by Jo Ann Wendt
"No. No, you didn't tell me Dove," she said in awed wonder.
He refolded his arms, and then, to her bewilderment, folded them back the way they'd been. As if he were nervous. Nervous talking to her? Dear life. Her eyes widened.
4'Jericho." Again, he refolded his arms. "About MidSummer's Eve. I want you to know you'll soon be free. I've insisted Marguerite free you."
She gazed at him in soft surprise. "Why, thank you, Dove."
"Not at all. You deserve your freedom. Hell, grubworm, you've earned it. I've not been the easiest master in the world. Nor, I suspect, has Marguerite been an easy mistress."
She let that pass. She couldn't bring herself to hurt him by agreeing about Marguerite. They stood there, uncertain, gazing into one another's eyes. The candle flame flickered as a draft caught it.
"Hell, Jericho. You needn't go to London to start a dame school. You could start one right here. Here in Arleigh Castle. Teach the servant children." He shrugged enthusiastically. "I'd pay for it. I'd gladly pay for it."
Her heart grew soft and warm towards him. He didn't want her to go. He wanted her to stay. And she wanted to. But if she stayed, what was there for her? Only the misery of watching him many Marguerite. And if she stayed, she would become his mistress. She knew it, and she knew Dove knew it. There was too much fondness between them for it to end any other way.
"I think I'd best go to London," she said gently.
He looked down in disappointment, understanding that she was refusing more than the dame school. At the distant end of the corridor, the guard changed. Ten Swiss guards in scarlet tunics tramped into place, replacing the others who tramped off. The floor of the corridor vibrated with the matched cadence of their step. She and Dove glanced at them.
4'I have to go to sleep now, Dove," she said lovingly. "Morning comes early in the kitchen."
He swung his golden head and glanced at the window at the end of the corridor. Night was already lifting. The sky was gray. 4'Hell, yes. It's late. Go. Sleep tight. You did well tonight, Jericho. Thank you."
"Good night, Dove."
"Good night, grubworm."
They moved off in opposite directions, Dove's lithe step taking him back to the silly play, hers taking her back toward the kitchens and the sleeping hall. At the end of the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder to treat herself to just one more glimpse of him. To her surprise, he was glancing over his shoulder at her.
When Angelina left the play and the king's presence, she sought fresh air for her nerves. Hurrying along the corridor, she passed the Swiss guards, then went down the staircase to the ground floor and out into the castleyard. She crossed the dark silent castleyard, then went up the stone steps to the castle wall. Atop the wall, the walkway lay bathed in moonlight. With no difficulty, she found the favorite battlement where she and Aubrey had played as children. Their first kiss had come on this battlement. How old had they been? Twelve, thirteen?
Aubrey. She hadn't felt the warmth of his kiss, the warmth of his arms around her in twenty long, endless years. Shivering, she wrapped herself in her own arms. Aubrey. The girl on the stage. It bewildered her. Was the girl his daughter? By some other love? She ached.
As he was reading on the platform, participating in Castlemayne' s nonsense, Aubrey saw Angelina leave. How could he not? He was attuned to her every movement, painfully aware of every breath she took. When his part came to a finish, he stepped back out of the bright candlelight, left the makeshift stage and the ongoing play, and quietly slipped out a side door. Satisfied that Blackpool would remain glued to the king's side—his cousin had always been an ass-kissing sycophant—he stepped into the corridor.
Pausing in the dimly lighted corridor, he brushed his hand over his mouth, considering where she might have gone. Midway down the hall, under the flaring light of a candle, Dove hovered over his pretty bondslave, the two young people so absorbed in each other they did not even see him. With quick, quiet steps, he set off in the opposite direction.
"Aubrey!" He'd come up the stone stairs silently and had found her dreaming in the moonlight, standing on "their" battlement, looking as pale and lovely as a painting. She turned, visibly trembling as he slowly went forward.
He was trembling himself. He was not a man who'd trembled in battle, but he trembled now. He didn't know what to do, what to say. Sweet God, he'd not been alone with her in twenty years.
"Angelina, my precious darling ..."
Her eyes grew large and lustrous with tears. The moon glowed upon her white shoulders, her black silk gown, her pearls, her gold locket.
