Bermuda 1672

Lucien tugged at his emerald colored doublet and straightened his silk cravat. He tried to stretch his shoulders but the deep green waistcoat kept him from moving them freely; He thought fleetingly of shedding it. It was too warm an ensemble on this muggy Bermudan evening. However, an Englishman never made concessions to fashion in the company of his peers. Or so his father felt. He already risked his father's disapproval by not wearing one of the wigs now in vogue. His own thick head of blond hair, tied in the back suited him better. Nevertheless, the coat would stay—for now. He adjusted the hair near is temple, trying to mask the thin, vertical scar; a constant, painful reminder of happier times, long past. Times not filled with meaningless obligations.

Music floated from the ballroom into the foyer where it mingled delicately with the fragrance of fresh blossoms, trying to entice him onward.

Lucien glanced toward the exit. Escape was near. He closed his eyes, took a slow, deliberate breath and turned, then strode resolutely toward the beautifully carved mahogany doors that led into the ballroom. As he reached the threshold, a wave of chatter burst through the doors, followed by a group of young ladies leaving the ballroom. Lucien halted abruptly but quickly remembered himself and bowed, flashing a polite smile at the assemblage. The women returned his greeting, demurely fanning around him, effectively trapping their prey.

"Why, it's Dr. Bellemare!" exclaimed one of the bookends, a fine boned brunette wearing a flowing dress of blue silk. "How do you do?" She curtsied.

"Very well, thank you Miss...?"

"Evans. Miss Arabella Evans." She offered her ivory hand which he took and kissed lightly.

The other bookend, a liberally curved young lady with pale, golden hair glinting in the candlelight, eyed him coyly. Generous amounts of intricately embroidered satin made up her ivory gown, although Lucien noted the material was a mite skimpy around the upper portion. He noted it a far bit longer than he intended, and when he finally did lift his eyes, he felt his cheeks burn at the sanguine expression she wore.

She dipped in a curtsy. "Miss Wainscot."

He coughed in attempt to divert attention from his gaffe. "I beg your pardon?"

She closed the distance between them ever so slightly and offered her hand, "Miss Ysabeau Wainscot." Her voice was like a silken whisper.

Lucien kissed her hand more deliberately than he had Miss Evans. Milky white and soft as satin, it reminded him of a china doll. He held her delicate fingers for a little longer than he should have and she blushed prettily.

"Are you coming to dance, Doctor?" Miss Evans asked as she took his arm.

"O, you must," insisted Miss Wainscot as she clasped the other arm and dragged him through the door. "The music is ... irresistible."

Like a torrent of bitter wind awakened the senses after having been tucked in a warm parlor, the animation of the room assaulted him. Ladies swirled around the floor, dressed in such an array of colors they reminded him of an English garden in full bloom; music wound through the crowd, tickling his ears with its sweet melody; jewels sparkled and crystal dazzled, the individual beauty of each lost in the multitude, just as he himself felt swallowed by the masses.

Miss Evans and the other ladies were quickly snatched by young men as the young doctor led Miss Wainscot onto the floor. The steps to the dance were so thoroughly engrained, he found his mind free to wander. His thoughts took him far from the ballroom and Bermuda altogether. As the music ended, another gentleman claimed Miss Wainscot. Lucien watched her glide away; she was easily the loveliest woman here. He berated himself for being distracted while she'd been in his arms. Still, was beauty the only charm she held?

A whiff of tobacco wafted by, drawing his attention to a salon adjoining the ballroom. Skirting the perimeter of the dance floor, Lucien entered the salon, obtaining a glass of port from a serving man. The plush furnishings of the salon dulled the noise from the ballroom and as he sipped his drink, he caught the conversation between two women seated on a nearby divan.

"You're right dear; he does rather have the look of a Spaniard. Too bad he didn't take after his English father!"

"Looks aren't the only thing he didn't get from his father, you know."

"Oh?"

"Well, I heard the Spanish woman who bore him rushed back to Spain the minute her husband died and took all the fortune with her!"

"No!"

"O yes. Didn't stay for the burial or leave a copper for it!"

