“I'll do you proud,” promised Linnet warmly. “They won’t never have seen nothing like me on the ice!” She told herself that while she might have played the mistress false by giving Nicolas the packet, at least she could do this for her—and hadn’t Nicolas said this would make up for it?
Georgiana settled herself in the big bush as near to the frozen pond as she could. She’d have a poor view from here but she dared go no closer. And from this vantage point she could quickly rise up and change places with Linnet when the girl finished her ice dance.
Everyone was pouring out of the house now. They came by a slightly different and more accessible route, as Georgiana had anticipated, so they did not pass by her hiding place. Instead they were congregated on the other side of the pond. There was a lot of noise and laughter and some clinking of carried skates coming across the ice to her, but Georgiana ignored them. Her gaze, peering through the snow-covered bushes, was riveted on the place where Linnet, now seated on the snowy bank, was fastening on her skates.
She had no inkling at all that anything was wrong. Concentrating on Linnet, with noise and laughter floating to her across the ice, Georgiana never heard the soft footsteps in the snow behind her.
She only knew that a strong hand suddenly closed over her throat, choking her, and a soft tauntingly familiar voice murmured in her ear, “If you scream I’ll send a knife through your ribs.”
With fear striking through her head like a great gong, she felt a gag thrust into her gasping open mouth. She saw his face then, for the first time: the black enveloping hood, with narrow slits for a pair of glittering eyes.
Georgiana felt blackness stealing over her; she was near to fainting.
It was the executioner.
Then a dark cloak was thrown over her and she was lifted up and carried away.
Gathered merrily around the icy pond, the guests in their masquerade costumes had no hint of what had happened.
Chapter 32
All the way upriver, Mattie saw not a bit of scenery. The majestic Palisades slipped by unnoticed, the high rounded hills, the meadow valleys, the forested shores. Mattie saw—for that was where her gaze was focused—only Nicolas’s broad shoulders as he stood in the prow of the sloop, only Nicolas’s brilliant smile as he turned to regard her. She heard, she thought, she dreamed only of Nicolas.
For the moment, back in his spellbinding presence, she had forgotten her immortal soul and thought only of the man—winning, desirable.
“We must be careful, Mathilde, “he whispered, when he managed to catch her alone on the deck. “For your husband may grow suspicious if you follow me about with your eyes.”
“I will—be more careful,” Mattie choked, wondering if he could hear her heart thumping.
A flight of birds streamed by. Mattie did not see them. She was staring up into Nicolas’s face—and she had her heart in her worshipful brown eyes.
Nicolas was looking down at her. Her small pale face disturbed him. Connoisseur of women that he was, he was only too aware that Mattie was not really beautiful. And he knew himself for a man who loved beauty only too well. Many a wench gained fleeting beauty by night, he knew, but—this was day. What was it that he saw in this frail waif? he asked himself by morning’s light—and could not answer. Yet something about her tore at him, made him feel shame for what he was doing, and a protectiveness he had always felt foreign to his nature. He wrenched himself away from these dangerous thoughts. Kincaid should not have brought her along, he told himself irritably. There was danger to the venture. And yet—he looked down into those brown eyes and knew that while he lived Mattie would have at least one protector.
Mattie, almost afraid to breathe, sensed the turmoil in him. She kept waiting for him to say something, make some declaration but he did not.
“Why are we going upriver so furtively and in such haste?” she asked, troubled, for she had noted that they did not pull in at any of the landings nor hail any of the passing river traffic.
“Your husband goes to collect his bondswoman and I my rightful inheritance,” Nicolas told her with his caressing smile.
"Anna?” cried Mattie. “We are going to seize Anna?” Her alarm mounted—and it was an unselfish alarm: for Anna, her friend, for Nicolas, her lover. She seized Nicolas’s tawny velvet sleeve. “Oh, do let us go back,” she beseeched. “Try to make Arthur see that he is mad to do this. Brett Danforth will never allow Anna to be taken. And besides, he has papers to prove—”
“You are not to concern yourself about these matters, Mathilde,” Nicolas cut in soothingly. “I give you my word that I will not harm the lady of Windgate. All will be well, you’ll see.”