"Aubrey, please do not call me that unless you mean it. Please, please. Else I cannot bear it."
He breathed unevenly. He ached to touch her, hold her.
"Not mean it? I mean it with all my heart. Angelina, you are my soul mate. I think of you as my wife—the only wife I have ever wanted or shall ever want."
"No! There was someone else. Someone you loved and had a child by."
"Someone else? Never." Stepping forward, he longed to put his trembling hands around her waist and draw her near. She was so thin his hands would span her waist. It shocked him. Was she unwell? She had always been delicate, frail. She gazed up at him, bewildered, distraught, overwrought. A tear spilled off her dark lashes and rolled down her cheek.
"That girl. She's your daughter."
"What girl? Who?"
"The girl reading with you. In Castlemayne's play."
A soldier, a simple man accustomed to simple, straight- forward thinking, he found this beyond comprehension. For a moment, he could not even recall who he'd read with in the wretched play. He frowned.
"You don't mean Dove's redhaired bondslave?"
"Yes."
His jaw dropped. He was utterly astonished. For a moment he couldn't even get his breath. "Angelina. She is not my daughter. Good lord, sweetheart, why should you think such a thing? She's a bondslave. From the New World, from the colony of New York."
Her lovely eyes flooded with uncertainty. "But look in the mirror, Aubrey. She is your image. She has your hair, your eyes, even your birthmark on her wrist. Had our own daughter lived, she might have looked exactly like that girl."
He breathed more calmly, certain of himself. "Red hair is not uncommon. Nor blue eyes. As to the birthmark, I have never noticed, nor am I interested. Birthmark or no, she is not my daughter, Angelina."
She looked up at him with eyes swimming. How else could he convince her? He drew her to his breast and crushed her gently. They both trembled and clung. They hadn't touched like this in two decades. It was so wonderful he was afraid to breathe. Out on the meadow, a restless meadow lark trilled. He let it sing its song, then buried his mouth in her soft hair.
"Angelina. Beloved. I have had wenches during these empty years, yes. That I will not deny. I am a man, and a man has his needs. But I have not sired a child. Judge me. If I had sired a child, would I not acknowledge her, provide for her, shelter her, protect her? Am I a man who would turn his back on his responsibilities? Oh, my beloved . . . trust me."
She lifted her face to him, tears sparkling in her eyes like crystal, reflecting the moonlight.
"I trust you, Aubrey. I always have and I always shall."
With a throaty groan, he crushed her close, crushed his mouth to hers. His kiss was rough, for he was so needy, as a beggar, so starved. But she was needy too. Her feverish lips clung, her hands clung. They kissed passionately, desperately, the years falling away like gossamer veils. Only when a lantern winked, carried across the castleyard by a sleepy lackey, did they draw apart, breathless.
"I must go, Aubrey. The duke . . ."
He crushed her delicate shoulders in his hands.
"Angelina, leave him! Separate from him. Let me take you to Nordham Hall, and damn the world's opinion. We are yet young. We can have years of happiness together."
"No," she cried out. "Do not tempt me. I beg you."
"Angelina, you must. Come to me. Come."
"
No! He would kill me. And you, also. You don't know him. He's like a cat. He stalks, he plans. He is a cruel vindictive man. I love you, Aubrey. I will not put you in danger."
"Danger be damned! I'll kill him."
"And the two of us to live with his blood on our hands? No."
She tore out of his embrace, leaving his arms heartbreak- ingly empty, and fled along the walkway, her footfalls as weightless as a bird's. He leaped after her, caught her on the shadowy stairs and crushed her to him.
"Angelina. Does he hurt you? I demand to know. If he hurts you—by God, he'll not live to see another sunrise." He could see the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.
"No. He doesn't hurt me. He frightens me, but he doesn't hurt me. Please believe me, Aubrey."
"In bed? Does he hurt you in bed?" He tensed, fearing to know, needing to know.
She shook her head and one crystal tear spilled. She wiped it away. "No. I am his property," she said bitterly. "He never harms his own property."
