Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Aunt Pro’s eyebrows shot toward the curls pasted on her forehead. “You’ve met?” She turned to Bristol with a delighted smile. “But how? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  Bristol didn’t trust herself to speak. Seeing him so unexpectedly had wildly disturbed her sense of balance. Her knees threatened to buckle, and her mouth had turned to dust. Jean Pierre seemed to fill the large entryway, his vitality and rugged maleness a dynamic force amid the rustle of green and pink and mauve.

  “Mistress Adams didn’t know we’re related, dear Prudence.” Jean Pierre’s rich deep laugh vibrated along Bristol’s nerves. “I brought in the Challenger; we had the honor of carrying Mistress Adams as a passenger.”

  A good-natured frown puckered Prudence’s forehead. “But surely the name! We’ve spoken of little else but Robbie Hathaway since Bristol arrived.” She turned to Bristol with a quizzical expression. “Didn’t you make the connection with Captain Hathaway?” Prudence smiled in confusion, looking from one to the other.

  Jean Pierre laughed and patted Prudence’s hand. “You forget everything having to do with business. You know I use mother’s name everywhere but here.” He lifted her chin. “Would you rather I terminate all business entirely and end your embarrassment, or would it please you more if I used the Hathaway name and informed the world we’ve become working merchants?”

  Prudence contrived to look wounded and flirtatious at the same instant. “You know I’d be disgraced having it known I have a working son. Naturally I’d prefer you end this nonsense!” She grinned. “But since you won’t, I admit to seeing your point. Continue with ‘La Crosse.’ Perhaps no one associates the name with us.” She hugged him, oblivious of the fact her niece had not uttered a word. “But what’s this about the Challenger? What happened to the Dover Clay? You took the Dover Clay out, didn’t you? I couldn’t have forgotten that!”

  Jean Pierre glanced at Bristol’s pale, questioning face, then grinned at Prudence. “A Spanish pirate sank the. Dover Clay. A very handsome pirate, Pru, you’d have adored him.” Aunt Pru’s laugh boomed across the entry hall, and she touched her fan to Jean Pierre’s arm with an arch smile. “The Hanover Princess picked us out of the water.”

  Aunt Pru’s expression was thrilled and a little breathless. “I’m so anxious to hear the details! There’ll be no rush at dinner tomorrow; you must plan to tell me everything then!” A sudden thought wrinkled her brow. “Willie Boyd! Is Willie Boyd safe? I’ll never forgive you, Robbie, if anything happened to that darling boy!”

  Jean Pierre smiled, “He’s swapping tales in your own stable right now. And he has a brave story to tell.” Jean Pierre’s gray eyes looked deeply into Bristol’s. “Your charming niece plays a heroic role in Willie’s loss.”

  “Loss?” Prudence demanded suspiciously.

  “Willie will tell you about it himself,” Jean Pierre answered. He continued speaking, satisfying Prudence as to Mr. Aykroyd’s safety and the well-being of such others as she inquired about with much clicking of her tongue.

  One by one the mysteries began to unravel. Now Bristol guessed the identity of the great lady who had taken Master Boyd from the steps of her house and raised him. Now Bristol understood how Jean Pierre had known where to find her; Mr. Aykroyd’s enigmatic words were explained. Prudence Adams Hathaway was Jean Pierre’s stepmother. With a rush of memory, Bristol put the pieces together—and now she realized why Jean Pierre had not hinted at a future. Her hand rose to cover the pain twisting her mouth, and she felt sick inside.

  Aunt Pru cast a pointed glance toward the door. “And where is your lady?” she asked with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  Jean Pierre’s eyes met Bristol’s without a waver. “Diana’s just outside. Lady Morgan requested a word with her.” His face remained carefully expressionless, but Bristol knew her own was not. As the impact of what she’d discovered churned through her mind, her face wore her emotions like a mirror.

  Surprise, confusion, despair, wrenched across her features in quick succession. And pain. Pain.

  Jean Pierre looked into her stricken eyes, and a hand opened at his side, but he didn’t touch her. He smiled then, flashing a row of white teeth. “I hope you’ll save a dance for me, Mistress Adams.” He turned to Prudence and bowed over her fingers. “Where have you hidden Father?”

  “He’s waiting for you upstairs. It’s the gout again. I know you have to unload the ship and I understand why you spent several days with Diana’s family—so many details to arrange—but you can’t imagine how impatient we’ve been, knowing you’re in England and not seeing you?” Aunt Prudence kept Jean Pierre’s hand, looking up with love shining in her blue eyes. “Robbie,” she said with disarming shyness, “after all these years, couldn’t you call me... Mother?”