Used to being subservient to men, Mattie fell silent. But in her heart she doubted it. All would not be well—all was never well where Arthur was concerned. She felt he would bring the world down on their heads. Shivering, she drew her red woolen shawl about her and thanked in her heart the Leighton sisters of Philadelphia who had forced upon her this woolen petticoat when she had made them handsome gifts. It was plain and sensible but—hidden under a brave pink taffeta one, for with Nicolas aboard Mattie had elected to wear her best dress for the voyage—at least it was keeping her warm!
Arthur came out and engaged Nicolas in conversation. They moved away from her. Left to her own devices, Mattie fell to gloomily watching the shore. She was imagining swordplay and perhaps pistol shots if Arthur made good his effort to take Anna from her husband.
She grew even more alarmed when, as they approached Haerwyck, she was ordered abruptly to her cabin.
“But why?” cried Mattie.
Arthur, who was of no mind to explain anything to his despised young bride, stepped forward to drag her there by force, but Nicolas stepped smoothly between them.
“We do not want you to be seen at either Haerwyck or Wey Gat,” he explained. “We are nearing the domain of the English patroon, and he and his bride could be out prowling the river.”
“But—Anna would be glad to see me!” protested Mattie in bewilderment.
“Even so, Mathilde. ’Tis best you not be seen with us. Trust us in this small matter.” He smiled down at her and Mattie, who gave him all her trust, meekly submitted and went into her cabin.
And there she remained as they sailed first by Haerwyck and then past the frowning mansion of Windgate.
They tied up at dusk on the river’s eastern bank and Mattie came out of her cabin to see from the deck a small stone farmhouse, built low in the Dutch style and with a thatched roof. It was Jack Belter’s bouwerie but Mattie was not to know that. Jack came out and walked down to the river. Silently he greeted Nicolas, who went ashore with Arthur, and there was some conversation she could not hear, nor did she see the gold coins change hands, for big Jack was a man who believed in getting payment in advance.
On shore the three of them talked for a while. Then Belter led out the two horses he was lending them for this venture and Arthur and Nicolas went to get Mattie. Without introduction they brought her into the cottage, where big Jack Belter gave her an indifferent nod—slender Mattie was not his type; he liked big blowsy women with breasts like cantaloupes.
“Ye’ll wait for us here,” directed Arthur.
“I thought ye'd be warmer in the cottage,” explained Nicolas. “Ye’d near freeze on the sloop, and there’s a fire here.”
Mattie gave him a grateful look and moved toward the stone hearth where flames were shooting up into the stone chimney. She was not used to consideration, and by itself that was enough to warm her. Silent now, she looked around her with apprehensive eyes at the neglected room, at the battered gumwood kas, the sagging cupboard doors. Obviously, this cottager did not have a wife. She wondered glumly what they were doing here.
Nicolas and Arthur changed into gloomy black clothing and Nicolas tied a black silk scarf around the lower part of his face while Arthur put on an enveloping black hood with narrow slits for the eyes that made him look for all the world like an executio
ner.
Mattie shivered. She was afraid to ask where they were going dressed like that.
On the torchlit pond at Windgate, Linnet, having fastened her skates, and completely unaware of Georgiana’s abduction, stood and faced the crowd. She felt wildly excited for Nicolas was in that crowd and she so wanted to shine before him.
She glided out upon the smooth ice—surefooted now as she never was in her awkward leather shoes, once again the best skater in her village—and perhaps the best skater in all of Yorkshire, many had told her so.
With light dance steps to tantalize her audience she circled the pond, then raced around it gathering speed. Now a fast swing into the center to execute a flawless figure eight and then another, and then she was gliding backward like a swan, with one leg and both arms extended. Now she was racing toward the crowd again and effortlessly whirled into a spin that brought gasps from the assembled group on the bank. Linnet spun like a top and then suddenly she was moving closer to the ice, still spinning, crouching with one leg extended as she whirled about. As she rose from that, she did another turn around the pond, gathering speed, and took a long leap high across the ice that swirled her light skirts up around her hips and displayed the full length of her bright red-and-white stockings. The crowd around the rim of the pond broke into appreciative applause.
