Dangerous Waters

by Jane Jackson

Genres: Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1812:  With her guardian planning to remarry, 20-year-old Phoebe Dymond finds she is no longer welcome in his Falmouth home and is soon hustled aboard the packet ship Providence bound for Jamaica and an arranged marriage. A skilled herbalist and midwife, Phoebe clashes with ship's surgeon, Jowan Crossley. But their professional antagonism evolves into mutual respect and a deepening attraction neither dare acknowledge. Following a skirmish with a French privateer, Providence is robbed of crew by a Royal Navy frigate and arrives to find the island facing a slave revolt and Kingston flooded with French refugees. Escorted by Jowan to the plantation of which she will be mistress, terrifying events force Phoebe to relinquish all hope of the happiness she has glimpsed. But her journey is not yet over?

Release date: November 22, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 280

Sample

Chapter One

The bitter pungency of herbs and brandy stung the back of Phoebe’s nose as she carefully poured the dark liquid from basin to jug. She tipped the thick mush into a second bowl lined with muslin then, gathering up the cloth, squeezed the remaining liquid from what was left of the elder flowers, peppermint and yarrow that had been steeping for two weeks above the warmth of the kitchen range.

Shaking the mush from the cloth into a third bowl, already half full, she set it aside. Later she would spread it on her herb garden to nourish the soil and strengthen the new shoots. First the tincture must be poured into the waiting row of small brown bottles.

The winter had been cold and wet with easterly gales from the Channel. Howling along the streets that ran parallel to Falmouth’s inner harbour, the wind had sliced like a blade through coats and shawls, spreading epidemics of colds and influenza. Spring should have brought relief. Instead the warm moisture-laden air had acted like a smothering blanket. Phoebe had never known so many cases of bronchitis, and the herb cupboard had never been so bare. She was dispensing remedies faster than she could replace them.

Tipping the last drops from the jug, she corked the bottles tightly. The labels waited, secured beneath a small stone mortar. She had written them the previous evening. Uncle George had been out at a supper party. So while Mrs Lynas and Mary gossiped comfortably in the kitchen, she had sat alone by the fire in the drawing room with her notebooks and her memories.

She had known for a while that change was coming. It was inevitable. And fear of the future feathered like cold breath across the back of her neck.

She picked up the mortar, its stone bowl cool and smooth beneath her fingers. It had been one of Aunt Sarah’s favourites. She pictured her aunt’s beloved face furrowed in concentration then softening into a smile at the first cry of a healthy newborn baby.

Though Phoebe experienced that same satisfaction at a safe delivery, hers was still tinged with amazement, awe and relief. This was not surprising given the contrast between her aunt’s long experience and the brevity of her own. Yet despite the fact that she only twenty years of age and as yet unmarried, women once delivered by her aunt now asked for “Sarah’s girl” to attend them. To Phoebe this was a source of great pride. And a constant reminder of the debt she owed her aunt.

Inhaling the scents of melted beeswax and lavender, of thyme, wintergreen and marigold, she felt a sharp stab of loss. Then, hearing her uncle in the passage she realised from his purposeful tread towards the kitchen that the post-boy had brought a letter. Would it be the news he hoped for? The prospect of another prolonged stay in London filled her with dread. She just had time to compose herself before the door swung open. Seeing his downcast expression Phoebe’s tension eased.

“Ah, there you are. Well, my cousin has replied.” Her uncle waved the sheet of paper in his fingers. As she glimpsed the crossed and re-crossed lines Phoebe swallowed. “I daresay you will not be surprised to learn,” he continued, glancing at her from under thick wiry brows, “that Amelia has declined to present you for a second season.”

A tremor ran down Phoebe’s legs, making her knees feel oddly weak. But well schooled in hiding her feelings she ensured her relief did not show on her face. “How is Mrs Winnan?” she enquired politely.

“Well enough. However, she’s made it plain –” he broke off at the sound of footsteps on the back stairs. The latch rattled up and the housemaid whirled in.

