How strange of Verhulst van Rappard to have such a thing engraved onto a stone in his family plot, after having driven Imogene and her lover to their death!
And then on Imogene’s other side was a stone the servants at Wey Gat had raised to their patroon. And it too said “Tomorrow.”
Georgiana returned to the big house feeling sad. She was beginning to feel that her mother had not understood her young husband, and that if she had, everything might have been different—she, Georgiana, might have had a home and a family.
Of course, she had had a home and family for a while—the Jamisons. But she had only been a counterfeit daughter there, just as now she was a counterfeit heiress here.
With a rueful grimace, she went to look up Floss, who could use exercise after her long grueling confinement on shipboard.
Floss, in her stall in one of the big stone stables with their peaked slate roofs, nuzzled her delightedly.
“You look a little thin and your coat has lost its luster,” Georgiana told Floss. “Fresh hay and sunshine and romping in the pasture will do wonders for that—and most of all a ride with me!” She hugged that strong silvery neck and felt Floss’s tossing mane mingle with her own fair hair. When she mounted, the mare danced impatiently, eager to be off and away.
With a chuckle, Georgiana gave Floss her head and let her roam where she pleased. Together they raced through the fragrant meadows of fall, beneath trees gone red and crimson and gold. Floss was as delighted as her mistress with this tour of exploration of the Hudson River country. Georgiana indulged the mare, allowing her to stop whenever she liked to nibble the vegetation and daintily munch a bit of succulent grass here, nip a tasty weed there.
They had been riding for some time and the air was freshening with a hint of rain in it when Floss crested a little rise and Georgiana saw below her a low Dutch farmhouse.
“Well, Floss, we’ll just inspect a bouwerie!” she told the horse merrily, and together they thundered down upon it.
The soft thud of hooves must have alerted those within, for the door flew open and a man stuck his head out. The head was as quickly withdrawn and as Georgiana neared the farmhouse she saw a mounted man, with his hat jammed down over his head and a mass of blond hair spilling out from beneath his hat, ride away fast from the back of the house and disappear into the woods without looking in her direction.
Intrigued by that, Georgiana rode in and dismounted at the farmhouse door, leaving Ross’s reins dragging, for she had no fear that well-trained Floss would run away.
Before she could knock, the door opened and a heavyset black-bearded man said, “Afternoon. What’s wanted?”
Somewhat daunted by his gruff tone, but mindful of the days when she had run Mirabelle single-handed, Georgiana said, in her straightfoward way, “I am Georgiana Danforth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said without inflection. “I know who you are.” His hard gaze bored into hers without expression.
Surprised at that answer—news certainly must spread fast along the river!—Georgiana gave him a winning smile and asked if he was happy here and if his crops were doing well.
“Well enough,” was the laconic answer.
She had half expected him to offer her a glass of homemade cider or home-brewed beer but he did not. He waited patiently while she made small talk. “The patroon’s not with you?” he asked, scanning the empty landscape behind her.
“No, he’s off to the mill and to inspect the bouweries. I thought he might have dropped by here this morning?”
“No, ma’am. Hasn’t been here. I’ll be wantin’ to ask him when he wants the use of my horse and wagon—I be owin’ him three days’ use of my horse and wagon as part of my contract.”
It was plain black-beard wasn’t going to ask her in. Something in his gruff manner made Georgiana feel she was being dismissed. Oh, well, doubtless he had work to do and was anxious to get on with it! She was mounting Floss even as she said, “I’m sure he’ll be back by Friday. If he hasn’t stopped by in the meantime, I’ll ask him for you then when he’ll be needing your horse and wagon.”
She thought she saw a flicker of satisfaction in his hard eyes as she turned Floss about, gave him a rather cold “good day” and turned to go. When she looked back from the crest of the low rise she could see the black-bearded man was still standing there watching her.
