Chris had at first balked, thinking his father had sent the man only because he didn’t want his one-armed son to embarrass him. His father had pleaded with him after the accident at Trafalgar to retire from the Navy and return to his home in West Anglia.
Drake had listened to Chris’s rants and complaints about his father and then had ignored him and set to work organizing his haphazard, tiny quarters aboard the ship. He’d been with him ever since and had surprised him by showing up above decks many times when his crews had been short-handed boarding enemy ships. He’d turned out to be a dab hand with deadly little Italian daggers of which he seemed to have a copious supply.
He was also a wondrous cook when the occasion arose, so Chris listened closely to his suggestions for the engagement supper he was planning aboard ship to introduce Rachel to his fellow officers and friends. When she eventually came aboard the ship to accompany them back to England, by way of the West Indies, he would tolerate no raising of eyebrows. He wanted his men to know she was his intended wife.
“What sort of viands does Miss Berry prefer?”
Chris leaned back on one of his dining table chairs and stared into space for a moment. “She talks to chickens, treats them like friends, so we probably don’t want to serve that.”
Drake’s mouth dropped open. “She sounds like an unusual young woman.”
Chris stared some more and then sat back down with his feet on the floor so that he could face Drake squarely. “You have no idea how unusual Miss Rachel Berry is.”
“Please tell me more. After all, we’re going to be sharing cabin space on the trip back to England next year, I’ll be preparing your meals in the galley, organizing your chests. I need to know more about her likes, dislikes…you know.”
“No, Idon’tknow, Drake. I’ll be learning at the same time you do.” Chris was silent for a long moment. “And, Drake, if I miss something, you’ll let me know won’t you?”
His valet gave a deep sigh. “You’re not in love, are you? Because that’s the worst thing that can happen to a man.”
“Why?”
“If you are unfortunate enough to fall in love with your wife, you’ll never have another day’s peace as long as you live.”
Mrs Chelly pulleda fraying bag from beneath the bed in her tiny wood and bamboo house down the street from the mission church and vicarage. She stuffed white trousers and a shirt inside the bag, a set taken from the pile of finished clothing after the last meeting of the women’s sewing circle.
She looked around her spare living quarters and calculated what she’d buy and where she’d go once she’d received her share of what her lover said they’d get for Tenneh from the slave caravan out in the bush which would be heading north soon.
She’d been toying with the idea of drugging Rachel as well and sending her along with Tenneh, but the risks were too high. She was too well known in the community, and now she was engaged to a Royal Navy officer. That would be a risk too far to take. But still, she’d bring a fine price at the slave market, and besides, Mrs Chelly was tired of the vicar’s daughter and her uppity ways.
Ever since her mother’s death the year before, Rachel had acted like she was in charge of the mission school. She was forever nosing into Mrs Chelly’s kitchen and someday might discover how she was selling portions of food she smuggled out each night. Never mind. The money from Tenneh alone would give her enough to turn her back on the hot mission kitchen forever.
She shoved the bag back beneath her bed pallet just in time.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Rachel tapped at her open door. “I’m on my way to the apothecary, before I stop by the orchard. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Yes, if he has any willow bark tea, I’d be glad to have a packet of two.”
“Of course.” Rachel stooped low and rubbed one of Mrs Chelly’s yard hens along the feathers on her back. “Anything else?”
“No, but thank you for stopping by to check.” When Rachel turned to walk away, she added, “Be careful out there on your own. Freetown streets can be dangerous.”
She gave her a strange look at the warning. “I’m always careful. Tenneh is practicing her needlework, and Mingo and Eli have a Bible class this afternoon.” She picked up a stray hen and whispered to her along the stone path toward the gate. She put down the hen and headed out the gate toward the harbor.
Rachel escapedinto the cool interior of the apothecary. A steady sound of a glass pestle grinding against the stone mortar came from the counter where Dr. Peregrine leaned over a bright gold powder he was preparing and carefully apportioning out into small glass tubes with corks.
“Turmeric,” he said, at the questioning look on her face. “Joint pain, sailors’ rheumatism, and they say it makes your face glow.” He tossed her one of the corked bottles. “Try it. I get it from a trader who stops in Lagos. It’s a root the tribes along the Niger cultivate and trade up and down the coast.”
She turned the tiny bottle round and round, admiring the glowing gold powder inside, before popping it into her reticule. “What a beautiful color.”
“If you fancy turning your hands bright yellow, you can try dyeing some fabric with it. A lot of the tribes use it for robes for their medicine men and women.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose. “I think I’ll stay with the dresses I’ve got.”
“If the local gossip drums are to be believed, you’ll be needing some new dresses soon for your wedding trip.”
She smacked her hand onto the counter in frustration. “With all the work to be done in this poor little town, why does everyone waste their days and nights spreading gossip?”
“Everyone cares about you and wants the best for you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They think you’ll be a great lady going back to England married to a Royal Navy captain.”
