Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  Imogene’s delicate brows elevated. It occurred to her that if Virginie stayed on Tortuga, she might not have to wait till Christmas for her pearls. Indeed, she thought that fortunehunting Jean Claude might have met his match in Virginie.

  And down the coast a longboat was just arriving that would have grave consequences for them all.

  CHAPTER 12

  Virginie’s wedding swept by Imogene in a haze. It was an evening wedding, held in the drawing room of the “governor’s palace,” a room reeking of fresh paint for Esthonie had not been able to resist having the room hurriedly painted lavender to complement the red and pink hibiscus and bougainvillaea blossoms in which the room had been draped for the occasion. The painters, all Spanish captives working out their two- or three-year terms in lieu of ransom, were still working while the flower decorations were being hung and propped up, and many of the waxy green leaves had been turned to lavender by coming into contact with a too hasty paintbrush. The painters were giving their last strokes as the first guests arrived. So the unfortunate wedding guests had now not only to brush off an occasional caterpillar or spider that fell upon satin shoulders from the flower garlands festooned from the ceiling—they had to be careful not to get too close to the walls else a smear of lavender paint would adorn whatever they were wearing. As a result, the guests tended to huddle in the middle of the big room for safety as a surprisingly dewy-eyed Virginie took her vows beside an erect—and for once entirely sober—Jean Claude.

  Van Ryker and Imogene were almost late for the ceremony, for van Ryker was full of last-minute preparations and instructions. They would leave the wedding reception early, he told her. Imogene, with a concealing scarf thrown over her head, would proceed at once to the quay with Arne and be rowed out to the ship. Van Ryker meantime would saunter about the taverns, making himself very much in evidence, and at the last minute would slip out to the Sea Rover, which was anchored far out in the bay. Not till morning, it was hoped, would it be noticed that the great ship had sailed.

  Imogene, looking glorious in tangerine silk over a rustling changeable taffeta petticoat that changed from gold to tangerine to flaming Chinese red as she walked, moved like a flame among the guests. Her peach-gloved hand held a heavy silver goblet with which to toast the bride. It was one of a dozen such goblets the van Rykers had sent over to the governor’s house this afternoon, along with the bride’s garters that Imogene had promised Esthonie she would send. An excited Virginie called her into her bedchamber to view how the new garters looked on her handsome legs. Imogene thought they were in execrable taste, more turquoise than blue, garnished with pink rosettes, and aglitter with gold and copper lace and brilliants as they were, but then what could one expect of Arne, who consorted with tavern wenches and trollops? And there had been no time to send him back to buy another pair. She made Virginie ecstatic by telling her she could keep them.

  On any other night Imogene would have noticed that Virginie’s smile was too bright, her ecstatic thanks for the gift of the garters bordering on the hysterical. But absorbed as she was with her own plans to leave Tortuga that night, Imogene did not notice that the governor’s eldest daughter was fast reaching a state of panic about her impending wedding night.

  Virginie stayed in her bedchamber after Imogene swished out in her tangerine silks, and studied her face in the mirror. Rather pale. Her mother had suggested rubbing on a bit of Spanish paper to brighten her cheeks and that was why she had retired here, calling to Imogene to accompany her and view the garters, but right now rouging seemed unimportant.

  What her sister Georgette had said to her after they reached home this afternoon and fled to Virginie’s room to escape the painters kept running through her mind.

  “Are you going to undress yourself? Or let Jean Claude undress you?” Georgette had wondered, sinking down upon the bed.

  Virginie had shrugged but Georgette was not to be put off. “I mean tonight. Your wedding night,” she elaborated.

  “I knew when you meant.” Virginie looked away. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, when you do decide, let me know. Or I shall worry about you all night, thinking about you up there alone with him.”

  “Oh, you will be the first to know!” said Virginie in a scathing tone.

  Georgette ignored her sister’s tone. “1 shall expect to hear everything, you know. Tomorrow afternoon by the latest. For I expect,” she added thoughtfully, ‘‘you will decide to sleep late—after so much exertion.”

