Lady Rackham: An Unusual Tale of Piracy, Romance and Swashbuckling Upon the High Seas by Alydia Rackham
"Good lord, she's been blinded."
"Belay that please, Doctor. Get your kit and bring it to the captain's cabin, if you would."
The first mate, after issuing that quiet order, turned away from the doctor and grabbed the arm of the woman next to him. His pulse hammered, but he ground his teeth and said nothing. He didn’t dare do what his arms screamed to do: scoop her up and carry her—
For, though a lady—she was also his captain.
The cold night wind gusted through his shoulder-length, chestnut hair, and restlessly tossed her tangled ebony tresses. He lifted her over the rail—her boots clunked as she landed on the rocking deck.
He ducked his head and urgently searched her features by the deep orange light of the lamps. Her hat was missing, and mud caked her long coat and trousers. The tie of her white tunic beneath lay undone, and her belt hung sideways.
But his heart skipped a beat when he saw what the doctor had spotted:
A deep, vertical cut that began above her right eyebrow and trailed down somewhere across her right cheek. He couldn’t find where it ended, because blood coated almost the entire side of her face. His throat closed.
The ship's doctor hurried off to his own cabin to retrieve bandages. The first mate glanced warily out past the railing to the empty sea beyond, heard only the restless waves lapping softly against the hull—so he turned back and took hold of his captain’s elbow.
She nudged him away, and proceeded on her own power, head high. He darted ahead, opened the cabin door for her, and stepped out of the way as she passed.
He entered after, then quickly strode across the rug past her to light the lamps. The flames soon illuminated the plush room, filled with finely-carved furniture, tapestries and scarlet pillows and drapes—and now he could assess the state of his captain better.
She yanked off her soggy coat and tossed it aside, revealing more of her slight but knife-like form, clothed in a loose shirt, figure-keeping leather bodice and trousers. She yanked off her boots as well, and threw off the bandana that covered the top of her head. The first mate stood to the side, watching uneasily as blood dripped from her chin and onto her white sleeves.
The first mate hurried over and opened it. The bearded doctor stood there, brow knitted, holding a wooden box and a bowl of water.
"Reynolds," the first mate nodded. "Come in."
"I don’t need that doctor," the captain growled from behind. The first mate glanced back over his shoulder to see her flop down in a chair behind her chart table. The mate's brow furrowed.
"Is there harm in having him look at you, Captain?" he asked quietly. She didn’t look at him, for she kept her right eye mostly shut, but she shook her head.
"I don't want him right now. Bring me the kit."
Ducking his head, the mate took the box and bowl from the doctor, shut the door, came back and set them down on the map. He hesitated, waiting, but she didn’t say anything. So he turned to go.
"Stay, will you, Mr. Young?" she asked, her voice softer than before.
Mr. Young paused, then nodded.
"Yes, Captain. If you wish."
However, she didn’t offer him a chair, so he stood, his head slightly bent, his ragged hair brushing the shoulders of his doublet. He folded his arms, and absently ran his hand back and forth against his short beard. And he watched her.
She opened the box and pulled out a clean rag, and with practiced hands, dipped the rag in the water and gingerly began wiping away the blood. She started with her eyelid, and the tender skin around it. Mr. Young held his breath. Slowly, the mess came away enough so that he could glimpse her long black eyelashes…
And then both of her bright, ebony eyes flashed up to meet his. She smiled crookedly.
Mr. Young let out his breath. He lifted an eyebrow.
"You almost lost your eye."
She grunted and squeezed her right eye shut again, starting on her cheek. Mr. Young's gaze drifted over her features as she slowly uncovered her soft, tanned skin, along with her comely nose and the corner of her mouth.
"You look pale, Mr. Young. You’ve never seen blood before?" she muttered.
"Why did you not let me come with you?" he demanded. The captain snorted.
"Come now. What would I say to your betrothed if I had to hand her back that ring she gave you and tell her I got you killed?"
The rag strayed into the center of her wound, and she suddenly hissed. She threw the rag down with a slap, and her shaking hand twitched back up toward her face.
Mr. Young reflexively started forward—then instantly stopped himself. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his head further and settled his hands on the edge of the table.
She took a tight breath, her jaw clamped, and a hand bedecked with rings drifted down to rest on the parchment map.
