by Jo Ann Wendt
"Day's done," Dove murmured to himself. "Another day gone without hearing from them, without knowing ..."
She didn't know what he meant. But she knew enough to be silent. The words had been private. He bound her knee. She helped. When he was done he caught her wrist. "Hell, you skinned your wrist, too . . . ah, no, it's only a birthmark."
She jerked her wrist back, ashamed he'd seen. He was so perfect. Ashamed, she blurted, "Some-some people call-call it a duivel mark."
"Do they? Then they're jackasses," he stated flatly. "Hell, my Uncle Aubrey has a birthmark. Birthmarks run in the de Mont family line. I'd like to meet the man that dares tell me my uncle is a devil. I'd run him through with my sword. He'd meet his Maker in two seconds flat."
She smiled at that. And felt a ripple of envy. She wished she had Dove's boldness. She wouldn't have gone at Master's nasty son with tears and fists; she would've run him through with the butter-churn pole. It was a nice moment, a quiet moment. They shared a smile. Then, quite swiftly, in his quicksilver way, Dove's mood changed.
"Don't get ideas!" he warned, springing to his feet and gathering up their things.
But Jericho already had an idea. A very good idea. Lord Dove should keep her.
Chapter Four
Jericho was summoned to Dove's chamber that evening. She went with her heart in her mouth, too nervous to enjoy the novelty of climbing a staircase. Dove knew she was a girl. Daisy, the friendly, witless kitchen maid who'd fed her and helped her wash up, had cheerfully blabbered the news all over the house. Now Dove would never keep her.
And she longed to stay. The instant she'd stepped into Dove's kitchen her quivering senses had swiftly tallied everything—the food, the abundance, the servant chatter. Bondslaves weren't beaten in this house; no one went hungry here!
Clutching her bundle, she crept up the dark stairs. She wished Daisy were with her. Or the others—Goody or Cook or Samuels, the young Negro who wore a red shirt and a gold earring and was always grinning at Daisy. Or Black Bartimaeus, the shy, ebony-skinned giant who was so tall his head nearly brushed the rafters. Or even Mrs. Phipps. Mrs. Phipps was stout and stern. But stern wasn't mean. Jericho knew the difference.
Most of all, she wished Pax were with her. But Dove had hotly refused to allow him in the house. He'd ordered Pax fed and tethered in the backyard, where he was now howling at the top of his lungs. Another black mark against her.
Dove's room was at the end of the hall. The door stood open, spilling bright light into the dark hall. For a moment she was startled. Dove didn't burn just one candle as most people did; he burned a dozen at a whack. The waste astonished her.
She tiptoed to the door and saw another astonishing sight. A bedstead. It was as big as a cave. In the breeze that wafted in through the window, blue silk bedcurtains rippled like blue water. Most people slept in a Dutch cupboard in the wall.
"All right, grub worm! What's the proper punishment for a person of the inferior sex who impersonates a person of the superior sex? Eh?"
She jumped. Half-hidden by a rich mahogany wardrobe, Dove was standing at a looking glass, changing his shirt. Though why it should need changing, she couldn't guess. It looked spotless to her. He'd been watching her in the mirror.
"W-w-what?"
" 'What'! Get in here. You're a girl pretending to be a boy, that's what. Don't you know that's against the law?"
She swallowed anxiously. "It-it-it is?"
"Is it! Holy Mary, yes. It's a crime of the highest degree. It ranks right up there with highway robbery and murder. Hell, it's so bad you might as well've gone ahead and committed blasphemy. So you'll have to be punished," he finished flatly.
Her throat constricted. It wasn't a crime in New Amsterdam. But Dove was from a country called England . . .
"H-h-how?"
His smile flashed in the mirror. "That's the spirit, Pansy Eyes! Attack the problem direct. I like that. 'How' is the question, all right. Black Bartimaeus suggested thumb screws. Daisy and Mrs. Phipps said boiling oil." Brushing his hair now, he gestured with his hairbrush. vSort of cook you, you know? Like a codfish? But I say the rack. Then again, why not please everybody, eh? Punish you with all three."
She blinked several times. He was jesting, wasn't he?
Tossing the brush to a table, he shouted, "Mrs. Phipps, prepare the rack. And a side dish of boiling oil, please!"
