Rich Radiant Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  She shouted at her driver to stop the carriage and she rose in her seat, pointed a trembling hand at Georgiana.

  “Constable!” she cried in a strident voice. “Constable, arrest that woman!”

  Georgiana would have fled—but she could not. Harsh, work-roughened hands seized her, held her fast.

  She knew then. It had been a mistake to come back here. A mistake that could well prove fatal.

  Part Two

  The Fatal Mistake

  The hot swift night of the tropics

  Fast is closing down

  And she will wish herself anywhere

  But in St. George’s town!

  St. George, Bermuda,

  1673

  Chapter 37

  With a crowd gathering to stare and mutter, Georgiana found it hard to maintain her dignity—but she tried. Fighting down a panicky urge to break and run, to hide herself somewhere among the bales and piles of merchandise and produce, and when night fell creep out and stow away on a ship bound for anywhere, she straightened her back and looked Bernice full in the eye.

  “Back off!” Her menacing tone surprised those who had seized her. “This woman has no right to order me arrested!”

  “That’s right, she hasn’t!” cried Mattie indignantly. “How dare you touch Anna?”

  “Constable.” Bernice was standing up in her carriage, beckoning to a big man just now trotting up the street toward them. “Arrest this woman for the theft of a pair of valuable candlesticks. She took them from Mirabelle.”

  “The candlesticks were mine to take!” shouted Georgiana. “Samantha Jamison had given them to me for my dowry and well you knew it—I told you and the servants backed me up.”

  “The servants?” Bernice’s scornful sniff dismissed them. “They are liars all!”

  The burly constable, who had just arrived on the scene, looked in surprise at Anna Smith, who had once been the toast of these islands. “Ye stole this lady’s candlesticks. Mistress Anna?” he asked in an awed tone, and those who were holding Georgiana released her to face him.

  “Yes!” cried Bernice angrily.

  “I took them when I left, but they were mine,” cried Anna. “Mattie, Sue, all the Waites know they were mine!”

  “Yes,” cried Mattie, trying to step between them.

  “I do know!” “I demand you arrest her!” roared Bernice.

  “Mistress Anna.” The constable looked shamefaced. “I do hate to haul you away to jail to await the magistrate. Could ye perhaps put up collateral so that ye could make restitution if the verdict goes against ye? If so, I think this lady might let ye go along with Mistress Mattie here.”

  “Well, I—” Georgiana cast a wild look around her. “I do have this valuable ring.” She held up her hand and the big sapphire flashed in its heavy gold setting. “And there are the clothes in this valise—they are of some value.”

  Bernice looked thoughtfully at the ring but sniffed at the mention of the clothes.

  “And”—Georgiana drew herself up haughtily—“I am willing to state in writing that should the verdict go against me, I will indenture myself for the rest to anyone who will give me honest employment, and work until the candlesticks are paid for.”

  “That would take many years,” scoffed Bernice. “Pay for them now, Mistress High and Mighty!”

  The constable looked upset. “Could ye not do that, Mistress Anna?” he asked anxiously.

  Georgiana bit her lip. “I cannot do that,” she admitted. “But I will work—”

  “You cannot do that either,” snapped Bernice, “for you are already indentured to Arthur Kincaid. He has told me so.”

  “Arthur Kincaid is dead.”

  “Ah, so you have killed him? I would not put it past you!”

  Mattie broke into a wail, there was a gasp from the crowd and even the constable turned to gape at Bernice at this harsh assumption.

  “Arthur Kincaid died in New Netherland,” said Georgiana with dignity, “as Mattie here would tell you if she was not too upset to do so. His death was none of my doing. I came back to Bermuda to escort his widow.”

  There was a sudden mutter from the crowd that had gathered. Public opinion, always fickle, was swinging now toward Georgiana.

  “That is not all she stole,” howled Bernice, glaring at Georgiana. “Where are the clothes you stole from my daughters? Even the dress she was married in was stolen from me!"