  "Everything?" Virginie’s dark brows shot up. “Really, Georgette!”

  “Well, how else am I to know how it’s done?” wailed Georgette.

  It was on the tip of Virginie’s tongue to say, You can watch the cats, as I did! But that would be to let Georgette realize that she was still a virgin, and she would never hear the last of that!. She personally did not consider the cats’ rendezvous, which she had watched pensively from her window one moonlit night, very exciting, but everyone made so much of that sort of thing that it must be worthwhile.

  Big orange and white Malcolm had certainly enjoyed it. He had crouched on the paving stones of the courtyard with all his fur aquiver, and howled mournfully. Across from him Tiffin, a very independent female tabby, had crouched, watching him warily. After a few undecided moments she had answered Malcolm’s howl with a demonic shriek.

  Malcolm had roared back and run three paces nearer. Tiffin had opened her mouth and let forth a banshee wail—and retreated coyly two steps.

  Virginie had watched fascinated as Malcolm gradually eased to within three feet of Tiffin, whose fur was fluffed out and who was watching him balefully from her big green eyes that flashed phosphorescent gold against the darkness.

  There was a sudden furry melee as Malcolm rushed forward and pounced upon his lady, seizing her by the scruff of the neck with his big white teeth and holding her firmly as he worked his will. Virginie had nearly fallen out of the window trying to see better. All she could really see was Malcolm, with Tiffin hidden beneath. Both of them seemed to be howling wildly, but whether from rage or pain or joy, it was impossible to tell.

  Suddenly her father had called up the stairs, “Virginie, are you up? Throw something at those cats!” He had not, she realized, been able to find the proper door key on the ring by Esthonie’s bed, and was prevented from throwing anything sizable out the window himself by the decorative iron grill-work that prevented prowlers from entering.

  “I will, Papa—as soon as I can find my shoes,” called Virginie, never stirring from her place as she hung out the window watching that jumble of fur below.

  The caterwauling continued—indeed it seemed to reach a peak of fury. And at that point, regretfully, for she had wanted to see the dénouement and learn whether they would part friends or foes, Virginie threw down one of her old slippers—being careful to miss the combatants, of course.

  But the shoe landed close enough to disturb them and they were off into the night, yowling. Virginie never knew if they continued the encounter or not, for the sound dwindled away in the darkness.

  The next time Tiffin came in for food—which was seldom for Tiffin was a good hunter and spent most of her time in the bush elsewhere—Virginie looked at the high-stepping tabby with a sigh; she wished she could ask Tiffin if she had enjoyed it or whether she regretted the whole thing. Virginie thought Tiffin lived in the pimento grove behind the church.

  At least, she had once seen her carrying home a kitten from there. Tiffin had all her kittens away from home, obviously not trusting the energetic Tourailles to leave them alone until their eyes were opened. Once they were grown strong and playful, she would bring them back one by one in her mouth and deposit them carefully under the bush by the marble bench.

  The French governor passed out kittens along with his letters of marque, and they were well received by the buccaneers, who had little on which to lavish affection on their voyages. They grew very fond of their ships’ cats and gave them exotic names like Joll
y Roger and Marooner and Pieces of Eight. Virginie sometimes thought that between them Malcolm and Tiffin had sired half the cats that kept the buccaneers’ fleet free from rats.

  She came back to what Georgette was saying.

  “I said, aren’t you going to practice undressing for your wedding night? You haven’t much time, you know!”

  “Why should I practice?” demanded Virginie. “I’ve been undressing all my life!”

  Georgette sighed. “I practice all the time,” she volunteered. “First I twirl about undoing my hooks and then I ease my bodice down over—”

  “I do hope you remember to untie your sleeves first,” put in her sister cuttingly.

  “Oh, of course,” said Georgette. She gave Virginie a tranquil look. “If you’d like to practice before me," she offered, “I could tell you how you look doing it. And what’s awkward and what’s not.”

  Virginie was half tempted to take her little sister up on that offer but it wouldn’t do to let Georgette get the upper hand. “I shall probably let Jean Claude undress me,” she said airily. “So much more romantic!”

