CHAPTER 45: The Noose of Matrimony

Tory's stitches were as hopeless as ever. But it didn't matter. There was more at risk than rapped knuckles from a displeased sewing instructress. She would be running for her life.

She turned her back again to the tilting glass Matty had brought her, peering over her shoulder. Her clumsy stitches only defaced the fine creamy satin at a few intervals, unknotted, an attempt to suture back together — but not too closely — the two halves of the underskirt of the gown she'd slit up the back all the way to the waist. She had to be able to seize her skirts at a moment's notice and rip the back slit open again. A moment was all she would have, she was sure of it, and she was not about to let this cream puff of satin and lace trip her up.

She shook down the skirts again and turned about. Well, she'd made a wreck of the symmetry of the hem, but it wasn't so visible through the two layers of gauzy overskirts above. She'd cut those up the back too, but as they were made to float about anyway, she doubted anyone would notice — certainly not the male crew of a merchant vessel. Certainly not Matty.

Tory caught sight of her expression in the glass  — hardly the face an eager bridegroom would wish to see on his wedding day. She'd made no attempt to torture her long, dark hair into any of the popular styles of the day, even supposing she had the vaguest idea how to do so. Let him see her as she was: Fierce. Savage. Piratical. She had spent all last night until her candle gutted sitting up in her chemise, stitching together the two separate legs of her underdrawers, like trousers. If —when — she seized the chance to wrench open her gown, she would need to be able to move, to run, to fight if she must, and her garments had better be up to the challenge. It was her only hope.

The rasp of the key in the lock startled her. Surely, it was not time, not yet. But there stood Matty in a dark blue cutaway jacket, ablaze with brass buttons, tan-colored trousers and black patent pumps. He smiled at the sight of her, barefoot and loose-haired as she was.

"Ah, dressed already. It cheers me to see you so eager, Mistress." There might have been more of an edge to his smile than usual, as he stepped inside and shut the door.

"Eager to escape the prison of this cabin," she replied.

"And my crew are eager to see you. I should like to show you off."

Tory tried to collect her wits. Was this her chance, come so soon? If Matty paraded her around the ship, she might contrive to get overboard now, while Hotspur was still in the upper harbor, and perhaps she could latch on to some passing skiff —

"Most especially to a visitor who has come to see us off," Matty went on.

"Visitor?" Tory's mind raced through what little she knew of their plans. Wasn't the clergyman waiting for them at the church? If Matty had persuaded him to perform the heinous ceremony on board, she would have no opportunity at all to escape.

"Come, don't look like that," said Matty. "It's an old friend of ours. An old shipmate."

Tory stared at him. And somehow, just looking at his expression, she knew.

"Jack?" she whispered.

"Come to say goodbye," said Matty. "I've told him our happy news."

"How premature of you," said Tory, heart pounding, as she moved toward the door. "He won't believe it!"

"Perhaps not at first," Matty agreed, catching her by the elbow. "Which is why you must convince him."

"The hell I will!"

"And yet you must." Matty held her fast. "If you want Jack to live."

Her reaction must have pleased him. He did not relax his grip on her elbow, but he seemed to warm slightly to his tale.

"I'm a merchant captain, as you see. It's not my habit to sail without insurance. I'd hoped it would not come to this, but as a precaution, I was up to London earlier this week, where I left a sealed document with my family's solicitor, to be opened — or not — at my discretion. Depending on how you behave in the next few minutes. You are going to tell Jack you're marrying me of your own free will. You had better be convincing. And he had better believe you, or I'll have him up on a charge of piracy."

Tory stared at him, speechless.

"I've a troop of Marines under my command. My father will no longer sail without 'em. Pirates, you know. I am empowered to have Jack clapped in irons, right here and now, and don't think I won't. My sworn statement has only to be delivered to the magistrate in London and Jack's fate is sealed. And don't bother pretending you don't care," Matty went on. "Look at the speed with which I got you here from Kelsingham when you thought I had news of him. I didn't have to persuade you; hellfire, I couldn't restrain you!"