“Oh, beg pardon, Captain, I didn’t know you was – “

“It’s all right, Mary.” Quickly Phoebe untied the apron covering her high-waisted gown of lavender muslin and hung it on the back of the scullery door. “Leave everything on the table. When Mrs Lynas gets back tell her I’ll make sure it’s all cleared away before she needs to start lunch.” She tugged down close-fitting sleeves she had pushed up her forearms to avoid splashes on her cuffs. “Shall we go through to the morning room, uncle?”

A fire burned in the grate; dancing flames throwing warmth and cheer into the high-ceilinged room. Phoebe welcomed both. For though the tall window faced east it was still only April and the mid-morning sunlight held little heat.

As her uncle closed the door with a firmness that betrayed his frustration Phoebe crossed to a Queen Anne chair upholstered in worn green damask and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Since her aunt’s death she had hoped something might happen that would allow her to remain here in the only home she could remember. In fact something had: though she didn’t think her uncle was aware of the offer made in his name. In any case as far as she was concerned the price was too high. So what now?

“I was a sad disappointment to her,” Phoebe pulled a rueful face.

George Oakes slumped into a chair opposite, heaving another sigh as he rubbed his face with his free hand. “I think we’re all agreed on that.”

Phoebe braced herself. “What exactly does she say?” Her uncle had not been himself for over a week, lurching between frowning preoccupation and false heartiness. She suspected his abstraction was in some way connected to her future, and if he didn’t tell her soon she would have to ask. Though she dreaded change, not knowing was even worse. But this must be dealt with first.

He sighed, pursing his lips as he scanned the letter. “She found your lack of enthusiasm deeply hurtful. She also considers that for a young female with so little to recommend her you demonstrated an astonishing lack of gratitude for the opportunities she had gone to such trouble to arrange.”

Phoebe bent her head and tucked a feathery tendril behind her ear. Her hair had been yet another cause of friction. All the rage in London when she had been there the previous year, the new style had only just reached Cornwall. In Falmouth and Flushing fashion-conscious young women sported hair cropped into a helmet of curls over the top and sides with the back left long to be dressed in loops or ringlets.

Phoebe’s quiet but unyielding refusal to have her thick tresses cut into a style that required hours of attention from a personal maid had further infuriated cousin Amelia who considered it a personal attack on her own fashion-sense.

Rather than submit to the scissors Phoebe twisted her hair into a coil high on her crown during the day, and for evening arranged it in a fall of glossy black curls. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I should have been more appreciative. I know it was very kind of her and that everything she did was with the best of intentions but – It was – I felt –” bullied. Phoebe shrugged helplessly. “I felt exactly like a cow being paraded at the market.”

Shock and the briefest spasm of a smile were instantly smothered by irritation. “For heaven’s sake, girl! Good God, no wonder Amelia found you impossible.” His vehemence surprised Phoebe. “You knowthat’s the way these things are done. How else would well-brought-up young women meet a future husband if not at properly supervised social events? That’s the whole point of all those parties, suppers and dances. And it worked. You attracted the attentions of not just one, but twogentlemen. That was what upset Amelia so much. You received twoproposals. And you declined them both.” He shook his head and waved the letter. “She still hasn’t got over it.”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe repeated. She had wanted to please Uncle George and cousin Amelia by doing what was expected of her. Yet she had been haunted by Aunt Sarah’s face.

Both gentlemen had been excellent dancers, and had kept her amused with conversation and flattery during their frequent encounters at the various balls, parties and suppers. Each in turn after talking at length about his property and his many acquaintances and preferred pastimes, had quizzed her about her own interests.

She had seen no reason to dissemble. If she were truly honest with herself she had perhaps been guilty of unbecoming pride at her involvement in work so important and so satisfying. She had assumed – hoped – they would understand. But on each occasion she had watched her escort’s surprise harden into disapproval. When both gentlemen had declared her occupation “totally unsuitable” and made it clear that if she wished to further the relationship she could not possibly expect to continue such activities, she had known marrying either of them was out of the question.

