by Linda Jones
“Why are you here?” Anya asked without preamble as she reached the couple.
Margaret and Seymour held hands and smiled together. “I invited her,” her cousin answered in a lowered voice.
“I—” Anya began, intent on uninviting the detested woman.
“Seymour and I are engaged,” Margaret interrupted smugly. “Happy birthday, dear. You’re the first to hear the happy news. We’re going to be one big, happy family.”
*
He had fully expected to be home by now, attending Anya’s party, caring for her and their child as no one else could.
“Push,” he said, leaning over to take a look at Nellie’s sweating face. “You’re almost finished.”
The raised bed in the inn lobby that had become his office was well lit, with a number of lanterns scattered around in a semi-circle. The place was clean, at least, and the midwife had not touched Nellie since Julian’s arrival. The labor had been long, but Jeremiah’s young wife was strong and healthy, and all would be well. It had to be. Milton and Jeremiah awaited the outcome outside the door, armed with loaded pistols and sharpened knives.
Nellie’s sister Mary and her sister-in-law Phyllis, Milton’s wife, looked on. They had done all they could. Mary held Nellie’s hand while the others stood back and waited.
“I’m dying,” Nellie said hysterically. “I know I am.”
“You are not dying,” Julian assured her.
Mary, who had seen too many women die in the past two months, sniffled loudly.
“But it hurts,” Nellie moaned.
“I know it does,” he said calmly.
There had been a time when the prospect of delivering a child, unassisted, would have made him break out into a sweat of his own. In the hospital where he had worked after his schooling was finished, there had always been other, more well-trained doctors looking on or assisting. He had never delivered a child without someone looking over his shoulder.
But in the last two weeks he had seen and done much more. He had set a nasty broken leg, removed a bullet from Milton’s arm, and cleaned and bandaged a child who had fallen off the roof of his home, delivering a lecture on the folly of foolhardy climbing as he worked. He had treated a number of coughs and bellyaches, cleaned a few infected wounds, and lanced more boils than he cared to remember.
And in the process he’d set about cleaning up this town. He’d visited the local general store and cafe and made suggestions. He lectured those who came to him about cleaning up their homes, and this town in general. Already he could see the change. The town was fresher, sweeter, and Jeremiah and Milton, regularly bathed at their wives’ insistence and wearing clean clothes, smelled better.
Miss Hattie, the midwife who had at first rejected Julian’s opinion that she had been spreading the puerperal fever from one new mother to another, listened carefully to his lectures on cleanliness and sterilization. She had her own supply of chloride of lime for disinfecting, and when a month had passed without a delivery, she would be able to resume her activities.
Perhaps he had been kidnapped and threatened with death in order to arrive, but when he left this town it would be a much safer place. There was some comfort in that fact.
Nellie’s child was born into his hands. A large child, Jeremiah’s son came into the world squalling. Julian cleaned the baby quickly and placed him at his mother’s breast.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Nellie asked softly.
“Yes, he is.”
The other ladies looked him over and agreed that he was a fine, healthy child.
Julian prayed he had done everything correctly. Puerperal fever usually set in within three days of delivery. Jeremiah and Milton had decided that they would release Julian four days after the birth of the child.
In four days, he was going home.
*
“He cannot marry her,” Anya whispered as she and Valerie claimed a quiet corner. “If he marries her, they will live here! I will not live in the same house with Margaret March.”
Valerie wrinkled her nose. “Maybe it won’t be too bad.”
Anya shook her head. “Not too bad? You expect me to live in the same house with Julian’s whore?” There was only one thing she could do. She would return to the island where she had passed most of her life.
It would not be a bad life for her child, she mused. And it would definitely be preferable to living at Rose Hill with Margaret and Seymour! This was a big house, but it was not nearly big enough! Even if she thought she could bear to live in the same house with the harlot, she was determined that her child would not grow up under the same roof as that hateful woman.
Anya danced once with her Uncle Ellis. He did not say much, and he always seemed to be looking around the house as if he had lost something and couldn’t remember where he had put it. In less than a week he would set sail, and even though he was kind and warm, she got the feeling he would be glad to leave this place and get back to the sea, where he belonged.
Grandmother said her eldest son had never recovered from his wife’s death. That he hid from his pain by living at sea, by devoting himself to his work. Anya understood. She had no work to lose her heartache in, but she did have her child. The child she had thought she would never have would be her life.
It occurred to her, as the dance with Uncle Ellis ended, that he could take her with him. He could take her to the island she considered her home. She would not have to say good-bye to anyone, she could simply… disappear.
She was twenty-one, a large portion of the Sedley fortune was now hers… and she did not want or need it. Without Julian, this place was unbearable.
An excited murmur worked through the crowd like a wave. Voices rose. A woman raised a limp hand to her forehead and fainted into her husband’s arms. Anya could not see what they all looked at, so she worked her way through the crowd and toward the wide ballroom entrance.
When she saw the man who stood there, she walked past the last party guest to stand before him, dropped quickly to her knees, and placed her forehead on the floor.
“Your majesty,” she whispered.