  Jean Pierre arched an eyebrow, and a sparkle lit his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you. As soon as you look old enough to have a son my age, I’ll call you Mother.”

  Prudence crowed in delight.

  Leaning forward, Jean Pierre whispered something in Prudence’s ear, and Prudence laughed wickedly and slapped his arm with her fan. “Impossible,” she shouted, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re a devil, Robbie, a wicked child. Now run off to see Hathaway—the old fool’s been counting the minutes.”

  Jean Pierre kissed Prudence’s full cheeks and bounded lightly up the curve of stairs past rows of framed ancestors who looked out with his eyes, his mouth, his nose. Bristol lowered her head. For nearly a week she’d looked at those pictures and seen Jean Pierre, and thought the resemblance a product of romantic yearning.

  “Isn’t our Robbie wonderful?” Aunt Pru smiled, her damp eyes following Jean Pierre until he disappeared at the top of the staircase. “When Robbie comes home, I feel twenty years younger, and Hathaway comes alive.”

  Bristol stared, trying to focus on Aunt Pru’s conversation. She couldn’t stop her mind spinning long enough to sort everything out. “I... I thought Robbie was your natural son. I didn’t realize...” she stammered.

  Prudence smiled fondly. “I couldn’t love Robbie more if I’d borne him. One of the biggest disappointments of my life was the failure to bear Hathaway a child.” She looked at her hands, turning a flashing ring. “When Robbie came to us after eight childless years, it was easy to pour all our love into him.” She mustered a smile. “Robbie was fourteen when he arrived. A product of a prior indiscretion of Hathaway’s. Fourteen is quite a suitable age I’ve always thought. I’ve always found younger children to be so... sticky. Don’t you agree?”

  Before Bristol could answer, a tall willowy woman with striking honey-colored hair appeared in the doorway. “Robbie?” she called anxiously. The woman’s eyes darted about the entry.

  “Lacy Thorne... Diana.” Prudence stepped forward with a gracious smile.

  Bristol’s heart sank. From a distance, Lady Diana Thorne was breathtakingly beautiful. Past the first bloom of youth, her beauty lay in the ripeness of full blossom. Not before nor in the years to come would the shimmer of loveliness grace her aristocratic features with quite the same lush beauty as she now wore. Her delicately chiseled face showed experience, yet there was nothing jaded or hard in her expression. The pink in her cheeks was the tint of nature rather than artifice. At first glance, Bristol sinkingly admitted Lady Diana Thorne was easily the most beautiful woman she had seen.

  But a second glance brought a chill to the heart. There was something in the woman’s eyes—something terribly wrong, and a little frightening.

  “Robbie? Where are you?” Diana Thorne’s whispery voice rose in alarm, and her strange gold-flecked brown eyes scanned the entry hall. Those eyes had a vacant, empty look, as if nothing lay behind them. Or something too wild and deep to risk exposing.

  “Diana!” Aunt Pru placed a hand on Lady Thorne’s arm. “How stunning you look! Few women can wear scarlet without dimming in comparison, but on you it looks...”

  Diana Thorne shrugged off Prudence’s hand. She stared a
t Prudence and then at Bristol. And now Bristol saw that Diana’s eyes were not vacant at all—they held a mad whirlpool depth unlike anything Bristol had ever encountered. A shudder rippled Bristol’s spine. An unnatural strength and passion swirled in Lady Thorne’s golden-brown eyes.

  “What have you done with Robbie?” Diana Thorne hissed. She clutched her silk cloak in both hands, and her body stiffened, the flesh appearing to harden into ivory-colored marble. “Where is he?” Her voice rose to a sudden shriek, thin and frightened.

  Behind Diana, an elegantly dressed couple halted in the doorway and glanced at each other uneasily. Aunt Pru waved them back and cleared her throat. She opened rouged lips. “Robbie’s just run upstairs to say hello to his father. He’ll return in a moment, dear. Why don’t you go on into the ballroom...”

  Diana’s eyes closed, and she swayed on her feet. A thready moan issued from her sensual lips. Then her eyes snapped open and her face contorted in dark fury. “I want Robbie! Where is he?” Her fingers acquired a life of their own, fluttering, flying, clenching, opening, clawing up to scratch pink lines across her milky breast. “Robbie!” she screamed. Her voice soared through the lofty entry hall, echoing panic and rage.