It occurred to her then that she had seen no woman about the place nor any sign of one. That was odd. Why would a man shut himself away from the world on a lonely bouwerie without a woman to keep him company? How would he spend the long shut-in winter that must surely come to this northern land?
Thoughtful now, she rode home beneath lowering skies. Once, a white-tailed doe crossed her path like a bird in flight and Floss reared up. It reminded Georgiana how pleasantly wild this country was, how full of living things.
When she got home she told Linnet where she had been and was informed that the man’s name was Jack Belter and that he came from Lincoln. “He pays no attention to anyone, Jack doesn’t,” Linnet added with a sniff. “Haughty, that’s what—and no reason for it that I can see!”
“There was someone visiting him, a strongly built fellow with yellow hair. He was too far away for me to see him well, but he had the look of a gentleman about him.”
Linnet looked surprised. “Jack don’t mix with no one,” she insisted. “Just keeps to hisself. Whoever ’twas, must have been a stranger asking the way to somewhere’s else.”
Yet he took flight at my appearance, mused Georgiana, and decided to ride over to Jack Belter’s bouwerie again one day.
The rest of the day she spent inspecting the kitchen and the stores in the capacious cellars. She marveled at the extent of the preserving as she passed countless crocks of jams and jellies—gooseberry, currant, blueberry, strawberry—and saw the big crocks of brandied peaches, preserved plums, and apple butter. Deep bins held potatoes, parsnips and fragrant apples. She almost tripped over a keg of pigs’ feet and gasped as she saw the great array of cheeses and the shelves of spiced fruit. There were hogsheads of corned beef and great quantities of salt pork. And would she like to see the smokehouse? Linnet, her guide, wondered. It was crammed with meat and fish. And there’d be more, for the day after the first frost was “hog-killing day” and there’d be fresh pork and sausage and then they’d cure the big hams and hang them up and smoke them.
Georgiana could see that this was basically a Dutch household—even to the “table carpet,” a lightweight Oriental rug that graced the long dining table when it was not in use. She was very content to leave it so, for Dutch ways were gracious ways and based on a life of plenty.
It was lonely but grand when Georgiana sat down to her solitary dinner, facing down a long snowy cloth toward Brett’s richly carved empty chair. Her heart rebelled that he should be gone but—perhaps it was better so. Now she would have time to get to know the house and the servants really well before he got back. She began to feel he might have planned it that way....
The next day she did not ride out, for the sky threatened rain and she felt that Floss, still in delicate condition from her long tiresome journey, might be a little tired from yesterday’s long ride. Instead she had Linnet guide her all over the house, poking into bedroom closets and seeing the big feather “puffs” that were tossed over the thick feather mattresses when the weather grew cold. The servants slept in the big attics on straw mattresses that were thick and, Linnet assured her cheerfully, quite comfortable.
“Would you want to marry a man on one of the bouweries?”Georgiana asked the girl curiously. “Or don’t you fancy farm life?”
Linnet hesitated. “ ’Tis a hard life on the bouweries. Although ’tis easier, I am told, under this new master. The old contracts called for a tenth of the produce and five hundred guilders’ rent, which is a great sum—and two fathoms of firewood cut for the patroon and brought to the water’s edge and also ten pieces of fir or oak. And besides that each bouwerie must furnish the
patroon with twenty-five pounds of butter, two bushels of wheat, and two pairs of fowls as quit rent, and they must keep up the roads and repair the buildings and—”
“And furnish three days’ service with horse and wagon—I know,” sighed Georgiana. “It is so much I do not see how they find time to do it all. I am going to speak to Brett about it.”
“Even so, I might marry a man on one of the bouweries if he were good to look at and caught my fancy. Of course, I would prefer a gentleman!”
Georgiana gave Linnet an indulgent look. She liked the little Yorkshire girl and determined that if and when Linnet married, she would not go to her groom clad in homespun. Linnet would have a proper wedding dress—she would provide it!