“Anya, stand up,” he said lowly, his voice only slightly more accented than her own. “This is America.”
She lifted her head and saw the large offered hand before her. Laying her own hand on his palm, she stood slowly.
As always, Sebastian was decked out in a loincloth, a feathered necklace, and the crown that marked him as the King of Puerta Sirena. His dark blond hair fell straight and long down his back. His dark blue eyes danced with humor. His bare, muscled chest was bronzed by the sun, and the royal rose oil that was applied regularly by his servants made that chest and his muscular arms glisten.
“Why are you here?” she whispered.
He smiled, flashing straight white teeth on his handsome sun-darkened face. Everyone was listening. You could not even hear the rustle of skirts or the sounds of the guests breathing.
“I have come to take you home.”
Chapter 16
Anya led the way across the house to the south parlor. Sebastian trailed behind her. His mother, Queen Carola, had traveled to America with him, along with half a dozen servants. The procession was regal and colorful and decadent.
King Sebastian was dressed as always, but the others had made some small concessions to the culture into which they had traveled. Queen Carola and the two female servants wore simple shifts made of silk. Their arms were bare, and as the shifts ended just beneath the knee their limbs and feet were uncovered, but they were not naked. The four male servants were bare chested, but they wore knee-length skirts more substantial than their normal island loincloths. The skirts were made of the same colorful silk, in red, blue, green, and yellow.
Seymour and Peter and William held back the party guests who wanted to follow the half-naked king and see what transpired. They had their work cut out for them.
Anya had just decided to return to Puerta Sirena, so why did Sebastian’s appearance
and his insistence that he was there to take her home shake her so? Her heart pounded too hard, her mouth went dry.
In the south parlor, Sebastian took the largest, most luxuriously padded chair available. Queen Carola stood behind the chair as if protecting her son, a severe expression on her beautiful face. Her dark brown hair fell straight and silky to her waist, the green eyes she had inherited from a French pirate father were bright and intelligent. Like the other females, she wore a red silk shift, but she had added a crown and a necklace of coral to her ensemble.
Anya insisted that the servants wait outside the parlor, and she closed the door and instructed them to wait there.
When she turned back around, leaning against the door for support, she found Sebastian smiling at her again. His feet were planted flat on the floor, his knees spread wide. He had found his throne and was as at home here in the Sedley mansion as he was in his own island kingdom.
“I never should have given permission for you to leave the island. The giving of that permission was a mistake and is hereby rescinded.”
Anya’s heart lurched. “I would like very much to go home.”
His smile widened.
“But some things have changed,” she added quickly. “I have taken a husband.”
Sebastian’s smile faded quickly. “A husband. Without asking my permission?”
“He has put me aside,” Anya explained succinctly, “but in my heart he is still my husband. In my heart, he will always be my husband.” No matter where he was, no matter what he did… “If I do go home, it will not be as one of your concubines. Even if he does not want me,” she admitted softly, “I will remain loyal to my husband.”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows in a rakish and very royal way. “Do you expect me to believe that you, Anya, a goddess of love, will live the rest of your life without a man?”
“If I must.”
Sebastian was not overly perturbed. “You will change your mind,” he said. “When your heart is healed.”
“There is more,” she said quickly.
“More?”
Anya glanced at the queen. “I am going to have his child.”
The room was eerily silent for a long moment.
“But you are barren,” Sebastian said.
Anya licked her lips. “Apparently I am not.”
Sebastian and Queen Carola knew the significance of this news, and they quickly came to the same conclusion Julian had. If Anya was able to bear a child, then it was very possible that Sebastian was infertile.
“A miracle,” the queen said with a tight smile.
“The child you carry is a miracle, and a blessing for your devotion to King Sebastian.”
“Yes,” Anya agreed quickly. She laid her eyes on Sebastian. “Perhaps I can return to Puerta Sirena in another role. As a teacher, perhaps. Have you ever heard of Shakespeare?”
“No. Should I meet him?”
“He is dead, Sebastian,” Anya said, slipping into their easier mode of friendship, now that the difficult news had been shared. “He has been dead a very long time. But he wrote the most fabulous plays. Oh, we could have plays of our own!”
“Perhaps.” He looked her up and down. “Why do you wear so many clothes?”
“It is the way things are done here,” she explained simply.
“The fabric is very pretty.”
“It itches,” she revealed in a confidential voice.
Sebastian smiled, and in that instant Anya realized that she had missed him. Not as a lover, but as a friend.
“I have an idea,” the queen said softly. “Anya, you wish to come home.”
“Yes.”
“You could come home as queen.”
“But…”
“No one but the three of us need know that the child you carry is not Sebastian’s.”
Anya shook her head vigorously. “I cannot tell that lie. I will not—”
“Your child will one day be queen or king. You would deny your son or daughter such a gift?”
Sebastian was Queen Carola’s only child. If he did not have an heir, Carola’s line would die with him. Who would rule, then? There might be war, among those who thought they had a claim to the throne, or who wished to take it by force.
“But it is not true,” Anya whispered.
