Despite the blustery weather, the pews were rapidly filling for the Christmas service. Though church attendance was compulsory, few people wanted to stay away. Quite aside from its spiritual purpose, the church was the community source of mental stimulus, of gossip, of news, and of drama.
Patrick mounted the small flight of steps to the pulpit. Above his head was a wooden canopy, for a sounding board. He began, as he always did, with a reading from the King James version of the Bible.
“ 'Then Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife: And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son.' ”
He raised his eyes from the printed page, and his gaze impounded hers. She felt a rising heat that was quickly subdued by the sudden gust of frigid wind that entered the church.
All faces turned toward the double doors at the back of the room. A solitary soul stood framed against the dreary winter sunlight. Snow-flecked wind lashed his black hooded cape about his slender body. The man carried a gold-banded Malacca cane, and he was dressed with a wonderful sense of grace, his style favoring softer materials such as satin, velvet, and silk.
“Nigel!” Clarissa gasped, rising from her pew. The room had grown fiercely hot. He had to be aware of the drama he was creating.
He strode down the aisle toward her in his indolent fashion. He was in fact languid by nature, though she knew that horse racing and cockfights could excite him. A single gold earring gleamed against his curling black locks. He took her numbed fingers in his gauntleted hands. “I promised you I would cross the world for you, my lady.”
She had never lost her conviction that he would do so.
And yet...for so long, she had been awaiting a rescue. Expecting a magician to make everything right again, to restore the highborn heiress to her rightful place in society. She had known she was being extremely self-indulgent, but she had been brought up to believe firmly that she got everything she wanted, even compromises.
Not a person stirred in the tiny church. She glanced up at Patrick, then back at Nigel. "I have married," she whispered. “The Reverend Dartmouth."
For a fraction of a second, he looked stricken. Yet his lordly confidence did not crumble. He was everything and more her memory had promised. Flamboyant. Vital. Virile. His features were beautifully chiseled, his skin ivory.
"I see.” His gaze traveled to the pulpit, to the man also dressed in black. White deep cuffs and a white bibbed clerical collar contended with crimson sash and gloves. "An ocean could not stop me, my lady. Neither can a few words mumbled under pressure. Money can buy an annulment, especially considering the past circumstances.”
Clarissa swallowed. Her gaze flew to Patrick. His features were unreadable.
She looked back at Nigel. His eyes were impassioned. "Choose,” he told her.
"I... I... ” She shook her head. “This is all too soon for me to think clearly, Nigel!"
He searched her face, trusting it to memory or looking for hope that her indecisiveness might be swayed in his favor. “In order to reach you, I obtained permission to represent the East India Company at the Virginia Company’s quarter court session to be held in March in Jamestown." He bowed low. “Till then . . . enjoy the days full well, my lady.”
Somehow she got through the Christmas services. After that, the winter days passed tediously. Patrick did not attempt to dissuade or persuade her, and for this she cursed him. He was so vacuous in his feelings.
And yet, she was vacillating in her own. To remain in the colony was to give up hope of a life of refinement, of riches, of ease. Plantation life was so limited. Never would she have the opportunity to read daily gazettes; no operas or masquerades to look forward to.
What was there for her in this far-flung wilderness outpost?
Nigel loved her passionately.
Day after day, her mind waged both sides of the tortuous argument like some silent chess battle. Her emotions were a tiny boat on a storm-tossed ocean.
January gave way to February and the first signs that spring was not far off. Denuded trees sprouted tiny knobs that would soon unfurl. Shoots of green blades poked between the dead leaves of winter that speckled the ground.
One day late in February Clarissa sat outside, warming herself on the hickory bench secluded in the grape arbor. The rustle of leaves underfoot announced a visitor, and she half turned her head to see Patrick. For six weeks now they had shared only the most superficial of conversations. "You have finished with writing Sunday’s sermon?” she asked.
“Almost.” He flipped out the skirt of his cassock-style coat and took a seat on the bench. "The time draws nigh."
