“No, I’m well known here. The servants will not give me away. But hurry!”
Frowning, he followed her into the hall, shot a look around him at the cool dimness, welcome after the sun’s brilliant rays.
“Wait here,” she said. “If anyone comes—any of the servants— just tell them that you are waiting for me.”
“And if the mistress of the house comes?”
“She will not. She has been out all day.”
Brett’s brows elevated but he held his peace. He did position himself so that he would have a good view of the front door from whence the angry mistress of the house—and who knew how many henchmen—might make their entrance. He was used by now to Georgiana’s impulsive reckless ways and would not have put it past her to entertain him by stealth at the scene of her former grandeur—and he did not mean to be caught unawares.
Minutes later he heard a sound behind him and his dark head swung around.
Georgiana stood there, but—a new Georgiana.
Gone were the simple homespun clothes, gone the barefoot lass he had so recently held in his arms, gone the disheveled tumble of the way she’d worn her hair. In their place was an elegant lady, with rustling silk skirts of a lustrous sky blue. It was the gown she’d worn at her trial, the gown she’d borrowed back from Sue, and she looked ravishing in it. The dress was cut shockingly low, and displayed delightfully the curving tops of her round breasts. The shimmering silk outlined breathtakingly her slender waist, billowed out to wide panniers that swayed gracefully above her handsome peacock-embroidered petticoat. Big billowing blue silk puffed sleeves spilled out a cascade of white lace at the elbows and her hair was brushed to a high sheen and caught up fetchingly in the very latest style. The blue lapis necklace—also borrowed back from Sue—was around her neck but the glory of her turquoise eyes put the blue stones to shame.
Brett came to his feet at the sight of her. “My God, Georgiana, are you mad? If Bernice comes home and finds you in that dress—!”
She glided across the polished floor toward him and smiled. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
Automatically he offered her his arm.
“I have a confession to make,” she said, as he pulled back her chair at the massive cedar table. “My fortunes have gone round full circle once again—and I am back in my rightful place, mistress once again of Mirabelle!” She waved her arm gaily to include the house, the land, the cedars, the long stretch of coast—and told him how she had come by it all.
Brett sat across the table from her through dinner and listened, taking all this in. “Then you are not a waif and I am not your rescuer?”
“No.”
“Why did you deceive me, Georgiana? Why greet me barefoot and let me believe you were in dire straits?”
“Because,” she said in a level voice, “I feared you were still angry with me and would leave me—if you felt I was safe.”
He looked at her in surprise at this revelation.
“And I was fully prepared to leave all this.” She nodded at the opulence about her. “And let you carry me away and forget I ever owned Mirabelle. For I did not intend to lose you, Brett—not a second time.” Her gaze was tender and loving. Her heart spoke through her misty turquoise eyes.
“Georgiana.” His voice was rich and deep. “I think we need no wine tonight.” He rose and walked swiftly around the table, drew back her chair and lifted her up to face him. “I would have followed you to the ends of the earth,” he admitted. “Aye, and brought you back with me!”
Georgiana gazed up at him in perfect happiness, and led him from the dining room toward the big bedroom where she had dreamed her girlish dreams.
Tonight those dreams would all be realized—there in that big bed of her girlhood. Tonight she would share that bed with the man who held her heart in keeping.
There, with the Bermuda moonlight streaming in through the big windows, she let him undress her, stand marveling at the beauty of her flawless form, so irresistibly lovely in the pale shaft of light from the windows.
And, then, in leisurely fashion, he undressed too and she smiled at the beauty of his lithe manly frame that towered above her. He reached out for her and she went to him silently, clothed in love and beauty. His hands stroked her slim body tenderly, tingling it to passion, and his voice murmured endearments in her ear, words half heard that yet brought mistiness to her eyes and a tremble to her soft lips.
And then he carried her to the big bed and gently laid her down. And Georgiana told herself she had fought hard for this night of stars and moonbeams, and she was going to enjoy it!
