The Restitution

  The Restitution

  The Restitution

  M. L. Tyndall

  The Restitution

  Copyright © 2011 by M.L. Tyndall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organization, and /or events is purely coincidental.

  Original Cover Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group Additional design work by Bruce Carey

  Published by eChristian, Inc.

  2235 Enterprise Street

  Escondido, CA 92029

  http://echristian.com

  Originally published by Barbour Publishing, Inc.

  © 2007 by M.L. Tyndall.

  ISBN: 978-1-61843-030-4

  Contents

  Chapter One: In the Mud

  Chapter Two: The Pirate’s Son

  Chapter Three: The Pirate

  Chapter Four: On Board the Restitution

  Chapter Five: Sins of the Fathers

  Chapter Six: Fate and Wealth

  Chapter Seven: New Providence

  Chapter Eight: Home Sweet Home

  Chapter Nine: The Deception

  Chapter Ten: Boys Will Be Boys

  Chapter Eleven: Gods and Gentlemen

  Chapter Twelve: Where Affections May Fall

  Chapter Thirteen: Frogs and Princes

  Chapter Fourteen: Slaves and Masters

  Chapter Fifteen: Old Wounds and New Wounds

  Chapter Sixteen: Under the Shadow of His Wings

  Chapter Seventeen: The Unveiling

  Chapter Eighteen: True and False Love

  Chapter Nineteen: The God of Fate

  Chapter Twenty: Chivalry Is Not Dead

  Chapter Twenty-One: Grace and Idols

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Brotherly Love

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Enemy Within

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Blood Is Thicker Than the Sea

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Darkest before the Dawn

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Double Cross

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Smoldering Dreams

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Even to the Ends of the Earth

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Of Fools and Frogs

  Chapter Thirty: Agony of Loss

  Chapter Thirty-One: What Does It Profit a Man?

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Restitution

  Author’s Historical Footnote:

  About the Author

  Soli Deo Gloria

  For God’s glory alone.

  Chapter One

  In the Mud

  Port Royal, Jamaica, 1669

  Raising her chin in the air, Isabel Melody Ashton plodded through the muddy streets of Port Royal. All through the night torrents of angry rain had pelted against the window of her room in the church. Each bolt of lightning, each bellow of thunder had sent her son Frederick screaming in terror, and although Isabel had tried rocking him in the rickety old chair Reverend Thomas had given her and singing his favorite lullaby, he would not be soothed. Now, he slept peacefully nestled against her chest in the sling Marlie had fashioned for him. At least one of them was getting their rest. Isabel brushed the brown curls from his face and smiled, drawing him closer to her bosom.

  Taking a deep breath of the salty air still heavy with the sting of rain, she gazed over the churning sea, glistening in the mid-morning light. Waves from the night’s storm crashed onto the shore in a bubbling frenzy as dark clouds retreated on the horizon. Tall ships anchored at bay tottered on the incoming swells, their bare masts jutting like spires into the restless sky. Isabel shifted her gaze and swallowed hard, determined not to allow her terrifying memories to surface. By the grace of God, she would not have to set foot on one of those monstrous beasts again, save for the joyous moment when her father would summon her home.

  Turning a corner, Isabel lifted her skirts and squished her way down the street, searching for dry ground. Globs of mud caked on her borrowed boots, and she silently thanked Reverend Thomas for insisting she wear them. She much preferred her brocade slippers, especially when she ventured into town, but surely they would have been ruined in the black slime oozing all around her.

  She glanced toward Point Cagway, the main part of town just ahead. Fear pinched her heart. Even in the daylight, the taverns and shops that sprang up around Fort Charles appeared dark and foreboding, like a haunted village deserted by the living. She heard Marlie sloshing behind her and cast the young half-breed a quick look, happy the reverend had insisted the girl accompany Isabel. Port Royal had been deemed by some the “wickedest city in the world,” and in the brief year Isabel had lived here, she had begun to believe it.

