Page 17 of A Siren for the Duke

“Understood. I shall find a postmaster immediately. In the meantime… what shall we do with our stowaway?” he asked, the last part in a hushed tone.

“I have given her the good cabin and instructed her to stay put. I told her I do not want the crew seeing her or vice versa.”

“Of course. Well, I shall be back directly,” Ellis said, holding up the letter.

“Thank you, Ellis. You’re a good first mate.”

Ellis saluted him as was customary, then left to tend to his duties.

This left Lionel alone with his thoughts. Hopefully, Ferdinand Upton would agree to the proposal and be amenable to some generous terms. After looking through his family’s financials from the chest his father had sent, it was clear he needed to do more than cut expenditures. In fact, when he returned to Portsmouth, he was even thinking of hiring a barrister and a banker to advise him so that his family would not fall to complete ruin. Horace had been a terrible bookkeeper, and it was easy to see why Duke Hunt had been so stressed and sickly looking the past few months. Why the eldest sons, rather than the more capable ones, received the inheritance, Lionel would never understand.

Furthermore, everything hinged on the word “if.” “If” Ferdinand agreed to the proposal, “if” he even received the letter in the first place, “if” Jemima stayed in her quarters and did not cause trouble, “if” the journey was pleasant and they made it to Jamaica in one piece.

How he hated that word. But… “if” everything went according to plan, perhaps all Hell would not break loose.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jemima tossed and turned on the small bed in her quarters, her body aching from being so cooped up. The ship swayed gently beneath her, the creaking of its timbers merging with the rhythmic lullaby of the ocean. But despite the soothing melody of the sea, her mind was consumed by anxieties that refused to grant her respite.

As sleep enveloped her weary frame, Jemima descended into a realm where her worst fears took shape. Her troubled slumber carried her to a place where the vast expanse of the ocean felt more oppressive than freeing.

She was standing on a cliff, and the sky was almost black with storm clouds. But something in the churning water beckoned to her, figuratively at first, then literally, as the shapes of hands formed in the foam crests of the waves. Jemima quickly descended the cliff using the footpath nearby. She knew something was wrong, for the air grew thick with a sense of impending doom. The salty mist clung to her skin, a chilling reminder of the forces that conspired against her. Her heart raced, each beat echoing the anxiety coursing through her veins. Ghostly whispers sounded in her ears, seemingly coming from the sea. Those foam hands still beckoned her to the water.

The sand beneath her feet shifted, betraying her steps, as if it conspired with the crashing waves to ensnare her. With each stride, her footing grew more precarious, her strength waning under the relentless weight of the water. Why did it want her? Why did it call to her like this? And why did she abide, even though she knew she did not want it? Faces distorted by judgment emerged from the foaming depths, their eyes filled with disappointment and scorn. Among them, she recognized her mother's disapproving gaze, her face etched with the frustration of unmet expectations. Her older brother Ferdinand, once her confidant, now wore a mask of disdain, mirroring the judgments of their conservative upbringing. Even the Marquess of Kingsbury leered at her, his face a swirling, watery snarl.

They beckoned her towards the suffocating depths, their eerie voices laced with condescension and disdain. Jemima's resolve wavered as their words mingled with the crashing waves. She had the feeling they were right…

“Think of the scandal, my dear! You cannot sustain it!” whispered her mother’s disembodied voice.

“Remember your duty to your family. Do you not love us? Is that why you rebel?” Ferdinand questioned angrily.

“My dear… what a delectable treat. We shall surely have no issues producing heirs,” the Marquess leered, his voice sending an extremely unpleasant chill up her spine.

In a final act of defiance, she mustered her courage and shouted against the roaring tempest, her voice a desperate plea for freedom.

"I will not succumb to your suffocating demands!" Her words were carried by the winds, but they seemed to dissipate before reaching the ears of those who held the power to decide her fate.

With each passing moment, Jemima's struggle grew more futile. The waves surged, rising higher and higher, their force overwhelming her feeble resistance. Much as she fought, the dark waters seemed determined to claim her. Gasping for air, her lungs filled with the brackish waters of conformity, her cries for liberation muffled by the unyielding sea.

As her strength waned, Jemima felt herself being pulled under, her body succumbing to the pressure. The crushing weight of everyone’s disappointment dragged her down, and they feasted on her.

The crashing waves receded, leaving behind a desolate silence. The cliff stood as a silent witness to her tragic fate.

She awoke in a cold sweat, panting, her hair sticking to her forehead. And then she realized she was shaking. Not shivering from cold, rather shaking from fear and anxiety. There was no way she could sleep now, not with those ghostly voices in her ears and their odd faces churning in the water. Casting off the quilt and sliding her feet into her slippers, she decided some fresh air would do her good.

So far, she had obeyed Lionel’s orders. It had been a few days since he’d shown her to her new quarters, and she hadn’t seen him since then. Of course, she did not want to press her luck. One wrong move, and he might well throw her overboard. He was certainly strong enough to do it… clearly, the time at sea had hardened him, given him strength in ways unimaginable to her. Although she was angry at him, she hoped she was not the sole reason for his sudden hardness. He had once been a sweet, charming, mischievous young man. He was still a little charming, she could see that, but there was less mirth and sweetness now. But perhaps that was also part of growing up.

Jemima made her way through the narrow passageways, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and as it swung open, a rush of cool, salty air greeted her, instantly soothing her frayed nerves. Stepping out onto the deck, Jemima was captivated by the sight that unfolded before her. The night sky stretched above like a celestial tapestry, its vast expanse peppered with countless stars that shimmered like diamonds scattered on black velvet. The moon, a radiant crescent, cast a silvery glow upon the rippling surface of the ocean, turning it into a liquid mirror reflecting the heavens above.

Jemima's gaze wandered, her eyes tracing the constellations she had seen in the atlases in her brother’s study. The Big Dipper stood boldly overhead, its familiar shape a beacon of reassurance in the vastness of the night. She found herself searching for Orion, his belt of three stars unmistakable amidst the celestial symphony. It was as if the stars were whispering secrets to one another, their light traveling across the cosmos to reach her. Lost in the beauty of the night, Jemima walked to the ship's railing, her fingers grasping the smooth wood. The wind tousled her hair, the strands lifting and falling like golden silk as if dancing to an unheard melody. She closed her eyes, letting the symphony of nature envelop her.

As the ship cut through the waves, a trail of phosphorescence glittered in its wake, creating a sparkling pathway to the stars. Jemima's eyes widened, a sense of wonder flooding her being. She imagined that she was floating among the constellations, suspended in the embrace of the cosmos. Time seemed to stand still as Jemima immersed herself in the ethereal beauty surrounding her. She felt as though the universe had opened its doors, granting her a glimpse of its secrets. She pondered the ancient wisdom of those who had gazed upon these same stars centuries before her, wondering if they had felt the same awe and reverence.

This was reality. This was not the sea that had claimed her, suffocated her, and drowned her in her nightmare. No, that had been a reflection of her own fears. So lost in wonder was she that she did not hear the soft footsteps of someone behind her. Not until they stopped beside her did she realize anyone was there. When she turned to the side, she nearly screamed, but it caught in her throat.

“Goodness, I’m sorry. I thought I was alone.”

“Not at all,” the young man replied. He looked like a respectable person, with a clean-shaven face, blond hair, and kind eyes. He was even smiling. “We take watch in the crow’s nest each night.”