  “He’ll ruin your hooks,” predicted Georgette. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

  Virginie turned on her. “Maybe I won’t go through with it, maybe I’ll stalk out and refuse to marry him!”

  “Of course you won’t,” said Georgette, picking up a mango and holding it up to the light to admire its color. “You’ll marry him whether you want to or not—Mamma will see that you do!”

  “Nonsense.” Virginie sniffed.

  But before supper, standing in front of the mirror, she had practiced what Georgette had mentioned, twirling around undoing her hooks. It had taken an unconscionably long time, she had decided—and one of the hooks had quite eluded her, leaving her in a half-dressed condition. Which must have looked ridiculous to Georgette when she had called down to her, asking her to come up and undo it.

  And it would never do to look ridiculous tonight! Virginie’s reflection told her that her color had become indeed very high. Even Mamma would admit she did not need Spanish paper now!

  Lifting her head higher to help allay her fears, Virginie ran downstairs to rejoin the company, who were happy to see her and lifted their glasses in bridal toasts. Virginie’s gaze fled to Imogene—perhaps she should have asked her what to expect. She sighed, knowing that she had lost her chance to ask the buccaneer captain’s lady.

  Unaware of Virginie’s predicament, Imogene clasped people’s hands and smiled—and avoided going too near the freshly painted lavender walls. Her mind was so full of the details of leaving tonight that she found herself making polite conversation with no thought at all of what she was saying. It amused her that Esthonie, strikingly overdressed in stiff black brocade overlaid with gold tissue and black lace heavily adorned with gold brilliants, muttered darkly that Veronique must have been put out that the ceremony was being held so soon “before she could get her hooks into Jean Claude” and had not shown up for supper—in fact she had ignored the wedding! Well, she knew how to deal with that. She had instructed the servants not to go near Veronique’s room until she came out and made a formal apology!

  Imogene smiled and thought that some people were lucky in their timing. For Veronique it had all worked out. She imagined Veronique in the wine red velvet gown she herself had picked out for her and given to van Ryker to stow aboard La Belle France—too hot for the climate of the Caribbean, but Veronique was on her way to a colder climate where she would find velvet useful. And its deep décolletage would be a delight to a woman who had been forced for so long to wear gowns that almost hugged her chin! She had chosen too the foppish clothes to turn Diego into a French dandy, and added an enameled French snuffbox for good measure. She imagined Veronique and her Diego standing romantically by the taffrail in the moonlight watching the phosphorescent water glide by like shining silver—as she and van Ryker would be doing before the night was out. All of them gone while Esthonie and her household slept....

  She hoped Veronique would like the delicate black chemise and the sheer black silk stockings and black satin garters she had packed beside the wine red gown—and the dainty black satin slippers. And the flowing night rail of black silk trimmed in black lace. She had been so jealous of Veronique, and her generous spirit had been moved to make up for it by giving Veronique a trousseau such as the Spanish girl might have chosen for herself; A deep vivid green dress ornamented with yards and yards of black braid for dusty travel in France from Marseilles to Paris. And dainty toilet articles, and perfume and ceruse and Spanish paper for rouging her cheeks—ah, she had forgotten nothing! And because Veronique was Spanish and would miss her homeland, she had included a lovely black silk shawl, thickly fringed and brilliantly embroidered with red and yellow flowers, and a flowing black lace mantilla and a high-backed Spanish comb. Veronique might not dare to wear that mantilla and comb where she was going—but she could wear them for private dinners at home with Diego and dream of the life they had lost.

  For Imogene was deeply aware of the dangers Veronique and Diego faced. A man such as Don Luis would have agents everywhere, and Veronique’s face, as van Ryker had once said, was memorable. She could only hope that Veronique’s luck would hold.

  Near her van Ryker was listening patiently to an English trader who was in Tortuga to fill his ship’s hold with captured Spanish goods.

