COLORS OF THE WIND
Chapter Ten
Atlantic Ocean
Spring, 1607
Dear Diary,
Mother has gone to speak to
Cal for a moment, so I have a chance to write in you. I have spent the most
wonderful day with the young man who saved my life last night—Jack. Jack
Dawson.
Amazingly enough, he comes
from Mother’s family’s estate in Cornwall. I wonder if Mother knows of his
family—they were tenants on the DeWitt estate. Of course, with as little regard
as she holds those lower than she, I doubt she would have paid much attention
to them unless they were her personal servants or did her some harm—both of
which I doubt most sincerely. Tenants are usually farmers, not house servants,
and Mr. Dawson seems much too friendly and kind to be a part of family who
would do harm. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.
I must remember to call him
Jack, as he prefers. Mr. Dawson seems so much more polite, but then, he is of a
lower class than I, so perhaps I can call him that without upsetting too many
people.
Anyway, I sought him out to
thank him this morning, and we walked around and talked for hours. He has a
wonderful sense of humor—so much better than Cal’s. Cal thinks I should never
be exposed to bawdy jokes or bad language—not that he is averse to either
himself when he is with his friends. But Jack actually told me a joke and was
not at all offended when I laughed. He would enjoy the plays of Mr.
Shakespeare, I am certain. I would like to meet his friend, Fabrizio, as well.
He has been in the Commedia D’ell Arte—another art form I much admire. And Jack
himself is quite a fine artist—he showed me his drawings. I would like to have
him draw my portrait someday—his portraits are so realistic that they seem to
capture a person’s soul. Perhaps he could even draw me as he drew the girls of
St. Giles—I blush to mention it, but such a portrait would be very different
from the fine paintings that make me appear a porcelain doll. I am quite
certain that Mother and Cal would never approve, however—even if the portrait
was for Cal’s own enjoyment.
I hear Mother’s voice in the
hallway now, so I must go before she finds you.
*****
Rose quickly put her diary back
in her trunk, concealing it under the frock she had worn that day. Standing,
she smoothed the skirt of her elegant burgundy gown, making sure that it draped
neatly over her farthingale. She slipped her feet into her fine kidskin
slippers, taking as deep a breath as her steel corset would allow.
Ruth walked into the room and looked
Rose over critically, finally nodding her approval. The fine gown was a touch
gaudy, as far as Ruth was concerned, but Rose wore it well, standing straight
and not stumbling over her skirt as she had once done. A hint of a smile
crossed Ruth’s face—Rose was finally learning to be a lady. Cal would be
pleased.
“You look well, Rose,” Rose told
her daughter approvingly. “I do wish you had chosen another color, but the red
does bring out your eyes and the color in your cheeks.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Rose nodded
her head demurely. She had only worn this gown twice on the voyage so far, but
she wanted to look good tonight. After all—they had a guest. She had even
pinched her cheeks and lips to bring a little extra color to them. Of course,
she didn’t truly have anyone to impress—she didn’t care if Cal thought her
beautiful or not, and certainly she wasn’t casting her eyes at Jack. Such a
thing was unthinkable.
“Come, Rose. We must be on time
for dinner,” Ruth told her, putting a hand on Rose’s arm and steering her
gently towards the cabin door.
Rose nodded, reaching up to touch
the fine silver necklace she wore. It had been a gift from her father, given to
her just before his part in the Gunpowder Plot had been discovered. Ruth had
been eager to sell it to help pay the debts left after William Bukater’s
death—she wanted no reminders of the husband who had brought such shame upon
the family. Rose, however, had wanted to keep the necklace and the other pieces
of jewelry that her father had gifted her with over the years, so she had
hidden them in the trunk of a hollow tree and claimed that she had lost them.
Ruth had been suspicious, but there had been no way to prove that Rose was
lying, and certainly the debt collectors had not been able to find them, so
after sufficient time had passed, Rose had “found” the jewelry hidden in the
wall of the house in London. Ruth had been furious, of course, but by that time
Rose was betrothed to Cal and had threatened to simply give the jewelry to him
as her dowry if her mother tried to take it from her. Cal admired fine things,
whatever their origins, and would have been happy to save the jewels to
decorate his bride and make himself look wealthier.
