COLORS OF THE WIND
Chapter Three
Atlantic Ocean
Spring, 1607
Diary,
We have been at sea for two weeks now, and
I am bored stiff, except for those occasions when I am able to escape Mother’s watchful
eye and go out on deck. I wish that I could participate in the activities of
the crew—they may work hard, but at least they have something to do! I would
love to climb up in the crow’s nest, where, I am told, a person can see for
miles. Maybe at that height there would be something to see besides the endless
sea, the clouds, and the occasional seagull. Maybe there would be land in sight
somewhere, or another ship. Even pirates would be welcome at this point.
I actually found something enjoyable for a
while, when a mouse nested under the blanket on my bunk and had babies. The
mother was so cute, even though the babies were pink and ugly. They grew so
fast, though! I made a space for them and brought them crumbs and bits of
cheese, but Mother saw them and almost had apoplexy. She insisted that Cal come
and throw them overboard. I don’t know who I hate more for that—Mother for
insisting, or Cal for obeying. That poor mother struggled so hard in the water,
trying to save her babies, before a big fish came along and put her out of her
misery.
I cried so hard when they did that—that
mouse never hurt them any, and she and her babies were so tame. The only other
pet on board is Governor Ratcliffe’s dog, who yaps unmercifully and is more
snotty than even his master—and that’s hard to do.
I even have to hide you, diary. Mother
wouldn’t approve of what I’m writing, I’m sure. I can only write when she’s
away—and that’s not often. Fortunately, I don’t think she’ll find you in my
trunk—she doesn’t want to look at the collection of underthings that I hide you
under. I just hope that she doesn’t get too bored and go looking through my
things. You’re all I have left.
Rose closed her journal quickly and tucked it
into her trunk as she heard Ruth’s footsteps outside the cabin door. Sitting up
quickly, she closed the lid and pretended to be lost in thought.
Ruth came in, looking at her critically.
"I’m glad to see that you’re dressed properly, Rose," she told her,
eyeing Rose’s pale green gown with its elaborate farthingale and stiffly
starched collar. "That dress you wore to lunch yesterday—it was hardly
better than a servant’s dress."
"It was the only clean item I had
left," Rose pointed out. Her beautiful gowns had proven to be woefully
inappropriate for travel. The dirt of their quarters had seeped into the
clothing, removing the bright colors and leaving it dingy-looking. Ruth had
been appalled when Rose had coaxed one of the men to draw her a tub of seawater
and had attempted to wash the clothes. Ladies of their status did not wash
clothing like common maids—and clean clothing wasn’t exactly a high priority
anyway. But Rose had been tired of the stink and the boredom, and had scrubbed
at her clothes as she had once seen Trudy do.
It hadn’t worked as well as she’d hoped, but
at least she was cleaner, and if her gowns were more rumpled than they had once
been, she certainly didn’t look any worse than most of the people on board,
although she knew that Ruth’s reply if she told her so would be that Rose was
above most of the people on board and needed to look the part.
Ruth sighed, shaking her head, wondering if
she would ever instill proper manners in Rose. Of course, Rose wouldn’t be her
problem much longer—she would be Cal’s wife soon, and his responsibility. Still,
she wished that she hadn’t been so lenient with her daughter back in London,
and that Rose’s father hadn’t encouraged her wild ways.
But there was no time like the present to
shape Rose into a proper lady, no matter how much Rose resented it. Brushing a
speck of lint from her gown, Ruth beckoned to her daughter.
"Come, Rose. It’s time for lunch."
*****
Rose sat at the rough but well-appointed
table in the governor’s quarters. Ruth and Cal sat beside her, while Governor
Ratcliffe sat at the head of the table, flanked by a couple of other noblemen.
His servant hovered nearby, making sure that everyone at the table was happy.
