The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Shivering despite the sweltering July heat, she pushed Fox Hazlitt and the duke out of mind and hurried back to the children. But the thought of the duchess lingered. She was very sorry about the duchess. Very sorry indeed.

  Each Lord's Day, John came to fetch them by coach, walking down from Cheapside Street because Wattling Street was too narrow to accommodate a coach. He would take them to church. After church, he would feed them an excellent dinner in his home. Then, if the day was a fair one, they would climb into his coach again and ride to the Tower of London to join the merry throngs of Sabbath Day strollers.

  Black Bartimaeus especially loved the Tower. From the Tower wall, one could see all over London, all the way to St. Paul's on Ludgate Hill. Best of all, he loved the exotic wild animals that were kept in cages there for London's amusement. Eyes shining, he would plant himself in front of the cages for hours on end, watching the lions and apes and crocodiles that had been familiar to him in his childhood, before Dutch slave-ships had raided his coastal village and carried him off. Neither John nor Jericho had ever seen him so happy as when he sat watching the animals, and they vowed to each other they would bring him to the Tower every chance they got.

  Though London days could be pleasant, London nights were more frightening than Jericho had bargained for. At night, the unlighted city lay pitch dark, and footpads and robbers roamed bold as brass. Sword fights broke out in the dark alleys, and the unnerving clash of steel swords could be heard nightly, coming from St. Paul's pitch black churchyard.

  Gradually, however, life settled into a rhythm, and except for missing Mrs. Phipps—and missing Dove with all her heart—Jericho was tolerably happy. She'd been bom to teach. And she was doing just that. She was taking good care of Black Bartimaeus, too.

  On the last day of July, another visitor surprised her. Answering the knock on her street door one evening, she gasped in delight.

  "Mr. d'Orias! How did you find us?"

  "Mrs. Phipps." He smiled warmly. Filling the stairwell with his imposing presence, he followed her up the stairs to their rooms. Quick to grant her privacy, Black Bartimaeus took Pax for his evening walk.

  Dressed in his usual rich black, with a shirt of snowy white linen, d'Orias took off his fine, black-plumed hat, set it on the table, looked about with an approving nod, then seated himself in the chair she pulled to the cool of the window for him. She pulled up her own chair, smiling. For a while, they talked of her dame school and other pleasantries. When a moment of silence came, she drew a shaky breath.

  "How is Dove?"

  D'Orias smiled gently. "Unpleasant. Cross as a bear. Nothing pleases him of late. He dislikes everything, objects to everything. He quarrels with everyone, even Lady Marguerite."

  Her chest pounded. Maybe Dove missed her. But he hadn't responded to the letter she'd left under his pillow. If he'd wanted get in touch with her, he could have. Mrs. Phipps knew where she was. Jericho had written her. Probably, he'd believed Marguerite's ugly tale—lock, stock, and barrel. Believed she'd stolen Marguerite's ring and sold it. Her fingers restless with agitation, she put them to work pleating a fold in her skirt.

  Allowing her to choose the subject, d'Orias sat silent, his black eyes gentle, waiting, permitting her to speak of anything she wished. She drew a deep breath.

  "I did not steal Lady Marguerite's ring, Mr. d'Orias."

  "I know you did not. I never believed it for a moment. As to the gold coins found in your box, I do not believe you gained them by selling Marguerite's ring."

  She looked quickly away. Out beyond the rooftops, dusk was gathering. The sun's final bright rays of the day bathed St. Paul's enormous, five acre lead roof. Down below, in Wattling Street, night had already fallen, and the alley lay in darkness.

  "Thank you for believing in me. I cannot reveal who gave the coins to me. I am not at liberty to say. I promised."

  "Nor need you say." Hesitantly, gingerly, he added, "I trust you did not . . . get them from the king?"

  "No, of course not." A thought struck. She looked at him with shocked eyes. "Is that what Dove thinks? That I earned the coins in bed with the king?"

  "I fear so, yes."

  "But it's not true!"

  With the dusky twilight settling upon the rooftops of London, pigeons fluttered in cooing flocks to their roosts, filling the air with the sound of their soft warbling.

  "If you say it is not true, I believe you. Your word is trustworthy. If Dove chooses to believe otherwise, he is a thick-headed young fool. Now. A new topic, yes? If I may? For I must leave soon."

