Apologies for the extreme delay in getting this chapter posted! Life has been complicated. I'm trying to re-dedicate time to the story.
One Week Earlier—
"How does the girl?" Flint asked, catching Billy's arm abruptly as he would have passed the older man by on deck.
"Well enough," Billy said, noncommittally, but then honesty compelled him to add, "I think."
"You continue to keep looking after her?"
"There's no one else to do it."
"Not that I'm trying to get rid of you," Flint said, "but have you given any thought to making that a more permanent arrangement?"
Billy turned away, seaward, gripping a section of the rigging as the ship shifted unexpectedly underneath them. "Not sure she'd take me."
Flint made a dismissive sound. "She'd be a fool not to."
"I don't know. I—"
"What? Have it said, man."
"I worry enough as it is. If I'll be able to look after her. If she were mine—if we had a family—I don't think I could leave her."
He stopped, at first having felt defiance, but now embarrassed by the vulnerability of the admission.
"Sounds to me like you might have to give up piracy," was all the other man said.
"And do what, farm?" The last word came out more contemptuous than he'd intended.
"Better men than you have done it."
"You wouldn't."
"Aye, I would not. But I am a captain. You're a good leader. The men respect you and would do your bidding for a time, but you lack a certain—" Flint paused "—ruthlessness necessary for successful captaincy."
"I don't want my own ship, but I don't much want to be land-bound, either." He ran fingers along the length of rope until a splinter wedged itself under his fingernail and he winced and pulled away.
"Give up the girl then," Flint said, walking off, but not before slapping him on the shoulder with enough force that it was difficult to tell whether the action was meant to be consoling or punitive.
Give up the girl. As though that were an option. As though that had ever been an option, from the moment he'd brought her to Nassau, brought her aboard ship, possibly even earlier.
And now, in the Barlow woman's house, with the rain pouring down on the roof above them and night having fallen, Billy thought that Abigail was still looking like she very well might throw something at him again if he so much as breathed too loudly.
Much less offered a proposal of—
Well. Marriage. That was what he was thinking about, wasn't it? That was where this was inevitably leading. She'd said they couldn't go on in the current manner. And it was true for him as well. He couldn't continue to work on the ship and establish a regular pattern of returns to Nassau, only to stay a night, do what jobs needed doing and hope she was all right after he left again. It wasn't fair to the men, if his thoughts were here.
How did you live two lives, when they held such different prospects?
A part of him, he knew, would be happy with stability. He'd had that taken away from him at a young age, but he still remembered what it was to have a family.
He sat down on the chair, slowly. Abigail still stood, rigid, near the hearth, maintaining her distance.
Billy decided it was time to try something. It might fail in spectacular fashion, but she'd already thrown bread at him, and as there was nothing else in the vicinity to hurl, he was probably safe.
He swung his leg out sideways to make a place for her to sit and patted it by way of invitation. "Come here."
Her eyes widened. After a moment she said, "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
"I will not!" Her voice raised in pitch, but not angry. Even from here he could see the flush building on her neck.
He smiled at her.
"I will not...not sit on you. What an improper suggestion." She eyed him while smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in the front of her dress.
"Just come here, will you?" He held out his hand and tilted his head to the side, to present less of a threat. He didn't want to stand up, to put himself in the position of power.
She had to want to. He really hoped she wanted to, even if it was only a little.
He waited, and he thought, for a few moments, she was going to walk away, go to her bedroom and slam the door.
But then she came. Slowly. Her skirts rustling across the floor. Stopping once, just out of reach of his arm. She smelled of sun-dried linen. He thought about kissing her wary mouth into submission.
One step at a time.
He extended his arm a little further, turned his wrist to reach her hand. Their fingertips touched, slid together. He angled his fingers around hers, noticing how her hand still felt so soft, so unsuited for this life.
"Abigail."
She started, nervously, when he said her name.
"Still want me to go?"
Her lashes fell, in defeat. But she stubbornly didn't speak.
"You can just say it, you know," he said. "That I was gone too long. I didn't want to be gone that long."
"It is as you said. You had no choice." She sounded distant now. Again.
"If I wanted to keep getting paid," he said. "Do you hate it here? On the island."
"What? No, I..." Abigail made a futile gesture with her free hand. "It is only that I have no purpose."
"Look at me," he said.
She did, with seeming reluctance.
"What do you think about getting married?"
She blinked. And her eyes widened a fraction. "To...to you?"
"I don't know anyone else to recommend," he said, trying to sound light, although the truth was she deserved better; he could imagine her father, if she'd still had one, laughing in his face at the idea of giving his girl to such a one as him. Laughing, and then having him hanged. Or shot.
Oh, there were worse men, to be sure he yet crewed with some of them, but Billy wasn't going to pretend he was any kind of fit match for Lord Ashe's daughter.
He was just going to look after her, if she'd let him. Give their current existence as much credibility as he could. Stand up in front of the churchman together, and he'd vow to all of it, if that was what she wanted.
The longer she was silent, the more he worried that it wasn't.
After a few more moments Abigail said, tremulously, "I have not thought about it...but...that is...I am not certain..."
"Of me?"
"No...but of why you are asking." Her eyes begged him to help make it all simple again. To return to an easier time. Perhaps even to go back before they had met—he didn't know. He tried to form a reply that would be both honest and comforting. To say just that it made the most sense did not seem complete. To admit that he had strong feelings for her would have been true, but he wasn't ready for, or in the habit of making, confessions of love.
"I think it'd be a good thing," he said, at last, not breaking gaze with her.
A few more long moments passed and then Abigail seemed to muster some inner strength or dignity and said quietly, "Very well."
He felt himself smile—with each moment it had seemed less likely that she would accept such an impromptu proposal. But now she was ducking her head, a flush building on her cheekbones, and, mindful of her self-consciousness, he took the opportunity to establish practical considerations. He said, "The captain can do it for us. Or we can have the preacher if you'd rather."
"Yes, please, the preacher."
He'd sooner have chosen Captain Flint to preside, but Abigail's comfort was of more importance. "I'll bring him here tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," she repeated, sounding uncertain.
"Unless that's too soon." He didn't see that there was any reason to wait, though perhaps she did.
"No, I...I suppose that would suit."
He still held her hand. There was silence between them for a few moments.
Outside, the rain had slackened, and they listened to it for a space.
Then Abigail said, very softly, "It is getting late. I feel we should—I should—retire."
She made to withdraw her hand, and he released it. He wanted quite suddenly, then, to say something of love to her, of something that at least expressed affection, but the moment passed, and she turned, and he didn't think he ought to call after her. Well, there would be time enough to say such things, now. Now that they were committed. Now that they were to marry on the morrow.
And what was he going to do now, he pondered, as Abigail's bedroom door closed gently and he was alone in the main room. Now that he'd chosen the girl over life and work at sea.