The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  "I can see that," Jericho said with an impish smile. "She is carrying."

  "A mark of the king's favor," Mrs. Phipps quipped tartly, then softened. "Ah, well. The queen is barren, poor man. Every man of tender sensibilities desires children. What's to be done?"

  Jericho's gaze flew to Dove. Dove would want children. What if Marguerite proved barren? Would he turn to someone else? To her? What would she say? Would she be willing to bear Dove's children? She breathed unsteadily.

  With charming manners, the king helped a second lady to alight, and the servants murmured excitedly. Unlike the aloof Castlemayne, this royal mistress was petite, an elfin creature with a playfiil smile. Jericho liked her at once, but Mrs. Phipps pursed her lips in disapproval.

  "Nell Gwynne, the actress. What is the world coming to, I ask you, when women boldly take to the stage, donning men's breeches and stockings, displaying themselves as bold as any man? You may be certain His Majesty's father would not have allowed it in his London."

  Jericho watched Lady de Mont greet Castlemayne and Nell Gwynne coolly but politely. A king's mistresses had to be tolerated, evidently.

  "Anyhow, here comes a bitter pill for my Lady de Mont to swallow." Mrs. Phipps pointed as a black-lacquered coach came rumbling under the gatehouse wall, drawn by four sleek black horses that wore ostrich plumes on their head harness. The coach halted, swaying, and a footman jumped down from' his post at the rear, unfolded the brass stepping rung, wiped it clean of road dust, and respectfully opened the door.

  The duke of Blackpool descended—slim, haughty, folding his travel gloves, glancing about with a condescending air. He was followed by his steward, Fox Hazlitt. Jericho drew an uneasy breath. The past weeks had been so busy, so full of constant, unhappy thoughts about Dove, that she'd all but forgotten the offer of employment.

  Glancing about, the duke extended a lacy wrist for a lady to use as she debarked from his coach. She was a beautiful lady, pale and gentle looking. As different from the duke as day from night. When her gloved hand faltered, fumbling to find the duke's wrist, he sent her an irritated glance. The meanness of it pricked Jericho's heart.

  "Is that the duchess of Blackpool? Is that Lady Angelina, Lady Marguerite's sister?"

  "Yes."

  "She's lovely."

  "Too many have thought that over the years," Mrs. Phipps said tartly. "Including Lord Aubrey." Leaning closer, Mrs. Phipps whispered furtively, "Do not breathe a word of this. But many years ago, it was rumored Lady Angelina gave birth to a stillborn child while her husband was in France. Some thought it Lord Aubrey's child."

  Jericho cared nothing about the rumor, but her gaze flew sympathetically to Lord Aubrey. She liked him. She watched him with a tender heart, feeling for him. If Lady Angelina was his love, he must be feeling incredible turmoil at this moment. But he was a military man, and when it was his turn to greet the duchess he comported himself with military bearing, stepping forward, kissing her hand without a flicker of emotion. Lady Angelina, however, was made of frailer stuff. Her lovely face went white. Jericho saw her tremble.

  Returning to her kitchen duties, Jericho could think of nothing else. Poor, lonely Lord Aubrey. Poor, unhappy lady. Then, throwing herself into the frenzy of work that came of feeding a king and his enormous entourage, she promptly forgot them.

  For the next five days Jericho worked to exhaustion. Everyone did. But no one complained. Devoted to Dove's mother, every servant in Arleigh Castle toiled hard to make the royal visit a success. Lady de Mont herself worked harder than any servant. She was in the kitchen before dawn, consulting with Mr. Pennington. She came again long after midnight, dispensing appreciative words and smiles to everyone, even to the turnspit boys and scullery girls. Had she asked, her staff gladly would've lain down and died for her.

  Jericho toiled and sweated in the July heat. In a single day, she gutted and cleaned a mountain of trout, then plucked and gutted a hundred quail, threading their dainty carcases on spits and tending them over the hot cookfires. She kneaded bread dough until her arms nearly fell off, then worked some more, serving in the cheese house, cranking the cheese basket, packing the curds into the cheese press and winching it tight, then rubbing and turning the hundred cheeses that were already aging on the shelves. Each midnight, she dropped onto her pallet, slept like a rock, then leaped up at dawn to do it all over again.