Hearing that should please the mistress, thought Linnet complacently. And now to give them steps and figures they'd never have seen and wouldn’t expect—no, none of them would, for she was the only person she knew who could do them, she’d invented them, she had!
Mindful of the effect her rag doll costume must be creating upon the crowd. Linnet seemed to collapse—almost but not quite—upon the ice. She swayed as if she were a willow reed, bending this way and that as she glided on one skate so that her long yellow wool braids sometimes touched the ice—and suddenly she executed a perfect backflip and landed on one skate blade, whirled into a graceful pirouette and swirled into a deep curtsy.
There were gasps from the audience. Men were known to take great dangerous leaps, but for a woman to do so! And to execute intricate steps they had never seen before! They leaned forward in fascination.
“She has learnt this in Bermuda?” Rychie ten Haer’s big penetrating voice rose harshly over the excited murmurs of approbation. “And I was told there was no ice there!” she cried indignantly.
Linnet heard and laughed inwardly. They’d see what a Yorkshire girl could do, she told herself with a fierce joy. She was born to skate—-ah, would that there was money in it! But a prize or two was all she had won, for golden purses were reserved for horse races and archery contests and such—not for girls who flew like butterflies across the ice.
Reveling in her skill, Linnet whirled, she stamped, she pirouetted in the air, she raced across the ice for the sheer joy of it, winging like a bird. She was a wondrous sight out there and the crowd felt it, went along with it, loved her. Only Brett stood frowning and puzzled. And the ten Haer woman looked indignant, Rychie muttering that no one had better ever try to tell her that Bermuda was not covered with ice and snow in winter! And Erica Hulft, standing alone in her fox-lavished fur cloak for Govert had elected not to join her in the ice dancing, looked as if she could bite through a nail at that moment quite effortlessly.
Flying along on her skates, Linnet was entirely carried away by the excitement, the flickering light of the torches, this dazzling crowd of costumed aristocrats who watched her performance and shouted encouragement and applauded wildly. She could not see Nicolas but she was sure he was there among them—and proud of her.
One person was not applauding. Erica Hulft stood frowning on the bank. Like the rest she never doubted that it was Georgiana who whirled and swooped before them—for had she not seen that headdress adjusted with her own eyes? That snip from Bermuda— how had she learned to skate like that? She flashed a look at Brett, saw amazement written upon his face—so the child bride had surprised him too!
And she had his full attention!
That was what hurt. She had counted on the ice dancing, at which she was adept, to bring Brett’s wandering attention back to her—-but that was not likely, for when this was over she knew everyone would crowd around that rag doll, marveling, congratulating her.
Erica, who had never doubted that she could command everyone’s attention above all others on the ice, clenched her white kerchief in her hand and ground her teeth and wished the girl from Bermuda would end up with two broken legs.
Suddenly her face cleared. The cold bracing night air had cleared her head and set her wits to working. She was looking at those three barrels, which Wouter, under protest, had set up on the ice this afternoon. Georgiana had said that at the end of her performance she would leap over those barrels! Head on one side, with the instincts of an expert skater. Erica calculated the angle from which that flying rag doll would leap over them, exactly where she would land.
With her gaze never wavering from the figure now skating on the opposite side of the pond, Erica reached down and picked up a handful of snow, made it unobtrusively into a snowball, which she then wadded up into her kerchief—that would give it body so she could fling it where she wanted. Narrow-eyed, she considered the path the skater now must take. Erica was rather nearer the barrels than the others. Liking to stand out, she had sought one end of the straggling crowd rather than the middle. And Erica, who had seen the trick of barrel leaping before although she had never herself attempted it, never doubted that for a wild finale, that skimming rag doll would leap across the barrels. The torchlight cast a shadow across the ice where it touched the barrels—at just the point where the flying skater should be skating her fastest, gaining speed to become airborne. While all eyes were riveted on Linnet, who was just then executing a difficult maneuver that caused her to whirl in the air before landing triumphantly on one flying skate, Erica tossed out the white kerchief.
