Bold Breathless Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  “I feel wonderful.” Imogene kept her voice light. Physically she did feel wonderful. “The morning sickness is all gone.”

  “We will rot in this lonely country,” predicted Elise gloomily. She glared out at the gray sky over the river. To Elise this savage river country was a penance. Its wild beauty, the hemlock-shrouded Indian trails, the thick-growing trees, the sometimes impenetrable forest reaching from hill to hill did not appeal to her—a woman fresh from the wind-lashed, open, flower-filled Scillies. To her it was a closed world—a world shut against her, speaking even a different tongue.

  Imogene forced a laugh. “Soon you will have learned the language, Elise, and you will refuse ever to leave New Netherland. ”

  “Never.”

  “Besides, we had guests only yesterday—the Vandervoorts from upriver.”

  Elise shook her head. To her they were all foreign-talking and incomprehensible, Dutch and Indian alike. Imogene hoped Elise would soon make friends among the stolid Dutch servants in the kitchen.

  For herself and Verhulst there was a social life of sorts. Neighbors from nearby patroonships—if an estate so vast could be said to have a “near” neighbor—came by sloop to pay their respects to Verhulst’s new bride. Most of them spoke only Dutch, and Imogene, who knew but a smattering of Dutch, did not find the conversations very interesting.

  “Where do the ten Haers live?” she asked Verhulst that night at dinner.

  “Just downriver,” Verhulst told her. “Rychie is on an extended stay in New Amsterdam. Her father tells me that she is coming home this week and the ten Haers will give a ball for her.”

  “Oh? Are we going?”

  “Certainly.” He gave her a reproving look. “They are our neighbors and Hendrik ten Haer is a patroon like myself. We are expected to attend.”

  Noblesse oblige. Imogene grimaced. “I do not like Rychie,” she observed.

  “Nor do I,” agreed Verhulst quietly.

  But you did once, thought Imogene with an inner sigh. And the thought struck her that perhaps saffron-haired Rychie would have suited Verhulst better than she did. At least he had been physically attracted to Rychie and, judging by the way he shunned her bedroom, he was not physically attracted to his wife. I wonder why he married me, she asked herself. Perhaps he did not really have a marriage bed in mind, perhaps he only collected me, like a painting. Perhaps I was just one of the decorations for Wey Gat that he bought in Amsterdam.

  Her face flushed at the thought and she looked down at her plate with a mutinous expression, determined to outshine everyone at the ten Haers’ ball.

  But as it happened, she did not attend the ten Haers’ ball—nor any ball, ever again, on the river.

  For the next time she sat down to dinner with Verhulst would be an evening she would never forget.

  Imogene had dressed very carefully for dinner with Verhulst, as she always did. She was so grateful to him for his understanding and kindly acception of her condition that she was considerate of him in all things. Verhulst loved her in yellow—sometimes he called her his “yellow bird”; accordingly, tonight she selected a gown of pale Chinese gold satin that complemented her golden hair. It was tight now but she could still wear it. Smiling, she clasped around her neck her husband’s latest gift—a necklace of topaz and diamonds. Her bright hair—combed out and brushed every night by Elise—was cleverly caught up with gold satin ribands that matched her gown, and topaz and diamond earrings glittered from her ears. And since Verhulst approved of womanly modesty, she wore a fragile whisk of delicate yellow silk to hide her deep décolletage.

  “We are very grand tonight,” Verhulst approved, as she took her seat across from him at the long glittering board, for when the master was in residence Verhulst insisted the standards of service be kept high and the weary servants served him like royalty. “Is that the dress you plan to wear to the ten Haers’ ball?”

  Imogene shrugged her shoulders with a rippling movement that made her satin bodice shimmer in the candlelight. She gave him a gentle smile. “I thought I would let you choose my ball gown, Verhulst. How would you like me to appear before your friends?”

  “As you are tonight.” With kindling eyes, he raised his glass to her. “I drink to the most beautiful woman in all the Americas.”

