Pirates

by Linda Lael Miller

  Phillippa hurried after them as Mrs. Rourke ushered Phoebe toward the front door. Lucas remained behind, probably to help Enoch put the team and carriage away.

  “But I have a thousand questions to ask!” protested the girl. Phoebe figured she was around eighteen.

  “You may save them,” said Mrs. Rourke, gently but firmly, “for the morning.”

  The task was evidently beyond Phillippa’s powers. “Where is Duncan?” she chimed, following them through the darkened house and up one side of a beautiful double stairway. “Is he all right? Did you wear a lace wedding dress? What happened to your hair?”

  Mrs. Rourke sighed. “Good heavens, Phillippa, sometimes you are a trial. Go and wake Marva, please. Ask her to bring some of that pheasant we had for supper.”

  “No, please,” Phoebe protested quickly. “Don’t disturb anyone. I’ll be fine until morning.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Rourke. “You are dreadfully pale.”

  With obvious reluctance, Phillippa turned and went back down the stairs, in search of the unfortunate Marva. Phoebe, meanwhile, allowed herself to be squired into a large chamber, its furniture reduced to bulky shapes in the darkness.

  Mrs. Rourke set her lantern on a table and proceeded to light several candles from its flame. Phoebe looked with gratitude upon a large feather bed, longing to lose herself in its softness and slumber like Sleeping Beauty, until Duncan came and awakened her with a kiss.

  “You poor dear,” Mrs. Rourke said. “I vow, you are nigh unto swooning, even now. Come here, and I’ll help you out of that dress.”

  The lady was obviously of gentle breeding. She had been roused from her bed in the middle of the night, confronted with a strange, short-haired woman in a shipwreck victim’s hand-me-downs, and promptly informed that she’d just inherited a daughter-in-law. She was remarkably unruffled, considering all that.

  “You are very kind,” Phoebe said, almost croaking the words.

  Mrs. Rourke took a nightgown from a massive chest and held it out to Phoebe. “You are a member of our family,” she replied, gently and at length. She helped Phoebe out of her dress and into the nightie, as though she were a weary child. “I’ll bring water and a basin from my room,” she said and went out.

  After Phoebe had washed, and eaten the pheasant and buttered bread Phillippa brought to her, she settled back against a mountain of feather pillows and sighed, wearily content. She closed her eyes and did not open them again until late the next afternoon.

  Phillippa was perched in the windowseat, sketching. She wore a gray dress, and her gleaming black hair was wound into a heavy chignon. “I thought you were going to sleep forever,” she announced. “Are you hungry?”

  Phoebe’s first priority was the chamberpot, though of course she couldn’t be quite so blunt as to say so. “I—”

  “Or maybe you’d like to have your bath first? Mother’s found some lovely clothes for you to wear, until we can send for our dressmaker. Shall 1 go and ask Marva and Easter-Sue to fill the tub?”

  A bath sounded heavenly, and the errand would buy Phoebe the privacy she needed to attend to an urgent and basic need. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “The bath, I mean.”

  When Phillippa returned some twenty minutes later, she was accompanied by her mother. Mrs. Rourke was even more beautiful in the light of day, and she fairly exuded serenity. Phoebe wondered how that was possible, when there was a war on and one of her sons was, for all intents and purposes, a wanted man.

  “Have you rested well?” Mrs. Rourke asked, and her smile seemed genuine, as well as gracious. She had yet to really pursue the subject of Duncan’s whereabouts, though she’d had ample opportunity the night before, and Phoebe wondered if the woman was a model of restraint or simply disinterested. Of course, she had probably spoken with Lucas.

  “Yes,” Phoebe responded, sitting up in bed. “I feel like a new woman.”

  Phillippa was staring at her hair and frowning. Her expression was curious, rather than hostile, and Phoebe took pity on her. She formulated what she hoped was a credible story, and she was ready to try it out.

  “I was in a nunnery for several months,” she confided, warming to the outrageous tale even as it spun like gossamer from her tongue. ’I wanted to be a nun, but, well, in the end I found out I didn’t have the calling.”

