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The Marquis's Pursuit

By Lorri Dudley

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Chapter One

“It’s as good a place as any to die.”
“Enough of such talk.” Careful to balance his movements and not rock the rowboat, Maxwell Oliver Weld rounded to face his closest mate from university, Charles Hayward. “We’re here to prove the physicians wrong.”
Charlie rubbed his chest as if to ease the soreness of his consumption-plagued lungs.
The gesture only solidified Max’s determination. “You’re going to show them God is a God of miracles despite their diagnosis.” God knew Max had tried everything in his power to heal his friend. Yet for all the authority that being the eldest son of the Duke of Linton and holding the title Marquis of Daventry afforded him, Charlie’s condition continued to grow worse. With God’s help, Nevis, and its famous healing springs, would save his friend from this terrible wasting disease.
The beloved island of Max’s youth welcomed them with its lush greenery, the colorful storefronts, and a promise of restored health. “Besides, sea air has already improved your constitution.” Max gripped the dinghy’s side as seasoned sailors propelled them from under the ship’s shadow. “Your face is tanned instead of sallow, and the daily strolls above deck have restored your energy. Nevis will improve your health even more. Look around you.”
Max gestured to the cloud-topped, sleepy island ascending out of the clear aquamarine waters. Its long stretch of white sand beaches outlined the isle like a sugared ring.
He inhaled the molasses scent floating on ocean breezes. “Smell the glorious sea air and feel the warm sun’s rays. It’s not only good for your health, it good for your soul.” He lifted his palms. The sun held such strength that its beams could have been weighed in ounces. “I told you coming to Nevis would be a splendid idea.”
A wave rocked the dinghy, throwing them off balance. Max grabbed the boat’s lip while Charlie gripped the bench seat. Crewmen from the main ship grunted as they pulled back on the oars. V’s of sweat darkened the backs of their shirts.
“You’d never get this close to paradise in England. It’s almost heaven.”
“Good.” Charlie quirked a smile. “Then, I won’t have far to travel.”
“Enough.” The word erupted like a harsh command from Max’s tense jaw and drew curious gazes from the oarsmen rowing them to shore.
He softened his tone. “I won’t hear any more talk of death or dying. You’re in your prime. If anyone can overcome consumption, it’s a stubborn bloke like you.”
Charlie shrugged, but his smile only lasted until a cough erupted. He covered his mouth with his handkerchief.
Max waited, swallowing his helplessness as wracking coughs shook his friend, leaving his once virile and animated companion weak and gasping for breath. Max turned away for a moment to allow Charlie some dignity, but not before he caught the crimson slash staining the white linen.
Lord, You breathed life into the world. Heal Charlie. Give his lungs breath. Please, don’t let me have convinced him to sail all this way for nothing. I don’t mean to test You, but I’m believing You will heal him.
Charlie hid the handkerchief in his back pocket. “I don’t want you to be disillusioned.” His expression softened, as did his tone. “We’re all going to die someday. My someday will merely be sooner.”
Max silenced him with a hand. “It’s God’s will for you to be healed. He confirmed it by providing a ship, and even better, my father’s blessing on such short notice.”
As they neared land, crashing waves drowned out Charlie’s response. The island sun melted away the shadow of death that clung to his friend, taunting Max with thoughts that it was only a matter of time. He rolled his shoulders to lessen the tension and let the sound of the waves ease the tightness from his jaw. He focused on the commotion at the dock as islanders loaded and unloaded cargo.
A weightless feeling of floating, suspended in time, tickled his insides. The nostalgic lilt of the islanders’ voices, the briny, tropical ocean air cooling his heated skin. Palm trees bowing their heads as if worshiping the land invited his eight-year-old self to surface. They’d made it. Nevis was within reach, and soon Charlie’s health would be restored by the healing springs. A giddiness welled, and a smile he couldn’t contain spread across his lips. Perhaps a bit of the peace he remembered from his childhood on the island would rekindle too.
