The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Dove stared, mesmerized. That was why d'Orias had come to New Amsterdam! To size him up. He was dumbfounded.

  "In short, cara, I came seeking revenge. But to my surprise, I found not revenge but my heart's desire—a woman I love, a family I long to be a part of."

  Dove glanced at Lark and Raven. Their mouths were open. They were stupified. He glanced at Aubrey. Aubrey's face was flushed, but when he spoke, he spoke calmly.

  "You have proof? Proof you are who you say you are?"

  D'Orias stood. "I have this." Wrenching up his sleeve, he bared his birthmark. They had all seen it before, the strawberry red blemish that sprawled over his right wrist. It was like Aubrey's. And like Jericho's, Dove thought with a start. Hell's bells, how odd. He'd never thought of it before.

  "And I have this." Reaching into a breast pocket, d'Orias drew out a ring and put it on the low table before the fire. Gold, it caught the firelight and gleamed. It was old. A signet ring. The de Mont family crest was plainly stamped in it. "The ring my father gave to my mother."

  "There is more," Glynden said, bewildered, rising. She gazed at d'Orias as if seeing him for the first time. "You are so like Royce. You never met him, so you do not know. But you are so like him. Your bold manner. Your gentleness. Even your walk, your voice, your laugh. It is all Royce. I should have seen it from the first."

  He gently drew her into his arms.

  "Is it all right, cara? Will you still marry me?"

  She gazed up at him in bewilderment.

  "Yes," she whispered. "Oh yes, yes!"

  Suddenly a door opened. Startled, Dove glanced as Esme's maidservant slipped into the room, scurried to Raven and whispered excitedly in his ear.

  "She is?" Raven demanded. "Right now? It's started?"

  Raven stood so abruptly, his chair crashed. He was out of the room in three strides, his footsteps pounding in the corridor.

  Aubrey slowly stood, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. "It seems this is to be an auspicious night. Tonight we welcome not one de Mont into the family, but two." With a soldier's bearing, he moved toward d'Orias, his broad steady hand extended for a handshake.

  "Leonardo. My brother. Welcome."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Click-pad-click ... A soft padding click roused Jericho out of sound sleep. She sat up in the darkness and stared at the locked door. Out in the corridor, something breathed heavily, snuffling at the edges of the door. Then, the click-pad-click resumed and faded down the long hallway.

  Jericho held hand to heart until her heartbeat returned to normal. Then, irritated at her own fearfulness, she flicked back her sleep-mussed hair.

  Why were those dreadful beasts given free run of the castle every night? She didn't believe for one moment that the duke feared intruders. Who would intrude? Blackpool Castle was remote. The only road leading to the castle was the St. John's Basket road, a rutted coach path now awash with marsh water. The rainy season had come with a vengeance. Rain had been pouring down for a week.

  No. The duke loosed his dogs for only one reason. To terrify. Taking care not to wake the duchess, Jericho rose from her trundle bed and tiptoed through the darkness to the livery cabinet, to get a drink of water.

  "Jericho? Was that the dogs?"

  "Yes, my lady. Don't fret. They've gone. I'll bring you a cup of water." They spoke in soft whispers.

  "I do wish my husband would kennel them. They frighten me."

  "Don't be afraid, my lady. The door is locked, and I am with you." Groping in the darkness for the water jug, Jericho's hand first found the fruit bowl. Autumn apples spiced the air. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the fruit knife. She gripped it for a moment, for reassurance. A fruit knife was no defense against a wolfhound. But it was better than nothing.

  When she'd given Lady Angelina a drink, she knelt on the velvet-covered bed stair and stroked her brow, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. In the shadows of the curtained bed, she gave the duchess a worried smile.

  "Are you feeling better, my lady?" It had been a cruelty of the worst sort, the surgeon letting blood again today. What was the duke trying to do, kill her?

  The duchess groped for Jericho's hand and squeezed it.

  "Jericho, you must never again behave as you did today."

  "No, my lady." Jericho flushed in shame. Outraged to find the surgeon at the duchess's bedchamber door, his curette case in hand, Jericho had lost her head. She'd done something rash and stupid. She'd slammed the door in the surgeon's face and locked it, locking him out.

  "It is not wise to anger my husband, child. You must never again countermand the duke's orders."

