Holly

by Bancroft, Blair

  Astounding. His conscience might prick him as far as his family was concerned. But for what he was about to receive, he feared he would have stooped far lower than the price Nick Black demanded. Royce folded the letter to his Grandmother Hay, scrawled the address, then paused, wondering if he should write one more note before sending for the cabin boy, who would make a final run to the shipping office before they sailed on the early morning tide.

  He had returned from Boone Farm not three hours ago. What more did he have to say?

  Truthfully, he hadn’t said much. He’d given Holly the bank book for the account he had set up in her name, and he’d tried to describe the cottage on the fringes of Bloomsbury, north of the British Museum. Though farther from the docks than he might have liked, it was but a short carriage ride from her friends, Cecilia and Belle, who resided in Mayfair.

  Yes, she should be pleased, though he was beginning to fear his wife was nothing more than a statue as cold and unbending as the ones Lord Elgin had shipped back from Greece. She had sat there, expressionless, murmuring aye or no without showing a flicker of emotion as he’d granted her carte blanche to hire whatever servants she felt she needed, and as he’d told her a bit more about Venturer’s ports of call. The only time she had displayed any emotion other than cool appreciation was when he mentioned the Triangle trade. She’d gone all wide-eyed and demanded to know if he carried slaves. Shocked, he’d assured her his voyages never went anywhere near Africa, and she’d seemed to relax. Odd though. He hadn’t expected her to have two thoughts to put together about the slave trade, politics, or any other serious concern. Perhaps there was more between her ears than he’d thought.

  He had even remembered to offer reassurances about the ordeal she was about to face. All too many women did not survive childbirth—they both knew it. So when, with an unexpected flash of inner fire, she had asked for his promise to give the child a proper home even if she were no longer around, he, who had seen the caprice of death on all-too-many occasions, had blanched. And solemnly promised.

  So what more was there to say? He had no idea how to address a letter to her anyway.

  Dear Mrs. Kincade. Hell’s hounds! She really was.

  Dear Wife. Even scarier.

  Dear Holly. Better, though rather too familiar for someone he scarcely knew. But there really weren’t any choices left.

  “Dear Holly,

  “The opportunities to send letters are few and far between, but I will attempt to keep you informed of my whereabouts.” I wish . . . I pray . . . Royce paused, his fingers nearly crushing the quill as he sought the right words, settling for, “I trust all will go well with your lying-in. Do not forget to ask Guy Fallon for money if you should need more than I have provided.”

  He frowned at the page. Was it possible for a man to be more impersonal in a letter to his wife? A wife he was about to leave for close on a year?

  Wife.

  He’d actually done it. Visions of his wedding day came flooding back.

  Hadn’t she looked every bit the grand lady in that gown? Until the moment when she’d walked down the gap left between that odd assortment of chairs and even odder array of wedding guests, he hadn’t truly noticed how beautiful she was. Hadn’t understood how the poor drab creature he’d first met had ever been a courtesan of the first stare. Waves of shock mixing with flickers of anticipation had his wits so scrambled he almost missed repeating the first of his vows.

  Beauty is skin deep. The old admonition nipped at his brain, bringing his soaring thoughts back to the reality of the moment. He, captain of the Venturer, was about to embark on a months-long voyage, while the courtesan, now his wife, gave birth to the child of another man.

  There! That ought to be enough of a home truth to keep his flights of fancy in check.

  But the nights ahead of him would be long and lonely. Surely a dream or two . . .

  If he went down that road, by the time he returned he’d have transformed his wife into a angel. Which she most certainly was not. So he’d best be wary, keep his dreams in check, and count only on the solidity of Venturer’s deck beneath his feet. That, after all, was why he’d married a stranger big with child.

  Nonetheless . . . he owed her a bit more than a roof over her head and financial security. Hell and the devil, he was responsible for her now. And for the child. He didn’t have to love her to care what happened to her.

  Women died in childbirth.