  Phillippa’s eyes were the size of portholes. “Duncan married a nun?” she gasped. Then she smiled, and it was blinding, luminous with delight. “Great Zeus and Apollo, that’s superb!”

  “Hush!” Mrs. Rourke said, more sharply than she had the night before. “How many times have I told you that a lady does not swear?”

  Phillippa ducked her head, but her eyes were glowing with mischief. “Sorry, Mother,” she murmured, while Phoebe began to wish she’d thought up a less spectacular lie; this one was bound to get her into trouble.

  Phoebe made a mental note never to say “Great Zeus and Apollo,” not that there’d ever been much danger of it, and spoke demurely. “I wasn’t actually a nun. I hadn’t taken my vows, you see.”

  “There is no need to explain,” Mrs. Rourke pointed out, as a black woman, probably Marva, entered with a tray. Behind her clattered two maids, lugging a huge copper bathtub.

  Marva, who was thin and wiry and had an air of innate dignity, set the food tray gently in Phoebe’s lap. “Poor little thing,” she said, with a cluck of her tongue. Then she turned, shaking her gray head, and scooted out of the room. Mrs. Rourke and Phillippa left, too, after seeing that the bathtub had been positioned correctly on the hearth.

  While one last maid puttered with the fire, Phoebe consumed a planter’s breakfast of sausage, hotcakes dripping syrup, eggs, and fried potatoes—fat grams be damned. She was hungry, and she needed her strength.

  When she’d finished eating, the tray was whisked away, and people began arriving with buckets of steaming water, which were poured into the waiting tub. Phoebe was naked and stepping into her bath practically the instant the door closed on the last servant.

  It was bliss. Phoebe sank to her chin, feeling decadent. A nice hot soak could make up for a multitude of small adversities, she thought, smiling. Between this and the meal she’d just consumed, she’d be her old self in no time.

  For nearly an hour, by the mantel clock, Phoebe luxuriated. Then, because the water had grown chilly, she scrubbed herself, from head to foot, with a cloth and the sweet-smelling soap that had been left for her by one of the maids. She was out of the tub and bundled in a towel as big and soft as a blanket, when a soft tap sounded at the door.

  “Phoebe?” a familiar female voice called. “It’s me, Phillippa.”

  “Come in,” Phoebe called, with a rueful half-smile. It was question time.

  Phillippa entered, carrying an armful of fluffy, eyelet-trimmed garments. “I’ve brought you drawers, a camisole, and petticoats. Mother’s had a cornflower gown brushed and aired, and Marva will bring it up in a few minutes. It will compliment your blue eyes.”

  Phoebe accepted the linen undergarments gratefully and stepped behind an ornately carved and painted screen to put them on. A part of her was waiting for Duncan to arrive, listening for his footstep in the hallway outside the door of her room.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come to Troy,” Phillippa said.

  “Troy?” Phoebe purposely spoke in a bright, happy voice, although she was beginning to be afraid. Perhaps the British had captured her husband, perhaps he had already been hanged for a criminal.

  “It’s the name of our plantation,” Phillippa said happily. “I’m not surprised that Duncan didn’t tell you. He thinks it’s silly, and so does Lucas.”

  Phoebe came out from behind the screen, smiling. “What do you think?”

  Phillippa looked mildly surprised by the question. “That it’s wonderfully poetic,” she confessed. She was seated on a hassock, near the dying fire, her fingers interlaced. “My grandmother, Jenny Polander Rourke, chose the title when she came here to marr
y my grandfather, some sixty years ago. She loved the Greek classics.”

  “Troy” seemed an odd choice for a young bride, given the fact that the fabled city had eventually fallen. Had that been Jenny Rourke’s vision for her husband’s plantation, that it would be invaded by enemies, razed to the ground, and remembered only in legend? Phoebe considered what she knew of the nation’s future, and a brief uneasiness fell over her heart like the shadow of a dark angel. Even if the great house survived the remainder of the Revolution—there were four years of fighting left, if she remembered her history correctly—the Civil War was still ahead.

  That was nearly a hundred years away, Phoebe reminded herself. The hormonal upheaval caused by her pregnancy, coupled with her worries about Duncan’s safety, caused her to be macabre. What she needed was some fresh air and sunshine.

