“What were you two doing?” she demanded in a furious undertone of Brett when he claimed her for a dance.
“I might ask the same of you,” he drawled. “For weren't you just now outside with Nicolas?”
Georgiana’s face was stained red at the truth of his accusation and a little tremor went through her at the memory of Nicolas’s kiss and how foolishly she had reacted. “He had hold of me and he danced me through the door,” she defended, almost missing a step as she prayed Brett had not glimpsed her through the windows! “I could either go where he led me or make a scene—I chose not to make a scene.”
“Very commendable of you.” Brett’s voice was ironic as he whirled her deftly around. “I went with Erica for the same reason.”
So Erica would have made a stormy scene if Brett had not gone with her! Georgiana felt a little mollified. “Where did she take you?”
“Into Huygen’s office.” And to her bewildered look. “It is on the other side of the house.” He nodded his head in a direction away from the terrace.
Thank God it was in the other direction—he could not have seen her from the windows! Georgiana breathed easier. “But why did she take you there?” she wondered.
“She wished to consult a map there and show me the land Govert Steendam has bought just south of Rensselaerwyck. She wanted to discuss a deal between Steendam and myself, a joint venture on a mill there. Who knows, it might work.”
“And Govert Steendam is a magistrate,” Georgiana said bitterly. “He will be one of those who will decide Windgate’s ownership if it ever comes to court.”
“We would have to wait until that battle is over, of course, lest there be a charge of self-interest on his part.”
“Of course.” Georgiana shot an angry look across the room at Erica and got a serene look in return before the dancers whirled between them and obscured her view. Erica was sure of her ground now. She was planning to shackle Brett to her with chains of gold—mercantile ties he could not get out of. “But you told me you planned to develop your own mill as near Rensselaerwyck as you could. I thought you planned to develop your own mills.”
“A partnership with Steendam might be better in the long run,” Brett said thoughtfully. “Govert is Dutch and I will remind you that this is a Dutch colony once again. And Govert has vast influence in New Orange.”
And Govert Steendam would be unlikely to decide so important a legal matter as the ownership of Windgate against the man who was to be his future partner! Ah, it was all very neatly thought out, handsomely packaged, and tied with riband! Erica had done her work well! Georgiana gave her rival a bitter look and was answered by a lighthearted wave of a lace kerchief—her enemy blithely acknowledging her presence. “I wish we had never come to this ball!” she said through her teeth.
“Why?” Brett was startled. “You have seemed to be enjoying yourself, you charmed Vrouw Berghem—and certainly Nicolas van Rappard has been paying you court. Not a person in the room but has noticed it.”
“I did not invite his attentions,” she said hotly. “And besides, I would think you would want to know what is brewing in that direction.”
“Oh, I do, I do.” His voice was laced with irony. “But I am not about to share my wife with Nicolas, Georgiana, no matter what he may think. In the courts of kings a man may turn his back upon his wife’s dalliance, look the other way and become rich—I am not such a man, Georgiana, so make no deals with Nicolas!”
The warning on his sardonic hawklike face was clear and unmistakable. He had guessed what Nicolas was about and he was warning her.
She tossed her head and in making a turn stepped back with such abandon that she almost crashed into someone. Deftly Brett averted the collision. “And what makes you think I would consider making a deal with Nicolas?” she demanded airily.
“Something reckless in your bearing tonight,” Brett told her silkily. “For ’tis a quality I well remember—in myself.”
“We are nothing alike, you and I,” she scoffed. “Doubtless you made your way at the point of a rapier!”
“And you with other points just as potent.” His significant gaze swept across the white expanse of her heaving breast, sumptuously displayed in her low-cut gown. Georgiana glared at him and he chuckled. "Come now, shall we forget our differences and enjoy the evening? For there will be few parties on the river when the snow flies.”
It was on the tip of Georgiana’s tongue to retort that neither Nicolas nor Erica were apt to allow themselves to be forgotten, when the full significance of her husband’s words sank in on her: few parties on the river when the snow flies....
