The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  "I believe I will write letters. I shall write them out here. The day is so fresh and sunny. Run to my chamber, Jericho. Fetch my letter box? Oh—and bring me a handkerchief, please."

  Jericho put the mending aside. "Gladly, my lady." She jumped to her feet, then instantly regretted her quick move. She reached out and steadied herself, hand on chair. There it was again. That queasy dizziness. That odd feeling of nausea.

  But it was gone in a moment, and she hurried toward the castle, giving the duke's dog kennels a wide berth. Still, the ugly beasts spotted her. Snarling and growling, the wolfhounds threw themselves against the wooden slats of their pens. She walked at a steady pace, her eyes straight ahead, pretending not to see them, determined to show them no fear. But she watched them out of the corner of her eye. In one of the pens, the dogs fought ferociously over a scrap of yellow cloth. She glanced at it, startled.

  The duchess had given her a yellow bodice that Jericho had particularly liked and had worn a lot. That bodice had vanished from her closet in the garde-robe room. Her scalp prickled. Instantly, she scolded herself for it. Ninny! Don't be stupid. No one steals a bodice to throw to dogs. It's just a yellow cloth.

  Angelina watched the willing girl hurry toward the castle. She's so pretty, she thought. So in love with young Dove de Mont. It shows in the way her voice quavers whenever she says his name. It shows in the way her eyes shine. I wonder if they were lovers. It would not be the first time a lord seduced a pretty bondslave. Is that why Marguerite sent her away? I wonder. There are curious gaps in Jericho's story of her experiences in the London fire. Did she sleep with Dove during those days after the fire?

  I should disapprove. Marguerite is my sister. I love Marguerite. But I love the girl, too. I feel drawn to her. I find myself growing fonder of her every day. And how can I disapprove? She reminds me of myself at her age, so desperately in love with Aubrey. Angelina gazed at her hands wistfully. I am still desperately in love with Aubrey. In a hurry, Jericho didn't detour into the garde-robe room for the handkerchief. Instead, she scooped up letterbox, quills and inkpot, then foraged for the requested handkerchief in the duchess's night box, which stood on a chair beside her bed. Slipping a hand down under the slippers and nightrobe, she found a stack of handkerchiefs. The prettiest was on the bottom, thickly worked with lace. When she snatched it up, a piece of parchment fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it. A letter. An old one, judging from the faded ink. Unwilling to tresspass, she started to put it back in its hiding place. But as she did, the signature caught her eye. Your devoted and loving—Aubrey She stared. Fully aware that she was doing something wicked and wrong, she glanced at the letter. It was dated Second of September, 1651. Fifteen years ago!

  My darling Angelina,

  Tomorrow we go into battle. Cromwell's troops outnumber us thirty to one, and I do not know what tomorrow may bring—victory or death. Therefore, I must write you, precious love, even though you have forbidden me to do so.

  When last we saw one another five long years ago —you hidden away in childbed, grieving for our stillborn babe—

  Jericho didn't read another word. Aware that she'd been wicked, she whipped the letter back into its hiding place, arranged the handkerchiefs over it and closed the night box.

  She hurried back to the garden, ashamed of herself. Still, the glimpse of the letter explained so much. The rumors of

  Lady Angelina and Lord Aubrey? Not rumors, but true. They'd loved each other so much they'd risked adultery. There'd been a baby. A poor little baby. Born dead.

  A second revelation jolted her. That's why the duchess looks at me so oddly sometimes! That's why she said strange things, the night I came, the night she was so sick. My red hair, my blue eyes. I remind her of the stillborn baby she had with Lord Aubrey!

  The poignancy of it touched her. But it stirred anxiety, too. Suppose the duke learned of that stillborn baby? Or did he already know? She shivered, feeling an ominous sense of foreboding. She wanted to leave Blackpool Castle. Leave it and its troubles behind. But how could she leave Lady Angelina ill and frail! She couldn't. I love the lady. I'll stay just a little longer. Just until her strength comes back.

  When she rejoined the duchess in the sunny garden, she knelt at her feet and, thinking of the dead baby, gave her a tender smile.

  "Here is your letter box and your handkerchief, my lady. What else may I do for you, my lady?"

  "You humiliated me, Dove! You made me a laughingstock. You left me standing at the altar like—like a jilted wench."