"It was all a pack of lies!" Tory fumed.
    
"Yes. But I'll not have to lie to the magistrates about Jack. All I'll have to do is tell them the truth. Of course, he might try to accuse me in turn," Matty went on, his voice very low. "But who is the law more likely to believe, a respectable merchant captain with a very old family name, or a ragged actor without name, fortune, or connections, and a dubious past?"

"But —"
    
"I require a bride, and I shall have one, or your precious acrobat will decorate Execution Dock."

"You can't imagine that I would let you do it!" Tory hissed.

"You can't imagine I would give you any opportunity to stop me." Matty glowered at her, even as Tory sensed the pleasure it gave him to exert power over her. "We sail on the tide in two hours. Like it or not, Tory, you will be my bride, or Jack dies." He turned her toward the glass in her ridiculous white satin gown. "Now go and tell him."

The cabin door opened, the two Marines outside obligingly stepped aside, daylight beckoned down the companion ladder, and yet Tory could scarcely step one foot in front of the other. For two weeks, she had thought of nothing else but seeing Jack again; she ought to be racing like the wind into his arms. But not like this, not as Matty Forrester's bride. It was Jack's worst nightmare, that he would somehow lose her to this . . . this . . . duplicitous snake with an angel's face and figure. She had spent years trying to convince Jack that Matty meant nothing to her, and now . . .

Matty herded her up the short ladder, out into the blessed afternoon sunlight and across the broad quarterdeck, to the forward rail, overlooking the main deck. Activity stretched out below them as sailors got the ship in trim to sail, but Tory neither saw nor heard any of it. Her entire attention was fastened on the tall, bareheaded figure in shirtsleeves and waistcoat loitering at the foot of the ladder down to the deck. Well, not loitering, exactly. Jack was staring up at the rail as if he meant to burn a hole in it — especially when Tory appeared, all but mummified in her bridal whites.

She cast a loathing glance at Matty, calmly waiting by her side. Had there ever been a less willing bride in the history of marriage? How could Jack not see the truth of it? But look at how he'd reacted to her improvised tale of Captain Lightfoot. Even after all this time, how could he still believe she could ever betray him like this? But Tory feared that he might. And indeed, he must, she must make him believe it.

But how could she choose between saving Jack's life and breaking his heart?

She could not bear to look into his face. Even from this distance, the hunger and longing and pain and confusion she read there were exactly the things she felt. How could she lie to Jack? But how could she not? Like a sleepwalker, she moved to the end of the rail near the top of the ladder where Jack waited at the foot. She could see his impulse was to spring up the ladder to her, as hers was to flee down to him, but he was waiting for a signal.

"Rusty," was all he said.

"Where have you been?" It was out before she could stop it, and in the instant she saw him wince in response, she knew which tack she must take. "Two weeks without a word, Jack. Not knowing if you were alive or dead."

"I'm so sorry," he began, "it will never —"

But she could not let him speak, could not allow him to persuade her away from her resolve. He would hang himself with every word.

"It's too late," she told him, "far too late for all that. I can't live that gypsy life any more. I tried, for your sake, I really did. But I need a . . . husband with . . . prospects. And a steady income. I need a home, Jack. In America, where I belong."

How could flames not come shooting out of her mouth with each of these lies? And yet she must convince Jack. She could not fail him. She must say whatever she had to to get him off this ship now, while he was still a free man.

Jack peered up at her from the foot of the ladder, as if sifting through the layers of deception floating around her like her gauzy wedding gown. "And Matty will give you these things?"

No, you great lummox! she wanted to scream. But instead, she opened out her arms somewhat as if to display her gown. "We are on our way to the chapel."

Jack only nodded slowly. "I'm very sorry that I have wronged you," he said at last, with such quiet resignation, Tory wanted to rip out her tongue. "It was never, ever my intention to hurt you, Rusty. I hope you know that. Only tell me that this is what you want — " And here, Jack's voice almost broke, for all his quiet resolve " —and I shall leave you in peace."