It was dark in the small room, the only light
coming from the two portholes and a few candles. Rose looked longingly at the
bright sunshine outside the portholes. She had always loved sunny days, so rare
in London. It was a perfect day to eat outside—but when she had mentioned the
idea, her mother had been appalled, and Cal had taken her arm warningly,
whispering to her to behave herself.
Her face set in a proper but tense
expression, Rose reached into the small bag she had carried with her and took
out a cigarette that she had rolled while her mother was asleep the night
before. Smoking was a forbidden luxury, outlawed by the king, but one that some
people indulged in anyway. She had picked up the habit while attending the
theater, and while she did not smoke as heavily as some—and, to be truthful,
found it a bit unpleasant to deliberately inhale smoke into her lungs—she still
indulged on occasion, enjoying the shocked looks on people’s faces when she did
so.
Reaching toward the center of the table, she
lit the cigarette with one of the candles and brought it to her lips, inhaling
deeply. She immediately felt a cough rise up, but suppressed it, unwilling to
admit that smoking might not as enjoyable as she tried to convince people she
found it.
Ruth leaned close. "You know I don’t
like that, Rose."
Cal, looking far thinner and more pale than
he had before the journey had begun, took the cigarette from Rose and ground it
out on an empty pewter dish, breaking it so that she couldn’t relight it.
"She knows." He signaled to
Ratcliffe’s servant. "She’ll have the usual portion of cheese, bread,
stew, and wine, with a little fruit."
"And you, sir?"
"I will have…just a couple of biscuits
and a little fruit."
"Still seasick, sir?"
"Never you mind. Just do as I told
you."
Rose smirked to herself, pleased that Cal was
enjoying the trip even less than she was. He was allowed to go on deck
unescorted, to be sure, and had been called upon to help when a storm has
struck them a week out to sea, much to his dismay. But most of his time on deck
was spent leaning miserably over the rail, losing what little he was able to
eat. Sailing did not agree with Cal at all, while she and Ruth seemed to have
been spared the seasickness.
She stared at her crushed cigarette,
disappointed. It had been made with the last of the tobacco she had smuggled
from England, rolled in a bit of paper from the bottom of her trunk. She might
be able to find more paper, but where would she get more tobacco, unless the
savages had it? She had heard that tobacco had come from the New World, so
perhaps she could get more once they landed.
She looked up as the servant removed the
plate with the crushed cigarette and set their food on the table. Ratcliffe
gave her a disdainful look, then began bragging about the expedition and what
he expected to find in Virginia.
"This will be the largest and most
important colony that England shall have in the New World," he told them,
his plump face smug. "With the riches we shall take back, England will
rise to even greater prominence—and us along with it." He made a sweeping
gesture of the other men at the table, ignoring Ruth and Rose. "Of course,
as governor, I shall have the lion’s share. King James appointed me to this
grand expedition, and the rewards will be great."
Rose rolled her eyes in disgust. The man was
bragging about things he knew nothing about. Slowly, almost casually, she
lifted her thumb to her mouth as though to pick her teeth, then tucked it
behind her front teeth.
Ruth’s eyes widened in shock. Rose’s
misbehavior had been bad enough, but this was obscene.
"What’s gotten into you?" she
hissed, tugging at Rose’s arm.
Ratcliffe noticed. "Young lady," he
began, his eyes wide with affront, "are you biting your thumb at me?"
Rose put her hand on the table, pretending
innocence. "No, sir. Of course not. I do not bite my thumb at you—but I do
bite my thumb," she added impishly, remembering the wonderful play that
the line had come from.
Ruth’s face flamed red. She knew that she
should never have allowed Rose to meet with that vulgar playwright!
Shakespeare. That was his name. A cheap purveyor of tawdry entertainment—even
if he had been a favorite of Queen Elizabeth before her death. He would never
amount to anything without her, she was certain—but he had succeeded in
teaching Rose some very vulgar manners.
Stiffening, she turned to Ratcliffe. "I
do apologize. She has been much too influenced by that playwright,
Shakespeare."
