4. Isla #2
She counted three gundecks and knew from her research that still more decks existed below the waterline.
Scores of little figures scurried around, with some climbing the masts to secure the sails while others ran up pennants, presumably to communicate with others on shore.
The wind carried faint, far-off shouts up to her little cave, and Isla wondered what orders were being given and obeyed all over the ship.
The activity picked up on one part of the deck, and she tried to remember what that area was called. The forecastle. That was it.
Isla glanced between the ship and their little port, where an armada of small boats was preparing to either row or sail out to meet their much larger counterpart.
She’d heard that the Admiral’s representatives had made prior arrangements for the sloops to transfer his furniture from his ship to shore.
Once his things were on shore, he’d already paid some locals handsomely to meet the cargo boats, take his belongings on carts and wagons, and deliver them to his estates.
There’d also been a small army of women who’d been paid to clean the manor house and prepare for the Admiral’s arrival.
Having seen all she’d come to see, Isla carefully made her way over the rocks and through the short cave to the front of the wind tunnel.
While the wind wasn’t an overpowering presence, it blew strongest here as it funneled past the craggy, arched entrance.
She thought of its touch as being that of a gentleman with his hand on a lady’s back, gently propelling her through an open door.
Isla paused momentarily to listen to its haunting, undulating moan—quiet and low at first and then rising in pitch and volume before sinking once more into its low, weeping lament. The ebb and flow comforted her, had done from the first moment her mother brought her here so many years before.
Putting a hand on one free-standing boulder, she stepped down, carefully placing her feet on rocks that, from past experience, she knew would hold her weight.
Climbing in full-length skirts was challenging, and as she hiked hers up, she wished she had the nerve to go against the social conventions and wear trousers, as her mother had done on many, many occasions.
Goddess only knew it wasn’t that long of a climb, only two or three steps down, but having to wrestle with her petticoat and skirt made those steps frustratingly difficult.
Once on firm ground, she walked along the cliff’s edge towards town.
She had a luncheon date with Celie that she was looking forward to, and she didn’t want to be late.
Between stopping to watch the activity on the ship, admiring the purple Ling Heather blanketing the slopes, and wiping mud from her boots upon reaching the road, it took a full hour for her to arrive in the city. That left sufficient time to meet her friend for lunch.
The air hung thick and heavy as she walked on the sidewalk as far away from the cobbled streets as possible to avoid getting mud or debris on her skirts—well, even more mud and dirt, she supposed, after her visit to the cave.
Hansoms and cabs hurried past with sometimes one, sometimes two or more horses pulling them along.
The rush and turmoil of the people who jostled her as they moved past should have unsettled her, yet she habitually felt a sense of exhilaration when she left her quiet estates and walked the mile into town.
She felt alive in the anonymity of the crowd, unrecognized by a society that so often treated her like an outcaste or a pariah at their social functions and events, a spinster well past her prime at the ripe old age of thirty-one.
Women pitied her, and if men were interested, it became clear soon enough that they were courting her wealth rather than hoping for a loving, caring relationship.
Not that she’d ever accept a man’s hand in marriage.
No, her heart longed for the sweet understanding of a woman, someone with whom she could share her most intimate thoughts and feelings, who would share her love of learning, and who would join her on horseback rides or on hikes along the cliffs in a rainstorm without worrying whether their hair was getting mussed or their clothing tousled or torn.
She sighed, knowing such a woman didn’t exist, and if she did, society and, more specifically, the religious factions of the day would never allow two women to fall in love and cohabitate as a married couple.
With that thought in mind, as she continued on her way through town, she glanced at a steepled church on her right, with its rows and rows of ancient, weather-stained gravestones rising from an immaculately kept lawn.
Their jutting presence reminded her of the green maw of a particularly perfidious, odious monster.
The apt metaphor for that congregation and its pastor had her smiling as she walked into the Stately Yew Inn, an upper-class establishment frequented by the nobility and landed gentry.
While it wasn’t the most elegant dining establishment in the city, it was clean and well-appointed, with colorful tapestries hanging on the rough-hewn stone walls, adding a feeling of comfort and warmth.
Individual tables of various shapes and sizes filled the room.
High-backed chairs with padded seats—maroon with needlepoint flowers adding cheerful spots of color throughout the room—were placed according to each table’s allotted occupancy.
To Isla’s surprise, the inn was packed without a single table to be had.
She breathed easier when Celie waved from a small two-person table towards the back of the room.
Judging by the suddenly diminished chatter and laughter of various conversations around the dozen or so tables, she’d caught the unwanted attention of the room’s many occupants.
Unlike her mother, who not only would have relished the keen and often hostile scrutiny but would have sailed into the room calling out names and offering air kisses to all and sundry, Isla straightened her spine and, with a graceful elegance she’d spent hours honing to perfection, glided across the wide expanse of maroon rug to meet Celie, who’d risen and was awaiting her arrival at their table with wide, welcoming arms. Thankful for her friend who knew her well and understood how much she hated feeling out of place, Isla allowed the older woman to pull her into a loving, supportive embrace.
After a warm hug and the exchange of air kisses, Celie whispered in her ear, “It’s a good thing I arrived early to do a bit of reading, or we wouldn’t have a table.”
Some loose strands of hair had escaped Celie’s braided coils, and Isla affectionately tucked them behind her friend’s ear.
The style gave her a festive look, and she privately thought it was a pity no man had ever asked for this vibrant woman’s hand in marriage.
But then, she’d often wondered whether Celie and her mother—she immediately put that thought from her mind and glanced around the crowded room.
“What’s all the fuss about?” Isla stared at the unusual crowd dressed much too formally for a simple weekday luncheon.
Women were dressed in colorful silk gowns, several of which had what Isla considered the ridiculous gigot sleeves, puffed monstrosities that had to be carefully maneuvered around if one passed close by a lady wearing them in the street.
They were the latest fashion, and, of course, the pink, purple, and green gowns worn by Lord and Lady Hadley’s three daughters each had enormous puffs running the lengths of their wearer’s arms.
Several men wore tailored tailcoats over soft, woolen trousers.
A few wore silk cravats around their necks, while others adopted the latest fashion of a simple tie run around their starched collar and tied at the front of the neck.
Their choice of attire was a far cry from the more casual dark wool, straight-legged trousers, crisp white shirts, and fitted frock coats men typically wore to an everyday outing, such as lunch at the Stately Yew.
Both women sat, and without preamble, Celie leaned across the table and tilted her head toward the other side of the room. “Don’t look now, but that handsome Admiral Jonto and his first mate are seated at a table in the corner, and I do believe the Admiral has his eye on you.”
Isla didn’t deign to look his way. She sat back and rolled her eyes. “That’s why everyone’s dressed in their Sunday finery? You can’t tell me they’re excited to meet a degenerate pirate captain.”
Whenever Celie chuckled, her laughter bubbled up like a sparkling brook.
“When they’d first announced that the King had granted the lands and estates to a pirate, I envisioned a scruffy-looking man missing several teeth with his greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail.
The local gossip, which I know you rarely listen to, said that people in the know, those related to the King’s counselors and whatnot, have been spreading the word that the Admiral wasn’t anything like what they’d been expecting.
That’s why everyone came to the docks today to see for themselves.
Who would’ve guessed both he and his first mate would be well-groomed and immaculately dressed, not to mention two of the most handsome men I’ve seen in a very long time? ”
With an unladylike snort, Isla shook her head.
“I do believe you’ve been living in this backwater city for far too long if you think any pirate who made his living marauding and raping and stealing from other people could in any way, shape, or form be considered handsome.
You do remember it was pirates who killed my father? Who knows, possibly that very one.”