JoAnn Wendt

by Beyond the Dawn

  Again he wrenched her loose. With the last breath she had, she screamed. But he’d seized her hair, he’d forced her to the quaking bed, crushing all air from her lungs. She gasped for air but drew in the stench of his mouth, the acrid stale smell of his serge coat. The smells brought her terror to a head.

  “No! You cannot!”

  In a frenzy she clawed at him. He bellowed in pain as her nails raked his face. For a moment, he let go. She lunged off the bed. She tried to run, but her own skirts trapped her. They were caught under him. With a sob of desperation, she tried to jerk the skirts free. But he caught her, caught the slippery silk. She jerked again, jerked desperately until the silk wrenched free of his fist. She lunged from the bedchamber, her feet clumsy wooden things that would not, could not move.

  “Jane!” he roared, chasing her.

  In her terrified flight, she tripped over the extended rocker of the Philadelphia chair. She crashed to the floor, knowing she’d come to the end. She had no strength left. She curled into a ball and sobbed her despair. She did not look up as his boots slowly clumped across the floor and stopped not inches from her. She could hear his determined panting.

  “You will submit, Jane.”

  Weeping, she did not hear the kitchen door open until it banged to the wall. She looked up through her tears. Neddy swam in the doorway. She blinked, trying to see him clearly. He held something in his hands. She blinked again. What he held made no sense at all.

  “Fool! What do you think you’re—”

  Flavia reared up in terror, finally understanding what Neddy held.

  “Neddy—oh, no!”

  Neddy charged like a bull. In a single motion he thrust the lance in, lofted the flailing terrapin on his lance and flung it hard to the floor. Like the hunts at the creek, the terrapin lay belly up.

  Flavia screamed as Mr. Byng’s blood spurted high on the wall. Its rich redness glistened in the firelight. She stared, as the spurting ended and a dark red pool slowly spread across the floorboards, seeping down into the cracks between the boards. The sickly sweet smell of blood crept into the air.

  Unbelieving, she stumbled to her feet.

  Neddy dropped the bloody lance with a cry of fright. The lance rolled away, bumping along until it hit the kitchen table leg and stopped. Neddy burst into tears, swiping at the blood on his clothes, his hands.

  “Dirty,” he sobbed in distress. “Dirty—uh, uh—Miz Byng— she will whip Neddy—uh, uh—clothes dirty—”

  She was dazed. Too dazed to move to the boy.

  A cold draft blew through the open kitchen door and with it came the distant sound of approaching voices. Boots clomped through the mudyard, then stomped across the stoop.

  She felt dizzy, as if she were floating. She turned, staring out at the sounds, staring from glazed eyes. Vaguely, she heard someone say, “Odd. The door is open.” As she stared, two men seemed to swim into the doorway.

  “Jane?” Dennis Finny began, “Mr. Tate and I walked over to see if thee is feeling better — No! Oh, my God!”

  “Lord Almighty,” whispered William Tate. “What’s happened here?”

  Chapter 16

  Mab Collins ran away.

  Garth had anticipated it. He’d alerted the servants, warned Harrington and Jenkins. As a result, Mab got no farther than Dray’s Ordinary on the Hampton Road, five miles beyond Williamsburg. Jenkins tracked her. He threw the kicking, hollering chit across his saddle and trotted home with her.

  Now she’d have to be dealt with, Garth fumed. He slammed a business ledger shut. Lunging from his chair, he crossed his small study in two strides, fumbled into a tin box for a cigar and, finding none, irritably slung the box away.

  Damnation. Was there no end to female trouble? What next! It was enough to try a saint with Raven chewing at him every blessed moment about the Chestertown bondwoman the young fool wanted to make his mistress and with Eunice Wetherby sending urgent letters from London, demanding his presence and urging their marriage. “Demanding!” he thought blackly. Ha! And then there was Annette -- turning suddenly virtuous—-dressing up in lace collars like a sixteen-year-old virgin and tripping about town with that parrot, Lord Dunwood, although she knew damned well Garth wanted her stripped to her shift and lying in his bed upstairs. Then the business about the freckle-faced girl—what was her name?

  He snapped his fingers, irritably jogging his memory.