  “Gallant—but hardly accurate,” she laughed. “You should at least confine yourself to the North River. You cannot have seen all the women in this huge land! There will be English beauties lately come to Virginia and—who knows? Maybe Spanish sirens with melting eyes under the palms in La Florida!''

  “None half so lovely as you,” Verhulst insisted. He took a large portion of eels from a platter held by a stolid servant and smiled at Imogene. He was a fortunate man. A beautiful wife, thriving tenants. He was in an expansive mood. “I have ordered a virginal for you from Holland.”

  “Another gift? Oh, Verhulst, this necklace and the cloak from Paris were more than enough!” Her eyes sparkled at the thought of the beautiful dark blue velvet cloak, sable-lined, with its row of delicately wrought golden buttons from neck to hemline and its matching blue velvet French hood. “Besides,” she added honestly, “I do not play the virginal.”

  “You can learn. I will import a tutor to instruct you.”

  “My new accomplishments will astonish everyone,” said Imogene lightly, gazing at her plate in some alarm and wondering how she could possibly do justice to the lavish repast before her. Verhulst would expect her to eat and her stomach revolted at the sight of so much food.

  “Try the sturgeon,” he recommended. “And these river eels are delicious. No? Then some turkey perhaps, or pheasant? A bit of venison?”

  Imogene frowned at the big chargers of meat, the lavish array of breads and jellies. At least it would not be wasted, for the servants would have their own banquet with the vast amount that would be left. Impatiently she warded off Verhulst’s suggestions and toyed with the food on her plate—far too much—and suddenly pushed it aside. She had felt a sudden overwhelming desire for—“There,” she cried and her eyes lit up, “that’s the one thing I crave most at this moment—a pickle! A really sour pickle! And some of that custard!”

  Down the table Verhulst laughed. He lifted his glass mockingly and the heavy gold chain he wore swung against the damask tablecloth, winking in the candlelight. “Pickles and custard! Did I not know better, I’d think ye were pregnant!”

  Imogene paused with the pickle poised halfway to her mouth. Was it possible that—? No, of course not. He had heard—as had all the world—her bold announcement of her pregnancy at the Governor’s Ball. He had been pleased by it! Still, before his amused gaze her face lost some of its color and she squared her slender shoulders as if against assault. She looked straight at him. “But I am pregnant, Verhulst,” she said quietly.

  For a moment his dark eyes took on a glassy look. It was as if he had been dealt some sharp blow and was stunned by its force. “What did you say?” he mumbled.

  Imogene set the pickle down carefully. “But you knew,” she said, moistening her lips and managing to keep her voice steady. “I told everyone that night at the Governor’s Ball when Rychie taunted me.”

  Now his face was as white as her own. “I thought it was a lie,” he said hoarsely. “A magnificent lie, to silence Rychie.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A magnificent lie! Imogene was speechless. The rest of the color drained from her face, giving her a deathly pallor. Verhulst had never dreamed she was pregnant, he had believed her to be lying—on his behalf! His sudden solicitude, all this attention—it was all because she had publicly rebuked Rychie! She had come blithely upriver borne on the wings of a lie. All this time she had been living in a fool’s paradise. Elise had been right to be afraid!

  A servant opened the door to the dining room. He was carrying a tray of little cakes. Verhulst waited until the tray had been placed on the table, then he said something in Dutch and the servant nodded and departed, closing the door behind him. Wit
h a slow deliberation that wore on Imogene’s nerves, Verhulst picked up one of the little cakes and toyed with it. When he looked up at her, he was almost smiling.

  “Then tell me, Imogene.” His voice was low and deadly, pitched so that it would not reach the servants’ ears in the pantry beyond. “Tell me how I came to make you pregnant.’

  Desperate blue eyes looked bravely back into his. For now Imogene realized her danger. Her recklessness had got her into this—now lies must get her out!

  “You do not remember coming into my cabin aboard ship? It was the night you and the captain got so drunk. You did not speak of it the next morning but—I certainly thought you would remember.” She sounded hurt.