  She nodded. D'Orias leaned forward, elbows resting on knees and broached his subject gently.

  ' 'I have come mainly to tell you news of. . . your parents. I have not forgotten my promise to look into the matter."

  Instantly alert, she put Dove out of mind. She tensed.

  "Yes?"

  "The Jericho sank years ago, as you know, as Lord Aubrey told us." She nodded expectantly. "However. The harbormaster's widow at St. Katherine's Docks remembered the Dutch ship, The Jericho, in particular a sailing in 1646. Two passengers, a young married couple whose own suckling infant had tragically just died, came aboard The Jericho with a newborn infant they'd purchased on the docks to replace their own dear child. The widow had remembered, because her husband, the harbormaster, had to intervene when The Jericho's captain balked at taking the infant aboard, thinking the infant bad luck. You see, the infant had 'witch's' hair and . . . three red birthmarks, 'duivel' marks."

  Jericho absorbed it in shock. For a moment she found it difficult to get her breath. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to assimilate what he was telling her, trying to make sense of it.

  ' 'Who did they buy me from, the people who bought me?"

  "No one knows."

  "Where are they, the people who bought me?"

  "Dead. They died on the voyage. Moribund throat swept the ship."

  "The harbormaster's wife. Can I see her, talk to her?"

  D'Orias's rich Italian voice grew very soft, compassionate.

  "Alas, no. I am sorry. She is dead also. She died of the plague last summer. I have the story secondhand, from her son."

  Emotions surging, Jericho couldn't sit any longer. She lunged up and stood at the window. She spread her trembling fingers on the sill. Though the sun still lingered on St. Paul's lead roof, Wattling Street was already dark as midnight. She could hear Black Bartimaeus below, entering the stairwell, turning the iron key in their street door, safely locking them in.

  "I almost wish you had not told me. I would prefer to believe my mother died giving birth to me aboard ship. It's hard knowing I was born in England. Knowing my mother birthed me and didn't want me. Knowing my own mother sold me."

  D'Orias hesitated. "There is one thing more I fear you must know. The harbormaster's son recalls his mother's story because eight or nine years ago, his mother received a visitor, a man who made similar inquiries about The Jericho and about an infant girl with three birthmarks."

  She turned abruptly. She drew a short breath.

  "Who was the man?"

  "The son did not see him. He does not know. He had the story from his mother."

  "Eight or nine years ago? Nine years ago? That's when the men abducted me at Collect Pond, Mr. d'Orias."

  "Yes."

  "Someone means me harm!"

  D'Orias leaned back in his chair and calmly crossed one leg upon the other. "Someone meant you harm. Meant. In the past. Then, for some reason, whoever meant you harm changed his mind. Or perhaps he himself died. Else you would be dead by now," he pointed out gently.

  Though her lips trembled, she saw the sense of it. If someone still wanted her dead, she would be dead by now. She'd been a young, defenseless child. Children are easy to kill. Yet, no one had tried to harm her in all the years since Collect Pond. Still, she felt a sense of dread, of foreboding.

  "W-why w-would anyone seek out a babe who'd been sold at auction? And so many years aft
er its birth?"

  "Why indeed? That is the question, isn't it." D'Orias rose, plucked his fine hat from the table and put it on. "I shall persevere and attempt to find out. In the meantime, you must not worry. Whatever happened in the past is long over. I am certain you are safe."

  "Yes," she agreed anxiously, wanting to believe it. Her uneasiness lessened as Pax and Black Bartimaeus came up the stairs. Her two beloved guards. She was safe. Dear life, she shouldn't tremble like a ninny about something that had happened a decade ago. Was she a child or a grown woman!

  D'Orias shook hands with Black Bartimaeus, and then Jericho escorted him down the stairwell, turned the iron key in the lock and let him out. Wattling Street lay dark as a cave.

  "Goodbye, Mr. d'Orias. Thank you for coming. Tell Mrs. Phipps that I miss her, that I love her. Tell her Black Bartimaeus and I are well and happy. Tell her we have twelve pupils! And tell her that John comes to see us every day. Tell—tell her I intend to visit her each and every day when she comes to London to live with John at the end of summer.''

  "I will tell her," he agreed gently. "For now, farewell."

