by Jo Ann Wendt
Holding on to the sides of the boat, stepping over the wheezing dog, he pushed past the oarsman, gave him a gruff order, and sat in the bow. As they spurted away from the city, he watched London burn and he despaired. His city, his shops, likely his house. And now Jericho. / should've been the one to save her, not Dove, he despaired.
They landed at a hostler's inn on the south shore, a mile from the city, debarking in the bright white light cast by St. Paul's. The cathedral burned brighter than ten suns, and, viewed from the south shore, the sight of London made the stoutest heart grow faint. In the distance, the city burned like a witch's cauldron, steam boiling up from the Thames wherever St. Paul's molten roof cascaded into it.
Landing, they had no money to pay the waterman, and without a second's thought, Dove stripped off a priceless ring and gave it to the astounded waterman, then stripped off another ring to hire the hostler's bedchamber for Jericho. Somehow, these generous acts filled John with rage, and for a moment he could not think why. Then it came to him. Dove didn't value his possessions. He had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and had never valued a single goddamn thing he'd owned. And that included a sweet redhaired bondslave from New Amsterdam!
He gritted his teeth, so furious with Dove he wanted to kill him. He made himself a promise. When the fire ended, he would help rebuild his city. He would rebuild his shops twice as large, and rebuild his house, if necessary. And then, Dove or no Dove, he would win Jericho's love and wed her!
When the hostler's wife had bathed Jericho, tended to her burns and put her to bed, John and Dove went in to see her. Determined, John shouldered past Dove and knelt first at her bedside. He blanched at what he found. A wet cloth covered her painful eyes. Her skin was gray. An ugly red scorch mark marred her cheek, and the balm on it and the balm on her lips glistened like paste in the flickering candlelight. Her breathing was painful, labored. He took her limp hand and gently enfolded it in his. Eyes covered, she moved her head.
"John?" She knew his touch. That much he could rejoice
in.
"Don't talk, Jericho. You inhaled a lot of smoke. I just want you to know I'm here." Her breathing scared him.
A tear rolled out from beneath the wet cloth and moved down her cheek. "Where—is Dove?"
"I'm here, beauty."
Reluctantly, John kissed her hand and gave way to Dove. He left the room. Worried for Jericho, he was worried about his shop workers too and his servants on Seething Lane. If he could borrow a rowing boat from the hostler, he could row under London Bridge, get out at the Tower and walk to Seething Lane. But first, he thought grimly, he had a few things to thrash out with Dove, God damn him.
Dove squatted beside the bed. A peasant bed, it was of rope construction, but Jericho was comfortable with a goose- down featherbed under her. He'd insisted she be made comfortable. He searched out a spot on her cheek and kissed her cold, ashen skin. He ached, seeing her like this.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better."
He fought rising fear. The worst was yet to come. When the shock wore off she would begin to know she had singed lungs. He'd heard there was no pain more excruciating.
"Bring brandy," he said quietly to the hostler and his wife, who hovered in the doorway, overjoyed by the diamond ring he'd given them.
"Yes sir, at once. Brandy for yer wife, sir."
"She's not my—" He let it pass and didn't finish. The two hopped off like a pair of addled turkeys to do his bidding. He stroked her cold hand. Her fingers clutched his, clinging to them.
"Perhaps it's as well to let them think you're my wife, beauty. They'll treat you even better. I have to leave you for a bit. I want to go back to London. To help fight the fire. You can hear the casks of gunpowder exploding. The king's navy is fighting the fire, blowing up houses to make a firebreak."
She nodded. He looked down at his hand. He still wore the gold wedding band meant for Marguerite. He pulled it off and slipped it on Jericho's finger. For good measure, he stripped off a couple of diamond rings, tucked them in her palm and closed her fingers around them. "Keep these for me." Again she nodded. Her breathing scared him.
"You saved—my life—Dove."
"Include John in that." She nodded. Aching for her, he brushed a damp red curl from the wet cloth that covered her eyes.
"It's the—second time—you saved—my life."
The second time? For a moment he couldn't think. He was so tired. Then he remembered. Collect Pond. Wanting to take her mind off the horrors of the fire, he glossed over it.