"I had him, Young," she muttered, her black eyes burning as she stared at the wall of the cabin. "I had him. And then one of his rats shot at me from above. I thought I'd been killed. Then he sliced my face open. I stepped back and fell into a ravine. It was too dark for him to find me." The captain snatched the rag up, dipped it to try again, glancing blackly back up at her first mate. "One thing I did learn: he’s heading to the Caribbean, after he takes on cargo. We’ll fly ahead of him and lie in wait. In my own waters, in my own tides and islands." She squeezed the excess bloody water out on to the map and bared her teeth. "I'll have him yet."
"Not so tight! Luellen, not so tight!"
"'ow many times 'ave I told you, Mistress? It's got to be tight to show off your form!"
"I won't have any form left if you keep...ah! If you...If you keep pulling those stays!"
Lady Gwendolyn of the House of Montgomery held tightly to the post of her elegant wooden bed, trying to keep from being yanked backwards as her red-faced, plump maidservant gave another hard tug on her corset stays. Luellen huffed, finally finished, and tied the bindings.
"There now. I've kept you a notch looser than yesterday. You can thank me." Luellen slapped Gwendolyn's corset, but Gwendolyn couldn’t even feel it through the thick, hard material.
"Thank you. You're very kind," Gwendolyn grunted, trying to stand up straight and wincing as she did. Though she was nearly nineteen, she had always bucked the idea of wearing a corset. Most of the other young ladies she knew had been tightened much further by now and professed to be quite comfortable—though Gwendolyn didn’t know how that was possible.
She glanced about her sleeping quarters. She had two tall windows facing west, and each housed a plush, red velvet window seat. Long, lace curtains hung from golden rods up above the open windows. She liked to smell the salty freshness of the nearby sea.
Luellen huffed again as she dug through Gwendolyn's largest piece of furniture: a beautifully carved, oak wardrobe that had belonged to Gwendolyn's mother. Gwendolyn stood in front of the mirror, waiting, absently touching her corset and bloomers and wishing for the days of her childhood when she could just run around in a sack and bare feet.
Thoughtfully and a bit sleepily, she ran her hand through her long, light-brown hair and wished for a thin, cotton dress to match her blue eyes…
"'ere now. 'ow about this one?"
Gwendolyn blinked and turned to find a slightly disheveled Luellen holding out a voluminous red-and-gold gown. Gwendolyn made a face.
"Ugh, no. It is far too warm for that one. Besides, we're not expecting any company."
"Well, I’m tired of choosing every day, only to have you tell me no!" Luellen cried. "Which do you want?"
Gwendolyn stepped past Luellen to peer into the wardrobe. She fingered each rich dress, and at last she reached to the very back and pulled out a simple, sky blue dress that she had not worn for months.
"But that’s no longer in fashion at all!"
"I don’t mind," Gwendolyn smiled. "I’d much rather be cool than in fashion."
Sighing and rolling her eyes, Luellen helped Gwendolyn on with her petticoats and other undergarments, then pulled the blue dress over the lady's head and smoothed it down. A very simple dress; no frills or laces, elbow-length sleeves, a slight bolster, and, most importantly, made out of a linen fabric that breathed.
After Luellen had fastened it in the back, she bade Gwendolyn to sit down in front of her white vanity to do her hair.
"Don't make a fuss about it today," Gwendolyn urged. So Luellen pinned Gwendolyn's hair up in a loose bun that allowed some strands of hair to fall loosely down. Gwendolyn didn’t even put on any jewelry, for she didn’t want to go out today. Instead, she felt like finding a place in the shady library, ordering a cup of tea, and continuing the book that had engrossed her all week.
A knock at the door—three sharp taps.
Gwendolyn gasped and stood up, banging her knees on her vanity and rattling her perfume bottles.
"Come in, Jonathan," she winced.
The latch worked and the door swung open. A stiffly-dressed, wigged old servant with a wooden expression, bowed shortly.
"My lady, your father bids you to the grand entrance immediately."
Gwendolyn did not wait. She shoved her stool out of the way and followed Jonathan out the door and down the spacious, airy corridor, lined with decorative tables and solemn portraits. Despite Jonathan's age, he moved swiftly, and Gwendolyn rustled along behind him, trying to breathe enough to keep up.
They hurried down several flights of winding stairs and finally emerged into the tall, marbled grand entryway, beneath the glimmering crystal chandelier.