  “I tell ye, sir,” the man was saying, ‘‘Tortuga is a bastion against these Spanish marauders! A bastion, sir! Without Tortuga, we’d all have had our throats slit some fine night, not an English settler in the West Indies would be safe—aye, nor a French or a Dutch settler, either! We’re beholden to ye, sir, for ye’ve made our lives safer.” He blew out his cheeks and looked at van Ryker admiringly. “They tell me ye’re leaving us, and I’ve come to tell ye I hope ’tis not true. Egad, sir, what would the Indies be without ye?”

  “Better perhaps,” said van Ryker with the ghost of a smile. “But I’m leaving none so soon.” He clapped the admiring fellow briskly on the shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll have the chance to sup together later in the week.”

  Imogene heard and thought in wonderment how bold van Ryker was—and yet how cautious. He did not want even this enthusiastic gentleman to know that he sailed tonight. Not that he thought this English trader, who hailed from Barbados, would betray him to the Spanish—nor yet to such buccaneers as might wish to band together and make an attempt on his treasure. It was just his native caution, she told herself with an inward smile.

  Little Dr. Argyll, looking a bit woozy with drink, came up and asked her to dance. He led her—stumbling only once— out upon the floor.

  “I thought I saw Andy Layton lurking about the entrance as we arrived,” Imogene told the doctor. “But I don’t see either Andy or Cooper Layton here. Don’t tell me Esthonie didn’t invite them?”

  “She invited them both,” hiccuped Dr. Argyll. “But I didn’t convey the invitation. I intend to hand them back to their father the way I got them—unmarried and unbetrothed. And if that young devil is sniffing around outside the house, I’ll go out and send him home!”

  He might have interrupted the dance to do just that, but that Imogene laughingly dissuaded him. “I was probably mistaken,” she said indulgently. ‘‘And, anyway, even if he is skulking about, what harm could he do Georgette out there?”

  Dr. Argyll gave that owllike consideration and finally nodded his head with drunken dignity. “What harm? I do agree with you. What harm, indeed?” He gave her another whirl about the floor, sweeping her tangerine skirts perilously close to the fresh lavender paint on the walls.

  Van Ryker was very gallant tonight, Imogene thought. Even for him, a man to whom gallantry was second nature. Over Dr. Argyll’s shoulder she smiled at van Ryker, who was now dancing with the bride. He smiled back, handsome in dove gray silks laced with silver and with a diamond flashing in the frosty white Mechlin at his throat. An arresting figure ... as always, she was proud of him. He lo
oked carefree and young tonight, now that he was leaving Tortuga at last. He looked, she thought in amusement, as if he should be the bridegroom, for he far outshone Jean Claude. In his arms an excited Virginie spun out her big, flowing, lace-overlaid taffeta skirts and displayed the handsome white satin petticoat edged with point lace that Imogene had bestowed upon her as a going-away present.

  The dance ended—a good thing, for Dr. Argyll was puffing with the heat and the exertion. He bowed with tipsy dignity and tottered away.

  Esthonie’s voice shrilled in her ear. “He’s drunker than I’ve ever seen him.”

  “Who?” asked Imogene.

  “Dr. Argyll, of course. And you know why, don’t you? That trollop he’s so enamored of, and who has kept him chained to Tortuga for she refuses to leave it, has run off with someone else at last. I suppose he’s drowning his sorrows.”

  Imogene gave the little doctor a sympathetic look. She saw that Gauthier was urging on him yet another glass. Perhaps he would find oblivion in wine, and tomorrow, when his world settled down, he would realize that Tortuga offered him nothing and seek passage back to Scotland where he belonged. She hoped so for she liked the little doctor and had never thought he belonged on rough buccaneer Tortuga.

  “Do you know, those two Layton boys who are staying with him never even put in an appearance? And after being invited especially too! I shall not be so hospitable to their father after a slight like that!”

  Imogene could have told Esthonie why the Laytons had not put in an appearance, but loyalty to the little Scots doctor forbade that. “They are young,” she said tolerantly, as if that excused everything.

  Esthonie sniffed. “Not too young to lurk about in the bushes! I saw that Andy Layton hanging about the house this afternoon, but he disappeared when I beckoned him to come closer.”