Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Jean Pierre stepped between the two women, taking their arms. Bristol winced as his arm brushed her breast, and she kept her face steadfastly forward. Jean Pierre said, “Come, now, Prudence. Haven’t you ever wanted to toss a vase at the wall?” His voice carried a special teasing quality which Bristol sensed was symbolic of his relationship with Prudence Hathaway.

  Aunt Pru grinned. “Of course. Many a time I’ve wanted to crash a bottle over Hathaway’s head.” Jean Pierre laughed. “The difference, Robbie, dear, is that I don’t. Diana does such things.”

  Jean Pierre smiled and paused just inside the ballroom doors. He rocked on his heels and examined the ceiling. “I seem to recall an incident a few years ago when a certain well-rounded lady of my acquaintance created a mound of broken pieces from a cabinet of very fine china.” He looked down at Prudence with twinkling eyes.

  Aunt Pru drew herself up with a sniff, and all her chins quivered with indignation. “That’s different. You know how despicable Lady Marlborough is! That silken parlor whore dared suggest I lack background!”

  Jean Pierre laughed and kissed Prudence’s perspiring cheeks. His face sobered, and he pressed her hands. “Aye, that makes all the difference,” he said softly. Bowing to them both, he vanished into the crowd.

  “‘Yes.’ Say ‘yes,’ not ‘aye,’” Aunt Pru muttered absently, her eyes fixed on the spot where Jean Pierre had faded into the dancers. She heaved a massive sigh and squinted at Bristol’s dance card. “Somewhere in that crush, a certain Lord Amesley is searching for you. I assure you, dear, it is no loss if he fails to find us. Lord Amesley is fiftyish, married, and passes wind with every other step. Let us hope he overlooks you.” She peered at Bristol with concern. “Perhaps you are catching cold! You’re pale as pudding, and there’s no spark in your eyes!”

  “I’m fine, Aunt Pru.” Bristol’s green eyes searched the top of the dancers. finding a dark head and a swirl of scarlet gown. A knife twisted in her heart. “I’m fine,” she whispered.

  An unpleasant odor assailed her nostrils; Lord Amesley had found her. Bristol hid a miserable sigh and stepped into his arms.

  A succession of elegant polished men followed Lord Amesley. They led her around the floor and murmured extravagant compliments above the music. Bristol smiled, flirting automatically, without thought, moving through the motions as if it was second nature to captivate men. But behind the thick sweep of lashes, behind her brilliant smiles, lay a hollow vacancy, a total lack of interest. And always, always, her eyes and her thoughts strayed to a shining dark head topping the others.

  It was almost a relief when the Duke of Easton eagerly claimed her for a midnight supper. Bristol accepted his arm with a tired smile. He seated her at an intimate table for two and returned in a moment bearing heaping plates of food. Immediately Charles Easton resumed his lecture on the evolution of folk dance to ballroom dance, delivered in a nasal monotone accompanied by furious blushing and many moist pauses.

  Bristol remembered to smile frequently, but her mind wandered toward a laughing honey-colored head bent near Jean Pierre’s dark curls. Diana led Jean Pierre to a secluded corner and offered him tidbits from her plate, laughing and touching his shoulder possessively. And Jean Pierre paid her every attention, staring into those golden-brown eyes as if Diana Thorne were the only woman in the room.

  Bristol put a hand to her forehead, covering her eyes. Her temples pounded with the first headache of her life. Seeing Jean Pierre with Diana was a torture past bearing.

  Charles Easton smiled uncertainly. “Are you well?” His solid brow creased in concern.

  “I’m fine,” Bristol answered with a faint smile. It seemed she’d spent the evening assuring people she felt fine... and she did not. She’d never felt worse. Wrenching her gaze from that shadowy corner, she stared into her plate, not certain what she was eating. She tried to recall the menu Aunt Pru had labored over so diligently: truffles, pink slices of baked ham, plover tongues, carrots in cream sauce, fresh asparagus (a rare treat), pease pudding, cherry jelly, vanilla pudding, and pistachio cream. The pistachio cream was expected to be the pièce de résistance, and all around, Bristol heard appreciative murmurs. But to her the cream tasted bland and uninteresting. As Charles Easton was bland and uninteresting; somehow she stumbled through the supper.