Lifting her skirts daintily, Rose
followed her mother up the stairs to the governor’s quarters. She smiled as she
walked into the room—Jack was already there. He was leaning against a wall,
watching the goings-on with interest and imitating the gestures of the noblemen
when he thought no one was looking.
Rose walked over to him, her heels
clicking lightly on the hardwood floor. His back was to her, so he didn’t
realize she was there until she cleared her throat.
He turned, blushing slightly as
he realized that Rose had seen him pretending to greet a non-existent person.
Rose laughed softly, curtsying to him.
He looked at a loss as to what to
do for a moment, then bowed slightly and took her hand, kissing it lightly.
“I saw a nobleman greeting his
favorite wh—uh…a lady that way, and always wanted to try it.”
Rose smiled, lifting her head and
offering to let him take her arm. She suspected she knew what he had been going
to say, but she wasn’t offended. She laughed lightly, looking at his attire.
He didn’t have any of the fancy
clothing worn by the others in the room—even Captain Smith had evening attire
on—but he had obviously tried to make himself look a little better. His hair
was combed and tied back neatly, and she could see in the candlelight that he
had shaved away the stubble that had been on his face before—a small cut on his
chin attested to the fact that shaving on board a moving ship was no easy task.
He had put on shoes, too, though they were nowhere near as fancy as what the
other men wore—they were flat-soled and serviceable, not like the fancy high
heels so many noblemen favored. Most of the men, nobility or commoners, had
taken to going barefoot most of the time—it was much easier to grip a wet,
slippery deck with bare feet than with shod.
Rose looked up as Cal approached
them, Ruth on his arm. He scowled slightly as he caught sight of Jack—he had
been hoping that the commoner would come to his senses and avoid coming to
dinner. He didn’t like the way Rose looked at him and hoped to discredit him in
her eyes. He knew Rose’s reputation for wildness and thought that she might not
realize how inappropriate it would be for her to be seen with a commoner.
Certainly the boy’s attire left
much to be desired—it was evidently something that he had been wearing for many
days, possibly even since boarding the ship. If he was too poor to even afford
a change of clothes, he certainly could not offer anything to Rose. A few
members of the merchant class had nearly as much money as the nobility and
might hope to win the hand of an impoverished noblewoman from a disgraced
family, but young Dawson obviously wasn’t one of them.
Yet Rose was looking at him
admiringly, smiling as she never smiled at Cal. He didn’t understand what she
might see in him—besides the fact that he had saved her life, of course—and Cal
was determined to find out what it was and disgrace him in his betrothed’s
eyes.
Ratcliffe seated himself at the
head of the long table, gesturing imperiously for everyone else to follow his
example. The others followed him, Jack standing uncomfortably until Smith
gestured to him to sit beside him—and directly across from Rose. Cal scowled
when he saw where the young man was sitting, but could do nothing about it
unless he wished to change seats with him—and that would leave Jack sitting
next to Rose.
Wiggins danced around the table,
serving the food with a flourish. The fare was much the same as it always was,
although tonight there was also fresh shark—one had been washed aboard during
the storm and found entangled in the ropes that morning, dead but still fresh
enough to be eaten, with enough meat on it for all aboard.
Rose smiled at Jack’s look of
surprise when he tasted the wine—it was evidently better than what the common
men were served—probably sweeter and not yet turning to vinegar. The food,
though mostly the same as what was served on a daily basis, was good—Ratcliffe
insisted upon having the best, and had paid well to have a good cook on board.
She doubted that the common men ate as well, but knew that everyone was
partaking of the surprisingly well-prepared shark—fish had a way of going soft
and developing an unpleasant odor by the time they reached the table unless
caught just before being prepared.
Cal glared at Jack, wondering why
the commoner hadn’t had the good sense to stay away—even though he himself had
invited him to dinner. He was about to make a comment about Jack’s
inappropriate appearance when Ruth beat him to it.
“Mr. Dawson, you may not be aware
of it, but we usually dress well for these occasions.” She eyed him
assessingly.
Jack stared back at her for a
moment, then grinned. “My apologies, Lady Bukater. I was unaware that consuming
food was something done but rarely.”
Wiggins snickered to himself,
then hushed when Cal sent him a murderous look.
Ruth’s eyes narrowed. “Even
Captain Smith knows to wear appropriate attire. One would think that you would
know the same.”