“I’m going to teach you what real fishing is like. No more stocked ponds.” Max pointed to an outcropping of rocks. “We’re going to fish from the shore, and I’ll show you how to reel in a whopper.”
Oarsmen alighted and dragged the boat onto the sand. The burly one with a gold front tooth offered his hand to aid them. “Welcome to Nevis, my lord.”
Max waved his hand away. “Please, no formalities. Daven is fine.”
Charlie, tiring of the cumbersome title of Lord Daventry, had been the one to christen him with the nickname, and Max had grown to prefer it. He added, “Everyone who’s known me long calls me Daven.” He tipped the man a couple of farthings to carry their trunks to the road. “And I’d say spending three fortnights together on a ship qualifies as long.”
The man pocketed the coin with a wide grin. “Thank ya kindly, Daven.”
Max’s father had once sought anonymity on Nevis, and now freedom from all the expectations of a marquis beckoned Max like a safe harbor.
He nudged Charlie’s arm. “Do you want to wait here until I hire a hack?”
“I daresay the hack isn’t going to ride out onto the beach. Besides, I’m not an invalid.” Charlie trudged through the sand, leaving Max in his wake. “Not yet, at least.”
Max caught up with him. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” Charlie feigned a few punches. “I’m merely setting your bristles.”
He pretended to punch back. “I ought to draw your cork for attempting to sham me.” Max clasped Charlie’s shoulder. Already he could see parts of his friend’s jolly-self reviving. Wait until he showed Charlie his old stomping grounds. They’d spend hours reminiscing about university with poles in their hands and lines in the water. He’d never had to keep up any pretenses around Charlie, freely speaking his mind, knowing Charlie wouldn’t judge him nor attempt to impress him. A friend like that was as rare as clean air in London. Nevis would breathe new life into weary lungs.
Sand turned to dirt as they roamed up a side street to the main road. Several people approached them to barter wares, everything from hammocks to dyed cloth to island fruit. He was tempted to buy a grapefruit to watch Charlie’s expression as he tasted its bitterness, but he’d wait until they were settled into an inn. If there had been more time, he would have sent a letter to his step-aunt, Lady Clark, but they’d left England on the first ship headed to the West Indies once Charlie started coughing up blood. Charlie needed to soak in the healing springs, and time couldn’t be wasted awaiting transatlantic correspondences, especially not for frivolities like catching up with old friends or asking who still runs the Artesian Hotel. Not when Charlie could be getting well. Max would just have to pray that either his father’s enemy no longer resided on Nevis or that there’d be another option besides the Artesian. An image of the smug man talking down to Max’s papa, protesting that slaves shouldn’t be educated, flashed through Max’s memory. His fingers clenched. Rousseau. Nevis’s only negative aspect.
“What’s put you in a dungeon?”
Max shook off the memory. He must’ve been scowling. “Old ghosts. It’s nothing.”
Charlie eyed him with his knowing gaze.
“It’s not Savitri. I promise.” However, the mere mention of her name twisted Max’s heart.
“An old ghost, not Savitri?” Charlie passed him a cursory glance. “I’d like to hear that story.”
“Nothing to concern yourself over. There’s a chance this old ghost may not even be around any longer.”
Charlie’s labored breaths warned Max to slow their pace.
“You reel in a nice sized mackerel, and I will have plenty of time to discuss ghosts and other tales.”
“You’re bent on this fishing thing, aren’t you?”
Max waggled his eyebrows. “Quite.”
“I’ve been disillusioned this whole time.” Charlie refused to slow his steps and pushed ahead of Max. “I thought, by catch, you meant a beautiful lady-love, and we were merely trying to gull your parents into letting you out of their sights once more.”
“My libertine days are over.” The lustful recklessness of his life at university died the moment he and Charlie had left as missionaries to India.
Max scanned the streets for a carriage or an inn. They needed sleeping arrangements for three, a room for each of them and one for Doctor Stapleton, who was to arrive from America in the next few days. Max’s father owed a plantation in Cotton Grove where Max and he used to reside, but a neglectful overseer and a strong storm had left it uninhabitable.
