by Jo Ann Wendt
"How can I help you?"
Drawing the indenture out of the deep pocket of her brown work apron, she told him, and with an accommodating gesture, he led the way out of the stable, across the stone-paved castleyard and into the kitchen courtyard. They sat on the sunny stone apron that circled the kitchen well, and there, he gravely gave her his attention, just as if she were a person of importance and not merely a bondslave. Her heart swelled with gratitude. v
She read the indenture to him, translating it from Dutch to English as she read. Her tongue thickened and grew clumsy when she came to the part about the birthmarks. But she forced herself to read it. The birthmarks might be significant. They might lead to her parents. Besides, d'Orias already knew of the birthmark on her wrist. And he, himself, had a birthmark on one arm.
"So. The Jericho," he said with a kind smile. "You are thinking that you may have been born aboard the ship and named for her, siT'
Her excitement surged. "I think so, Mr. d'Orias. Yes."
"Possible, possible. However, the term 'infant' can apply to any. babe under the age of one year, yes?"
"I've thought of that, too. But if I'd come aboard at the age of one, I would surely have had a name. To what purpose would I have been brought aboard nameless?"
He gazed at her thoughtfully, his dark eyes glowing with thought, his black knife-straight hair shining in the afternoon sunshine. "To what purpose indeed? It is a puzzle."
Her excitement surged higher. "Mr. d'Orias? Do you know of The Jericho? Have you ever heard of her? Is she a Dutch ship? Could she perhaps have put into port here in England, trading for English goods before sailing on to New Amsterdam? If I could find out, I might learn who I am."
He took the indenture from her hands and gazed at it.
"The Jericho. The name rings no bell. But then, twenty years ago I was not in England. I was in Italy. In Genoa."
"Is there a way I can find out?"
"No. But / can and / shall. I have contacts. But it will take time." He rose to his feet, a tall, impressive figure dressed as usual in black. His black leather doublet was lined with scarlet silk. "In the meantime, let us go and ask Lady de Mont if she remembers anything of a Dutch merchant ship called The Jericho. Come."
Jericho faltered. "Lady de Mont?"
His sensual lips quivered in amusement. "She does not bite. Truly. She is a nice lady."
"Oh, I know," Jericho said, embarrassed. "Lady de Mont is very kind. It is only that I am a small bit. . ." She didn't know how to put it. But d'Orias did.
"Scared of her," he said, amused. "I tell you a secret, Sil So am I. Sometimes I shake in my boots. Come along. Come. I tell you another secret, sz?" he said as they crossed the kitchen courtyard together, going toward the archway that led to the main apartments in the castle. "Lady de Mont and Dove are cut of the same cloth. They are two peas in a pod. They are very strong people. The secret of dealing with strong people is to stand firm in your convictions. Do not allow them to bully you. For if they detect weakness, they will devour you."
She had to smile. Dove was like that. A beloved bully.
D'Orias opened the heavy door and let her pass through.
"I also tell you this," he said softly, their footfalls echoing in the arching corridor. "The strongest people in the world are also the most fragile, the most needy. They need more than our love. They need our total adoration."
Quietly absorbing this bit of wisdom, she knew it to be true. Why else would Dove be drawn to her? She adored him and always had, and he knew it. Her heart softened as she thought about her indenture. Where she'd found it. Hidden. Under his bed. He'd obviously hidden it! He didn't want to give her up.
"I don't know what to do, Mr. d'Orias."
Walking beside her, d'Orias chided, "You know perfectly well what to do. Stand firm in your convictions. Remain chaste. If he invites you to become his mistress, refuse. Preserve your self-respect. And? Stop kissing him on the bed."
Startled, she looked at him, stricken. "You know about that?"
"The whole castle knows of it."
She flushed scarlet. What a fool she'd been to assume no one knew what went on in those long afternoons in Dove's work closet. No wonder Mr. Pennington, the head steward, looked at her with such contempt.
"Go to London," d'Orias continued. "Proceed with your plans. Be a dame schoolteacher. Be your own woman. Live your own life. This is the only way to make Dove respect you."
She knew he spoke sense. "I will miss him."
D'Orias smiled. "Not half so much as he will discover he misses you."