  Tired, stinking, and dirty, upset with all he'd seen in the past month, Dove dismounted in Arleigh Castle's stableyard and gazed dispiritedly into Marguerite's angry, swimming eyes. He'd just ridden in after a two week absence, and the castleyard bustled with activity, as everyone dashed out, eager for the latest news of London. Fully as tired and dirty as he, Lark, Raven, Uncle Aubrey and Leonardo d'Orias were dismounting. Their horses whinnied, excited to be home, eager for familiar stables, familiar stalls and handlers.

  "Marguerite, listen to me!"

  "No. You listen to me. I will not have it, Dove. I will not be treated like this. You ruined our wedding, Dove, you purposely ruined it."

  He was tired and depressed and angry. "In the past month

  I've seen a lot more devastation than a ruined wedding! London is burnt, Marguerite. Burnt. Don't you know what that means? Can you even imagine it? People are dead. People are homeless, hungry."

  Huge with child, looking as if she were about to pop any minute, his sister-in-law Esme came running into Raven's arms. They kissed tenderly. Dove had hoped for that sort of reception from Marguerite.

  "I know why you went! We had the report." Marguerite shot him a bitter look, her voice rising. "You went running after those fool bondslaves, that redhaired girl and that old blackamoor—bondslaves who could well save themselves."

  "Marguerite, Black Bartimaeus died! He's dead."

  "What of it? Is a servant more important than your own bride? Than your own wedding?"

  Marguerite's voice had risen in hysteria. Hurrying out of the castle, alert, anxious, Dove's mother swept it in with a look and came striding regally. She wore a brown velvet riding habit.

  "Marguerite, that's enough," she snapped, fire in her eyes. "Dove did exactly right. A privileged class takes care of those who have served it, and if you do not know that, then you had best learn it before you become one of us. If Dove had done any less, I would've been ashamed of him!"

  Rebuked by her future mother-in-law, Marguerite dissolved in tears. Picking up her silk skirts, she whirled and rushed into the castle. She looked so beautiful and so genuinely unhappy that Dove felt even lower.

  "She will get over it," his mother saicKo him briskly. "In time, she may even make you a good wife. If you learn to handle her, Dove."

  "Perhaps." He wasn't sure how he felt about Marguerite anymore. His mother embraced him in welcome.

  "Was it terrible?" she asked.

  He nodded, his throat closing. "Black Bartimaeus died in my arms."

  "Oh, Dove." Reaching up, she brushed back a dusty strand of his hair. Her hands were loving and gentle. He'd hoped for a touch like that from Marguerite.

  "The redhaired girl?"

  "Safe."

  "With John?"

  He shook his head, his throat closing again. "I don't know where she is right now. I daresay she's disgusted. I daresay she's had a bellyful of John and me, a bellyful of Arleigh Castle and de Monts. I searched for her, but . . ."

  Glynden gazed into her son's bright hazel eyes and saw it all—the despair, the worry. Oh dear, she thought. So in love. Kissing his cheek, she told him the bathing room was ready, the bath water hot and steaming. Servants had prepared it the instant their party had been spotted.

  When Dove had gone into the castle, she greeted each of her family with hugs and inquiries—Raven, Lark, Aubrey. She left the best for last. Leonardo. She crossed the castleyard to where he stood unsaddling his mount. His
fine black clothes were ruined, torn, dirtied. But to her he had never looked more wonderful.

  "Leonardo?"

  He turned and smiled. "Glynden."

  They did not touch. It was something they did not do in front of others. She was countess of Arleigh. She was the widow of Lord Royce de Mont. He? An Italian peasant. Her breath came quickly.

  "Before you left, you asked me a question."

  His handsome face grew taut, his body tightened.

  "Si."

  "The answer is yes, si."

  He stared at her for a moment. Then, he let his saddle drop and swept her into his arms. "Glynden." Heedless of propriety, he crushed a passionate kiss, a husband's kiss to her eager mouth.

  Bathed, barbered, and clean for the first time in a month, Dove, richly dressed, supped with his family privately, in his mother's private withdrawing room, a small gilded chamber that expressed her tastes.

  Marguerite did not come to supper. Angry, she sulked in her bed chamber. Esme stayed in her chamber too, feeling under the weather. So supper was a rare and intimate event, a circle of de Monts. The only outsider was d'Orias, and he felt it. It showed in the quiet, speculative looks he sent around the table. It showed in how little he ate.

