The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  The men put their shoulders and backs into the work, sweating and slaving for an hour before the coach stopped listing and stood upright again. Finished at last, they were about to board and be on their way when horse hooves sounded and three of the most enormous dogs Jericho'd ever seen came streaking down the road. She grabbed Pax and held onto him. At first she'd thought them wolves. Covered with wolf shag, they had huge heads and long, skinny bodies. She was relieved when a whistle shrilled and the beasts whirled and streaked back to the approaching hunting party.

  Six horsemen came trotting, a spare horse carrying the draped, gutted carcase of a deer, its pink tongue protruding, its soulful eyes glazed in death.

  "Curtsy, Jericho," Mrs. Phipps whispered, tugging at Jericho's skirt. " 'Tis His Grace, the duke of Blackpool."

  They both curtsied. Jericho didn't need to wonder which one was the duke. Haughty and erect, he rode up to them on a high-spirited stallion, the enormous dogs flanking his horse, docile now. John respectfully introduced his party, but Jericho sensed John disliked both the duke and the duke's steward, a weasel of a man he addressed as Fox Hazlitt. Fox. It wasn't a name she liked. Long ago, she'd figured out that the men who'd abducted her that Christmas Day hadn't been talking about a fox; they'd meant a man named Fox. But this was England, not New Amsterdam. Fox was a common nickname. She'd heard it often. Still, she felt uneasy.

  A haughty man, the duke took no interest in the introductions until John presented her. Then his dark eyes turned to frost. For an instant, he gazed at her so coldly she almost jumped.

  "The duke disliked me. I felt it," she said to Mrs. Phipps when the hunting party had trotted on, leaving a trail of dust swirls and dripping deer blood in its wake.

  "Nonsense. 'Tis merely his way. He likes no one. I remember him as a boy. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. I have always felt sorry for his duchess, Lady Angelina. She was to have married Master Dove's uncle, Lord Aubrey, you know. They'd been in love since childhood. But Blackpool prevailed. She was forced to marry him. And what could Lord Aubrey do? He was only a boy of fifteen or sixteen himself."

  Jericho had to hide a smile. Always scolding Daisy for gossiping, Mrs. Phipps was quite a gossip herself. But her smile faded as she glanced down and saw her wristband had slipped. She hoped the duke hadn't seen her birthmark. She didn't like anyone to see it.

  "What sort of dogs were those?" she asked John, as he helped her into the coach. "They look as if they could snap a sturgeon in two."

  "Wolfhounds," John answered with a smile. "And they could. Blackpool breeds 'em for hunting." Pax leaped into the coach, and John leaned down and scratched his ears. "As for you, old pirate, you'd best stay clear of them. They'd chomp you down in two gulps."

  "Don't say that." Jericho wasn't afraid of dogs. But these hadn't been dogs, they'd been queer beasts.

  John shot her a puzzled look. "I was only teasin'."

  "Well, don't!"

  John cooled his heels for an hour after they'd arrived at Arleigh Castle, then, losing patience, tapped on the door of Jericho's sleeping closet. When she didn't answer, he opened the door and poked his head in. Just as he'd suspected. She was sitting on her cot looking as if Doomsday had come. He'd guessed she would feel that way once she got a gander of Arleigh Castle. The social chasm between bondslave and lord was all too apparent.

  "Come'a, Jericho. I'll give you a tour."

  "No."

  He knew why. She was scared to see Dove.

  "Come'a," he coaxed. "I was born here. Come'a. Let me show you everything. 'Twould be my pleasure ..."

  Stubborn, she shook her head. He rubbed his broad palm on the edge of the door. He understood her now. Last night he hadn't. He'd lain awake half the night, trying to puzzle her out, trying to think why she was so skittish whenever the subject was Dove. It had evaded him. He'd tossed and turned in his empty, lonely, womanless bed. Finally the answer had hit him like a brick. She was still head-over-heels! She'd grown up, but she hadn't grown out of that.

  Great heaven. He'd spent the rest of the night wondering what to do about it. For he was fast losing his heart. Oh no, he didn't need Mother's clumsy hints. The idea had sprung into his head the moment he'd set eyes on her at St. Katherine's Docks. He wanted her for his wife.

  "You can't hide in here forever."

  She gave him an irritated look. "I'm not hiding."

  "No? Then come."