"Well, she could never have really loved him—or her son. And it's no stretch of the imagination as to why not. I heard he seized her from a Spanish vessel he captured and, after he forced himself on her and she became with child, forced her to marry. Everyone says she didn't care to lay eyes on the boy after he was born."

"Yes well, that's the Spanish for you," remarked one of the ladies.

A soft male voice joined the conversation. "Your pardon madame, but were you discussing the Spanish? They do inhabit so many of these isles in the West Indies. I wonder if you know why Spain never settled this particular island."

Lucien turned to see the bearer of the English lilt and was surprised to see a large, dark complexioned man bearing the countenance of a Spaniard. A long black periwig fell well past shoulders draped in a deep red velvet greatcoat, laced heavily about cuffs and collar. He stood before the women with a smug expression.

The ladies, struck dumb by the object of their idle gossip, shook their heads, mouths agape as they tried to regain their composure.

Lucien casually wandered toward them. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us, Sir...?"

"Captain Bartholomew," he answered abrasively after giving the intruder a shrewd appraisal. He sniffed and raised his chin, saying, "I shall happily assuage your ignorance. When Spain first sailed near this island there were such horrible howling and ghastly noises coming from its coast," he paused as he looked at the women with poorly masked contempt, "they believed it to be inhabited by evil spirits. Sometimes it's still called, rather appropriately," he spat, "'the Isle of Devils'." His lips curled into a sneer as his gaze bore into the ladies.

The speech invoked a sharp intake of breath from both women and abruptly, they stood and huffed stiffly away, commenting about seeking air without so vile a perfume.

Lucien sniffed the air, making an effort not to wrinkle his nose when the odor hit him. Perhaps it wasn't the perfume. Could it be tainted by the wearer? Lucien looked carefully at the offender.

Captain Bartholomew watched the ladies retreat with a satisfied smirk.

"I'm Dr. Lucien Bellemare," he introduced himself with a nod when the man's gaze shifted back, wondering if his attitude was only such because of the ill-meaning slander that had been directed toward him. "I've not been on this island since I was a child and find it much changed. You seem acquainted with the area. Perhaps you could tell me something of it I've not heard?"

"Bellemare. Of course. I thought you had the look of him, though he has not your stature. But then again, we don't all take after our fathers do we?" There was a slightly hostile note in his tone he tried to cover with a smile. After taking a sip from his glass, he continued. "I'm sure I could fill the evening telling things you don't know. For instance, the raucous noise the Spanish heard was made by nothing more than a bird. The Cahow, as it were. The last of the 'devils' disappeared some thirty or so years ago. Creatures that survived for hundreds of years couldn't last twenty-five with the English. Stupid birds, really," he said more to himself. He took another drink. "You enjoy the prattle of gossiping ninnies?"

Lucien raised an eyebrow, his mouth set it a firm line. "I admit I overheard the conversation. Certainly, I never believe a word of what is merely idle chatter. Fear not for your reputation by me. I do not repeat untruths."

"Ah, a man of morals?" He gave the young doctor another cursory glance as he swirled the liquor around the bowl of his goblet. Under his breath, but not so quietly it could not be heard, he scoffed, "Charming." Then after another draught he continued.

"They were not wholly untruths. My mother was a Spanish whore and the wench stole my inheritance—leaving me with nothing. Even my father's title was taken when she cast vicious lies to the peerage. I tried to vindicate his reputation, but they wouldn't hear it. My father wasn't guilty of any of it. If anything was true at all, it was because of her. Make no mistake," Bartholomew spat with venom, "that harlot seduced my father. But I will make them pay. All of them!" His voice dropped to a whisper, "I've waited years for my due and I'll take it back. My title. My wealth. My honor. And the prestige my family deserves!"

Bart's eyes began to take on a fevered look, and he seemed to forget anyone else was there. Taken aback by the intensity of the speech, Lucien was relieved, for a change, to see his father striding toward them, his blonde periwig tied in the back, giving prominence to piercing blue eyes.

"Ah, there you are son." He looked his attire over and seemed to approve, despite Lucien's hair. "I see you've made the acquaintance of our good man Bart." He placed a firm hand on the captain's shoulder and gave him a kindly nod.

"Bartholomew. Captain Bartholomew," the captain corrected evenly.

