21 September 17—
My dear cousin,
I apologize for the abrupt manner in which I ended the last letter—I did not even sign my name! I was interrupted unexpectedly by a bout of sea sickness, and by the time I recovered and recalled my unfinished letter, it was too late to post it. So I shall send it to you in the same package as this letter. Let me not delay. I was still speaking to Monsieur of the Navy.
I suppose he had taken his fill of my reminiscences. He looked away from me. He was pale, I noticed, and I wondered if he was going to be sick again. Instead, he leaned down and began tugging at his boots. Suzanne, he was having a time of it—as though too drunk for that, even. I knelt down, with rather too much pity I think, and said, "Here, let me help—"
He pushed me away savagely. "I can take off my own go_ed boots, woman!"
I was angry then, cold, tired, hungry, asking myself how I would gain my next meal, how I would make it back to France. It was my turn to squeeze off the overflowing charm and stop acting. "You are a man with no power left. You have disgraced yourself out of the Navy, you no longer have the command of a ship or the loyalty of a crew. And your lady, whoever she is, will not have you."
The speech formed in my head and tumbled out without check. A respectable woman would not have said it. But then, a respectable woman would not have been in Tortuga. Monsieur of the Navy regarded me with cold probity, the same presence I had glimpsed during the card game. "It seems to me that your husband has left you, and that you belong to me. So I think it safe to say I have power over you.
"For a woman whose job it is to tell men what they want to hear, you are dismal." Then the fire seemed to have gone out of him, and he sat, nearly dozing, in the chair. Suddenly he demanded, "Don't you have any rum?"
"No rum," I said firmly, for I disapproved of the drink (and still do). I eyed him. He looked petulant, avaricious. "The landlady has plantain and salt pork, if you're hungry—"
"I just want to sleep and be left alone!" he snapped. But he made no move to leave, instead leaning back into his chair and draping his stockinged feet on the table.
"As you wish." What else could I say? Perhaps sleep would serve him well, rid him of the effects of all those foul spirits. Too much rum could make a man permanently ill-tempered. I hoped that wasn't the case with my reluctant protector. I took up the candle from the table, where he was leaning, both eyes closed. I brought it with me over to the pallet I had spread on the floor, the one I had shared with my husband until he had quit it for his own purposes. I checked the sheets for fleas, clearing them out as best I could, using the faint light. I then took down my hair, turning modestly from the table to untie the garters that held up my stockings. A coy glance over my shoulder showed me that my suppositions had not been in vain: the navy officer had one eye cracked open, surreptitiously watching as I undressed.
I undid the ties of the one gown I now owned, slipping out of it. Decency could no longer be kept at bay in the eyes of a Christian woman—even an actress—for I was still married, even if my husband was nowhere to be found. I blew out the candle, and unbound my stays in the near dark. Even then, I could feel the burning gaze of Monsieur of the Navy on my chemise, almost as warm as the candle. Though intense, it was not violent. He was still in love with this girl, but at the same time, he had denied himself long. I folded my clothing and got into bed without turning in his direction, and after some time it was clear his restraint stood. He snored in his sleep, and I myself was drowsy. It had been an eventful day.
I awoke the next morning, starting for the innumerable time that my husband was not next to me, asleep. (Complain as I may about Mr Garrick, I grew used to his presence.) iHe/iwas not beside me, but the distinctive sound of a man snoring reminded me that I had a dispossessed British Navy officer in the room. Be assured: he had not moved from the chair. Light coming in from the rudimentary windows told me it was now day. Monsieur of the Navy had, at some point in the night, taken off his coat. It hung loosely under him on the frame of the chair, one pocket significantly weighted down, where the coins were kept.