  Squinting toward the sun, now just a handbreadth over the horizon, she knew most of the pirates and privateers would still be sleeping off their night’s debauchery. She needed only to scale the outer edges of town in order to get to the mercantile where the reverend had sent her to purchase a bolt of linen fabric, and then she could return to the safety of the church.

  Frederick gurgled in his sleep, and Isabel leaned down and kissed his forehead, breathing in his light, innocent scent. She adjusted the sling over her aching shoulders. At seven months, Frederick weighed nearly twenty pounds, and the strain of carrying him was taking its toll on her delicate frame.

  Drawing her son closer, Isabel made her final turn to the shop. Only a few dock workers and merchants labored across the avenues. A trickle of perspiration slid down her neck and under the bodice of her gown as the humidity and heat steamed from the cauldron of mud underfoot.

  Snickers drew her attention to a group of filthy men loitering under the porch of a boardinghouse up ahead. Whispers flew between them as their sordid glances shot her way. A tall man emerged from their midst and swaggered toward her. The gold braid on his modish blue waistcoat sparkled in the sun.

  Isabel’s heart froze. She grabbed Marlie’s hand and averted her gaze as she hurried forward. The man halted in her path. “My apologies, milady.” He bowed, doffing his plumed tricorn, and waved it through the air. “May I trouble you for a moment?” Icy blue eyes froze her in place.

  Coils of salt and pepper hair sprang from his cavalier tie. The pistol stuffed in his breeches and the cutlass hanging at his side sent a The Restitution-Changed tremor down Isabel. Though his regal mannerisms and genteel speech indicated otherwise, Isabel had spent enough time in the company of pirates to recognize one when she saw him.

  His degenerate minions swarmed up behind him.

  Feigning a courage she did not feel, Isabel thrust her chin in the air. “Forgive me, sir, but I have not a moment to spare.” She plodded forward, attempting to skirt around him.

  He blocked her way again. “I beg your pardon. I know ’tis rather imposing of me, but I saw you have a wee one. It would mean so much to me if you’d allow me to gaze upon your child. You see, I have a son about your babe’s age. Is it a boy?” He leaned down to peer at Frederick.

  Shrinking back, Isabel hugged the child closer to her bosom. “Yes. But really, I must be going.”

  Marlie slinked behind Isabel. A lot of help the young girl was.

  “About seven months in age?”

  Isabel eyed him with suspicion. How would a pirate be able to gauge the age of a baby? The men behind him pressed forward, their fierce eyes shifting from her to Frederick. One of them smacked his lips and snarled at her.

  The tall pirate ran a long, bony finger over Frederick’s head. “May I hold him?”

  Isabel leap
t back and nearly tripped over a rock. “How dare you? Absolutely not. Now be gone with you.” Fear tripped through her mind, trying to find an explanation for this pirate’s interest in her son. Clinging to Frederick, she backed farther away.

  The man was not leaving. In fact, the smirk on his lips grew even wider. He took a step toward her, reaching out for Frederick.

  The crack of a whip and the snort of horses sounded behind her, and Isabel turned to see a carriage lumbering through the sludge. It was Abigail and her prudish friends. Relief softened the sting of her nerves—not her normal reaction when she ran across Abigail, but for once the girl had done her a service.

  The pirate looked up. Disappointment tugged at his smug features. Donning his hat, he offered Isabel a bow. “Another time, perhaps?” Then, as quickly as they’d come, he and his band of men disappeared into town.

  “Well, I daresay, look who the storm has dragged from her cave.” A shrill voice jabbed at Isabel as the coach stopped beside her. She turned and glared up at the attractive raven-haired girl leaning from the covered carriage. An icy smirk twisted Abigail’s otherwise beautiful rosy lips.

  “And she dares to bring her illegitimate brat out with her.” A girl next to Abigail chortled, sending her golden ringlets bobbing. The two girls sitting behind her giggled.