"They say the third time's the charm," he tried winsomely, trying to raise her spirits. "If I save your life a third time, I'm stuck with you. I have to keep you."
"I would—like that."
She would like that. He looked down, depressed as hell.
"Dove, is—Pax all—right?"
He hesitated. He couldn't tell her. Only a few minutes earlier, he'd come across the stableyard from the privy and had found Pax convulsing. He'd squatted beside the old dog, wondering what to do. Even as he'd squatted there thinking, Pax had breathed his last and died.
"He's fine."
"I want him—in here—beside me."
He stroked her hair. He understood. She'd lost Black Bartimaeus, so she needed Pax.
"He's better off outside. The fresh air. He breathed a lot of smoke too."
"Oh—yes."
She accepted it, thank God. But her mind was focused on the dog. She weakly lunged up.
"I have—to get ointment—rub ointment—on his feet. His paws—are likely—scorched."
Dove took her shoulders and eased her down onto her pillow.
"I'll do it." The cloth had fallen away. He winced. Her lovely pansy eyes were red, more bloodshot than a drunken beggar's. The candlelight made her blink painfully. He took the candlestand off the sugar chest beside her bed and set it on the floor.
"You?" The offer brought her first, faint smile. "You— don't even—like dogs—Dove."
"This one I like. Without his barking, I never would've found you in all that smoke."
Her effort to rise had made her dizzy. She hacked into a coughing fit, a fierce spasm. He held her up, supporting her. His heart pounded. Would she be all right, recover? People sometimes died of inhaling smoke. He was so scared he trembled.
44Ask John—to do it—rub it well—between—his pads."
"I promise."
Breathing heavily, her eyes closed. She was silent for a long time. He thought she'd fallen asleep. But her ravaged eyes fluttered open. 4'Dove are—those your—wedding clothes?"
He looked down at his torn, begrimed finery in surprise. Wedding? Had it been only this morning? It seemed a hundred years ago.
"Yes."
"They're—ruined."
"It doesn't matter, sweeting. I can replace clothes. I can't replace my favorite grub worm."
Her eyes fluttered shut. Tears slid quietly down her cheeks. He felt so damned bad. Bad about the fire, bad about Black Bartimaeus, bad that he'd taken her virginity, bad about everything. Dipping the cloth into the basin of water on the sugar chest, he wrung it and laid its wet soothing coolness upon her closed eyes.
4 'Black—Bartimaeus—''
"Try not to grieve too much, beauty. He had a good life. After he became my slave, he had a good life. Believe that, will you?" He smoothed her damp red hair. Freshly washed, it still smelled of smoke. "I was good to him. At least, I hope I was."
She nodded, tears trickling from under the cloth. "You're—good—to all—of your servants. Black Bartimaeus—loved you. All—of your servants—love you. I— love—you."
Love. His spirits crashed. Hit bottom. He despaired. Suddenly, without warning, she began to thrash back and forth on the pillow. Her lungs pumped.
"Dove! I hurt."
"Brandy," he bellowed at the empty doorway, gently pulling her up, holding her. "For God's sake, man, hurry!"
His knees were weak by the time he left her—left her
asleep and quiet, the hostler's wife hovering over her—and made his way to the stableyard and down the path to the river where John was borrowing the hostler's row boat. John waited, tense, grim, his face a pale wash in the bright light of St. Paul's.
"Asleep?"
"Asleep."
"Thank God."
"I forced enough brandy down her to fell a horse." Dove riffled a shaky hand through his sooty hair. "She's a tough little thing."
John blazed in anger. "She wouldn't have to be, but for you. But for you, she wouldn't be lying there coughing her lungs out and Black Bartimaeus wouldn't be dead! But no. You had to go and toy with her this summer. You had to amuse yourself, didn't you. You had to make Marguerite so goddamn jealous she sent Jericho packing. And then you had to come riding into Wattling Street—"
"Enough!" Dove flared, glaring at him. "You already plowed that field. How many times are you going to plow it?"
"Plow it? I'd like to ram it down your throat."
They breathed hotly, eyeing each other.
"Do you love her?" John demanded.
Dove didn't hesitate. "No! I'm fond of her, I'm fond as hell. But it's Marguerite I love, Marguerite I'm going to many." But the words choked him, and he wasn't so sure.