  She wasn't one to duck a challenge. That's what he liked best about her. Goaded, she rose, and, with a glance in the small looking glass to check for tidiness, came with him. But not happily, he noted. He sighed. This courtship would take some doing.

  Jericho found herself trembling as she went with John. She scolded herself. You're a grown woman, not a child! Behave with sense. When you see Dove, behave like a proper bondservant. Curtsy, address him as 'Lord' Dove and speak only when spoken to. Her plans formulated, she felt better. But why wouldn't her stupid hands stop shaking?

  "Is . . . Lord Dove in?" she asked cautiously.

  John cocked an eyebrow at her as he led her through the maze of busy kitchens. "So it's 'Lord' Dove now, is it? I feared it might be, once you got a glimpse of the castle. 'Tis a bit overwhelming, ain't it."

  "It's not overwhelming," she answered tartly. "It's obscene."

  Stifling heat rolled through the meat kitchen. Little bow- legged turnspit dogs trotted gallantly in their cylinder cages, turning the spits. She glanced at them with sympathy, glad Pax didn't have to labor like that.

  John chuckled. "Come now. You're not going to hold it against the de Monts that they have wealth, are you? As to Dove's whereabouts?" He gave her a searching look. "Nay, he's not in. He's out somewheres. With his brother, Lark. But don't fret. If you don't see Dove today, you'll see him tomorrow."

  "I don't care if I ever see him."

  "Do tell!"

  She looked at him askance. Had John guessed? He couldn't. She hadn't said a word. Wary of him—John was smarter than she'd remembered—she stepped out into the sunny castleyard as he held the door for her. Her spirits lifted.

  A breeze blew from the river. She could smell sweet meadow grass.

  "I've decided, John. I'm going to ask Dove to release me from my indenture. Now. Before I'm twenty-one. I want to get on with my life. I don't want to belong to a master forever.''

  He eyed her skeptically. And cows can fly, he thought.

  The tour proved more than awesome. It proved thrilling. John took her to the windy battlements where they sat upon iron cannons and feasted their eyes on the sweeping view of meadow and fields and woods and river. He took her to the rich gilded state apartment that was kept in readiness for the king's visits. As the afternoon wore on, she saw more gilded leather, more gilded woodwork, more marble and brocade and paintings than she'd dreamed existed in the whole world.

  The result? She felt ridiculous. What a goose she'd been, a bondslave child in love with a lord, boasting to Maritje Ten Boom that when she grew up Dove was going to marry her! It was a wonder he hadn't pinned her ears to the privy wall along with the wolfheads. Her heart softened toward him. Dove had been kinder to her than she'd guessed.

  Brooding on that, crossing the stone-paved castleyard with John, she glanced up and suddenly saw a figure that made her heart jump. "John! That man heading for the stables. Isn't it Mr. d'Orias? What is he doing here?" D'Orias's dark distinctive figure was unmistakeable. His long, black, knife- straight hair swung against his wide shoulders as he walked.

  "Ay, it's d'Orias. As to what he's doin' here ..." John gave her a teasing smile but said no more. With a wave, d'Orias changed direction and came toward them. D'Orias greeted John and nodded to her pleasantly, but didn't recognize her until John prodded. Then he clapped his hand to his forehead.

  "Ah! Si, Si. Dove's little skater from New Amsterdam."

  "You saved my life in New Amsterdam, sir. I have kept you in my prayers all these years."

  A gallant man, he denied it, but said, "Grazie
. I thank you for keeping me in your prayers." His warm eyes twinkled. "I trust you have kept Dove there as well?" She flushed.

  Had she worn her heart on her sleeve as a child? Probably so. He swung his dark head to John. "Has Dove seen her yet?"

  "No."

  "Well, well," he said, smiling. "This should prove an interesting summer."

  John disliked the remark. His grip on her hand tightened, and d'Orias didn't miss it. It was an awkward moment, but it dissipated when a lady stepped out of the castle into the bright sunshine. Their attention flew there. Jericho didn't need to ask who the lady was. She had Dove's bright golden hair and his jaunty walk. She was holding the hand of an adorable little girl who had black, knife-straight hair. Spotting d'Orias, the child broke free and came running.

  "Papa! Mama says I may go riding with you and her." Jericho looked at John in astonishment. He winked.

