Simply Anna Page 2

  Hurry, Anna. She climbed the last rungs of the ladder and knelt on the roof of the deckhouse as she worked to loosen the wet cords that fastened the canvas cover over the lifeboat. Once she was able to pull back a portion of the canvas, she shone the lantern inside, spotting the toy sword immediately.

  She clutched the canvas with her free hand and swung her legs over the side, dropping down into the dinghy. A wave tilted the ship, and Anna crouched in the bottom of the lifeboat, holding tightly to a bench to keep from falling. The flapping canvas over her head gave a small bit of shelter from the rain and the spray of the sea that pounded like a drum. For a moment she contemplated remaining inside, warm and dry, until the storm passed. But she knew if she was gone much longer, someone might put themselves in danger to come searching for her.

  Anna climbed back out of the lifeboat with the sword and lantern in one hand. She hurried to refasten the covering on the boat and turned around to descend the ladder. When she moved the lantern, the light shone upon an oar lying on the other side of the deckhouse roof. Nico or Mr. Harvey must have taken it out of the boat and forgotten to return it. Captain Fletcher had warned Anna and Nico numerous times about losing the oars. Without a way to propel the lifeboats, they could be helplessly tossed at the whim of the sea.

  She again unfastened the canvas, moved to the other side of the dinghy, squatted down, and pulled the heavy oar toward her, but she couldn’t lift it with one hand. The wind swept rain over her. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and set the lantern upon the roof, holding it in place with her feet. She wedged the sword beneath the hull of the lifeboat to keep it from being lost. When she lifted the oar, a wave rocked the boat, and the weight of the oar pulled her forward. She released it as she tried to maintain her footing and keep the lantern from tipping over.

  The oar clattered to the roof and slid with the incline of the ship. She was certain it wouldn’t land upon the main deck but would fall into the sea. Anna pulled the lantern’s rope over her wrist to free her hands and fell to her knees, stretching across the wet deck to catch the oar.

  She clasped the polished wood just as another wave hit the ship. The impact knocked Anna from the deckhouse roof. The oar she was clutching jerked her arms as it struck a line of rigging and rebounded, throwing Anna into the churning sea.

  Chapter 1

  A horn blared, and Lord Philip Hamilton, second son of the Marquess of Leavenworth, awoke with a jolt in an unfamiliar bed. His heart raced as he batted aside the netting that hung from the canopy above him and jumped to his feet. An instant later, his mind cleared. He recognized his portmanteau on the floor and his shaving implements upon the dressing table. He studied the room. He’d only seen it by candlelight the night before when a servant had shown him to the master’s bedchambers. The walls were whitewashed, the ceilings high with exposed wooden beams. Gauzy curtains billowed in front of open windows. Some type of tropical fern grew from a large pot in the corner. Letting out a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair and willed his heart to calm.

  He walked barefoot across the polished wooden floor and stepped out onto the balcony, which ran the entire length of the upper story. A surge of unfamiliar smells assaulted him: rotting vegetation, heady flowers, and the unmistakable odor of farm animals. Exotic bird calls sounded through the trees. Insects hummed and chirped. The chuckles of poultry and the grunts of what he thought might be pigs came from the yard below. He squinted, but the grounds were shadowed. The light purple of the sky told him it was nearly dawn. The sound that had jerked him from his slumber must have been the trumpet of the conch shell calling the slaves to the sugarcane fields.

  Since his ship had arrived in Kingston two days earlier, every sight, smell, and sound was new. Even the air felt different—heavy and damp and unbelievably hot. Philip had felt as if he’d stared at every exotic and unfamiliar sight with eyes as wide as a green girl at her first debutante ball.