Which brought to mind her own dowry—that dowry she had snatched from Mirabelle! Georgiana went downstairs, noting as she did so that the great hall had gone dark and rain was pouring down outside. There she supervised the unpacking and polishing of the two enormous candlesticks that meant so much to her, placed them prominently on the big sideboard in the dining room and stood back proudly to survey them.
“They’re wonderful!” gasped Linnet. And added ingenuously, “You must have been very rich in Bermuda.”
Georgiana gave her a rueful look. It had been an on-again, off-again life. From pauper to princess and back again. From surrogate princess to counterfeit heiress. Who knew what the future held?
“It was awful your not being found for so long,” went on Linnet. “How did it happen you didn’t come back?”
Georgiana decided not to satisfy gossipy Linnet’s curiosity. They were treading on dangerous ground. “It’s a long story,” she said. “Come, I want to check the linens in that big chest.”
“Cook calls it a kas," giggled Linnet. “That’s a Dutch word.”
“Very well,” smiled Georgiana. “I want to check the linens in the kas, and by then it will be time for dinner.”
She dressed slowly for dinner, rather overcome by how much there was to learn here. So many things were done differently from the way they were done in Bermuda—for one thing, there was so much preparation against the bitter cold to come. Listening to the rain beat down, she trailed down to dinner in one of the gowns Brett had brought to Bermuda in the big sea chest: a simply cut copper velvet that had been hastily altered to fit her. It was vastly becoming with its big detachable sleeves laced with gold, from which spilled a torrent of white lace, and its deep-cut neckline edged in copper lace.
She had hardly sat down to dinner before the heavy brass knocker on the front door sounded. Surprised that anyone should be calling at this hour and in this weather, she followed Wouter to the door, where he let in a dripping gentleman from whose hat a whole teacup of water seemed to cascade as he made her a low sweeping bow. His thick golden hair was wet too and splashed little droplets of water at her as his head came up from that bow.
“A thousand pardons,” he beamed at her. “But ’tis so wet I can’t ride home, for my horse is up to his fetlocks in mud! And I wondered if Windgate could give me shelter for the night?”
Startled, Georgiana realized that she was looking into the face of Nicolas van Rappard, claimant to Windgate. Nicolas, the golden Dutchman who had hailed them from the dock as they left New Orange.
BOOK III
Windgate’s Mistress
From the turmoil of her past,
Where her future was forecast,
Will she win to wealth and fame?
All the river know her name?
Part One
The Golden Dutchman
His lips are hot and tempting....
Dare she follow where he leads?
Will she end up lost and lonely,
Victim of his reckless deeds?
Chapter 10
If Georgiana was daunted by the sight of Nicolas van Rappard standing on her doorstep in the rain, she was determined not to show it. Her heart was pounding but she was well aware that the custom of the day made automatic welcome to passing travelers on obligation. Had Brett been here, she knew he would promptly have extended the hospitality of Windgate to Nicolas, and she would do no less!
Her elegant copper velvet skirts swirled in a curtsy as formal as had been Nicolas’s sweeping bow.
“Indeed you are most welcome,” she said graciously, rising to face him—although she could not look him squarely in the eye, he was so much taller. “Come in out of the weather. We will do our best to make you comfortable, Mynheer van Rappard.”
“You remember me!” he exclaimed in delight.
“I could hardly not remember you,” she told him in a rueful tone. “Since you scandalously accused my husband of beating a retreat from you when you could plainly see his sloop had already left the dock before you hailed us! Wouter, take the gentleman’s cloak, it is dripping a river on the carpet. Come, mynheer, you are just in time for dinner.”
“How fortunate!” Nicolas sounded overjoyed. “For I lost my way in the woods, what with sopping branches slapping me in the face and my horse slipping and sliding on wet leaves. I missed lunch—indeed, I am weak from hunger.”