His throat filled with emotion. Longing to croon love words, longing to lead her gently to his bed, he crushed her close. But lantern light flashed again in the castleyard. With quick trembling hands, Angelina swiftly stripped off the locket she wore and pressed the hard gold into his palm.
"Keep this. A keepsake. Keep it in memory of me and in memory of our baby. Before the midwife buried our baby, she cut off a curl of our baby's hair. She gave it to me. I put it in this locket, and I have worn it over my heart for twenty years. It is yours now. Take it. Cherish it, as I have. Stay away from me, Aubrey. For my sake and for yours. Stay away!" In a rustle of black silk, she rushed down the stone stairs and left him.
Later, alone in his bedchamber, he opened the locket and touched a rough soldier's finger to the delicate snippet of hair.
It was red.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day was the oddest, most bewildering day of Jericho's life. Dawn had no sooner come and Jericho was no sooner at work in the scullery, when a maidservant she did not know entered the scullery and came straight to her.
"Come at once," she whispered. "Her Grace, the duchess of Blackpool wishes to speak to you."
Certain the woman was addressing someone else, Jericho glanced over her shoulder. But no one else was near. Everyone was busy with tasks.
Jericho whipped off her apron, raked her fingers through her hair, and swiftly followed the maid. She was alarmed. Hurrying through the silent corridors, her footfalls echoing in counterpoint with the maid's, she tried to think of one single reason a duchess would send for a bondservant. She couldn't. She grew frightened.
It was the stupid theatrical, she decided. The masque. The duchess had taken offense at it. And at me! Why did I let Dove talk me into doing it? Anxiety rising, she followed the maid through rich, opulently carved double doors, through a rich gilded receiving room that lay in dawn shadows, and into a blue and gold bedchamber.
The duchess of Blackpool stood waiting, looking wan and
pale. Her black silk dressing gown scarcely concealed the thinness of her body. Her brown hair, undressed and brushed loose, fell to her shoulders in waves. Her skin was as pale as the fragrant white roses on her dressing table.
Jericho curtsied anxiously.
The duchess waited until the maid had left, until the door had closed with a firm click. Then she glanced out the window at the haze that was stealing across the meadow. She looked weary enough to drop.
"Do not be afraid, child. I only wanted to see you, to talk to you for a bit. Who are you, child?"
Jericho stared at the lovely strained face, bewildered.
"I—I am a bondservant, Your Grace. My name is Jericho, Your Grace, Jericho Jones."
"But who are you? Who? Where do you come from?"
Jericho scarcely knew what to say. "I—I am from New Amsterdam, Your Grace," she answered in growing wonder. "From New York, that is. I was Lord Dove's bondservant there. I arrived in England this May."
"You lived there all your life? In New Amsterdam?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And your parents?"
Jericho gazed at the lovely, distraught face in utter and complete bewilderment. Why should a duchess care who her parents were?
"I—I have no parents, my lady. I was orphaned as a babe."
"I see. But you were born Dutch? In Dutch New Amsterdam?"
Such strange questions.
"I believe I was born of English parents aboard a Dutch ship that was heading for New Amsterdam, Your Grace. A ship called The Jericho. I believe I was named for her."
"And your parents' name was Jones."
Jericho felt a flush steal up her throat. The old shame of having no family to claim, no identity, no place in the world where she truly belonged . . .
"No, Your Grace. Lord Dove gave me the surname 'Jones.' He chose it at random. As for m-my parents, there is no record of them. I do not know their names. I feel certain my mother died aboard The Jericho. I think perhaps she died giving birth to me, God rest her soul."
"I see."
Abandoning her post at the window, the duchess slowly paced her rich silken chamber. Jericho watched her with evergrowing wonder. The diichess was plainly distressed. Now and then she would absently wring her lovely hands, as if immersed in a sea of worries. Smudges under her eyes told of a sleepless night. Jericho's heart softened with sympathy. Poor lady. She is sick. Perhaps sick in the mind, as well. Else she would not summon a bondservant at dawn and behave so oddly.
"Are you acquainted with the duke of Nordham?"
A question in an utterly different direction. Taken by surprise, Jericho answered as best she could. "I know that the duke of Nordham is Lord Dove's uncle. He has been kind enough to speak to me on a few occasions."
