The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  "And Pansy Eyes. She wants to marry you?" Pansy Eyes. It startled him. Where had that pet name come from? Out of some dusty closet in his mind? He hadn't thought of it in years.

  "I have not yet asked her. There are two problems, Dove. The first is Jericho's indenture. You own it. Legally, she is yours until she is twenty-one."

  Dove absently gouged the cushion with his heel. The round- bottomed rum cup keeled over and rum flowed onto the green silk. He scarcely noticed. Jericho, married. The grubworm, married. It didn't feel right. This is John asking, damn it! Your best friend. Dove lunged to his feet, went to his writing table, fished out a key and unlocked his mahogany cabinet, flinging the doors open. The inside was honeycombed with shelves, drawers, pigeon holes—all of the papers neatly arranged.

  "Her indenture is likely in here. Dig it out. Or ask my steward to do it. I'll sign it over to you. She is yours."

  "I am obliged, Dove. But that wouldn't serve the purpose. You'll oblige me more by giving Jericho her freedom. When she asks for it."

  When she asks for it. It was a foreign thought. Somehow, he'd never pictured the grubworm wanting to be free of him. It hurt a little. But he smiled blithely.

  "Done. The second problem?"

  John took his time answering. "She is in love with you."

  It caught him off guard. He waited for the joke. When it didn't come, he prompted. "You jest."

  "Nay. She's in love with you. Head over heels. Call it puppy love, if you want, but I b'lieve she never got over her childhood worship of you. You are her hero. She loves you."

  Dove glanced out the window. The anger had gone out of the distant figure. Now she trailed along disconsolately, her fine straight shoulders slumped. Somewhere along the way, she'd picked up a stick. Idly, she batted it.

  "She's a grand girl, Dove. It's not just how pretty she is. It's more." John rattled on, a man in love. Dove listened to all the good things about Jericho without surprise, but with a lowering of spirits. Unable to take more, he cut John short.

  "Why is it I sense a request coming? And one that I will not relish?"

  At ease now, John laughed and settled into his chair. Reaching for for the rum decanter, he poured himself a small bit and this time sipped it.

  "I want you to let her down easy. Be good to her this summer while she's here in Arleigh Castle. Show her a bit of attention. She may be grown up, but inside she's still the same, sensitive little sweeting she was in New Amsterdam. I want her to have time t'get over her fancy for you, Dove. When she does, when the time's right, I'll ask her to marry me."

  Dove folded his arms. "Let me get this straight. What you're really asking me to do is play nursemaid to her maidenhead. Guard it so nobody else gets to her before you do. Is that it?"

  John smiled faintly. "That's the general idea."

  "That's a hell of thing to ask of a friend."

  "You've asked more of me."

  John was right. Dove had asked more. Year after year of their friendship, Dove had asked more, while John asked nothing.

  "I'm willing to do more than ask, Dove," John said softly. "If you want, I'll get down on my knees and beg. Don't take Jericho to bed."

  Dove looked at him. A warmth had returned to John. There was an expectant happiness in him that Dove hadn't seen since before Emily's death.

  "Don't talk nonsense! I told you she was yours and I meant it. I won't tamper with her, and I won't let anyone else tamper. I'll take care of her. I give you my word." To seal the pledge, he stripped off his gold signet ring and slung it to John's lap.

  John shook his head. "I don't need your ring, Dove. Your word is gold with me."

  "Maybe / need you to have it. Maybe / need to see the empty space on my finger." He glanced out the window. "Pansy Eyes is as lovely as—as a summer day. And this has been a long, celibate season for me, waiting for Marguerite."

  John hesitated, then rammed the ring onto his finger. He got to his feet. "If you cross me in this, Dove ..."

  "I won't cross you. Hell, John, I've reformed! From now on I'm a one-woman man. When Marguerite arrives, I intend to keep her so busy in bed she'll walk bow-legged."

  When John eyed him skeptically, Dove retrieved his cup, topped it with a splash of rum and topped John's. He toasted.

  "Here's to this summer. To two weddings, eh? Mine and Marguerite's, and yours and Jericho's. Drink to it?"

  John hesitated, then clicked his cup to Dove's. A brotherly sound. Then, arms draped around each other's shoulder, they stood at the window, looking out. Jericho was a small, distant figure, trailing forlornly across the meadow.