  Dove noticed, because he ate little himself. Long before servants carried away the food, Dove had pushed back his plate. While the others ate and talked, he idly swirled the red wine in his goblet and watched it. Red wine. Red hair. Red wine. Red hair. Jericho. It had stabbed him to the quick, her leaving without a word. Where in hell was she!

  Conversation throughout supper dwelled on family business, and Dove paid it little heed. His mind was on Jericho. And Marguerite. He didn't care how much de Mont money should be given to help feed London during the coming winter. He didn't care how much de Mont capital should be invested in the rebuilding of London.

  An outsider, d'Orias contributed no opinion. Dove admired that. He admired a man who knew his place. When the meal ended, they rose and took their wine goblets and chairs to the fire. The month was October, the weather, chill. A sensitive man, d'Orias excluded himself from the family gathering and left the room.

  Intangibly the family circle drew closer. Dove basked in the fierce strong feeling. De Monts, he thought with pride. We are de Monts. He glanced at each one—his beautiful golden haired mother, Aubrey with his strong ruddy face and red hair, Raven thick-shouldered and dark like their father. Lark, lithe and slim and tawny-haired. · "I wish to say something."

  Dove glanced at his mother with mild amusement. When did she not?

  She swept them all in with a pregnant look, and Dove set his goblet down, instantly alert. Something was about to happen.

  "I do not need your permission to do what I intend to do," she said briskly. "Nor do I need your approval. But because I love you—all of you—I ask for it. I want your permission. I want your approval."

  The family gazed at her in curiosity. Lifting her head high, she swept them all in with another look. The fire crackled. The gilded ceiling and woodwork sparkled, reflecting firelight.

  "I intend to wed Leonardo."

  If she had told them the moon had dropped from the sky, they couldn't have been more startled. There was an astonished silence, then everyone spoke at once. A flurry of objections flew. The widow of a peer of the realm was expected to remain a widow. For the sake of the succession. To safeguard her children's inheritance. Propriety demanded it. Convention expected it. It honored the departed peer.

  "And he's Italian," Raven burst out foolishly, leaping upon the inanest objection of all.

  4 'Raven, for God's sake!'' Dove lunged to his feet, grabbed the wine pitcher and refilled his goblet. He was in a quandary. In principle, he could not approve of the marriage. None of them could. But he loved his mother. He wanted her happy. As for d'Orias? Dove was damned fond of him.

  The only one to speak calmly to the subject was Aubrey. Setting down his goblet, Aubrey leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, eyes worried, the gilded room sparkling all around him.

  "Glynden, you know we bear no personal objection to this. All of us have the deepest regard for Leonardo. We admire and trust him. We are fond of him. There is not a better man. Were I in the thick of battle, surrounded by the enemy, Leonardo is the man I would want fighting at my back. However ... the king must give his consent for the widow of a peer of the realm to wed. This, the king is unlikely to do. D'Orias is a commoner, a foreigner. If you marry without His Majesty's consent, Glynden, you forfeit your position at court. The king cannot receive you. You will no longer be lady-in-waiting to the queen."

  Intent, intense, Dove and the others waited for her answer.

  "You are duke of Nordham, Aubrey," she said calmly. "At court you are the king's Gentleman of the Horse. Would you value those titles above the love of a spouse?"

  He looked away hastily. "No. No, of course not. You know I would not, Glynden. A good marriage is the richest treasure to be found on this earth." Dove wondered. Were the old rumors true? Had Aubrey once been in love with the duchess of Blackpool?

  The fire gently crackled on the hearth. The gilding sparkled. For a time there was only contemplative silence. Raven burst it.

  "Mother, do not be hasty. Take time to reconsider."

  She smiled and glanced at the diamond and pearl encrusted time piece she wore, hanging on a shirred black velvet ribbon on her small waist.

  "Raven, my darling son, I estimate I have but one hour to reconsider. Leonardo and I have sent for the priest. We will be wed tonight, in the chapel upstairs, in the company —I hope—of you and all of our loved ones."

  Her strong, confident gaze went to each of them in turn.

  "Now I ask you. Does Leonardo have your permission to join this family? Aubrey? Raven? Lark? Dove?"