Tomorrow would be time enough to tell him the hard truth about herself, about the packet, her mother’s journal. Tomorrow ... but for tonight her delight at having him back overflowed into boundless joy as she lost herself in his arms.
Morning found them saying good-bye to Sue and all the others amid instructions and tears, and again embarking for the voyage north.
“The candlesticks are still on board,” Brett said doubtfully. “Won’t you want to leave them here now that Mirabelle is yours?”
Georgiana gave a rich low laugh. “Don’t bother to unpack them,” she said. “Next to you—and Floss, of course—they’re my most treasured possession. They’re going home—home to the Hudson, home to Windgate!”
Their voyage north was for them both a golden voyage of rediscovery, but it had about it a sense of desperation too. For both of them were aware that if they lost Windgate, it would change their lives. But it was something that need not be faced—yet. Their nights were wonderful—but then no lovers are ever quite so intense as those who love under the shadow of the sword.
They never discussed the upcoming trial. Time enough to meet that when it came. Instead they seized these golden moments, given to them out of time, with all the fervor and desperation of the condemned. For them, for a little while, the dream would last.... And after that, who knew what lay ahead?
BOOK X
Lady of Legend
They never stop to think, who speak of her
How every lad’s hot pulse she seemed to stir
And not a man who looked into her face
But yearned to linger in her sweet embrace!
New Orange, New Netherland
March 1674
Chapter 41
The makeshift courtroom—a warehouse commandeered for the occasion—was jammed to capacity on this windy day, but way was made for the lady in amber velvet who strode in with such authority. Partly the crowd gave ground in deference to her obvious aristocracy, for the lady reeked of breeding and money from the sweep of her lemon-plumed hat to her dainty lemon kid gloves encrusted with seed pearls, to the toes of her gold satin slippers. But partly it was in deference to the lady’s beauty, which was considerable, even though her face in the main was hidden from view by a scented lemon silk scarf that she had tucked under her wide-brimmed hat, obviously to keep the meticulous coiffure from disintegrating on a windy day like this one, and which shadowed and obscured her face. Several people craned their necks for a better look at her, but gave up and turned away to focus again on the proceedings.
That anonymity was exactly what Imogene wanted. She had come here to weigh, to judge—and then if the wench who posed as Georgiana actually won (which gossip conceded would be unlikely) Imogene meant to rip aside her veil and rise and expose her for what she was—a vile impostor seeking the patrimony of a child long dead.
She settled herself into a seat as close to the front of the room as she could get and bent to arrange her velvet skirts. Heavily cloaked against the cold weather of early March, she hoped to attract little or no attention.
Imogene had been in New Orange two days now, having been rowed into the harbor by night by a burly sailor from the Sea Rover, that now lay at anchor, waiting for her out of sight down the coast. For the Sea Rover was an English ship and this a Dutch colony and England and Holland were still at war.
Van Ryker had wanted to accompa
ny her, but she had refused. If he were seen—and who could fail to recognize that strong determined visage, that swinging gait, that look of daring strength?—then all would remember Imogene Wells, she who had become disastrously Imogene van Rappard, and she too would be recognized.
No, this was something she must do herself—and alone. So she had given a false name to the innkeeper, kept her hood shadowing her face, and taken all her meals in her room. So far she was safe.
All the great and near great of the river and half New Orange, it seemed, had contrived to get here. People stood packed close together and some had even managed to climb atop two great cupboards that stood against the walls and gazed down upon the long table and the magistrates.
Ownership of mighty Windgate was at stake here and the claimants sat tense on opposite sides of the room.
The lady in amber velvet, now watching over the shoulder of a plump lady in the second row, studied the gathering narrowly. Like the others she craned her neck for a look at the patroon of Windgate and his ravishingly beautiful wife. She had heard by now all the stories that were circulating about them.