"Aye. I know." They both understood of what he spoke. She waited. At long last, was he going to discuss the plight of their marriage? Would he plead with her to stay? Or tell her he had decided to release her from her vows?
“I have not spoken to thee much of my family"
Her eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t going to discuss genealogy at a time like this!
He gestured toward the sprigs of grass poking here and there through the dirt. “My mother loved to garden almost as much as she loved to read the Bible. I suppose that is why I love flowers.
“For the purpose of passing on wisdom, Mother often felt it necessary to construct a parable in plants. Once, when I was facing a difficult decision as a very young man, she laid down two paths. The first meandered aimlessly and was bordered by heavy-scented, almost decadent blooms. At the end was the plant, bleeding heart. The second, straight and narrow and hemmed in by primroses, led to a jack-in-the-pulpit. The message was not lost on me.”
He rose. Could it be? His hazel eyes, were they actually brimming with compassion for her? Her, a highborn heiress? “Well, my writing awaits me. Fare thee well, mistress.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Early one morning in mid March, Mad Dog was splitting wood. The chore took him out of the cabin. He felt too large for it. He needed to work off his excess energy—and his concern. Holloway should have been back soon after the first of year and here it was, the day before Good Friday.
With each swing of his axe. Mad Dog reviewed the facts. They were unpleasant. He had invested time, money, and faith in an enterprise that was not going to bring about its purpose— avenging Christopher’s death. Mad Dog had to stare at his botched ambition. Radcliff had evaded retribution. Meanwhile, Ant Hill, laboring under reduced funds, was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
At that moment, Modesty stepped barefoot from the cabin door. Arching her back, she curled her arms up and out and stretched languorously.
His axe, sharp enough to shave with, stopped in its upward path. To him, she looked like some satisfied feline. Sunlight filtered through her threadbare nightrail. All her feminine attributes were accentuated in gauzy relief.
Desire blazed through him like one of those fires that periodically ignited London—showers of burning sparks, molten lead running in scorching torrents, stones exploding from the intense heat and sounding like cannon fire.
"Put something on. You look like a strumpet."
"Well, well, another fine day."
His riven wood lay forgotten at his feet. "You let the fire go out last night," he growled.
She yawned, then said, ‘"Tis of little consequence."
"Oh?” He braced his hands on the axe handle. "Do you want to tell me why?"
She smiled cheerfully and ran her hands through her mass of hair to rustle loose its tangles. “We leave shortly for Henrico. We can start a new fire when we return.”
He had forgotten that he had agreed to attend Dartmouth’s Good Friday sermon. The last thing he wanted to hear was another sermon. He felt a meanness boiling in his brain. “What makes you think you will accompany me?"
Across the distance, she squinted at him askance. "Why wouldn’t I? I am yewr wife."
"A fact I am well aware of. Which is why I want you here until you are with child. My son.”
&nb
sp; "Wot?”
His laugh was low and nasty. "After all, how can I trust a woman of your repute?"
Her hands curled into claws, she charged toward him. He dropped the axe handle and caught her wrists. He held her at a distance, rendering her blows ineffectual.
Suddenly she went stone still. “I don't want yewr seed ripening in me belly. I would rip it out first. Do yew understand me?" Her voice was harsh, defiant.
He stared at her, seeing, though, the pattern of his life. The shrews he had taken in marriage. He didn’t know who was more accursed, himself or they. He released her with a shove. "What a disastrous choice I made in marrying you."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Modesty straightened and rubbed the small of her back. The sun was high, near the noon hour, and she still had the washed clothes to hang out to dry.
All morning she had bent over the scrub board at the river’s edge, and her hands were reddened by the lye soap and her back ached. She had wrung water from Mad Dog’s leather jerkin, wishing she had her husband’s neck between her hands. Eventually her fury had subsided, leaving in its place a clamoring pain that felt as though it would burst her heart.
She cursed herself for staying with him— staying with him even when he left her so easily, as he had this morning. Taking the bay mare, he had ridden out like someone gone berserk on jimsonweed.