  Stepping back into the room, he searched about for a rope to pull or a bell to ring—something to call for a servant. He could not recall a time in his twenty-nine years that he’d arisen without a servant nearby to assist him—or at least the means to summon one. Even on the passage from England, a ship’s steward had dressed and shaved him and, at Philip’s bidding, delivered a warm breakfast. Philip curled his lip, irritated at the prospects of acquiring a valet and instructing the other servants in the proper way to perform their duties. But such was to be expected from his new life, he thought, in the uncivilized wilds of Jamaica.

  He located his trunk in the dressing room next to his bedchamber. At least someone had delivered his luggage, although they hadn’t bothered to launder and press his clothing, which was wrinkled and still stank of the sea. Philip gritted his teeth and shook out a pair of trousers and a shirt, dressing hurriedly and resigning himself to the fact that he would have to forego a shave as he was eager to inspect his newly obtained holdings. Six weeks sitting idle aboard a ship had tried his patience, and with all the unoccupied hours, his mind had done little besides dwell on his misery, his humiliation, and his heartbreak.

  After his fiancée had jilted him and become engaged to his elder brother, Philip had seized his father’s offer of the Jamaica plantation, and within two weeks he had boarded a vessel bound for the West Indies. He suspected that the marquess’s own embarrassment at the scandal, as well as pity for his younger son, had dictated his proposal.

  Philip would receive the sugar plantation as his inheritance. His father would continue to support the venture for a year until Philip acquired an understanding of the agricultural estate, after which the holdings would be in Philip’s name and the success or failure of Oakely Park would be fully dependent on him. The plantation had turned a profit over the years, though not a large one. After studying the correspondence and his father’s ledgers, Philip was certain that he could increase the earnings. He looked forward to the challenge. He would impress his father with his accomplishments and capability. And once he found a wealthy woman to marry, his assets would grow that much faster. Now that he had felt the bitter sting of love, he had no use for it and would therefore approach marriage in the way he believed it would best serve him—as a business transaction.

  A working plantation in a savage land was a far cry from the grand estate in Kent where he and Jacqueline had planned to settle, raise children, and live out their lives happily together. But in actuality, the dreams had been his alone, and Philip’s stomach clenched as it always did when he thought of her. He shook his head. She was no longer his dearest Jacqueline but, by now, his brother’s wife, Lady Rothwell. The very idea of encountering the pair, not to mention the pity and gossip of the ton, had been enough to keep Philip inside his London town house for weeks.

  Apparently many of his friends had known of the affair all along. The Times had even printed a caricature which portrayed Philip playing at cards, oblivious to the couple embracing behind him. In the end, Philip was the only one dumbfounded when he’d discovered her betrayal.

  The awareness that she had merely toyed with him, batting her eyes and whispering promises, all the while scheming to ensnare the future marquess, made his face and stomach burn. Throwing himself wholeheartedly into running the plantation was his own sort of penance for allowing himself to be duped so completely.

  Philip glanced at the mirror above the dressing table. His waistcoat was wrinkled. He hadn’t tied his own cravat since his days at Eton, and the unsightly knot he managed to produce would have elicited scoffs and ridicule from his friends in London. He threw the limp strip of fabric to the ground and snatched up another. The result was not much improved nor was his disposition when he strode into the dining room a few moments later.

  He sat at the head of the bare table and waited, his temper rising. Was he expected to prepare and serve his own breakfast? This entire situation was completely unacceptable.

  “Hello?” he called but heard only his own voice echoing back through the rooms. Smacking his ha
nds upon the dining table, he pushed his chair over the boards of the floor, as noisily as possible, and stood. If the servants were not going to appear, he would have to find them. If he had to rouse them from their slumber, they would be sorry.

  He swept from the room and stormed down the wide hallway, peering into each doorway he passed. Was there truly no kitchen? Where were the servants’ quarters located? And how was it so blasted hot this early in the day?

  When he reached the end of the hallway, he turned and marched back the way he’d come, but he found no one in that direction either. In the dining room, he paced back and forth in front of the windows and finally opened an outside door.

