Chapter 32
Chapter
Catherine watches from the prow of the ship while Kingston Harbour comes into view.
The water is deep and an aquamarine blue, becoming turquoise the closer they come to shore.
The white buildings of the city gleam in the sun behind the sea, all backed by lush, green mountain tops.
She’s seen crown jewels less beautiful than this place, but she can’t enjoy it.
They made good speed from Bermuda but the repairs and refueling of The Elphame have taken time, time she didn’t want to spend.
Too much time. Too many days.
It’s been thirteen days, to be exact, since she last saw Andrew. He told her once The Elphame was the fastest ship on the water; she can only hope that’s still true. That they aren’t too late and too far behind the schooner that took him.
“Jamaica in December is a sight to behold,” Rogers says, coming up behind her. “If the rest of England knew they could have this,” he spreads his arms out to encompass the land and sea and sky, “the whole damn place would be overrun.”
She closes her eyes and inhales. “It’s lovely,” she says, and as they set the anchor down close to shore, she sniffs the air. “And it smells wonderful. Tropical yet somehow… familiar.”
“It’s the wild ginger,” Rogers says, “and the plumeria.” He inhales deeply too. “The scent of paradise, if you ask me.”
It is, Catherine thinks, finally registering where she’s smelled that heady combination before. Andrew. That’s Andrew’s smell. The top note she’s never quite been able to decipher.
He’s always smelled like Scotland to her, peat and pine and rain and ocean, along with something else she could never identify. Something floral. Something like wild ginger and plumeria.
He’s here, she thinks. Somewhere. I’m certain of it.
“Are you ready for this?” Rogers asks and she doesn’t know how to answer him.
She’s ready to find Andrew. Ready to put her mind at ease that he’s safe. Ready to kiss him and hold him and throw her thigh back over his hips.
But is she ready to rejoin society? No. Not exactly.
She’s come to treasure her freedom aboard The Elphame and is loath to give it up, even for a short time. She’s even more loath to pretend to be a governess on her way to Boston who has been overcome by some calamity at sea.
But Rogers has insisted on the story as their cover, and so she’s agreed. He’s the one with the Home Office experience, after all, and the connections with the governor general and his family, who they hope will take her in.
But she dislikes it, the ridiculous story and the lying it will entail to gain her reentry into a society that she’s already fled once before.
And besides, she really hoped to be more honest with those who show her generosity, not less.
But she must, she supposes. And Rogers hasn’t given her a choice, anyway.
“Miss Hope?” Rogers asks, and Catherine starts back to reality from her brooding thoughts.
Miss Hope is the name they’ve decided on for her. Miss Hope, the spinster governess on her way to a position in Boston.
“Are you certain I can’t be a Mrs.?” she asks. “Or a widow? Or better yet,” and here her old grin reemerges, “a divorcée?”
Rogers snorts. “Divorcées are not typically hired on as governesses. And being a Miss in distress practically guarantees you the governor’s protection. You might need that protection before we’re done here.”
Catherine sighs. “But is a third name in as many weeks really and truly necessary? I could just be Mrs. McGann.”
“I’d rather you weren’t for the time being.
I don’t know what we’re to find when we land.
Presuming that McGann is indeed here, which is still only conjecture on our part, and presuming his kidnappers have not gotten what they want from him, which is also conjecture, you can be certain they’ll come looking for his wife.
” He looks down at her. “Which is you. So, on the whole, I’d rather perpetrate the deception and keep you safe than not bother and have you in harm’s way. I’ll apologize afterward as needed.”
“The Home Office begs your pardon,” Catherine says, mimicking his earlier words.
“Exactly.”
“The crew will know who I am,” she says. “Or, rather, they’ll know that I’m Mrs. McGann. And I may forget to respond to Miss Hope. It is very confusing, all these versions of me.”
“I understand entirely,” he says in such a way that she thinks he probably does understand. She wonders who Rogers really is when he’s not acting for the Home Office. She’ll likely never know, not even his real name.
“I’d recommend,” he goes on, “that when this is all over, you pick one version of yourself and stick with it. Whichever suits you best. But in the meantime, you’ll be Miss Hope. Unless you’d like to be Lady Catherine West? Being an earl’s daughter will absolutely guarantee you protection.”