  The dancing continued until dawn, when the last happily weary couple yawned good-bye. Leaning in the entryway, Bristol and Prudence watched as Jean Pierre escorted Diana past them toward her family’s waiting coach. They both heard his assurances and promises to visit Diana within the week. And listened to Diana’s anxious questions. “When exactly, Robbie? I don’t like surprises, you know that. What day will you come?” The door muffled Jean Pierre’s reply.

  “Well.” Aunt Pru stretched and covered a gaping yawn. In the first golden streaks of dawn slanting through the windows, Bristol saw that Aunt Pru’s powder had streaked and caked; her pink-and-mauve gown hung in limp waves over her rounded stomach, and the orange curls had long since lost any definition—they matted together in a fuzzy pumpkin-colored cap. “I believe the party was an enormous success, don’t you, dear?”

  Bristol smiled in genuine affection. “It was the most lavish ball I’ve ever attended.”

  Aunt Pru snorted and grinned. “It’s the only ball you’ve ever attended. Why am I asking you?” She turned toward the steps and kicked off her shoes with a sigh of immense pleasure. She left the shoes where they fell and trudged up the staircase with Bristol following. “I only wish Hathaway might have come downstairs. He was quite a dancer in his day. No one does the minuet like Hathaway!” Aunt Pru yawned again and shook her curls wearily. “What annoys me most about these late nights is that everyone is too tired to gossip, and that’s definitely the best part of a party.” A naughty sparkle lit her eyes. “Did you see Lord Amesley drop his fork down Lady Battersea’s bodice?” Pru laughed and patted Bristol’s arm. She offered her cheek for a kiss, then padded down the hallway toward her husband’s bedroom. “I’ll just peek in on Hathaway; you and I will gossip tomorrow.” She yawned and disappeared around a turn in the corridor.

  Bristol smiled after her aunt. If Lord Hathaway was waiting for her, and Bristol thought it likely, he’d never see how his wife had wilted as the long evening wore on. Lord Hathaway would see the laughing young girl he’d married.

  Still smiling, Bristol bent to remove her own tight slippers, and her eyes looked between the bars of the stair railing. And met those of the man below, standing in the silent entryway, his head tilted to watch her.

  Slowly Bristol straightened, her shoes dangling from her fingers, the blood draining from her face. Jean Pierre’s eyes smoldered hungrily, and she saw a bulge straining the front of his dark breeches.

  She gripped the stair railing. “No,” she moaned. Her mind pictured him eating from Diana’s plate, laughing with Diana, dancing with Diana. “No! It’s too late for us. It was always too late for us!”

  His slate-colored eyes seared her breast, her hips, and Bristol watched his breath quicken.

  “No,” she stammered. “We can’t! That’s over!” She gathered her skirts and fled down the hallway, stumbling and blinking at tears stinging her lids. She burst into her room and locked the door, falling against it and panting for breath, her heart pounding furiously.

  When he came, as she’d known he would, she turned to face the door and laid her cheek against the cool wood, a dry sob on her lips. The latch moved once, then was still. But she felt him in the hallway, sensed his prowling energy beyond the thickness of the door.

  Bristol flattened her palms on the wood. “Jean Pierre. Jean Pierre,” she whispered, the words choking. When she knew he had gone, she flung herself across the pink bed and buried her face.

  If ever she’d doubted her feelings for him, that doubt had burned to ash in the fire of his kiss. Bristol loved him. And the pain was greater than any she’d known.

  “I... will... not... cry!” The words tore from between c
lenched teeth. The bed was large and her body empty, so empty. Angrily Bristol dashed the wetness from her eyes, assuring herself fatigue produced the damp, nothing else.

  A warm sun climbed well into the sky before Bristol’s hot, moist eyes closed and she fell into a restless, groaning sleep.

  15

  Still tired, Bristol yawned while Molly piled her hair high and helped her dress for dinner. Sometime in the last days, Molly had altered Bristol’s brown gown, turning Hannah’s pattern into something Bristol’s mother would never have approved.

  “The material be coarse, miss, and my sewing don’t be as fair good as what you’ll see from Collette, but you’ll not be feeling so out of place,” Molly explained.

  Bristol nodded approval at the mirror, stifling another yawn. Her gown now plunged to expose twin mounds of smooth white breast, and Molly had puffed out the sleeves and pulled in the waist. A panel of gold silk dropped in front and was repeated in gold cuffs and in a narrow golden band circling the drop of neckline. The gown remained simple, but infinitely more fashionable than the original Puritan design. Bristol hugged Molly gratefully. Molly tossed glossy black braids over her shoulders and perched on the arm of a velvet chair, watching Bristol fasten Mr. Aykroyd’s cameo, to her shoulder. “Did you meet Mr. Robbie last night, miss?”

