Chapter Twenty-nine
Afterward, Noelle could never quite remember the details of that nightmarish week when she lay helplessly ill in their cabin aboard the packet Dorsey Beale, her stomach violently rebelling against the relentless pitching of the ship. Most of the time Quinn left her alone, hiring a young immigrant girl from the ship's steerage to attend her during the day, and at night slipping quietly into the dark cabin, not even bothering to light the lamp that swung from the center beam as he undressed and climbed into the narrow berth across from her.
On the day after Christmas, when she still showed no signs of improvement, he announced he was taking her topside. She summoned enough energy to frame a protest but was too weak to resist when he wrapped her warmly in a blanket and carried her up to a chair on the deck. The frigid air soon set her teeth chattering, but for the first time, her stomach was quiet. From that point on, she made a steady improvement, spending as much time walking in the salt air as she could, even when the wind buffeted her so strongly, she could barely push one foot in front of the other.
One night as she sat on the edge of her berth, brushing her hair, the door of the cabin swung open to admit Quinn. It was unusual for him to desert the ship's gaming tables so early, but when she looked up to see his eyes boldly raking her body as if she were naked instead of wearing a modest nightdress, she understood that he had finally decided to claim her.
He crossed the cabin with an easy confidence that filled her with dread even as it excited her. Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her up into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers. Perhaps it was the suddenness of it, but for whatever reason, her body responded, and she felt her limbs turn to liquid.
Just as he opened the top of her nightdress to his caress and the last vestige of her will was slipping from her, the memory of his cruel taunt their final day in London returned to shame her: "Don't forget, I know what a hot-blooded bitch you are."
It was true! All he had to do was touch her, and she was ready to give herself to him!
"No!" she cried, pushing herself back from him. "I don't want your kisses. If you're going to take me, just get it done with. I won't try to fight you anymore. But I'll not have you caress my body just so you can mock me afterward if it responds!"
Quinn had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I was angry with you. I didn't mean what I said. You know that."
It was the closest thing to an apology she had ever heard from him, but the hurt was too deep. "I don't know anything of the kind!"
He took her by the shoulders then, his eyes colliding with hers. "Your body is beautiful and healthy. You should never be ashamed of it or let anyone, even me, make you ashamed of it." Abruptly he turned away and spoke so softly, she barely heard the words. "That night was probably the only good thing that has ever happened between us."
"You're wrong, Quinn," she immediately retorted, disturbed by the intensity of his tone. "Nothing good has ever happened between us, and it never will."
When he turned back to her, his face was coldly impassive. "You're right, of course. Now get into bed. It'll be as you want it."
He took her then, swiftly and silently, night after night. He used her body impersonally while she lay motionless beneath him. No caress or tenderness, no joy for her or, she soon realized, for him. Perhaps that was why she made no effort to stop him. No matter how dearly acquired, she finally had a small measure of revenge.
Each night after he left her berth for his, the disturbing question that had been lying dormant in her mind since he had carried her from Northridge Square and thrust her into the carriage surfaced to demand an answer. Why had she not escaped from him when she had the chance? Could it be that she hadn't wanted to leave? It was a ridiculous notion, she told herself, and tried to put it out of her mind.
During the day Quinn's behavior was courteous. He began to seek her out, at first chatting politely as he walked with her around the frigid decks, and then, with the captain's permission, initiating her nautical education by leading her through every part of the ship. He pointed out stays and shrouds, hatch coamings and quarter knees, explaining the function of each and talking of the differences between this vessel and ones built by Copeland and Peale. When he spoke of his ships, it was hard for Noelle to reconcile this fascinating man with the one who had abducted her -not once, but three times-raped her, bullied her, and was now taking her away from all she knew to the primitive land that was his home.
When was it they first began to talk of other things-politics, philosophy, even themselves? He told her a little about his boyhood, and although he did not mention either Simon or his mother, she sensed he had lost his childhood early, something she understood only too well. Was that why she found herself speaking about the children in London's tenements, sharing her outrage that such conditions could exist in a city that was supposed to be civilized?
It was not long before she came to realize what a well-educated man her husband was. In addition to having been schooled by private tutors, she learned that he had spent an unhappy year at Eton before he had been sent down as incorrigible. Still, he had received a university education at William and Mary, a small college in Virginia, where he had been an outcast among the wealthy sons of Southern planters because of his outspoken criticism of slavery.
They frequently went to the ship's hold, in which Pathkiller and Chestnut Lady were being comfortably transported.
"Don't be surprised when we arrive if you find the house needs some tending," he said one day as they entered the stall. "I haven't been home for over three years, and Televea has been closed."
"Televea?" She held out a piece of carrot in the palm of her hand for Chestnut Lady.
"It's a Creek word meaning 'home.' Simon bought the house from a Creek merchant who had made a fortune in cotton but overextended himself and was forced to sell off his house and his land."
"Do you mean an Indian?"
Quinn smiled. "Don't be so shocked. The Indians in Georgia don't carry tomahawks anymore. Some of the pureblood still wear turbans and leggings, but most of them dress like the white man."
Noelle was surprised to learn that the Cherokee nation had its own constitution and its own alphabet. Instead of the crude huts she had imagined Indians lived in, there were farms and churches, schools for the children.
"The Indians have become very civilized," Quinn said, his mouth twisting slightly at the corners.
"But isn't that for the best?"
He picked up a brush and began stroking Pathkiller's black coat. "They thought that by adopting the white man's ways, they'd be able to keep their land, but it was a foolish hope."
"How do you mean?"
"Treaties were made, then they were broken. The Cherokees have very little land left them. A tiny corner of North Carolina and Tennessee, a small piece of Alabama, and the very northern tip of Georgia. And now, what little they have has been taken, too."
Thoughtfully he fingered Pathkiller's mane, the brush idle in his hand. "Last May Congress passed the Indian Removal Bill. All of the eastern tribes-the Seminole, the Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and the Cherokees-were ordered to give up their homeland for territory in the west, territory that they don't want."
"Does no one speak out for the Indians?"
Quinn nodded. "A few. But it hasn't changed the outcome."
"And so," Noelle said thoughtfully, "the Cherokees have to abandon their homes for an unsettled land. Have they gone yet?"
"Barely two thousand of them. The rest-more than sixteen thousand-have stayed, hoping for a miracle."
"Do you think there will be one?"
"It's been a long time since I've believed in fairy tales, Highness. The Cherokee nation is going to be broken."