For a moment, her heart leaped to her throat. Then, from downstairs, from the bowels of the house, came a shrill retort.
"Master Dove, behave yourself! I vow. I rue the day Lady
Glynden made me your wetnurse. And I rue the day I followed you to New Amsterdam. You haven't the sense of an oyster. Stop tormenting that child or I'll take a broom to you." Dove chuckled and swung his golden head, inviting her to laugh, too.
Jericho nervously clutched her bundle and decided that if Dove changed his mind and kept her, she would take care to give him a wide berth. She would stay out of his way. She would stay in the kitchen. With Daisy.
He gave her an annoyed frown. "Oh. No sense of humor, eh?"
When she could breathe steadily, she wet her lips and said, "Sh-should I-I-I dust y-your room?" If she could show him how useful she could be, he might keep her.
"I don't want my room dusted."
"I-I c-c-could polish your boots."
"Black Bartimaeus does that."
Her eyes skittered over the rich room. On one wall, handsome swords glittered in the candlelight. "I-I-I c-could go through your wardrobe and find sh-shirts that need mending and m-mend them." This annoyed him more than any of the rest.
"Do I look like a man who would wear a mended shirt?" he demanded.
"N-no."
"Well then!" Slightly mollified, he looked her over with those bright impatient eyes, as if he didn't know what to think of her. He glanced at her bundle. "What do you carry in there, anyway? The crown jewels? Your diamond tiara?"
Hoping to make friends with him, she knelt on the silky, white pine floor and untied her bundle to show him. He didn't exhibit any interest until she held up a black arrowhead that glittered wickedly in the flaring candlelight. It was obsidian. Then he came over and squatted. She'd known Dove only hours, but she already knew how brief and fleeting his interest could be. So she made good use of the time, quickly putting arrowheads into his palm one by one, naming the tribe: Mohawk, Seneca, Ute, Cherokee, Huron, Algonquin, others. Dove fixed bright, intense eyes on her.
"How can you tell?" he demanded.
She sat back on her knees, astonished. Everybody could identify a tribe by its arrowhead. There wasn't anybody she knew who couldn't. Even little children could. It was the first thing you learned. How else could you know which Indians—friendly or unfriendly—were hunting the woods near your dwelling?
But she couldn't insult him. She answered politely. "W- well-well, y-you s-see, each tribe sh-shapes its arrowheads in-in a different way. And-and uses different s-stone." She showed him a flat arrowhead made of quartz and a three- sided arrowhead carved of deer bone. She showed him how some tribes notched the edges while other tribes left the edge smooth.
"Well, hell," he said generously, "that's interesting!" Her heart swelled with delight. Nobody'd ever told her she was interesting before.
She offered, "W-w-when In-Indians go on the w-warpath, they dig up a n-nightshade plant and rub the root on the arrowhead."
"Why?"
She gazed at him in disbelief. England must be a very ignorant country. "Well-well, n-nightshade root is-is a poison. When-when the enemy is-is s-struck by the arrow, the- the poison gets-gets into the bloodstream. He-he dies a painful death."
"Oh."
He was looking at her arrowheads with such interest that she offered, "Do y-you want-want to keep them?"
"Hell, yes!" He whipped out a handkerchief and scooped them into it. "I'm obliged. I'll show 'em to my Uncle Aubrey someday. He's a military man. He'll be intrigued. I wish I had a ton of that nightshade root, too. I'd
use it on my mortal enemy."
"On-on Crom-Cromwell?" There'd been kitchen talk about a wicked man called Cromwell. He'd cut off a king's head and wanted to cut off Dove's head, too. Daisy had told her. Daisy loved to gossip. Mrs. Phipps spent half her time scolding Daisy.
"Cromwell!" He gave her a look that told her she was an idiot. "Dunce. Cromwell's my enemy, but he's not my mortal enemy."
She was mystified. "Then-then, w-who?"
She was sony she'd asked. For Dove's face changed. The brightness left his eyes like a snuffed candle. His features hardened and his voice changed, too. Flat, toneless.
"I do not yet know his identity. But when I find out, I will kill him." He gave her a glittering look. "He killed my father.''