  A shiver rippled up his spine. Royce bent his head to the letter and wrote:

  I doubt any ship will beat me to Boston, so send news of your safe delivery to Charleston. Use the address: Captain Royce Kincade, The Venturer, and send it in care of the Harbormaster, Charleston, Virginia, United States of America.

  If you should care to write to me again, here is a list of my ports of call and the approximate dates I hope to be there, although the timing, I fear, is very much subject to change. Mother Nature can be exceedingly capricious.

  A sharp rap on the door, and Thomas Blount’s round, wind-burned face drew his attention. “Writing a billy-do already, are you, Cap’n?”

  “Go the devil.”

  “Without a doubt,” Blount agreed cheerfully. “And envying you your bride every step of the way. A grand woman, Cap’n. You should be down on your knees giving thanks to God for such a beauty.”

  “Handsome is as handsome does.” And where had his granny’s words popped out from? He didn’t mean it, truly he didn’t.

  “Mind your tongue, laddie,” his First Mate growled. “You’re a better man than that. We all do what we must to stay alive.”

  As he’d done to acquire Venturer for his own. Royce flinched, as if he’d taken a thrust from a knife. “If that’s all you have to say, Mr. Blount, you may leave.”

  Thomas Blount’s lips curled, he shook his head. “I came to tell you all’s in order. We can ship out as soon as the tide turns.” He nodded toward the parchment lying on Royce’s desk. “Best finish the thing and send it off.”

  Royce, ashamed of himself, waved his Mate away. Blount backed out, closing the door, very softly, behind him.

  Royce re-read the list of ports he had penned, then . . . how to close? With a grimace, he rejected the common ‘Your obedient servant.” He had never been able to understand how any man could settle for such a weak-willed expression. ‘Your humble servant’ was even worse. He’d never be that to any man. Or woman. He might work for Nick Black, but never, by God, would he be anyone’s servant.

  He settled for, “Your husband, Royce.” A small blob of ink marked the spot where he had almost written “Kincade,” before lifting his pen in the nick of time to avoid a formality between them that definitely needed to be breached.

  Royce waved the closely written page in the air, hastening the drying of the ink, then quickly folded and sealed the letter, before bellowing for the cabin boy and sending him off with enough coins to ensure quick passage to Boone Farm. Fortunately, the postal system operated with as much efficiency as the British merchant fleet. Holly would have his letter in tomorrow afternoon’s mail.

  Royce closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair. He might be surrounded by all the familiarity of the Venturer, but his life had made a monumental shift. The deck heaved beneath his feet, as if they were caught in the midst of a howling hurricane instead of safely moored to a dock in a crowded harbor cut into the banks of the Thames.

  Hell and damnation! For the first time in his long career, the call of the sea failed him. Instead of the challenge of command and the merciless demands of Mother Nature, he saw only endless days and nights until he returned to explore the full extent of what Nick Black’s Machiavellian machinations had wrought.

  Chapter 7

  Boone Farm, July 1817

  Holly gazed into the distance, idly chewing on the feathered tip of her quill. The letter to Captain Kincade had been written and sent off a month ago—on the day after she gave birth, to be precise. Though who knew how many months would pass b
efore he read it. And now duty demanded a much more difficult note. She dipped her quill in the ink pot and, pursing her lips, began to write.

  Mr. Everard,

  This is to inform you of the birth of Andrew and Anne Kincade. They are well, as am I. You should know that I was married to Royce Kincade, captain of the ship Venturer, in May. He has agreed to raise the children as his own.

  Holly Hammond Kincade

  A whimper . . . an answering gurgle, quickly followed by unison squalls of hunger brought Holly to her feet, the letter abandoned. She dashed to matching cradles in the corner—a gift from Juliana Rivenhall—reaching for nappies as she went. Fortunately, one of the girls passing by rushed in to pick up Anne and cuddle her, while doing her best to convince the babe that her brother had a right to feed first. Not a practice the women at Boone Farm wholly agreed with, but there was little doubt Andrew’s howl was louder than his sister’s until stoppered by his mother’s breast.

