by Karen Kay
She gazed all about her, feeling her worries dissipate, if only slightly, in the stillness of the air, giving her enough space for the moment to think clearly.
And think she did. She knew what she must do.
She had to make Black Bear leave. She had to make him see that there was nothing here for him. Nothing. Not herself, not her life and as she must make him believe, not even her love.
It would be no easy task. For she knew she loved him still, loved him more than anything else, anyone else. Forever.
But she couldn’t let him know. Not now. Not ever.
She had sealed her fate, never envisioning at the time that he might come after her. If only she’d known then; if only she could undo it now. But such things could not be. She was trapped, trapped by a pledge she could neither change, nor ignore. She closed her eyes and despaired. There remained only one course for her. She must shun Black Bear completely.
She moaned.
She wasn’t sure she could do it. And yet do it she must.
Her eyes remained shut while she awaited her maid and groom.
Gradually the chatter of birds teased her into opening her eyes; the sight of herons, of bluebirds and robins combined in an effort to lift her spirits, if only for a moment. The thudding of the horses’ hooves over the sand path as her maid approached, the familiar creaking of the leather saddles lightened her mood, if only temporarily.
Even the cool, moist air that clung to her skin seemed to conspire to raise her spirits. And as she glanced about her at the silken-gold and green beauty that was Hyde Park, she sighed. Off in the distance a man, probably a servant from the St. James’s Palace, knelt on his knees in the dirt, placing bulbs in the ground and pruning flowers that ranged in color, from the shades of the bright, red roses to the more sedate, pale shadows of the violet mums.
She almost smiled, looking up. Street lamps were still lit even at this late hour of the morning. They hung aloft from the trees and cast a dim glow over the lush scenery. For a moment, for just a tiny space of time, Estrela experienced a sense of oneness with the out-of-doors. And as though the park itself plotted to uplift her, she felt a sense of wellbeing wash over her.
She smiled at last. The park, all of nature, it was good.
Anna and the groom approached her and Estrela greeted them both with an apologetic smile.
“M’lady. Estrela,” Anna said, out of breath. “I do not ride as ye do and I beg ye not ta take off like that again. Gave me ole ’eart a shake, ye did.”
Estrela’s grin turned a little mischievous, her eyes twinkling as she said, “Come, Anna, I’ll race you.”
“M’lady!”
Estrela laughed, the ring of it cushioned by the moist air.
Anna, watching her mistress, grinned. “’Tis a good thin’, this ride? It ’as been too long since I ’ave seen ye smile.”
“Yes,” Estrela agreed. “’Tis a good thing. Come, Anna.” Estrela nudged her horse into a walk. “Will you ride with me a moment? I have a need to talk with you.”
Anna nodded, and with a “Yes, M’lady,” set her own pony into a walk.
Estrela glanced at her friend and maid for a brief instant before she turned her gaze once more to the front. “Anna,” she began, “I need to ask if you will help me with something.”
“I will try, M’lady.”
“I need to ask you,” Estrela said, “to help me convince Black Bear that he must leave here. I must prove to him there is nothing here for him. And I must make him believe I no longer love him. I am convinced that he must leave; I am sure this is the right thing to do.”
“But M’lady, I—”
“If he stays here, you and I know I will eventually succumb to him. And he will hate me all the more for it. I cannot return with him. Ever.” Estrela stared off in the distance. “No, I have decided. This is the best thing for him.” She looked back then, glancing sidelong at her maid, before asking, “Will you help me?”
“M’lady. Estrela. I… I will do what I can ta ’elp ye, but I ’ope ye dunna think I agree w’ ye. I still believe ye could find a ’appier solution.”
Estrela glanced away. “I, too, wish it could be different. But such things are not possible.”
Anna sighed before saying, “So be it.”
And Estrela, looking over to her maid, nodded, remembering when the Earl had said much the same thing.
Without any warning, Estrela frowned, sitting suddenly still. She stared, her eyes widening. There, off to the side of Anna, hidden among the bushes, stood a man. A man with a gun; a gun aimed straight at her.
Estrela screamed.
At the same time, Black Bear shrieked out his war cry, the frightening sound of it shooting through the air. It blocked out Estrela’s scream.
And while the would-be assassin hesitated, Black Bear reacted from pure instinct, sprinting toward Estrela.
One leap. He bounded atop Estrela’s horse, landing behind her.
“Hante!” He kicked the horse forward into a run, while he caught his foot in the leather strap of the stirrup and in a move, practiced and perfected by the American Indian, he heaved himself and Estrela over the side of the horse, away from the bullet.
Estrela almost fell. Black Bear, however, clutched her in his arms while spurring the horse on faster and faster.
A gun exploded in a loud blast, missing its target by a split second.
Black Bear whooped and hollered, taunting the enemy with his cry, while at the same time, he blazed the horse over the sand path.
He kept himself to the side of the animal until he felt they were out of the range of danger. Then, he righted himself and, pulling Estrela with him, crouched low on the horse, with Estrela seated before him.
Another shot. To the side. Again a miss, but only by a fraction. So the gunmen were moving with them.