Her appetite suddenly gone, Rose pushed back
from the table and stood up. "Excuse me," she said, stiffly, leaving
the room.
As she left, she heard Ratcliffe ask, his
voice confused, "Shakespeare? Who is that? Is he on this ship?"
*****
Jack leaned against the railing, eating what
passed for a midday meal on this ship—hard, dry biscuits, slightly moldy
cheese, and sour wine in a crude wooden cup. Shipboard fare was hardly food fit
for a king, though he knew that the handful of nobles on board ate much better
than the rest of them.
Several other men joined him, leaning against
the railing or perching on barrels, as they ate what was, only two weeks out,
still fairly decent food. They even enjoyed the occasional fish with their
evening meal, though no one had been lucky enough to catch one yet today.
He glanced at his companions—Thomas, who he
had given one of the tickets he had won to, and two men whom he had seen but
didn’t know.
One of them pulled out one of the forbidden
cigarettes from a pocket, looked at it ruefully, then tucked it away again,
realizing that he had no way to light it. Looking at Jack, he asked him,
"You’re the artist, ain’t ye?" He spoke with a heavy Irish accent.
Jack nodded. He hadn’t been able to bring
much with him on this trip—not that he had much anyway—but the leather-bound
portfolio with its collection of charcoal and paper had been something he had
refused to leave behind. It was the only thing he had left from his old home
after years of wandering. Besides, he was going to the New World. Who knew what
kind of fascinating subjects he would for his art there? Savages, great
explorers, strange beasts…the possibilities were endless.
"I’m Tommy Ryan," the Irishman told
him, reaching out a hand.
"Jack Dawson." Jack shook his hand,
glancing at the fourth man in their group, a dark-skinned fellow with thick
black hair.
"Fabrizio," he introduced himself.
Jack’s eyes widened at the Italian name,
wondering if this man was in any way related to the one whose passage he had
won.
Fabrizio grinned knowingly, knowing who Jack
was and why he was wondering about him. "My partner lost the passage to
you," he said, taking a drink from his wine cup. "I was in da back ‘a
da inn, watching. He was a fool."
"Uh…sorry," Jack stammered, not
knowing what else to say.
Fabrizio shrugged. "I snuck aboard. Not
everyone who booked passage came, so there’s room for all, yes?"
Jack laughed. "I guess so. Anyway, this
far out, what are they going to do? Throw you overboard?"
They all turned, startled, as a door slammed
nearby and Rose stalked out onto the deck, her cheeks pink with anger. She
walked over to the railing some distance down from them and stared out to sea,
her eyes blazing.
Everyone stared for a moment before looking
away, knowing what the consequences were if anyone even suspected them of
making advances toward the young noblewoman.
Everyone except Jack, that is. He continued
to gaze at her, mesmerized. Her pale green gown rustled in the strong sea
breeze, and strands of her elegantly coiffed red hair came loose, blowing
around her face. He was fascinated.
The others laughed. Fabrizio waved a hand in
front of his face. Tommy shook his head.
"Ah, ferget it, boyo. Yer as like to
have angels fly out yer arse as get next to the likes o’ her."
Jack ignored them, hardly hearing their
good-natured teasing. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and
this was the first time he had seen her up close.
Rose, conscious that she was being stared at,
looked toward the men and narrowed her eyes, then looked back out to sea.
Inexplicably, though, her eyes were drawn back to the young blond man who was
still staring at her. She returned his gaze, her eyes meeting his for what
seemed an eternity.
She jumped, startled, as the door behind her
slammed again and Cal stalked out on deck, his expression furious.
"Rose, what the hell are you doing out
here? You know you don’t belong out here."
"Leave me alone, Cal."
He took her by the elbow, ignoring her protests.
"Come and finish your meal. Your mother is most upset with you."
"What a pity." Rose pulled her arm
away from him and stalked back inside, her head held high.
Cal cast a warning look at the men lounging
nearby and followed her, gritting his teeth in fury at his betrothed’s
defiance.