Matty had come up beside her, the same bland, cocksure smile on his face. The face of her future. But if that was the price she must pay for Jack's life, so be it. The two Marines from below had moved to the other end of the quarterdeck and hustled down the ladder on the opposite side to take up a position on deck. Another four were stationed amidships at the rail where Jack must have climbed aboard; she could just see the prow of a little boat below.

"This is my choice." She dared not even tell him she was sorry, for fear her real feelings would tumble out and betray her, betray them both. What a fickle, heartless little chit he must think her now. But he would live to think it.

Jack had always been so expert at hiding his feelings, but not this time. Tory might as well have stabbed him in the heart from his expression as he retreated one step back from the ladder, then another. The memory of the false words burned inside her mouth like grapeshot, rattled down her parched throat, sickened her insides, until she thought she would die of them. She prayed that she would. By all the gods, she wished she'd died before she ever saw such a look on Jack's face — and knew that she had caused it.

Every atom in her body was shrieking in protest as Jack turned away in utter defeat and started back across the deck and out of her life forever. Clutching the rail as if the sea were pitching beneath them, Tory had to struggle against the urge to fly off after him. But however much it hurt, this was the last thing she would ever be able to do for him, to let him walk away with his life.

Unless — Jack's life was not really at stake.

This renegade thought hit her like a broadside. If Matty were so hell-bent on getting Jack hung for a pirate, why not clap him in irons the minute he'd come aboard? Especially if Matty had already sworn a statement against him in London. And why go to all the bother of sealing that document for future use? If that part were even true; she knew what Matty's word was worth.

The truth was that Matty had as much to fear from the past as they did. And twice as much to lose. His only possible motive for threatening Jack was to snare her into marriage. That's what this was really about, a way to pay off his creditors and wriggle out from under the thumb of his father. Matty needed a wife to gain the rest of his inheritance, and he would pluck the one Fortune had dropped in his lap, the one woman on earth from whom he had no need to hide his murky past, from whom no drunken slip of the tongue would ever evoke suspicion or alarm. Or exposure. Why go to the trouble of wooing when Tory was so available? If he couldn't charm her, he would simply buy her, in the only coin that mattered to her — Jack's safety.

She knew Matty would have no scruples about sacrificing Jack's life if it profited him in some way. But there was nothing in it for Matty if he couldn't use Jack as leverage to force her into marriage. And once she was Matty's wife, he would own her, as Crowder had owned Jenny. If she were yoked to Matty in holy wedlock, there would be nothing at all to prevent him laying an accusation against Jack at any future time that it suited him, and buying witnesses to support it. Jack would always be an inconvenient detail, a potential threat to his glorious future that would be in Matty's best interest to be rid of. And what would stop him? Tory could not even act as a witness in a counter-charge between the two of them, since her opinion, like her body, her income, and legal status, would then be owned by her husband.

Indeed, only marriage to Tory would provide Matty with a solid reason to get rid of Jack. But Matty would never dare accuse Jack of piracy if he didn't first control Tory in marriage. She was the key to everything! Jack's future was in far more danger if she married Matty than otherwise. To say nothing of her own.

She glanced at Matty's face, beaming in his victory. And Jack was just fool enough to believe this charade. She would never, ever see Jack again, and he would spend the rest of his life convinced that she had betrayed him. And she would spend the rest of her life imprisoned by a man who cared nothing for her, for whom she was simply a means to an end. The only way to scuttle Matty's plan, and the danger he posed, was for her to escape the noose of matrimony. Tory had been sold into slavery once in the islands. She had no intention of letting it happen again.

Jack was already halfway down the deck to the boat. Tory knew she could not simply run off with him; that would force Matty to make good on his threat, or at least run that risk. And whether or not there was a sworn, sealed statement up in London somewhere, the Marines on this ship were all too real, and ready to obey Matty's command. No, she must somehow convince Matty — in the few seconds left to her —that she no longer cared for Jack, that Jack's life could not be used as leverage against her. At the same time, she must let Jack know the truth. It would be easier to get them both off this damned ship with Jack's help than without it.