  Isabel returned Abigail’s stony glare and caressed Frederick’s head, thankful he was too young to understand the insults flung his way. She feigned a smile. “Well, I wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation. Pray tell, do not delay yourselves any further on my account.”

  “We simply thought you might be in need of assistance”—Abigail glanced in the direction the pirates had gone—“but now I remember that you have a certain penchant for pirates.” Her lip curled in disdain.

  Marlie gently tugged Isabel’s elbow. “Come, milady. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, by all means. Go with your little slave girl.” Abigail sighed and fingered the sparkling ruby hanging around her neck. “Go purchase a proper push carriage for your… your… whose son is he?” She cast a playful gaze at her friends, igniting them in laughter. “Ah yes, some pirate, wasn’t it? But in any case, surely it is uncomfortable to carry him around like the slave women do while they work in the fields?”

  The muscles in Isabel’s jaw tightened as tears burned behind her eyes. She could not afford a push carriage for Frederick, nor even proper attire. She was as poor as she had ever been in her life—nothing more than a beggar living off the mercies of the reverend. How far she had fallen from the wealth and luxury of her father’s estate in Hertfordshire. Didn’t these ladies know who she was? She was the daughter of Lord and Lady Ashton. Her father was an earl, giving Isabel a far higher position than a mere governor’s daughter, which was all Abigail could ascribe to.

  The biscuit and banana Isabel had eaten for breakfast rebelled in her stomach, and a sour taste rose in her throat. She had tried to befriend these ladies when she’d first come to Port Royal, finding them the most suitable company for someone of her station. But to her deep chagrin, they had turned up their noses when they discovered her condition. Was it her fault she bore the child of a man who’d ravished her? Did they truly think she sought out such a travesty? Nevertheless, rumors of her wantonness soon spread throughout the city.

  The rising sun cast a harsh light on Abigail’s face, and she shifted back into the shadows of the covered carriage. Her gaze landed on Isabel’s muddy shoes. “Wearing men’s boots now? Have you no shame?”

  “Look how dirty she is,” one of the women in the back scoffed.

  “Well what do you expect, Harriet,” the blonde woman chimed in.

  Isabel wanted to say something clever, but the fury churning in her stomach clouded her wit. The driver shifted in his seat, seemingly growing tired of his mistress’s cruel banter. One of the horses slogged a hoof in the mud.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Isabel asked, quelling the humiliation rising within her.

  “Help me? Why, I should think not. I only hoped to offer you a ride, but since you are as filthy as a farmer I’m afraid I must renege.” Abigail drew her handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration on her throat. “Move on, Clive.” She waved her hand through the air.

  The driver gave the reins a flick that sent the horses plunging forward. The coach wheels spun ruts in the dark slime before bounding forward and spraying mud all over Isabel.

  Jumping back, she stifled a howl of indignation, then shook the splatters from her arms and from Frederick as she stared aghast at the retreating carriage. Abigail’s jarring laughter filled the air.

  Isabel stormed into Reverend Thomas’s office at the back of the church. She tossed the bolt of linen onto his desk and braced her fists on her hips. He lowered his quill pen and raised his gaze to meet hers. A slow grin danced on his lips. He chuckled, clasping his hands above his head, and leaned back in his chair. “Pray tell, what happened to you?”

  “I will not suffer it, I tell you.” Isabel stomped her boot, splattering mud over the wooden floor. Frederick whimpered and opened his eyes, and Isabel began rocking him as she paced in front of the reverend’s desk. “I will not go into town again. You cannot force me.”

  Marlie entered the room, panting and looking distraught. She glanced at the reverend, the whites of her eyes stark against her bronze skin.

  The smile never left the reverend’s lips, but instead spread to his blue eyes with a sparkle as he continued to watch Isabel. “Seems you had a run in with a puddle of mud.”

