Chapter 43
Most times, we cannot see clearly what is right in front of our eyes. I learned as a lawyer to look for patterns in how a person communicates for clues to hidden meanings.
It could be a person’s tone, their word choices, or what they avoid saying. Reading over Charlotte Campbell’s diary a third and fourth time, I see a pattern I had noticed but ignored.
Charlotte was sick a lot. She mentioned having “the curse” often in March and April. It is something she mentions repeatedly. I’d assumed she was pretending to be sick to get away from her family and sneak off to meet Kipson. But she had “the curse” a lot again between September to December. I thought the curse was her period. But now I think it was the exact opposite.
Charlotte Campbell was pregnant during most of 1803. How could I have missed that? She talked about the intimacies she was sharing with Captain Kipson starting in January 1803. Her curse could easily be morning sickness. Pregnancy issues.
Oh dear, poor Charlotte. I clutch my throat. I, too, kept a pregnancy hidden. I had my baby and didn’t tell anyone. Did Charlotte do the same thing? Did she feel incredible shame as I had?
If Charlotte was pregnant and unmarried, she probably kept it a secret until the end. But what happened when it was time to deliver? Did she have her baby alone? And what happened to the baby? And how is her secret related to the treasure?
I get up, stretch, eat room service, and pace the villa’s thick carpeted floors. My brain is working on borrowed time here. As if my own relationship hinges on unraveling the mystery of Kipson and Charlotte’s love affair.
Assuming Charlotte was pregnant, I reread Captain Kipson’s ship log for clues about what happened to her or the baby. He had to have known.
But I come up with nothing. Such lovely narrative by a man who was a ruthless pirate of the Caribbean seas. He was tough with everyone except his beloved.
He’d have made plans for her, somehow. He would not have deserted his Charlotte. Same with Keston. He’d never turn his back on me.
When I’m tired of being indoors, I head outside and pace on the warm sand bordering the villa’s patio. I tread channels going back and forth thinking about what my next move should be.
Her pregnancy probably explains why he came to St. Nicholas so often in 1803. And why this is the only log that was preserved as part of the Kipson heritage.
“He loved her so much,” I whisper to the hummingbirds as they whirl from flower to flower, their iridescent wings blazing like jewels in the sun. Where the birds zip and play and show off, small lizards blend into the rocks hiding in plain sight.
Then it hits me. I flip the pages of the ship log until I get to December 24, 1803. This is the most difficult section to read. In fact, impossible. The words are jumbled. But what if he hid a message in plain sight.
Every time I take a break from reading the diaries, I hide them. Sometimes under my mattress, sometimes wrapped in clothing and tucked away in a drawer. Most times, I stack them under a lamp as if they’re innocent books, hiding in full view of anyone who enters.
Captain Kipson was a shrewd pirate and captain of his own ship, The Scarlet Tempest. He’d known about hiding in plain view.
I stare at the pages intently until I sink into the words themselves. My pesky inner voice says, “What if you turn them upside down?”
Turning the old heavy journal, I squint at scribbles in between the lines until I realize they form words and sentences. But none of it is legible. Until I turn the page of the upside-down book to see what’s on the back of the entry.
Suddenly, what was a mess of scribbles transforms into words. Captain Kipson wrote a whole other entry, dated December 24, 1803, in an upside-down, right to left script. For no one to see but himself.
In fact, anyone reading the log would skip over the entry because it looks like gibberish. Like the ship was rocking hard and his hand was unsteady. But I’ve gotten used to reading his handwriting.
I read the secret entry quickly, my heart hammering in my chest. Tears brim and fall at his brave words. I’m standing outside, sun beating on my head, two hundred and twenty years later, but I feel every emotion Captain Kipson felt.
About his beloved Scarlett Tempest, not only his ship’s name but also the name he called Charlotte Campbell during childbirth.
He was there. Like I knew he would be. He’d risk anything for her. Even his freedom.
A sudden loud ringing interrupts my musings.
“Yes?” I answer my cell phone, a bit crossly.
“Hello, this is Kelley Harris Kips.”
“Kelley, I know who you are. Thank goodness you called. I have a question for you.”
“I’m ready.”
I imagine Kelley in his homemade hemp clothing unbothered by anything, standing with a cell phone in his hand and wondering how to use it.
“Did you know Charlotte Campbell was pregnant with Captain Kipson’s baby in 1803?”
Dead silence on the other end.
“Are you there?”
A throat clears. “Yes. I am here. I’m . . . shocked.”
I’m shocked he’s shocked.
Isn’t the myth that Keston (and Kelley too) are the sons of a pirate king and a Scottish princess? So, at some point, Charlotte had to get pregnant?
Yet, it seems neither Kelley nor I expected it.
“I just found a hidden entry in the ship log you gave me. In Captain Kipsons’s handwriting.” I take my time saying the next sentence.
“It’s about the birth of Charlotte and Kipson’s offspring.”
Silence.
“Kelley?”
“No one’s ever found anything like that,” he whispers.
I clear my throat. “There’s more, but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me about two hours.”
“Okay.”
This is what I need. To share my discovery with someone who this story matters to more than just a hunt for treasure.
“What you need to do is talk to Keston,” my subconscious shouts at me.
“Fine! I will!”
My watch says its three o’clock so he should be at the beach bar.
I change into one of the sexy sundresses Mikah left with me. It has a bustier top, revealing mounds of flesh, and a skater skirt, showing off my darkly tanned legs. I slip on the strappy gold sandals she left me which are a tad too loose, and I’m ready.
My jeans, tank, and beloved pink Vans will have to take a backseat for now.
I look around vainly trying to find a peace offering to give Keston. A white flag gift. I only have the diaries. I pack them into my backpack and head out on foot so I can get there quicker by cutting across the lawn instead of driving along the pathways.