She could not slip into Spanish; Matty was as fluent in that tongue as they were, and it would do none of them any good to start prattling away like a pack of Cuban pirates. She must find another language that Matty didn't know.

The language of the theatre.

 

"How much longer did you think I'd be content to wait around for you?" she called after Jack from the top of the ladder. "You juggler! You canker-blossom!"

That halted Jack's progress. He turned slowly to look back up at her, but his face was still wretched. "I know how hard it was for you, Rusty, but — "

"Toads, beetles, bats, light on you!" she cried in genuine exasperation. "You've always loved the theatre more than me. Admit it!"

Jack was staring at her now, so Tory pressed on, willing him to hear her words for what they were: a performance. She chanced a step down the ladder. "You may seem to repent now, but I know you are an ass head and a coxcomb and a knave, and your words mean nothing!" She said it with enough fury that Matty remained where he was at the rail, watching her with benevolent approval.

Still peering up at her, Jack came one step back in her direction. "Nay, Madam, I know not seems," he said carefully. "It's you who speaks an infinite deal of nothing."

"You hard-hearted adamant!" Tory cried, struggling to keep her voice stern, despite the little tick of hope in her heart, as she descended one more step. "I do repent the tedious minutes I with you have spent!"

"Ah, frailty, thy name is woman!" Jack rounded on her, sidestepping the nearest hatch coaming as he came back toward her, and Tory seized the moment to flounce down the rest of the ladder steps, as if to defend herself from his verbal assault. "I know you for an irksome, brawling scold!"

"You bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog!" she retorted, almost gleefully. Of course, they were mixing up the plays now, but she could depend on no one noticing, unless Matty had hired a crew of Shakespearean scholars. Or actors. A quick glance around showed her that work had pretty much ceased on deck at this unexpected interruption. Hammers had stilled, canvas hung in mid-reef, sailors clung to the rigging like barnacles, watching. Those on deck had even backed away into a ragged circle, even the Marines where Jack had climbed aboard, clearing a space for the "performance" to go on — a space near the rail, above the boat. Jack saw it too, and backed up accordingly.

"Dissembling harlot!" he all but spit at her, although his body language drew her forward. "Thou art false in all!"

"How am I false?" she cried, as they circled each other. "You've known exactly how I felt about Matty ever since the Gallo Rojo!"

It might be a risk to mention the little cantina on the island of Porto Rico where Matty had claimed her maidenhood so many years ago. But she doubted that Matty even remembered the incident — an idle wager on his part, nothing more —and, indeed, nothing appeared to alter in his posture where he still stood on the quarterdeck, watching them. But it meant something to Jack, a kindling in his dark eyes only she would have noticed.

"Away! Thou art poison to my blood!" he shouted, marching forward again, but away from her, with such aggravated preoccupation, even the Marines fell away before him to give him room.

"Devil damn ye black, thou cream-faced loon!" she yelped after him as she came abreast of the mizzen chains, where the lines were fastened to the rail. Chancing the merest peep over the side to gauge where the boat was, she had to stifle another cry at the men at the oars staring up at her — Mr. Delaney, Kit, Tom Ashbrook, and Alphonse.

Jack saw that she saw them, and came about on the instant, circling back toward her with such menace, she was backed up nearly to the rail. "Farewell, fair cruelty!" he cried as he passed her. But he kept on going, several paces aft again, where Matty had now come halfway down the ladder to get a better view. This was their usual trick to enlarge their performance area, and the circle of onlookers obligingly widened again. Even Matty paused mid-ladder. But the sight of Jack marching toward him with such purpose seemed to dissolve some of Matty's complacency; to her horror, Tory saw Matty raise one hand slightly to signal the two Marines at the foot of the other ladder, as Jack roared up at him, "You can keep the hellcat, Forrester, and good riddance!"

"I'll show you good riddance, you damned mountebank!" Tory shouted after him. Catching up both sides of her skirts with a vicious yank to pull out the loose stitches, she ran after him, crying, "Don't you dare turn your back on me! I'll have my satisfaction!"