  As Holly rocked while Andrew fed, she was quite certain of only one thing: babies were a great deal more trouble than she had anticipated.

  It was the next day before the letter to Charles Everard was added to the post.

  Charleston Harbor, South Carolina

  Royce ripped open the seal on the letter waiting at the harbormaster’s office. The handwriting was feminine, but was it Holly’s? He paused a moment, his face bleak. The thought that something might have happened to her . . . or to the babe cut deep, surprising him with its intensity. He scarce knew the woman!

  Royce bent his head and forced himself to read.

  Captain Kincade,

  I am pleased to inform you that on the 23rd day of June I was delivered at last. It may come as a shock, however, to know that you have assumed the burden of twins. A boy and a girl. I have named them Andrew and Anne. They are each smaller than the usual babe but appear to be in good health.

  I continue to have the support of my friends and the many helping hands at Boone Farm. Without them I wonder if I should have survived. As for what I owe you, words fail me. Your name is writ down in the parish records as the twins’ father. You have put a roof over their heads, food in their mouths, allowed them to hold their heads high through all the years of their lives. I would tell you my gratitude is infinite, but I know my shortcomings. In the future when my temper fails, please remember that my thanks far outweigh any momentary disturbance.

  Mr. Fallon has acquired a staff for the cottage in Bloomsbury. The babes and I plan to move there by the end of July. I will write to you again when we are settled.

  Your wife,

  Holly Kincade

  Twins! That overprivileged, underbred mawworm Charles Everard had fathered twins!

  His fears overwhelmed by shock, Royce fisted his hands, hanging onto his temper by a slim thread. Before, he’d felt merely disgust with the babes’ father, but something about Holly producing twins had kicked him into rage.

  Jealousy?

  Hell, no! Royce, ever a reasonable man, paused his unreasoning surge of emotion and examined his inner voice’s suggestion. Until this moment his actions had been bloodless, or so he thought. To get Venturer for his own, he’d had a mission to accomplish. He’d done it, and now he had only to serve out the necessary time until his dream came true. He had done his duty, provided for his wife. His conscience was clear.

  But, hell and the double-damned devil,—he’d return to two—count ’em, two—constant reminders of the life his wife had once led.

  Guess you should have thought of that sooner. What’s the difference between one brat and two?

  Royce groaned. What had he done?

  Nonetheless . . .

  Dear Holly,

  It takes rather a lot to shock a sea captain, but you have managed the thing. Twins! A difficult burden. Feel free to hire extra help if you need it.

  We are taking on tobacco in Charleston and will add rum to the cargo in Jamaica. Then on to other Caribbean ports where we will offload the remainder of the manufactured goods brought from London. If the seas remain kind, I hope to be back in London by shortly after the spring equinox. (Though it could be as late as mid-April.)

  Your husband,

  Royce

  London, October 1817

  With a smile of pure joy, Holly flicked the reins of her one-horse carriage, urging the high-stepping chestnut to a trot. Freedom! She felt not one iota of guilt that the twins would have to settle for a different kind of teat this fine autumn afternoon. She had a rendezvous with Cecy and Belle in Hyde Park, and she was going to savor every moment of it. And next time . . . Next time she might even venture as far as Bond Street.

  The park, though scarcely teeming with the fashionable set at two in the afternoon on this unusually bright autumn day, could still boast a fair number of carriages, riders on horseback, and those content to stroll along the many meandering paths through the shrubbery. Not seeing her two friends, Holly turned toward the Serpentine. She was early and would meet them at the entrance near Marble Arch a quarter hour from now.

  She had not, however, gone more than half the distance toward the small lake when she heard a hail. “Holly! I say, Holly!” A man on horseback rode up beside her. He doffed his hat, and she found herself looking into the boyishly handsome face of Charles Everard. “By Jove, Holly, you dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve looked for you everywhere.”

  “Apparently not,” she returned cooly. “And was it not you who gave me my congé, stating you wished never to see me again.”