  He stepped onto the patio at the back of the house. A wooden shack with a chimney emitting gray smoke stood before him, silhouetted against the brightening sky. Light glowed from the window, and a shadow moved inside the open doorway. The mixture of outdoor smells was now joined by one that he recognized—food. Strange-smelling food, but food nonetheless. Philip’s stomach rumbled.

  He crossed the distance and stepped to the door, rapping on it before pushing inward. A wave of heat floated into the already hot air.

  A tall, dark-skinned woman turned from the stove, where she was prodding some sizzling brown strips of something in a large pan. She was the same woman who had shown him to his chambers the night before. Betty, if he remembered correctly. Rather presumptuous of a servant to expect to be addressed by her Christian name, but he would tend to matters of propriety later.

  “Good mornin’, my lord.” Betty curtsied and tipped her head forward. She was dressed colorfully with a scarf binding her hair, and with a regal bearing completely unsuited to a servant. “If you be so kind to wait in de dining room; breakfast is nearly ready.” She spoke with an accent he couldn’t identify.

  Philip was taken aback by her manner, which lacked the submissiveness he was accustomed to. He almost felt as though he were being reprimanded. “I have waited. For the better part of an hour.” He raised his brows and leaned his head toward her to signify how completely intolerable this was. “I expect my meal to be ready when I sit down to eat.”

  “You rise at de same time every mornin’, my lord?” Betty turned back to the sizzling shapes and scooped them into a bowl. She did not seem at all disturbed by his admonishment. “Or how will I know when you are hungry?”

  Philip opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. Her question was not insubordinate, simply curious, and he had no answer. He’d never stopped to consider how the domestics knew when to serve a meal. It had just appeared, warm and ready, whenever he’d entered the dining room. But figuring out the routines of the household staff was not his responsibility.

  “I do not intend to awaken on a schedule to accommodate the cook. The housekeeper should instruct you in the timing of meal service.”

  “My lord,” Betty lifted her chin, “I am de housekeeper, and in de years I tend to Oakely Park, you are de first owner to visit de property. I follow directions, but I cannot read yo’ mind.” With a cloth, she pulled a covered pan from the coals. She lifted the lid, and a waft of steam carried the smell of some sort of sweet cakes to his nose.

  Philip did not reprimand her for her lack of respect; he was too distracted by the noise of his stomach as she tipped the warm cakes onto a plate. And besides, he had already determined a solution to the problem.

  “It appears the household is dreadfully understaffed. Search the servant registries or employment agencies and engage a cook. And while you are at it, find me a decent valet.” Philip folded his arms. He was becoming decidedly uncomfortable standing in the doorway of this kitchen building speaking to a servant in her domain.

  “I manage de kitchen perfectly well. Yo’ meal will be served when it is ready.” Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “Ezekiel will be yo’ valet.” Betty nodded her head toward a point behind Philip.

  He turned as a dark-skinned boy hurried past him into the kitchen. The boy moved with an uneven gait; though in the gloom, Philip couldn’t see what caused his limp.

  “I hardly think the boy knows the proper way to tie a cravat or press a jacket.” Philip tried not to scoff at the idea. This was bordering on the ridiculous.

  “He learn fast. Once you teach him, he’ll not need to be shown again.”

  Philip opened his eyes wide. The very idea of demonstrating the care and presentation of his wardrobe was beyond absurd. He struggled to control the irritation in his voice. “I do not know how to perform such tasks. These services are not done by gentlemen, which is why I need a valet.”

  The slightest tick of Betty’s brow was all it took for him to feel like a child whose ignorance was just being tolerated. His unease had brought out a pouty quality to his voice that was humiliating. Not to mention it was completely beneath him to argue with the housekeeper. “I will await my meal in the dining room.” Philip spun on his heel and hurried back into the house. He had never been so discomposed by an encounter with a servant, and he resolved to regain the upper hand the next time he spoke to Betty. But first he needed something to eat.