  Bristol didn’t look up. “Yes,” she answered briefly.

  Molly rolled black eyes to the ceiling. “Ain’t he something, miss? I never seen a more handsome man—gives a girl the shivers, he does! And a sea captain, miss! Ain’t it romantic?” She patted her plump thighs. “I’ll wager Mr. Robbie has a thousand tales to tell, not like them dumb stable hands what only yap about horses.” She frowned and rubbed her ring finger. “One in particular, that Sam Biddlewell, don’t talk about nothing important, just horses this and horses that.”

  Bristol glanced at Molly and murmured sympathetically. It seemed affairs of the heart didn’t run smoothly for anyone. At the door Bristol paused and looked back at Molly’s drooping shoulders. “If Sam Biddlewell won’t pay you any attention, Molly, find someone who will,” she advised tartly. “There’s more than one star in the sky!” With a start, she realized the advice would fit herself as well as Molly.

  Molly lifted her head with a miserable little smile. “But I only want Sam, miss.”

  Such was the perversity of the human heart. Bristol pondered Molly’s sorrowful words as she hurried to Lord Hathaway’s study. Of all the men in London Town, Molly wanted only one.

  And Bristol wanted only one.

  Pausing outside the study door, Bristol drew a breath and gathered her strength. Inside, she heard Aunt Pru’s booming laugh and Uncle Robert’s answering chuckle. And then a voice that sent tremors up Bristol’s spine—Jean Pierre’s rich accented tones. Listening, Bristol sagged against the wall. How would she endure the dinner hours? How could she sit beside him and chat politely and not touch him, not let her heart shine in her eyes?

  Somehow she managed. Bristol ate the food on her plate and retained no memory of what she swallowed. She drank her wine and thought it tasteless as water. Keeping her eyes carefully averted, she listened to Jean Pierre’s account of the sinking Dover Clay, and when he’d finished, she could not have repeated a single word. Gossip of the previous night’s party flowed over her without penetrating. Bristol kept her eyes on her wineglass or smiled absently at her aunt and uncle.

  But although she dared not glance at Jean Pierre La Crosse, every inch of her body felt him. Her mind was finely tuned to each resonant syllable of his deep voice, every nuance of tone; and each small movement he made vibrated along an inner awareness. When he leaned to pour more wine, her stomach tensed at a faint drift of salt and fresh air. When his fingers played lightly along the stem of his glass, she remembered his hand on her thighs, his skilled fingers cupping her breasts....

  Leaning forward, Aunt Pru peered into her niece’s face. “Bristol! Where are you tonight? You’ve scarcely said a word!” Aunt Pru grinned and pounded Bristol’s knee. “For the past twenty minutes we’ve been discussing your triumph last night.” She rolled her blue eyes with pleasure and waved her little pipe. “Ah, the conquests!” she crowed. “Charles Easton is completely undone, and the Marquis de Chevoux refused to leave without arranging a hunt in your honor. Young Lord Babbington was distraught at not being your supper partner, and Viscount Pepperal-Haught insists I bring you to his country house for a weekend.” She clapped dimpled, flashing hands, nearly upsetting her pipe. “I’ve longed to see the viscount’s mansion for simply ages; Christopher Wren designed it, and everyone says the estate is absolutely magnificent!” Aunt Pru leaned to touch Jean Pierre’s arm. “And Bristol and I will need a restful weekend after your wedding, Robbie. Simply everyone of importance is giving you and Diana a party... there’s hardly a free evening for the next month! We’ll all be exhausted! I do hope Collette delivers your cousin’s new gowns this week.” Aunt Pru tapped her head. “I’ll send Collette a note tomorrow!”

  Bristol directed her green eyes to her aunt, her every sense feeling Jean Pierre’s smoky stare watching above the rim of his glass. “That’s very kind of you to think of me when you have so much on your mind,” she answered in a faint voice.

  Uncle Robert adjusted his shawl and smiled with Jean Pierre’s gray eyes. “We’re pleased to do what we can, Miss Bristol. Our greatest hope is that you enjoy your stay at Hathaway House.” He waved his wineglass and winked at his son. “Robbie, just look at her. Have you ever seen such wonderful hair?”

