Chapter Text
Nurse had always warned me not to linger near the water. There were strange beasts within the aquamarine depths, no safer than those found in the middle of the island, she said. Sea snakes, biting lizards, and venomous creatures could be found near the shoreline. Not to mention the worst danger of all, godless pirates. In the charity bazaar, there had been talk lately of people going missing, taken for ransom, and not always returned, at least not in one piece. And there had been sightings along the western shore of an unchartered ship, with a pure name and a red flag of no mercy.
I shivered in spite of the hot day, bare feet settled in the warm water. I wasn’t lingering; I was merely… dipping. Walking slowly along the deserted shoreline, my hindering shoes and stockings dangled from my gloved hand. It had felt so stifling in the house this afternoon; endless piles of embroidery and religious texts the only things to take my mind off the heavy heat that was building up. The rainy season was starting, unlike anything I’d experienced on the continent. Some days it would pour down in an unholy torrent of grey outside the wrap-around porch, but the heat would still be there, lingering, like a ghost that could not be exorcised.
It was always a little cooler down by the shore at least, the sea breeze blowing away some of the clinging humidity. Reaching up, I fished out some hairpins to let my thick strands blow in the wind. It felt nice, and I continued reaching up for the stretch, grinning at what Nurse would say at my lack of grace. It was inappropriate for a lady to raise her arms too high, she’d remind me, and bad for my heart. I wondered what my maman would have said about it, feeling the tiny beads of her small rosary that I often kept against my palm, safe within the inside of my glove.
I just wanted a little freedom before I would be stuck inside for almost a month. I would miss the sunshine, I thought to myself, as I felt the light only slightly beginning to lessen. Perhaps I was being foolish, because it seemed as though the fauna of the island had already moved inward, seeking shelter. The palm trees separating me from view of the house were oddly silent of their colourful birdsong, and I didn’t even see the scurrying of the giant rats that infested the undergrowth here out of the corner of my eye.
Giant rats Cook had tried to serve once, stewed in a pot with wild nuts and honey. I grinned to myself at the memory, we had encountered many strange things since arriving here, Papa and I. Well, I had; Papa was usually holed up in his chambers, he was understandably stressed since the War had broken out to end the Peace of Amiens. Some of his merchant ships near Britain had been seized, and I supposed that meant he had lost quite a bit of money.
I didn’t think we wanted for much though, here in Saint-Domingue. Papa had taken charge of an old sugarcane plantation, and he hoped to secure his future going forward into this XIX century. I didn’t want to mull on my rapidly approaching future at the moment; France was so far away. Hatless and parasol-less, I gazed irreverently out to sea, the wind starting to whip my dark hair around and obscuring my vision. Nurse would be cross if she could see me now; she was already lamenting my blossoming freckles and the streaks of lighter brown appearing in my tresses. I couldn’t help it; I often forgot my things as I took any opportunity to slip out the door.
But I supposed I should begin to head back now, see if Cook needed help rubbing the seeds out of some tamarind or such. So many odd fruits they had here. As I went to turn away from the hazy view, I thought I heard something odd out over the water. Pulling my interest, the sound made me turn back to the sea, sunlight glinting off the lapping waves into my eyes. I didn’t see the sack coming down over my head, or the cruel forms of who bore it. Forms who were soon upon me, making to tackle me down onto the sandy beach.
As soon as my sight left me I screamed, but a fist, firm to my stomach, halted my shrieks abruptly. Keeling over, I fell stiff to the ground, and my hands and feet were bound tight with rough cords before I could flail them. Tasting bile, I fought for a full breath, but I couldn’t manage it, couldn’t even raise my head against the sick feeling.
Mutterings of… English? Filled the breeze around me, and I felt my body being lifted like a sack of rice, carried quickly along the shoreline. Huffing for breath, all I could hear was the sound of boots splashing, sucking in the sandy muck, and my blood began to hammer in my head when I recognized the hollow sound of a dinghy being maneuvered. They were taking me from the shore! Again I tried to scream out, blind, but I was soon thrown into the bottom of the boat with a grunt. “Pipe down, lass,” I heard a gruff voice say, and then heavy boots were settled upon me. “Point th’oars, and shove off, lads! On the double!” I could feel the boat moving, and I gasped at the drops of water flung upon me from the swinging oars.