"Then what do you plan to do with Jericho!"
"Do?"
"Do, do." John snapped his fingers in Dove's face. "Do you plan to make her your mistress? Your whore! Dress her in silk and parade 'er at court the way King Charles parades Castlemayne, Nell Gwynne and all his other sluts?"
Dove flared. "Don't talk so vile. You know I wouldn't do that to the grubworm."
"Then what will you do?"
"I don't know."
John's lip curled in scorn. "Then I serve you notice, 'milord'. I'm going to court Jericho and win her and make her my wife. Now get out of my way. I've a house to check on, ^ servants and workers to be tended to."
John clambered into the boat. It rocked and pitched under his angry movements. Dove grabbed the bow.
"I'll go with you. I'll help."
John laughed hollowly. "Nay. I don't want your help. I had enough of your 'help' this summer. I don't need your help, Dove. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."
John grabbed the oars, dug in and plowed out into the river with powerful strokes. Dove's throat tightened. He called, "Hell, John, I'm sorry. About Jericho. About Black Bartimaeus. About your shops. About everything!"
Rowing powerfully, John tossed a cynical glance to the sky.
"Tell it to the wind! I'm not interested."
Jericho awoke in pain. Breathing was agony. It even hurt to move. Dragging herself out of bed, she used the chamber pot, then got back into bed, weak, spent. Gray daylight glowed in the one small window. Rain pattered against the glass. Rain? She raised up painfully. If it rained, the fire would go out.
"What day is it?" she asked in a painful scratchy voice when the hostler's wife bustled in, carrying a steaming tankard of mulled ale and a plate of fried bread. Her throat felt like gravel.
"Friday, luv."
Friday! Where had Wednesday and Thursday gone? She'd lost them. Vaguely, she remembered Dove and John coming and going, leaning over her, murmuring encouragement to her. Had she dreamed it, or had Leonardo d'Orias and Lord Aubrey looked in too, all of them sooty and dirty, as if they'd been fighting the fire. She seemed to remember Lord Lark gently touseling her hair. "Get well, pretty. My brother is worried sick about you."
"Is the fire out?" Her throat. It felt rough as kindling.
"Ay, luv. Thanks be to God. The rain put it out."
The woman bustled about, clunking tankard and trencher to the sugar chest, shoving the chest nearer with a grunt, plumping Jericho's pillow. Worried for Dove's rings, Jericho fingered the pouch she wore under the nightrail. Safe.
"Praise God, the fire's out, luv. All but Thames Street. Them cellars full o' coal and tar and spirits and oil? Them'll burn months, they say. London, she's a sad sight. A smoking ruin, she is. Your clothes is been washed and put to the fluting iron and mended as best I could. But I fear they still reek o' smoke."
"Thank you."
The woman bustled about. "Lor! Don't thank me. Your handsome young husband paid me famous. A diamond ring he give me t'take good care o' you. And another diamond ring to m'Husband, for room 'n board. Nigh dazzling, 'tis. We 'spect t'sell the rings and get a pile o' money for 'em."
"Where is Dove?"
"Who?"
Jericho fingered the thick gold wedding band she wore. She drew it off. Turning it, she read the delicate engraving inside the band.
To Marguerite on our Wedding Day—My Love Eternally —Dove
She batted at the moisture that rose to her eyes.
"Dove. My—my husband. Where is he?"
"Over by Whitehall Palace, luv. With his uncle and brothers. Strivin' w'the navy to get bread for the homeless. There's thousands camped outside the wall in the rain, wi' nary a tent over head nor a crust o'bread in their bellies."
She rushed out to empty the chamber pot and rushed back
in.
"Where is my dog?"
"Buried proper, luv. Your handsome young husband buried 'im the night he brought you to us."
The woman chattered on, but Jericho covered her eyes with her arm and absorbed the blow. Black Bartimaeus. Now Pax, too. Her beloved two. She forced back the tears. Pax. Black Bartimaeus. Pax.
"You been wed long, luv?" "No."
"Quickened yet, has ye? A babe on the way?"
Her chin trembled with the effort to hold back tears. It was a sin to cry for a dog when so many human beings were suffering. But she couldn't help it. Pax. Black Bartimaeus.
"No."
