Page 33 of Scandalous

“Better each day. No doubt I will be ready to get on a ship and make the journey home when we reach England.”

Not if Bouchard had anything to say about it.

Sarah frowned at the thought. Was there no topic of discussion that did not lead her back to the aggravating captain? “Tell me about your home—what is it like?”

Graaf’s expression lightened at her invitation, and soon he was painting a vivid image of the life he’d left behind at his father’s bidding. As she listened to stories of his indulgent older siblings and parents, Sarah realized he was not evil, but rather a weak-willed man who had done something evil. The realization made it easier to forgive him, but she could never respect such a man, nor could she forget he’d been willing to trade in other human beings.

“And you, Sarah, what of your childhood? It is always I who talk. But your life must have been unusual indeed, living in the jungle among savages.”

Sarah flinched at his characterization of her friends and neighbors, but he didn’t seem to notice. She bit her tongue. Why try to make him see the error of his thoughts when she did not care what he thought?

“There must have been many different and dangerous animals. Tell me, did you ever see a lion or tiger?”

The ridiculous question made her laugh. “Tigers do not live in Africa.”

She was still teasing him for his ignorance when Captain Bouchard appeared in the doorway. Sarah always left the door to the Dutchman’s cabin open when she was with him.

“Ah, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf said. “I am glad you are here. Sarah has been abusing me. You must remind her that I am an ill man.”

Bouchard’s eyebrows rose at the nobleman’s use of her Christian name, and Sarah flushed under his disconcerting yellow gaze. “Sarah is quite skilled at finding a man’s weaknesses, Graaf. I hesitate to draw her attention to mine.”

Sarah glared at him. “I didn’t think you had any weaknesses, Captain Bouchard.”

“You should not work her so hard, Bouchard. Surely you have someone else who can serve as your steward. Too much reading is bad for a lady’s eyes.”

Bouchard’s lids lowered. Sarah hoped he did not think the Dutchman’s comment meant she had been complaining. The bitter twist of his lips and his next words disabused her of that hope.

“I believe I am almost out of work for Mademoiselle Fisher.”

“Excellent. I plan to teach her to play cards. Can you believe she does not know any card games, Captain?”

Bouchard turned away. “Mademoiselle Fisher is good at games. I’m sure she will be a quick learner,” he tossed over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.

* * *

That night, for the first time since leaving N’goe, Sarah dreamt of her parents.

She was in the rickety two-room building that had been her family’s home since before she’d been born. Her father lay in the room that doubled as master bedroom and dining room. It was either the eleventh or twelfth of June; she was never sure afterward. In any event, it was the peak of the wet season, and everything was coated with a layer of fine, slimy mist. The air was so heavy it was like breathing water. Insects the size of saucers buzzed and bombarded the heavy netting that surrounded her parents’ bed. Well, it was her father’s bed, as her mother had died a few weeks before.

It was nighttime, and Michael Fisher was finally dozing after a day of coughing up blood and writhing in agony. Abena had been needed by other sick villagers that night, so Sarah had been alone. She’d done the best she could without the help of her friend—who was a far more skilled healer than Sarah could ever hope to be.

“Your father is dying, Sarah,” Abena had said, her dark brown eyes flooded with sympathy. “I have given him a very big dose of my pain-killing powder, which will make him sleep. It is the best we can do to ease his passing.”

If not for Abena and the compounds she made, Sarah’s father would have died in screaming agony.

Sarah’s mother had always been dismissive of folk remedies. “It is foolish to put your faith in a people who believe tying a bone to one’s leg will be sufficient to heal a break,” she had said on more than one occasion.

Sarah had loved her mother, but never understood her. To Sarah, English and African medicine and culture were more alike than not. While the Africans might put their faith in an animal or plant spirit, Christians did the same with their belief in the saints and the Holy Trinity. Both groups relied on faith.

She must have been twelve the first time she spoke this observation out loud. She’d been helping her father patch a corner of their thatched roof.

He’d paused to wipe his forehead with a frayed handkerchief. “That is the observation of a natural philosopher, Sarah.” His eyes had drifted to where her mother labored over a tub of laundry. “While I find your comment thought provoking, I’m afraid your mother might not appreciate such speculation.”

Even then, Sarah had known what her father meant. Her mother clung to her beliefs with a rigidity that never bent or gave, even after a quarter of a century of hard, ceaseless labor. Clara Fisher viewed herself as a bulwark of Christianity between her family and the dangerous vastness that threatened to overwhelm them. Her mother would have given her last mouthful of food to another, but she would never believe the people of the small village of N’goe were not in need of saving.

Even on her deathbed she’d pursued her life’s goal. “I was a young woman once—I know you are torn by conflicting desires.”

Sarah had been stunned to hear her mother admit such a thing.