"Yes, yes." The duchess gestured gently. "But do you know of him in any other way? Did you perhaps know of him in New Amsterdam?"
"Lord Dove spoke of his uncle, my lady."
"But more than that, child. Did Lord Aubrey perhaps send money for your upkeep whilst you were growing up?"
Jericho stared in conftision. "But why would he, my lady?"
Lady Angelina flushed, and the first spots of color rushed into her lovely strained face. "Of course, he would not. I ask a foolish question." She gave Jericho a scared look. "Child? Have we met before? Have we? I feel so . . . drawn to you."
"No, my lady."
Thoroughly confused, Jericho watched the lady pace.
"How did you come to be Lord Dove's bondslave?"
"My lady, he won me. In a dice game. In a tap house in New Amsterdam. I was eleven years old."
"Eleven?" The duchess turned, startled. "Eleven? You were born when? In what year?"
Such strange questions. The poor lady was surely ill.
"I believe it was 1646, my lady," she volunteered gently.
"I know I was an infant in that year. My indenture states it."
"1646?" Pale before, Lady Angelina grew paler still. Lost in thought, she paced, black silk dressing gown rustling. She said nothing for so long a time that Jericho wondered if she was dismissed, if she should curtsy and quietly go. Suddenly, the duchess paused in her pacing and turned.
"You have a birthmark on your right wrist. I saw it last night. As you read on stage."
Jericho was wearing her wristband, but the comment stirred up the old anxiety, the memory of Collect Pond. Her heart began a slow, fearful pounding, "Yes, Your Grace."
"Have you any other birthmarks on your person?"
Her skin prickled. The old anxiety churned. Collect Pond. Ice skating. The men. She drew a frightened breath and lied.
"No, my lady."
The duchess of Blackpool had waited tensely for her answer, her eyes dark and cavernous, but once she had her answer the thin taut shoulders relaxed under the silk gown.
"Of course, you do not. It was a ridiculous question. Forgive me for asking it. But for an instant I had the oddest feeling ... the most compelling feeling . . . nev
er mind." Quickly, the duchess went to her velvet covered nightbox, lifted the lid, reached in and came back carrying a tiny brown velvet pouch.
Jericho shook her head. "No, my lady. I've done nothing deserving of payment."
"Take it."
"I beg not, my lady. Please. I have not earned it."
"Take it. Please." Lady Angelina reached for her hand with a joltingly cold one, tucked the pouch into Jericho's palm and gently closed Jericho's fingers around it. "Take it, child. You will not be a bondslave forever. One day you will be free. My coins will help you start your new life. Life is hard, child. Take it. Take whatever is given you."
Jericho didn't know how to refuse. "My lady—"
The duchess nervously tossed her hair. It drifted upon her shoulders like limp silk. Jericho saw one or two gray hairs, shining like silver.
"Go now. Go, and take great care that no one sees you leave my rooms. Tell no one that we have had this little talk, you and I. No one, do you understand? Please. You must not tell' even one person. Not Lord Dove, not even my sister, Lady Marguerite." The duchess flushed then and looked away. "Especially you must not tell His Grace, the duke of Blackpool. Even if the duke should question you, you must not tell him I have talked with you. Promise me, child."
Jericho gazed at her in wonder. How strange. She nodded quickly. "Yes, my lady. I promise."
"Now go, pretty child. Quickly. Be discreet. Take care going out, take care that no one sees you."
Again, that queer heart tug. She was loath to go and leave the duchess here alone, sick. But she'd been dismissed. She couldn't disobey.
"Yes, my lady."
Jericho curtsied and let herself out. She closed the bedchamber door with a quiet click, then hurried through the salon and out the double doors, shutting them quietly, too. Recalling the duchess's odd request, she stood in the silence and scanned the corridor before moving. It lay empty and quiet, steeped in dawn's shadows. She stole away.
It was not until she turned a corner that a door unexpectedly opened and a figure came out, suddenly rearing up in her path. Fox Hazlitt. She'd nearly collided with him. He was as startled as she. He glanced at her with quick eyes, then cast an appraising glance in the direction she'd come from. Heart pounding, she gave him a wide berth and passed by on the other side.