They found Lady de Mont in her work closet, toiling over papers, her golden hair piled high on her head, a few loose strands of it spilling to the shoulders of her silken chamber robe. Busy, Lady de Mont was crisp but civil.
"As to the year 1646, Leonardo? A Dutch ship called The Jericho? I cannot help. I was in France that year. With my young sons. Cromwell had seized Arleigh Castle, sequestered it. However, the girl might ask Aubrey. Run, catch him. He bade me farewell a few minutes ago. He is leaving just now for Nordham Hall."
Jericho felt uneasy as she hurried to the stables with d'Orias. She didn't want to bother a duke. She worried, too, that Lord Aubrey had heard the gossip about her kissing Dove. She'd felt extremely uncomfortable in Lady de Mont's chamber, with Lady de Mont's frank eyes assessing her.
But, Lord Aubrey received them kindly, delaying his departure and swinging down from his mount in the sunny stableyard. To her relief, d'Orias did the talking, putting the case before the duke. Lord Aubrey listened, then rubbed his forehead in thought.
"The Jericho? A Dutch merchant ship, was she?"
"Si, Aubrey. We think it probable. Yes. A Dutch West India Company ship."
"The Jericho." Lord Aubrey rubbed his jaw. "Hmmm. No, no, I must apologize. I can remember no ship called— ah, wait. Wait. It is coming back. Now I recall. A Dutch merchant ship by that name went down at sea in '56 or '57. Crew and cargo lost. I remember rejoicing. The ship was carrying supplies meant for Cromwell's army."
Jericho's heart sank. If the ship was gone, so was all hope of checking the ship's log. D'Orias, however, gave her an encouraging glance.
"Do not despair. St. Katherine's Docks may have records. And even though we are at war with the Dutch, letters can be sent to Holland. I will, in fact, do so."
Lord Aubrey cocked his head kindly. "What year were you inquiring of?"
"1646, My Lord."
A startling change came over him. Where before he'd been amiable and friendly, now he became abrupt and cool. His facial features hardened—jaw, lips, brow.
"I cannot recall the year," he said curtly. Thrusting foot into stirrup, he swung up into the creaking saddle, saluted d'Orias and rode off in a clatter of horse hooves.
Jericho's heart sank even further. "I said something wrong."
D'Orias gazed after Lord Aubrey. Then he gazed at her.
"No," he murmured thoughtfully. "You said nothing wrong. Something else perhaps upsets him. Something we know nothing about. Nothing to do with you."
Still, she drooped. "I had best go in now, Mr. d'Orias. I have work to do. Papers to copy for Dove. I want to finish as soon as I can. Then, I will ask Dove to sign my indenture and I will—leave for London. Start my life. As I should."
"Si. Do that. It is best. Jericho, a life without self-respect is no life at all. Believe this. For I know it to be true."
She nodded unhappily. Thanking him for his help, she went.
D'Orias watched the girl trudge across the castleyard, her red hair bright as flame as sunshine caught it. Startled, he turned and gazed at Aubrey's distant figure. Cantering away down the road from the stable gate, cantering in the sunshine, Aubrey's red hair was a pinpoint of flame. Blue eyes, birthmarks. Both of them. His scalp prickled.
"Odd," he breathed. "Very odd."
By the time Dove returned from London, Jericho had tucked the indenture back under his mattress where he'd likely hidden it. She didn't mention the inden
ture to Dove. She wasn't ready to leave him just yet. Mr. d'Orias was right; she should go. But she wasn't ready. She loved him too much. And he- loved her a little bit, too, didn't he? He'd hidden her indenture, hadn't he? He didn't want her gone.
Against her better judgment, knowing she was being stupid to disregard Mr. d'Orias's kind warning, she was on the bed with Dove again a week after he'd returned. They were kissing, being playful, laughing and talking, when suddenly, in the bowels of the castle, Lord Lark's loud voice rang out, resonating through the great house.
"Dove," Lord Lark shouted, "Good news. Marguerite's arrived! She's in London, waiting for you to fetch her!"
Dove stopped kissing her in mid-kiss. He jerked up, his eyes bright and blank, focused on something distant, wonderful.
"Hallelujah," he whooped. "I'm on my way!"
Rolling off the bed, he hit the floor running. The door opened and shut with a bang that echoed and he was gone, his eager booted footsteps clattering down the stairs.