  By the fifth night, she was exhausted. She'd been asleep on her pallet cot only minutes when she awoke to find Dove shaking her shoulder.

  "Jericho, wake up. I need your help."

  She lunged up on one elbow, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  "What is it, Dove? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I need your help, that's all. Come into the hall."

  Putting resentment aside, she grabbed her shawl, slung it around her nightrail and jumped up at once. This was no time to sulk about her indenture. If Dove needed her help, he needed her help. Barefoot, she followed him through the maze of exhausted snoring servants and into the hallway. A fat tallow candle burned in an iron wall sconce, shedding light.

  "What is it, Dove?"

  Hands draped on waist, he stood on one hip in disgust. "Hell! Lady Castlemayne is patron to an imbecile of a playwright. She's brought the dolt's latest play with her. It struck her fancy to hear the play read aloud, with all of us reading parts. And what strikes Castlemayne's fancy, strikes the king's fancy." Dove gave her an irritated look. "I've never seen a man so ruled by a petticoat!"

  She tugged at her shawl, pressed her lips together and held her tongue. This was no time to comment on the iron "petticoat" who ruled Dove—Marguerite, the shrew.

  "Yes? What do you want of me?"

  "We are short one female reader. I need you to read a part."

  She stared at him, incredulous. "You what?"

  He gestured, impatient, cranky. "I need you, Jericho. Now! Get dressed. I need you to read a part."

  A moment passed before she could believe her ears, before she could get her breath. "Dove, / cannot a read in a play."

  He swung his golden head angrily. "If you can't do a simple thing like read, then I've wasted a hell of lot of money schooling you, haven't I! Certainly you can read. I thought of you at once. The idiotic goddamn play is titled The Dutchman's Daughters. It's written to satirize the Dutch in this goddamn war. You'll read the first daughter's part. It's only a few pages, Jericho. You can read it and be back in bed in an hour. Many of your lines are in Dutch. Duck soup for you."

  She listened to all of this in utter astonishment. When he'd finished, she gasped, "Dove, I cannot read before the king. I cannot! I would stutter."

  "All the better," he said grouchily. "The stupid play portrays the Dutch as thick-headed butter-boxes. A stutter is perfect."

  "Dove, I cannot! I would die of fright."

  He raked an impatient hand through his hair. "Jericho! This royal visit is important to my family. It's vital. It has to go right."

  "I know, but—"

  "Then get dressed. And hurry, damn it. Hell, even my Uncle Aubrey is under the gun, forced to read. And you know damn well he'd sooner be shot than stand on a platform and read in a play. But he's doing it. If you have any regard for Arleigh Castle, any regard for my family, you'll do it, too."

  She hesitated only an instant. "I'll get dressed."

  When he gave her a weary smile, she realized how worried he was about this royal visit. For normally, parties never wearied Dove. He exulted in them. She remembered from New Amsterdam.

  She whirled to fly, then turned back. "Dove? I—" She looked at him gently. "I'm sorry for what I said on the night you came to apologize."

  He shifted his feet and winged a glance down the corridor. "Did you say something that night?" he said with curt impatience. "I don't recall it."

  "But, I—" She fell silent. If he chose to ignore it, she knew her remark still festered. "Anyway," she finished softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

  "Hell, Jericho, I don't know what
you're talking about. Now stop yapping. Hurry!"

  She threw on her clothes by candlelight in the scullery alcove, pulling one of John's wife's gowns from the box on the scullery shelf and shaking the wrinkles out of it as best she could. She dressed, raked a comb through her hair and flew into the hall. Dove rapidly laced her up and they rushed through the dimly lit corridors. It was not until they'd reached the door of the magnificent state apartment where Swiss guards in scarlet tunics stood on duty, that she glanced down and saw her naked wrist.

  "My wristband! Dove, I forgot to cover my birthmark. I have to go back."

  "Forget it."