Propelled forward by the snowball’s weight, it landed just where Erica meant it to and spread out innocuously upon the ice—death trap for a skate blade.
Now the rag doll was skating fast, gaining speed. She would need all her power to carry her in her relatively awkward costume over that row of barrels.
Erica saw Brett start forward as he guessed the skater’s intention to jump over the barrels, but it was too late to stop her. The crowd on the bank roared hoarsely as the rag doll, skimming now in the torchlight, made her last mad dash toward the waiting barrels.
Too late Linnet saw her danger. She had already checked out the ice before going out on it. The barrels were positioned exactly where she wanted them. Her gaze was riveted on the barrels as she sped forward. She must fly aloft exactly—here.
The wind whipped her woolen braids about wildly and her mask was creeping up over her eyes. She gave it a violent jerk downward and—felt something snatch her foot. Her skate had tangled in the unseen kerchief in the shadow of the barrels.
With a wild scream Linnet tripped and plummeted directly toward the barrels, plowed into them headfirst. With her first contact with the barrels she lost consciousness, flying rag-doll limber across the ice, while the barrels rolled and tumbled every which way.
The shouts had taken on a different timbre now, cries of alarm from the men, screams of horror from the women. As one, the revelers rushed forward but it was Brett who reached the rag doll first, bending over her unconscious form as she lay in a crumpled heap. Erica glided forward, but as she bent to snatch up the kerchief, which had tangled around one of Linnet’s skate blades, a big hand came down upon hers and pulled her away.
Erica looked up angrily. The big hand belonged to Govert Steendam, who had changed his mind about watching the ice dancing and arrived just in time to watch Linnet crash into the barrels.
“Come away,” he said harshly. “We cannot help. Stay out of the way.”
Erica knew she could not allow herself to be pulled away before she had the kerchief—but Govert’s grip was too firm to break. As Govert
urged her back a pace or two she cast a worried look down at the handkerchief tangled into Linnet’s skate blade, for she knew it bore her initials and—knowing her former relationship with Brett—few would doubt who had managed to get it tangled up with the bride’s skates.
Nobody watched Erica’s enforced retreat, or indeed was even aware of it, because something new had been added.
Brett Danforth, his face ashen, had snatched the silken mask from the rag doll’s face. Now he looked up accusingly. “This is not Georgiana!” he cried. “This is her serving maid, Linnet! Dr. Pos—where is that doctor?”
A deep sigh went over the group, to be supplanted by a speculative muttering. What was going on? Why this spectacular charade on the ice? Where was the patroon's bride?
Tugging off his somewhat shabby mask, the doctor in his black bearskin hobbled up on his cane—for Dr. Pos had a bad habit of tasting all of his own nostrums and medical concoctions and this mixture of unknown and often near-deadly chemicals had eventually crippled him.
"One side, one side,” he gasped, pushing his furry way through the throng. “Let me see how the wench fares.” He laid down his cane and went down awkwardly on one knee beside the fallen Linnet. Bending over, he peered at her head wound, felt of her pulse. "She is alive,” he announced, as if he had made an important discovery.
“Of course she is alive,” snapped Brett impatiently. “How badly is she hurt?”
As the doctor continued his examination, Brett reached down and freed the kerchief from the skate.
“This is what caused her to fall,” he said, holding up the kerchief so that the crowd could see. His eyes caught the initials E. H. embroidered on a corner of that kerchief—Erica Hulft. Erica, standing with Govert a little distance away and watching every move, shrank back as Brett’s stern accusing gaze transfixed her. She half expected to be denounced on the spot, but Brett's gaze turned to Govert, who stood anxiously by with the others, and without comment he stuffed the kerchief into his pocket.
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