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Chapter Three

J acob leaned forward into the salt spray, gripping the ship’s rail for balance. He remained a bit unsteady on his feet from the fever that had swept through the crew and passengers, killing two of them.

But every morning he sprang from his bunk a little faster, gulped in the tonic of sea air, and rejoiced in the sheer, shocking glory that was being alive.

One by one, the rest of the crew and passengers emerged from their berths as if from their coffins, pale, thin, sobered but unbowed and growing more cheerful by the day.

They hadn’t fought off pirates on the way to Barbados only to die on their backs in their bunks going home, after all.

They had nursed each other through an exhausting, humbling, grotesquely intimate yet ultimately triumphant ordeal.

He had promised Isolde he’d be home by her birthday, and he could almost feel the shards of his broken promise lodged in his throat. He loathed to disappoint her. Just as he’d hated to leave her.

But as long as Jacob could recall, restlessness had billowed in him like the wind in sails.

He’d literally reeled the first time he’d seen her, as though Cupid had shot an arrow into the bullseye of his heart.

He loved her, and Isolde—beautiful, funny, kind, stubborn, fiery, perfectly imperfect Isolde—loved him, too.

This incurable Cupid’s wound was the central miracle of his existence.

The rest of his life must now necessarily take shape around it.

But within him remained the tiniest cinder of fury at having been so ambushed by love. Control had been snatched from him: he’d been given no say in it at all. Love had yanked his destiny onto another course just when he was on the brink of fulfilling a lifelong dream.

And Jacob had always known he’d had no business courting a woman just when he’d intended to leave on a sea voyage. But he’d been no more able to deprive himself of her company than he could voluntarily cease breathing.

And this was why he hadn’t proposed before he departed.

Because if he had proposed to her, he would have wanted to kiss her.

And if he had kissed her, he knew he’d never have been able to leave her.

And God help him, despite her, despite everything, no matter what…he’d wanted to go on this journey.

He’d needed to go. He did not know how to explain it to Isolde, so he hadn’t tried.

He had often felt as though he ricocheted off the luxurious boundaries of his life as though they were the bars of a cage.

He fully understood how lucky he was. He was an Eversea , for God’s sake.

That magnificent house he loved in Pennyroyal Green as well as an outrageous fortune would be his one day.

But some force in him needed spending, some voracious curiosity needed sating, before he could settle once and for all to become a husband and father.

At times, his questing nature seemed to him the best, truest part of him.

And at other times, it felt like a fatal flaw.

In his weaker moments, his mind would seek out and probe, like the socket of a lost tooth, the image of Isaiah Redmond’s icy composure, enviously analyzing it.

Did anything buffet the man? Redmond attracted a certain type of sycophant with his smug, unyielding certainty.

But his need to impress struck Jacob as gratingly obvious. A terrible weakness.

He invariably found some relief in the memory of Redmond standing over him pointing a rapier at his throat, his eyes glinting hate. That wasn’t composure.

On most days, Jacob remained convinced Redmond had tripped him during that fencing match. Because he knew Redmond would not be able to bear losing to him in front of all of those people.

Jacob knew Isolde cherished his questing spirit.

She’d always listened with dazzled eyes to his dreams of travel and asked sincere questions.

She never seemed to judge or press or fuss or want him to be anything other than who he was.

He knew she had suffered in anticipation of the day they would be parted.

She did not for an instant try to make him feel guilty for it.

And they both knew that if she’d asked him not to go, he might have stayed.

And then again, he might still have gone.

Either way, they both would have regretted it. Because nothing would have been the same between them after.

So in parting, all he’d said was: “Wait for me, Zold? Think of me?”

“Always,” she’d whispered, as he’d pressed the enameled celandine into her palm. “Of course.”

These words and that moment were as good as vows exchanged, as far as he was concerned.

Soon enough they would exchange vows in the Pennyroyal Green church with their families looking on.

He imagined telling her—perhaps when they were in bed at night, preferably naked and happily sated—about the Chinese and Turkish and Greek and Arab and African traders and merchants and sailors and gentlemen he’d met.

How he’d tasted rice wine and ouzo and coffee blacker than sin and thicker than lava; he could now curse and enjoy filthy jokes in five languages.

He might never visit their far-flung homelands as he longed to do, but for the rest of his life they would all exchange letters asking after each other’s families.

This colorful web of relationships formed across the world was a large part of how the Everseas had grown their wealth over the centuries.

“Better education than Cambridge, my boy,” his father insisted. Jacob agreed.