  Mary. That was the name. Mary Wooster. He’d sent her to the Widow Richards, a motherly innkeeper in Barbados. “Fine!” he sneered at himself. “Done! And a star for your crown in heaven, McNeil.” But the worry about the letter remained. Who had sent that odd letter with the girl? He hadn’t believed for a moment that a male had written it for Mary Wooster. Men did not write letters referring to “true love”.

  And now he had the Collins chit to deal with. He snorted in self-disgust. In the old days, he’d walked out on domestic problems, leaving the problems to solve themselves. And he’d certainly not spent five minutes mollycoddling any of his mistresses. He’d lived by the sailor’s rule: when a woman ceases to be an amusement, sail on, brother, sail on. Even now he chafed to jump on a horse and ride to the peace and quiet of his small house in Hampton. Or better yet, escape to the Caroline and the inviolate sanctuary of his captain’s cabin.

  But he couldn’t. And he was at a loss to say why. Was Trent the cause? Partly. Home had never before been so appealing. He was getting used to sticky, enthusiastic kisses. Getting accustomed to sinking into a chair only to find he’d squashed a remnant of a sweet bun or a toy soldier. He’d miss those homely things at sea or in Hampton, he admitted. But there was more to this curious deterioration of his old chauvinist ways, and he lay the blame on Flavia. He’d loved her with shattering intensity. She had melted into his heart, become part of him. Because of Flavia, he looked at the world with new eyes. She’d softened him, taken away the old “cutting edge.” Hell, he felt like a fish out of water.

  A tap at the door broke into his musing. The tap was followed by the door pushing cautiously inward.

  “Now, Cap’n? Will y’see Mab Collins now?”

  Garth scowled. Harrington’s red beaky face was twisted with concern. The look he popped at Garth begged for amnesty for Mab. The tar had taken a shine to the chit. Behaved like a mother hen.

  “Bring her in,” he snapped, squelching Harrington’s hopes. As he waited, he caught furtive whispers outside the door as Harrington coached.

  “Remember, lass, beg his forgiveness—”

  “I’ll not beg!” a saucy hiss snapped back.

  “Come, lass, make it easy on y’self. The Cap’n’s not a mean man, but if ye rile him ye’ll have the devil to pay.”

  McNeil heard the woman’s derisive snort. The door swung inward. Harrington tugged at Mab Collins’s soiled sleeve, mother-henning her into the study. She shrugged off his hand and threw an angry, blazing look toward Garth. Damnation! She looked about as meek and repentant as the Queen of Sheba. He’d have to get rough.

  He returned her stare. Returned it with cold ruthlessness. She quailed slightly. She dropped her eyes to the floor. McNeil sauntered to his chair, casually dropped into it, propped his feet atop the writing table and indolently leaned back. He stared at her, saying nothing.

  The silence was loud as thunder. He could see it made her nervous. A tie flared in her cheek. Once, then again. Good. So, silence was more effective torture for Mab than ranting and raving . . .

  At last, she could take no silence. She flung her head up. Her gray eyes shot fire at him.

  “Whip me, then! See if you kin make me cry one peep! A whipping don’t matter. I’ll run again, I will. First chance I gets.”

  “Now then, lass,” Harrington put in.

  McNeil scowled Harrington into silence. He smiled coldly. Jerking in fright, Mab Collins cast her eyes to the floor. McNeil considered the matter. She must be punished, she must be brought into a cooperative spirit. But he doubted beating would work. She was a
London drab. No doubt, cuffings had been daily fare as she grew up. One more beating would only be water off a duck’s back. No, he had to go deeper. He sat mulling it over.

  “Are you afraid of the dark, Mab Collins?” he asked coldly.

  Her head jerked up. Some unnameable emotion skittered through her eyes. “I ain’t afraid of nothing.” But the tremor in her voice contradicted her.

  “Do you like to eat?” he continued malevolently.

  Her wary eyes widened. She covered her fear with brassiness.

  “Don’t everybody?”

  “Good,” he said pleasantly. He turned to Harrington. “Lock her in the attic. It’s dark as sin there. She is to have water but no food. Leave her there until she decides to behave like a proper bondslave.”

  She gasped. Harrington puffed and reddened.

  “Y’can’t do that,” she cried out. “ 'Tis against English law! I know my rights, I do!”

