Salvation of Ignorance - Chapter 7.2: Not Ceased His Rampage

Salvation of Ignorance - Chapter 7.2: Not Ceased His Rampage

Phoebe heard the nasal voice of the girl in the parallel bunk not a body's distance away, “I would’ve preferred my arrangements impermeable to rats and sea water."

Phoebe and the four ladies, who shared her special arrangements, were trudging through their second week of below-deck captivity.

“Well, I’m grateful the ship is no longer indecisive as to which direction it wishes to be leaning at,” said the girl’s bunkmate, earning Phoebe’s mental declaration of agreement.

Confined in a bundle of her damp blanket, basking in the minimum warmth it provided in the moist room’s stead, Phoebe’s back was turned to the girls while she lay on her personal bunk attached to the wood-paneled wall. Her thumb nail ceased its trailing through the previously establish grooves of the wood, as if she alone may be responsible for the discomfort of the sharers in her ‘special arrangements’.

Attention-seeking appendage withdrawn to bare-necessities warmth, it became more difficult to avoid eavesdropping on the giggling, miserable girls.

Exhaling silently, she blamed the water in the cresses of her eyes on the moister in the air and the turning of her stomach on last week’s lengthiest and distasteful storm experience of her recently-realized, short life. In the end, she had to agree with her conscious that she was terrible at choosing topics prior to a lengthy departure.

“He’s a menace.”

“Yes, Phoebe, we’ve established this.”

“He is horrible, is he not?” Phoebe pinched her nose after realizing she had asked variations of the same question seven times.

“Have most people speculated that?” She asked once settled in the seat opposite of her host.

“Yes, Phoebe, he’s horrible,” Elinor yawned.

“Not that,” Phoebe attempted to clear another newly acclaimed slander of ridiculousness. “I mean…the rumor…what he accused me of…”

The flame cracked.

“No one believes you capable of seeking attentions.”

An exhale had to be forced through the constrictions of Phoebe’s throat. “You mean I ‘couldn’t receive them’?”

“You have your Mr. Talwin, what more needs to be met to satisfy you?” Elinor swallowed out after drowning her second black tea.

Phoebe required two hands to rub at her feverish temples and was no longer aware of Elinor’s presence. “He’ll tell him.”

“You told me he said otherwise.”

“Menaces don’t keep secrets.”

“Well, fortunately, this isn’t your secret.” Oh, curse Elinor’s tea for waking her humor.

“Maybe he doesn’t need to? What if Mr. Talwin came to the conclusion himself? How could you allow me to believe I had prospects with that sir?”

"Phoebe, silence yourself. My parents have retired.”

“I have no choice but to travel to England,” Phoebe whispered harshly. “No doubt the men consorted to ruin my name. I told you there was malicious intent to Mr. Talwin’s ’advances’.”

“If such was the case, hiding amongst the English won’t save you from the English men.”

Phoebe wrung her fingers. “We do exchange cargo with Africa…”

“Perhaps we should dull your excitement by returning to finding suitable adjectives for the Baron. I’m not enduring a lecture from my parents on your behalf.”

“He’s a louse and Machiavelli. Did you know he had the audacity to use his knowledge of my lack of dance practice in his mea culpa?”

“The scoundrel,” Elinor’s reply was pococurante.

“He is. And a schemer. And an exploiter. Elinor, do you have a thesaurus? I haven’t found the precise word.”

“Perhaps we shall declare his family name to encompass all that is malicious, devious, and add to it as the words come to us.”

“Brilliant, Elinor. How, un-Claremontian of you.”

Phoebe released a breath and reached to take her first sip of tea. Her cup clanked against the saucer as her tense veins made it difficult to use her hands. She wasn’t thirsty, anyways. Merely partially parched.

“No one else believes me of his accusation, do they?” Phoebe started again, less fervently.

“I assure you, I have no inclination towards how he came to that conclusion. However--.”

“’However’?”

The only light to Elinor’s face was from the candle. “However, your easy temper has been commented upon and the number of men you’ve bestowed your smiles to.”

Phoebe had to grip her dress to quell the newly arisen shakes to her appendages. “But, I do that to be nice. For both sexes, especially other women considering men don’t speak to me. Don’t people prefer to have their comments earn smiles to?”

“I know why you do, but you don’t give others the chance to know.”

Phoebe’s hands loosened.

Elinor smiled. “You seem to forget, Phoebe. Though it’s not true for you, it is for him. I’m sure he is unwilling to risk further exposure to his secret.”

“But I would never.”

“Yes, but does he know that? After all, you did inform me with little prompting.”

“Those are different circumstances,” Phoebe huffed. “You of all people know I tell no one what we’ve spoken of.”

“Yes, but he does not. And after seeing how the reveal of a lie could exhilarate your fury, I couldn’t imagine how he managed in the case of his truths.”

Phoebe scrutinized Elinor’s features. “You’re justifying his actions, aren’t you?”

"His reasons, not his actions.” Elinor hid behind china.

“You Claremonster.”

“I think you mean ‘-monter’.”

“No, the edit was purposeful. I needed a word with more malice.”

