Rich Radiant Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  Imogene made it all the way to the long veranda and leaned her hot forehead against one of the tall white pillars. Around the grounds, fog was drifting, making the shrubs appear to be hulking monstrous shapes and the trees strange dark towering edifices that might come tumbling down—as her world had when she had lost her child to the sea.

  And now someone was claiming to be Georgiana van Rappard, someone was claiming to be her daughter, when everyone knew little Georgiana had gone down with the burning Wilhelmina off the Great Bahama Bank.

  Oh, the things people would stoop to for money! Imogene’s knuckles clenched white. She had half a mind to go to New York—no, it was called New Orange now—and unmask this impostor, to remind all the world how the real Georgiana had died and perhaps—her soft lips curled dangerously—she would even enlighten them as to who Georgiana’s real father had been!

  It took her all of ten minutes before she could calm herself enough to go back to the long dining table and face her garrulous guest, who was unaware that anything untoward had happened and was now launched into a discussion of the fortunes of the buccaneers of Tortuga—another subject that brought back bittersweet memories to the landgrave and his lady.

  Now that the Frenchman was gone, back to his coastwise vessel whose lights blinked at her from the dark ribbon of the Cooper River, Imogene could not sleep. She had firmly closed the door between her husband’s bedchamber and her own—and van Ryker had left it closed, respecting her grief, for it was raw grief that he had seen in her eyes—grief long dormant but now awakened. Barefoot, in a lacy white night rail that barely concealed the naked beauty of her figure against the firelight of the hearth, she paced restlessly back and forth across the carpet, sometimes pausing to stare out the window at vistas that had never graced the Cooper. And after a while she lit a candle and began rummaging through the little cherry writing desk in which she kept her papers.

  Somewhere she had—ah, there it was. A bit of parchment on which Barnaby had scrawled some verses. She had confided in Barnaby, the yellow-haired ship’s master of their buccaneering days, and to comfort her he had sent her this.

  She was in sore need of comfort now. She held up the parchment in the weak flickering light and read:

  The snows that fell on far Wey Gat

  Are melted long ago,

  And those who loved—and were loved not

  Have gone where all things go.

  Dear Barnaby! He had meant to comfort her for her feelings of guilt over the death of Verhulst....

  She bent her golden head and read on:

  The world is not of your making—

  Neither is it mine,

  Yet the script for our lives was written

  Far back in the pages of time. . . .

  No, her heart rebelled against that! Little Georgiana, her beautiful child, could not have been meant to die before the fury of the Spanish guns, to sink beneath the great green ocean on the deck of a burning ship! She was meant to grow up and become a beauty and tempt men and make mistakes and fall in love and perhaps—if she was very lucky!—to find, like her mother, a last great love that burned brighter than all the rest.

  Imogene’s beautiful delft blue eyes were filled with unshed tears and the firelight shimmered on her long golden hair as she read the last verse:

  The dreams we dreamed but yesterday

  And cherished to the last....

  Weep only for the present—

  You cannot change the past.

  Barnaby had penned those lines to comfort her, in the days when she had thought never to be comforted again. Dear kind Barnaby, where was he now?

  “I was drunk when I wrote them,” he had protested humbly when she had tried to thank him.

  “No,” she had told him in a soft sad voice. “You wrote them to comfort me—and I thank you for that. I will keep them—always.”

  Rushed with emotion, Barnaby Swift, that sometime poet, had gone away. The verses had remained. She had locked them away in her writing desk, still damp with her tears, for they had expressed better than she ever could how she felt about Wey Gat and all that had happened to her there on the river.

  Now she read and reread Barnaby’s verses and remembered what it had been like at that great patroonship along the Hudson. A magnificent countryside of romantic hills and wild lovely dells, a castlelike house rising above the river—and everything had gone wrong there, everything. And now a stranger had come to seize Verhulst’s property, claiming to be the lost Georgiana. It was too much to bear.