  "Your bride-to-be is heading toward the woods," Dove said. "She might get lost. Hadn't you better go after her?"

  John smiled his trusting smile.

  "Nay. It's not me she's longing to see."

  Jericho ran until she could run no more. Then, breathless, she halted and stared about her. A field full of sheep. How apt, she thought. Sheep were stupid. So was she.

  Miserable and heartsore, she tramped on, putting the castle behind her. He hadn't even remembered her. Worse, he'd thought her a tart. Oh, why had she ever left New Amsterdam!

  Discouraged, she picked up a stick and idly batted at buttercups. She wandered up a slope and dropped to rest under an ancient oak tree that was surely as old as the castle. She stared at the distant castle. Let him live in it.

  She was sitting there, arms wrapped around knees, when she saw Dove coming for her. A distant figure, golden hair blowing in the wind,- he came loping over the meadow, his step distinctively Dove, lighthearted and jaunty. She turned her back on him and stared out at the river.

  Before long, his step came springing up the slope. He dropped down to sit beside her. Grass rustled as he leisurely stretched out, making himself comfortable. She gave him her back.

  "Hello, grubworm."

  Her heart contracted. But she stared resolutely out at the river.

  "I'm sorry about what happened back there. I'm sorry I mistook you for a wench. Not that you look like a wench," he added quickly. "Hell, you look as much like a wench as a church looks like a tap house."

  Tears burned. She refused to shed them;

  "Suppose we start anew. Suppose I say, 'Hello, Jericho, I'm glad as hell to see you.' Suppose you say, 'Hello, Dove. So am I.' "

  She stared at the river. Dove sighed. Ornery as a porcupine. This was Jericho, all right. What had she used to spout at him in New Amsterdam the few startling times she'd blown her top? You're mean, Dove. Only she'd pronounced it "m- m-mean."

  He smiled in fascination. Did she still stutter? He hoped so. He'd never said, but he'd liked her stutter. It had been charming.

  He let time pass. Impatient with all else in life, he had infinite patience when it came to women. He liked women. So he waited and picked grass. Tossed it blade by blade at her stiff back. Sunshine sprinkled down through the oak leaves. Clouds sailed by. The river rippled. Behind him, back in the meadow, a ewe bleated, calling its wandering lamb.

  "We used to be friends, grubworm. What happened? You used to like me well enough to track me all over New Amsterdam. You and that butter-box friend of yours. What was her name? Mary? Martha?"

  "Maritje!"

  Ornery as a corncrake. Still, he was making progress, wasn't he? At least she'd spoken to him.

  "Maritje. That's right, I'd forgot."

  "You forget everything!" She almost took his head off. Dove gazed at her back, astounded. What in hell was that all about? He hadn't a clue. He let a few more judicious minutes pass. He tossed grass. Then, when he judged the time right, he reached out and gave her skirt a playful tug.

  "Hello, grubworm. I'm glad as hell to see you."

  Jericho's throat throbbed. She could no more resist Dove, or stay angry with Dove de Mont than she could stay angry with a thoughtless child. Reluctantly, warily, she turned. She tucked her legs under her, shielding them with her petticoats, wishing she had a similar shield for her heart.

  He
was so handsome. He lounged on his side, handsome as a prince, casually propped on one elbow. Plucking blades of grass, he was flicking them away in-boredom. His busy hands stopped as she mustered her dignity and met his eyes.

  "Hello, Dove. So am I."

  Dove felt a queer stab. For a moment, his head completely emptied. Lord, what hair, what eyes! John flew to mind. An unwelcome intrusion. He cleared his throat.

  "You've grown up. You're damned pretty, grubworm."

  "Y-you 1-look well, Dove."

  She still stuttered! Fascinated, he stared into those vivid eyes, stared until she grew uncomfortable and withdrew her gaze. She grew very busy, nervously pleating a fold in her cheap green skirt, pleating it over and over, pressing it with slender fingers.

  "W-we had a safe crossing," she offered. "Decent weather most of the way. Only one bad storm. Black Bartimaeus and I fared fine, but Mrs. Phipps suffered dreadfully. She was terribly seasick."

  "That's good," he said, transfixed. Did gangly brats grow up like this? Grow into beauties overnight?

