Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  Applause broke free, and the men joined Emmie and Mr. Babcock, forming a circle around them. Bethlyn leaned closer, trying to get a better view, but the windowpane was in her way. She was tempted to open the window further but didn’t dare.

  Towering above the other men, she saw Ian quite clearly, especially when he and liberty’s newfound heroine left the circle and came to stand very near the window, his hand clasped in Emmie Gray’s. He bent forward, his head quite near to Emmie’s, speaking earnestly to her. Bethlyn couldn’t hear a word that he spoke, but it didn’t matter what he said. The look on Ian’s face, a look filled with something close to adoration, said it all.

  Never had he looked like that at her. Never had she remembered seeing his eyes so bright and worshipping. A stab of envy twisted inside Bethlyn at the sight of Ian with this woman. Not only was Emmie Gray docile and demure, but she embodied courage and patriotism, a shining beacon in the cause for liberty.

  Emmie Gray was everything Ian wanted in a woman. Everything Bethlyn wasn’t.

  Unable to watch Ian practically fawning over the woman a second longer, Bethlyn wrenched away from the window and trekked through the snow back to Star, who waited patiently for her. The return trip to Edgecomb was just as dark as an hour earlier, but she wasn’t frightened any longer. Bethlyn kept seeing Ian and Emmie, hearing Mr. Babcock’s speech revolving in her mind over and over again.

  She hadn’t known about some of the things Mr. Babcock had mentioned. In fact, she’d heard some of the reasons why the colonials thought they should be independent, never having taken them seriously. Most people in England viewed the fight for independence with a jaundiced eye; the whole situation was so far removed from most of them, especially the people in Bethlyn’s circle of acquaintances. Everyone believed that the rowdy colonials would bow to British might eventually, regarding them as unruly and brash children who needed a good swift smack to see reason.

  Bethlyn had thought the same, if she ever thought about the fight for independence at all. Only after meeting Ian had she spent any time mulling the situation over, still clinging to the hope he’d give up his nefarious life as Captain Hawk. She knew now he wouldn’t, and she didn’t expect him to.

  Ian valued freedom, and she had known this all along. Hadn’t he freed her from her father’s tyranny when he could have left her at the earl’s mercy? Instead, he’d arranged for her to go to Aunt Penny’s, where for the first time in her life she’d experienced what it was like to come and go, to control her own life and do as she pleased.

  For the first time she understood the reasons behind the war.

  “I want to help, too,” she spoke aloud to Star as the horse neared the stables, her thoughts centered on Ian with Emmie. She wanted her husband to look at her in that same adoring way, to view her as courageous.

  When she slipped into her room, she hastily threw off her cloak and sat by a small writing desk, dipping a quill into the inkpot and quickly set words down on paper.

  The words became verses and spilled from her with an urgency, almost as if some force, unseen and unknown, guided her hand. When she finally laid down the quill, the soft gray streaks of dawn broke through the heavy drapes.

  Picking up the paper, she read part of what she had written.

  “If liberty be a dream, then I am a dreamer, But arise dreamers of dreams and lovers of liberty, Throw down the shackles, betray the schemers, Fight tor the cause, dare to be free.”

  The rest of the verses met with her approval, and she wondered what Ian would think if he should read them. “But if he does read them,” she said to her reflection in the mirror above the desk, “he must never know I’m the author.”

  Never could she show this poetry to Ian or tell him how she had come to feel about the ideals for which he fought. He wouldn’t believe her. In his mind he would always doubt her loyalty, because she was the daughter of a man he hated.

  She knew Ian had come to love her but had already decided he couldn’t trust her. Still, she wanted to help him and his fight with her poetry. Maybe her verse could incite people to claim their independence. However, Bethlyn couldn’t sign her work with her own name. She’d use a nom de plume, but which one?

  Mulling this over, she again caught sight of her reflection and remembered the day Miss Grosvenor had positioned her in front of the mirror and ordered her to look at herself.

  “You’re as plump and colorless as a dove,” the woman had told her.

  Well, she wasn’t plump and colorless any longer, but sometimes she did still feel like that lonely, unloved child. She could think of no better appellation. Picking up her quill, she dipped it into the inkpot. With a flourish she signed the bottom of the paper.

  The Dove was born.

  19

  Bethlyn walked into Ian’s office humming to herself, a bit triumphant because she’d persuaded Molly to accompany her on a shopping trip. Molly waited in the carriage for her while Bethlyn paid Ian a quick visit to discover when he’d be home for supper. She planned for all of them to sit down to a sumptuous meal that evening, hoping Molly’s brooding was at an end. Getting the girl out of the house was an indication that Molly’s spirit might be returning.

  The door to Ian’s office was open, but Bethlyn’s entry was blocked by Marc, who suddenly materialized before her. “I wouldn’t go in now,” he advised.

  “Is something wrong?” Bethlyn diverted her gaze from him and peered across his shoulder. She saw Ian sitting behind his desk, his face flushed with what she discerned as anger, though he spoke calmly to a perspiring Mr. Eakins, who sat across the desk from him and constantly wiped his brow.

  “Ian will handle it. Don’t concern yourself, Bethlyn.”

  She reared upward, surprised at Marc’s condescension. “Briston Shipping is my concern, as is Mr. Eakins, who is one of my employees. I have a right to know what’s wrong.”

  Marc smiled apologetically. “It’s a rather delicate matter, I’m afraid. Ian believes that Eakins has been stealing.”

