JoAnn Wendt

by Beyond the Dawn

  “It’s true I do not have the money just now—” He gestured around at his house, and, dully, Flavia’s eyes followed. Furnishings were sparse: a bedstead, a trencher table and benches. She was sitting in his one chair. The opposite end of the schoolhouse fared better. Expensive books stood in wall shelves. Carpentry tools lay neatly upon the school desk that was under construction. Four finished desks gleamed with the patina of oil rubbed lovingly into the fine wood.

  Dennis went on. “I shall borrow the money, Jane. From Mr. Tate. Or,” he said, hesitating, “from Mr. Raven McNeil.”

  Flavia was too heartsore to respond. She let him talk. Taking her silence as possible assent, he said, “Yes, I’ll consult Mr. Raven McNeil. As soon as possible. Before he travels to Williamsburg, to his brother’s wedding.”

  The words sliced through her fog.

  “Wedding?” She shook her head. “Not Captain McNeil?”

  Dennis nodded in the affirmative.

  “Mr. Raven McNeil tells me his brother will wed soon.”

  Flavia’s fingers dug into the arms of the chair. It was too much. She could stand no more. She’d tried to endure the duke’s cruel punishment—oh, she’d tried. Then her precious baby Robert and the agonizing doubt that overlay his death, the nightmares in which the duke found out and cold-bloodedly murdered her son. Neddy . . . Robert . . . Garth. . . . Valentina in danger, married to the duke and filling her shoes as duchess of Tewksbury . . . Uncle Simon and Father, Mother . . .

  She was as dead to all of them as if she had truly died. But if Flavia Rochambeau was dead, Jane Brown still lived. What should “Jane” do? What would become of Jane? She would be a prideful fool to turn away from the comfort, the kindness of this gentle man and the safe refuge he offered.

  She glanced at Dennis. He was squatting beside her chair, his face tender with concern. She met his worried eyes.

  “I—I will marry you, Dennis.”

  The sadness of Neddy didn’t leave his face, but quiet joy suffused his expression. Too choked to speak, he fumbled into the blankets for her hand, drew her hand out and pressed a soft kiss into her palm.

  “When may I claim thee, Jane?”

  Awash with sorrow and resignation, she couldn’t think.

  “After, after—Neddy is buried,” she said at last. “In three months.”

  Dennis kissed her hand, then gently tucked it back into the warmth of the blankets.

  “In April, then?” he said.

  She nodded, the last fragment of her old life—of “Flavia”—seeming to fall away, leaving her just Jane.

  “In April,”she agreed.

  Chapter 18

  Garth returned from the Caribbean to find the forsythia in bloom, the air smelling of spring planting and his life going to hell in a handbasket.

  The first annoyance was his steward. The man was aboard the Caroline almost before the Caroline settled into her berth in Yorktown harbor. It was a bad omen, Garth thought sourly. Good news will wait. Bad will not.

  Garth was right. The steward reported he’d failed to buy Jane Brown’s indenture. Another had beat him to it. A Quaker schoolmaster, a Mr. Finny. Jane Brown still lived in Chestertown.

  And Raven still pines for her, Garth thought in irritation. He gave his agent a black look.

  “Use your head, man. Buy her from Finny and get her out of the colonies at once.” The man shrugged apologetically.

  “I tried, sir. Mr. Finny would not sell.”

  Garth raised his eyebrows. “Not for one hundred pounds?”

  “Not even for two hundred, sir.”

  Garth laughed cynically. “Then she’s Finny’s whore.”

  “It did not appear so, sir, Mr. Finny is highly respected in Chestertown. Three seminary students board with him, sir.”

  Garth frowned in puzzlement, then listened to the rest of the bad news. Raven had got wind of his brother’s actions. He was so furious he was spitting tacks. Raven had ordered his own steward to go to Finny and offer three hundred pounds.

  Garth sighed. A pretty mess. What if Maryann heard?

  His second annoyance while trying to settle the Caroline was Mab. He was dealing with the royal customs officer on deck when he spotted a horse hightailing down the Williamsburg-Yorktown road. The rider was chucking about in the saddle as if he or she possessed no riding skills at all. He went on with his business, glancing up now and then in curiosity. To his annoyance, he began to recognize the gait of his favorite mount. He looked sharply. Mab’s long thin figure hove into view atop the horse.