"Well, you will, luv. Don't fret. That handsome husband o' yours'll give you plenty of babes. I seen the way he looks at you, luv. He's right fond of you."
Jericho brushed at her tears.
"That's a grand weddin' band ye're wearin', luv. Right rich it is. A lady's ring."
Jericho curled her fingers over the ring.
"It's engraved," she said softly without opening her eyes. "It says ... To Jericho on our Wedding Day—My Love Eternally—Dove"
It was one thing to pretend to the hostler's wife. But to pretend to herself? Folly. Yet she did so as the days went by.
She guessed that maybe Dove was pretending too. For he was as kind to her as a husband. Attentive to her needs. He liked her near. When they supped each night, they supped like husband and wife, eating from the same trencher, sharing the same spoon
Folly. It was folly.
Lord Aubrey's disapproving glances told her so. Leonardo d'Orias's glances carried sharp worry, warning. Lord Raven and Lord Lark did not know what to think. Their looks were curious, puzzled. But John's glances didn't bear describing.
Folly. She knew it.
When she was better, Dove walked her down to the river on a misty rainy day. They wore cloaks and clothing John had brought from his house on Seething Lane. Dove took her to the willow tree where he had buried Pax. She gazed down at the grave, aching. She'd owned Pax since she was nine years old. Memories came back so vividly that she was filled with pain. Pax. Black Bartimaeus. New York. Then they walked along the river, looking across the water at the smoking ruins of London.
She wiped at her eyes. She could see all the way to the Tower of London. The Tower. Were Black Bartimaeus's beloved lions dead of smoke? It didn't matter now. Beyond the Tower of London, ship masts rocked in the pool at St. Katherine's docks. Ship masts. Ocean-going ships. Ships that crossed oceans. A fierce longing surged through her.
"Dove, I want to go home!"
"Of course. I'll take you home. Home to Arleigh Castle."
"Home. Dove, home. To New Amsterdam. New York."
His eyes brightened with alarm. He turned her to look at him, his hands gripping her shoulders, her wet misty cloak.
"New York? But why?"
"I want Daisy and Samuels. I need them, Dove. I need Maritje Ten B
oom. She's like a sister to me. And I need Goody and Cook. I need New York, Dove. I need to go home."
His lips parted, then closed, parted again.
"I thought . . . you would stay somewhere near me."
1 can t.
"But I thought you would. I want you to."
"As what? Your bondslave? Your mistress?"
He had no answer, and she really hadn't expected one. Those intense, bright eyes swung away unhappily. The reality she'd thinly been avoiding poked through to her. She gazed at the gold wedding band on her finger. "A lady's ring," the hostler's wife had called it. Slowly, reluctantly, she drew it off.
"This isn't mine. I was pretending it was. But it isn't. It's a lady's ring and it belongs to a lady. To Marguerite."
"Beauty ..." He accepted the ring as reluctantly as she gave it. Gathering her courage, she gave him a staunch look.
"I fear I've been pretending about you all my life, Dove. When I was young, I used to brag to Maritje Ten Boom that you and I were betrothed, that you were going to marry me when I grew up. I fear I'm an awfully big pretender."
"I fear you are," he agreed reluctantly.
The mist increased, gathering on their skin, on their eyelashes as they gazed at each other. Dipping into her cloak, into her bodice, she drew out the pouch she wore on a thong around her neck. She dug out the rings Dove had entrusted to her. Dove instantly shook his head, refusing them.
"Dove, I don't want money from you. Or diamond rings."
"Sweeting, if you're bound and determined to go to New Amsterdam, you'll need money. Sell them for your passage.''
"No. I'll get to New Amsterdam, to New York—on my own."
His head came up, his eyes bright, worried. "And how will you do that! Jericho, London is burned. There's no call for dame schools or dame schoolteachers."
"I'll figure out a way. Please, Dove. I don't want to be beholden to you. Or to any of the de Monts. Take the rings." Self-respect surging back, she looked at him calmly. She didn't want charity from the de Monts. She didn't need it. She had her resources. If she couldn't teach, she could do servant work. She wasn't afraid of work.
Dove hestitated, then in a childish fit of pique, grabbed the rings and winged them out into the river. They arched against the misting sky, dropped into the water and vanished.