Jericho lay there, stunned, her mouth still wet from his kisses. When the fury came and the hot anger engulfed her, she sprang up and paced his rooms, stalking up and down, wanting to smash and spoil every lordly thing in it. She wanted to shriek when she couldn't make herself smash even one single wretched thing. Smashing things wasn't her way, even in fury.
Frustrated, she stalked to his bed, yanked up the mattress
and grabbed her indenture. Stalking into his work closet, she seized a sheet of paper, grabbed a quill pen, stabbed it into the ink pot and scrawled in large, angry letters: Sign My Indenture
Wrenching the candles out of two tall silver candlesticks, she rammed the indenture onto one candlestick and the demand onto the other, impaling them. Then she strode out, banging the door shut behind her.
Chapter Thirteen
On Mid-Summer's Eve, John and Jericho went for a walk. Leaving the revelry behind in the meadow, leaving the dancers and the drinkers and the wild carousing children, they strolled out into the long, lingering twilight of this June the twenty-first, the longest day of the year. Aimless, they followed a meadow path that meandered toward St. John's Basket. Pax came with them, sometimes bounding ahead with youthful vigor, sometimes plodding behind like the "old man" he truly was.
Jericho said little. John said less. He knew when to hold his tongue. He could guess what she was feeling. Only that morning, a jubilant and triumphant Dove had returned, escorting Lady Marguerite to Arleigh Castle for a prenuptial visit. They'd arrived in a magnificent, gleaming new coach drawn by six white horses—Dove's betrothal gift to Marguerite.
As they strolled, Jericho idly picked up a stick. Now and then, she batted it at some wildflower they passed, whisking its head off, cleanly decapitating it. John's eyebrows rose. To destroy wasn't her way. She was a gentle thing. But he understood. When the one you love is in someone else's arms—oh, ay, he understood far too well. He'd heard the
gossip. He wanted to break Dove's neck. He felt angry with Jericho, too.
"Pax is enjoying the walk," she said after a bit, breaking the silence of the past half-hour.
"Yes, he is."
Whack! A yellow buttercup lost its head. John watched the petals flutter to the ground.
"I should take him walking more often."
"He would like that."
"Yes." She said nothing more. The meadow was silent too, silent with the loud peaceful noise of crickets. Here and there, a firefly winked. The air smelled of clover. The sky was ftill of mauve twilight. The merriment they'd left behind echoed so distantly it might have come from another planet.
As they strolled, Pax nosed up a field mouse and with a brief spurt of returning youth chased it, but quickly gave up, panting, and fell in step, plodding at their heels once again. The moon rose, a pale nothing in a sky full of bright twilight. Day would linger long on this festive night honoring both the sun's solstice and the birth of St. John the Baptizer.
"Have they set the date?" she asked. Whack!
"September the fourth. It's settled, so forget it."
John glanced over his shoulder. A trail of headless flower stalks lay in their wake.
"Why are they not marrying at once, for heaven's sake?" Whack! Cross, definitely cross, he decided.
"Lady Marguerite wishes her wedding clothes made by her Paris dressmaker. The dressmaker cannot come until July."
Whack! "Wait for clothes when Dove wants to marry her? She sounds a fool. They sound like a pair of fools. A perfect pair."
John decided to be wise and say nothing.
"I feel reckless tonight."
He pressed his lips together. Reckless? An understatement. She was so nervy with emotion he could feel the prickle of it under his own skin. But he gave her a mild answer.
"Is that so."
"Yes. Let's do something reckless."
"Such as what." "I don't know."
"Well. That is a problem then."
She gulped a deep breath, like a swimmer needing air.
"Do you want to sleep with me tonight, John?"
They strolled along. He eyed her, his anger surfacing.
"No."
Her color rose. Even the bit of freckled chest that showed at the top of her modest bodice colored in hot embarrassment. Agitated, she gave her fingers mindless work to do. With fierce, nervous little movements, she shredded the bark from her stick and strewed it.
"I'm sorry, John. That was a stupid thing to say."
"Yes, it was."
But to show her he felt no rancor, he plucked the silly stick from her hand, winged it into the field and took her hand as they walked. He gave it a comforting squeeze. Sleep with her? Sweet Mary. He would give his eye-teeth to sleep with her. But not like this. Not just to spite Dove.
