Salt
A Story by Gevurah

Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice.

The day that young Rachel Van der Berg wed Thomas Hughes in the church of Cockburn Town dawned bright and clear, but by midday, a thick, unforgiving haze obscured the Caribbean sun as the humid breath of summer pressed close. Too close perhaps. The heat, trapped by the solid walls of the church, gathered beneath the rafters and slowly grew, creeping downwards until even the marble statues that lined the nave felt warm to the touch. The wedding goers withered amid their silken finery and fanned their flushed faces, desperate for any breath of air denied to them by the house of God. Nor was it the fate of the attendees to suffer alone: the minister's plump face was fiery red with heat blush and beneath her many veils of lace and pearls, the bride sweltered in silence. Even the normally impassive groom shifted from one foot to the other and fingered his starched collar restlessly.

Standing dutifully beside her father and her fan beating steadily, Blanche struggled to maintain her courtly composure. It was most difficult. She could feel the perspiration accumulate upon her brow, between her breasts and along her spine, the latter of which dampened her chemise and threatened to do the same to her pale silk gown. While she dared not fidget, she braved a glance to her father's face; but John Hughes was more intent on her brother's nuptials than her suffering manners.

Her betrothed, however, did notice her flickering gaze and frowned at her wavering attention, his eyes were dark with disapproval. Quickly, Blanche returned her attention to the couple as they exchanged their wedding rings and breathed a silent sigh of relief when the ceremony was finally complete. It was something of a liberation to have seen her elder brother wed at last, God forgive her for thinking so. Threading her arm through his when offered, Blanche and Edward fell into step behind her father and followed the newly wed couple out into the street, smiling politely as they past the others townsfolk present. A smile for Widow Patterson, a nod to Major Kensington. The actions were habitual and automatic, as instinctive as drawing breath- though of late, her smile felt forced, a most unnatural feeling.

Blanche had never been much of a carefree spirit, so it was difficult to determine exactly when her life began to feel mechanical, but the weight of it had become noticeable soon after her engagement to Edward. Instead of being escorted by her father or Thomas as she was used to, Blanche's hand now belonged with Edward's and she found that it was a difficult adjustment. Her family's physical presence had always been disinterested and aloof; in stark contrast, Edward's touch was possessive and tight. Blanche discovered that she preferred to be ignored. The discomfort that Edward inspired had planted the seed of fear within her breast on the very first night, and by the evening of their betrothal celebration, Blanche had been a bundle of fearful nerves. Fear of what, she did not know- but fear nonetheless.

Once they passed through the wide double wooden doors of the church, the stifling heat of the inside gave way to the clinging humidity of the outside, and the change was no better than the previous. Standing beside her fiancé on the steps as the rest of the wedding attendees poured forth from the church, Blanche smiled politely and nodded in turn once more, mindful of Edward's formidable solid presence at her side.

"Oh, Miss Hughes, what a splendid ceremony," Miss Lawton gushed, grabbing her hand passionately, immediately upon seeing Blanche. Edward eyed the woman dolefully before politely excusing himself to talk to he elder Mr. Hughes, his lips set in a thin line of displeasure. Edward was not one for woman's talk. "I scare can believe that your good brother has himself a wife now," Miss Lawton continued after he had left, barely sparing the man a second glance. Men with such a small use for words, such as he, held little fascination with Miss Lawton. "Why, I can recall when Thomas was just a little lad, and you!" Miss Lawton paused, clapping her hands together joyfully, no doubt recalling an obscure memory. "You were the epitome of grace even as a child! I so look forward to your wedding, Miss Hughes. I can hardly contain myself!"

Blanche let her go on, smiling stiffly and saying nothing. Miss Lucy Lawton was the daughter of Sir Jeffory Lawton; and at thirty-six, she was an unforgivably old maid with an unstoppable tongue. All the men of society avoided the poor woman and, frankly, most of women did as well. Rumor had it that Miss Lawton was once engaged to a Navy captain when she was only seventeen, but lost him tragically to the sea the very next year after. She had been devastated and never remarried- or rather, married at all. In some ways, Blanche supposed, Miss Lawton was better than she. Though Blanche's salt-merchant father was infinitely more wealthy than the Lawton's, Lucy Lawton had been firmly engaged at seventeen, whereas Blanche was now twenty and had only just been promised to Edward. No doubt Lucy Lawton must have been very pretty in her youth.