  Her cool answer gave him pause. Now he studied his young wife, sitting so pale and beautiful before him, a study in white and gold. His gaze pinned her as mercilessly as a butterfly is pinned to a parchment. “And what night was that?” he drawled. “For I do not recall it.”

  Outside a dog howled and in the far distance it was answered by a wolf. Fear crawled icily along Imogene’s spine. “ It was the first night we dined aboard the Sea Rover. You were very angry when we returned.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “And after we returned to the Hilletje, the captain asked you to share a glass of wine with him.”

  “I remember that.”

  “You must have shared several, for you were reeling when you arrived in my cabin. You burst in and dragged me from my bed and took me to your cabin—,” she was embroidering her lies madly now—“and there you took me in your arms. Afterward I stole away lest you wake in a cramped position and bring the pains back on you again.”

  “Ah, yes, the pains.” His voice was ironic. “So you are telling me that I threw you on the bed and raped you?”

  “Not raped—I was willing. I—oh, don’t you remember, Verhulst?” she implored. “You must remember something.”

  “No, I do not.” Grimly.

  “Then you must take my word.” She tried to say that with authority; it did not quite come off. “You were—you were very masterful that night, Verhulst. And now I am pregnant.”

  He sat regarding her with a baffled expression on his face. He—masterful? God in heaven! Masterful! He had never commanded any woman, let alone this beautiful lying wench who sat before him now as cool as ice, daring him to call her lie.

  “How was it,” he asked silkily, “that you knew so soon in New Amsterdam that you were pregnant? Was that not a bit hasty?”

  How neatly he had trapped her! But she must carry it off—somehow. In New Amsterdam she had intended to tell him the truth—the whole truth—and let him be the judge. But then in a rebellious moment she had struck back at Richie and that had changed everything. The thought passed through her mind that she might tell him now, tell him everything just as she had meant to do. But she dared not. She was warned by the controlled violence in his voice, the burning anger that flared in his eyes. Ah, she knew him better now, this man with his savage dogs and his scherprecter and his watchful-eyed tenants! He would not forgive her—he would never forgive her! But she must buy time—precious time that would give her a chance to escape, to flee downriver and make her way into one of the other colonies of this barbarous land. So, for now, she must carry it off.

  “I was not really certain then,” she said steadily. “Although I suspected. But when Rychie taunted me with her own pregnancy, I wanted to strike back at her for your sake—and I did. I took a chance, of course—I might have been wrong.”

  For a moment his dark intense eyes glinted with something other than anger. Yes, he had wanted to strike at Rychie, too— for his own reasons. And Imogene had done that for him. Was it possible that he—? No, of course not. Still, she was right, he could not remember that night; he had been very drunk. And there was an innate honesty in Imogene that baffled him. Of course she was lying, but...

  Verhulst had no conception of the lengths to which a woman would go to shield her unborn child.

  Abruptly he rose from the table, threw down his napkin. “I find myself no longer hungry, Imogene. Summon the servants if you wish more food. I leave at dawn to inspect the outlying bouweries and must work on the accounts tonight.”

  Had he accepted her word? Oh, no, she could not believe it!

  “Will you be back in time for the ten Haers’ ball?” she asked uneasily.

  “No, I will not return for a fortnight. But do not fret, I will send word to the ten Haers, making our apologies.”

  He strode from the room, closing the door resoundingly behind him. Imogene was left alone with the long table heaped with eels and sturgeon and game and pastries and wine, a table frosty with damask and shimmering with silver. And a now unwanted pickle lay among the untasted food on her plate.

  She waited until her husband’s footsteps faded away and then went upstairs and shut her bedroom door, leaned against it. What a fool she had been to believe herself lightly forgiven!

  “I knew this would happen—oh, I knew it,” Elise wailed, when Imogene told her.

  “Keep your voice down,” and Imogene harshly. She was pacing soundlessly back and forth across the “Turkey carpet” of her bedroom in her soft satin slippers. “I need time to think!”

  “We should never have come here to this wild place. Now he will kill us both!”