“Please,” she had begged her uncle who, between voyages, had visited in the hope of being asked for her hand. “Please don’t ask me to accept. It would be a betrayal of everything Aunt Sarah taught me. She called my talent a blessed gift from God. Giving it up would be like – like losing a limb. How could I be happy? I have the knowledge and ability to alleviate suffering yet they would forbid me to use it. How could any man who would demand such a sacrifice be the right husband for me? To marry such a man would be –” She searched wildly for a suitable analogy. “It would be like punishing me for a crime I haven’t committed.”

Taken aback by her distress her uncle had tried to calm her. “Now, now,” he flapped his hands, shifting uncomfortably. “There’s no need for that. Don’t take on so. I only thought – And I am bound to point out that if bothgentlemen who offered for you made the same stipulation, then you must see that it will not be easy to find another who thinks differently.“

“Not in London perhaps,” Phoebe agreed, her heart still thudding against her ribs. “Clearly gentlemen from outside Cornwall are more conservative in their outlook. It’s very plain they would be happier with a bride willing to devote herself exclusively to running a home and rearing children. Believe me, Uncle, I do not intend any criticism. But such a life is not for me. I was raised differently. You and Aunt Sarah were far more liberal. Did you not encourage her in her work?”

Wry and fond, George Oakes’s snort of laughter echoed his expression. “Encourage? She never needed that. No, I married Sarah knowing she must and would do what she was born to. And with me away at sea so much of the time it was good for her to have an interest, especially once the boys were out of leading strings and growing away. But –”

“Please, Uncle George, believe me, I could not be happy with anything less.” As the conversation replayed itself in her head, Phoebe watched her uncle re-read the letter.

“Oh well.” Blowing out a breath he pushed a large scarred hand through his cropped hair, now streaked with silver though he was only fifty-four. “There’s no point in raking over dead coals. But the fact is …” he cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers as she waited. “The fact is, and I’m sure you must have realised this yourself, things can’t just drift on the way they have. It’s almost two years now since we lost –” He looked away for a moment. “I daresay it was harder for you than it was for the boys. They were already away at sea. And from the day you came to us you spent more time with your aunt than we ever did. That’s not to say I don’t miss her. I do. I think of her every day. But – “

“But it’s nearly two years,” Phoebe repeated quietly, letting him know she understood what he meant even if he could not bring himself to put it into words. Just before Christmas she had begun to hear his name linked with increasing frequency to those of two very different but equally determined widows.

These murmurs had coincided with her uncle’s acceptance of an increasing number of invitations to the parties, suppers and balls that were so much a feature of a packet captain’s life ashore. As a senior captain on the Lisbon run his round trips lasted less than a month. His relatively short absences were the only reason she had been able to remain in the house with only the cook and maid for company without the situation giving rise to gossip.

As he nodded she read in his gaze shame, defiance, and a plea for understanding. Then he raised the letter, shaking it. “If only you could have – Two proposals, two.” He shook his head. “No wonder Amelia – Still, what’s done can’t be undone. But we have to think about your future.”

“And yours,” she said gently.

“What?” Clearly startled, he frowned. “How did – ? Who – ? What are you talking about?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “When I was down in the town yesterday I met Mrs Tonkin. She left me in no doubt that there is a strong attachment between you. She also gave me to understand that when you both feel the time is right to marry she would be happy for me to continue living here. And she is sure I would be pleased to repay that generosity by assuming the role of nanny and governess to her three children. Unpaid, naturally.”

“She what?” George Oakes spluttered, flushing. “But I never – I mean I haven’t – She actually said – ? Well! Good God!”

“I have to tell you, uncle, much though I appreciate the offer, I would not be able to accept. The thought of spending all day looking after her appalling children – “

“Phoebe!” A flush darkened his weather-beaten face. “Still, I take your point. They are a bit of a handful. Though that’s hardly surprising when you remember how long they’ve been without a father’s discipline and guidance. Martha’s done her best since Henry died –” As Phoebe’s brows climbed, he raked his hair again. “All right, she’s not as firm with them as she might be. But you would soon –”

“No, uncle,” Phoebe was quietly firm.