“Mon Dieu…” I whimpered, a swift kick only answering me. There was no further talk throughout the boat ride; my only focus the horrible rocking sensation coming from beneath the hull. I tried not to pay attention to the stench of the sailors rowing above me as I prayed to the Holy Father and the Virgin Mother both.
Eventually, I felt that we were butting against something else, and I could hear busy voices above, calling down excitedly to my captors. I went limp, refusing to cooperate as rough hands wound me up in a crude harness. “Hold on or drown, chit,” a surly voice urged, and I finally obeyed, my smooth gloves almost slipping on the rope as they hoisted me up. As I ascended, I rubbed my head back against the rope, sliding the sack up just enough so as to see, only to have my heart drop cold in my chest. Large painted letters adorned the side of the schooner: Alba Maria. This was the much warned about ship!
Once lying on her deck, different hands grabbed me, not above a grope or two, and I felt my bare ankles freed from being fettered together. Already feeling the rope burn forming there, my instincts made me kick out, striking someone to make them curse. “Bloody tramp!” they shouted, and a boot collided with my spine. I tried to scramble away but someone else hauled me to my feet, and I was marched blindly along until we entered somewhere sheltered from the sun.
I heard a door shut behind us, my indifferent guide and I. The room was quiet, feeling more calm away from the bustling of the deck, but I was no less afraid, my hands trembling in my bonds. “Ti hanno portato una ragazza,” my handler said. There was a slight pause.
“Una ragazza?” This voice was different, cold. A steely low tenor.
“Si, Comandante.” Fingers dug into my shoulders to make me stand up straight, and I heard a chair scraping back from the floor.
“Allora, vediamo.”
The sack was ripped off my head and I blinked, disoriented even in the low light. The man behind me was smoothing down my hair in a way entirely too familiar, and I flinched from his touch, but that only made him laugh. Focusing now in front of me, I could make out a simple captain’s desk, and behind it, framed by a row of gallery windows, stood another man.
He was striking, tall and strong, clad in a black vest with burnished gold clasps closed over a loose white shirt. The ruffles at his collar were smartly secured with a dark cravat, lending a sophistication to his cruel face above. Handsome, and cruel, I had to admit, and I felt my mouth falling open as my eyes travelled up to his. They were blackened with paint, mirroring the darkness inside, yet one eye, adorned with a vertical scar, shone out in an icy unnatural hue. His upper lip was also painted black, perhaps to enhance the sneer that lived there, underneath a thin moustache and framed by sideburns. His dark hair was long, subtle strands silvering near a small gold hoop, tied back under a cocked hat in the simple style of a rough naval man.
This hat he was doffing now, mocking me in a manner to make me bristle. “Mi dispiace, Signorina.” Gesturing with dark gloves, he bid me step forward, before he sat himself back down in his chair to regard me further, smoothing his hair back with one hand. I didn’t move, so the man behind me thrust me forward; no one offered me a seat. “Come ti chiami?” the man who must be the Pirate Captain asked me, before shaking his head in annoyance, “Quel est ton nom, fille?” He must have noticed my eyes widen at his painful French, because he continued. “Tu parles francais, oui?”
I mouthed my oui in return, mesmerized by the intensity in his odd gaze.
“Yes, but you look educated; surely you speak English as well?” he insisted, “I would prefer that, my girl.”
I wasn’t his girl! My fists clenched, bound before me. I understood what he was saying but I refused to cooperate further. Saying nothing, I just stood there before him, and his gaze darkened. “Do you speak English, girl?” he said, pointedly.
I looked down at the floor, still able to catch him tilting his head.
“Quartermaster, kindly slit her throat for me.”
The man who had brought me here stepped up behind quick, grabbing my hair in a fistful and bringing a knife to my throat. “I speak it, Monsieur!” I cried out to the man before me, “I speak l’anglais, s’il vous plait!”
“How delightful,” he said, smiling coldly at my jumbled words, “It seems our Quartermaster can keep his knife clean for the moment. Poor practice for a ship’s surgeon though.” Both men chuckled darkly. The Pirate Captain steepled his fingertips together. “Leave us.” He didn’t take his eyes off me for a second.
“Aye, Captain.” The Quartermaster sheathed his knife and left the cabin without another word, shutting the door firmly behind him. Only able to glance at the door for a moment, my frightened gaze was drawn back quickly to the danger in the room.