Curious islanders, milling about the quay, eyed them. Men rolled barrels on wooden planks over the sand or heaved crates onto donkey carts. The men’s dark skins contrasted with the brightly colored shops lining the street behind them. Sticks propped open shuttered windows, and wide smiling shopkeepers greeted passersby from the storefront stoops. Women carrying bundles of long green reeds of sugar cane on their heads sashayed to the mill for the stalks to be juiced.
Max’s skin tingled with the strange sensation of having stepped back into his past. Would the same peaceful, carefree life he remembered still exist on the island? Would islanders be as easygoing and friendly as they used to be? Would anyone recognize him from when his father taught school? Would Max recognize anyone? It had been over ten years, and most English planters had returned to the motherland, relegating their plantations to the control of bankers or overseers.
Most onlookers were male. The fewer of the female variety, the better.
“Ah, but there’s a romantic element to an island.” Charlie nodded across the road to a sign above a store that read Love’s Modiste and Tailoring.
“The best part of Nevis”—he snorted— “is its lack of the gentle sex.”
“Pity.” Charlie shrugged. “I’ve never known you to run from problems. Why now?”
“Because I have other things with which to concern myself.” Like seeing you healed. Max’s throat tightened, so he changed topics. “See that market.” They reached the road and walked toward the vendors lining an open square. “A free-slave by the name of Eli sold the sweetest, juiciest mangos you’ve ever tasted right on that corner.”
Despite the weariness of the voyage, new energy surged through Max. “And on the opposite end, a woman sold cloth dyed with such vibrant color that there’re not the likes of it in all the world.”
What about India? A cloud passed over the sun and into Max’s heart. The fiery yellow-orange silk handkerchief in his pocket rivaled the market’s fabrics and branded memories into his soul, memories he didn’t want to remember but never wanted to forget. Shaking it off, he continued. “The islanders grow their own indigo, so the purple and blue hues are extraordinary.”
A deep belly laugh turned Max’s head to two islanders sitting on overturned crates. Their white teeth gleamed as one held his middle while the other clasped his friend to keep from falling over.
At a snail’s pace, a woman with bare feet guided a pair of goats down the road past a couple of shirtless boys playing marbles.
Max sighed. This was what he missed—the simple life where people didn’t hide their laughter behind a socially acceptable smile. Nevisians didn’t hustle down streets. They took their time, stopped and spoke to neighbors, and cared for one another. Life was too short not to enjoy the scenery.
Max turned to Charlie. “Do you need a break?”
He shook his head.
Stepping into the main square, Max had the oarsmen relinquish their trunks. He eyed Charlie’s chest, rising and falling too quickly, but his shortness of breath had become a common occurrence. “Wait here. I’ll find us a carriage.”
Charlie nodded and sat on the wooden trunk.
Max approached the two laughing men. They both sobered and peered at him with wariness in their brown eyes.
Max pushed back his jacket and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “Either of you know where I could hire a hackney to drive my friend and me to—”
A thump sounded, followed by a woman’s scream, and a frenzy of voices erupted behind Max. He spun. Through the road dust, he spotted his friend sprawled unconscious, face down on the ground.
“Charlie!” Max dashed to his side and dropped to his knees. He rolled Charlie onto his back and cupped his cheeks between his hands. “Charlie?” Bile rose in Max’s throat when Charlie didn’t respond. He leaned an ear toward Charlie’s mouth to hear his breathing, but the commotion of people deemed it impossible.
“Charlie, wake up.” Max shook Charlie’s shoulders, and his eyes rolled back.
Max gripped the lapel of Charlie’s jacket, bunching the twilled material.
“You will not die on me. I command it!”
***
“Mama?”
Evelyn Mairi Sheraton slipped a dress over her daughter’s head in the stuffy third floor hotel bedroom where the staff slept and helped guide her arms into sleeves. “Yes, Gracie?”
She gripped the wooden brush and combed her daughter’s wavy tresses.
“Do you think one day I’ll be a famous artist?” Grace dipped her head forward and dressed her homemade doll in a green frock made from the leftover cloth Evelyn had used to sew Grace’s pinafore.