  "Dove, I can't. I feel naked. I need it. I—"

  But he threw the tall carved door open and pushed her into the room. For a moment, she stood dumbstruck, as awed as a country mouse. She had never witnessed the nobility at play before, and it was an eye-opening experience. Aristocratic chatter and merry laughter filled the high-ceilinged, gilded room. Wine flowed like water. Gold coins glittered in impossibly high stacks on gaming tables where nobles sat playing cards, flinging out their wagers as carelessly as if the coins were chicken feed. Some of the lords who'd brought mistresses along openly toyed with them, kissing them, fondling their breasts. Even the king lounged sensually on a gilded, red brocade day bed, one arm draped around Castle- mayne's bare shoulders, the other draped around Nell Gwynne.

  She was shocked. But she hadn't an instant to remain so. For Dove took her arm and yanked her through the gilded room to a platform stage that was being hastily erected by footmen. Grabbing a chapbook from a pile of chapbooks on the floor, he slapped it into her trembling hands.

  "Page four. Don't fail me, grubworm."

  "I w-won't."

  He smiled. "That's the spirit, Pansy Eyes!"

  Dove hurried off to his duties as host. Retreating into a corner with the chapbook, she sat on a foot stool and nervously found her part and read it. As she read, she sent darting glances around the room. The play was foolish, but the king's party was intimidating. She counted twenty-five lords and half that many ladies.

  Dressed in black silk, the duke of Blackpool lounged in a gilded chair, attentively near the king. The duke wore the latest in fashion, petticoat breeches with a rich cascade of lace at the knee. His duchess, the Lady Angelina, sat in a gilded chair beside him, pale as a lily, gowned in black silk. The duke kept one silken arm casually draped on the back of her chair, his slender fingers now and then toying with her lovely white shoulders. She didn't like it. Her stiff posture and the flush on her high, delicate cheekbones said so.

  Lord Aubrey stood on the far side of the lavish, tall-win- do wed room, as far away from the duke and duchess as it was possible to be. Jericho's glance swept on. Marguerite sat giggling with Lord Lark, chapbook in hand, practicing their parts, and Lady de Mont was everywhere at once, as serene as a queen, seeing to her guests' every whim. Jericho wished Leonardo d'Orias were here. She would not be half so scared if, now and then, she could look into his calm, encouraging eyes. But he was absent. Jericho could guess the situation. Unwilling to put his beloved Lady de Mont in an awkward stance during the king's visit, he'd simply left the castle. Jericho wondered if he'd gone to London. If so, he might be taking the time to look into the sailings of The Jericho.

  Nervous, Jericho studied the play and did not look up again until Lord Aubrey ambled her way and discovered her in the corner. She quicldy rose and curtsied, but he gallantly waved her back to her seat.

  "A foolish business, eh, child? I would rather put my head in a noose than make a fool of myself on a stage."

  Despite her jitters, she had to smile. "I, too, my lord."

  "Yes, yes. But I daresay it can be endured. I daresay anything can be endured. Anything."

  Was he speaking of the play? Not entirely. For in an ab- sentminded way, he let his glance drift across the room to the duchess of Blackpool. Jericho felt a rush of tenderness for him.

  "Your service to Lady Marguerite is going well, I trust?"

  "Yes, my lord. Thank you." It wasn't. But she would sooner cut out her tongue than complain to Dove's uncle. She liked this big, soldierly man.

  "So. We shall sink or swim together then, eh? The Dutchman and his daughters? I am to read the Dutchman's part, God bless me. You are to read the first daughter?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Well, well, so be it. You must not be addled." He smiled down at Jericho and gave her a gallant word. "Were I truly a father, I could not want for a prettier daughter."

  Her heart lifted. Oh, she liked him! She truly did!

  "Thank you, my'lord. I am obliged."

  He drifted back to the party. An hour passed before the noisy, carousing lords were ready to settle down to the play- reading, and as segment after segment of the hour ticked away, Jericho grew more and more nervous. Finally, it began.

  Angelina felt faint as she sat watching the play. Was her fever playing tricks on her? Was she seeing things? Or did that girl bear an uncanny resemblance to Aubrey? The same red hair, the same blue eyes. Even a birthmark on her wrist! Or had fever painted it there? She fanned herself. The room was overheated. Her silk gown was heavy as a blanket. She felt hot, dizzy.

  Her head swam. Attempting to rise, to leave the masque, she couldn't. Her knees would not. Weakly, she sat back down in her chair, gown rustling.