He sat back and wrapped his arms around his knees. "I was three years old. Father had taken me hunting in the forest near Arleigh Castle. That's my home—at least it was until Cromwell grabbed it. I was riding on his saddle, cradled in his arms. We came to a snare we had set. He dismounted to check it, leaving me in the saddle. I heard a man's voice. Then snarling dogs came hurtling. Father had only enough time to smash his fist into our mount's rump. To send the mount bolting. To send me to safety." His voice trembled. "Everyone says I do not remember a'right. That I was too young to know dogs from wolves. That it was a remnant of a wolf pack that used to inhabit Arleigh Forest. That it was wolves tore Father to pieces before my eyes. But I know. I " saw. It was dogs."
"Oh, Dove," she breathed after a long moment, "that's terrible." To have a father and then to lose him. She wanted to weep for Dove.
"It is worse than terrible," he said softly. "It is beyond bearing."
He stared straight ahead, through her, through the wall behind her. She knew what he was seeing. He was seeing something that had happened far away, a long time ago.
She sat still and quiet. In the silence she could hear the night sounds of New Amsterdam. A whippoorwill trilled, making its nightly demand to whip poor Will. Tap house roistering echoed on the canals. Down in the lane in front of Dove's house, pigs grunted, bedding down for the night. There was the faint tramp of boots as the kloppermen began their night patrol . . .
But Dove's moods, she was learning, changed in a flash. He suddenly gave her a demanding look.
"Have you ever seen a swordsman?" She shook her head. "Well, get out of the way. You're going to see one now."
He sprang up and headed for the array of swords on the wall. She swiftly scooped up'the forgotten arrowheads, put them on his beautiful writing table, then got out of the way, taking refuge in a corner.
Dove selected a thin, long, pointed foil that had gold work in its silver hilt. Unsmiling, graceful as a panther, he struck a deadly pose, then lunged. The swordsmanship began. His movements came so fast the flashing steel was a blur. Thrust, parry, whirl! Thrust, parry, whirl! The foil whistled through the air, sinister, frightening. He was all over the room, leaping stools as if they were twigs, landing light as a cat, leaping atop a brass-bound trunk and fighting there. Sweat damped his shirt, spreading in ever-widening rings. His brow was beaded with sweat, and the golden hair clung moistly. This wasn't play. This was a fight to the death. She knew who Dove fought. He fought the man with the dogs.
Just as he lunged near the bedstead, he made a misthrust. Jericho cringed at the unmistakeable sound of ripping silk. Dove's sword fight ended instantly. He sighed and tossed the foil aside. "God's soup! Mrs. Phipps'll have my head. That's the third set of bedcurtains this year."
Jericho crept forward to see the damage. The beautiful blue bedcurtains. They exchanged a look, Dove's was of disgust, Jericho's was full of worry.
"I-I c-could m-mend it for you. I c-could go down to Daisy's i-ironing table and get n-needle and thread."
"Mrs. Phipps is down there. She'd tumble to it."
Jericho thought. "To-tomorrow, then," she offered. "I-I c-could get thread when-when s-she's n-not in the kitchen and m-mend it for you. To-tomorrow."
"Yes! That'd be—" His brightened eyes narrowed. "Nice try, grubworm. But no dice. Now go sit in that chair by the window and be quiet. I've letters to write. When John Phipps comes back from the tap house we'll put our heads together and find you a new master." Ringing himself into a chair at his writing table, he pushed the forgotten arrowheads aside, slung open the lid of his letter box and pounced on paper. "Hang up my fencing foil. And close the door. The draft makes the candles flare."
As she did his bidding, something salty and stubborn rose in her. She'd done her best to make him like her. He wouldn't even try. He was mean. She was irked that she'd felt sorry for him.
"I don't care if you keep me!"
"That makes two of us," he said calmly. "Now sit. Settle. Be quiet. I've a love letter to write. To the girl I intend to marry. I can't make paper-love to Marguerite if you're going to chitter like a squirrel."
She gave him a black look, but he didn't even glance up to notice it. So she settled in the window chair and thought black thoughts. Marguerite. It was the ugliest name she'd ever heard.
Outside, a half-moon had risen in a clear sky. Its light stretched upon the canal like a band of silver. She watched an Indian canoe glide down the canal, gliding down the silvery watery path, and a few minutes later, she heard the harmless ping of arrowheads hitting the windmill. The Indians did that at Fort Orange, too.