"Thank you, Miss Lawton," Blanche said, extracting her hand from the older woman's grasp, "I hope you'll be joining the celebrations this evening."

The older woman giggled girlishly. "Oh, Miss Hughes, you do flatter me!"

"Oh, Blanche," a husky voice said after Miss Lawton had hastily excused herself upon spying the Lady Cantillo, "sometimes I wonder why you're so sweet to that old ninny."

Blanche hid her chuckle behind her fan. "My dear Olivia," she said, watching as the beautiful young woman smiled flirtatiously at passing Captain Howe. "I was taught to respect my elders."

Olivia rolled her eyes heavenward and fluttered her fan. "Perhaps to those who deserve our respect, but Lucy Lawton, my dear?" She smirked. "That woman wouldn't know her own bottom from a sack of flour. She's a thoroughly pathetic soul- oh! Captain Howe!"

The handsome, well-dressed captain bowed briefly before flashing the pair a brilliant grin. "Mrs. Mayfair! You look absolutely riveting this afternoon!" The dashing captain captured her hand in a gallant kiss before turning his attention to Blanche. "And Miss Hughes, lovely as always!"

"Captain Howe, I'm so glad you could make it," Blanche said warmly, smiling at him. It was hard not to smile at the man's perpetual pleasant attitude. Captain Howe had the rare talent of always being thrilled with everyone and everything around him- even the staunch Mr. Hughes' were known to share a laugh with the amiable captain. "I'm sure my brother most appreciated it. We all know how busy your command keeps you."

"Indeed, Captain," Olivia purred, her dark eyes roaming across his decorated uniform. "Mr. Mayfair and myself have missed you dreadfully. Why, we haven't seen you in weeks." The beautiful Olivia pouted prettily. "I was beginning to think that you left Grand Turk for a more exciting island."

Captain Howe glowed. "Never!" he proclaimed. "The Turks are my home and I would never abandon them for another," the light in his eyes smoldered as he returned Olivia's gaze, "Especially when I have such outstanding patrons such as yourself and Mr. Mayfair."

"Well, we are happy to stand for you in the social circles, Captain," she said with rouged lips curving upwards into a daring smile.

The captain flushed and quickly looked away. "Pray do excuse me, ladies," he said, covering his reaction with a conspicuous cough, "while I would love to monopolize your attentions, I should greet the other guests."

Olivia's smile was one of triumph. "Of course Captain Howe," she said, "we understand completely."

He bowed stiffly. "Miss Hughes, Mrs. Mayfair," he said, excusing himself.

Olivia watched him go, a hungry look in her hazel eyes. "I do enjoy that man."

Blanche only shook her head. "I don't know how you get away with such things Mrs. Mayfair," she said. "Doesn't your husband ever get jealous of your shameless flirting?"

"Howard?" Olivia snorted indelicately. "He's much more concerned about his precious cargo than to notice any indiscretions on my part."

"But he's your husband," Blanche persisted.

Olivia sighed and looped her arm through Blanche's. "My dear," she said, leaning in confidentially, "there are some things you must learn if you are to wed; and one is that your husband does not own you. He is your husband, yes, but as long as you are discreet about certain activities, he'll never know the difference. Besides," she said devilishly, "if he's anything like Howard, he'll care more about the account books than anything you could ever say."

Blanche smiled mutely at her friend, but she knew better. Edward would care, and God save her should he ever disapprove of her actions.

"Oh enough talk of that," Olivia continued, fanning her heat flushed face delicately. "What a horrible day to wed. This heat is enough to make one swear off religion altogether."

"Olivia!"

The woman smirked, but didn't defend her remark, choosing instead to study Blanche with a critical eye. "Blanche, darling, what were you thinking when you chose that dress?"

Blanche's spine stiffened. "Edward has said he likes this dress on numerous occasions."

"My dear, Edward is a man." Olivia said, pursing her lips. "Men only care about a dress's cut; they have no taste when it comes to color. Pink just doesn't suit you," she said definitively. "It washes you out, and with this heat you're just pink all over- hardly becoming."

Blanche didn't need to be told such things; she knew she was not beautiful- at least not beautiful in the way that Olivia was beautiful. With skin as fair as cream and thick auburn hair so dark it looked like blood-honey, Olivia was, by far, the loveliest woman on the island. But Blanche was given little time to remark on her friend's comment. Her fiancé appeared at her elbow and smiled emotionlessly at the two women. Edward St. Vincent was a man of many talents, and it never ceased to amaze how effortlessly he could display as few real emotions as possible. It was near inhuman.