  "No, my lady."

  "But, I love you for what you tried to do for me."

  Jericho drew a quick breath. "I love you, too, my lady!" It was true. The fondness she'd felt for the duchess was rapidly deepening into true affection.

  For the offense of locking the surgeon out, she'd been called before the duke, and she'd gone to the great hall scared out of her wits, expecting to be whipped. At the very least, she'd expected dismissal.

  But, the duke had merely glanced up from his reading with a cool smile. "You are fond of the duchess?"

  "Y-yes, Your Grace. Very fond."

  "And the duchess? She is fond of you?"

  "I-I-I hope so, Your Grace."

  "Good . . . excellent. Then all is progressing as I wish. You may go back to your duties, my dear."

  This last had been uttered with such a catlike purr, it had given her a chill. She didn't understand the duke. She didn't understand him at all. Thinking of him, she shivered and gazed at the duchess in the darkness. An impulsive thought sprang up.

  "My lady, couldn't you go to Arleigh Castle for a short stay? Arleigh Castle is a cheerful place. There are no swamps and bogs and damp air to strain your lungs. You would get well there, my lady. I know you would." And away from the duke, she would not be bled. Jericho couldn't bear to see her bled again.

  "I am not wanted at Arleigh Castle. I am only tolerated there. For my sister's sake. For Lady Marguerite's sake."

  "My lady, surely not."

  "Glynden de Mont dislikes me."

  Jericho stared at her in the darkness, astounded.

  "But whyl You are so good and kind. So generous to everyone. Who could dislike you? No one could, no one—" Jericho bit her tongue. She'd overstepped her bounds. She was a servant. She had no right to speak so intimately.

  A barrage of rain hit the window. The window glass rattled, and a gust of cold wind soughed in the chimney. Jericho tucked the goosedown quilt more warmly around Lady Angelina's frail shoulders. If Dove's mother disliked Lady Angelina, it must have something to do with Lord Aubrey.

  It was wicked to wish Lady Angelina and Lord Aubrey could be together. The duchess was married. Marriage was a sacred bond. It was sin to break that bond. Still, she wished. Maybe I'm wicked, she thought in bewilderment. Maybe I am altogether wicked. I have given myself to a man outside of marriage. I have been intimate with Dove, and I don't regret one minute of it. I don't regret one kiss or one touch.

  "Nevertheless, I am glad for Glynden, glad she wed her Mr. d'Orias," the duchess whispered.

  "Oh! So am I, my lady. Very glad." The duchess and Marguerite exchanged letters weekly, and the duchess generously shared Arleigh Castle news. Jericho knew about Lady de Mont and Leonardo d'Orias. She also knew Lady Esme and Lord Raven had a fine new son. Her heart sagged. She also knew Dove's wedding had been reset for next month. This news the duchess had shared gently, as if somehow she'd guessed Jericho loved Dove. But, dear life, how could she guess? Jericho had never said a word and never would.

  Her thoughts drifted as she stroked the duchess's temples, stroked her into sleep. Leonardo d'Orias, Dove's uncle. She smiled at the wonder of it. It was wonderful.

  Her smile quickly died as a click-pad-click returned in the corridor. There was a snuffling around the edges of the door. For some reason the wretched beasts always sought out the
room she was in. It frightened her.

  The worst of the storm blew away by morning, but the sky remained gray, turbulent, boiling with heavy clouds. When a gust of wind rattled the windows and awakened her, Jericho suddenly feared the week of cold wet weather had given her the ague. She felt queasy, green around the gills, uncertain of her stomach. But she forced herself to rise and get out of bed. She nibbled dry biscuit, and by and by the queasy sensation passed.

  Working quietly, taking care not to wake the duchess, she built up the fire, then went into the garde-robe room to wash and dress. She grew vexed, searching for her brown serge petticoat. Blast! Where was the silly thing? She'd worn it only yesterday.

  Its disappearance was not only vexing, it was puzzling. Last week, another of her bodices had disappeared. Why would anyone steal her clothes? If someone wanted to steal, why not steal Lady Angelina's? Her clothes were valuable; Jericho's certainly weren't.