  McNeil yawned. Dismissing the matter with a bored wave of his hand, he turned to Harrington. “Tell cook I want lunch. Those delicious Cornish pasties will do. A cold glass of buttermilk, a wedge of cheese and,” he added malevolently, “a thick slice of plum cake with lemon sauce.”

  Mab Collins stared at him in shock. As he’d rattled off his menu, her tongue had darted to the corners of her mouth. No doubt she was famished, having run off before breakfast.

  Tugging at her sleeve apologetically, Harrington led the shocked girl off. McNeil was pleased that it took her to halfway up the stairs to retrieve a portion of that pridey spirit.

  “Git your filthy hands off’n me,” he heard her say shakily. “I kin walk by meself, I can.”

  Harrington’s low apology drifted into the study. “Come now, lass. No one means you ill—”

  “Stuff it in yer hat.”

  * * * *

  To McNeil’s surprise and grudging admiration, Mab Collins stuck it out for three whole days before capitulating. He wasn’t fooled by the contrite manner in which she resumed her duties. The chit still had a peck of pride in her. But he was satisfied to see she was scared silly of him. He was also satisfied to note that she and Trent took to each other. Happy laughter pealed in the nursery, and yet, Trent was somehow being made to toe the line. He no longer wailed his demands, and he’d come to some new understanding about sweetmeats and the long-suffering kitchen cat: they were not his to snatch at will.

  * * * *

  Garth closed negotiations on a new ship in December and shook her down on a trial cruise in the Chesapeake, testing her responses to various winds and weather. He would assign a shipmaster in January. But he was finicky about his ships. He liked to match ship to master as carefully as any good marriage broker matched bride to groom. A well-matched pair meant smooth sailing; an ill-matched pair . . . sourly, he thought of Eunice.

  Taking tea in Annette’s drawing room on a rainy afternoon, he’d offered to transport the ever-present Lord Dunwood back to Baltimore on one of his shakedown sailings. Annette had shot him a black look; but the young man accepted with alacrity, and McNeil choked back a chuckle. Already he’d overstayed, Dunwood admitted sheepishly. His elderly mother was expecting him back. He must oversee preparations for a Christmas ball.

  When Dunwood scurried out to alert his valet at The King’s Arms, Annette whirled round in the splendor of her damask and rosewood drawing room. She planted her fists on her hips, and McNeil found himself the recipient of a look that was pure fury.

  “No doubt you think you are being clever, McNeil?”

  His grin built slowly.

  “I missed your bed.”

  Her chin shot up.

  “And you shall continue to miss it. I’m finished with you! Lord Dunwood proposes marriage. He respects me. You?” She tossed her head. “All you ever propose is bed.”

  Ignoring her pique, he moved toward her, crossing the Oriental carpet. At his movement, she whirled round and took refuge behind a settee, her skirts rustling.

  “No,” she snapped. “McNeil, no. Do not presume—”

  He went round the settee after her.

  Flaring, she seized her skirts and marched around the settee, out of reach. She whirled and faced him.

  “Behave yourself. You act like a child.”

  But he knew it was in his best interest not to behave. “Behave” and he’d end up out in the icy rain. Misbehave and he’d gain a rainy afternoon spent in Annette’s warm featherbed. He moved toward her.

  She backed away, shaking a furious finger at him.

  “I am not your plaything, McNeil. I’m a human being. I have feelings. I have—”

  He caught her jeweled finger and drew it to his mouth, gently kissing the tapered nail, then each knuckle. He took her hand and buried his lips in the softness of her palm.

  She whispered, “Don’t, McNeil. Please. Let me go.”

  He drew her into his arms and kissed the rosy flush on her throat, kissed her white shoulders. She struggled to pull away, but it was merely a token struggle, and he ignored it. He thrilled to the feel of her soft breasts against his hard chest.

  “McNeil, I won’t let you—”

  Her whisper faded as he kissed her mouth. He knew her body, knew it well. He felt the familiar shiver of her rising desire. Slowly, her jeweled hands crept up his chest, curling around his neck. It had been a long time... most of November. . . into December. He kissed her hungrily.

  The fire crackled in the grate. The mellow smell of burning hickory wood scented the air. Rain pattered on the roof, and occasional icy dots of sleet hit the window.