He gently swung her hand as they strolled. It was a warm, firm little hand, a hand he'd like to hold for the rest of his life. A covey of quail flew up in the path, whistling their shrill, dainty alarm, and Pax went into a barking frenzy. When his lungs gave out, he straddled the path, wheezing, head hanging, coughing his old-dog cough. Jericho stooped and hugged him. Pax didn't need the hug, but John suspected Jericho did. So when she popped up again, he companionably draped an arm around her waist and walked her on. By and by, she reciprocated, slipping an arm around his waist. There was no romance in her gesture. He wished there were. They strolled into the mauve twilight. He could feel her sadness. He wanted to shoot Dove.
"Do they—are they—sharing one bedchamber?"
"Such a question."
"You would know. Dove tells you everything."
"Only if I ask. But I would not ask, now, would I? 'Tisn't proper. 'Tisn't any of my business. Nor yours, Jericho."
But she looked so bereft, he suffered a pang.
"However. If you want my opinion, they are not. Lady Marguerite is a canny woman, and canny women always
withhold the bed privilege until marriage, now, don't they? It gives them control. And God knows, Marguerite likes to control."
Jericho glanced up. "You don't like her?"
"I didn't say that, now, did I. I merely said she likes to control. She has some sterling qualities. She is intelligent, witty, and when the mood strikes her she can be impulsively generous. Like Dove."
John gazed at her. As the twilight grew duskier, her vivid coloring intensified. Her eyes glowed a deep purplish blue. Her hair shone like copper. Sleep with her? Sweet heaven. Yet he managed to keep his voice steady.
"She's not so bad, Jericho. She's a nice lady."
Jericho snorted. But in her heart, she suspected it was true. She'd watched Lady Marguerite arrive and had seen nothing amiss. True, Lady Marguerite had-alighted from the coach with the grand air of the highborn, and there'd been a superior lift to her chin. But, dear life. What woman wouldn't feel superior, marrying Dove? Worse, she'd been beautiful. She had an exotic heart-shaped face. Her eyes had an exotic, upward tilt. Her hair wasn't an obnoxious mass of unruly red; it was dark and sleek as a raven's w
ing. Her skin wasn't freckled, but flawless as cream. Jericho doubted Lady Marguerite could stutter if she tried. She drew a discouraged breath.
"If you want my opinion," John went on, "I b'lieve Marguerite will be the ideal wife for Dove. She will keep him under her thumb. She will make him toe the line. She will make him grow up. She won't put up with his wild, thoughtless ways. Not after they're married."
Instantly, John saw he'd taken the wrong tack. For he got a scathing glance. He held his tongue. When they came to the end of the path, he helped her jump a shallow ditch, and then they were on the dusty road that led into St. John's Basket. Excited villagers flocked toward them, heading for the festivities in Arleigh Castle meadow, women bustling by in fresh white caps and aprons, baskets of fragrant baked goods on their arms. The men hustled along, too, a wooden staff with a clay lantern pot swinging from each man's shoulder. No one in St. John's Basket could remember the origin of the custom, but after dark on Mid-Summer's Eve, every male in the village participated in a Night March. John thought it a grand and thrilling sight, a hundred or more lighted lanterns marching around the walls of Arleigh Castle.
John greeted each passing man and woman by name, for he knew them all. He felt a surge of pride walking with Jericho. Her vivid coloring, her excellent figure drew the eye of every man who went by. But she didn't seem to notice. She was lost in thought, pondering. When they were alone in the lane again, he thought to finish the subject of Dove and Marguerite once and for all, and then speak of something dearer to his heart. He squeezed her hand.
"There's an old saying, Jericho. In every marriage, one of the two does the kissing and the other offers the cheek. With Dove and Marguerite, it's always been Dove doing the kissing and Marguerite offering the cheek."
She glanced at him in dismay.
"You mean she doesn't love him?"
He sighed. "I didn't say that, now, did I. Of course, she loves him. She's crazy for him. Always has been. I'm only say in' that the one who offers the cheek controls the marriage. Marguerite doesn't do much kissing. But she collects a lot of kisses."
She drew a breath and sent agitated glances out at the cottages they passed. "She's horrid. Now I truly do hate her, John. I do."