  Married! The constable seized on that. “The girl is married,” he cried joyfully. “Her husband will make restitution.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man! Do you see a husband before you? No, you see two bedraggled females and no men at all. Ask the wench where her husband is—ask her!”

  “New Netherland,” supplied Georgiana.

  “And that is a Dutch colony and we are at war with Holland,” cried Bernice triumphantly. “So restitution will not be easily come by, will it. Constable? Will it?”

  At the news that Anna’s husband was at present in a Dutch colony and doubtless trading with the enemy, the constable’s mouth had tightened. “Is it true ye stole this lady’s clothes, Mistress Anna?” he asked reproachfully.

  “They were my clothes!” exploded Georgiana, her control breaking at last. “Mine! Which that woman stole from me along with everything else!” She leveled an angry finger at Bernice. “I am amazed that you would pursue me for a pair of candlesticks, Bernice—you who stole all of Mirabelle from me!”

  Bernice yelled back something inaudible and the constable sought to intervene in this shouting match. “If Kincaid is dead, Mistress Anna is now free!” he roared. “And if she offers to—”

  “Free?” Bernice turned on him, her piercing voice overriding his. “She cannot be free. Her Articles of Indenture will be inherited by Arthur Kincaid’s kin—if indeed he be dead!”

  “Mattie,” cried Georgiana. “Speak! Tell this crazy woman that I am not bound to anyone.”

  Mattie, who had been standing with her mouth open, watching events that were moving too fast for her, jumped forward: “I am Arthur’s widow and therefore his heir—and I renounce all claim to Anna. And if the trial goes against her, I will pay for the candlesticks for I am now a rich woman!”

  There was a sudden buzz from the crowd as all eyes turned to the small dark girl in pink taffeta. Flushed with indignation, Mattie shrank back from so much attention.

  “You have the money here?” drawled Bernice.

  “No, but I will have it when Arthur’s estate is settled.”

  “But nothing now?” Bernice’s brows shot up. “You see the way it is. Constable.”

  “But Mistress Anna offers to indenture herself, in any case,” said the constable eagerly. “So ye see, she can work off the debt.”

  Bernice’s face was a cold mask as she studied the rebellious golden-haired girl before her, standing her ground as she always had. She discounted Mattie’s claim to being Arthur’s widow and heir, for it seemed more likely that handsome Arthur had deserted her, and that Anna, who had always been surrounded by so many men, had run away from the husband she had married in such haste. Her grasping heart yearned to accept Georgiana’s offer, for the candlesticks were worth a fortune and it would be good, since she could not have them back, to have their worth in coin. For a moment she toyed with the idea of insisting that Georgiana be indentured to her, and then she would sell the girl’s Articles to some roving sea captain who could be persuaded to take the girl away somewhere and sell her into a house of prostitution—in Tortuga, perhaps; few women returned from the brothels of Tortuga.

  But no... that was a lovely face before her, an enticing figure, a persuasive voice. The girl had a dramatic and showy beauty that would make her stand out anywhere. Even if Bernice sold her to some sea captain, how could she be sure that Anna would not win him over during the voyage, tell him her story so winningly that he would end up her champion, and sail back to challenge Bernice’s shaky possession of Mirabelle?

  No, bad pennies had a w
ay of turning up. Bernice sighed.

  “I insist she be arrested,” she said righteously. “Even though I take a loss for it. She will be an example to all potential thieves on this island! Constable, do your duty.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t put her in jail?” gasped Mattie, shocked. “We dare not risk letting her escape,” snapped Bernice.

  “But I will stand good for her,” protested Mattie tearfully. “I promise she will not leave the island.” She turned to the constable, who was shuffling his feet, with a gesture of appeal.

  Georgiana felt panic stealing over her there in the hot Bermuda sun. She had never really considered the possibility of jail. Around her gaped the curious crowd, enjoying the excitement. Why, she asked herself, would grasping Bernice, who cared for nothing but money, refuse to make a deal with her that would pay for the candlesticks?