"Ladies," he said perfunctorily, nodding at Mrs. Mayfair coolly. "We should be off, Blanche," he said, with little room for argument. "There is a storm approaching and your father wishes to be indoors." Indeed, the breeze coming from the ocean was gradually growing stronger, a true sign of weather to come.

"Of course," Blanche replied, dutifully. "Will you be coming to the party, Olivia?" she asked, closing her fan.

The other woman waved her off nonchalantly. "No, I think I'll retire for the evening. Howard hates using the carriage in the rain. He insists that his jacket smells of horse for days afterwards."

"I'll call on you tomorrow then," Blanche said as a form of farewell, feeling Edward's impatient pressure on her arm.

"Of course, dear." But Olivia's words were said to her back, as Edward was already pushing Blanche to the awaiting carriage, by which she could see her father standing anxiously. Edward smiled and nodded to those they passed and called out greeting, politely excusing their sudden departure. There were no kind smiles for Blanche, however. She supposed he didn't believe he had to flatter her any longer, seeing as how he had already secured her hand. It didn't bother her, not really.

"Where have you been, daughter?" John Hughes demanded the moment they neared.

Blanche smiled at her father and took his offered hand. "I was speaking with Mrs. Mayfair," she said as he hastily helped her ascend into the carriage.

"Speaking to Mrs. Mayfair, indeed," the elder man harrumphed, climbing in next to her. "That woman is a gossip. I don't approve of you associating with her, Blanche."

"Father, I assure you, Mrs. Mayfair is not as an intolerable as you presume," Blanche said as she rearranged her skirts carefully- all the while, appallingly mindful of Olivia's earlier comment concerning the garment's color.

"No, she's worse," Edward said as he joined them, sitting opposite her father. He quickly knocked his knuckles against the roof of the carriage and suddenly, they were off at a jolt. "Mrs. Mayfair is a catty woman of the worst sort," he declared, settling his large frame against the cushions. "She is a villainous creature and makes a cuckold of Mr. Mayfair." There was a most malicious glint in his dark eyes that made Blanche's stomach roll.

Edward St. Vincent was the largest man Blanche had ever seen, dwarfing even her lanky brother; but unlike Thomas, Edward had width to match his height. Barrel-chested and strong, his hands were large enough to encase a melon and his shoulders were as wide as a doorframe. He made Blanche feel small and delicate. That in itself was no small feat, for Blanche was as long-limbed as her brother. All arms and legs, Blanche never had to tilt her head back to see into the face of a man and more often than not, she towered above the women- Olivia Mayfair being the only exception to that rule. But then again, Olivia was an exception to most rules.

"Is that true, child?" her father asked, his tone incredulous.

"Father-"

"Don't worry, John," Edward interrupted. "Blanche will have no more to do with Mrs. Mayfair once we're wed."

Blanche closed her mouth with an affronted snap and her father positively beamed. "Well, then," he said, settling his gold-tipped cane between his knees, "that settles that. Did you speak to Major Kensington, Edward? He was telling me about a most interesting proposition."

Edward nodded. "I did. It seems as though we'll be getting some labor relief with the arrival of the negros."

Blanche frowned as their talk turned to business and turned her attentions to the window, watching as the ocean temporarily rose into view as they traveled. She could see the dark broiling clouds of the storm as it approached, though it was momentarily too far out to sea to be of much harm to the town. Soon, however, it would be hurricane season and Blanche dreaded the upcoming months. There was not much that frightened her more than one of those horrid storms. It was as if the voice of God was screaming, punishing all the souls for their sinful ways. The thought made her shiver.

"Are you cold child?" he father asked, breaking her thought. "How can you be chilled at all in this weather?"

She smiled thinly at him. "No, father- not cold. The breeze from the ocean was momentarily chilling."

"Well then close the curtains, daughter," he said impatiently, leaning across her and yanking the heavy cloth across the window roughly, abruptly cutting off her view of the horizon.

"Thank you, father," she said softly, staring at the closed curtains. It was hot in the carriage. An irrational fear of being trapped suddenly constricted her throat and Blanche clutched her fan in her lap desperately, willing it away.

With the curtains closed, none of them saw the black-sailed ship as it cut across the angry waves, far in the distance. In fact, no one at all on the island Grand Turk saw that ship.