.

Rosalind looked up to see Gracie hanging from the second-floor balcony which stretched around the main hall.

“There is someone up here,” her sister called again, insistently.

“Why did they not come down then?” Rosalind whispered nervously to her husband. He shook his head and started for the stairs.

Seeing Cherry’s eagerness to follow, Rosalind took Philippa Rose in her arms and came more slowly behind them.

Gracie stood at the top; her face was puzzled.

“There is someone here. In one of the bedrooms. He is lying in bed—the door is open. But I do not know why he did not come downstairs.”

Rosalind felt a chill run through her. She held the baby more closely. Philippa’s eyes were open and curious. She was calm and relaxed now that she had eaten her fill.

“Show us,” Philip instructed.

The padded along a carpeted hallway, lined with covered portraits. Dim light came from windows at each end.

Gracie paused as they reached the halfway point and gestured to one of the doors. It was open half a foot or more, as Gracie had said.

Rather then peering in, Philip rapped on it loudly. “Is there anyone here?”

There was the silence, then a sound of coughing.

The coughing fit was long and sounded as if it must be excruciating for the individual.

Finally, it ceased.

“Philip?” A man’s voice said, hoarsely. “Is that you?”

“Martin?” Philip demanded, swinging the door fully open.

The women stood in the hall, watching as Philip stepped into the sleeping room.

A large bed lay at the center. It did not look any more well-cared for than the rest of the house. The blankets were strewn and an odor emanated from the room that was familiar to Rosalind—the smell of a sick bed.

If that was indeed Martin, then something was very wrong.

She watched as the man tried to rise from the bed, only to have his coughing begin again. He sank back down, looking wretched and weak.

He had been a handsome man at one time. Perhaps not so long ago. She could see the vestiges of it on his face—his fine aristocratic nose, his strong cheekbones. His hair was a rich dark brown—but now it was half white, though he could not have been more Philip’s age. His body was long and his shoulders broad—but the skin hung from his frame, and his complexion was sallow and wan.

“Philip, my friend! It has been so long. So very long. Have you truly come all this way?” The man sounded full of wonderment, as if he was not sure whether or not he was awake or dreaming.

“We have. Although not to see you,” Philip said coldly.

Rosalind flinched, though she could not blame him for his cruelty. Yet part of her already felt a deep pity for this man—alone in his sick bed, in an empty and neglected house. How had he come to this state?

Surely a man in this condition could have had nothing to do with Charles’ disappearance.

“Yes, I see,” Martin said slowly, looking past Philip. “But you are here now. That’s all that matters.”

“We have come for Charles,” Philip said, ignoring his friend’s words. “Where is he, Martin? Do you know what has happened to him?”

“Charles?” Martin repeated. “Cherry’s husband? Yes, poor Charles.”

“Poor Charles?” Cherry whispered, putting a hand to the door frame. “Martin,” she said more loudly. “Where is Charles? Where is he? Where is my husband?”

“Oh, my dear,” Martin said, his sickly face full of sorrow. “My dear Mrs. Lambe. Did you not receive my letter?”

“Your letter? There was no letter, Martin,” Philip said, stern as a headmaster. “We have heard nothing from Charles since he left England eight months ago.”

“Eight months... Can it have been so very long? Yet you say you did not receive my letter? How can that be?” Martin looked around the room, frowning and perplexed. “Where are they? Where are my staff? My man was to have sent the letter. That was many months ago. Damn the man, he has disappeared again with the rest of them.”

“Disappeared with whom? Disappeared where?” Philip demanded.

“It doesn’t matter, Philip,” Cherry said, hurrying forward. “Martin, what did the letter say? Where is Charles?”

“Charles,” Martin said again. He looked down at his bedcoverings and twisted his hands together. “Charles is dead.”

Cherry stifled a sob, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Philip’s arms went around her. He helped her to a chair next to the bed.

“What happened?” he asked Martin shortly. “What did you do to him?”

“Me?” Martin asked, sounding sincerely amazed. “Why would I do anything to harm Charles?”

Rosalind saw Philip grit his teeth. “Do not pretend you harbor anything but ill will against me and mine, Martin.”