  Imogene’s golden head bent over the writing desk and the candleshine flickered on its gleaming length. The most beautiful woman in all the Carolinas was weeping for a world she had lost, a daughter she had lost, for all that could never be.

  But when she raised her head at last, her beautiful tearstained face was calm and cold.

  She had come to a great decision.

  She went over and threw open the door that connected her husband’s bedchamber with her own and the man lying in the big bed looked up alertly.

  “Not sleeping either, van Ryker?” she asked softly.

  She could not see his face, for the moonlight shafted in behind him. But he sat up, a dark and massive form with a mighty wingspread of shoulders, against the light. It had been a long time since she had called him “van Ryker” and he knew she must be very disturbed to have done so.

  She stood there and he enjoyed looking at her. An enticing figure she was in her long, white, half-transparent night rail in the moonlight. But were those tears glistening on her cheeks? He rather thought so—and fought back an urge immediately to take her in his arms and to his bed, to kiss those tears away, and help her as he so often had—to forget.

  But he held himself in check, for this sudden visit in the middle of the night meant that she had something to say to him, and he would let her say it.

  But while she hesitated, he could not but wonder at her loveliness, at how lucky he had been to find her, and to marvel that she had found it in her heart to love him, and to ponder briefly on the many times he had so nearly lost her.

  “You will think me mad, I know,” she said in a soft blurred voice. “But I must go there. If you will not take me, then I will go alone.”

  He had no need to ask her where she must go—he knew.

  He rose from his bed, a tall man, handsome, with thick dark hair that now sported silver wings at the temples. His long arms went around her and he held her close for a long yearning moment—for in this one thing he had never been able to help her. This torment of necessity she had borne alone. His deep, timbred voice reflected his concern.

  “I will take you there, Imogene. I knew at supper that what you had heard the Frenchman say would drive you back to that place. Although what you will gain by it....”

  She felt rather than heard his shrug of helplessness.

  “I know—and I am sure you are right, but—” She rested her head against the broad chest she had always loved and a deep sigh went through her delicate body. “It is in God’s hands, what I find there but—I must go. I must attend that trial. It is strange but I feel as if—as if something is dragging me back.” Her voice was puzzled. “Some great force, dragging me back...

  His arms tightened about her. He understood her so well, this woman of fire and silk and tarnished dreams. She had endured so much, he thought angrily. Must fate deal her yet another blow?

  And yet he knew that in her behalf he would set the prow of a tall white ship once again toward Dutch New Netherland—just as he would have sailed to hell and back if she had asked him to.

  Imogene, sleeping restlessly at last in van Ryker’s strong, comforting arms, never guessed that she was headed for the wrong trial, that the daughter she thought long lost would tomorrow go on trial for her life—but not in the cold Hudson River country—in Bermuda.

  BOOK IX

  Hang Her High!

  Who would have thought her downfall

  Would hinge upon a lie?


  Through iron bars she stares at stars

  And waits .. . and waits to die!

  St. George, Bermuda,

  1673

  Chapter 39

  The day of the trial had come. All of St. George would be there to ogle and gape and watch Anna Smith, who had once been thought heiress to mighty Mirabelle Plantation, brought down to dust.

  The night just passed had been a terrible one for Georgiana. She had tried to sleep, so that she might appear calm and rested and face down the crowd in the courtroom the next day, but every time she had closed her eyes she felt a choking sensation as if even now the hempen rope was tightening around her neck, throttling her. She had pressed her fingers against her throbbing jugular vein and imagined how it would be if they found her guilty.

  Shivering in the darkness of her cell, she could hear in her mind the governor’s sonorous voice pronounce her guilt, feel strong arms bear her away half-fainting to a tall gibbet that would look down upon the town. There she would be asked to make a last statement— convicted highwaymen were famous for gallows’ speeches—some few words of penitence, expatiation.

  Imagining it, her head came down on her knees and a dry sob escaped her. She would pay dearly for her foolhardiness in returning to Bermuda.