  Dove downed his wine. What the hell. "Yes!"

  But the others hesitated. In the hesitant silence, a low voice broke from the doorway, the cadence softly Italian. Absorbed, none of them had heard the door open.

  "I need no permission to join this family. I am already a member of it." D'Orias strolled into the room, darkly handsome in his black silk suit of clothes.

  "In spirit, yes, certainly," Aubrey conceded. "We consider you family."

  "No. By blood tie."

  It was a queer thing to say. Dove stared at him, as did the others.

  "Leonardo? Darling, I don't understand ..." D'Orias strolled to her, squatted on his long legs and took her waist in his hands. He gazed lovingly into her eyes.

  "I tell you a story, si, caral All of you." His glance swept them in. "Forty-five years ago in the hills of Genoa, Italy, there lived a little shepherdess. She was twelve years old. She was sweet and virtuous, and villagers considered her the most beautiful girl in the village.

  "That summer, English lords came traveling through Genoa, on a grand tour of the continent. One of those lords saw the girl and became smitten with her. Although he had a wife in

  England, he set out to seduce her. She? She fell in love with the lord. By the end of summer, she realized she was with child. When she told the lord, he merely gave her money and a ring. He swiftly left Genoa and never came back.

  "When the girl's condition became apparent, her family cast her out. The village shunned her. Eking out a living tending goats, she lived in a hut in the hills and there—young and frightened and alone—gave birth to a son.

  "Born a bastard, the son also was shunned and scorned. The only love he received was from his young mother. As he grew up and saw the slights, the hurtful isolation imposed upon his beloved mother, the son vowed revenge upon the English lord who had sired him and callously abandoned his mother.

  "When his beloved mother died, the son was twelve years old. A lone creature, he took to the hills. He became one of the banditi. Here in England, you call such—highwaymen."

  D'Orias' obsidian dark eyes swept them all in, one by one, his eyes glittering with challenge.

  "I was that son. The girl was
my mother."

  The silence in the room grew thick. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the room a French clock ticked. Dove looked at his stunned mother. She had never heard this before. Her lovely face was dazed. Lark and Raven stared at d'Orias, their eyes intense, lips parted.

  "Who was the English lord?" Aubrey asked quietly.

  "I think you can guess. It was your father. You and I, we are . . . half brothers, Aubrey."

  Dove stared, stunned. "For God's sake!"

  But d'Orias paid him no attention. D'Orias's attention, his concern rested solely on Glynden. As she sat ramrod straight, shocked to the core, d'Orias gazed tenderly into her eyes.

  "Cflrfl. Now you know my secret."

  "Why didn't you tell me. Why?" she said in a stunned whisper. "All these years. You were Royce's half brother, Aubrey's half brother, and you didn't tell me."

  His dark, compassionate eyes swept her face. "How could I tell you, cara, how? You were so fiercely loyal to Royce's memory. Your sense of honor would never have permitted you to fall in love with his half brother. Never. To you, it would have seemed like incest. You would have viewed that love as a travesty to Royce's memory."

  He shook his head. His black, knife-straight hair swept his shoulders, shining as blue-black as a crow's wing.

  "And I loved you so much, car a. I was not brave enough to risk losing you." He smiled in tender whimsy. "I loved you from the first foolish moment—in the flower market in Paris, when you mistook me for a banditi and put your dagger into me."

  "But you should have told me," she whispered, dazed.

  "When? How could I? No, car a, no. You would have thought I intended to claim a portion of the de Mont fortune. You would have thought I intended to take what belongs to your sons. And I did not want that, I did not. I wanted only you."

  "Leonardo ..." Breathless from the shock, she leaned forward and cupped his strong, blunt-featured face in her hands, his black hair a contrast to her fair skin. "Leonardo

  "I had come to take revenge on my father, my father's family. But my father was dead, my half brother Royce was dead. In vengeance, I sought out Royce's widow. When I found her, I did not find the shallow titled countess I had expected. Instead, I found a fiercely brave woman, a woman I knew I wanted for my own wife. Then I sought out Aubrey—my half brother. I found, not the pampered self- indulgent aristocrat I had expected, but a bold soldier, a decent and good man. I made it my business to seek out your sons—my nephews, if you will—one by one, and I found them worthy young men."