Black Bear whooped again, tearing forward, oblivious to the screams and curses from other riders.
Oddly enough, no one thought to object to the gunshot, it being too common a sound; no, all cursed the Indian as their own horses reared away from him.
Black Bear, however, didn’t care. He drove his mount over the path at a furious pace; his thoughts, his senses, all his efforts focused on one goal: Save Waste Ho.
He heard no further shots, but still he didn’t stop or slow his pace. He had already surmised that the would-be assassins were also mounted. He just didn’t know the caliber of their horsemanship. Would they be able to keep up?
He could probably outrace the attackers. Probably. Black Bear didn’t like those odds. The attackers had the advantage. They were on their own territory. Black Bear needed advantage. He searched the unfamiliar environment for something, anything that could tempt fate more fully into his own favor. He saw it up ahead, to the right of the path—a small opening, surrounded by trees and bushes, and speeding toward it, he veered off the sand path at the last minute, guiding the horse into the cover provided there.
He comforted the horse, silencing any sounds it would make, and the horse, as though it understood the Indian’s foreign words, stood still, making no noise.
Black Bear watched the road, waiting.
Two men, mounted, sped by, both armed, and Black Bear memorized their looks in one swift glance. Still he didn’t move; he listened, he observed, he took notice of everything until assured, he turned the horse back toward the gate, in the direction from which they had just fled, but not on the pathway. He steered the gelding instead through the trees, in and around them, leaping over bushes, hurling his mount on as fast as he dared, until they were well clear of the trees. Then he urged the animal over fields of grasses and colorful flowers, leaping past pedestrians and couples who, out for a leisurely stroll, stood aghast at the sight of the half-naked Indian speeding his horse over the fields of the park, brandishing arms and carrying a white woman before him.
And if many a woman fainted at the sight, it was to be understood.
The sun chose this moment to come o
ut of hiding and shone its brilliance down upon the couple, and Black Bear smiled at the omen. It was a good sign. And as he gloried in the feel of the sun upon his back, Black Bear knew he had acted wisely.
But he didn’t slow his pace.
He cried, he screamed out warning to those about him as he fled over the grassy park, his half-naked body poised forward, his blue-black hair and Estrela’s blond curls whipping back in the wind. And anyone who would have seen them would have agreed that they made a delightful, if somewhat savage sight; the Indian holding the white woman to him as though she were a prized possession and the white woman, in her turn, accepting her role as “captive” with a grace that would have instantly belied the term.
Still Black Bear couldn’t resist counting coup as he passed by a trio of older ladies. Bending over in his seat, he touched all three ladies lightly on the shoulder while he sped past them, straightening back in his seat, whooping and speeding on forward.
That the ladies screamed and fainted didn’t affect Black Bear, since he never looked back.
He shot the horse forward, as fast as he could, unaware that two bobbies were making quick pursuit behind him, as though the Indian, not the two assassins, were at fault for the disturbance to the park.
But neither policeman could match the horsemanship of the Indian, especially when the Indian rode over unpaved ground, and soon Black Bear left them far behind.
He fled back toward Mayfair, galloping through the stately gates of the park, dodging the traffic over Piccadilly Street and on into Green Park, where, with its fields and tree-lined paths, the wilder environment of that park lent him more of an abundance of hiding places.
And there, among the trees and shaded paths, he discovered temporary sanctuary.
He reined the gelding to a stop beneath an enormous maple tree, and once there, jumped off the animal from the rear. He didn’t look at Estrela. He didn’t even speak. He began to pace, back and forth, Estrela still atop the horse.
Several moments passed. The horse grazed, Black Bear tread up and down, scattering golden leaves here and there and Estrela sat quietly.
At length, Black Bear approached her. “Where is your husband?” he asked, his words sounding sour, even to his own ears.
Estrela didn’t answer.
She merely looked at him, and her gaze, as she stared at him, irritated him immensely.
“Why am I the one to save you?” he interrogated. “Is your husband a coward? Does he even now hide from danger?”
Estrela did nothing more than look at him in that way of hers that set his blood to boiling, and Black Bear found himself in need of a tremendous amount of patience, for he felt like shaking her.
At length, she opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, closed her lips; and watching her look away, he could see tears cloud her eyes.
His response, however, was not one of sympathy. No, it was more one of raging anger. And it was all he could do at this moment not to howl at her.
And so he resorted to a grunt and a groan, turning away from her to resume his pacing, up and down, back and forth.
“I intend to leave here before another new moon is upon us,” he said to her, sulkily. “But I must leave you in the care of your husband, who should be here, even now, to protect you. Where is he?”
Estrela gazed back, again that sad look in her eyes. She shook her head slowly, uttering not a word.
Black Bear could barely contain himself. “What sort of man would leave you unprotected?” he railed at her. “How could a man leave his own wife to the guardianship of another? Has he no pride?”
“Black Bear,” Estrela voiced to him at last, softly. “I must speak to you about my husband. There are things you don’t know, about him, about me; things I need to tell you—”
“I will hear nothing of this coward you call husband,” he interrupted. “I only seek the knowledge of where he is so that I can return you to him—no more.”