  "Did she, my precious?" D'Orias squatted, scooped up the child and kissed her. "Then you may. I am to have a double treat today, am I? I am to go riding with not one beautiful woman, but two? Si?"

  The child giggled and smacked her lips to his. "Si."

  Lady de Mont arrived on the heels of her daughter. Jericho could see that Dove's mother and d'Orias were deeply in love. The did nothing overt to display it, but whenever their eyes met, it was with staunch pride. Lady de Mont greeted John warmly, and when John presented her, Jericho curtsied, all but tongue-tied before the great lady. Lady de Mont, however, was most civil to her.

  "We must find you a pleasant occupation here at Arleigh Castle, Jericho." The golden head swung in Dove's lightning quick way. "What do you think, Leonardo? Perhaps the girl would enjoy being chamber maid to Dove's Marguerite when she arrives."

  Jericho was stricken. Watch Dove with his Marguerite, the way she'd watched him with Mrs. Verplanck? Her eyes flew to d'Orias. He gazed at her thoughtfully.

  "My lady, I think not," d'Orias interceded smoothly. "I daresay the girl can better serve in some other capacity."

  "Oh?" Indifferent, Lady de Mont shrugged elegantly and pounced on a new topic, the London plague. The three talked solemnly for a bit, and then, with their little daughter Ginevra tugging impatiently at d'Orias's hair, demanding her ride, he and Lady de Mont strode on to the stables.

  Crossing the castleyard with John, Jericho fell silent, full of distress and unhappy thoughts. Misreading her silence, John squeezed her hand. "You mustn't think ill of them. 'Tis rumored they are secretly married."

  She glanced up. "What? Oh. I could never think ill of Mr. d'Orias. As for Lady de Mont, she is so like Dove that I. . . I could not dislike her, even if I tried."

  John's jaw tightened. Had she said something wrong? With a rare display of testiness, he lectured her. "Even if it turns out they ain't married, Jericho, you'd best remember one thing. The nobility's different from you and me. They live by their own standards and answer to no one. They do as they please. God knows, Dove certainly has."

  Their footfalls echoed off the castleyard's paving stones.

  "You mean like Mrs. Verplanck. In New Amsterdam."

  John's big hand shifted to hold hers more securely. "That's exactly what I mean. When Dove sailed out of New Amsterdam, he forgot Hildegarde Verplanck as easy as—as easy as a man'd forget a used handkerchief."

  A solemn warning. Jericho took it to heart. She didn't want to be a Mrs. Verplanck. Not even for Dove. Giving John a smile, she said, "Is there any more of this obscenely rich castle to see, John?"

  He flashed her an approving smile. "Tons!"

  Comfortable with one another, enjoying each other's company, they stopped for cider in the kitchen, then roamed on. They were in a corridor, admiring the new parquet flooring that had come from France, when, at the distant end of the gilded corridor, masculine laughter rang out. Two magnificent goldenhaired men swung into view. They wore riding boots, snug breeches, and loose white shirts. Deeply tanned, they were laughing, talking, and striding along like healthy young panthers.

  She clutched John's hand. "Who are they?"

  "I think you know, Jericho. And the man with him is his brother, Lord Lark."

  "Stay with me!"

  He gave her hand a pleased squeeze. "Count on it. Wild horses couldn't budge me." Even as John murmured, the men's voices grew louder and more jovial, and then the men parted, Lord Lark swinging off into another corridor, Dove striding toward them alone, his long golden hair brighter than the gilded woodwork that arched around him.

  "John!" he called out, his voice echoing down the long corridor. "This is wonderful. Any news yet of Mrs. Phipps? When will her ship arrive?"

  "It's come," John called. "She's here."

  "Splendid! I want to see her."

  Jericho's rapid breathing matched the quick pace of his stride. Oh dear God. He was everything she remembered and more. Eighteen was twenty-seven. He was taller, broader of shoulder, handsomer. But he was still Dove. She saw it in the way he cocked his head in curiosity as he came toward her. She saw it in the undimmed brightness of his eyes. For an instant, the years vanished and she was eleven years old, standing barefoot in the lane outside Dieter Ten Boom's tap house, clutching her bundle, scared and tired and hungry, yearning for someone to take her home and keep her. She took a step. John gripped her hand.

  "Jericho, don't. You'll regret it."

  Without thought, she wrenched free.

  "Dove!" she croaked, picked up her skirts and flew.