  The rest of the night she spent thinking of Brett. She hoped he would be happy, that he would forget her—no, deep in her heart she hoped he would remember her and that Erica would never satisfy him. It was shameful that she should think that, on this last night of her life, she told herself, but it was so.

  Morning found her tired but calm. There were dark circles—the badge of sleeplessness—underneath her eyes, but other than that she was steady as a rock. Somewhere between the dusk and the dawn Georgiana had consigned her fate to God. What would be, would be. Whatever came, she would try to meet it bravely.

  It seemed strange to enter the low masonry building that served as a courtroom and take her place in the prisoner’s dock, for it was a building she had never before entered when court was in session. Trials had never enchanted Georgiana.

  She looked around her at the barren whitewashed walls, at the small-paned thick-silled windows through which bright Bermuda sunlight was pouring. It was a glorious day outside. Nature was in her glory, and cared not that Anna Smith was on trial for her life.

  Sue and all the rest of the Waites sat in the front row. They all looked grim and Sue and Mattie had obviously been crying. But Bernice, smiling contemptuously, handsomely outfitted in purple taffetas and flanked on either side by her unattractive daughters, was seated at a table on the other side of the room from where Georgiana stood.

  Sue had sent her a dress to wear but the jailer’s wife had refused to give it to her. The prisoner, she said, had been insolent to her last night—let her wear the same simple white homespun bodice and gray kirtle she’d been wearing when she arrived at the jail! A servant’s garb was good enough for such as her, and she’d be dratted if she was going to let the prisoner mince into court in satin slippers and wearing a silk gown as if she was going to a ball!

  But that had not stopped Sue, who had managed to sail in at the last minute wearing the beautiful sky blue ball gown Anna had given her—such a long long time ago, it now seemed.

  “You will come to trial looking your best!” Sue had muttered, once the heavy door of Georgiana’s cell closed behind her. “This is my lucky dress—and it was made for you, so it’s bound to fit.” She was untying the handsome separate puffed sleeves even as she spoke, and before she began to strip off the gown, she handed Anna a comb. “Work fast,” she said, “Your hair’s a mess.”

  Within minutes, they had traded costumes and when the jailer came to take Georgiana away, he was confronted with an elegant lady in a delicate blue silk ball gown with big fashionable puffed sleeves. The bodice was close-fitting and revealed the lines of Georgiana’s superb figure to perfection. The full blue silk skirts were divided and caught up carefully on either side into big fluffy panniers, to display a flaring white petticoat handsomely embroidered with blue peacocks. That petticoat was Sue’s pride and joy, Georgiana knew, and tears almost spilled off her lashes at Sue’s kindness in lending it to her. Georgiana’s hair was done as elaborately as time permitted and Sue had even brought along a washcloth so that her friend might scrub off at least the visible filth of the jail. That rubbing with the washcloth had produced a glow in Georgiana’s peachbloom skin, the low-cut gown emphasized the pearly loveliness of her bosom and the tops of her round white breasts—and the dark circles under her eyes only made her seem the more ethereal and mysterious. It was a creature of delicate fairylike loveliness who strolled out of her cell at the jailer’s insistent cry of, “Ye must hurry now, ’tis time, ’tis time!”

  Georgiana would never forget the expression on the face of the jailer’s wife as she brushed by. Jaw-dropping amazement, envy, anger and indignation all were blended on her florid countenance and she aimed her vindictive glare on Sue, who marched along behind wearing Georgiana’s soiled white bodice and limp gray kirtle.

  Georgiana knew she would never cease to be grateful to Sue for changing clothes with her—for it allowed her to look every inch the aristocrat she was and to face down her enemies this one last time.

  So Georgiana went to her trial in a ball gown, as sumptuous as any in Bermuda. She had no way of knowing that her mother before her had once gone on trial for her life in a sky blue gown.