‘‘Do you mean boats will not ply the river in the snow?” she demanded.
“I mean that when the icy cold sweeps down from Canada, the Hudson may well freeze solid from bank to bank—it has done so in the past.” Yes, Imogene’s journal had told her that. “And then the river traffic will come to a crashing halt.”
And Erica Hulft and her new husband would be stuck downriver in New Orange! Georgiana’s turquoise eyes sparkled. “But surely sleighs and ice skates will bring neighbors together?” she protested, almost skipping.
“Oh, yes, there’ll be ice dances and bonfires on the snowy banks and a certain amount of merrymaking, but few large balls such as this.”
Georgiana gave him her sweetest smile and when the music ended, she stepped away from him and suddenly clapped her hands.
“Your attention, everyone!” she cried. “For I have an announcement to make.”
Brett’s head swung around in surprise and he frowned down at her. Reckless she was, and ever would be so, this girl he had married. He could only hope her jealousy would not lead her into excesses from which he could not extricate her.
Georgiana’s voice rang out merrily, floating above the throng. “We at Windgate would offer all of you our hospitality. When the first snows fall, bring your sleighs across the ice to Windgate and warm yourselves at our hearth. And wear your masks, for we will give a masquerade ball—with ice dancing—to usher in the winter season!”
Startled murmurs greeted this announcement.
“Too vague,” Brett muttered, and added his voice to hers. “We will send invitations to all we can reach, weather permitting,” he said smoothly. “And we would appreciate your guest list, Huygens, that we may not miss anyone.”
There was a light dusting of applause, but many of the Dutch guests had no love for the “English patroon” who, they felt, had usurped Nicolas van Rappard’s rightful inheritance. Still, there was this suddenly produced daughter of Verhulst van Rappard. Warily, they turned to each other, murmuring that they would come—weather permitting. It gave them leeway, was the unspoken agreement between them.
Katrina ten Haer looked daggers at Georgiana, who had thus managed to steal the limelight. But across the room, Erica Hulft moved her burnt orange skirts restlessly in this crush and bit her lips. Would she be able, she wondered, to get Govert to undertake the perilous journey up the frozen Hudson for a ball? Her pretty face hardened. If not, she must arrange to go herself—alone.
But Nicolas, who had just had his glass filled with golden Canary wine, lifted that glass in tribute to Georgiana’s impulsive invitation and downed it as he would a toast. With lazy interest, he studied the lovely lady of Windgate. And told himself that he would somehow find a way to capitalize on her desperate throw of the dice.
Chapter 18
“If you are suffering van Rappard’s attentions in a mistaken effort to aid me, disabuse yourself,” said Brett bluntly. “For now that I’ve married you, he cannot fail to see the folly of pursuing his claim to Windgate. He allows it to hang fire to save face, but he’ll not bring it to court.”
Georgiana turned her face away, glad to have the darkness hide the guilty color that must be rising there. For although that had been her original intention, to try to divert Nicolas from his attempt to claim Windgate, her interest in Nicolas had subtly changed, evolved into something else.
Something she refused to give a name.
They were back on board the River Witch and that shallow draft sloop with its red painted hull was carrying them fast upriver away from the festivities, for the house at Haerwyck was crowded and the Danforths had elected not to stay the night but to sail back to Windgate. Nobody was near them on the wide deck, so they could speak freely without being heard. A pale moon glazed the river's dark surface but gave no hint of the brilliant autumn colors that garnished the rounded hills about them. Tonight those hills seemed like the round backs of giant sleeping turtles clustered at the water's edge. There was a little splash as a raccoon broke the surface and swam toward a low-lying branch that scraped the water, climbed upon it. Georgiana was silent, watching him as they sailed past. He clung tightly to the tree with his tiny feet, his russet furry body leaning comfortably in a crook of the branch, looking at them with bright interested eyes.
He was free, she thought, not—as they were—chained to a piece of land. Windgate.