And though he was young he was hardly na?ve; he knew much of world trade was inextricable from some form of human suffering.

But he discovered that the plantation in which his father had won shares was dependent on the vile practice of slave labor, like most plantations in the West Indies.

It was one thing to read about the practice; it was another to witness it. Jacob had been badly shaken.

He knew it would eventually be up to him to be the Eversea family’s moral standard bearer, and as long as he lived, no Eversea would ever wittingly support that ungodly bondage. He’d given the plantation shares back to the owner, rather than sell them.

He was a little nervous about telling his father.

He hoped he would respect this decision.

If he needed to, Jacob would simply immovably stand up for what he knew was right, in the same way he had made it clear nearly a year ago that they could not distract him with the likes of diamond of the first water Fanchette Tarbell, or any other girl for that matter.

He was in love, and his choice was irrevocable.

He hadn’t told them as such in explicit terms, but nothing could have been clearer.

Not once had they outright said they did not quite approve of his choice.

They were not, however, shy about implying it.

“Do you happen to know how much income is associated with the Sylvaine’s property?” his father had asked idly one night.

Jacob had stared at his father for a long, thoughtful moment. Isolde’s dowry was modest, at best, Jacob was fairly certain. If she even had one.

“Surely, you’re not suggesting that I, as an Eversea, can’t just make as much money as I want or need?”

He’d skipped all the other questions his father wanted to ask and went right to the crux of the matter.

Improbably, after a moment, this made his father produce a rueful half-smile.

Jacob had come along when his parents had given up hoping for an heir. He’d already been denied a military career. Jacob seldom asked for more than the blessings he already had. He was a good son. He knew they were loath to deny him the wife he wanted.

Besides, he was indeed on his way to amassing a fortune of his own.

Nerve and instinct guided the choices he made regarding investments or risks, whether it was to sink his allowance in canal shares or play a little deep in five card loo.

His family—he wanted a very large one—would never want for a bloody thing.

The idea of starting a family with Isolde made him feel weak with longing.

For his twentieth birthday, the sailors on his ship had insisted on gifting him with a visit to an Englishwoman who had set herself up in Barbados as a courtesan. She was expensive and very selective about her clients. But she was flatteringly enthusiastic once she’d gotten a look at Jacob.

The Eversea family tree featured more than its share of rakes, all of whom seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed their adventures.

But Jacob wasn’t one of them. He might burn for Isolde, but he did not trouble the maids or any other women for intimate attentions.

He did, however, possess considerable expertise in self-gratification.

“The world is a happier place, aye, when a man knows how to please his woman? ‘Tis the best way to keep her from casting longing glances at the footman's arse,” the courtesan told him, matter-of-factly.

His imagination did not extend to a circumstance in which he could not keep Isolde Sylvaine, any more than he could imagine a life without her, so this at least didn't seem like something he ought to worry about.

But the pilgrim spirit in Jacob decided to give it a go.

And now he was humbly grateful. For the courtesan had generously guided him through an unanticipated frontier: the shocking variety of pleasure that could be had from one’s own body, and the immense satisfaction that could be had from hearing a woman moan and beg and say his name on a keening cry because he’d touched her in certain ways. It was quite a revelation.

What an extraordinary blessing it would be to bring these skills to Isolde as an offering—to be able to love her, body and soul, in every sense of the word.

He was returning with other gifts for her, too: a fiery opal that flashed with new colors every time it was turned into the light; it was in the shape of a heart, like her face.

A string of fine pearls, lustrous as her skin.

From an Arab craftsman living in Barbados he’d commissioned an exquisite wood music box, upon which a tiny dancer pirouetted to a Bach minuet.

He’d bought bolts of silk in the colors she loved best, blue and rose and pearl.

His wife would be the best-dressed woman in Sussex and beyond.

Sex, violence, illness, commerce—Redmond, that craven pleaser of authority, might have been a wrangler at Cambridge, but Jacob would wager the Eversea fortune in perpetuity that this journey was a better education.

He was returning wiser, soberer, lustier, humbler, more grateful.

An altogether better human. In all ways a grown man.

Perhaps the biggest revelation to him was that he saw and felt Isolde in everything. Not a conscious moment passed, not a beauty or strangeness or horror had he witnessed, without wondering what she would think of it, or wishing he could share it with her.

As he leaned over the rail, not one speck of land was visible behind or ahead of him. Not one cloud interrupted the sky.

But everywhere was blue, blue, blue. Blue like her eyes.

And soon she would be his, forever.

It seemed to him the rest of his life unfurled before him with a promise as endless as the sea.