A rushing noise like a great storm caught her attention. Migrating geese rose off the sun- glazed water, and she stood in awe, watching as they temporarily blotted out the sun. Then something else caught her attention— a solitary figure in a canoe, rowing rapidly toward her. Hitching up her skirts, Modesty waded calf deep into the chilly water to meet Juana. The sand clogged her footsteps, and the sturgeon were so thick with spring spawning that she had to be careful not to tread on them.
Closer now, she could see the panic in the Spanish woman's face. "Indians. Powhattan tribes. They come to kill. Jamestown people. Surrey people. Henrico people. All white people.”
She gripped the side of the canoe. “When, Juana?"
"Before day is out. Children—men— women—houses—animals—all white men’s things to be”—she searched for the right English word—"gone." She snapped her fingers in imitation of Modesty. “Just like that. You tell Mad Dog."
“He’s not here. He left early this morning. I don't know where he is.”
The old woman paused, then said, "You come with me. We go to my place. Deep in the forest.”
Just the image of her scalp hanging from Opechancanough’s lance was enough to prompt Modesty to quick decision. Wrestling with her skirts, she settled into the canoe’s prow. It rocked violently, then steadied, and Juana turned the canoe back upstream.
Her oar had cleaved the water no more than a dozen times when Modesty said, "Stop! Turn around.”
The old woman ceased paddling and turned to stare at her with amazement.
Clarissa and her husband—Rose and Walter and the three boys—they needed to be warned! "We’re going to Henrico."
Juana shook her head back and forth furiously and ran a finger across her throat. "Die quickly."
"We must warn them, Juana!”
Again Juana shook her head and resumed paddling.
Modesty grabbed up the canoe’s extra oar and began back-paddling. The canoe wobbled treacherously. So there was a trick to keeping the canoe upright.
Seeing Modesty's determination, Juana gave up and paddled in unison with her.
Within the hour, they reached Henrico. The shoreline was empty of life, as were the wattle-and-daub houses strewn along the hill. Panic swept through her. Had the Powhattans already struck? But no smoke roiled from the homes.
Then she saw a slope-shouldered man with hat in hand hurrying from one of the houses. She recognized him from assembly time at Jamestown. From the canoe, she hailed him, calling out, “Master Rolfe, where is everyone?"
He stopped, looked toward the river, and spotted her and Juana. "They’re at a barn- raising. I’m late.”
"Tell them the Powhattan tribes are on the warpath. They must protect themselves at once."
"But the Powhattans have been friendly lately."
"Well, now they’re unfriendly.” She wasn’t about to waste time arguing. She took up her oar again and began back-paddling.
"You have to warn Jamestown also!” he called back.
Was he crazy? At any moment howling Indians could pour forth from the forest.
With alacrity, she swung the oar first on one side of the canoe, then the other. Juana’s strokes were just as rapid.
" . . . have to . . . warn . . . Jamestown!" she heard him shout after her.
Jamestown could go up in smoke for all she cared. Hadn't its good denizens been prepared to let her go up in smoke?
Annie’s deep-chested laugh and Polly's good- natured ways haunted Modesty’s mind.
Fie on Jamestown. She was just now getting her hair back. She didn’t fancy losing it again.
She swung her oar even more vigorously.
But the demons of principles and ethics hounded her. "I must be a bloody fool,” she muttered.
She hauled up on the oar, creating a back tide of water. Juana glanced around sharply at her. "We’re going to Jamestown."
The old woman looked pop-eyed at her. But by this time she was apparently resigned to Modesty’s unpredictable whims, because she offered no further protest but fell into synchronized strokes.
At every landing along the James River, Modesty gave out her warning. The sunlight grew fiercely hot. As the hours wore on, the current and a northwesterly breeze propelled the canoe more than their joint efforts at rowing.
Late afternoon overtook them—and a fleet of canoes. With horror chilling her blood, Modesty stared into the painted faces of scores of top-knotted warriors.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mad Dog strode inside the Golden Parrot on Back Street, Jamestown’s only hostelry. It was still under construction and, at the rate it was going up, would not likely be completed for another decade.