  “Phoebe?”

  Only at Phillippa’s troubled prompting did Phoebe realize she’d left her end of the conversation hanging in midair while she ruminated about hormones, Duncan, and the fate of Troy. “I’m sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve been under a lot of strain lately, and I tend to be easily distracted.”

  Phillippa’s smile was as spectacular as those of her brothers. “I should think so,” she agreed. “One minute you were a nun, the next you were my brother’s wife. That would be enough to distract anybody.”

  “Yes,” Phoebe agreed with a soft smile. There was another knock at the door, and Mrs. Rourke entered, carrying the promised blue dress over one elegant arm.

  “I do hope you have not been prattling,” the older woman told her daughter affectionately. “Phoebe has been through enough these past weeks, I’m sure, without enduring one of your interrogations. Here—let us see if the gown suits.”

  Phillippa sulked a little, chin in hand, while her mother helped Phoebe into the blue dress, which fitted almost perfectly.

  “It’s so dull around here,” the girl protested. “This wretched war has changed everything. And as soon as someone comes along that I might talk to, I’m accused of prying.”

  Mrs. Rourke’s eyes were soft with laughter as she looked at Phoebe. “I’m afraid our Phillippa is incorrigibly inquisitive.”

  “I don’t mind,” Phoebe said, and it was true. She had to tell some lies—after all, she couldn’t very well say that she’d I come back in time from another century—but it was only natural for Phillippa to be curious.

  As soon as Phoebe’s gown had been buttoned and her unruly crop of hair had been tamed just a little with a damp brush, Phillippa fairly dragged her out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The house, seen only dimly the night before, proved to be a spacious, uncluttered place, with good paintings on the walls and Carrara marble fireplaces in several rooms. Phoebe spotted several statues, very probably Greek, that would have made a modern museum curator drool.

  “I want you to meet Father,” Phillippa explained, as they left the house through a set of French doors leading into a garden.

  Phoebe’s first sight of John Rourke, the man for whom her son would be named, if Old Woman’s prophesy was correct, caused a bittersweet tug in her heart. A smaller, gray-haired composite of Duncan and Lucas, he was seated on a bench, absorbed in a leatherbound volume of Richard III. Instantly, Phoebe recognized his strength, but his weakness—failing health—was visible, too. At the sound of Phillippa and Phoebe’s approach, he raised his eyes from the book, smiled, and stood.

  “So this is Phoebe,” he said in a gentle, cultivated voice.

  An image of John Rourke collecting his youngest son from a British whipping post and carrying him home flashed in Phoebe’s mind. She felt the color drain from her face and curtsied in a belated effort to hide it.

  “Welcome to Troy,” he told her, stepping forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek when she stood straight again. He held both her hands as he assessed her with warm, mirthful eyes. “For all that his politics will surely get us all hanged one day, I must confess that my second son has impeccable taste in women.”

  Phoebe was charmed, and some of her self-consciousness seeped away. Okay, so she had hair like a candidate for brain surgery. In time, it would grow, and she would feel less like a misfit. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Phoebe used to be a nun,” Phillippa announced, bringing another rush of color to Phoebe’s face.

  A sort of skeptical humor danced in Mr. Rourke’s blue eyes, along with some deep sorrow, bravely borne. “Very interesting,” he said. “Tell me, my dear—when will Duncan come to collect you?”

  Phillippa took a seat on another bench, listening with interest. Phoebe sat beside her, at a gesture from her fatherin-law, and he returned to his bench.

  “I don’t know,” Phoebe answered belatedly. Suddenly, she wanted to cry, though she did not indulge the desire. “It’s a terrible risk, Duncan’s coming here.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Rourke replied quietly. “Duncan thrives on such escapades. I don’t mind admitting that I wish he’d been blessed with a modicum of common cowardice. Just enough, mind you, to keep him from taking foolish chances.”

  Mrs. Rourke joined them in the garden just then and deftly steered the conversation in another direction. “Lucas has returned to Charles Town on business,” she said. “I’ve asked him to bring our dressmaker back with him, if she’s free to travel. You were quite right earlier, Phillippa.” She paused to touch her daughter’s shoulder. “Life here at Troy has become tedious. A ball would be just the thing to raise our spirits, as well as those of our neighbors.”

