The Pirate's Daughter. Helen Dickson

dwell on the mulatto woman. She had fine dark eyes and an abundance of lustrous short black hair. Her coffee-coloured skin was without a blemish, and her full ripe lips and slightly flattened nose showed her Negroid ancestry. She had a slumberous, languid grace, and possessed the requisite warm softness and the firm-fleshed litheness of youth, which was capable of awaking all too easily the carnality of the opposite sex. Having already guessed at the relationship that existed between her cousin and Elmina, Cassandra was surprised but unaffected by it. She smiled inwardly, for she could well see why John was so taken with her, and why he favoured the privacy of the bungalow to the house.

      She knew interracial liaisons were not uncommon on the islands, giving rise to a mulatto population and creating a new class of coloureds. However, it would be indelicate for her to discuss the situation with her cousin for, after all, if he chose to keep a native woman in his house as his mistress then it was entirely his own affair. She felt no resentment towards the woman, but it raised a complication she had not bargained for.

      ‘But make no mistake, Cassandra,’ John went on, ‘you cannot remain on the island indefinitely. You will return to England as soon as I can secure you a place on the first available ship.’

      Swamped with disappointment, for she had hoped to remain on Barbados for as long as her cousin, Cassandra stared at him, her face crestfallen. ‘But why can I not remain here until it’s time for you to return?’

      ‘No,’ he answered firmly. ‘I want you away from Barbados before the rainy season. Often the devastation wrought by the high winds and rain defies exaggeration. For the island’s planters they can spell disaster.’

      ‘But that is too soon,’ she objected, her thoughts turning to the handsome Captain Marston, for she had hoped to still be on Barbados when he returned from Jamaica. ‘Do—please let me stay longer, John,’ she begged sweetly. ‘I shall be no trouble to you—I promise.’

      John sighed, shaking his head in defeat. ‘As to that, Cassandra, I doubt it very much. We’ll see how things turn out—but I will stress that your behaviour will determine the length of your stay. Is that understood?’

      ‘Oh—yes, very well,’ she replied, appeased by his concession.

      ‘Good. As for myself,’ he said, his gaze dwelling softly on Elmina’s appealingly beautiful face, ‘I do not intend returning to England until much later.’

      There were parties and stylish gatherings of local gentry given by Sir Charles and Lady Julia Courtly while Cassandra was a guest in their house. John lost no time in pointing out that it was necessary for her to replace her pitiful, pathetic belongings before he could introduce her to his friends. He would not have her appearing like a drab and was determined that she would look her best. It made him proud to know she was admired—and maybe attract the eye of one of the island’s rich planters.

      Julia whisked her off to Bridgetown, where they purchased materials of every shade and light fabrics to be made into gowns by Julia’s sempstress and her chattering helpers. Cassandra stood for hours on end as they fitted and pinned and snipped and stitched, until each gown moulded her slender form to perfection.

      Barbados was a strange and exciting place to be—glamorous too, in its own way, and Cassandra enjoyed it with the reckless pleasure of a pardoned convict. The island was inhabited by merchants and many wealthy planters, who had made good and clearly tried to live like kings, setting their eyes on building palaces in the tropics, filling them with fine furniture and silver and lavish banquets served to their guests.

      The people the Courtlys and John introduced her to on the whole belonged to the island’s aristocracy. They all had money and the women wore fashionable gowns and showed no signs of the hard work done by others in their fine houses. The men she met were eager to be introduced to her, paying her the most extravagant compliments as though they hadn’t seen a pretty woman before.

      These men all had the same hard, alert look Sir Charles Courtly wore, like men who have much on their minds. Charles Courtly was a man of average height, with sandy-coloured hair and a rakish moustache, and his figure was as slender as a man’s half his age. He was a member of the parish vestry—one of sixteen of the elected property owners of St George empowered to collect parish taxes and rents.

      He had an intimidating air of command, derived from years of managing his plantation and administering to island affairs. The charm he exerted was effortless, but Cassandra began to realise, as the days passed and she got to know him better, that he ruled his plantation as much from general fear of the retribution he could wield upon his slaves as from respect.

      As the days drifted by in an untroubled haze, Cassandra dare not let her thoughts dwell too deeply on her father since they awoke turbulent emotions within her, and yet she felt that fate was not unjust, for she would be content to remain on Barbados for now, to bask in its warmth, its enchantment—and to gather fresh enthusiasm and strength to face what it had in store for her when she returned to England.

      As the weeks went by and September came to Barbados, when the parching drought of summer was frequently followed by the heavy rains and wind, John often allowed her to accompany him to Bridgetown, and on his evenings at home he brought guests to dine at the bungalow—men attached to the Wyndham and other mercantile companies attending to business in the Caribbean islands.

      Tonight he informed her there was to be only one guest. She watched the visitor enter and remove his wide-brimmed hat with its dancing white plume and hand it to Elmina. Those languid movements were all at once familiar. When he raised his head, she encountered an amused dark stare. Her initial surprise was quickly followed by a wild beating of her heart. A soft flush sprang to her cheeks as her eyes softened with recognition. Then they blazed with a fierce light.

      John’s guest moved closer, his tall, broad-shouldered figure seeming to fill the room. As on the beach all those weeks before, his nearness was disturbing, and on meeting the dark irresistible gaze of Captain Marston, Cassandra felt that maybe she would not have to wait until she returned to England to find out what fate had in store for her after all.

      Rarely had the lovely Mistress Everson been out of Stuart’s mind since he had plucked her from the capsizing boat. Throughout the weeks he had spent on Jamaica she had never left his thoughts, and he had been sorely tempted to cut his visit short and return to Barbados. Thinking of her forced him to recognise and reflect on all the things he had missed in his life and the things that would be lacking in it for all time if he didn’t give up the sea, which strengthened his decision to do just that.

      On returning to Barbados and meeting her cousin Sir John Everson in Bridgetown, he had lost no time in enquiring after his charming cousin and was absolutely delighted to find she was still on the island—and he had truly thought his luck was in when Sir John asked if he would accommodate that same young lady and her companion on his vessel when it returned to England.

      Sir John’s invitation to dine with them at his house and return to his ship the following morning was too tempting an offer for him to resist. Had it been anyone else he would have declined the invitation, for after a busy day overseeing the loading of more of the cargo, he could think of nothing better than going straight to bed. But his fierce desire to meet the delightful Mistress Everson again—curious to see if she really was as lovely as he remembered—was too attractive an invitation to turn down.

      She stood against the light, unconscious of the spectacle she offered, magnificent and ravishing in her shimmering saffron gown, her hair, a mixture of silver and gold, hanging loose down the length of her spine and gleaming like polished silk. Her face was serene and radiant—the face of an angel. She was even lovelier than he remembered, an enchanting temptress, her beauty full blown. And he wanted her.

      He sensed that it would require time and courtship to lure her into his arms. However, time was something he did not have, and having given up trying to understand the reasons for the step he was about to take, he had made up his mind not to leave Barbados without making her his wife.

      Facing weeks ahead on board ship, of seeing her day after day and not being able to touch her, would be a living, frustrating torment. So fragile would