He did not look weak, thought his hostess, from hunger or anything else. Now that his sodden cloak was off, she could see how resplendent were his garments—the same he had worn that day on the dock, she thought, of a becoming honey tan velvet adorned with—could his lace be ever so slightly shabby? Certainly any shabbiness was entirely overshadowed by the personality of the man. Tall and jaunty and well-formed, her golden-haired guest headed toward the dining room with a springy step. It was obvious that he knew the way. He offered her a damp velvet arm and they went in rather grandly to find another plate already set. Georgiana looked at the extra plate in surprise and met Wouter’s eyes. He grinned at her and Georgiana smiled back. Word would get around that things ran smoothly at Windgate under the regime of the new bride!
Nicolas pulled back her chair with regal ceremony and they sat down, Georgiana gingerly arranging her copper velvet skirts and watching her unwelcome guest warily. Nicolas was lavish in his praise of the food.
“Windgate has flowered under your dainty hands,” he told her effusively as he launched into the excellent baked capon.
“The last time I saw you, you called it Wey Gat,” she challenged.
“Ah, but that was before I had time to drink in the beauty of Wey Gat’s heiress.” Nicolas’s blue eyes twinkled at her. “Henceforth, in your honor—since you are English—I shall call it Windgate.” His voice was merry.
Had he given up the effort to seize the patroonship, then? she asked bluntly.
“Oh—you understand there may yet be some little business in the courts.” He shrugged, his manner noncommittal. “Nothing, I am sure that need concern you.”
“Any change of ownership of Windgate would indeed concern me,” Georgiana pointed out dryly.
Another merry smile split his handsome golden mustaches, drew attention to his clipped—and carefully brushed—Van Dyke beard gleaming gold in the candlelight. “That’s as may be,” he shrugged “Legal things once started are hard to stop.”
“I should think it would be very easy to withdraw a challenge to ownership,” said Georgiana, nettled.
“Who knows?” he said airily. “But in any event we must not let such things interfere with our friendship. After all, we are, for a time at least, neighbors.”
“Really?” That did surprise her. “And where is your home? Brett had not told me that you had purchased land in the vicinity.”
“Touché!" He wagged an admonishing finger at her. “Home at the moment is at the hospitable ten Haers’, who have kindly given me shelter. I assume you’ll be attending their ball next week?”
“Neither Brett nor I would miss it,” she assured him grimly.
“Ah, yes, Brett. Where is Danforth?” Nicolas looked about him as if he had just noticed her husband’s absence.
“Gone to his mill and to inspect the bouweries."
“The new mill—of cour
se, I had forgotten. Your husband is an enterprising man, mevrouw.”
“Very.” Having Nicolas captive at her table, Georgiana decided she would find out some things she wanted to know. “May I ask why it was so many years before you discovered yourself to be an heir? Surely you must have heard of Verhulst van Rappard’s death long before you appeared on Windgate’s doorstep!” She would have to watch herself, she realized. She had spoken of Windgate’s former patroon as if he were a stranger, yet all the world considered him her father!
Nicolas had been polishing off the capon with relish but her question arrested him in mid-bite.
“A good question, mevrouw.” The blue eyes twinkled again. “I was aboard an East Indiaman when a storm came up and I was washed overboard. Fortunately, I managed to hold on to a piece of planking and eventually came ashore on a small island. It was three years before I managed to make my way back aboard another East Indiaman. On arrival back in Holland I was told that my family had perished of the plague—which indeed was still raging in my home city of Leyden. Faced with this grim news, I chose not to return to Leyden but instead took ship for Curaçao, where I spent some years as an inter-island trader. It was by sheerest chance that I learned—so tardily, as you point out—of my Cousin Verhulst’s death. And I was told, of course, that he had no surviving relatives save myself—we did not know about you then.”
Georgiana ignored that. She stared down at her untouched capon. “You have led a venturesome life, mynheer.”
“True,” he acknowledged carelessly, again attacking the capon with gusto. “And a roving one. You, I understand, are from Bermuda?”
“Yes,” said Georgiana warily. She had been toying with her food, watching him, but now she felt herself go tense.
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