Her father stood there by the tall front door, garbed in his finest Navy uniform and bedecked with all of his medals. He wore his white wig perfectly. But his sea-weathered face didn’t turn toward her as she entered. Which was good—for all the blood drained out of her head at the sight of other person in the room.
A young nobleman, straight as a beech tree, wearing a beautifully-embroidered blue riding suit, a plumed hat under his arm. Handsome and placid; his dark eyes focused on her father, his brown hair pulled back in a black ribbon.
Jonathan stopped, and cleared his throat. Both her father and the nobleman turned to look at Gwendolyn.
Instantly, her father's blue eyes pierced her. The nobleman's face remained unchanged.
"Come here, Gwendolyn," her father ordered, motioning to her.
Johnathan stepped out of the way, and Gwendolyn cautiously stepped up to her father's side. He did not touch her.
“Gwendolyn, may I present Lord Gregory Bucklin, a cousin to the king," her father introduced. “Lord Bucklin, this is my daughter, Lady Gwendolyn Lilia of the House of Montgomery.”
"It is an honor," the young lord bowed politely.
Gwendolyn's throat closed. She had heard this man’s name mentioned many times during her few stays at court. And all of a sudden, she felt stupid for standing in the presence of royalty wearing an old dress, messy hair and absolutely no adornment or even perfume. She blushed.
"I am equally honored, my lord." She curtsied, trying to hide her face.
"Would you come sit with us, Lord Bucklin?" Her father gestured to a room off to his left.
"Thank you, my lord," Bucklin replied coolly, straightening. Lord Montgomery then proceeded into the parlor, and Lord Bucklin indicated that Gwendolyn follow her father first. Getting the slight sensation of walking in a military escort, Gwendolyn managed to keep her face blank, and step into the smaller room.
A couch and three chairs of floral upholstery and dark wood waited for them. Lord Montgomery motioned for Gwendolyn to sit in one of these chairs, and he and Lord Bucklin settled into the other two.
The three of them chatted casually for a few minutes about the roads, the weather, and the state of the Royal Navy. Gwendolyn mostly listened, only speaking when her father or Lord Bucklin asked her a question, which they did not do very often. At last, her father cleared his throat.
"Well, now I suppose we should discuss the true reason for this house call,” her father began as he leaned back into his chair. “Gwendolyn, you know I have always looked out for your happiness. And it is for that reason that I have invited Lord Bucklin to our home today. A few months ago, he sent me a letter very honorably indicating to me that you had caught his eye during your stay at the royal court this past winter. Although he did not obtain an introduction, he found your manner to be amiable, beautiful, refined, polite, meek and worthy. Isn’t that true, Lord Bucklin?" her father asked, unable to hide a smile.
"Yes, my lord. Quite right,” Bucklin acknowledged—though Gwen saw him frown slightly. Gwendolyn tried not to swallow.
"Thank you, my lord," she replied.
"He also indicated to me that, though he is nearing his thirtieth year, he has not yet married,” her father went on. Gwendolyn looked at him sharply. Her father continued, smiling.
"In fact, he went to the court this spring with the intention of searching for a wife, as he is the only son of the aging Lord Andrew Bucklin. Correct, sir?"
"Yes, my lord,” Bucklin said, glancing at Gwendolyn carefully. Gwendolyn felt as if her corset were tightening of its own accord.
"Therefore," her father said, with an air of finality. "If you will have him, I have found that he is a good and amiable man who can make you happy and protect you quite well, and have given him permission to court you with the intention of marriage. I thought that I should make sure that you are satisfied with the situation."
She stared at him blankly. But the moment hung there, and so she made herself draw in a breath.
"Thank you, Father," was all she got out—and even to herself, her voice sounded unrecognizable.
"So," her father slapped his thigh, which made her jump. "My work is done; I'll leave you two alone for a moment, and then we shall have tea." The seaman rose to his feet, winced at an old pain in his back, then strode out of the room, leaving the door open.
Gwendolyn swallowed again, watching him go, then turned back to Lord Bucklin. However, she soon directed her gaze at her folded hands.
"I am sorry about this," Bucklin said quietly.
Gwendolyn managed to lift her eyes, her brow furrowing.
Lord Bucklin shifted, then stood up, clasping his hands behind his
back, and stepped toward the window.