  Phoebe’s smile faltered on her mouth, but she kept it from slipping away. Duncan was bound to arrive soon, and a house full of guests would present a very real danger to him.

  “Do you think that’s wise, Margaret?” Mr. Rourke asked. “Many of our friends are members of the King’s army. We can hardly exclude them from the festivities.”

  “Of course we can’t,” Margaret agreed. “What better way to allay suspicion, though, than to invite all our friends for a celebration? Ours is a sizable holding, Mr. Rourke. There are countless places to hide.”

  Phoebe didn’t volunteer an opinion; she was too confused.

  Phillippa had no such problem. “It’s a grand idea,” she said cheerfully, beaming at her mother. “May I have a new gown? A lavender one, with lace trim?”

  “We are at war,” Mr. Rourke reminded his daughter, his tone carrying a gentle rebuke. His kindly gaze shifted smoothly to his wife’s exquisite, ageless face. “It would behoove you to remember that as well, my dear.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Margaret said, undaunted, sitting down on the bench beside her husband and opening an ivory fan with a slight, graceful flick of one wrist. “We shall have simple gowns made,” she added, no doubt for Phillippa’s benefit. “Do give the idea serious consideration, Mr. Rourke. We could have dancing, and surely we can spare one or two hogs for roasting?”

  Mr. Rourke—Phoebe thought it was romantic that Margaret addressed her husband in that formal way—sighed heavily. “We might as well cook that old boar before either the King’s army or Mr. Washington’s appropriates him for rations.”

  As easily as that, it was decided. There was to be a party at Troy. Not just an afternoon affair, either—this gathering would last for days, with guests traveling long distances to attend.

  Phoebe and Phillippa were appointed to draft the invitations that very evening, and neither objected. Phillippa was delighted at the prospect of a festivity, and Phoebe was simply grateful to have something to occupy her mind. If left to her own devices, she would have fretted herself into a dither, worrying that Duncan wouldn’t show up and, at the same time, that he would.

  There was no sign of him that night.

  Lucas returned in the morning, bringing a weary dressmaker and a number of bolts of fabric with him, and was immediately dispatched to Charles Town again, with a manservant, to deliver invitations. John Rourke himself carried the others to neighboring plantations, while Phoebe, Phillippa, and Margaret busie
d themselves planning decorations and menus.

  The dressmaker, who spoke French even though she appeared to understand English very well, cornered Phoebe and took her measurements. Soon, a flurry of sewing was going on in the rear parlor. Mrs. Rourke and Phillippa were fitted as well, and there was an air of excitement throughout the great house.

  As busy as she was, Phoebe was still waiting for Duncan. After three days had gone by, she was so anxious that she walked to the end of the Rourke driveway, a distance of some two miles, hoping to meet her husband along the way. Instead, she encountered her fatherin-law, driving a buggy pulled by a gray horse.

  He drew the vehicle to a stop beside her, and the compassion she saw in his face was nearly her undoing. Instead of speaking, John Rourke simply patted the seat beside him.

  Phoebe hesitated a moment, then climbed aboard, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. She stared straight ahead, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t suppose it’s safe to stray so far from the main house at this hour,” she said.

  Her fatherin-law brought the reins down on the horse’s back, and the buggy lurched forward. “Not in these times,” he agreed quietly. “Are you unhappy here, Phoebe?”

  She turned to look at him, forgetting her earlier desire to hide her emotions. “No,” she said quickly. “You’ve all been wonderful, as though you were my family …”

  “ ’As though’? But we are your family, my dear.”

  Phoebe wanted that to be true. She’d been so lonely, for so long, and belonging was a new experience for her. Still, she couldn’t afford to forget that she was a rebel, and these good people were loyalists. For all their kindness toward her, and her affection for them, the Rourkes were technically her enemies. And she was theirs.

  “How can you say that, when you know I’m not a Tory?”

  Rourke smiled in the gathering darkness, holding the reins loosely in his calloused hands. The horse plainly knew its way home. “You are wedded, before God and man, to my son. As Duncan’s wife, you are as much my child as he is.”