  A small dark-clad figure raced past Bristol, and Bridey Winkle dashed up the winding staircase, lifting her skirts and taking the steps two at a time, calling Robbie’s name as she went. Aunt Prudence’s mouth fell open, and she threw up her pink-and-mauve arms, at a loss as to how to handle the scene unfolding before her.

  Diana began to spin, moaning and chanting, “Robbie! Robbie! Robbie!” She turned in slow circles, picking up speed until her scarlet gown billowed around her. Honey-colored tendrils fell from an elegant arrangement and flew about her face. She spun around the entry hall, knocking tables askew and smashing whatever her long fingers touched. Vases and flowers and small statuettes crashed to the floor in an explosion of violence. She hurled a crystal bowl at the wall, sparkling shards spilling down the silk covering. “Robbie! Robbie! Robbie!”

  The couple in the doorway covered their mouths, and their eyes widened. Aunt Pru clutched her stomach with one hand and her forehead with the other. Bristol backed against a wall, shrinking from the insane flicker in Diana Thorne’s golden eyes.

  Diana’s cloak spun from bare rounded shoulders as she systematically kicked through the debris, lifting and shattering the few table items remaining unbroken. “Where is Robbie?” she cried, her voice between a chant and a sob. “What happened to Robbie?” She lifted an exquisite Oriental vase over her head and smashed it to the carpet, leaving a spreading wet stain and a scatter of pink roses. “Robbie!” she wailed.

  “Diana!” Jean Pierre’s rich voice cut through the noise of breaking glass and Diana’s labored breathing. He ran down the stairs and enfolded Diana in his arms. She buried her flushed face in his neck, gasping with relief.

  “You were gone! I expected you to be standing here, and you weren’t! You should have told me where...” Her shoulders convulsed and she pressed hard against Jean Pierre, as if she wanted to melt inside him, to become part of his strength and freed from a frightening empty world.

  “Shhh. Calmes-toi. Calmes-toi, chérie. I’m here now. Calmes-toi.” Jean Pierre stroked her honeyed hair, and his deep voice soothed and caressed. “Father asked about you. Will you return with me and brighten an old man’s evening?” He lifted her quivering chin and brushed away a flow of tears with his thumb.

  “Lord Hathaway?” Diana frowned, struggling to filter her confusion, to summon a logical order. “Yes. Yes, I remember now.” Jean Pierre retrieved her cloak, then placed a strong protective arm about Diana’s waist and led her gently up the staircase, murmuring close to her ear.

  Bristol’s breath released in a rush, and she sank abruptly to a satin-covered settee, her feet surrounded by slivers of glass. Lady Thorne was insane. Tensed on the edge of her seat, Bristol watched Jean Pierre and Diana until they disappeared at the top of the staircase; then she turned a dazed stare to Aunt Pru.

  Prudence Hathaway waved the couple in the doorway on into the ballroom. She planted her fists on massive hips and surveyed the wreckage around her. “Good God!” Prudence breathed. Bridey Winkle descended the staircase with a battery of servants in tow; she offered glasses of wine to Prudence and Bristol. Aunt Pru nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Bridey. If you hadn’t fetched Robbie when you did, I don’t know what might have happened.” Prudence wilted onto the settee beside Bristol and gulped her wine. “Good God!”

  The Hathaways’ cadaverous butler ushered two more couples inside, allowing them a brief word with Lady Hathaway before he prodded them toward the ballroom. The guests departed with raised eyebrows and curious glances toward the wreckage and busy servants.

  “Make the rest wait,” Prudence ordered. She accepted another glass of wine and fell heavily against the cushions of the settee. Her rouge stood in pink circles on her pale face. “Do you know what that Oriental vase was worth? Good God! No wonder William and Mary are anxious to be rid of her! It costs a king’s ransom to have her in the house!” Prudence drained her glass and weakly fanned her ample bosom. “Diana’s crazy as a bedbug!”

  “Does this happen often?” Bristol asked in a hushed voice. The broken pieces of glass disappeared, and new vases and fresh flowers appeared in their place. In a moment only wet stains glistening on the carpet remained to mark the earlier tempest.

  “Often?” Aunt Pru shrugged unhappily. “Who knows? I guess we’ll discover the answer for ourselves. Robbie and Diana will be living here until they locate a suitable house.” Her eyes rounded under folds of flesh. “Think of it—in less than a month, we’ll have to contend with Diana every day! Every day!” She shuddered.