“When I saw you at court, I confess that I was pleased with your manner, your appearance, your beauty…your laugh,” he said hesitantly. “I had hoped to find a suitable time to be introduced to you, but no opportunity seemed to present itself.” He turned and faced her, his eyes bright and earnest. “I had no desire to make this seem like a business transaction—but the bluntness of your father’s presentation compels me to utmost honesty with you, trusting that you will understand what I say.”
Gwendolyn hesitated, then nodded carefully. Lord Bucklin shifted his weight.
“My uncle, Lord Andrew, has been placing considerable pressure upon me to find a wife to suit my station once I inherit. He has given me liberty to choose who I may—but he has restricted my time to choose to six months. I have already spent three of those in vain, and therefore I find myself in dire straits. My only good fortune seems to be the happenstance that you, the one who has caught my eye, are an honorable and good-hearted lady, and might tolerate such a union.” He glanced at the door, then lowered his voice, and tilted toward her. “I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of you, madam. And if you will have patience with me, I am certain we shall make the best of all of this, and in the end, be quite happy.” He tried to smile at her. “Shall we try?”
Gwendolyn’s heart pounded against her corset. She opened her mouth—
"Excuse me my lady; my lord,” Jonathan interrupted, stepping halfway into the parlor. “Lord Montgomery invites you to the luncheon room for tea.”
Lord Bucklin ducked his head, then glanced at her and held out his arm for her to take.
Listlessly, as if watching herself from a distance, Gwendolyn stood, took his arm, and followed after Jonathan.
The tea went much the way that the earlier conversation had gone: small talk about nothing of significance, mostly between the two lords. Gwendolyn simply tried to swallow her drink without being ill.
Finally, after about a quarter of an hour, Lord Bucklin rose to go, explaining that he needed to see to some business at the docks. Gwendolyn and her father rose to their feet, escorted him to the door, and Gwendolyn permitted Lord Bucklin to kiss her hand. He then gave her a polite, quiet smile, and took his leave.
After the door had shut behind him, Gwendolyn's father turned to her.
"Well? What do you think of him?"
Gwendolyn drew herself up and fought to control her voice.
"Indeed, indeed,” her father nodded, clasping his hands behind his back just as Lord Bucklin had done. “That is exactly what I thought. Very amiable, agreeable man. And, he has excellent connections, a worthy family! His estate is old and prosperous, and he needs a son. A perfect match, dearest. A perfect match. You are a fortunate girl!”
"Yes, Father,” Gwendolyn whispered, but he wasn’t listening. He drew himself up and strode purposefully out of the entryway and toward the library, already deep in another thought.
Slowly, Gwendolyn turned around and trudged up the stairs—but soon her footsteps quickened, and before she knew what she was doing, she raced up the stairs, pelted down the hallway, burst into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Her breath rasped in her throat because of her corset, and she felt ready to faint.
"Mistress! Mistress, what's wrong?" Luellen yelped, throwing down her laundry and hurrying up to Gwendolyn.
"They've arranged... " Gwendolyn panted, feeling tears burn her eyes.
"What? What are you talking about?" Luellen took her by the shoulders.
"Father and...Lord Bucklin," Gwendolyn rasped. "Father would have me marry him."
Luellen's hands slowly drifted down and away from her as Gwendolyn leaned heavily back against her door.
"But mistress…You can't marry 'im!" Luellen said fearfully. "You're...."
"I know, I know," Gwendolyn gasped, her face twisting. “I'm already engaged."
Gwendolyn shed her fine shoes, put on a pair of common work boots and then wrapped a ragged shawl of Luellen's around her shoulders. Carefully, after forcing Luellen into an oath of silence, Gwendolyn opened the door to the servants’ staircase, stepped through and quietly closed it behind her.
A single gas lamp flickered in the darkness of the spiral staircase, and she tripped down the stairs, avoiding those that squeaked loudly.
After several more twists and turns, her way lit by occasional lamps, she pushed on a thick, crude wooden door and found herself outside. The brilliant day made her blink. The fresh scent of spring hung rich in the air, and the breeze warmed her skin, playing with the loose strands of her hair and her skirts.
She closed the door, glanced about to see that no one was outside, and raced across the emerald grass to the tall, stately stables and darted inside.
Panting, she shut herself in, the wind instantly stopping and the sweet scent of hay surrounding her. She then made her way to a stall where she hurriedly saddled up her favorite mare. After once more casting a wary eye out the small window to see that no one occupied the yard, she shoved open the wide door with great effort, climbed up on her horse and urged her into a swift trot.