Martin smiled sadly. “I see. I suppose I can understand why you might believe that. Although it is not the case, I assure you, Philip. No, I did nothing to Charles. Nothing but try to save his life—though I was unhappily too late for that.” He shifted in the bed. “What do you already know?”

“A porter at the hotel told us an Englishman had been in an accident,” Philip said slowly. “But he did not know what the outcome was.”

“Yes, there was an accident,” Martin said. “In Road Town. I was not present when it occurred but there were witnesses. A wagon struck Charles down. He was insensible, lying on the road. A servant told me what had happened and when they mentioned the name of the man, I demanded he be brought here at once.”

Martin looked at Cherry. “He had the very best care,” he said softly. “I assure you. I did all that I could. Called every physician and surgeon on this godforsaken island.”

He looked down at his hands, thin and frail on the bedclothes. “But it was not enough. He did not wake again. Not even once. They said he would have drifted away and felt no pain. No pain at all.”

Cherry let out a low keening wail.

The sound broke Rosalind’s heart.

Still carrying Philippa Rose, she ran forward to crouch at Cherry’s feet, using her free hand to pull her forward into an embrace. She heard Gracie follow, and saw her come to stand on Cherry’s other side.

Philippa Rose began to fuss, opening her tiny mouth to let out a shrill cry of complaint at being so rudely squashed between Rosalind and her mother.

“A baby! Is that a baby I hear?” Rosalind heard Martin exclaim. “You have brought my child? Let me see them, let me see.”

Cherry raised her head. “Your child?”

“My child! You have brought my child!” Martin repeated, excitedly, his face flushing a deep red. He bent forward as he began coughing again, one hand reaching around the bed.

Philip watched a moment, then understood, and handed him a piece of linen from the table next to the bed.

Martin coughed into it, and when it left his mouth, Rosalind saw it was streaked red.

Consumption.

In the two years sincePhilip had last seen the man who had destroyed his life, Martin had become almost unrecognizable.

His body had been eaten away; his form wasted.

Everything about him, from the neglected room to the unkempt state of this mausoleum of a house, was pitiful.

Though he tried, Philip could not find it in himself to feel any of the hate he had cultivated so strenuously.

He certainly could not see himself taking any kind of vengeance on this shell of a man.

The disease was already doing that to his old friend all too well.

“My child,” Martin was saying. “My child. I had so longed to see my child before I passed.”

He was weeping, Philip noticed with shock.

Was this truly the friend of his youth? His boyhood companion? The rakish, roguish sophisticate who could charm the ton of London with a smile and handful of words? The consummate seducer who had stolen his wife’s love?

Now he was reduced to weeping over a baby.

A baby Martin believed was his, Philip suddenly realized. Despite his best efforts, he felt a pang of compassion for the man.

“Oh, God, Martin,” Cherry said, looking up with understanding as she cradled Philippa Rose. “Did no one tell you?” She looked at her brother with desperation, the tears from her own sorrow still streaking her cheeks.

“Tell me? Tell me what?” Martin asked in bafflement. “I do not know if it is a boy or a girl, if that is what you mean.” He looked at Philip. “And of course, it is not my child—” He said quickly, reassuringly. “—it is yours, of course. If you have claimed it, I am only too grateful. I know that I acted horrendously. Believe me, I know. I promise you both, I have regretted it every day since I left England. Leaving Sarah and the baby...”

Hearing his wife’s name pass Martin’s lips made Philip’s jaw tighten. And yet the man was dying. He had nothing. This was not his child. He had less than he believed he had.

“It is not Sarah’s child, Martin,” Philip said, striving for gentleness. He crouched down beside the bed. “You do know that Sarah died?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Martin said, impatiently. “But where is the child then?” He sounded almost petulant in his disappointment.

“The child also died, Martin,” Philip said quietly. “It was a girl. She died before she could breathe a single breath. A few hours before Sarah.”

Martin’s sunken face became even more of a mask of horror. His disappointment was dreadful to see.

“Dead. Both dead.” He swallowed, then closed his eyes. “I see,” he whispered hoarsely. “Both dead. Yes. I see.”