  “Damnation! She can’t ride. She’ll ruin him,” he fumed, grabbing quill pen, jamming it into the inkwell and scrawling his signature upon the customs papers. He went to the rail where Harrington leaned, grinning at the approaching rider.

  “Tell your woman she is not to use my mounts.”

  Harrington’s grin broadened. With the back of his hand he rubbed his beaky nose, polishing it to a ruddy glow.

  “Ay, Cap’n. I’ll tell 'er.”

  “And tell her a horse is steered by reins. Not by shouting curses into its ear.”

  Harrington laughed happily.

  “I’ll tell ‘er.”

  With customs papers disposed of, the noisy unloading of cargo began with Jenkins supervising. Mab clattered onto the wharf, dismounted clumsily, gave the horse a slap that was pure vexation and abandoned McNeil’s mount to a small boy who stood watching. Without ceremony she pushed her way up the gangplank, cursing a path for herself through the string of porters trundling cargo from ship to waiting wagons. She threw herself into Harrington’s grinning embrace, but immediately twisted free of him to hiss fire at McNeil.

  “She sent him away, she did. That hoity-toity pale-faced bitch of your’n. And Sarah Bess, too!”

  It was several minutes before they could calm her, several more before her story made sense. But when it did, Garth’s temper went on the boil. Eunice, damn her. It seemed the children’s presence had been an annoyance to Eunice and Lady Wetherby. Trent and Sarah Bess were too loud, too boisterous. Since they were merely an orphan and a servant’s child, Eunice had dispatched them to a farm on the outskirts of Williamsburg, putting them to board with a farmer and his wife.

  Anger throbbed in his throat. Eunice! By God, he’d like to strangle her. How dare she meddle with his son? He needed several deep breaths of the fresh spring air before he could control himself.

  “Do you know where Trent is?” he demanded of Mab.

  Whisking back her long hair that was flying in the wind, she snorted her contempt for his question.

  “Course I do. I sneak off to visit Trent and Sarah Bess, mebbe thrice a week.”

  He turned to Harrington.

  “Hire a chaise at once. Take Mab. Get the children and bring them home, damn it.”

  Leaving Jenkins in charge of the unloading and the deliveries to warehouses, he threw a coin to the boy holding his horse, swung himself up into the saddle and quickly left the port of York behind. He was glad for the few miles that stretched between Yorktown and Williamsburg. The distance helped him cool down. By the time he trotted up to his own front door, he was cool with determination. Eunice ruling the roost? His roost? Ha!

  He threw the front door open and stomped into the foyer. A cursory glance revealed that his mother’s fine old case clock had been moved. In its place stood a ridiculously fragile table with finger-thin legs. On the table, a vase of flowers. Not real flowers, but ones made of silk with button centers. He eyed them with displeasure. Fancywork done by Eunice, the fat aunt and Mouse, no doubt. He slammed the door, noting with childish satisfaction that one silly flower tumbled to the floor.

  The slam of the door brought the immediate swish of silk. “Garth, dear, you’re home!” Eunice rustled down the stairs, shadowed by her excited, twittering companions. “We’ve been expecting you at every moment, ever since word reached us that the Caroline had arrived.”

  She stopped short when she saw the fallen flower. With a lit
tle cry she swooped down upon it, rescued it and tucked it back into its vase. Then she offered him her cheek. Politeness decreed he make the effort to kiss it. Seething, hating her so much he could cheerfully strangle her, he kissed her cheek, then greeted the others with as much civility as he could muster.

  “I want to talk with you at once, Eunice.” He motioned toward the open drawing room door.

  She preceded him in, twittering happily. “Oh, yes, Garth, we’ve so much to plan. Auntie and I have such lovely ideas for the wedding.”

  When Auntie and Mouse made to follow them in, he was forced to make it clear that he intended to talk to Eunice alone.

  The aunt blinked her dismay. “But—but a chaperone, dear boy?”

  He forced himself to be civil. “Lady Wetherby, this is my house. I’ve not needed a chaperone in it since I was six years old and fell madly in love with cook.”