They instantly broke out of the stables into the sunshine and wind. Gwendolyn sought the wooded road, where she knew she could not be seen from the house, and at last her horse's hooves pounded against the soft dirt of the wagon road that led to the harbor.
Soon, Gwendolyn left the woods behind her, and spectacular, rolling hills surrounded her. Jagged, rocky cliffs plummeted to the sea just to her right. She could hear the distant roar of the breakers now, and the bustle of activity within the nearby city of Portsmouth.
After three more bends in the road, the bun in her hair almost completely undone by the whipping wind, the road turned to cobblestone, and small, quaint homes and businesses rose up on either side of her.
All manner of people walking quickly up and down filled the streets, tending to business—some sweeping about in cloaks or uniforms or fine dresses, others trooping by in dirty work clothes and leather, tricorn hats. Others rode, and quite a few drove carts or wagons that rattled hard against the stones. Gwendolyn forced herself to pull back on the reins and slow her mount's speed, but her heart kept pounding.
She glanced up. Ahead, down the hill and by the sea stood the tall port buildings, and wooden docks jutting out into the silvery, churning sea. Sunlight sparkled blindingly against the water, turning the ships to black silhouettes.
Three ships floated in the wide harbor: two rather small ones and a very large merchant vessel. Gwendolyn bit her lip. She could just see the hardy men hefting the loads of boxes, barrels and sacks back and forth along the docks.
After an impossible half hour, she finally broke out of the loud, hustling masses and took a side street that ended very near the docks.
At last, she burst out of the little alley and trotted up to dock ten, where the largest, grandest vessel lay moored.
She had never seen a ship like it. Painted black and red—a forty-gunner. As she dismounted and tied her horse, she marveled at the height of its three masts, the beauty of its carved, teak wood, the length of its thick body, the pride of its forward thrusting bowsprit, and the vast shadow it cast upon the water. A fierce queen, a sword held straight forward in one hand, formed the magnificent figurehead. Clearly, this ship had been constructed for traveling over the broad Atlantic.
Gwendolyn pulled her attention down from the massive ship to the line of workers hauling the supplies up and down the creaking dock, urgently searching their faces for a familiar one.
He stood near the gangplank, giving orders to the men trudging up and down it, a ledger under his arm. He was short; perhaps just three inches taller than Gwendolyn. He had fair skin, a sharp nose. He had ginger hair, and a strong, nimble form. He wore a white shirt that had sleeves that came down to his elbows, a brown waistcoat, a battered tricorn hat, and a thick, tan trousers that came down to his knees, and white hose. His simple buckled shoes had seen too much wear. And ink stains marked his pointing hand.
Gwendolyn stepped around the weather-beaten dock building and hurried out onto the wooden dock, careful to avoid the workers. Halfway to the gangplank, she shouted:
The young man instantly stopped and turned to her. A sparkling grin flashed across his face, and his eyes, the color of the sea behind him, sparkled.
"Gwendolyn!" he crowed, put his ledger down on a barrel and dashed up to her. Before she could say anything, he had swept her up and twirled her around, laughing, and his hat fell off. After he had set her down, he withdrew a bit, the breeze fluttering through his wild hair. He grinned at her in delight.
"I'm so glad you came today!" He reached down, snatched up his hat and stuffed it back on, then clasped her soft hand in his calloused one. “Just look at her!" He swept his other hand grandly to draw her attention to the magnificent ship.
"She's beautiful,” Gwendolyn managed, trying not to tremble, and holding on to his left hand with both of hers.
"Your father's just hired her," Shea told her, glancing at Gwendolyn. "She’s a brigantine. Her name is Annabella. In three days, she'll be carrying shipments of supplies and ammunition all the way to the colonies in the Caribbean."
"Shea,” Gwendolyn said—or tried to say. All that came out was a strangled whisper, and he didn’t hear her. Her grip on his hand tightened and her shivering grew worse.
How was she supposed to tell him?
She moved closer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder as he studied the splendid vessel. She felt him take a deep breath.
"The West Indies and the Caribbean," he said breathlessly. "Can you imagine that? The West Indies! I've talked to sailors that have been there; they told me that there's more gold than you could wish for; and that the water is a color of blue that you've never seen, and it's so clear and warm that it's like bath water. There are also jungles and mountains and huge fish and parrots and things like that...But mostly there are…pirates." He chuckled. "I must go there someday."