Jack half-turned back to her, an instant of genuine surprise on his face. Behind him, Tory saw Matty move to the bottom of the ladder as the two Marines began to hurry across the deck toward them. With a last, desperate lunge, she grabbed Jack's arm, and hauled him back toward her, toward the middle of the rail, yelling, "Rat-catcher, will you walk? Turn and draw!"

Matty was frowning now, the Marines closing in. It took all of Tory's will to let go of Jack's arm as she backed up again to the mizzen chains. But he took the cue and came after her, shouting "A dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death!"

"Braggart! Rogue! Villain!" Tory taunted him, grabbing a line. Hoisting herself up on the chock at the base of the rail, as if to be better heard, she cried, "A plague on both your houses! I'm quit of the two of you!" Her backside found the rail, she slung her skirts wide, and rolled over the side.

Her hem caught in the balustrades, ripping out a section of skirt, and her knee barked painfully against the hull, but she was quick enough to grab at the chains going over, clinging there long enough to see Jack's head and shoulders appear at the rail above her. Thrusting one hand up to pull him after her, she heard Matty bellowing something above, saw the four Marines in the bows charging down the rail, but in one swift, smooth motion, Jack swung himself over the rail and launched himself out into the water beyond the boat.

Tory braced where she was for gunfire, but despite the cacophony of raised voices up on deck, the shouting and orders, no shots were fired. And she saw Matty's threats for the empty bluster they were. Despite his respectability, and the very old family name he valued so highly, he had no power to order his guard to fire on an unarmed man for stealing his bride.

She dangled for an instant longer, until her bare feet found purchase against the hull, and she scuttled downward toward the boat. Strong hands were guiding her feet, then her legs, and she was grappled inboard by the men in the boat, just as Matty's head appeared over the rail. His expression was livid. But even as the others were closing ranks around Tory, setting her down on a middle thwart, she stood again, one hand on Kit's shoulder and one on Tom's, as Delaney began to heel the boat away from Hotspur.  

"Sorry, Captain," she shouted up to Matty. "I'm afraid my bridal nerves got the best of me!"

She tensed for him to make some veiled threat about the sealed document,  his face told her he was primed to retort, but by now the rail was lined with the faces of curious men, and not all of them were peering at her. Matty made an effort to compose himself, to alter his glare into a wan smirk.

"Fortunate for me I saw you as . . . the hellcat you are!" he cried after her, as if the scene on deck had been his idea from the start, and the trough of water widened between his ship and her boat.

And that was all. Matty wrenched himself away from the rail and was stomping back to his quarterdeck, barking orders to make sail, as Kit and Tom helped her regain her seat. Coming about, she thought she saw a dark head, like a seal, emerge farther out in the water. Tom and Kit moved back to take up their oars and Alphonse scooted to the side. A moment later, the oarsmen paused, Alphonse reached over the side, the boat dipped, and Jack was pulled inboard in a cascade of water. Tory was near enough to get pretty well drenched, but she grabbed at Jack, soggy as he was, and steered him to a perch on the thwart beside her.

"Mountebank?" Jack yelped at her, when he caught his breath.

"Hellcat?" she fired back. "Harlot?"

Jack shook his hair out of his eyes. "Hoyden," he said.

"Idiot," she murmured.

"Bruja," he breathed.

In the next instant, he was kissing her as hungrily, deeply, as they had ever kissed each other in their lives. All Tory knew was Jack's strong embrace cradling her close, his mouth on hers, the familiar curve of his body beneath his wet clothes. Her Jack. Back at last.

She kissed him until she finally had to ease back to draw breath. Then she fetched Jack a resounding clap on his cheek.

"That's on account, in case you are ever again fool enough to believe I could ever willingly choose Matty Forrester over you!"

Jack rubbed his cheek, grinning at her. "Hellfire, I've missed you, Rusty!"

 

 

Top: Hellcat Bride, © Lisa Jensen, 2023

Above right: 19th Century sailing ship, stock image

Above left: Colombina and Harlequin,  Hekman Digital Archive