  She blinked again. Then she gushed, “As you say, dear boy. Naturally you wish to see Eunice alone. So romantic and, of course, the wedding plans and—”

  He slammed the door on her gushing. A glance at the drawing room revealed Eunice and Auntie had made their stamp here, too. Annette’s striking peacock blue silk draperies had vanished. Pale, insipid green hung in their place. He pursed his lips in growing anger, went to the sideboard and poured himself a steadying glass of port.

  “About the wedding date, Garth,” Eunice bubbled. “Auntie suggests—”

  He interrupted her.

  “Where in hell are the draperies?”

  She caught her breath at the harshness in his voice, and he watched her eyes dart from drapery to drapery.

  “I took the liberty of—that is, Auntie and I thought—” She drew a quick breath and began again, this time with confidence, as though she’d been coached. “Since I shall be wife and mistress here very shortly, dearest, I took the liberty of replacing them. The draperies were—how shall I put it? Garish, perhaps. In poor taste.”

  “I liked them.”

  It took the wind out of her sails, but not completely. With a surprising show of spirit, she said, “You liked them because she picked them out. Oh, yes, Garth, the servants left me in no mystery about that.”

  She reddened at her own daring. Irritably, he took a swallow of port. It proved to be as sour as his feelings for Eunice. He set the wine aside.

  It was time to take a stand. That or be forever ruled by a triumvirate of Auntie, Eunice and Mouse.

  “Eunice, hear me and hear me well! You may change the window hangings hourly, for all I give a damn, and shuffle the furniture like cards. But there is one thing you will not do. You will not interfere with the children who live in this house.”

  Her small eyes widened in genuine surprise. She drew a trembling breath.

  “But—but—they were only servant children. I was only trying to make our home more perfect, Garth. Someday we’ll have children. We shan’t want them associating with that saucy little girl or with Trent.”

  He could hardly contain his anger.

  “And what is wrong with Trent?”

  She took a deep breath and plowed in.

  “His low-class origin is all too apparent, Garth. He has no manners. His speech is no better than Toad’s.” She shuddered delicately. “I shouldn’t wonder that he harbors some dreadful disease.”

  McNeil seethed. Biting back a hot retort, he grabbed the glass of port and downed it without tasting. His breath came in harsh draws. He mustn’t defend Trent. If Eunice thought him low-born, so much the better. Still, it rubbed him raw. Her snipes at Annette had been bad enough. But to criticize his and Flavia’s son? He longed to throttle her. He wrestled with his temper, not speaking until it was under control.

  “The children will stay, Eunice.”

  Her eyes fell away. Her mouth trembled, then settled into peevish sulky lines. Lifting her skirts, she rustled to the door. She paused, hand on latch.

  “As you say. Garth. But as for that woman, she’ll trouble us no more.”

  He looked up, questioning.

  “She has wed the earl of Dunwood. In Baltimore.”

  McNeil was stunned. So Annette had gone and done it! Willfully burning her bridges. He drew a quick breath. Damn her headstrong ways!

  Eunice went on. “All of Williamsburg gossiped of it, Garth. A woman marrying a man who is young enough to be her son. You may be certain the earl’s mother, Lady Dunwood, put up a fight. Lady Dunwood still opposes the match and privately threatens to have the marriage annulled—if immorality can be proved on the part of the baroness, by testimony other than servant gossip.”

  Garth’s eyes narrowed.

  “What sort of testimony?” Hating the thought of Annette’s marriage, he hated this even more. Annette boxed in, under threat.

  Eunice colored. With a stiff reluctance she said, “Proof that the baroness has given birth to an illegitimate child.”

  Garth snorted in relief.

  “Annette Vachon has never given birth.”

  Relief seemed to surge through the stiff figure facing him, too. “Oh! Oh, I’m so glad,” she cried out in a happy rush, picking up her skirts and rustling across the room to peck his cheek. “I was afraid that Trent might be —” She blushed, retreating toward the door. Seemingly overwhelmed by her own thoughts, she turned, opened the door and bolted.

  Garth stared after her, puzzled. It was several moments before daylight broke through. Had Eunice thought that Trent was . . . that he and Annette had. . . ? Idiot woman!

  He shrugged it off. He started for his bedchamber, but halfway up the stairs he heard an Indian raid commence in the distant kitchen. Whoops, cries of welcome and the excited shrieks of children split the air like tomahawks. With a happy grin he descended the stairs, strolled down the long corridor and into the chaos.