The Captain was not smiling now. “What is your name?”
“Mignonette.”
“My darling.” I looked him right in his eyes in alarm at this familiar address. “I did not ask you what you are called, I asked you for your name.”
“That is my name.”
“That is not your name.” I didn’t say anything, and neither did he for a moment. Then, he stood up. “All you French Catholic colony girls are the same. Marie this, Marie that.” He was stalking his way around the desk, coming closer to where I stood, frozen in place. “Made in the very image of the Virgin. Hell,” he chuckled, “some of you are even virgins!”
A blush crept up my neck. I had never been spoken to before in this manner, mon Dieu! He was very close to me now. “Are you untouched, Mignonette?”
“That is… that is none of your business!” I stammered, “And… and, of course I am! I am betrothed to the Duke of Angouleme.”
“Ahh… the Duke of Angouleme…” he said, sardonic, “what a lucky bastard he must be.” I could not believe my current position, forced to converse with such a fellow as he! “I am in search of some luck, myself,” he continued, “a lucky ransom… a rich… ransom… to be paid, for you.” Stepping close in front of me like we were dancing the Waltz at assembly, the Captain put his hands on my shoulders and I gasped. “But for that,” he said, trying to catch my eye, “I will require your name.”
Too shocked to scream, I held my breath as he snaked his glove down the front of my white walking dress, groping around inside my corset until he emerged with my handkerchief. Opening it, he held it in front of my mortified face; his thumb running over the initials embroidered there, MTCA. “Now, I suggest you answer my query in full, before My Temper Comes Apart.” His thumb tapped each small letter as he spoke.
“Marie-Therese Charlotte Artois,” I told him, defeated, “that is my name, Monsieur.”
“Captain.” My handkerchief was pressed into my frightened fingers below, and he stepped back.
I dared to scoff. “Pirate Captain.” I drew the bearer of my initials through my bound hands as best I could, a lady’s silent declaration of hate, though only a gentleman would perceive the signal. He drew his dagger out slowly.
“Captain Sholto Douglas Copia.” He bowed a little before me. “The Red,” he added, flourishing his knife.
“Red for blood shed,” I dared to remark, “Hell only awaits you.”
“Perhaps.” He seemed unoffended, and my curiosity got the best of me.
“That is an odd name. Sholto.”
Irritation washed over his face. “My mother hailed from the Northern Isles. Hence the Douglas; it was her clan.” He sighed. “I do prefer the surname of my father, devil though he was.” He had a charming way of speaking, as he calmly strode around me, but I felt my own irritation at the intrigue I harboured for him. This man was a criminal, probably bred from criminals; what did I care about his parentage? “Artois. Your father deals in trade, does he not?”
“He has, Monsieur.”
“Cap… tain.” He had reached out from behind me and was tapping his knife against my neck at each syllable. I flinched. “You know a bit of seamanship, then?”
“Un peu. Ah, a little. Captain.” He was making his way around me to face me yet again.
“Lovely. Give me your arm.” Without thinking, I held up both arms in front of me. Before I could react, he had pulled my glove down and nicked the flesh along the edge of my wrist. Tearing my handkerchief from my fist, he soaked up the blood blossoming there. “There now,” he shushed my gasp of pain, “I take only a little blood from you, girl; proof of my future accommodations, and a remedy for my mention of luck earlier…” When the cloth was thoroughly stained he tossed it upon his desk and smoothed my glove back down, giving it a squeeze. In shock, I just looked at the smear of blood on the edge. “What is this, then?” He had felt the fine chain of the rosary under my glove. I tried to snatch my hands back but he pulled it out and inspected it carefully. “Looks valuable.”
“S’il vous plait, Monsieur,” I pleaded, “Please… Captain… Do not take this from me. It was my… my mother’s.”
My begging only seemed to amuse him, as he stepped slowly around me again, inspecting the beads. “I could take many things from you, my darling. Worse things than this. Your mother would cry.”
I closed my eyes, trembling. “Please, Captain Shol… Copia. I beg of you. She died when I was young. Please.”
There was only silence from him, and then he surprised me by bringing my rosary down around my neck from behind, and tucking it under the lace trim of my dress. “For both our sakes, I do hope you find yourself back with your father soon, at least.” I jumped at the sound of him pounding on the door with his fist. It opened, and the Quartermaster was standing there, waiting. “Put her in the brig.”