The man. Brett Danforth, looked to her to be all that a man should be. She could see him clearly from where she sat and she liked the arrogant way his head rode on his broad shoulders, the confident set of his jaw, the cool steady look in his gray eyes when his dark head swung around to gaze into the crowd. If she had been sixteen and innocent and had met him today, he would have attracted her.
But her interest centered more on the woman beside him. Gossip had told Imogene all about the wench’s beauty, but nothing had quite prepared her for the fact.
The girl was stunning! Clad in dramatic white with her wide-brimmed gold hat awash with white plumes, white gloves—an elegant effect. And she had a haughty serenity, a defiant lift to her delicate chin that Imogene, under any other circumstances would have approved. Imogene wished she could see her better, but she did not wish to attract attention by finding some pretext to walk up the front of the room as several curious ladies had already done. That burnished gold hair... it would be copper in some lights, and now as the girl turned her head there was a flash of turquoise from her eyes. Imogene closed her own eyes for a moment to shut out that sight—those who had arranged this plot had selected a girl who could have been Stephen’s daughter! Perhaps she should have told Stephen—no, she would do what needed to be done. She would strike the blow if the court did not!
Her interest sharpened as she saw Georgiana rise to settle her wide skirts more comfortably upon the wooden bench. That dress, she knew that dress. It was—anger almost choked Imogene—it was her wedding dress, the dress she had worn when she had married Verhulst. The strumpet was wearing her gown!
Georgiana had chosen that dress carefully, so that she would not melt into the general melee of bright colors affected by the Dutch women. She must stand out, she must have... stature. She must seem for once the wife of a patroon, a woman born to stand above the crowd. The court must view her so, must believe her to be Verhulst van Rappard’s daughter, for somehow—she did not know how—she intended to get the journal and Elise’s sworn statement away from Nicolas before he ruined her with it. Into the panniers of her handsome satin gown she had thrust a small pistol. There would be a recess, she presumed, and during that recess she meant to approach Nicolas, to sway against him, to press the pistol against his side and murmur to him that he would leave with her—now.
She had not thought out what would happen once she had taken him from the courtroom at the point of a gun. That Nicolas would go with her, she had no doubt—if not from fear, from curiosity as to what she would do next.
And once outside, once they reached some private place where they could talk, she intended to make him hand over the journal and the sworn statement that he had duped Linnet into stealing for him. And without it, she was sure he would lose.
Nicolas had made a wonderful entrance—an entrance that had brought a murmur from the crowd and got them with him. With his arm in a white sling made from a silk scarf, he had come in limping—and carrying in his other hand a naked sword. Brett had frowned for he recognized at once that serviceable basket hilt, that excellent grip that fit his hand like a glove.
It was his sword.
The crowd leaned forward, muttering. Nicolas had their full attention.
Smiling, he limped toward Brett and Georgiana. His limp was more pronounced now that every eye was upon him, Georgiana noticed cynically. But for a moment she feared for Brett, whose hand was inching toward the dress sword he was wearing today. Would he be quick enough to counter if Nicolas made a sudden lunge? Her hand reached into her pannier, closed over the gun.
“Do not fear for your husband, Georgiana.” Nicolas made her a small courtly bow. “I have come to return in gentler fashion the gift he made me when last we met. This is the sword he flung at me that gave me this wound.”
The crowd sucked in its collective breath and craned forward.
Nicolas, ever with a sense of the dramatic, tossed the sword glittering into the air and caught it cleanly by the blade—no mean feat for it was heavy. He held it out to Brett, hilt first.
“I return your weapon, mynheer,” he said. “You would have taken my life but you shall not take my inheritance.”
There was a little dusting of applause.
Georgiana felt her heart sink to the toes of her satin slippers. Nicolas was outmaneuvering them. And here in this Dutch court in this Dutch land he had these Dutchmen with him! Already—and the trial not yet begun.
“Mountebank!” she grumbled. “He should have been an actor.”