  “I never said any such thing!” Mr. Everard flushed. “Only that our arrangement must end,” he added on a mumble.

  “And now I am married and living in a most comfortable cottage with far more servants at my beck and call than you ever provided.” Holly’s chin lifted another inch. “And I have my very own horse and carriage.”

  Mr. Everard’s eyes turned hard. “How gratifying to find the good captain has spent my money so well and not kept it for himself.”

  Holly’s horse threw up its head as she jerked on the reins. “Your money?” she asked very carefully.

  “Did not your captain tell you that he and that blackguard Nick Black paid me a visit, demanding funds for your keep?”

  Holly fought to recover her wits. “Naturally, they believed it was your duty to provide for your children,” she managed.

  “Amply. More than amply.” Charles Everard made a sound as close to a snort as a gentleman could come. “After all, no one says no to Nick Black.” Mr. Everard started to ride on then paused to toss words over his shoulder. “I would have your direction, Holly. I want to see my children.”

  No! Holly balked, her head still ringing with the shock of what Royce Kincade had not told her. She didn’t want Charles anywhere near the twins.

  He has the right, her inner voice ventured.

  He gave up his rights when he threw me out.

  Holly snapped the reins, startling her horse into a near-bolt. Would Charles give chase? Her heart thudded as she fought for control, a hair’s breadth from missing a curve and sending horse, carriage, and driver tumbling into the lake. Fortunately, by the time she arrived back at Marble Arch where her two friends waiting, she had calmed her horse to a sedate trot. But Holly’s mind was still seething. Captain Kincade was guilty of a very large sin of omission. Which, for some reason, felt very much like betrayal.

  It would seem her god-like rescuer had feet of clay.

  Kingston Harbor, Jamaica, October 1817

  Royce grimaced as he re-read the letter, dated August 1817, which had been waiting for him in the Harbormaster’s office. The salutation was just as impersonal as his wife’s previous letter, the body of the letter even more so. Holly and the twins had moved into the cottage. It was spacious; the cook/housekeeper, chambermaid and nurse, efficient. And Cook’s twelve-year-old son was eager to run errands and help about the house. Mrs. Jamison herself had supervised their removal to Marigold Cottage. Cecilia, Belle, and Lady Rivenhall paid frequ
ent visits. Holly could not, however, claim their new home was any more peaceful than Boone Farm, as the twins’ demands were ceaseless, keeping all the cottage’s occupants stepping lively.

  “I trust they will be past this difficult stage before you return,” his wife had added. “After all you have done for us, I would not wish them to be a bother.”

  All he had done. Offered his name and thrown someone else’s money at them.

  Royce read the letter one more time, trying to find some note of encouragement between the lines. All he found was what he himself had previously experienced. Duty expressed in the language of polite good manners.

  He considered taking Venturer on a side trip to China.

  He could almost hear Nick Black’s outraged roar. So . . . guess not. He was going to have to return to London as planned. And to God alone knew what at Marigold Cottage.

  But in the deep dark reaches of the night—the lonely reaches of the night—Royce had to admit his thoughts strayed more and more to the skilled courtesan who was now his wife. To the startlingly beautiful woman he had glimpsed so fleetingly on their wedding day. The woman he had begun to lust after in his dreams.

  Fool! There’s nothing there but gratitude.

  Gratitude was better than scorn. Or hate. He wouldn’t care to be Everard if he ever ran into his former mistress.

  A wry smile tugging at his lips, Royce began to compose a second letter to his wife, one detailing the activities in and around colorful Kingston harbor. Would she read it or toss it in the fire? Royce shook his head. Thomas has ragged him unmercifully earlier that night when he’d refused to join a foray to a dockside tavern. And why he hadn’t gone he truly couldn’t say. But there was a ship leaving for a direct run to London in the morning, and writing a letter to Holly had called to him. Somehow it simply seemed right that he should. Perhaps he had more of a bent toward domesticity than he’d thought.