  He drummed his fingers on the table while he waited, and presently the boy arrived with a pitcher of juice. Betty followed, carrying the remainder of the meal.

  The brown strips, Betty told him, were plantains, a typical island fruit cooked in oil. The cakes were cassava bread filled with a sweet fruit sauce.

  He lifted his glass and tasted the sweet drink but couldn’t distinguish the individual flavors.

  “Dis is boiled sugar, lime juice, an’ coconut milk,” Betty said. “In de mornings, men mix it wit’ rum.” She opened a cupboard door and removed a dark glass bottle, offering it to him.

  He wrinkled his nose and shook his head at the vulgar idea of imbibing so early in the day, but truthfully, if he had not considered himself a gentleman, he would admit to being sorely tempted due to his growing irritation.

  He studied Betty in the light of the dining room as she served his meal. It was impossible to guess her age. The skin of her face was smooth, but her eyes held the wisdom of experience. That and the poise with which she carried herself led him to believe she was likely ten years his senior, at least.

  Once she had ensured that Philip had all he needed, Betty left him to his meal. The boy—Ezekiel, Philip reminded himself—stood patiently while Philip ate his odd but delicious breakfast. Philip wished he had a newspaper or something to distract him from the large brown eyes watching him. It was disconcerting. Philip wondered for a moment why it seemed different for a boy to stand at attention in the dining room than a liveried servant whom Philip would hardly have noticed unless he needed his glass refilled.

  When he was nearly finished with his meal, a knock sounded at the door. The boy hurried away and returned a moment later.

  “Mr. Braithwaite is here, my lord.” Ezekiel spoke in a soft voice, low for his age.

  Was the boy his footman as well? Philip closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Very well. Please show him in.”

  He put the annoyances of household affairs from his mind as he waited to meet his overseer. Before leaving London and on the ship, he’d read correspondence between Mr. Braithwaite and his father. Philip had not been impressed by the man’s prose, but the plantation was consistently turning a profit, albeit a small one, so he determined that Horace Braithwaite’s expertise simply tended toward business affairs and not written language.

  Philip breathed deeply, anticipating the start of his responsibilities as a plantation owner. He was anxious to immerse himself in the dealings of the plantation, increase his holdings, and be an independent man. He would make his father proud, and finally Philip would be the commander of his own destiny, answering to no one and certainly not allowing anyone close enough to distract him. His heart was closed.

  He lifted the drink to his lips again, and his eagerness wavered. He knew he could learn quickly and work hard, but a quiver of trepidation slid up his spine as he realized just how unprepared h
e was to start such a venture and to do it alone. He would have to depend heavily on the counsel and experience of his overseer. He hoped his confidence was not misplaced.

  Chapter 2

  At the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall outside the dining room, Philip brushed his napkin over his mouth and stood.

  When Horace Braithwaite entered the room, Philip found that the overseer was not at all as he had expected. The man’s clothing was slovenly. He wore no jacket or waistcoat but simply a tattered shirt, partially untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. His cheeks and nose bore the telltale red splotches of one who drank heavily, and his bloodshot eyes darted around, giving the appearance of a person who was naturally suspicious. His shoulders were broad, but his stomach was soft and protruded over his waistband.

  “Mr. Braithwaite.” Philip offered his hand, determined to act professional, even though the man had not presented himself thusly. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person, sir.”

  “Eh, so ya arrived, did ya?” Horace said with a broad accent. Philip hadn’t expected his overseer to speak with the cultured tones of a gentleman, but he was surprised by the coarseness of his words and presentation. He gripped Philip’s hand in his meaty one. “Yer younger than I thought.”

  Philip chose to overlook the man’s faux pas in neglecting to refer to him by his title. By rights, he should be called Lord Philip, but this was not London, he reminded himself. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes. It is my intention to inspect and assess firsthand the workings of the plantation. You will find, sir, that I shall be much more involved in the management of the property than was my father. I intend to make my home here for some time.”