  She looked up, eyes bright with surprise.

  He recouped. "I mean it's good you had a safe crossing. It's too bad Mrs. Phipps was seasick."

  "Oh. Y-yes." She gave him a wary smile. Her first. Iridescent chips of blue glowed deep in her eyes when she smiled. So this was Jericho!

  "W-we brought Pax along. I hope you do not mind."

  He was mesmerized. Ugly duckling into swan. Caterpillar into butterfly. "Who?"

  She gently prompted him. "My dog. Rather, he is Black Bartimaeus's dog now. They've grown old together. They are completely devoted."

  "No, hell, I don't mind. Bring anybody you want. The more, the merrier." He couldn't stop staring at her. He wondered if she was a virgin. John thought so. He thought so, too. A girl had a different look in her eyes once she'd strolled down the lane.

  "Shall we take a stroll? We've a lot to catch up on."

  He was amazed when his simple invitation caused her distress. Didn't she want to be with him? He was as astonished as he was hurt. It stung.

  "You don't have to stroll with me, Jericho. It's not a command, it's an invitation. Feel free to say no."

  She worked the pleat in distress. "I-I w-would like to."

  Dove eagerly jumped up and extended a hand, but she pretended not to see it and got up by herself. That stung, too. She didn't want him to touch her. Taking care to respect that, he led her to the river path. In love with him? John had rocks in his head.

  They walked along the river and talked. Conversation was stiff at first, but that was to be expected. She was wary of him, and he was damned puzzled by her. They talked in fits, starts, fragments. Her small bursts of loquacity were followed by self-conscious silences and sidelong glances.

  He tried to put her at ease. He told her about his own life since leaving New Amsterdam. He asked her about hers. By asking a series of nonchalant questions as they walked, he reached the same conclusion as John. She was a virgin. She'd led a sheltered life. Mrs. Phipps had kept her under her thumb.

  A virgin. It pleased him. He was surprised. Hell, a verdict in the negative would've given him carte blanche. Not even John would expect him to keep his hands off a beauty who'd already been down the lane. Yet he found himself pleased.

  John. He glanced down at his hand. The missing signet ring had left a band of pale, untanned skin. "Let her down easy." A hell of a thing to ask a friend. Was she in love with him?

  They came to a half-dead willow tree that he and John had played in as boys. The tree grew almost horizontal, jutting out over the water, its lower, dead, leafless limbs making ideal fishing seats. "Shall we?" he said, leaping up on the limb. It shuddered.

  She looked at the limb dubiously, then at him. But she was Jericho. The brat he'd known in New Amsterdam had never backed away from a dare. Taking hold of a hanging branch, she boosted herself up and stepped out on the limb, too. Holding onto branches, they inched their way out, then sat side by side, feet pleasantly dangling above the shallow sunny water. With their combined weight, the limb creaked a time or two. She threw him an alarmed look.

  "Dove, is this safe?"

  "Perfectly. I have fished here a thousand times."

  John. "Let her down easy." He bit the bullet.

  "Have you heard my good news? About my marriage?"

  She looked out at the river. "Yes. John told me."

  "Congratulate me, Jericho. Don't be stingy."

  "I hope you will be very happy."

  "Happy? We'll be delirious. I doubt we'll get out of bed for a month." He studied her for a reaction. There was none. He was mildly disappointed. Hell, she was supposed to be in love with him. Vexed, he probed. "You do know about bed, don't you, grubworm?"

  "I'm not a child, Dove!" Salty, definitely salty.

  "No," he agreed. "Of course not." He thought it best to swallow his smile. "A stroke of luck, Marguerite's fat old shoat of a husband kicking the bucket. He died at table, you know. Choked to death stuffing himself with roasted pig. Appropriate, eh? A pig doing in a pig?"

  She shrugged.

  Let her down easy. "Marguerite and I have been in love since we were children. Can you feature that?" He watched her again. More vexation. She merely shrugged. He plucked twigs from the limb overhead and tossed them into the river. They landed with soft plinks. Minnows darted up to investigate. "We would have become betrothed, but the war spoiled things. Marguerite's guardian sided with Cromwell. We de Monts naturally remained loyal to the king. Marguerite's guardian forced her to wed. When I returned from New Amsterdam, her marriage was a fait accompli. She was already gone, tucked away in France.'*

  To his surprise, she threw him an angry look.