"Yes, we were just getting ... acquainted," Lucien answered with some ambivalence.

"Has he told you of his purpose here? I only heard it a fortnight ago, but I have to say I commend him for such resolution and courage at undertaking such a noble, though perilous quest. That takes fortitude, son." The senior Bellemare was practically beaming.

Lucien pushed down a twinge of irritation. "I believe I've heard the ends of his noble and perilous quest, but Captain, do tell me the means." He smiled falsely at the half-Spaniard.

The captain returned his smile with one that made Lucien feel oddly tainted as Bartholomew clasped his hands behind his back and took on the guise of someone elevated above his audience. "These waters are plagued by pirates who target merchants such as your father," he nodded at him politely, "and I intend to be rid of them. We'll all be better off once their kind is purged from these waters."

His father nodded his approval. "An honorable occupation."

An occupation certain to capture the attention of the nobility and return a dishonored name to good standing, Lucien longed to voice this thought but said instead, "Indeed, but what of those sailing under the King's Letter of Marquee?"

"Privateers? Naturally I will not target those who despoil the Spanish and Dutch. It is only those who are terrorizing the English I'm concerned with. Although, truth told, I doubt there is one among them who doesn't plunder any and every ship that crosses their path, no matter what flag she flies. They're men without distinction or repute, the leeches of society and most importantly they are all thieves; and thievery and deception go hand in hand, do they not? I wouldn't regret it if their kind were purged from earth. We don't need that low born sort or their activities, and if I were to accidentally find myself engaged with one of these I would not lament it."

Lucien didn't miss the insult against the low born. A quick glance at his father's passive face surprised him. How could he not be offended by this contemptuous, conceited swine?

"A man's life is more than his occupation or who he's born to. I judge a person by his actions, not his station," he practically growled.

"How gracious," Captain Bartholomew sneered. "It's certain then, with such a chivalrous conception, you are in the West Indies to assist your father and have given up the ill-advised occupation of physician. I'm sure with the long hours he keeps it will be of great benefit to him to have his son ease the burden."

Lucien sighed. The conversation wasn't heading in a good direction. "No, I'll not be staying in Bermuda. A sloop I've commissioned locally is scheduled to be completed shortly and I'll be sailing as soon as she's ready." He involuntarily glanced at his father to see his disappointed reaction.

"Off to explore the edges of the maps are we?" Captain Bart asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Something like that," mumbled Lucien.

"Obviously you're setting out to bring back exciting new trade opportunities to expand the business." He turned to the elder Bellemare. "You must be so pleased."

Lucien cringed at the look of displeasure crossing his father's face.

"Not quite. I have other ... plans." Plans he didn't want to discuss with this cur or have his father reminded of. Not that he thought he'd forgotten, but he did prefer his father's current policy of ignoring them.

"Well, off to tickle your own fancy then. I suppose your father is well capable of going on without you," Capt. Bart said with a wicked smile. It seemed he knew only too well of the tensions rumored between the Bellemare's.

Mr. Bellemare cleared his throat. "Enough idle chatter. Son, why don't you go enjoy the party, perhaps get yourself a dance with one of those enchanting young women milling about. Your mother and sister, they talked about these things for days...," his voice dropped off toward the end. He rarely spoke of them.

Lucien frowned. He wasn't sure what bothered him more. That his father seemed ignorant of what was, to him, an obvious duplicity in the captain, or that he himself caused his father so much displeasure.

"But he has been dancing!" offered Bart, disrupting Lucien's musings. "In fact he entered with the daughter of the baron on his arm. She's an only child, yes?" He offered a knowing wink. "More than one way to title and fortune!"

"The baron's daughter!" exclaimed his father with delight. Having his only son gain a title for the Bellemare name would win Lucien all the regard he'd ever wished for. "Well son, you'd better not keep the lady waiting."

Reluctantly Lucien conceded, downing his drink and stepping out of the salon to stand on the outskirts of the ballroom.

He knew in his heart his father meant well regardless of the friction that often occurred between them. The accident had changed him.

It had changed them both.

A skirt brushed his leg. With a start, Lucien realized he'd been staring into space as Ysabeau Wainscot materialized beside him.

