Read Online The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor by Sally Armstrong - Free Book Online
Authors: Sally Armstrong
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would willingly take advantage of your innocence. I intend to raise anchor as soon as the cargo is stored and the tide is high. That will be early tomorrow morning. If this is agreeable to you, Mrs. Willisams, please do leave all arrangements to me.”
And that is the end of the discussion about her departure. Throughout the rest of the meal, the commodore entertains hisguest with stories of his first voyages to the West Indies. He tells her how he had sometimes thrived and sometimes not as he traded in those changeable waters. Indeed, the islands had new owners so often, he had felt compelled to inspect the flag in every harbour to know whether he would enjoy the welcome of Britain, France or Spain—countries not always in perfect agreement. At some point, as he pours her port, she is cognizant of the fact that, save the stories of events long past, he had spoken not a word on his own personal account.
“You have not mentioned your family, commodore. How you must miss them, at sea so often.”
He looks at her a long moment, but his expression is opaque.
“I am a widower, madam,” he says. “And childless.”
She is without a reply. How could she express condolence for his loss without appearing condescending in respect to his childless state? He might, perhaps, have preferred to remain childless. As indeed, at this moment, did Charlotte.
At the door he kisses her hand and again Charlotte feels a surge of emotion. Her suspicion and plotting had been undone by a gracious man’s simple kindness. Then a servant leads her not to Lutz’s plain wagon, which had been dismissed, but to the commodore’s own carriage.
As she draws into the village, Lutz is leaning in a chair against the front of his house, a mug in one hand, his pipe in the other and a bottle at his side. A single lantern burns overhead.
“Was the dinner to your liking?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Suddenly he’s upon her. Grabbing her arm in a viselike grip, steering her into his office, slamming the door behind them. He pushes her into a chair and stands before her as though she’s on trial.
Lutz snorts. “And what of our good commodore? Did he meet with success?”
“I understand you have made good business together.”
“Hmm. But did he meet with success here, in the petticoats?”
“Mr. Lutz?”
He steps toward her.
“I think he did,” he slurs. “Or God help you.”
“I’ve done nothing to displease the commodore. I ask you to leave me alone.”
“We have made a bargain,” says Lutz, “and now I’ll have you!”
“You will not!”
He stands a moment, breathing heavily.
“If you will not give over, I’ll beat you—and you should know—I’ve beat many before you.”
Charlotte sees the lust and anger and drink combined in the man’s already cankered countenance.
“Mr. Lutz,” she says, grasping at a tone and subject that might reach him. “If you were to beat me or take me against my will tonight, word must reach Commodore Walker. It would spell the destruction of the trade you do now with the commodore and all you hope to do. Do not let the drink destroy all you’ve done.”
He stares at her in the carefully balancing manner of a drunk. Finally he says, “You will lay with me when he’s gone, woman.”
Buying herself what time she can she replies, “I owe much to you, Mr. Lutz.”
“Damn you
do
too! You owe me a great deal!”
Muttering threats about what he’ll do if she dares to leave this room, he crosses to the anteroom at the back of the office. Charlotte hears the scraping of the chamber pot on the floor as he draws it forth with his foot.
“I shall piss myself if I have no relief,” Lutz says. He chuckles and sets the candle down while fumbling with his breeches.
“Let me help you,” she says and without stopping for even a fraction of a moment she crosses the floor, grabs the candle and is out the door in a single movement. It is black as pitch inside. Lutz roars and as she bolts down the
And that is the end of the discussion about her departure. Throughout the rest of the meal, the commodore entertains hisguest with stories of his first voyages to the West Indies. He tells her how he had sometimes thrived and sometimes not as he traded in those changeable waters. Indeed, the islands had new owners so often, he had felt compelled to inspect the flag in every harbour to know whether he would enjoy the welcome of Britain, France or Spain—countries not always in perfect agreement. At some point, as he pours her port, she is cognizant of the fact that, save the stories of events long past, he had spoken not a word on his own personal account.
“You have not mentioned your family, commodore. How you must miss them, at sea so often.”
He looks at her a long moment, but his expression is opaque.
“I am a widower, madam,” he says. “And childless.”
She is without a reply. How could she express condolence for his loss without appearing condescending in respect to his childless state? He might, perhaps, have preferred to remain childless. As indeed, at this moment, did Charlotte.
At the door he kisses her hand and again Charlotte feels a surge of emotion. Her suspicion and plotting had been undone by a gracious man’s simple kindness. Then a servant leads her not to Lutz’s plain wagon, which had been dismissed, but to the commodore’s own carriage.
As she draws into the village, Lutz is leaning in a chair against the front of his house, a mug in one hand, his pipe in the other and a bottle at his side. A single lantern burns overhead.
“Was the dinner to your liking?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Suddenly he’s upon her. Grabbing her arm in a viselike grip, steering her into his office, slamming the door behind them. He pushes her into a chair and stands before her as though she’s on trial.
Lutz snorts. “And what of our good commodore? Did he meet with success?”
“I understand you have made good business together.”
“Hmm. But did he meet with success here, in the petticoats?”
“Mr. Lutz?”
He steps toward her.
“I think he did,” he slurs. “Or God help you.”
“I’ve done nothing to displease the commodore. I ask you to leave me alone.”
“We have made a bargain,” says Lutz, “and now I’ll have you!”
“You will not!”
He stands a moment, breathing heavily.
“If you will not give over, I’ll beat you—and you should know—I’ve beat many before you.”
Charlotte sees the lust and anger and drink combined in the man’s already cankered countenance.
“Mr. Lutz,” she says, grasping at a tone and subject that might reach him. “If you were to beat me or take me against my will tonight, word must reach Commodore Walker. It would spell the destruction of the trade you do now with the commodore and all you hope to do. Do not let the drink destroy all you’ve done.”
He stares at her in the carefully balancing manner of a drunk. Finally he says, “You will lay with me when he’s gone, woman.”
Buying herself what time she can she replies, “I owe much to you, Mr. Lutz.”
“Damn you
do
too! You owe me a great deal!”
Muttering threats about what he’ll do if she dares to leave this room, he crosses to the anteroom at the back of the office. Charlotte hears the scraping of the chamber pot on the floor as he draws it forth with his foot.
“I shall piss myself if I have no relief,” Lutz says. He chuckles and sets the candle down while fumbling with his breeches.
“Let me help you,” she says and without stopping for even a fraction of a moment she crosses the floor, grabs the candle and is out the door in a single movement. It is black as pitch inside. Lutz roars and as she bolts down the
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