  "Farewell."

  When he'd gone, she shut the door, locked it, and hung the key on its peg. In his staunch, dependable way, Black Bartimaeus came down the stairs to check the lock and to lower the thick stout door bar. At the door at the top of the stairs, they repeated the process, locking, barring.

  She was perfectly safe. Yet, when she thought of all d'Orias had told her and thought about what had happened so many years ago at Collect Pond, a shiver curled up her spine. Someone wanted her dead. But who? And why?

  Chapter Eighteen

  August had come bearing down upon London in a heat wave and the heat showed no signs of letting up. The city baked. Cooling rains failed to come, despite fervent Lord's Day prayers offered up in all of London's churches, and the hot, crowded, close-packed city grew dry as tinder. Jericho feared for fire. She and Black Bartimaeus kept their fire buckets ready, filled to the brim.

  On the fifteenth day of that blistering hot month, she was standing in her street door in the afternoon, dismissing her pupils, when she glanced across the alley, and her heart jumped. There, lounging in the doorway of the grog shop, a tankard of ale in hand—stood Dove. Seeing him again was like a physical blow. For a minute she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her hands began to tremble. He was watching her with those bright eyes. Wearing a sweat-stained shirt with his hat pushed back, he looked as hot and uncomfortable as the day.

  Her heart pounded. Stooping, she quickly hugged and dismissed her pupils with a word of praise for each. When the children had scampered off, she made her way across the alley, which was crowded and noisy with people coming and going.

  "Dove. W-what are you doing here?"

  Pushing himself off his leaning post, he tossed his drained tankard to the serving girl in the grog shop. "I'm just passing through."

  She gazed into those bright, intense eyes. Passing through? Arleigh Castle lay twenty miles to the west. Passing through on a day so hot even the watercoaches had deserted the Thames? She didn't believe it for a moment.

  "How-how did you find me?"

  "I didn't," he said irritably. "I told you, I was passing through. I stopped for ale and happened to glance out . . . and, well, there you were, standing there with those little children." -

  It was so flagrant a lie, that her heart beat even louder. He'd been worried about her. Worry had brought him to London. He'd come to make sure she was all right.

  He flicked a glance at her windows. "Is that where you live?"

  "Yes. W-will you come upstairs?" She nodded at her rooms. "Sit for a bit and talk?"

  He rebuffed her with a headshake. "No. Hell, I'm busy.

  My tailor ... my wedding clothes. I don't have time. No time at all."

  She swallowed her disappointment. He might be worried about her, but he was also angry. She knew why. Marguerite's stupid ring. And more, the gold coins found in her box.

  A pushcart came trundling, rattling, noisy, filling the narrow alley with its din. She waited until it rumbled past, and its noise died away. Blocked by the cart, annoyed pedestrians now surged by.

  "Dove, I didn't steal Lady Marguerite's ring."

  "I know that," he said in a surly voice, glaring at a man who'd jostled her in passing. "Hell, Marguerite found the damned ring. That is, her maid found it. It had been caught in the fold of Marguerite's bedcurtains."

  "I see." Jericho felt a ripple of anger. Stupid woman. Blaming her for something she'd done herself. She'd lost her own ring in her own bed.

  Restless, angry, Dove took his hat off and reamed it through his fingers. "Marguerite felt bad that she'd called you a thief. She said so. At dinner. In front of my mother, Uncle Aubrey, everyone. She also said she intends to send your coins to you and put in one of her own. To repay you for the wrong."

  "Did she?"

  "Hell, yes. I thought it generous of her, considering

  Generous? It wasn't generous, it was clever. Marguerite had won Dove's admiration with that "generous" gesture. She looked away, irritated. Marguerite manipulated him as easily as—as easily as a street puppeteer worked his puppets! Why couldn't Dove see it? Was love that blind? She threw him a resentful look.

  Slop water splattered into the street, tossed out of an upper window. They jumped out of the way, barely avoiding the spray. A passing pedestrian, however, got a hatful, and a strident quarrel broke out. The man cursed the woman in the upper window and shook his fist. The woman cursed back. TTie quarrel escalated as the woman's husband came lunging out of the street door in his shirt tails, brandishing a sword. The pedestrian drew his sword. With excited cries, people surged around them, watching the entertainment, egging them on. But the day was too hot for a sword fight, and the quarrel lost steam.