  All those who had known Anna Smith during her short life in Bermuda appeared to have come to the courtroom this day, and those curious who had only heard of her, being denied entrance by the crush, milled about outside. She created a sensation as she moved through them—for her loveliness, for her grace, for the imperious way she held her head even in this extremity. For her part, Georgiana looked on these watchers with a kind of detached wonder. What could there possibly be about her case that would interest so many people?

  She did not see it as they did: a young and haughty beauty brought to heel by a woman whose tongue had lashed many of those present—and over the theft of a pair of candlesticks! One would think it was murder the girl had done! But they gasped when they heard the figure Bernice had set as the value of the candlesticks—a fortune! No wonder the girl had stolen them.

  And now they looked less kindly on Anna Smith.

  Georgiana was past caring what any of them thought. She had to convince the governor of her very real ownership of the candlesticks. If she could do so, the case would be thrown out and she would go free.

  When she was called to testify, she gave the governor a clear-eyed steady gaze and lifted her head proudly. After all, she had frequently been a guest in his home, she had attended all the balls given in the governor’s mansion while she was the heiress apparent to Mirabelle, she had danced with his son—and slapped his face soundly once when he had taken liberties!

  The face she looked into seemed not to remember any of those facts. Indeed, it was a crotchety mask of pain.

  True to Sue’s gloomy prediction, the governor sat half asprawl with one swollen leg stretched out on a red velvet pillow. Occasionally he writhed in pain and gasped and closed his eyes. No one could be sure what he heard or didn’t hear.

  What was becoming clear was that he had already heard Bernice’s story from her own lips and fully believed it. His gasping questions brought out all the hard facts.

  To Sue’s surprise, she herself was called to testify. Had she not ridden over to Mirabelle and told Bernice of the theft at the accused's behest? Reminded that she was under oath, Sue threw Georgiana a look of pure misery. “I did as Anna asked me,” she whispered. “She”—her voice rose—“she considered the candlesticks were hers, a gift of Samantha Jamison’s for her dowry when she married. We all knew they were hers! Anna felt that Bernice had stolen them from her!”

  Georgiana would be forever grateful to Sue for that sparkling defense. Not that it did any good. Sue was soon beaten down by the judge’s caustic, �
�And did she have proof that she had been given the candlesticks? Did she show you any proof? Did Samantha Jamison ever tell you she was giving the candlesticks to Anna Smith? Did she tell anyone else? Or did all your information as to their ownership come from the prisoner in the dock?”

  To all these questions except the last, the answer was no, and Sue shrank back, cowed by the governor’s furious demeanor and harsh accusing voice.

  They had the case well made against her when Georgiana took the stand and swore to tell the truth.

  “As God is my witness,” she said, leaning forward toward the governor who was this day her judge, “Samantha Jamison told me she would give me the candlesticks for my dowry, as they had been part of her dowry.”

  “And since you were about to marry, you considered them yours already?” demanded the governor.

  “I felt they were mine. I always felt they were mine,” said Georgiana defensively.

  “And yet your friend tells me that you were not yet aware of your impending marriage when you took the candlesticks from Mirabelle. You were at her front gate struggling with a gentleman who is no longer with us when Brett Danforth rode up and bought your Articles of Indenture, am I right?”

  “Bought them from Arthur Kincaid, yes.” Georgiana was about to add more when the governor gave a loud groan and bent over his gouty leg for a few moments.

  When he straightened up, he turned a cold suffering face toward her. “Then you were well aware that the candlesticks were not rightfully yours yet, because you took them before you knew you were to be married!”

  Georgiana felt trapped. “But that is nit-picking!” she cried. “The candlesticks were mine, promised to me. I was wed that same day in St. George—”

  “Under the law,” thundered the governor, who had a liking for fine points of law and had prided himself on sending many a protesting culprit to the gallows on small technicalities, “you are guilty! Ordinarily”—he grimaced from pain—“I would take into consideration your youth and lack of any previous criminal record, but in this case—” He winced again—“I feel that since the candlesticks were of such enormous value, that it is necessary to make an example of you, Anna Smith.”