He was sleeping sound. I stared fixedly at that lump in his coat. Would he miss it? Would he wake? I had been tempted once to rob him while incapacitated. Then I had recovered my morals, but to what end? The cause for which I was laboring—a mutually beneficial relationship—seemed unlikely to surface. I got to my feet, Suzanne, with the Devil in me. I moved silently in bare feet. Monsieur of the Navy did not even stir. I drew close to the officer in the chair, his feet flat against the floor, his knees splayed open, his arms dangling at his sides. I leaned toward the pocket, moving with the dexterity of a cutpurse. In the midst of carrying out this sinful act, I looked down at him. Underneath the coarseness of his unshaven hair, the dirt and grime, he was indeed a fair sight to look upon. And though I had caught him watching me undress, he had not acted. Few would have kept such resolve. I leaned down, with my hand in his pocket, to kiss him.
He woke at once. At first he returned the kiss, moving his hands to my hips, but then he caught my right hand. He broke off the kiss and pinioned my arm, saying sharply, "You are so desperate that you would kiss me, with stinking breath of rum not a day old?"
Of course he thought, and naturally enough, that I had kissed him to distract him from the theft. He held my arm tightly, getting to his feet and forcing me to my knees. I said nothing; indeed, what could I say in my defense? He stared down at me angrily, squeezing my wrist tighter and tighter until I was forced to cry out. He let me go with a disdainful swing of his arm, pulling his coat about his shoulders and moving purposefully toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I blurted out.
"To get rum," he said carelessly, slamming the door. In the silence that followed, I could reflect on that flurry of activity. I had been prepared to steal. No matter how lax my code, I could no longer consider myself a good Catholic. And now he was gone, this enigmatic British officer who, despite myself, I was growing to like. Even—do not blush—to like the touch of him. I fingered the crucifix around my throat. My last resort and salvation, and it could only be further tainted by the woman who wore it. I could no longer do the memory of my mother any justice.
For the second time since I had arrived in Tortuga, I fought back my selfish, childish tears with all my strength. I do not believe, Suzanne, in all the time you knew me did you see me weep. It is true I wept often enough on stage, but those were false tears. Even when I was ill on the passage to the Caribbean, I did not weep—I was too exhausted to weep. Faced with the overwhelming certitude that I must turn to indiscriminate prostitution if I was to survive, I wiped two tears away and proceeded to get dressed.
I was doing my best to curl my hair without the aid of a glass when a tremendous noise at the door of the room. The handle was jiggled, then two men burst in. They were carrying a third man, whom they threw across the floor. The room was small enough that he nearly hit the opposite wall. Before I could put any questions to them about their purpose, they slammed the door and disappeared. Were I not occupied with the man they had thrown across my lodgings, I would have pursued them, though to what result? I had no rights without the protection of my husband. I realized, almost without surprise, that the man was Monsieur of the Navy. He was sprawled across the floor, face-down, moving only weakly. A feeling of pity overwhelmed my own fears as he raised his head and looked at me, dazedly. This time it was not drink that had incapacitated him: he'd been attacked.
I didn't have to ask him as to why. He'd gone out looking for rum. He'd been belligerent, or else someone had recognized him from the brawl. As my hands went searchingly through his hair, they came back bloody. Someone had broken a bottle over his head. Glass was everywhere. "Get up, sir," I whispered, "if you can. Help me get you to the chair." At first I didn't think he'd heard. Then he looked up, weakly, and slowly got onto his knees, then onto his feet. He stumbled over to the chair, falling into it. His nose began to bleed, and I took out my handkerchief. He plugged it with that. "Be still," I said. "I am going to the landlady for a basin and some bandages."
Again, there was no response. He might have been dumb. I went downstairs to the landlady as I said, and when I returned, he was still sitting upright, holding his bloodied nose. I was somewhat relieved. I soaked the bandages in the cloudy water and brought it up to his face. He looked at me with vague surprise. There were cuts all over his face from the glass, as well as the bloody nose and a bloody lip. A bruise was forming on his cheek. I pressed the compress to a cut above his eye. "This is terribly vivid déjà-vu," he said. Suzanne, I smiled. How could I not?
"Hold still," is what I said. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"I want to see if there is any glass there." He obliged, and I cleaned the glass out of his long eyelashes. He smiled faintly. "Your teeth?" I asked.
"What about them?"
"Did they knock any out?"