  Trent was already chasing the kitchen cat. Sarah Bess knelt on the floor, setting up toy soldiers and scolding whenever Trent and the cat leaped through her army, scattering soldiers.

  “Cap Mac!” Trent shouted, diving for his arms. McNeil caught him, threw him toward the ceiling, caught him again and hugged him, kissed him. Trent shrieked his delight. The imp chattered in a dozen unrelated directions and then demanded to be put down. McNeil obeyed.

  “Does the man like me, too, Mama?”

  Garth turned. Fair-haired Sarah Bess stood staring at him shyly, one finger lost in her rosy mouth. He laughed, went to her and scooped her up. She was a slight thing, long-limbed and skinny like Mab. No sooner was she up in his arms than she wriggled to be set down.

  She scooted across the kitchen to Mab, hiding in Mab’s apron. “Mama, I’m hungry!” Trent ran to Mab, too. “Mama, I’m hungry!” he demanded.

  Mama? Garth was surprised, then pleased. The little monkey was evidently devoted to Sarah Bess, aping everything she said and did. Well and good, he thought cynically. Mab could be “Mama” to Trent. It would keep Eunice and Auntie in a state of royal confusion.

  * * * *

  A week after he returned, Garth ran into Annette. She was coming out of the milliner’s shop on the Duke of Gloucester Street just as he popped out of The King’s Arms tavern. She was on the arm of her fancy parrot, Lord Dunwood. Marriage seemed to have brought the parrot into full feather.

  He’s become a goddamned bird-of-paradise, McNeil thought as the gaudily dressed Lord Dunwood strolled toward him, automatically extending a hand in greeting.

  “Charming to see you again, Captain McNeil,” Dunwood offered, with only a lightning-quick glance to check Garth’s hand for cannon grime before pumping it. McNeil smiled sourly. Had he known, he’d have stopped off at the arsenal.

  “Charming,” he agreed.

  Annette would not look at him. Her lips were pursed tightly. When politeness required that she return his own terse greeting, she did so without wasting a syllable. And rather than look into his eyes, she fastened her gaze on his chin. Irritated, he stooped slightly, trying to intercept her line of vision. She jerked her head away.
>
  “May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, Lord Dunwood.”

  The parrot’s hat feather bounced.

  “Indeed you may!” he said, his chest puffing in pride. “And I thank you, Captain McNeil. My wife and I are here for the spring horse racing.” He sent Annette a fond, doting look, and Annette smiled charmingly back at Dunwood. “My wife and I brought two horses down from Baltimore. I daresay our Maryland filly will give Virginia fillies a run for the money, haw, haw.”

  McNeil made the expected reply. Dunwood rambled on, wearing out the expression “My wife and I.” The phrase grated on Garth’s ears. When Dunwood paused for breath. Garth swung angry eyes to Annette.

  “I trust you are exceedingly happy, Lady Dunwood?”

  The parrot preened, proudly awaiting her answer.

  Annette’s dark eyes flashed with fury.

  “Yes! Exceedingly.”

  Immediately, she took Dunwood’s arm.

  “Darling, I’ve a silly little headache,” she said. “Could we return to North England Street?”

  Dunwood nearly swooned with concern over her headache, and McNeil bit back a malicious offer to run for leeches and bleed her immediately. Dunwood ushered Annette into the waiting chaise as though she were made of porcelain. The chaise creaked as Dunwood got in after her. Wheels squealed a single complaint, then began to roll. Annette rode off without a backward glance.

  McNeil strode home in a vile mood, blaming the hollow niggling feeling in his gut on the oyster pie he’d downed; that tavernkeeper had always been one to pass off yesterday’s oysters as today’s.

  His mood suffered no improvement when he reached home and found himself met at the door by cook, who had an irritating request.

  Cook’s daughter and son-in-law were ill with the ague. Cook’s grandsons needed tending. Could cook bring the little boys here to live for a few weeks?

  “Why not,” Garth snarled. “The more the merrier! There’s nothing I relish more, after a night’s drinking, than little screaming devils running up and down the house!”

  Cook looked at him calmly, absolutely unruffled. Service to two generations of McNeils had left her immune to McNeil tempers.