  She could not know that the will that Bernice had proffered the court had been a sham, that she had written it herself and signed her dead husband’s name with a flourish that she had arrogantly expected to hide the fact that she was not an accomplished forger. Tobias Jamison had not been well when he wrote it, she had assured the court with an attempt at tears—his hand was shaky. And she had thoughtfully dated the document three years back, putting in the words If I should marry again, I hereby instruct that all my belongings, both real and personal, shall be vested in my surviving widow—Bernice wasn’t quite sure what “vested” meant, but it had a fine legal sound. Here in Bermuda, far from London courts, it would hold!

  And to give the document the true flavor of authenticity she had hired a fellow to impersonate Christopher Marks, who was known to be Tobias Jamison’s London agent, to deliver the will to the court. In reality the man who claimed to be Christopher Marks had not seen London in over fifteen years; he was a disreputable trader in Jamaica who owed Bernice a favor. But he had a powdered wig and a suit of fine clothes and he had tramped around St. George taking snuff and criticizing everything in sight—and since no one in St. George had ever actually seen Christopher Marks, no one doubted his authenticity. Bernice had paid him well; he was gone from her life, and she never expected to see him again.

  But although the fictitious “Christopher Marks” had long since departed Bermuda, and Mirabelle Plantation had been adjudged hers and she was now firmly in possession, Bernice knew that she would never feel truly safe while Anna Smith lived.

  She wanted the deal Georgiana offered—but she could not afford to take it. Too much was at stake.

  She gave Anna a last contemptuous look, then sank back into her carriage and ordered her driver to turn the vehicle around—she was going home. The crowd parted to let the carriage pass and looked after her erect departing back in silence, each one wondering in his heart why this woman was so furiously bent on the destruction of the young sinner who was now being led away by the constable.

  Georgiana was cursing herself for having been so foolish as to think she could ever reason with Bernice. She caught up her skirts, which were whirling in the dust as the constable hurried her along, eager to get this embarrassing business over as quickly as possible.

  “There’s no need to put me in jail,” she insisted. “My friends, the Waites, will stand good for my presence at the trial—for I presume there is to be a trial?”

  “That’s not up to me,” muttered the constable, half ashamed that he should be dragging along by her slender arm the girl all the island had believed to be the Jamison heiress. “But I’ve no authority to put ye anywhere else.”

  Georgiana turned to Mattie. “Rush home, Mattie, and tell Sue— she’ll know what to do.”

  Big-eyed and frightened, Mattie nodded, gathered up her rustling pink taffeta skirts—and fled.

  Sue found her later that day, in the jail. The jailer’s wife let Sue into the small cell-like room where Georgiana was pacing about.

  “Oh, Anna! How terrible that this should happen to you?” Sue threw her arms protectively around her friend and hugged her. Her hands were grubby, her taffy hair tumbled, and her hat awry, for Sue had been gardening when Mattie stumbled in gasping out the news that Anna had been taken. Sue had thrown down her trowel and had been addressing herself to Georgiana’s problems all day. Now her worried blue eyes betrayed her anxiety. “I knew you shouldn’t have taken those candlesticks!”

  “They were my candlesticks,” protested Georgiana. “What I shouldn’t have done was come back!”

  “That’s right, you shouldn’t have. Why ever did you?” Georgiana gave her friend a harassed glance. How to explain to Sue that after she had made her deal with Erica she had experienced an almost overpowering yearning for familiar skies and warm sunshine and the big cedars and sea-carved rocks she knew so well. She had needed not some far-off frosty horizon but to come home to lick her wounds and be made whole again by familiar things, familiar places, familiar faces.

  “I—don’t know why,” she said hoarsely.

  “Oh, never mind why,” cried Sue. “As soon as Mattie told me, I began seeing what I could do about your release.”

  Georgiana gave her a nervous look. “They have agreed to release me to your custody, haven’t they?”

  The room seemed suddenly very silent. Sue looked as if she were near tears. “Bond has been set,” Sue said.

  Georgiana’s gasp of relief seemed to come up from her toes.