  "Another spell, my dear?" the duke purred in his soft, exquisite voice as^ the foolish play went on.

  She sent him a wary look. "No. 'Tis only the warm July night. The candles steal the air. I cannot get breath."

  "Ah. I thought it might be something else. A shock of some sort. You shivered as if. . . someone had walked across your grave, my love . . ."

  "It's nothing."

  "We shall have you bled again."

  "No! I don't want to be bled. It isn't good for me. It makes me weak."

  "I shall be the judge of that." Leaning toward her, he languidly kissed her neck, a proprietary gesture meant to remind her she was his property. Dear God, she needed no reminder. She'd been painfully aware of it from the day she'd become his unwilling bride at fifteen. He touched his lips to the throbbing pulse point in her throat. She tried not to flinch. But his touch was as repulsive to her as it had been on then- wedding night.

  He patted her hand and smiled maliciously.

  "Watch the play, my angel."

  Trapped, feverish, she returned her eyes to the stage.

  "That girl bears a remarkable resemblance to Aubrey," the duke purred in a whisper a few minutes later. "Do you not think so, my love?"

  Angelina dabbed a lace handkerchief at her hot brow. Had he arranged for her to be tortured like this, to see Aubrey's love-child? For the girl was surely Aubrey's daughter. It would be like Blackpool to do so. He was like a cat. He enjoyed tormenting. He'd insisted she accompany him on this state visit even though she'd been ill, in a sickbed. He'd commanded it.

  "I had not noticed."

  "Ah. Then doubtless it is only my imagination," he purred. "Yet, some twenty years ago, there were rumors Aubrey had sired a child somewhere in the parish of St. John's Basket ..."

  She felt faint. He had never mentioned the rumor before, never in all the years of their marriage. And she had guarded her secret well. Thank God he did not know the truth.

  "As to that, I do not know."

  "Ah. I thought you might. I thought Aubrey might have confided in you, told you about his amours. You and he were such firm . . . friends . . . during childhood."

  "That was a long time ago."

  "Ah." To her relief, he spoke no more, pawed her no more. Frightened of him, carefiil to please him, she sat watching the play. She grew hotter, more feverish. When she could take no more, she risked his displeasure. Rising, she curtsied to the king and left the room in a rustle of black silk.

  Standing onstage, reading, Jericho was in absolute misery. How could Dove have asked such a favor of her? Her heart was banging so loudly she could scarcely hear her own voice, and
when she nervously began to stutter, the king threw back his dark head and laughed wholeheartedly, presuming she'd stuttered on purpose. She wanted to die. Her face flushed hot as a cookfire. Standing beside her, holding the chapbook because her hands were shaking too badly, Lord Aubrey was equally uncomfortable, but he staunchly rode it out. He delivered his lines in a flat, loud monotone, as a soldier might. And such wicked, bawdy lines—written to slur the Dutch. She blushed to say them,

  Jericho was greatly relieved when her part was finished. She quietly left the bright candlelit stage and slipped out of the room, leaving the ongoing play in progress. Out in the quiet corridor, she took a moment to breathe deeply and to cool her burning cheeks with the backs of her hands. Then she hurried off. She was halfway down the corridor when a door open and shut, and Dove's soft call stopped her. She turned and waited under a candle sconce in the dim light while he came loping.

  "You did well, grubworm! I'm proud of you."

  "Dove, don't ever ask me to do anything like that again. Don't ask me. I nearly died."

  "But you did well. Thank you."

  "I stuttered."

  Folding his arms, he smiled his warm affectionate smile. No one had eyes like Dove. No one in the world. Bright hazel, full of warmth, shining like jewels. He was so handsome in his snowy white linen shirt and silk breeches.

  "Hell, I liked it! I liked your stutter. While you were reading, I kept thinking about the day I won you. At Dieter Ten Boom's tap house, remember? You stuttered like a cluttering little squirrel that day."

  4'I was scared that day," she said firmly. "And I was scared tonight."

  "I cheated. In that dice game. Did I ever tell you?"

  Startled, she looked at him. For a moment she couldn't take it in. He'd cheated. He'd deliberately set out to win her. Oh, dear God. He'd been kinder to her than she'd ever guessed, a boy of eighteen bothering with a ragged little bondchild.