“This is my baby, Martin,” Cherry said softly. “Charles’ child. A little girl.”

“Yes, yours and Charles’s child. Yes, I see now. Of course.” Martin opened his eyes and tried to smile. The attempt was a mockery of happiness. “Of course, Sarah’s child would have been much older by now. Not so small.” He shook his head. “I must not have been thinking.”

“You were simply hoping for something good. It is all too understandable,” Rosalind said, speaking for the first time since coming into the room.

Philip looked at her with a strange mix of pride and wonder. Her face was filled with such compassion towards a stranger, that he felt a twinge of guilt for his initial heartlessness to the man in the bed.

He had nearly forgotten she was there, forgotten he was newly wed—that he was no longer alone, like Martin. No longer bitter and lifeless, but filled with new hope.

There was a life waiting for him outside this room—and all of that was because of her.

The same could not be said of Martin. Would he ever leave this room again?

“Would you like to hold the baby, Martin?” Cherry suddenly offered. She stood and held out Philippa Rose, who was bundled in a light swaddling blanket.

“Oh, I could not possibly...” Martin started, but it was too late. The baby was thrust into his arms.

For once, Philippa Rose was awake. She looked up at Martin from under her long dark lashes and tawny amber curls, cooing and making small fists.

“I think she is trying to smile at you,” Cherry said, softly.

“She is beautiful,” Martin whispered. “Perfect.”

Tears were running down his cheeks. No one said a thing about it.

“How is it that you are all alone here, Martin?” Philip asked, curtly. “Where are your staff? Who tends to you?”

Martin looked away from the baby reluctantly. “Oh, they come and go, you know. There is a housekeeper, as well as her husband. They are here sometimes. I have a manservant of sorts. Though I have not seen him today.”

“This is a large house, Martin,” Philip said in disbelief. “And the sugar fields? There must be hundreds of workers. Where is everyone? The house is deserted. The grounds appear empty.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I let them all go, you see.”

“You let them all go?” Philip repeated, not understanding.

Martin gave him an amused look. “Yes, well, that is what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“You mean...you liberated the people who were enslaved here?” Philip said slowly. “There must have been hundreds.”

“Four hundred and twenty-four to be exact,” Martin said, almost cheerfully. “A few chose to stay on, like the housekeeper. Although I believe that was mainly to steal from me. But as she continues to cook from time to time, I cannot complain. It is not as if I will require silverware for much longer, is it?” He gave a dry chuckle.

“The other plantation owners must hate you, Martin,” Cherry observed. “And where did these hundreds of men and women go off to?”

“Oh, some traveled to other islands, I believe. Some found work—low paying, but still, better than what they ever received here. Others had wished to return to where they were first taken from—not many, but a few of the older ones. Those ones I helped to find a ship.” Martin looked embarrassed. “And outfitted it. I believe about a hundred traveled on it in the end. I cannot say what became of it. No one tells me anything now, you see.”

Philip was quiet, regarding his friend a moment. The man was unrecognizable in more ways than one.

“Why the change of heart?” He asked finally.

“Oh, you know,” Martin waved a hand. It would have been a lighthearted gesture, but a coughing fit began and he drew his hand up to his mouth.

They all waited for it to pass.

“Guilt, mainly, I suppose,” Martin managed to get out. He lay back on his pillows wearily. “I made a muddle of everything, didn’t I, Philip? Destroyed your life. Did more than that to Sarah’s. And the child...” He pressed his lips together hard, then shook his head. “I did not know about the child. It is very sad. Very hard. To know there is not even a little child of mine remaining on this earth when I am gone.”

He looked up at Philip, soberly. “Not that I deserve any such thing, I know,” he said, honestly. “I hope you will forgive my foolishness.”

Philip’s chest felt tight. “Of course, a man would wish for a child,” he said, stiffly. “Especially when... Well, at a time when...”

“When he is dying,” Martin said, simply, taking a slow, deep breath. “It will be soon now. Very soon, I think.”

“Oh, Martin,” Cherry said, her voice breaking. “I am so very sorry.”