"Thinking of someone?" she asked coyly.

"No I ... well yes, I was."... a baroness. Somehow she seemed less appealing. Still, she was a lovely distraction.

"Anyone I know?" She batted her eyes innocently.

He offered his elbow. "I heard the estate has a lovely garden. Would you care for a turn?" She took his arm, smiling prettily.

The teeming garden was imbibed with the sweet scent of flowers almost to the point of intoxication. Lucien breathed it deeply as he shook off the stale air from the overcrowded manor.

In the dimming light of evening, warm-colored hibiscus mingled with geranium, softened edges bleeding together into a mottled pool of color. A tree frog whistled nearby. The earlier humidity gave way to cool night breezes that teased the greenery, the supple leaves licking and scraping at one another with a gentle rustling. Its contrast with the balmy indoor air caused Miss Wainscot to shiver.

Lucien shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." She headed to a secluded area and sat on the provided bench, inviting him to sit beside her with a delicate gesture.

As he did she snuggled discreetly closer to him. "Will you be in Bermuda long?"

"No. I'm here to oversee the final touches of my ship and as soon as she's ready I shall set sail for the interior of the West Indies."

"Oh poo, I hoped we'd have loads of time to spend together," she pouted.

"Miss Wainscot, we've only just met, surely you shan't miss me!"

"But of course I shall miss you! And please, call me Ysabeau. Haven't you ever met someone and just known they were ... special?" She snuggled closer yet.

"I ... well, I—"

A crackle from the path of crushed seashells they'd just vacated stopped him short. He felt Ysabeau stiffen and knew she'd heard it too.

Lucien stood and, seeing the pathway still empty, peered intently into the nearest bush only to smile with relief as a large iguana crawled onto the path in front of Ysabeau.

She leapt to the top of the bench with astounding speed and screamed at the top of her lungs; it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she crumpled forward; Lucien moved swiftly and caught her in his arms as she fell.

He sensed a flurry of movement behind him and turned to find a score of people murmuring at the entrance to the garden, looking for the source of the cry.

"Here!" he shouted. "I need the baron!"

A middle-aged man broke from the crowd and hurried toward him, followed closely by a blustering woman exclaiming, "My baby, oh my poor dear! What's happened to her?"

Lucien helped the baron place Ysabeau on the bench while speaking comforting words to the distraught woman, who was apparently her mother. "Fear not Baroness. She'll be fine. She's only suffered a small fright and swooned."

Ysabeau fluttered her eyes.

Her mother looked at Lucien accusingly. "A fright? What sort of fright? Are you a doctor then?"

"Indeed, I am. And yes, the poor girl was affright of nothing more than a lizard. Here, she's coming about now."

An impressive gathering of onlookers enveloped them as Lucien helped the girl sit.

"Ysa, Ysabeau dear can you hear me?" The baroness dropped her voice slightly, "Are you—damaged?" she questioned earnestly.

Ysabeau looked around, bemused by the crowd. She focused on her mother. In a slightly confused tone she answered, "Of course I hear you mother, I've not been struck deaf—or damaged." Her eyes jumped back and forth as if she were trying to remember something. "Oh, Dr. Bellemare! That horrible creature! Is it gone?"

" 'Tis, my lady," Lucien reassured. "And thank you for clearing my honor, at least for your mother's sake."

The baroness patted her bosom. "Of course I believed you young man. I recognize you now, you're Dr. Lucien Bellemare?"

"I am. And I prescribe an early evening for the lady." He turned to Ysabeau. "You should rest."

"Of course, of course," her mother muttered as she took her by the arm and led her from the grounds. "We shall put you to bed immediately."

The girl grumbled as she was led away, "But, mother, I'm fine. Really, I am!"

"Nonsense, doctor's orders...," the voice faded into the distance.

Lucien heaved a sigh as the crowd disappeared. A twinge of guilt pricked at his conscience; the young lady could've easily stayed at the party without any dire consequences, but he was more than a little relieved to have her go. She seemed to have formed a more lasting impression than he'd intended. As he stood and stretched, he found he couldn't induce himself to enter the throng again. Finding an unlocked gate in the garden, Lucien slipped into the starry night.