Chapter 33
Iflip pages frantically to find out what happened to Charlotte and her beloved. I assume it’s the same Kipson.
She mentions meeting him several times where the river meets the sea, and the rocks look like a dragon’s mouth and the trees like its tail. She adds in one entry that when she looks out from the shore, she sees three sisters. Hmmm . . . weird.
But nothing about buried treasure again. One entry in March 1803 sends my heart racing. She writes:
I found myself once more at the familiar secluded strand, where the sea whispers secrets to the shore. With the moon as our sole witness, we surrendered to a union of souls, an intimate communion whispered between the sighs of the restless sea. Here, we allowed our hearts to speak in the silence of looks and touches. In these pages, I dare confess what the world must not know—my undying love, profound and unwavering, for him who is both my solace and my ardor.
Oh my! Charlotte and Kipson were lovers. What else could this mean?
Her desire and longing for her man is clear even in her flowery words. I wish I could express my feelings for Keston as vividly. Because what she writes, I feel too. Keston is the person who gives me comfort. And passion.
Society may frown on my being the older woman. And him being the much younger man. But like Charlotte, I must try to hold tight to the truth of our love and forget society.
My doubts about our cultural differences seem ridiculous after reading her diary. Charlotte and Kipson’s backgrounds and cultural differences were immense. Yet, her love for him was unwavering. How did she do it I wonder.
And how did Kipson feel about Charlotte? He must have loved her deeply to take the chances he did.
I bite my bottom lip and concentrate on the last few months of 1803. Then I see it. Confirmation of who Kipson truly was. I jump up from the table and hug the diary close to my chest. It’s like meeting the ghost of a legend.
October 20th, 1803
This day, I confess to these pages a secret which burdens my soul with its weight, yet fills it with an inexplicable exhilaration. My heart, against the counsel of prudence and propriety, has pledged its allegiance to one who reigns not over lands and titles, but over the untamed expanses of the sea—my beloved, the pirate king.
This man whom my soul cherishes, he who commands the allegiance of the wind and wave as the pirate king, harbors a secret of his own—a past cloaked in both nobility and injustice. He is, by birth, a prince of Africa, spirited away from his homeland in chains. Now, in his eyes I perceive a spirit as free as the winds that carry his sails. A freedom that was hard won. With chains broken and swords taken. A freedom never to be denied again.
I look around wildly. I want to tell somebody. The myths are true. Keston’s ancestor was an enslaved African prince. Who escaped and became a pirate king. As crazy as the myth is, it’s true. At least according to the woman who loved him. My hands shake as I turn the pages to continue reading.
I am fully aware of the dangerous course upon which I have embarked, loving a man marked by both infamy and outlawry. Yet, in the depth of my being, a voice whispers that true love is itself a form of rebellion—a defiance of conventions that would dictate the boundaries of affection and the sanctions of the heart. Thus, I record here, under the silent watch of the stars, my undying love for him—the sovereign of my heart, the pirate king.
I choke up. Tears brim in my eyes ready to fall. I can’t bear to read anymore. Not right now. I want to hold on to the idea they were happy and free together in their hidden world. The words, “true love is itself a form of rebellion” stitches itself onto me like a tattoo.
If this woman, barely out of her teens, can defy convention, declare her true love, and follow her heart, who are we, well, who am I, to hesitate?
It’s time I rebel fully. Love deeply. Truly. Madly. Like Charlotte and Kipson.
But first, I must find out why the hell Keston did not tell me about his brother Kelley.