“If I say it is true, it is true,” Queen Carola said regally. “If I say this child is Sebastian’s, it is Sebastian’s. I hereby declare your marriage undone.” She waved her hand. “You will marry Sebastian, and the throne of Puerta Sirena will have an heir.”
Sebastian was king, but on Puerta Sirena the power had always passed through the women of the family that had ruled for more than a hundred years. Terrence Whetherly had become king because he married Queen Carola. If they had had a daughter, it would be she who ruled. Queen Carola was mother of the king, her word was law. And she had just declared Anya and Julian’s marriage dissolved.
*
In a matter of hours, Sebastian had turned the Sedley household upside down, even more completely than Anya had when she arrived. He chose his bedroom, and Queen Carola chose hers. A large chamber was chosen for the servants to share, where they would be close by.
They decided to stay for a few days, in order to give Anya time to think over their offer. Besides, Sebastian had taken quite a liking to the comforts of the Sedley mansion.
Grandmother magnanimously and hopefully offered the services of her tailor, but Sebastian refused to wear anything other than his loincloth and crown and one or two of his favorite necklaces.
Anya, who had still not given an answer to the queen’s proposal, was more distressed by the fact that Margaret had moved in than she was by the presence of a primitive royal court in her grandmother’s home. Whenever she turned around, Margaret was there. Watching. Smirking. Planning something, of that Anya was certain.
Peter was quite put out by the new demanding guests. He seemed particularly annoyed with the queen, who was always tracking him down with one request or another. Sometimes he saw her coming and turned quickly, heading in the opposite direction. Sometimes she followed.
Nothing disturbed Sebastian. He seemed not to care that Anya could not decide if she wanted to be his queen or even that it looked as if he would never father a child of his own. He seemed content, as long as he was well fed and his personal servants saw to his needs. Every morning they rubbed his body down, using the special oil they had carried with them for that purpose. For the past two days this had happened late in the morning, in the garden where his bare skin could catch the rays of the sun.
Yesterday Anya had caught Margaret skulking in the north parlor, watching the procedures in the garden. When the harlot had turned about and found that she was not alone, she had said that Anya’s king was an animal, and should be kept in a zoo. The look she cast at Anya said what Margaret did not say aloud. That no matter how finely she dressed or how well she behaved, Anya was an animal, too.
Anya would never like Margaret, but she was beginning to understand the woman. Margaret wanted desperately to be loved. She craved affection from men, and became whatever the object of her interest wanted or needed. For Julian, she had pretended to be his ideal—sweetly seductive. With Seymour, she let her more manipulative personality traits run free. She flirted subtly with Peter, who ignored her, and if there was a man in her range of vision he had her attentions. Apparently no one man was enough; Margaret always wanted more. If there was anything at all likable about Margaret, Anya might even feel sorry for her. For some reason, the unpleasant widow was starving for love. And Anya suspected no amount of adoration would be enough.
Mealtimes were especially stressful. The food was strange, there was never enough of it to suit Sebastian, and Grandmother was fidgety. Having two scantily clad savages at her table, with six more standing close by to see to their needs, was almost more than she could take.
Uncle Ellis, who had surely seen many things, was not at all perturbed by the presence of their visitors
. Seymour seemed more amused than disturbed, and spent most of his time fawning over Margaret.
Anya was lost. Where was home? Not at the Sedley mansion. Not as queen of Puerta Sirena. She had come to the conclusion that her home was wherever Julian happened to be, and he did not want her.
If she stayed here, she would forever listen for Julian’s return. She would forever wonder if he would come home to her. And as long as there were people like Margaret around, no one would ever forget that she had once been a king’s concubine.
Queen or pariah? It was not much of a choice.
Sebastian insisted on sitting next to Anya as they shared lunch with the family. Huge bowls of chicken and dumplings were carried to the table. The aroma was heavenly; at last Sebastian seemed satisfied.
“People here are very strange,” he said conversationally, stirring his food and glancing down at Anya. “You have been here for a long time. Do you understand them?”
“No,” she said succinctly.
“They seem to know nothing of love,” he said as he began to eat.
“I have often had the same thought,” she said.
If those around them listened, they showed no sign. Anya no longer cared.
“I think the women here have no instruction on the art of making love,” he said.
Anya glanced at Sebastian. “This is true. How did you discover this sad fact?”
He waggled a spoon at Margaret without lifting his eyes from his bowl. “This one does not seem to know the simplest things. Not even the Torcere de Flavia.”
Margaret choked on her wine, and Seymour went white.
“This is quite good,” Sebastian remarked, lifting another spoonful of chicken and dumplings to his mouth.
“Margaret,” Seymour whispered hoarsely. “What is he talking about?”
“I… I… I have no idea,” she finally said.
Sebastian looked up and smiled. “Do not be ashamed. With the proper instruction, I am sure you could become an adequate lover.”
“Margaret!” Seymour whined loudly.
“I… I went into his room by mistake, thinking it was yours,” she hissed. “And he… he attacked me. He grabbed me, and… and threw me on the bed…and—”