Brett mistook her silence for sullenness.
“If you are angry because I shared a plate with Erica Hulft,” he began, “it was Steendam who asked me to do it. It was he who enjoined me to take care of her whilst he conducted some business with Huygens. I could hardly refuse.”
“Of course—you could hardly refuse,” she echoed him mechanically. “Whilst I shared my portion with Vrouw Berghem, who told me that in Holland, when her grandson was born, her daughter hung a red pincushion trimmed with lace on the door latch to announce it. If it had been a girl, the pincushion would have been lace-trimmed white! Even the poorest sort in Holland hang strings or ribands to the door latch to announce the arrival of a child.”
He frowned down at her. “I am glad you found Vrouw Berghem so entertaining.”
“Oh, I did! And were you equally entertained—with Erica?”
He stiffened. “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Erica entertained me by inviting my attention to this and that—for instance, who it was who brought those heaped-up plates to Vrouw Berghem and yourself.”
“It was Nicolas,” said Georgiana carelessly. “You must not be so jealous of him, Brett.”
Her tall husband seized her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. “Have I cause to be?” he demanded, and she could see angry lights dancing in his gray eyes.
Georgiana shook her shoulders to free herself of his grasp. His grip relaxed and he let her go, stood watching her intently.
“For a man who spent his evening dancing attendance on Erica Hulft,” she said evenly, “it seems to me you have no cause to complain.” She turned abruptly away from him, again considered the shining river flowing down from the Adirondacks to the sea. “Vrouw Berghem was telling me that to make her house more desirable for sale she was having a lot of fresh white sand thrown onto the floor and swept into a fancy design. It seemed very odd to me.”
Her voice drifted to a halt, for it had occurred to her with a sudden pang that it had been rather splendid of Nicolas to offer to throw away everything for her, to forsake his claim to Windgate, to disappear—if only she would share his exile with him. While in contrast, Brett—she cast a sudden resentful glance at that dark hawklike face hovering so near her own—even after knowing her, loving her. Brett would still have married someone else to make fast his holding! She could not forget that—and it rankled. And sharpened her voice as she began again, unwilling to tackle him on the main issue. “Vrouw Berghem says the designs in the sand are—”
“Stop making conversation, Georgiana,” said Brett in a quiet voice. ' Neither of us cares a hoot whether Vrouw Berghem sweeps her sand into designs or tosses it into the East River! Let us talk about our differences.”
“Our differences?” Georgiana essayed a yawn. “I didn’t know we had any.” she said coolly.
Brett restrained a violent desire to shake her. She was so lovely, so irritating—and so near. Her very nearness set his blood to racing.
“Nicolas van Rappard’s attentions to you were observed by all the company," he told her in a hard voice. “I saw heads turn and tongues wag.”
“I suppose the tongues have already wagged about you and Erica until they are tired and must have something new to keep them going?”
“Erica means nothing to me!” he exploded. “You are my wife.”
“Keep your voice down,” she advised in a low tone. “You have told me you do not care for your men to hear us quarreling. Nor do I care for Linnet to hear us and carry tales about us to the kitchen!”
She distinctly heard his teeth grate.
“Georgiana,” he said coldly. “I did not take you for a fool.”
“Nor am I one,” she flashed.
“Then for once observe with your eyes and not your heart. Did you actually see one single thing transpire between Erica and myself at Haerwyck that could give rise to gossip?”
Georgiana was about to reply “Yes, you not only ate with her, you disappeared from the party with her!” when she realized that not only had she eaten with Nicolas and Vrouw Berghem, she too had disappeared from the party—with Nicolas. Deprived of that retort, she took a new avenue to show her resentment. “And when you were not dancing attendance on Erica Hulft,” she accused, “you were pursuing Katrina ten Haer!”
“God give me strength!” Brett rolled his eyes toward the moon and Georgiana could almost feel the tautness of his muscles.