  “Yes.” Isabel halted and glared at him, further infuriated by his patronizing look. “Spit at me from Abigail’s carriage.”

  “Ah, I see.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk.

  Under his mop of blond hair, his face glowed a healthy red from his years spent in the Caribbean, but it wasn’t simply the salt air and sun that quickened his expression. There was a calm exuberance about him—a life that shone from within. Usually it soothed Isabel. Today, it pricked her anger.

  He scratched his head. “Why do you let her affect you so? Who is she to you?”

  “It matters not.” Isabel sniffed and swiped a tear from her eye. “Just please do not send me to town anymore.”

  “Since you won’t lower yourself to do anything else around here, you leave me no choice. I must find some way for you to earn your keep.”

  “But Reverend, the things you want me to do are not befitting my position. Surely you do not expect me to serve these people who instead should be my servants?”

  “By these people, do you mean the poor and the hungry who come for our help?”

  Frederick wailed, and Isabel removed him from the sling and laid his head on her shoulder. She patted his back, assailed by guilt for an attitude she knew was wrong. “I want to help the poor as much as you do, Reverend.”

  His brows rose.

  Isabel kissed Frederick, trying to quiet him. “I’ll give of my time and whatever I have to help them, but I will not do laundry and cook and sew—things only servants and slaves should do.” She patted the silver and pearl combs pinned in her hair. The only remembrances of her past fortune.

  Marlie’s normally cheerful face sank into a frown. The young girl had been nothing but kind to Isabel. Half negro and half Carib, she was much more of an outcast from society than Isabel was.

  Reverend Thomas stood and circled the desk. “All God’s people are equal in His sight, Lady Ashton. The sooner you learn that, the happier you will be.” His tall lanky frame seemed to fill the tiny room. Beams of sunlight rippled in from the window, grazing over the volumes of books lining the shelves against the wall, and finally landing on the reverend, casting an ethereal glow about him. Isabel wondered if he weren’t really an angel in disguise. Making her feel even more vile by comparison.

  Frederick lifted his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and began to cry in earnest.

  “Why don’t you give the child to Marlie and let her put him to bed for h
is nap while we talk?”

  Hesitating, Isabel debated on discussing anything further with the Reverend. He had a way of reaching into her soul and pulling out things she preferred to keep hidden. She no more wanted a lecture on the equality of men, than she wanted to discuss what was really on her mind—her disturbing encounter with the man in town who’d wanted to hold Frederick. Finally handing her son to the young girl, her gaze followed him until he was taken from her sight. “I really have nothing more to say, Reverend.”

  “Come sit for a minute.” Reverend Thomas gestured toward a bench in the corner.

  Isabel plopped down with a sigh, and the reverend sat beside her, taking her hands in his. His familiarity didn’t disturb her anymore, for he behaved the same affectionate way with everyone. She gazed into his kind eyes. The fine lines etching out from their corners only made him appear more sincere.

  “God didn’t pick you because you were born into a certain family,” he said. “This attitude displeases Him.”

  Isabel glanced at the wooden floor, now speckled with mud from her boots. “I know, Reverend. My faith is so weak. I don’t even know if God hears my prayers.”

  “Of course He does. He hears all His children’s prayers.”

  At such close proximity, Isabel could make out gray hair just beginning to intermingle with the blond strands around his forehead. She guessed he was near her father’s age, perhaps a few years younger. Yet Reverend Thomas had been more of a father to her, more of a friend to her, than either of her parents had ever been.

  “Is it wrong for me to want to marry a man with title and money?”

  “Not as long as that desire doesn’t come before your love of God.” He squeezed her hand. “If it does, you’ll never find the true happiness you seek, even should you marry the King of England himself.”

  Isabel grimaced. She had seen King Charles II, and no amount of wealth or title could force her to marry that grotesque man.

  Thomas shifted in his seat. “Do you still cling to this dream even after deciding to keep your son?”