  "If I loved a man, no one could make me marry someone else. I would find a way to wait. An army of 'guardians' couldn't drag me to the altar."

  Dove heard this with a good deal of irritation. Though he'd never admitted it, not even to himself, deep in his heart he'd expected Marguerite to behave just like that. He'd expected her to dig in her heels and wait. That Jericho should find his sore spot annoyed him excessively. But he let it pass. They watched the play of sunlight on the water beneath their dangling feet.

  "Is she pretty?" The words came in a leap.

  "No, she's beautiful!" Again she found something to watch out on the river. "She's beautiful, grubworm. She has dark brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, a small waist and a fantastic pair of—" He caught himself. "Never mind. She resembles her older sister, Angelina. The duchess of Blackpool. But Marguerite is much more beautiful."

  A shadow flitted across the picture. It didn't sit well with Dove that his entire family opposed the match. Damn it, Marguerite couldn't help it that she was sister-in-law to that bucket of slime, Blackpool. Besides. The objection was unfair. Hell, Uncle Aubrey and Blackpool were cousins.

  "Why isn't she here?"

  "She's in France, dunce. Waiting out the London plague. She will come when it's safe. Then we'll be married."

  She looked at him with spirit. "If I loved a man—"

  "Say it," he warned curtly, "and, so help me I'll tumble you off into the water." He gave the limb a warning shake. It creaked.

  "Well, I would" she said, bringing to mind a brat he'd known in New Amsterdam, a brat who'd been forbidden to go skating on Christmas Day and had gone anyway. He couldn't help but smile. This was fascinating. Brat into beauty. Ugly duckling into swan.

  "Let's talk about something else," he said. "Tell me about

  New Amsterdam. I want to hear about everyone I knew there. Even old Stuyvesant."

  After a moment, her wary smile came into play. "All right."

  Jericho had tried her hardest to resist Dove. But she would've had more success wading into the ocean and forbidding the tide to tug at her. Dove was Dove. He hadn't changed a bit. And, blast it, she still loved him.

  So she gave up trying to resist him and let herself enjoy him. It was heaven. Sitting with Dove above sparkling sunny wat
er on a glorious summer day, a river breeze caressing her skin, talking with him, laughing, reminiscing, getting his total attention—it was heaven.

  Dove still teased mercilessly of course, and made curt remarks. But that was his way. She didn't want the leopard to change his spots, she only wanted the leopard to like her. And he did. Dove liked her. She could see it in his eyes.

  They talked playfully of everything under the sun. Dove was so quick. He leaped from topic to topic in lightning fashion, sometimes leaving her a mile behind, her brain racing to catch up.

  "Hildegarde Verplanck! Whatever happened to her, grubworm?"

  "She had a baby."

  "When?"

  "Approximately nine months after you left."

  He slanted a wary glance at her, golden hair spilling to one shoulder. "And?"

  "And what?" She could tease, too. After all, she'd learned from a master of the art.

  "Jericho!"

  She kept him in suspense a moment longer, then smiled broadly. "Maritje Ten Boom and I agreed. It was the ugliest baby we'd ever seen. He had enormous ears, a big nose and a squint. Just like Mr. Verplanck."

  Dove chuckled. "Thank God for that."

  "No. You'd best thank Mr. Verplanck for that."

  He threw her an amused look. "Brat," he complained.

  Her heart fluttered. It was wicked to hope he would kiss her. He belonged to someone else. But she hoped. "Daisy," he demanded, leaping to a new topic. "Tell me about Daisy and Samuels."

  "They're doing grand, Dove. They're healthy, happy, prospering. When Dieter Ten Boom died—"

  "Ten Boom died?"

  "Yes. Moribund throat. Very sad. After, Daisy and Samuels rented the tap house. Samuels cooks and serves up. Daisy rules the tap room. When gamesters get the least bit rambunctious, she raps them on the head with her broom." Dove chuckled appreciatively. "They have six children now," she finished.

  "Six? Good lord. They cannot have been married five years."

  "They started early."

  He threw her another amused look. "So you know about things like that, do you? You know about starting early?

  "Dove. I've grown up."

  "I've noticed. Believe me, grubworm, I've noticed."