  “I had not the bond money to put up—nor had Lance,” Sue rushed on. “And Mother refused, because she said she now had Mattie back on her hands again, and no telling if there’d be any money at all from Arthur’s estate due to the odd way he died—indeed, she thought Mattie might even be blamed for his death and there’d be the additional expense of defending her, not that she in any way doubted Mattie’s story but—”

  “But surely the bond could not be so large! I’m no great criminal. I but took a pair of candlesticks that belonged to me by right—and a few clothes that were mine also!” She looked suspiciously at Sue. “How much is the bond?”

  She hung her head, and the shoulders of her print calico bodice drooped. “A thousand pounds.”

  Georgiana gasped. “A thousand pounds? Did I hear you aright, Sue? A thousand pounds?”

  Sue shook her head wearily. “I did try to argue the magistrate out of so great a sum, but Bernice had already been there and convinced him that the candlesticks were of enormous value and that you would surely flee and the bond would be forfeit, and the magistrate is a kinsman of my mother’s and he knows how little she can afford—”

  “Oh, come, Sue, I wouldn’t run away! Not if it was going to cost you a thousand pounds!”

  “That is what I told Mother. And Father. But although they feel sad about your plight, Anna, they dare not take the chance—it would ruin them.” Her face reddened. “I am sorry, Anna, but all my supplications could not move them.”

  Georgiana’s lovely face hardened. “I suppose that Bernice has been spreading rumors about my bad character?”

  “Ever since you left,” admitted Sue sadly. “It was as if she anticipated your return and wanted to turn everybody against you.”

  “And people have listened to her lies?” Georgiana’s voice grew sharp. “How could they. Sue? These are people I’ve known all my life.”

  “But you were gone and Bernice was here and Mirabelle is the finest plantation in Bermuda and people want to go there, to be entertained there—” Sue made a helpless gesture. “I have certainly tried to refute everything she said, but the candlesticks were missing and the servants at Mirabelle are afraid to open their mouths, they live in deathly fear of Bernice—oh, where is your husband, Anna? Brett seemed so able to handle any situation. How could he let you come back here alone?”

  “Brett had nothing to say about it,” sighed Georgiana. “I have left him, Sue. I am not going back.”

  Sue’s horror was written on her honest face. “But then there’ll be nobody to save you!” she blurted.

  “Nobody at all.” Georgiana turned away to stare at t
he wall. A spider was running down it, through a break in the plaster. Large and hairy-legged. She shuddered, for she had always had a dread of spiders. She took off her shoe. “Did the magistrate say when the trial would be held?”

  “He has set it for Thursday next.” Sue winced as Georgiana brought the shoe down against the wall with a slap but missed the big spider, who ran into the crack in the wall and disappeared.

  “He'll be back,” sighed Georgiana, thinking of the darkness that was on its way. She felt her flesh crawl. “Next Thursday, you say?” It was a long time till Thursday, a lot of sleepless nights.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to try and contact Brett?”

  “No,” said Georgiana. “I left without saying good-bye, Sue.” Her lips twisted. “Worse, I left him a note saying I had run away with another man.”

  It was Sue’s turn to gasp. “Then—where is he?” she asked uncertainly. “This other man? Perhaps he will help you.”

  “It wasn’t true,” said Georgiana. “Oh, Sue, it would take too long to explain. Let’s leave it that Brett doesn’t know where I’ve gone—he will never know.” She gave Sue a tired look that forbade questions.

  Sue shook her head to clear it. Georgiana had seemed so in love. What could have happened in this short time to so change her feelings toward Brett Danforth?

  “Would you ask the jailer’s wife for some candles, Sue? I don’t want that spider running over me in the dark.”

  “I will.” Sue nodded energetically. “And I’ll be back to see you every day till the trial. I will bring you any news there is and we will send you your supper so that you will not have to eat jail food—yes, and breakfast too.”

  Georgiana felt her eyes moisten. “You’ve always been so good to me. Sue,” she murmured huskily.

  “The shoe was always on the other foot,” said Sue energetically. “ ’Twas you did a lot for me. Indeed”—she gave a little self-conscious laugh—“I think Lance might never have noticed me at all if you hadn’t given me that blue dress!”