  Bristol couldn’t bear to think of it. She patted her aunt’s hands, at a loss for words.

  Prudence’s worried eyes rose to Bristol, and even the warm candlelight didn’t soften the sudden age in her face. “Poor Robbie faces a lifetime of these dreadful scenes.” She stared at the glass in her fingers, then sighed, and struggled to her feet. “Well. All’s calm for the moment. And we are giving a party.” She attempted a smile and pinched her cheeks. “Up, girl, and do something with that long face. We don’t want anyone seeing us moping here.” She handed her empty glass to a passing servant. “The Marquis de Chevoux will be here, and the Duke of Easton, and many more. They must not see you looking glum. Up. Up, now.”

  Prudence made a few adjustments to Bristol’s gown; then her chins rose and her orange head sailed toward the entry door. Lady Hathaway nodded to the butler, and a flood of people poured through the door. Only Bristol noticed the dent in her aunt’s usual ebullience; to a casual observer Prudence’s enthusiastic greetings and introductions were delivered in her normal style.

  For herself, Bristol quickly abandoned an effort to remember the parade of faces and titles passing before her. They were too numerous to recall, and she couldn’t settle her mind to the task. She nodded, smiled, and murmured empty phrases to the swell of glittering personages filing past. And her eyes continued to stray toward the staircase.

  Jean Pierre. Her heart filled her mouth, and her hands trembled slightly. He was here, in this house. A wheezing blond gentleman lifted her limp hand to his lips, and she muttered a vague distracted acknowledgment of his gushing compliments. Jean Pierre was here. She exchanged bows with an elegant woman dressed in gold satin and sparkling with jewels. Jean Pierre. The woman passed, leaving a faint scent of perspiration and rosewater, and another took her place.

  All the while she smiled and bowed and murmured, Bristol’s racing mind sifted the information she’d learned in such a rush. Robbie was Jean Pierre. And he would be married in a month. Her lips pressed in pain, and the man before her blinked and muttered a vague apology and moved on. She and Jean Pierre would be living in the same house—with Diana, his wife. Jean Pierre, of the smoldering eyes and strong arms. Jean Pierre, who made music of the night and turned flesh to liquid. Jean Pierre. />
  There had never been a future with Jean Pierre La Crosse. He’d mentioned no future plans because there could be none. Stunned, Bristol realized what they’d shared on the Challenger had been everything to her, but nothing more than a passing interlude for La Crosse.

  The full impact of her thoughts bowed her head. Jean Pierre had used her. Used her body to ease the denials of a long voyage. Then he’d discarded her. At no time had Jean Pierre considered a future that included Bristol.

  Her face paled, then flamed in shame and anger. Memories of her simple happiness rose to mortify her; memories of shared laughter and quiet touches brought a humiliated quiver to her full lips. Jean Pierre had made a fool of her—a willing fool. How he must have smiled inside when Bristol’s eyes lit as he walked through the cabin door! How he must have laughed when she clung to his demanding body and whispered heated words into the hollow of his throat.

  Bristol staggered under a dizzy wave of hatred and betrayal. So many nights! So many nights she’d lain awake sorting her feelings for him, being so sure, so careful, before she admitted her love. Love! She’d deluded herself into believing she felt a profound emotion, and worse, that Jean Pierre returned her passion. She’d battled the idea of loving him, but deep inside, she’d known the truth. And all the time he used her!

  “Bristol!” Aunt Pru’s frown was concerned. “Are you feeling well? You look like death, and you’re rocking on your feet.” She led Bristol to a settee. “Here. Rest a minute.” Pru mopped her forehead and consulted a list she pulled from her waist sash. “I believe everyone has arrived. When you feel stronger, we’ll join our guests.” Calling the butler and Bridey Winkle, Aunt Pru delivered last-minute instructions.

  Both Prudence and Bristol glanced at the empty staircase, then away. “Well,” Aunt Pru sighed, “never mind Robbie. We’ll have him to ourselves tomorrow. Look here!” She waved a card filled with writing. “This is your dance card, girl! And not a blank space! I think every man passing through the receiving line insisted on a dance with you. You are already a success!” Chuckling gleefully, she ran a jeweled finger down the list. “In two more sets, you begin. I could easily have filled those, but I wasn’t certain when we’d finish here.” She poked the mound of orange curls and ran a smoothing hand over the layers of pink-and-mauve ruffles. “Come along... your future awaits.”