She looked at Dove, resenting the way his hand leaped effortlessly over the paper. He made writing look as easy as planting corn. She watched jealously. A clock ticked on a shelf. She studied its puzzling face. She'd seen a timepiece once, but never a clock. Master told time by notching his north window sill and glancing out the window to see how many notches lay in sunlight, how many in shadow.
Tick, tick, tick. The ticking clock and the steady scratch of Dove's quill pen lulled her, made her eyelids droop. The day had been long and worrisome. Her heart still ached from Master's words. Her head nodded sleepily. Snapping her eyes open, she fought to stay awake. She wanted to be awake when John came home. If Dove wouldn't keep her, maybe John would. Maybe John would keep her forever!
But, one by one the candles in the wall sconces burned down and guttered out with a faint hiss. Shadows sprang up
in the corners. The candles on Dove's writing table burned brightly, bathing his golden head in a halo of light. Bone- weary, she made a cushion on the chair arm with her arms and laid her head down, watching him. She was so tired that she felt dizzy.
"Dove?"
"What?"
"You-you really are very handsome."
He looked up with a lazy grin. "Keep it up, grub worm. Flattery can get you anywhere."
"W-what?"
"Nothing. Go to sleep."
She nearly did. She fought it. She had to stay awake for John. John was going to keep her. Tick, tick, tick. The pen scratched steadily. She felt dizzy. Thoughts whirled.
"Dove?"
"What now!"
"Dove . . . why-why ... do mothers sell-sell . . . their babies to be bondslaves?"
"Because they don't want them," he said bluntly, hoping to shut her up. But when it accomplished exactly that, his conscience stung. He glanced up. A single teardrop, bright as crystal, glittered on her red lashes. Hell, he thought, and lay his pen down.
"Look," he said, "don't take it personal. Holy Mary, it's a wonder any mother keeps a baby. What do babies ever do but puke and shit? And usually at the most inconvenient time. In Lord's Day worship, for instance. Or when a man is sitting down to a fine meal. Hell, I can't think why any female would keep one. / wouldn't."
"I w-would."
She had amazing eyes. Much too pretty for that ugly duckling face. A deep royal blue, rich and vivid. Whereas the iris of most people's eyes was ringed with gray or black, her's were ringed with purple. He grabbed a fresh quill. "That - only proves you're a witless female."
A second crystal teardrop formed. God's soup! The last thing he wanted was to start a deluge. If she started in, she'd probably bawl up a flood a
nd he'd have to build a damned
ark just to get out of his room. He tried to think how to make her feel better.
"Look," he said, "your mother was probably a whore in a brothel. Whores cannot keep babies. Hell, it's bad for trade! What man feels comfortable stripping off his drawers if he hears the 'consequences' squalling in the next room, eh? Use your head. Now be quiet. I'm writing letters."
He went on writing. To his irritation, she sleepily interrupted him one more time. "Dove? All-all those wolfheads on-on the wall outside y-your privy. Did-did you shoot all- all of them?"
"No! I talked them to death, as you are likely to do to me.
That shut her up, and Dove worriedly finished his letter to Marguerite. Would Marguerite's guardian force her to marry someone else in his absence? He kissed the letter, folded it, and sealed it with wax he had warmed in the candle flame. He stamped it with his signet ring.
Next, he wrote his mother in Paris. This letter he wrote in code, directing her to pass the letter on to4 'Those Two Highly Esteemed Gentlemen." In code, he reported the number of Dutch West India Company ships in the harbor and estimated the value of the cargo they would carry, a fortune in furs. He reported on the vulnerability of the fort. Most important of all, he reported on the temperament of New Amsterdamers. He doubted New Amsterdamers would lift a finger to defend the Company if England should sail in and take the colony.
Now and then, he glanced at the child. She was asleep. Her long eyelashes were as obnoxiously red as her hair. His conscience pricked. But hell's bells, he was too young to saddle himself with a child! He had his wild oats to sow. How in hell could he sow them with a corncrake hanging on his shirttails?
Midway through the letter, as candles in the wall sconces guttered out and shadows stole heavily into the room, leaving him in an island of bright candlelight, he worriedly raked a hand through his hair and wished he could write his brothers, wished he knew where they were.
Across the room, in dark shadow, the door latch clicked.