He ran his tongue over his teeth. "No." That, at least, was a relief! I dabbed the cloth at his swollen lip, thinking with some amusement this was the same lip I had kissed. He was silent, perhaps embarrassed at my impudently close contact. But had you seen a man in this condition, you would have reacted similarly, my chaste young cousin. I pushed his hair back from his neck. There were cuts running down his throat. I wiped at a cut in his beard. This was not a young man, not like the boy who had played cards. I did some sums in my head. He could not have been made captain before twenty-five. And how many years since then? Thirty-five, perhaps? Not more than forty? "Was she very much younger than you?"
"Who?"
"Your lady."
He drew back from me. "It's none of your business . . ." I stopped dabbing. ". . . but, yes."
If he was forty, the girl must be very young indeed for him to say so. A girl in every sense. Finally receiving a civil response from him made me bold. "Then it was someone closer in age, if not status, who won her." He was silent, assenting. I began to unbutton the filthy lace at the top of his shirt.
"What are you doing?"
Ostensibly I did it to reach the other cuts and bruises on his chest. But— Suzanne, allow me to instruct you. The English have a reputation for reserve, which they often richly deserve. I am told that, years ago, it was not uncommon for English men and women to greet each other with kisses full on the mouth. But such informality has stopped. Do not think they greet each other with kisses on the cheeks, as we do. Those above the lowest stations will find it hard pressed in society to do anything above the brief touching of a hand. So there is no way to show tenderness, affection, even of a filial kind. Do you understand me? A touch can mean much, in friendship, or otherwise. Perhaps Monsieur of the Navy understood this. For when I asked, "Do you wish me to stop?" he said nothing.
So I cleaned the cuts on his face, throat, and chest. I knew the only topic he could be induced to speak on was his lost love. I conjectured further. "Her parents were not opposed to the match—and why should they be? A Navy man of your prowess—"
"How do you know all this?"
"Monsieur of the Navy," I exclaimed in elaborate surprise, "an actress's job is not to tell men what they want to hear, but to observe and imitate. I merely make guesses." Which was certainly true. What need we of magicians when studied observation will yield the same results?
"No doubt it aids at cards, too," he said sardonically.
"No doubt," I replied, a little embarrassed.
He took the handkerchief out of his nose and sniffed. "What else do you know?"
I stared at him. This time he did not look away. If only I were a poet, Suzanne, not merely your cousin who is mediocre with words. Then you would understand the exact color of green of his eyes. But he had asked me, and I set to work. "You are your father's second son and chose the Navy over the Army because you wished to see the ends of the Earth . . ." He breathed in sharply. I went on, recklessly. ". . . and over the Church because you lacked decisive faith." He looked away. A sudden inspiration came to me. "I can even guess your Christian name."
Instead of being impressed, as I expected, he pursed his lips, as if in bitterness. "And may I make an observation about you?" I waited. "You could have run all the time between your marriage and your husband's leaving you—yet you stayed with him."
It was a cruel accusation, and I said as much. "I had no legal protection—by law all my money was my husband's—"
"But if you had been desperate, truly so, you could have escaped. I don't think you're as brave as you pretend, Madam." I had stopped listening to his words. They were not rational. "If the definition of a whore is one who gives her favor for secure financial status—"
"James," I said. "That's your name." (You may well wonder how I guessed. For Englishmen, John and James are those Christian names found most frequently—my own husband was named John. I was bound by fifty percent probability to be correct.)
He looked down, astonished, in the middle of his tirade. There was a blankness in his eyes that made me tremble. "No one has called me that in . . ." But he shook it off. "I desire you to stop."
He looked down. I had been picking off bits of glass caught in the hair of his chest. Chastised, I put the bandage back in the basin. I got to my feet and stood. Did he wish to argue, to be angry? By Our Lady, he would find me ready for that challenge! "What is worse than a whore? Is it a man who allows himself to be reduced to ruin by a woman who doesn't even see him?" For the first time, the bitterness melted. There was no mistaking the hurt and shame on his face. "iJe regretted/i," I whispered. I looked at my hands. How long did he look back at me?
