British West Indies, 1780
Clarke sat at her window, watching the trade winds ruffle the emerald green palm trees outside her room. The sparkling turquoise sea was laid out before her, dotted with a few lonely ships, sails billowing full as they cruised through the crystal clear waters. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of the salty sea air, felt the temperature rising as the sun rose above the island. Her nightgown whipped around her bare legs, raising goose bumps. She had a few precious hours before she was expected to be awake, and she savored them.
Slipping into the most casual dress she owned, Clarke tiptoed from her room and down the service staircase at the back of the house. Once outside, she picked up her pace, keeping her head ducked as she walked lest anyone recognize her. It was a short walk to the other side of their tiny island, away from the bustling port and the sounds of the slowly waking town. The palm trees grew thicker, and the sounds of the ocean closer. Clarke welcomed the familiar call of gulls and the sound of the waves crashing onto the pristine white beaches her home boasted. Nearly skipping down a tiny, overgrown pathway, Clarke finally took a breath as she skidded out onto the lookout. She made her way quickly down the rocks to the tiny beach that only she frequented. Clarke peeled off her dress, and clad only in her undergarments, took a shallow dive into the warm water.
Clarke relished in the feeling of the water enveloping her. Taking a deep breath, she dove beneath the waves, and relished in the sudden quiet of the world around her. Gliding her hand along the bottom as she swam, Clarke propelled herself farther from shore, only breaking the surface when her lungs were screaming for air. She flipped onto her back and closed her eyes as she floated at the surface, enjoying the warm Caribbean sun on her skin.
Every morning Clarke could, she rose before the rest of her household to take an early, forbidden swim. Coming from such a powerful family, being caught by herself, in her undergarments, on this part of the island would be quite the scandal. So she sacrificed a few hours of sleep in return for these relaxing, quiet moments. The daughter of a very powerful man, she was disallowed anything that might be unbecoming.
After what seemed to be too short an interlude, Clarke returned to the shore, redressed, and made a futile attempt to shake her hair dry. It was all too soon before she found herself sneaking back home, and preparing for the day ahead. The white clapboard house was already bustling, and Clarke could hear maids busying themselves in the hallway, and one floor below she knew the kitchens were already lively. Clarke took a step outside onto the porch that wrapped around both floors of the stately home, taking a moment to clear her mind before the day began. Before she knew it, a rap on the door startled her out of the reverie.
"Miss Griffin? Are you awake?"
"Yes, coming!" Clarke, shaking her head, wrapped a shawl around herself before opening the door.
"Your father is waiting downstairs for you, miss."
"I'll be right there," Clarke promised.
She made short work of changing into a more appropriate dress, toweling her blonde hair dry, and pinching her cheeks for a bit of colour before hurrying down the grand staircase for breakfast. Her father sat at the long walnut table, peering at her over his glasses. "Slow down, dear. Ladies do not rush."
Clarke headed his advice and slowed her pace considerably. She smiled at her father as a servant pulled out her chair, and she took care to sit down carefully. "Good morning."
"I trust you slept well," he continued.
"Yes, father."
"Good. And I trust you recall that we are expecting company for dinner?"
"No!" Clarke perked up at the sound of company.
"No one exciting," he said, eyeing her expression. "One of our ships has docked, and the captain and I are meeting to discuss future travel."
"I see."
The Griffin family was well established in the West Indies for one reason: Clarke's late mother, Abigail. She had come from old money, and when the West Indies opened up, so did the opportunity for business. With the exciting new trades of cotton, indigo, and sugar, so came the shipping trade. The Griffins operated six vessels, captained first by Clarke's three cousins, and as the business grew, a further three crews were taken on. When Abigail had passed away, Clarke's father moved her from finishing school at home in England, and brought her to live with him in the Caribbean instead. He had initially promised to make her a good match, but years had come and gone since that promise had been made. Clarke didn't mind. She relished her freedom.
"May I join you at dinner?" Clarke was accustomed to dining in her room when her father's employees came calling, but dining alone was an incredibly odious task.
Jacob Griffin's eyebrows rose. "You are more than welcome, my dear. Although I assure you, it will be quite dull."
Clarke smiled. "I don't mind, I always enjoy making a new acquaintance. What is this captain's name?"
"Bellamy Blake."