  She shivered in his arms. As he raised his head and looked at her, Annette’s eyes slowly opened.

  “It’s warmer upstairs in my bedchamber,” she whispered, then caught herself and began to plead, “Oh, no, Garth, I—Lord Dunwood.”

  He kissed her.

  “Much warmer, Annette.”

  * * * *

  McNeil & McNeil’s new ship was small, but sleek and fast. It was a provisions ship, built for quick sailings to the Caribbean. The times were changing and so must shipping, Raven had pointed out. Garth agreed. The tobacco economy in Virginia was fading. Trade in grain was on the upsurge. A new strain of grain had been developed in Maryland. The grain was mildew-resistant—a phenomenon! For the first time, grain could make it to the Caribbean without rotting during the sailing. Planters were quick to visualize profits. The West Indies colonies were crying for grain and willing to pay dearly for it. Tobacco land in Maryland and Virginia was being plowed under to make room foe grain. Grain sprang up everywhere, and McNeil & McNeil meant to take a bite of those excellent profits.

  Garth sailed the new provisions ship up to Chestertown for Raven’s wedding. Annette accompanied him. Having taken her stand during Lord Dunwood’s visit to Williamsburg, she’d recovered her amiable good humor and was back in his bed where, in his opinion, she damned well belonged.

  When they dropped anchor off Water Street in Chestertown, he and Annette found the rural eastern shore buzzing with news of a bizarre murder. It was all anyone wished to talk about. Annette found the murder dull. She found a different, somewhat related story much more amusing.

  It seemed that at the wedding party of the rich planter, Ira Gresham, a woman fainted and caused quite a stir as guests sought to aid her. During the to-do, some callow ruffian abducted the bride. He boldly galloped off on his horse, clutching the shrieking bride. Chaos had erupted. The wedding celebration had disintegrated. Riders thundered off in all directions, searching for the bride and her abductor. The bridegroom was reported to have been purple with fury.

  But the bride and her cavalier could not be found. Some hours later, the bride managed to drift home on her own, looking none too chagrined for her ordeal. The tartest-mouthed gossips snickered that the shocking state of the bride’s gown made it all too evident that the bride had begun her honeymoon without her bridegroom.

  Her lilting laughter ringing, Annette tucked the risqué anecdote into her memory, swearing
to Garth that she couldn’t wait to regale all of Williamsburg with it.

  Raven’s wedding proved to be a lavish affair. The Tates spent a fortune on wines, delicacies and costly favors. Everyone who was anyone in Maryland society attended. The Tate mansion bulged with guests, sometimes six or eight to a bedroom.

  Garth found his brother little reformed. Not an hour from the altar, Raven pulled him from the congratulatory throng and into the privacy of an empty gaming room. When the oak door thudded shut upon the merriment, Raven began belaboring the same old subject.

  “About Jane Brown, Garth. You must ride over at once and—”

  “No.”

  Raven flung his hand impatiently.

  “You don’t understand. Garth. The Chester-town murder? It was Jane Brown’s master who was slain. She was there! She saw the whole thing.”

  Garth sighed his annoyance. Beyond the closed doors, violin music was beginning. A gay tune lilted, lifting above the hubbub of happy excited voices.

  “Then you’re well quit of the bondwoman, Raven. Be sensible. You are now a married man. You do not need scandal mucking up your life.”

  “When I want your advice, Garth, I’ll ask for it! At the moment, all I am damn well asking you for is help.”

  Garth set his wineglass on the billiards table with an angry clunk. The witless pup. Did he think life was so simple? Bark loudly at what you want, and it shall be dished up to you posthaste?

  “Grow up. Raven! You’ve taken a wife, you’ve vowed fidelity. Break Maryann’s heart—break the heart of that loving girl, and you prove yourself still a fool schoolboy.”

  With an abrupt movement, Raven jerked around and banged his wineglass onto the billiards table. Wine sloshed. He ignored the damage, his color rising.

  “Lecture me on matrimony and the treatment of women, will you! God, Garth, you’ve got crust.” He drew a ragged breath. “I suppose when you wed that cold fish you caught in Amsterdam, you will behave like the model husband. I suppose you will collect your slippers from under the Vachon bed and take them home?”