The table quieted. John Smith was
well-respected amongst these noblemen, and Ruth’s remark was not well-taken.
Ruth coughed slightly, realizing
her blunder. “I meant that even the good captain, who is not of the nobility,
knows what occasions require—shall we say—finer attire.”
“But I have served the nobility
of many lands well, Lady Bukater,” Smith spoke up. “Indeed, I am quite well
off. Young Dawson here has scarcely a farthing to his name.”
“Then he should not have come,”
Ruth retorted, irritated at Smith’s defense of the young commoner.
“May I remind you, Mother, that
Cal himself invited Mr. Dawson to dinner? Surely you don’t expect him to reject
such a generous invitation. After all, he did save my life, and certainly that
is worth something.” Rose cast Jack an apologetic look. “I, for one, am
grateful for what Mr. Dawson did last night—if he had not displayed such
bravery, I would not be here now. I might well be food even now for the kin of
the fish we eat tonight.”
“Hear, hear!” Ratcliffe raised
his goblet. “To bravery—something we shall have need of in the New World,
surrounded by savages and wild beasts.”
Ruth and Cal raised their cups reluctantly,
both trying to hide their disdain for the praise Ratcliffe was heaping upon the
young man.
Ruth wasn’t finished yet, though.
“Tell me, Mr. Dawson, how is you
have means to travel? With scarcely a farthing to your name, how do you get
about?”
“Well, I work my way from place
to place—I am accounted a good sailor, and on land I can walk as far as I wish
to go—or catch a ride on a cart, if I’m lucky. But I won my passage on this
ship in a game of chance—a very lucky game of chance.” He glanced at Rose, a
smile lingering on his face. “Life is a gift, and I don’t intend to waste it.
You never know what the next day will bring. Why, last night I was fighting the
storm, and now, here I am, having dinner with you fine people.” He nodded as
Wiggins offered him more of the sweet wine. “I take each day as it comes—and I
make each day count.”
“Well said, Dawson.” Smith
nodded, raising his goblet.
Rose smiled. “To making it
count.” The others followed her toast, except for Ruth and Cal, who stared at
Jack stonily.
Rose smiled, taking a sip of
wine. “It turns out that Mr. Dawson is quite the fine artist. He was kind
enough to show me some of his work today.”
Cal rolled his eyes, looking at
Rose belittlingly. “Rose and I differ somewhat in our definition of fine art.”
He looked at Jack, a faint smirk on his face. “Not to impugn your work, of
course.”
Jack shook his head, indicating
that it did not matter. He knew that Cal had dismissed his artwork without ever
having seen it—largely because Rose did admire it, but also because Jack was
well below the station that Cal would ever consider associating with unless he
was forced to.
But he didn’t care. The imperious
opinion of the arrogant nobleman meant little to him, nor did the sharp words
of Lady Bukater. Rose had captured his interest, and although he knew that she
was forbidden to the likes of him, he couldn’t help but be interested in her,
in how she fared—and she did not seem terribly happy with the man she was
betrothed to. He hadn’t missed the way she inched away when he came close, nor
the way her eyes lit with cool amusement when something occurred that made Lord
Hockley look foolish.
By the end of the meal, Jack was
growing tired of the conversation of the noblemen, none of whom seemed to have
any interests beyond the riches of the New World and the savagery of the people
occupying it. After listening to the conversation, Jack concluded that the
people they would encounter in Virginia couldn’t be worse than some of the
bloodthirsty men surrounding him. They were covered in the trappings of
nobility, but many of them were filled with as much greed and bloodlust as any
of the savages they described so disparagingly. And, as none of them had met
any of the people of the New World, they really had no way of knowing how
friendly—or unfriendly—they would be.
When Wiggins and the cook arrived
to clear away the dishes—another nicety the common men on board the ship did
without—they cleaned their own dishes, or used them unwashed—the nobles
dispersed, bound for whatever conversations and activities they engaged in
during the evening hours.
Ratcliffe looked up with disdain
at a burst of laughter from the deck outside his quarters—several men were
walking by, laughing and jostling each other—but it gave Jack an idea. Looking
around to be sure that Lord Hockley and Lady Bukater had already left, he
approached Rose and helped her to her feet.
She smiled as he bowed deeply,
kissed her hand, and then whispered, “Do you want to go to a real party?”