  Dove halted in mid-step, startled. Who in hell was she? He stared in amazement as the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen came hurtling toward him, croaking his name. Deja vw slammed him in the pit of his stomach. That hair, those eyes . . .

  Floundering, he glanced at John, desperate for a clue. Shoulders angrily hunched, John pumped his way up the corridor, but not fast enough. The girl reached him first— sweet, happy, eager, trembling. Dear God, those eyes . . .

  "Dove!"

  "Yes, well . . ."

  "Dove, don't you remember me?"

  He grasped at straws. He'd slept with a red haired girl one drunken night in London. She'd been pretty. But not this pretty. And what would she be doing here? He'd been very drunk. Maybe he'd made some idiotic promise. Her vivid eyes begged to be remembered.

  "Of course I remember," he said quickly. "The George and Vulture. The room on the third floor. In the morning, when the oystermonger's cart came rattling down the lane, we let down a bucket on a rope and broke our fast with oysters." He smiled at her. "We ate them in bed. I remember perfectly. The innkeeper had a fit. His sheets."

  The brilliant, deep blue eyes widened in shock. He was astonished to see a flash of outrage. She backed away. Backed away as if he had a roaring case of the pox. Picking up her skirts, she whirled and fled. John tried to catch her as she barreled past, but she swatted his hand away and flew down the corridor. An instant later, a door slammed somewhere in the castle, loud and angry. He was astonished.

  "Who was that?" he demanded. "That exquisite girl?"

  "It's Jericho, you damned fool."

  "Jericho! Jericho who?"

  "How many Jerichoes do you know?"

  "But—it—can't be. Jericho's no bigger than—no taller than—" Stunned, Dove sketched a short skinny eleven-year- old with his hands. "And she's in New Amsterdam."

  "Thickhead! Mother arrived yesterday. She brought Jericho with her on the voyage. Black Bartimaeus, too. She's grown up, Dove. That was Jericho. Damn it, it's been eight, nine years since we left New Amsterdam."

  "Has it?" Dove's mouth fell open. He stared down the empty corridor. "Oh, my God. It's Jericho, and I've insulted her. I took her for a girl I slept with, John, and she knows it. Hell, I'd best go after her!"

  John caught his arm. "I want to talk to you."

  Dove shucked him off. "Later! Hell, John, that was Jericho."

  "Now

  Dove paused. It wasn't like John to insist. Surprised, Dove swept John's face with a glance and saw anxiety, worry. He'd not seen that look
since the awful days when Emily . . .

  "All right."

  "In private."

  "Yes." They went rapidly to Dove's apartment, strode in through the salon, through the bedchamber and into Dove's work closet. It was a commodious room with man-size chairs and a long writing table. A locked mahogany cabinet for private papers dominated one whole wall. They helped themselves to rum. Dove slung himself onto the cushioned window seat and impatiently waited for John to speak. It was no use trying to hurry him. He'd have better luck trying to light a fire under a walrus.

  Waiting, he gazed out at the familiar view—meadow, fields, copses, green rolling countryside. In the meadow, a girl with red hair was running like thunder. He smiled softly. So that was Jericho, was it? Dear God, she was pretty. She looked angry enough to run all the way to Timbuktu. Dove watched, enchanted.

  Strolling to the window, John watched too, then slugged down his rum in a single gulp. Dove lifted an eyebrow. John was a temperate drinker, rarely drinking rum, let alone swilling it. Dove waited with growing interest as John chose a chair, sat, and crossed one leg upon the other.

  "How many maidenheads have you had over the years, Dove? How many cherries have you picked?"

  Dove looked at him, startled. "Say what you mean."

  "Indulge me. How many?"

  Dove gave him a long piercing look. "Not as many as people think."

  "But enough."

  "Enough."

  "Then you do not need Jericho's."

  There was a long moment of silence. "Again, I make the same request. Say what you mean."

  "I b'lieve I'm falling in love with her, Dove. I b'lieve I want to make her my wife."

  Dove set his rum cup down. Out in the meadow, Jericho had stopped running. Now she stomped along, angrily putting distance between herself and the castle. Her flaming red hair was a lovely contrast to the green meadow. His lips parted softly as she cast an angry glance at the castle. John wanted to marry her. He felt a queer, possessive sting. And why should he? He'd scarcely thought of the grubworm in years. Yet the thought of John marrying her . . .