  Taking a different petticoat, she finished dressing, then let herself out into the corridor. She hurried down to the kitchens, going quickly, warily, keeping her eyes peeled for dogs. Relieved, she found the corridors clear. The master-of-the- kennels had already whistled them out of the castle, as he did each morning at dawn. Down in the kitchen, she prepared a tray for the duchess, covered it with a linen napkin, hoisted it into her arms and hurried to the stairs.

  To her irritation, Fox Hazlitt was on the stairs, coming down. In her six weeks at Blackpool Castle, she had grown to despise him. He was a peacock. Puffed up in his favored position with the duke, he enjoyed making lesser servants grovel. She'd seen him reduce helpless maidservants to tears.

  Ignoring him, she took firm hold of her heavy tray and stepped to the right to let him pass. Baiting her, he, too, stepped to her right, effectively blocking her, halting her in her tracks. Thwarted, she stepped to the left. He stepped there, too. The tray grew heavier. The weight of it pulled at her arm muscles.

  "This is Her Grace's tray. Get out of my way or I'll go straight to the duke and tell him you interfered with Her Grace's breakfast."

  A coward at bottom, as most bullies are, he jumped aside with alacrity. But his weasel face twisted in anger as she hurriedly lugged the heavy tray up the stairs, past him.

  "When the time comes," he growled, " 'twill be a pleasure to hunt you. A pure pleasure!"

  Her heart was still beating unevenly when she reached the duchess's bedchamber and let herself in. It wasn't until later that his words began to sink in. What did he mean, "hunt her"? What did he mean, "when the time comes"?

  November arrived, cold and bleak. Autumn rains had slackened, only to be replaced by something worse. Fog. Standing at any window in Blackpool Castle, Jericho could see nothing but fog in all directions. Fog curled everywhere, drifting like silent, ghostly wraiths through the barren, leafless orchard, drifting in the bogs and fens of Blackpool marsh. She didn't like the weather and she didn't like England. She longed to be home, home in America, home in New York.

  "What say you, Jericho? Does this coiffure become me, or am I deluding myself?"

  "You're beautiful, my lady," Jericho answered eagerly, truthfully. They were in the garde-robe room, the duchess seated before her dressing table mirror. Jericho hovered near, smiling, watching Lady Angelina's hairdressing maid, Clowie, dress the duchess's hair. A fire crackled cheerfully in the fireplace. Cider simmered in a cider pot.

  Lady Angelina chuckled and flashed an affectionate smile in the mirror. "You are the beauty, child, not I."

  "I'm all freckles."

  "Prettily arranged. Aren't they, Clowie."

  "Ay, milady. All the young footmen nigh breaks their necks, vying to fetch 'n carry up here."

  The duchess laughed. "And I thought their new dedication to duty was on my behalf."

  Jericho smiled. It was good to see the duchess in high spirits. She knew the reason for it. The duke had been absent from the castle for several days, gone on business, and the duchess's spirits had risen accordingly. Let fog enshroud Blackpool marsh. Or let the cold rain fall. Who cared? Here in the garde-robe room, candles burned brightly and cheerful woman-talk flowed.

  When the last hair pin was in place, the duchess rose and gestured at her chair. 4'Sit, Jericho. Clowie shall do your hair also."

  Jericho threw her a startled look. "Oh no, my lady. Not at your dressing table. It isn't seemly."

  The duchess smiled tolerantly. "If I say it is seemly, then it is seemly. Sit, child. I insist."

  With a flush of pleasure, Jericho obeyed. Except for when she'd been a girl and she and Maritje had fussed with each other's hair, she had never had anyone dress her hair. Having fun, she laughed in delight as Clowie brushed her hair and drew it this way and that, trying various hairstyles. The duchess stood behind them, smiling, holding ribbons and hair pins, gesturing in the mirror, encouraging. As Clowie stacked her hair high on her head, Jericho felt her excitement growing.

  "How do I look, my lady? How?"

  There was no answer. Startled, Jericho searched the mirror. The duchess's face had gone pale. Her eyes were huge and dark.

  "Leave us, Clowance."

  "Ay, milady." The change of mood was so abrupt, so startling that poor Clowie stumbled over the hem of her own petticoat, curtsying, sweeping up combs and comb cases, making haste to rush out.

  Worried, Jericho spun around in her chair. "My lady? Are you ill? Is it one of your spells? Shall I help you to bed?"