But perversely she continued to torment him. She peered down at her hands. “I seem to have lost a glove. I must have left it with Vrouw Berghem when we supped together. Ah, well”—she turned to give Brett the full brilliance of her smile—“Nicolas may find it and return it.”
She saw sudden anger darken her husband’s face and knew with fright that she had gone too far. He seized her arm in an ungentle grip and she saw his eyes flash.
What would have happened then they were never to know, for abruptly the sloop seemed to shudder, then sidle. Simultaneously there was a shout from the schipper and a scream from Linnet, some distance down the deck.
A ripple went through Brett’s frame and he released his grip on her half-numbed arm with a low curse.
“What the devil—?” he demanded and strode forward, toward the commotion.
“Have we struck something?” cried Georgiana. She hurried along behind him.
“I think we’ve fouled the rudder,” he flung over his shoulder.
Fury had warmed her but now the night chill struck her as suddenly as the sight that rose before her.
The entire crew was clustered together at the rail, and Linnet too was leaning over it, staring down. Someone was wielding a pole—one of those with an iron hook on it, made to clear floating debris away from the rudder.
“Oh, it’s horrible, horrible!” Linnet cowered away from whatever the men were looking at, down in the water.
Brett brushed by the moaning girl and was abruptly silent. Georgiana came to stand beside him and looked over the rail to see what everybody was staring at.
There, lit by the moon's pale light, was a woman’s face, open eyes staring upward, long dark hair streaming out into the water. A drowned face:
“It’s the Michaelius woman,” Brett said in an altered voice. “Here, get her aboard—careful with that hook, she may yet be alive.”
Beside Georgiana, Linnet whimpered, as the men, under Brett’s supervision, brought the Michaelius woman over the side with exceeding care But there was no reviving her, she must have been dead for hours.
“How could she have floated so long?” marveled Georgiana, standing well back from that limp wet form on the deck. She looked very fragile lying there, the Michaelius woman, and there was a dark bruise along her jaw.
“Her dress was caught on that floating log that fouled our rudder," said Brett, running a hand through his dark hair. “Did you not see it? Twas what caused the Witch to shudder and when the men rushed to free it—they found her.”
“I did not see the log,” mumbled Georgiana. “I saw onl
y the woman.”
Only that tragic young face with its spreading tangle of coal black hair. “Oh, Brett, how terrible!” Her voice quavered. “Do you think she drowned herself?”
His arm went round her shoulders protectively and she was glad to seek the comfort of contact with his warm body. “We may never know. Perhaps Kray will know something—even if he does, he may not tell us. Come inside, Georgiana, you’re shivering. The men can take care of her and Linnet’s here to do anything a woman should do.” He was urging her toward their cabin as he spoke. “We’ll take her body back to Windgate and give her decent burial there.”
A sob escaped Georgiana as they went through the cabin door. “My mother—drowned in this river,” she managed to get out.
“I know,” he said. “I know.” He reached back and closed the cabin door with his foot.
“Just—hold me,” she whispered.
But even with Brett’s arms warm and comforting around her. Georgiana could not seem to stop shaking. Her beautiful fair-haired mother who had swept all before her had lost her life in this cold wild river, this Hudson, and that drowned face she had just seen with its staring eyes and wet ribands of black shining hair had brought it all back to her.
And at that very moment, the mother Georgiana had long thought drowned was working by candlelight over the books of Longview, her Carolina plantation. She made a beautiful picture there, the elegant fair-haired woman in her gown of sapphire silk, just this month imported from Paris. She had chosen the gown for its sky blue color, which was van Ryker’s favorite, and it was cunningly trimmed in point lace rosettes, its deep square neckline outlined, as were the full puffed sleeves, slashed and lined in pale violet silk, with ice blue satiny ribands. The night was cool, her violet silk petticoat thin, and Imogene had thrown an embroidered lavender silk shawl carelessly across her shoulders as she frowned over the books. In the candlelight that gilded her golden hair as she worked, she seemed to shimmer like a moth in moonlight.
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