He met her gaze. “No. You’re right. You deserve better than that: and better than those two in London. You do have a gift, girl. I don’t know about such things. But Sarah did, God rest her. I miss her something awful, Phoebe. Lord knows I’d do anything to have her back.” His gesture held both anger and helplessness. “I don’t expect you to understand. How could you? But the thing is – You see, I –” His chin jutted defiantly but his gaze pleaded for understanding. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.”

His understanding and his confession brought a lump to Phoebe’s throat. Fifteen years ago she had come to this house, to this family, an orphan. Aunt Sarah had gradually taken the place of a mother she could no longer picture. Uncle George had welcomed her, provided for her. That she had been of less importance to him than his two sons, who treated her with the same careless affection they might have bestowed upon a stray kitten, was perfectly understandable. He had always been kind, and this was the only home she could remember. But it was beginning to look as if she had outstayed her welcome. She forced a smile.

“If you have found happiness again, Uncle George, then I’m glad for you. Naturally you will want – When – I mean, how soon would you like me to leave?”

“Dear life, Phoebe! I’m not about to throw you onto the street. For Heaven’s sake! Do you really think me so shabby?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – I certainly didn’t intend to – “

“Yes, well, enough said. We’ll talk later.” He cleared his throat. “Now, about dinner tonight. I’ve invited two guests. Mrs Bishop – “

“Not Mrs Tonkin?” Phoebe asked in surprise.

He shook his head, and his face twisted briefly, half-embarrassed half ashamed. “Martha is a good woman, and I’m fond of her. But there was never any question – I don’t know where she got the idea – Truth is, you’re right about those children.“ He shuddered. “I couldn’t be doing with all that again, not at my time of life. No, it’s Carina – Mrs Bishop – who’s coming tonight.” He seemed to find his neckcloth suddenly tight and loosened it with a forefinger. “As you know, she never had children. She told me she used to consider it a great sorrow. But since she – since we – got to know each other,“ he cleared his throat again. “Her thoughts on the matter have changed.”

Astonished, then touched as once again colour darkened his complexion, Phoebe was intrigued.

“Carina says,” he went on, losing the struggle to contain both astonishment and pride, “that without other demands or distractions in her life, she’s free to devote herself entirely to my comfort. Now then, what do you think of that?”

Her uncle’s delight told Phoebe that this was an extremely shrewd woman. Carina Bishop would be aware that William and Joshua, Uncle George’s two sons, both in their early twenties and established in the Packet service, were courting. Both would soon marry and set up their own homes thus removing them permanently from the house.

She would also be aware that Sarah had often stayed through the night with a woman in labour, or at the bedside of a sick child until the crisis passed. Returning home at daybreak Sarah would, if George were home from sea, join him for breakfast where they would talk over the night’s events. Sometimes after he had left for whatever his day held, she retired to bed to catch up on missed sleep. But often there were other clients to see, or remedies to be made. Sarah had shared her time and her energy between her family and those who sought her help.

So with that one statement Carina Bishop had transformed her barrenness – something once perceived as a failure – into an advantage. Also, without a word of criticism against her predecessor she had made it clear that, for her, total fulfilment lay in devoting herself solely to the care of a husband.

After two years’ grieving Uncle George had stopped looking back and was beginning to look forward. Who could blame him for being tempted by such an offer? Phoebe couldn’t. She moistened dry lips.

“You mentioned two guests, uncle. Who is the other?”

“Oh yes.” He cleared his throat again. “His name’s Quintrell, Mr William Quintrell.”

“Is he new to the service?” Phoebe enquired. “I don’t recall hearing his name before.”

Rising from his chair George Oakes turned away. Crushing his cousin’s letter into a ball, he tossed it onto the fire. Phoebe watched the flames lick, then flare brightly as the paper blackened and fell into ash. “He’s not a packet man. He owns a sugar plantation in Jamaica. Built it up from almost nothing so I understand. It’s doing very well now, very well. He’s been out there over thirty years. I first met him about ten years ago when I was on the West Indies run. But he’s not in the best of health. That’s why he’s come back to Cornwall. Well, one of the reasons. Stroke of luck meeting up with him again. In fact, it couldn’t have – Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll like him. A very interesting man.”