Nicolas had won the first round, but there was more to come and—Georgiana had at least chosen her gown well. Some of these women remembered that dress—even now they were muttering to their husbands, wondering how she had got hold of it, for Erica Hulft had plundered all the women’s gear she had found at Windgate and she had never found anything like this! And now those husbands who remembered the beautiful Imogene were furrowing their brows and noticing a certain likeness to Imogene in Georgiana. She was wearing a ring many recognized and now a gown that had come from nowhere, which their wives had found unforgettable! Circumstantial evidence that this girl was the real Georgiana was mounting up.
There were three judges sitting at a heavy oaken table facing the audience. Imogene knew one of them by sight—Huygens ten Haer, Rychie’s husband. The others were strangers to her. They had come in with heavy dignity and their clothing was the somber stuff well-to-do Dutchmen wore which she remembered all too well: rich and black, unrelieved except for gold chains and frosty linen and expensive point lace at throat and cuff. They looked grim and self-important, for were they not deciding today the fate of the most imposing property along the river?
Huygens brought a gavel down upon the table top and the court was in session. They called on Nicolas van Rappard, who had brought this claim, to publicly state its nature—and support it.
Imogene watched intently. So this was Verhulst’s cousin, the son no doubt of that cousin in Holland to whom Verhulst had been so determined to send little Georgiana. Her lovely mouth tightened. She had come here today on a mission. She meant to see justice done, perhaps to bring down a dynasty, perhaps to unveil an impostor—she owed it to a man who had loved her and died because of it: Verhulst van Rappard, who slept upriver in a family plot near a frowning mansion that had once been her home—and her prison.
Narrowly she watched Nicolas, gorgeous in scarlet satin, state his claim. Saw the tall frowning English patroon rise to refute it. Like the rest of the crowd she craned to see him better—and found him a sight worthy of her gaze. Dressed casually in leathern doublet and breeches, he stood with his booted legs wide apart. Stood with an air, she thought. His defense was simple:
“I bought Windgate when it was overwhelmed by debt. Now that I am bringing it out of that debt, others seek to claim it.”
“The viewpoint of the English patroon!” j
eered Nicolas.
Even though the proceedings were entirely informal, the judges intending to submit their decision later to the Dutch New Netherland Company in Holland, Huygens ten Haer brought his fist down upon the table.
“Be silent, Nicolas,” he growled. “You will be treated justly here—and so will my neighbor, Danforth.”
“Thank you, Huygens,” said Brett quietly.
Huygens, thought the watching lady. She looked about for Rychie, found a head of hair that could belong to no other—saffron yellow, on a woman dressed in vivid red, whose back she could see some distance away. Beside her, slightly lower, another saffron head. Rychie’s daughter, no doubt.
Memories flooded back to her. She cut them off, determined to listen to the arguments of the English patroon. His arguments seemed fair enough to her. Danforth had bought the estate in good faith and Verhulst’s cousin was trying to get it away from him.
Witnesses were being called informally at the pleasure of the court. But the watching lady tensed as Georgiana took the stand.
The girl who walked proudly up to stand before the table was young and golden and—now the lady caught her breath—she had Stephen’s eyes! Brilliant turquoise, they stared defiantly back at the crowd. And that face—with minor alterations that face could almost have been her own!
“I was christened Georgiana van Rappard,” Georgiana told the listening judges. “I was born at Windgate—the place you call Wey Gat. And I was transported downriver by Elise Meggs, who took passage under the name Eliza Smith aboard the ship Wilhelmina bound for Barbados.”
“A ship that burned to the waterline after being attacked by a Spanish warship,” interrupted one of the judges. “We all know the story.”
The girl seemed to stiffen. “What you perhaps do not know,” she said sharply, “was that the Wilhelmina put in at Bermuda for fresh water before she was sunk and there Eliza Smith slipped ashore carrying me in her arms”—and she launched into the story of her early life, how Eliza had hidden her, cared for her.
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