Grace’s light hair, so unlike Evelyn’s own dark curls, glided through the brush’s bristles. Grace had her father’s coloring but her mother’s temperament. “It will be quite a feat, but if you set your mind to it, then yes.” She split Grace’s hair into two sections and began to braid one side. “You are a talented little girl, and I hope to someday find you a painting instructor. Then you can sell your works and be the most popular artist in the islands.”
Grace tilted her head to one side. “What does popular mean?”
“It’s being liked. A popular person or artist has many admirers.” To keep the braids straight, she straightened Grace’s head, then continued weaving her fingers over and under. She tied one braid and started on the other.
“Do you wish you were popular?”
“No, love.” Not anymore. Evelyn finished the second braid and held up a small mirror for Grace to see. The reflection of her daughter’s cherub face along with the reminder that neither Grace nor she would be welcome back home in English society misted Evelyn’s eyes. She pressed her lips to Grace’s cheek. “I only want you to be safe.”
Grace wrapped her arms around her mama’s neck and squeezed tight. “I want you to be safe too.”
Evelyn chuckled and lifted her into the air. “How about we keep each other safe?” She wiggled her finger, tickling Grace’s neck until she squealed.
Grace hugged her tight and murmured into Evelyn’s shoulder “Do ya think my paintings will be hung in that Gallery in London?”
Why had she mentioned London’s National Art Gallery, knowing her daughter would never set foot in England? Evelyn leaned forward until Grace tilted back with a beaming smile that showed her tiny pearl teeth. “You keep painting, and I believe they will be found in all sorts of art galleries.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek and set her on the scuffed wooden floor.
Grace sighed. “Do I have to go with Mrs. Downs? Can’t I stay with you?”
An all too familiar lump returned to Evelyn’s throat. What she wouldn’t give for her daughter to intermingle with the other island children instead of being hidden away in the stuffy, third-floor recesses of an island hotel. If only she could stroll hand-in-hand with her daughter on the beach, shop with her at the market, or walk her to school.
The only normalcy Grace experienced was when Booker, a freed slave and friend, who knew of Evelyn’s past and kept her secret, snuck Grace over to the small plantation he farmed in Cotton Grove to play with his children. Would Grace ever know what it was like to be a normal child? She hugged her daughter and fought the bombardment of thoughts, accusing her of failing as a mother and as a person.
What kind of life could you provide for a child? It would be better off not being born..
Evelyn shoved unwanted memories into the back of her mind, sat on the bed, and lifted Grace onto her lap. “You know I would love nothing more than to spend the day with my most favorite person in the world, but I must tend to the guests. How is Mr. Prior going to take his daily hot spring bath?”
Grace wrinkled her button nose. “But Mrs. Downs smells like moth balls.”
The woman did smell horrid, but Evelyn pinched her lips in disapproval. “We must speak well of others. Besides, Mrs. Downs is trying a new powder to create an alabaster complexion.”
“Does alabaster mean splotchy?” Her head tilted, swinging her braids. “If so, the poultice is working.”
Evelyn’s lips parted. Was Grace developing a cheeky personality? Such sardonic comments had landed Evelyn some good beatings. A soft reprimand was called for. “Young ladies don’t…”
A gray thread stuck to Grace’s sleeve distracted Evelyn. She pulled the sticky web off with her thumb and index finger and shook it away. “Where have you been playing? Your dress has cobwebs on it.”
“Miz Sheraton, come quick!” Mrs. Downs yelled from the stairs. “A man needs yer aid.”
Evelyn slid Grace off her lap and rose. She grabbed her father’s medical bag before turning and kneeling in front of her daughter. “Stay here with Mrs. Downs.” She tugged lightly on Grace’s braid. “Try to be quiet and not draw attention. If she takes you out of the room and someone asks about you, what do you say?”
“I’m Mr. Rousseau’s ward.”
“Good girl.” She drew her in for one more kiss and stood. “Remember, the fewer people who see you, the safer we are.” 

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