Gwendolyn backed up slightly and looked at him, his unruly hair blown in the salty wind, his cheeks ruddy, his eyes alight as he stared at that ship, the grin on his face broadening.
She could not tell him. Not when she knew it would wipe that wonderful expression from his face—the expression that had made her fall in love with him.
He blinked and turned to her, a shadow crossing his sunny visage.
Gwendolyn instantly gathered herself and put on her best teasing
"This place sounds quite dangerous."
He cocked an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his
"Are you saying that I shouldn't go?"
"Not at all.” She glanced down at their hands and fiddled with the broad, coarsely-worked Irish ring on his right hand—his only bit of finery— then lifted her head and smiled at him. “I merely insist that you take me with you.”
He laughed out loud and kissed her forehead.
Gwendolyn sighed and glanced at the little white-and-gold clock that sat on the wooden mantle in the library. She had been reclining on the couch, endeavoring to read, all morning and early afternoon. It was now nearly three o'clock; Lord Bucklin would be calling soon. Gwendolyn bit her lip and forced her attention back to her book.
It had been two weeks since his courtship had become official, but during Lord Bucklin's daily house calls, Gwendolyn had managed to be evasive enough not to allow a wedding date to be set. However, he came so often and stayed so long that she could not escape to the docks.
She had been praying so hard. Every night for hours and hours she knelt beside her bed, beseeching God to show her what she should do.
She had not yet received an answer.
Two low taps came at the door. Gwen paused, her head coming up.
It had to be Beth, one of the maids.
"Come in,” Gwendolyn called, adjusting the pillow beneath her elbow. The door creaked open and the slight girl edged inside, holding a small, paper-wrapped, square package.
"This parcel came for you, madam." She stepped toward Gwendolyn and held the package out. "Jack went to town today, to the bookstore to see if Lord Montgomery’s maps had come in yet. The shop keeper said that this had been left for you."
"Thank you, Beth. You may go,” Gwendolyn murmured, sitting up and taking the package. Beth curtsied, then left the room and shut the door behind her.
Gwendolyn's hands trembled. Nothing had been written on the brown paper. Quickly, she untied the twine that bound it, pulled off the paper—and found a small blue book in her lap.
"The Islands and Surrounding Waters of the Caribbean and West Indies, and All Manner of Man and Beast That Dwell Therein," she breathed the gold title to herself. She opened the front cover. An envelope slid out. She snatched it up.
Nothing had been written on it either. She quickly broke the wax seal and tugged out the paper within.
I have been given a great opportunity.
Your father, a faithful and generous master to me always, has hired me as one of the crew of the Annabella, which sets sail today. But I enlist not just for a regular crewman's sum. Your father has spoken to the captain, and he is willing to put me in charge of several important duties which will require more pay—and as a result, I shall be paid more in one voyage than I could earn in five years as a shipping clerk.
That means that when I return, I will be able to marry you.
I desperately want you to know that this is the only reason that I
would take hold of this opportunity. Leaving you behind is proving to be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. It is made even more difficult by the fact that your father has kept me so busy that I have been completely unable to find a way to see you, and thus I had to settle for sending you this note, which at the very least is completely inadequate.
I want you to know, Gwen, that I love you.
That is why I go. And indeed, even the prospect of seeing the West Indies does not sound so appealing since I cannot say goodbye as I wished. But the entire journey is truly more valuable to me than any riches or adventure, because it will enable me to gain what of late I had thought was unattainable.
Pray for my safe voyage. I shall be thinking of you always—imagining my lady in the lovely countryside of England, fair and unspoilt as a rose.
I shall be forced to winter in the Caribbean and shall return home in perhaps August of next year.
P.S. This is the most detailed book that I could find about the Caribbean, and also sailing ships; different pirates and pirate ships. There is also an excellent map in the fore pages, on which I have taken the liberty of drawing out our route and the days on which (approximately) we shall be stopping at each island. I thought, in that way, that you might almost feel as if you could see through my eyes.
Gwendolyn couldn’t breathe. She sat frozen on the couch, every muscle taut, the heat draining from her face. Then she slapped a hand over her mouth.
The next moment, her father and Lord Bucklin walked in.
"Dearest, Lord Bucklin has arrived,” her father announced—too loudly. Lord Bucklin, as handsome and neat as ever, strode in, bowed, and held out a handful of colorful flowers, a smile lighting his face.