Elinor tsked. “Yes, Phoebe, his actions were--.”

“’Are’,” Phoebe corrected.

Her host narrowed her brows. “ Fine, ‘are’ malicious, if under the pretense that he has not ceased his rampage.”

“Which he hasn’t.”

Elinor tucked her lip as she waited for her friend to complete her critiques. “As I was merely endeavoring to express, perhaps if you were to make a mea culpa of your own, then your conscious may find release.”

But Phoebe refused. Why should she submit to apologies where, if she were to commit a similar social treason, she would receive none?

When Phoebe remained lodged in an amaranthine pout, Elinor attempted to remove the grooves established in their alliance, “I will say that there is a eupeptic factor to this Shakesperian tragedy.”

“I’ll advise you to choose your next words wisely.”

“There will be no more mention of the Claremont name in this household.”

Phoebe exhaled a chuckle of appreciation.

“I wish I could share in your enjoyment in this predicament.”

The thought crossed of neglecting to reply to the girl’s statement. After all, the girl may come to believe Phoebe of chuckling in her sleep. But no one favored the optimistic view of acquaintances.

Adjusting herself to face the girls without looking at their faces, she found herself in a new quandary: to falsely agree to delighting in the consequences of voyaging or candidly admitting to musing over a past conversation. In her head.

“There could be worse circumstances,” She chose.

“Two weeks on the verge of influenza and you wish to justify our treatment.” The girl sniffled to claim her evidence.

Phoebe shrugged her lip and thumped her fingers on her stomach. “I suppose there could be better arrangements.”

“And what absurdity is it that we may not enjoy the deck during this moment of nature’s calamity? Perhaps we are not bound for England and this is a pirate’s escapade.” The girl succeeded to extract an over-embellished giggle from her bunkmate.

“It be improper fer young ladies to be ‘bove deck when sailors be ‘bout,” Mima chimed from the above bunk due to Phoebe’s fear of heights.

Phoebe turned to return to further avoidance in increasing indentations to wooden walls.

On the fourth week, the captives were granted amnesty to enjoy their sailor-free deck. While her roommates were cavorting elsewhere and beyond her interests, Phoebe found a niche by the railing and out of viewing of the casual passer-by. Due to the limited room available on a multifunctional cargo and person transporter, she had been informed that her luggage were to be of essentials only. For Phoebe, that included her recently completed book, paper, and charcoal stylus.

There were limited subjects to inspire her particular artistic muse. A barren sea and boat were all that were at her disposal. So, she choose to sketch the agriculture she abandoned.

In the midst of removing the black shades on her hands with her handkerchief, the first gust of air, on this sun-dominating day, cooled the moisture at her temples. She couldn’t help but to hallucinate that the breeze came from a port a month’s minimum travel away, promising her, ‘Just wait, Phoebe Mae. You’ll touch land again.’

No, she was quite certain she would be unsatisfied with a mere touch. Instead, she would roll in the first field of European grass upon arrival and whisper sweet nothings to each blade that swayed her way.

With all pleasantries for Phoebe, this one did not escape the usual ploy of destroying optimism. She was quickly put to work of salvaging her black-shaded, plant drawing from the uplifting winds. An ultimatum was made for her to retreat to a suitable blockade from sea breezes and sun.

Succession in the task came at a cost: lost of her solitude. Fortunately, her company were of considerable distance and occupied in finding makeshift subjects to kick to one another.

While in the process of blackening her hands, an ‘oaf’ came from the group of rambunctious kids. A post-pubescent ‘oaf’.

A group chant of the circular vowel was executed while turning to present their sacrificial lamb. Before them, with pail at his feet and hand rubbing the back of his head, stood Lord Claremont.

As much as her smile wished to express gratitude to a fraction of justice employed, it withered in fear for the lamb’s fate. What cruel punishment would he give? A scolding? Backhand? Invitation to dance?

Collecting the pail with his hand, he began to examine it. Most likely to determine if it was suitable for striking. Turning to the group of boys, he examined their miniature-human gift. Most likely determining whether he would have to make a chase.

“Did you throw this?” Lord Claremont called out from the opposite side of the vessel to the boys.

“Kicked it, sir.” The foolish boy lost her pity by his ignorant honesty.

“From where you stand now?” Run, fool, flee.

“A-aye.”

Lord Claremont laughed, “What a kick!”

How un-Claremontian.

“Unless you weren’t aiming for me?” He added while tossing the pail back to his assailant.

The assailant struggled to catch his weapon. “N-no, sir. I was aimin’ for you.”

“Then in the future, I’d advise you not to do so on a vessel where your only escape be the wraths of the sea or spending months avoiding the vengeance of your target.”

“Aye, sir.”

The boys scampered off, but it wasn’t long before they could be heard continuing to run amuck out of sight.

Lord Claremont caught her eye, and she became very aware of the gap in her lips and her eyes still examining his person. Then aware that she was still doing so. And that she should stop. Eventually, she turned her attention to the light waves lapping at the ship’s wooden-boards to the side. After seven waves, and the sound of his boots on the floorboards out of distance, she realized she should’ve attempted fakery of returning to her drawings.