  “Magnifique,” Jean Pierre agreed softly, his eyes not leaving Bristol’s face. His tone implied more, and an awkward silence followed his comment.

  Bristol felt Jean Pierre’s eyes touch her hair, brush the creamy swell of her candlelit breasts. Uncle Robert cleared his throat, and Aunt Pru’s round blue eyes moved slowly from Bristol to Jean Pierre, a knowing flicker beginning in the depths.

  Jean Pierre broke the long pause with a sudden grin toward his stepmother. “Only one woman I know has hair to match Bristol’s. And I think...” His eyes teased. “Yes, I think the magnificence of the aunt surpasses that of the niece.” He lifted his glass and toasted Prudence.

  Aunt Pru hooted and preened herself, the uneasy moment ignored. While Prudence and Jean Pierre bantered compliments, Bristol lifted a hand to her pounding temples; the strain of being this close and this artificial filled her head with throbbing tension; her body felt warm and tight. Distraught, she wondered how much longer she must remain before she could politely escape the intimate confines of the study and Jean Pierre’s overpowering male domination. He filled the room with his presence. Jean Pierre sat in his chair with a relaxed elegance, but it was an elegance barely hiding the coiled energy of the man. She felt him drawing her like a powerful magnet, confusing her senses.

  As Bristol reached shaking hands for her wineglass, her eyes met Lord Hathaway’s thoughtful expression, and she realized he’d been studying her. In that clear gray gaze, Bristol saw a recognition that startled her. Lord Hathaway looked through her pretence and into her heart.

  “Robbie,” he said in a musing voice, “Pumpkin has tomorrow afternoon completely filled.” Aunt Pru turned toward him in surprise. “I wonder, after church service, if you might do us the kindness of escorting Miss Bristol on a sightseeing tour? With the preparations for the ball, we’ve neglected to show Pumpkin’s niece the sights of London.”

  Jean Pierre grinned. “I’d be delighted, sir.”

  “No!” They all looked at Bristol and a rosy flush climbed her throat. “That is,” she stammered, “I don’t mind waiting, and...” She leveled a helpless appeal toward Jean Pierre, but he leaned back in his chair, the grin widening. Bristol’s hand fluttered to her cheek, then to her lap, and back to the pulse thudding in the hollow of her throat. “I’d rather wait until Aunt Pru is free to accompany us.”

  Prudence Hathaway looked a question toward her husband and read an answer in his steady gray eyes. She shook her oran
ge head at Bristol. “Nonsense! You needn’t wait for me, dear. I assure you I have a great deal to accomplish in preparing for this wedding. After all, the queen will attend.”

  She rolled her eyes and fanned her chest. “The details! You can’t imagine! And Diana’s mother is as addle-brained as... That is, old Lady Thorne is worse than no help at all!” She patted Bristol’s arm. “If you’re concerned about the lack of a chaperon, I assure you no one will whisper at an outing with your own cousin.”

  Bristol met Lord Hathaway’s calm eyes with a plea in her own, but his knowing glance didn’t waver. She felt manipulated and beaten. To insist on a chaperon now would cast undue importance on the event. Looking at Uncle Robert’s face, Bristol suspected he hoped her charms would sway Jean Pierre from a wedding no one wanted. And deep inside stirred a tiny rebellious hope of her own. And this despite her knowledge the wedding would not, could not, be canceled. Jean Pierre was a man of his word. The wedding would occur as scheduled.

  Even so, tremulous hope and half-formed plans interfered with her sleep, leaving her tired and nervously excited when she awoke the next day. Reverend Cornwell’s sermon washed over her fiery head.

  Prudence, Jean Pierre, and Bristol attended services in the Tri-Trinity Church where the most Reverend Mr. Cornwell bludgeoned his congregation with uninspired exhortations to tread the paths of righteousness. Aunt Pru diligently bent over her lap desk, scribbling notes for the monthly missal to Noah and casting broad winks in Bristol’s direction. Bristol returned the winks with an absent smile; her mind centered on a dark head across the aisle.

  Alone. This afternoon they would be alone, and when she thought of it, her stomach tightened and her heart rolled in her chest. What would he say to her? And she to him? What could they talk about? Her green eyes clouded. Jean Pierre would marry another woman. There was nothing to say but good-bye.