Phoebe suspected he’d started to say something different but changed his mind. On his way to the door he glanced back.

“Tell Mrs Lynas to do something special for dinner.”

Phoebe smiled. “Of course.” As he went out she stood perfectly still and drew a slow deep breath. So there it was. Uncle George was going to remarry. And Carina Bishop, with exquisite tact, had made it clear she did not wish to share married life or her new home with an indigent relative.

Returning to the kitchen Phoebe wondered why William Quintrell had been invited to join what was, after all, a family celebration. Still, an additional guest would make an even number at table and ensure conversation remained general. Considering the past hour that was something to be grateful for.

Chapter Two

Phoebe sat with her hands out of sight in her lap, the starched white napkin crushed in her fists. Trained by Aunt Sarah never to betray fear or anxiety – for a woman in labour or the mother of an ill child needed to feel reassured, to have confidence in the person helping her – Phoebe maintained her expression of polite interest and somehow kept a smile on her lips.

The meal over which Mrs Lynas had taken such pains had been a great success. Mrs Bishop and Mr Quintrell had both praised the salmon with shrimp sauce, the chicken vol-au-vent, ham garnished with broccoli, and roast fillet of veal all served with a selection of vegetables. The cabinet pudding, lemon cream, rhubarb tart and meringues had also been greeted with exclamations of pleasure.

Phoebe had forced herself to eat, taking tiny amounts from a selection of dishes, anxious that her loss of appetite should not attract notice or comment. Swallowing had required real effort and now the food lay heavily in her stomach. Only pride and stubborn determination kept her back straight and her smile intact.

Watching Carina Bishop lay her fingertips lightly, possessively, on Uncle George’s arm as she murmured something to William Quintrell, and seeing her uncle’s normally taciturn expression soften in open adoration Phoebe felt anew the shock of betrayal. And under that the first stirring of fear. Mentally she slammed a door on it. Not now, not yet.If she allowed herself to dwell even for a moment on – No. Concentrate.

She could not blame her uncle. She didn’t blameCarina Bishop. Even William Quintrell seemed a pleasant enough man, if somewhat over-indulgent in his drinking. What cut so deep was the realisation that they had arranged it all between them. Her future had been discussed and planned in considerable detail without her knowledge. Everyone except her had sat down to dinner already knowing what was intended.

Couldn’t Uncle George have given her a hint, a clue? Had he feared rebellion? Feared delay or disruption to his future with Mrs Bishop? Did he not know her better than that? How could he imagine, after all his kindness to her, that she would stand in the way of his happiness. But for him to do this…

“Well now, Miss Dymond,” William Quintrell’s jovial tones broke into thoughts she was glad to escape. “I have no difficulty at all understanding why your uncle speaks so highly of you. I daresay this evening’s news came as a bit of a shock. In truth I’m astonished at my own good fortune. I hadn’t expected the matter settled so swiftly. But meeting your uncle again – well, it has all worked out most satisfactorily. Yes, indeed.” He turned the stem of his wineglass, clearly expecting it to be refilled.

“Would you care for a little more wine, Mr Quintrell?” Carina Bishop enquired. The fractional lift of her dark brows signalled her surprise at Phoebe for neglecting her role as hostess. “George?”

Phoebe watched her uncle start, then jump to his feet. Refilling his guest’s glass, he paused beside Carina who demurred. He glanced briefly, anxiously, at Phoebe. She gave her head a single brief shake, afraid to accept: afraid the tremor in her hand would reveal the depth of her distress. Topping up his own glass he replaced the bottle on the sideboard and resumed his seat.

William Quintrell drank deeply, released a gusty sigh of satisfaction and addressed her again. “I admire your style, my dear. That I do. I must say I wouldn’t have been surprised at a few tears or even an attack of the vapours.”

He would never know. None of them would ever know what it was costing her to deny them such a spectacle.