Gwendolyn didn’t look at either of them. She stared straight out the broad western windows, out at the rolling hills and the gray, tossing sea. Her hand fell into her lap.
He had been gone for two weeks.
Two weeks—and she had known nothing about it.
"Gwendolyn?" The cheeriness had vanished from her father's voice. She didn’t move.
"Father,” she rasped. “Father you...you sent him…"
"What?” Lord Montgomery stepped toward her quickly. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone pale!”
She dragged her eyes up to meet his. He watched her intently, his brow furrowed. She swallowed.
"I've just heard...” she whispered. “I've heard that you...you've sent one of your...one of your shipping clerks to the West Indies."
"Of course. I do that almost every year," her father said. "Is something wrong?"
"Shea,” Gwendolyn murmured. “You...You sent Shea MacCaulay."
"Yes,” her father said gravely, straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes, I did. "
Gwendolyn stared at him, feeling as if she had never seen him in her life.
"Why?" she wondered dimly. He looked down at her sharply, then glanced up in thought, cleared his throat, then returned his gaze to her.
"Very well, it is time I made you aware.” He took a deep breath, and raised his eyebrows. “I sent him away because I now know what he has been doing with his leisure time."
Gwendolyn sat up straighter, and folded Shea's letter close to her.
"What are you talking about?" she asked. Her father paced over to the window. Lord Bucklin still stood in the doorway, dumbly holding the flowers, his brow furrowed.
"The other day, I found Luellen weeping, and I asked her what was troubling her," Lord Montgomery began frankly. "She told me that you were engaged! 'Engaged,' said I. 'Of course, to young Lord Bucklin.' 'Nay,' said she. 'To a shipping clerk of your employ, a one Shea MacCaulay.'" Her father turned around and faced Gwendolyn squarely. "I realized then that you'd been led astray, my dear. Deceived by the romantic promises of a seaman." He smiled gently at her. “And I forgive you for that. You aren’t acquainted with these sailors the way I am. I know full well how they can capture a girl’s imagination with tales of adventure and faraway lands. But believe me—they each keep one such girl in every port!"
Gwendolyn struggled to draw breath, to answer, but her mind spun. Her father took a few steps toward her.
"And there's something else you should know about that young Shea MacCaulay," he said slowly. "The monk that raised him told me all about his past. I kept it quiet for twenty years, graciously providing him with employment, giving the lad a chance to clear his blackened name—but now that I have discovered that this scheming devil had designs upon my daughter, my conscience is clear enough that I may let the entire world know that Shea MacCaulay is the son of a pirate—a pirate that went to the gallows for his crimes."
"But he's coming back...” Gwendolyn remembered weakly.
"No.” Her father shook his head. "At the moment, he may believe that. I offered him a handsome pay. But the captain has orders to find him a situation in one of the ports, perhaps in the slave market. Mr. MacCaulay always spoke so glibly about the Caribbean; I would wager it will suit him much better. And he will find a much more profitable use for his time.” Lord Montgomery clapped his hands. "So, that clears away that particular problem quite neatly. Now we can set the date for your blessed event. What say you?"
Lord Montgomery went still.
Gwendolyn lifted her eyes and met his.
"No what?" her father repeated, bewildered.
Slowly, clutching Shea's book and letter to her chest, Gwendolyn stood up.
"No. I won't marry him. I will not marry Lord Bucklin. "
Lord Montgomery glanced at Lord Bucklin.
"What do you mean you won't marry him?" Lord Montgomery demanded, his voice rising.
Lord Bucklin's brow furrowed.
"My lady, I thought we agreed—"
"I agreed to nothing,” Gwendolyn said flatly.
"Dearest, I have been completely fair," her father insisted. “I even asked you if you approved of this worthy young man. "
"Yes, you did.” Gwendolyn lifted her head, though her bones trembled. "I have no qualms with this gentleman as he is—I have no doubt he is honorable and kind. But you never asked me who I loved."
Her father's eyes suddenly flashed with fury.
“What?!” he roared. “What are you talking about?" He gestured violently. "Flinging yourself at some common shipping clerk! If your mother were alive, she’d wish that she never bore you!"
Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Rackham-Unusual-Romance-Swashbuckling-ebook/dp/B071ZZFSZS/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Lady+Rackham+Alydia+Rackham&qid=1572897680&sr=8-1