  Dove winged an irritable glance at the noise.

  "Well, I'd best be going," he said. "Hell, I can't stand here nattering all day. I'm a busy man."

  Going? All resentment fled. Unspoken words throbbed in her throat, aching there, longing to spring out.

  "Dove? I know what you're thinking. About the gold coins."

  He denied it with a vehement headshake. "I'm not thinking anything at all! Hell, sleep with anyone you want. You're a freewoman now, not a bondslave. Sleep yourself silly. Start at the top floor of Whitehall Palace and sleep your way down to the cellar if you like. Sleep with the whole damned city of London, if you want."

  "Dove, I didn't sleep with the king."

  "Who cares! I don't."

  She drew a shaky breath and waited until staring, gawking, eavesdropping pedestrians passed. "The coins are mine, yes. That I admit. Dove, if I could, I would tell you who gave them to me. But I pledged my word not to tell. But it was not the king, Dove. Nor any man."

  He refused to look at her. He went on reaming his fine hat, absentmindedly destroying it. He'd worked his way around to the ostrich plume. Feathery bits of this expensive ornament flew like chicken fluff.

  "Yes, well, the hell with it," he said in curt disbelief. "Enjoy the coins in good health. Marguerite intends to see they are returned to you."

  "Dove? Please believe me?"

  It was a struggle to stay angry with her. Dove wanted to believe her. He didn't want to picture her lying under the king, her soft pretty limbs spread. He couldn't bear it. She was so damned . . . special! He glanced at her. Those vivid blue eyes. The sweet sprinkling of freckles. That flaming red hair. Hell, in her cheap green gown, standing there in the midst of those little crumb crunchers, dismissing them, hugging them, she'd made the prettiest sight he'd ever seen. For a moment, it had knocked the breath out of him.

  The slop-water ruckus died down, and Wattling Street began to flow again with its usual trashy foot-traffic—night- gown ladies, coney catchers, pickpockets. Glaring at Wattling Street, he cursed under his breath. Jericho didn't belong here. What was John thinking of, letting her live here? Damn it, didn't John love her? A
dame school, for God's sake. On Wattling Street! He flexed his shoulders in heating anger.

  "Yes, well, I'd best be going," he said harshly. He watched her reaction. She wanted to be rid of him, didn't she? She'd made it plain, hightailing it out of Arleigh Castle the instant she'd got her goddamned freedom. No goodbye. Not even a note. Angered afresh, he looked away from the hurt that rose in those pansy-soft eyes.

  4 'C-could you stay a little longer, Dove? Black Bartimaeus will be disappointed if he doesn't see you. He's at the Tower. He likes to spend afternoons watching the caged animals, whittling figures of them for the neighborhood children. He took Pax along. They'll be home by sundown."

  He slanted a glance up at the narrow band of sky, the only strip of daylight in this shadowy, fetid, stinking alley. Stay? If he stayed one more minute, he would grab her and take her to bed. He wanted her so badly his groin ached.

  "No. Damn it," he said crossly, "I don't have time to - stop and chat with every bondslave and slave I've ever owned.''

  "W-will you come again?"

  "I don't know, Jericho."

  "Black Bartimaeus will be disappointed."

  "I don't know, Jericho," he burst with growing exasper- aticfo. "Hell!"

  His explosion made her eyes fill. Damn it, what was he doing? He hadn't ridden all the way to London in this damnable heat to make her cry. He'd come to make sure she was safe, happy. And here he was, doing her more harm than could the whole goddamned city of London and every pervert in it. Angry with himself, he lashed out at her.

  "Don't nag! If I decide to visit, I'll visit. If I don't, I won't. Goodbye, Jericho," he finished curtly, clamping hat on head. Without a backward look, he swung off down the crowded street. His horse was stabled at Comhill. He'd avoided Cheapside Street and John's shops. He didn't want John to know he couldn't stay away from her.

  Jericho watched him, go, her throat tightening, bands of misery tightening around her chest. He strode away so fast, he went so fast, he was leaving so fast. Tall and goldenhaired, he was pushing his way down the crowded street so fast. So fast he was melting into the anonymous flow. He was leaving so fast. Leaving . . . leaving ... He was leaving!