Carina Bishop clicked her tongue, saving Phoebe from the need to respond. “For shame, Mr Quintrell. You do Phoebe an injustice. She is made of sterner stuff. And, of course, she is very sensible of the compliment you are paying her.”

“Isn’t that just what I’m saying?” He turned to Phoebe once more. “To be mistress of a sugar plantation requires very particular capabilities.” He leaned forward, enveloping her in warm wine-tainted breath. “I’ve heard all about your skill with herbs and such like. And George here tells me you’re not afraid of hard work. Not that you’ll be expected to do anything that might soil those pretty hands. The slaves see to all that. There were a dozen taking care of the house before I left. But if you want more then more you shall have.” He beamed, making an expansive gesture. “Just remember to keep them on a tight rein. It wouldn’t do to let them get the better of you. But from what I’ve heard you’ve got more sense than to allow anything like that.”

Phoebe glanced at her uncle. Already flushed from good food and wine his colour deepened. He avoided her gaze.

“You’ll be an ideal wife for my son,” William Quintrell stated. “You’re exactly what he needs.” He emptied his glass.

Somehow Phoebe managed to hold her smile in place as she silently dipped her head in a gesture she hoped might be construed as modesty. Already her shock was being crushed beneath helpless resignation.

She had told her uncle she could not accept as a husband any man unwilling to allow her to continue her work. And Carina Bishop, her uncle’s intended, did not want her included in their new household. A match between herself and Rupert Quintrell resolved both problems at a stroke. It was the perfect solution. Most marriages were the result of family discussion and approval. It wasn’t unheard of for the two people most concerned to be unfamiliar with each other.

Nor was there any other branch of the family to whom she could apply for asylum. Uncle George was her mother’s sole remaining relative, and he was only a half-brother. Her father’s family had disowned their wayward son when he contracted a marriage they deemed beneath him.

So if she was to travel to the other side of the world to marry a total stranger, the responsibility was entirely hers for refusing to accept those earlier proposals. There was no doubt that this match offered far more in terms of wealth and status. And at least William Quintrell approved her skills rather than condemning them.

What would be his son’s response? But with an ocean to cross first would she live to meet him? She swallowed hard as hysteria bubbled in her throat.

“If I had come back to England when Rupert first took over I would have spared myself a couple of bouts of fever. But I didn’t like to leave him by himself. Not until I was sure he could handle it.” William Quintrell’s smile radiated pride. “I needn’t have worried. In the last couple of years he’s expanded the cane fields and almost doubled the production of sugar, rum and molasses. I tell you, Miss Dymond, my son and I have built Grove Hill into an estate of considerable importance. Ooops, I nearly forgot.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a miniature. “Should have given you this earlier. There, that’s Rupert. Handsome fellow, isn’t he?”

The tiny painting was exquisite. Executed in finest detail it portrayed a dark-haired man with blue eyes beneath thick brows, a straight nose, jutting chin, and a sculpted mouth that curled up at one corner.

“He is indeed,” Phoebe agreed. But as she studied the smiling image the candlelight flickered, and the expression she had interpreted as amusement became sneering cynicism. Her skin tightened in a shiver and she caught her breath. She was being foolish, fanciful. It was just nerves. Which was hardly surprising but notto be indulged.

“Do let me see.” Carina Bishop held out a slim white hand. “Isn’t it exciting? My dear, I imagine you can’t wait to start packing. Such a wonderful opportunity.” Taking the miniature she glanced at it then smiled at plantation owner. “I see your son takes his looks from you, Mr Quintrell.”

“And you have dipped your tongue in the honeypot, Mrs Bishop.” William Quintrell guffawed, his nose and cheeks crimson-veined and shiny.

“As we are all family – or soon will be,” Carina smiled around the table, “I shall speak freely. Phoebe, I think I know how you must be feeling.”

“I beg leave to doubt that, ma’am,” Phoebe said softly.

“No, no.” Carina Bishop was determined. “Were I in your place, I am sure I should be just as nervous. But I’m equally sure that as you think about it you will become ever more aware of the great advantages this match will bring you. Among those at this table it is no secret that the s. . .