“But I can’t tell you that. I—”
“Cannot? Or will not?”
Estrela sighed. “Black Bear,” she said as she gave him an odd look. “I feel a little funny.”
That set him to gazing at her. His glance scanned over her, from the top of her head to the high black boots she wore.
“You are fine,” he said. “I see no wounds.” Estrela nodded, but repeated again, “I still feel a bit odd.”
He strode toward the horse then. “Here,” he said, reaching up toward her. “I will help you from this horse.”
But it was too late. All he heard was a muted sigh before she slid off the horse, not because of his command, but rather because… Black Bear looked down at her. She had fainted.
He took a deep breath, unaware that in his glance, all his emotions toward her; his love, his admiration, his devotion, his anger shone readily there for anyone to witness.
They made an odd picture, the Indian and his woman, one, tall, bronzed warrior standing practically naked, holding the petite, blond Englishwoman in his arms. They were bound, these two and he clasped her to him amid the backdrop of golden, falling leaves, and the dark bark of trees. Her long, blond curls fanned back against him in the slight breeze, entwining with his own darker hair until one noticed that the blond and black strands blended together, forming a new color that shone as naturally and as grandly as the golden surrounds of trees, leaves, and grasses.
Had anyone observed them at that moment, he would have witnessed a powerful and compelling vision; for the two young people, together, united, became a part of and yet were more than the grandiose and expansive beauty exploding all around them that was Green Park, that was England.
And Black Bear, holding her, gazing down at her, suddenly realized that he would not run away from her. He could not. Not now. Not ever.
He loved her that much.
It was a startling and sobering awareness for him.
And Black Bear, completely honest with himself, despaired.
Chapter Nine
King William and his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Kent, Princess Victoria’s mother, had little love for one another. Truth be told, only a few short days before, at the King’s birthday party, King William had risen, in response to a toast and had wreaked vengeance upon the Duchess in a most horrible and public denouncement.
He had decried her, stating she had caused him great embarrassment; saying she was keeping the Princess, Victoria, from him; denouncing the Duchess as unfit to raise the Princess; calling the Duchess incompetent; and moreover, accusing the Duchess of listening to ill-conceived counsel, stating she was surrounded by evil advisers.
Evil advisers indeed!
The dark, shadowy figure of a man smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast to the dying embers of the fire, whose smoke billowed upward toward the small chamber’s chimney.
Evil advisers!
Why he was probably the only one in all of England who had the foresight to advise the country’s affairs correctly.
King indeed!
Hadn’t that one’s father lost the American continent? Weren’t King William’s British forces, even now, struggling with her other colonies? Wasn’t England threatened with the loss of her powers if someone didn’t act? And act now?
Ah, the Duchess of Kent. What was he to do with her? If she didn’t handle her daughter prudently, if she continued to mock the King within his own territory, Her Grace stood every chance of losing her daughter’s favor. And if she lost her daughter’s trust, so would end her political influence over the child, so would end his.
He at least had noticed the Baroness Lehzen, young Victoria’s governess, spreading her influence over the unwilling Princess, that Baroness taking up a camp in direct opposition to her Grace’s own policies. And why had the Duchess dismissed Madame de Spath, the Baroness’s ally? Because Madame had discovered the liaison between himself and the Duchess and had dared to speak of it?
He sighed. Such matters were trivial to him. Didn’t Her Grace realize how attached th
e Princess had become to Madame de Spath? Didn’t she understand that Victoria would only see her mother’s actions as cruel? That the young Princess would ultimately condemn her own mother?
Evil advisers.
The King’s statement could only apply to one man, Sir John Conroy, that pompous Irishman. It was he who had ill-advised her Grace, disaffecting the woman toward the King, accumulating His Majesty’s wrath by encouraging her to flaunt herself in front of the English populous as though she, herself, were monarch, not the King.
Drawing a deep breath the dark, shadowy figure nodded. He knew he should be more lenient with the woman, but it was becoming difficult to do so. He tried to calm himself, tried to tell himself that he could not expect much from the Duchess, yet he was not successful in these attempts and with tremendous force, he slammed his fist down on the table at his side, causing the glass there to jump up before it came down hard, shattering into a hundred pieces.
Still, the man didn’t move.
It couldn’t be worse. Not even her Grace’s brother, King Leopold of Belgium, could cause this much havoc.
Leopold? Belgium?
The man’s stomach twisted. Why had he thought of that country? Why had he thought of that man? Such memories induced visions of another entire series of problems. It reminded him that he could not allow any sort of Belgian influence within the court of England, not in the past, and certainly not now.
The man tensed, the very shadows in the room echoing the strain. He could not fail. He could not allow England to unite with Belgium in her civil war against the Dutch. For if such an alliance ever occurred, all would be lost, for him, for his homeland, the Dutch Netherlands.
And to think, after all these years, he was still fighting Leopold’s influence within the English court. He thought he had rid the country of that influence nineteen years ago when he’d stolen Leopold’s own child away, the night the future Queen, Charlotte, died in childbirth. Leopold’s sympathies, even at that time, aligned with Belgium in her disaffection with Dutch Patriots.