For the cost of an occasional pence for a pint of beer, a man might hear the latest news, listen in on the discussion of the best minds in the neighborhood, or play draughts or skittles.
Mad Dog recognized several of the men as burgesses he had met during the General Assembly. One man dressed in black velvet was new to him—and new to the country, because his face and hands were the pale shade of a man of the northern climes. A single gold earring gleamed at his left ear, and he carried a Malacca cane. Mad Dog dismissed him as a man of affectation.
Radcliff was there too, wagering at a game of piquet. He was not a creature with an inclination for socializing, and Mad Dog found his presence there curious.
The man’s red eyes forsook the cards to cast an assessing glance at Mad Dog. A fleeting look of what Mad Dog could only identify as agitation crossed Radcliff’s raw features.
All the old fury boiled up in Mad Dog. Useless fury. It did nothing but consume the soul. He forced himself to turn away from his nemesis. He was fatigued after riding through the morning, afternoon, and into the evening. Furthermore, he was in a sour mood after his battle with Modesty.
Ordering a tot of rum from the taproom maid, he selected a pipe from the public rack, broke off a portion of the fourteen-inch-long clay stem for a fresh mouthpiece, and chose a comer chair. He stretched his long legs and smoked in reflective silence. Would he never learn? Would he never learn to control that wild, impulsive part of his nature? Did his recklessness doom him to make disastrous choices time after time?
He had fled his old life, had started over anew. He was committed to living a life free of the encumbrances of things and people. So whatever had possessed him to deviate from that choice which had come from the wisdom of much experience—and marry Modesty?
The more he thought about her threat to kill any child she would carry by him, the angrier he became. Again and again he emptied his glass. His pipe burnt out. His anger didn’t.
He was only half observing the piquet game and paid but little attention when young Duncan Kilbride rose from the gambling table, having lost a hogshead of tobacco. ‘"Tis time I started home for dinner.”
“Admit it, you are afraid the goodwife will find that you closed shop early this afternoon to gamble," John Rogers taunted.
"Me Polly obeys me as the master of me household," the ruddy Scotsman blustered.
"But not master of the game," the fair- skinned man said. Mad Dog had heard him called Jarvis. Nigel Jarvis.
Radcliff languidly plucked a bit of snuff from a lacquered box and sniffed it up one nostril. "We need a fearless player in your place, Kilbride."
Mad Dog accepted the bait and rose unsteadily. If his unrestrained nature had gotten him into this situation, then it would get him out. "Deal me a hand.”
"And what is your wager?" Radcliff asked, spreading his beringed hand to indicate the pile of pounds and notes he had amassed that afternoon.
Mad Dog tipped up his tankard, swallowed the last of the rum, and signaled the maidservant for more before replying. "My wife’s marriage contract.”
Around the table, the men’s eyebrows raised.
Kilbride, about to leave, spun around.
Nigel Jarvis cocked one black eyebrow. "Good God, old chap, you can’t wager a wife!"
Mad Dog raked his gaze over the man. "Prithee, why not? I bought her contract. I can sell it if I so want.”
Radcliff shrugged. “A mere woman. They don’t last long here in the colony. Surely you can do better than that."
"Then the marriage contract and this year’s crop yield from my estates,” Mad Dog said. “Against those of yours.”
"Too high stakes for me," John Rogers mumbled, and Nigel Jarvis also bowed out.
A flicker of calculation shown in Radcliff’s eyes. "Let's make it interesting. Winner ends up with both estates. Loser gets the marriage contract.”
The man must know he would win. He had to be cheating, had to have been all afternoon. "So done," Mad Dog agreed.
He summoned all his faculties, distorted though they were by his heavy drinking. He had been cursing his wife. Now he blessed her. She had at least taught him the rudiments of the sleight-of-hand. Her very chicanery would be the knife that cut her throat. Dry mirth at the symbolism carved his mouth into a smile. "I suggest we do away with the formalities of the game. Why not a simple turn of the card? High card takes the estates?"
The Maidenhead Page 19