  "There" is a birthmark on your neck. On the nape. It is bright red. Shaped like a strawberry."

  Jericho's face heated. She'd forgotten about the ugly thing. Had she remembered, she wouldn't have let Clowie pin her hair up.

  "Yes, my lady," she admitted reluctantly.

  "At Arleigh Castle I asked you about the birthmark on

  your wrist." Jericho gripped her wrist protectively. She hated this talk of birthmarks. It stirred all the old fears. It brought back the memory of Christmas Day . . . Collect Pond . . . the men . . .

  "Yes, my lady."

  "I asked you then if you had other birthmarks on your person. You said no."

  Jericho knew a moment of utter misery. Caught in the lie, she didn't know where to look. She wanted to sink through the floor. Lady Angelina had been so good to her.

  "I lied, my lady," she admitted, then blurted, "my lady! I'm frightened when people notice my birthmarks." In a rush, in a torrent as headlong as a waterfall, she confided in the duchess, blurting out the story of her Christmas Day abduction in New Amsterdam, of the men stripping her naked, poking at her birthmarks, threatening to cut off her hand.

  Listening, the duchess grew even paler. "You say the men Dove killed said they were going to give your cut-off hand to a fox . . . could it have been a man called Fox?"

  "I suppose, my lady, yes. But it happened so long ago. It is a muddle in my mind. I was young, upset, scared. All I know is that it had something to do with my birthmarks. Lord Dove never believed that, though. He told me I'd imagined it."

  Angelina swayed. Jericho jumped up and eased her into the chair. "My lady! You're faint. You've overtaxed yourself today. Let me help you to bed."

  "No. No!" she said hysterically, covering her eyes for a moment with trembling hands. Jericho knelt close. She'd never seen the duchess so agitated, her eyes so dark and haunted.

  "Jericho. This is important. Answer me! Tell me the truth. Have you any other birthmarks on your person?"

  Jericho hesitated. This was misery. Agony.

  "Y-yes, my lady."

  "On your breast?"

  Jericho drew a sharp breath. "How—how did you know?"

  "Let me see it."

  "My lady?"

  "Let me see, let me see!" Angelina gestured hysterically. Upset, befuddled, Jericho reached behind and tugged at her bodice until her laces came loose. Rushing with shame, she drew her bodice down. The duchess looked, blanched white as a ghost and rose unsteadily to her feet. She paced the small chamber, wringing her hands.

  "Oh, dear
God. Oh, dear God! I never dreamed he knew. All these years, he knew. He knew! He has been waiting, sly as a cat. Wicked, evil. I never dreamed—"

  "Who, my lady? What are you saying?"

  Angelina whirled urgently, face white, lips bloodless. "Hush, child, hush. Jericho! At Arleigh Castle I asked you of your parents. You told me you'd been born aboard a ship bound for New Amsterdam. You told me your mother died enroute, birthing you."

  Bewildered, very upset, Jericho retied her laces.

  "That is what I thought when I told you that, my lady. But since then, I have found further information. It seems I was born in England, before the ship sailed. Mr. d'Orias helped me try to trace my parents. He came to Wattling Street in August and told me he'd discovered but little. I was sold as a babe. At St. Katherine's Docks." Though she tried not to let it, her voice trembled. "I presume my mother didn't want me. She sold me. She didn't want me." It still hurt, and Jericho guessed it always would. Her own mother hadn't wanted her. Her own mother had sold her.

  Tears collected in Lady Angelina's wild eyes, glittering there like chips of silver.

  "You are wrong, child! Your mother wanted you. She wanted you with all her heart. But you were stolen from her—taken from her the moment you were born—taken before she could even see you or put you to her breast."

  "My lady?" Such wild alarming talk. The duchess was

  ill.

  "Listen to me!" The duchess swept her to the chair, made her sit, then half-knelt before her, clutching her arm with fingers so cold they felt like dead bones. "When I was a girl I fell in love with Aubrey de Mont. We'd hoped to marry. But when I was fifteen, my guardian wed me to the duke. I had no choice. I was only fifteen." She tossed her hair wildly. "Civil war came. To avoid choosing sides, my husband went to France. He stayed three years. During those three years, Lord Aubrey and I . . . we . .