“No,” Catherine says shortly, surprising even herself by her vehemence. She has left Catherine West behind her and she isn’t going to resurrect the chit now.
And besides, it’s more than possible they’ve already heard about her jilting Pembrooke at the altar, even all the way here in Jamaica.
The speed of gossip is probably faster than even that of steam, she thinks.
And if they have heard, they’ll give Lady Catherine the cut direct, which will leave her without home or safe haven.
“I’ll be Miss Hope,” she says. “But what if I run into the crew?”
“They aren’t likely to be found on the grounds of the governor general’s mansion. But if you do meet them, they’ll follow your lead. They are aware we’re looking for their captain. They won’t give you up.”
“That is presuming a great deal of loyalty,” she says. “Above and beyond what they might feel for a man who gave them a position.”
Rogers only shrugs. “Their pay has also been increased commensurately such that it will be in their best interest to play along no matter where their loyalties might lie.” He catches her gaze and holds it. “I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye, but I do ask that you trust me on this.”
Catherine has no choice but to agree. She does have to trust him, at least a little. She has nowhere else to go in Kingston but to the governor general’s mansion, and no one to rely on but Rogers and his connections there.
She thinks of the key that is still in her pocket. She hasn’t told Rogers about it—not yet. But if that’s what the kidnappers are looking for, they’ll keep Andrew alive until they find it.
“I don’t think,” she says slowly, “they’ll have gotten from Andrew what they’re looking for.”
“And why is that?”
He gives her that assessing look she doesn’t care for, but she fishes the key out of her pocket anyway and shows it to him. In for a penny of trust, in for a pound, after all.
“Because I believe they’re trying to find this.”
“And what is that exactly?”
“It’s the key to Andrew’s lockbox. Where I believe he has stored evidence of the kind you’re looking for.”
Something flashes across his features, too quickly for her to identify exactly what it is. But then he nods at her sharply. “You may be correct, Miss Hope. I don’t suppose you’d give me that key for safekeeping?”
“I absolutely would not.”
“Then guard it as if your life depends upon it. Or more to the point, as if Captain McGann’s does.”
Not more than two hours later, she’s standing on the steps of a mansion in Spanish Town, being introduced to Mrs. Elizabeth Masters, the governor general’s widowed niece.
The woman is a few inches taller than Catherine and only a few years older—a striking brunette with a pale, English rose complexion, who can barely hide her delighted reaction to the juicy tale that Rogers spins of a shipwreck and Catherine’s near drowning.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Masters says, taking Catherine by the arm. “How terrible that must have been for you! Do not worry about a thing. We’ll see you well taken care of. You poor girl.”
“Thank you,” Catherine says, grateful for the kindness, which makes her guilt well up at the subterfuge.
She pushes it away as Mrs. Masters takes her arm and leads her into the governor’s mansion. Catherine crosses the threshold and stops suddenly as she sees the sumptuous world of the ton recreated here in Jamaica. She sucks in her breath.
“It is something, isn’t it?” Mrs. Masters asks, and Catherine nods. It is something, though not in the way her companion intends. It’s—well. It’s grotesque, the way they’ve transported the trappings of the beaumonde all the way here.
She looks behind her through the open doorway, her eyes taking in the same cupid-spewing-water fountain that might decorate the same circular drive at any English country estate.
The same colonnades holding up a gracious building constructed in the same Georgian style of architecture, likely designed by the same English architects.
She turns back to the interior, where the same version of the same crystal chandelier lights the large entryway, and the same gilt-framed portraits and landscapes grace the walls as would fit any townhouse or ducal seat. They really have made Jamaica into a faithful replica of England.
She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing, just inhales the floral scent wafting her way, aloft on a gentle breeze.
Andrew’s scent.
She takes another deep breath. She can do this, and she can do it as graciously as possible. If she needs to be Miss Hope to get Andrew back, she’ll be Miss Hope. She gives Mrs. Masters her best smile. “I am so grateful for your hospitality,” she says. “You have my deepest thanks.”
And then she is shepherded up the stairs to a waiting bath, a borrowed muslin gown, and a young Black woman named Claire who will act as her lady’s maid.
All the staff of the mansion are, in fact, Black. She thinks back—slavery was abolished in Jamaica twenty years ago. But looking around now, not as much seems to have changed as she would have imagined.