“I am sorry, as well, my dear,” he said, with a profound tenderness in his voice, looking across at her. “For the wrong I did your brother. For your own terrible loss. So very sorry, Cherry. I do wish Charles could have seen the babe. He would have been so happy.”

“Yes, he would have been,” Cherry said, quietly, looking down at her daughter.

“Is there anything we can do for you, before we go?” Philip asked.

Never would he have thought this would come to pass—offering aid to his most loathed enemy.

He felt his wife squeeze his hand gently and gave a hard squeeze back. She was the only thing keeping him from breaking, here in this funereal room.

“No, nothing,” Martin said, pausing to catch his breath. “Only... Yes, there is one thing you might do for me.” His eyes lit up. “Or that your sister might.”

“Yes?” Cherry said, puzzled.

“I had planned...” Martin took a long gulp of air. “I had planned to leave everything to the child, you see. There was a letter drawn up...” He looked around the room as if expecting to see it lying nearby. “Well, no matter. It is here somewhere. If there is no child, I have no one else. I would like to leave whatever is left—and there may be nothing,” he said, quirking his lips. “—to your child.”

“To Philippa Rose?” Cherry replied, already beginning to shake her head. “Oh, no, Martin...”

“Is that her name?” He interrupted. “A beautiful name. A worthy name.”

“Yes.” Cherry hesitated. “The first is for Philip, of course. The second is for his bride—who you see here, before you.”

“His bride?” Martin exclaimed. He seemed to see Rosalind for the very first time. Even when she had previously spoken, he had not acknowledged her. “Yes, I see her now. Very young and sweet and pretty, is she not?”

“She is. Very sweet,” Cherry agreed, smiling a little. “She makes him very happy.”

“I’m glad,” Martin said simply. “I’m very glad for you both. Philip. And...Rose?”

“Rosalind.” Philip’s wife smiled down at the man in the bed. He could see she was trying to hold back tears. So far successfully. “I am glad I was able to meet you, Martin.”

“Liar,” Martin said, giving a dry but sincere-sounding laugh. “Liar. I’m sure Philip was hoping to find me much haler and heartier so he could pound me into dust. Disappointed him, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps a little,” Rosalind agreed, with the hint of a smile. “But I am sure he would have much preferred to find you in good health.” She looked at Philip quickly.

“She is right,” Philip said quietly. “It grieves me to see you like this, Martin.”

“If only I had been shot on the field that day, eh, Philip?” Martin said, with a shake of his head. “If only. It would have been quicker. Much quicker. I would have preferred it. And Sarah... Oh, that bonny girl. She deserved better.”

“Yes.” Philip truly did not know what to say. His wife’s husband was dead—and she would be grieving him for a long time to come, he knew. He did not wish to think on his dead wife. Not now, when he had finally managed to stop.

“We must go now, Martin,” Cherry said, thankfully, rising from her seat. “Philippa Rose needs changing, and I believe I need to rest.” She hesitated. “If you will tell us where Charles has been buried. I should like to see him once before we go.”

“Yes, of course,” Martin said. There was disappointment on his face. “Of course, yes, you must go. Will you be returning to England soon? Now that you have... Well, now that you know about Charles.”

“Yes, I think we will,” Cherry said, standing in the doorway. “Good-bye, Martin.”

Philip hesitated a moment. Rosalind remained beside him, a hand on his arm.

He looked back at the man in the bed. Martin looked childish. Shrunken.

He had been someone’s child once, Philip suddenly realized. He had been loved.

Whatever monstrous mistakes he had made, he deserved more than this.

“I will be hiring a nurse for you, Martin,” Philip said, shortly. “And whoever your servants are, they are clearly abusing their positions. I take it you are paying them wages? Yes? I will see to it that they are found. If they have no interest in retaining their positions and conducting themselves responsibly, I will pay them and then find you a new housekeeper and a cook to replace them. As well as a servant to keep the house tidy.”

Martin was struggling to sit up, already trying to protest, but Philip held up a hand.

“No, Martin. No arguments. I will do this for you. There will not be any debate.”

More gently, he added, “Rest now. You look tired, Martin.”

As he and Rosalind moved from the room, he heard Martin say, “Good-bye, my old friend.”

Philip did not look back.