Then I heard him unbuckling the sword belt that he slung over his chest. He unsheathed his sword, looking at it. He sheathed it again and said, seemingly ipar hazard/i, "Have you heard of a ship with black sails?"
"Black sails?"
"The Captain is named Jack Sparrow." His eyes narrowed. "A branded pirate."
It was impossible to be on Tortuga for more than a day without hearing of Jack Sparrow. He owed someone money. He had quite a train of jilted whores. There were other, more fantastic tales I had heard in the course of my stay, but I hadn't lent any credence to them. "Of Jack Sparrow I've heard … but have not seen." He looked at me, clearly disappointed. Then it made sense. Monsieur of the Navy was a pirate hunter. What greater blight to the free seas was there than this infamous pirate? "You're here because of him. He is your revenge."
He did not answer. He brought out a pistol from the inside of his coat. "What would you do with your money?"
"My what?"
He jingled the pocket of the coat. "If I give you this, where would you go?"
I licked my lip, attempting not to demonstrate my hope. "I still have family in France who would take me in. I would go there."
Monsieur of the Navy got to his feet, holding his pistol at arms' length, as if testing its weight. To my slight surprise, he began to empty powder from a little horn into it. "Jack Sparrow frequents Tortuga." He looked faintly sick. "I am told that women find him attractive."
"What are you saying? You wish me to seduce this man?"
I don't know to whom it was more of an insult. "It wouldn't be that difficult."
"For what purpose?" I looked at the pistol, which he was now loading with shot. "So you can kill him?"
"I thought you wanted to get to France," he accused. He took two great steps across the floor. Standing at his full height over me, I was compelled to notice how tall he was. "I thought you were willing to be anybody's mistress—even mine," he whispered.
"There's no 'even' about it," I protested.
I flinched as he snapped at me. "Don't—say another word!" He moved back to the chair, putting on his boots. "I don't need your help."
"Sparrow—how did he wrong you?"
I knew this would make him angry, but perhaps it would be the purifying fire at the same time. "I was the scourge of the Caribbean—he was the only pirate to be insolent to me without hanging for it." His voice died from its roar. "All those things you said . . . yes, he took my ship and my command from me."
I stared at him. Yes, they had said that Sparrow was attractive. But somehow I found it difficult to account for a lady's taste, if she had been stolen away from a Navy officer by a pirate. I suspected that another party was involved. "But not your lady." He cringed. Then who had won her, and how? "Tell me this—if you had her, if there had not been someone else—what would you have done?"
"She was going to marry me," he said with a stage-worthy pathos. "She had agreed to it. But only to save . . . ihis/i life. I could not hold her to that. I would have been a monster." He spared me a look. "Worse than your husband."
Ignoring the personal remark, I went on. "That argues rather less love than more. Had you really desired her, so that it drove you mad . . . ?"
"Not all of us are possessed of such lax morals as Gallic whores," he said coldly. I bit my tongue, unsure of what I would say, and if I would have the right to say it. I could hardly claim to be virtuous, when I had kissed him and I, still married. The blood fled to my head. I remembered that I had not eaten anything that day, and so I steadied myself against the wall. When I opened my eyes, he had thrust in front of me a small leathern purse. "Here, have your money. I have no further use for you." I hesitated. I waited for him to draw it back and say something cruel, to humiliate me. He was grimly silent. Still, I waited. "Take it!" Slowly, I took the heavy purse from his hand and turned to place it on my pallet.
I heard the sound of a cocked gun behind me. "Though answer me one question." I halted, knowing it was fully possible he would shoot. There was pain in his voice. "When you kissed me this morning, was that only to get the money or was that pity?"
"No, never pity."
He took me roughly by the shoulder, turning me to face him. He held the gun, barrel toward the ceiling. "Then what was it?"
I could play the blushing ingénue on stage as well as the fainting classical heroine. But I blushed genuinely as I raised my eyes to his. "I did it because I wished to."
He stared, his green eyes registering considerable confusion. He leaned in. "Then . . . what would induce you . . . to do it again?"
i[The rest of the letter is lost. It was either expurgated by an outraged reader or destroyed by its writer.]/i