  “He will not. In any event, he is not interested in killing you. And I will escape him—I will go downriver.”

  ‘‘We are leaving?” Elise looked frightened but hopeful.

  “I will not involve you in this, Elise,” said Imogene slowly. She twisted her hands together and the topaz ring she was wearing cut into her flesh, for the terrible thought had occurred to her that if Verhulst found them, he might take delight in making Elise suffer rather than herself—to punish his wife without spoiling her ‘‘beauty” in which he delighted.

  “It is dangerous to run.” Elise was calmer now. “Should you not wait until you are in New Amsterdam for some ball, perhaps visiting Vrouw Berghem? You could make your escape then. For there is always the possibility that he believes you.” Imogene shook her head. “Verhulst is no fool. He will not believe me when he has time to think about it. And even if he does, what about the baby? By my best count, it is due at the end of February. Think, Elise! He has not known me long enough for the child to be his! What can I say to him then?”

  Elise shuddered. “Do you think you could tell him the truth?” she asked timidly.

  Imogene thought about that, biting her lips. “I think he would kill me,” she said at last. “For he is very proud. He would find it all unforgivable.”

  “Then we must leave at once!”

  “No, I will leave alone.” That way, if I am caught, Verhulst cannot hold you responsible.

  “I will not let you go alone!”

  Imogene’s blue eyes softened as she gazed at this woman who for so many years had been like a mother to her.

  “Elise, if I get through, I promise I will send for you. If I do not get through, but die on the journey, you can ask Verhulst to let you go downriver so that you may return to your people in England—and I am sure he will, for he will be very glad to be rid of you, since the sight of you will remind him of me. Here, take these gold pieces. Sew them into the hem of your petticoat. There are enough of them to pay your passage back to the Scillies and your sister.”

  “But I cannot let you go alone!” protested Elise, incredulous at the very idea.

  “Elise.” Imogene moved closer and took her old nurse’s hands in her own. “Think on this: If I go alone and Verhulst finds me and brings me back, I will still have a friend at Wey Gat—you. If we run away together, we will be but two women fleeing through wild country—and if Verhulst finds us, he may dismiss you without money and send you packing downriver to New Amsterdam, where you will have to indenture yourself to anyone who will take you. I think I would have a better chance alone.”

  Reluctantly, Elise accepted this. “When will y
ou go?”

  “Tomorrow, after Verhulst leaves.”

  “He is leaving then?”

  “Yes, to tour the outlying bouweries and see if the farmers are living up to their contracts.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice. “I do not envy their position. But—he will not be back for a fortnight, so that will give me time.”

  “You will go by boat?”

  “No, that is what they will expect. I will follow the Indian paths downriver.”

  “Suppose it snows?”

  Imogene frowned. “We must hope that it doesn’t. I will wear warm clothes and take all the food I can carry.”

  “What about Groot and the dogs?”

  The dogs—she had forgotten the dogs!

  “Groot will not turn those vicious dogs out to hunt me,” she said slowly, hoping she was right. “He will be afraid to do so without orders from the patroon. He will send someone after Verhulst and they will organize a search for me. But tomorrow I will tell the servants that I am indisposed and not to be disturbed, and I will send you away on an errand so that you will not be involved. The next morning you will come rushing downstairs and ask everyone where I can be—you will say that you tiptoed in at night not to wake me and now you have found that what looked like my sleeping body was but pillows cleverly arranged beneath the coverlet. You will wring your hands and insist that the grounds be thoroughly searched—that will give me time to follow the Indian trails down some distance and work my way back to the river, where, if I am lucky, I can steal a boat or a canoe and travel by night, concealing the boat on shore and sleeping in the daytime. Once in New Amsterdam I can secure passage on a ship to Virginia by selling my jewels—and I will send for you, Elise, you may be sure of it.”

  Elise looked so despondent that Imogene put her arms around her old nurse and hugged her. “Don’t look so woebegone,” she chided. “Remember you said you’d never like it here? Well, now you won’t have to stay.”

  Elise tried to smile—she didn’t quite make it.