  “I don’t believe it. Mr. Eakins is a most trusted employee. Ian told me he’s worked here for twenty years.”

  “I find it difficult to believe myself,” Marc agreed, “but someone stole a great deal of money from the box that Ian keeps hidden in the cabinet. Only three people know where the key is to unlock the cabinet. Ian, Eakins, and myself. And I assure you that I didn’t take the money.”

  Bethlyn’s face turned pale, and for a moment she felt horribly weak-kneed. She’d hoped that she could have replaced the money by now or that Ian wouldn’t open the box until the middle of January to meet the payroll. But the London bank still hadn’t transferred her funds, and because of what she’d done, poor Mr. Eakins was being accused of thievery. She started to push past Marc, but he held her back. “There are four people who know where the key is kept. I know who took the money, Marc.”

  Marc allowed her entrance into Ian’s office. For the first time in her life, as she stood before her husband’s desk, she trembled with such fear that she wanted to retch. Having no regard of the circumstances which might befall her, she knew she must set things right and explain.

  “What is it?” Ian practically growled at her.

  “I must, must speak to you about — a most distressing matter which can’t wait.” She licked her lips and sank into a chair next to Mr. Eakins. “You may go, sir,” she dismissed the flustered and white-faced man.

  Eakins looked to Ian for confirmation and Ian nodded briskly. When Eakins scampered from the office, Ian didn’t hide his anger. “What’s the matter with you? You flounce in here and interrupt me. Have you no idea of what has happened or care that I may have to call in the authorities to—”

  “I took the money.”

  Ian winced, his mouth dropping open, no words came out. Several long seconds passed before he uttered a sound. “Why?”

  Bethlyn laughed nervously. “I would have thought you’d say that you didn’t believe me, but you are a direct man, Ian.” Her
composure seemed about to crumble, but she calmly explained to him why she’d taken the money.

  “I paid Della to keep you safe,” she finished, and folded her hands demurely in her lap. “I intended to replace the money with my funds before you realized it was gone, but evidently some of the ships from England are slow or they’re not getting through at all.” With a strength of will, she purposely kept her gaze on Ian, hoping she’d see a flash of understanding in his eyes. She saw nothing but incomprehension.

  “I beg your forgiveness for not telling you about Della’s threats, but I’m not sorry for paying her off. More than anything in the world, Ian, I wanted to keep you safe.”

  “Really?” His voice broke into hers, startling Bethlyn with its curtness, a hint of suspicion lurking within its timbre.

  “Yes, what other motive could I have had? I dislike when you look at me or speak to me like this. It makes me think that you don’t trust me.”

  Ian leaned back in his chair and perused her thoroughly, almost as if he tried to read her thoughts. After a few moments, he said, “Do you have anything else you’ve done which you’d care to tell me?”

  She started. Did he mean Simpson House? But he didn’t know about that, and she couldn’t tell him. “No.”

  “I see; then I won’t keep you.”

  “I’m free to go? You’re finished with me?”

  “Quite finished.”

  She didn’t care for the sound of that. Standing up, she fiddled nervously with the button on her cloak. “I suppose you’re very angry with me, and you have a right to be, but try to remember why I took the money. I’ll apologize to Mr. Eakins.”

  “Don’t do that. I shall apologize to him, since I’m the one who accused him.” He took a deep breath and rose from his chair, then he leaned over the desk, his face dangerously close to hers. “Never again go behind my back, Bethlyn. You should have told me about Della. I’d have taken care of her. Damn it, woman, you gave that wench a small fortune. She’ll never have to lie on her back again.”

  “I’ll replace the money.”

  “That’s not the point. Suppose the woman opens her mouth and divulges information to someone about you and Captain Hawk? We were fortunate she didn’t mention this to Holmes. I can’t afford to pay off every blackmailer who may come along in the future. The worst of the whole mess is your sneakiness. I wouldn’t have thought you capable of this.”

  Ian was right. She had been sneaky, surprising herself. But she wouldn’t apologize again. She’d done what she thought was right. “Molly is waiting in the carriage for our shopping trip. What time will you be home tonight?” she asked and made her way to the door.

  “I’m not certain,” he said noncommittally, impaling her with a look which was as sharp as a knife. “A friend of mine was arrested for conspiracy to commit treason. You do remember Percival Forrest.”

  “I do.” Bethlyn recalled meeting the man at a New Year’s party at Cynthia’s, and she thought he looked familiar to her until she remembered she’d seen him at the secret meeting at Simpson House. Like Ian, Forrest pretended to be a loyalist and now he’d been found out. “I’m quite sorry to hear about him.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am. Forrest is the second man to be arrested this past week. Jacob Dennery was carted off to the Walnut Street Prison on Monday. I believe you met him at Shippens House.”

  Why was Ian looking at her like she was some sort of an insect under a microscope about to be dissected? She didn’t care for this at all, growing nervous because he believed she was hiding something. “Yes, I did.” Dennery was another supposed loyalist whom she’d recognized at the secret meeting.

  “Aren’t you a bit surprised, Bethlyn? After all, you have no reason not to believe they weren’t loyal to the king.”

  “I’m very sorry for your friends, but nothing surprises me any longer.”

  “Ah, then you won’t be too surprised or care too much if I should be the next man arrested on the list.”

  “List? Someone has a list of names?” Her heart jumped in her chest at the thought. Suppose someone had learned about Ian and he was taken away from her? She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  He lifted an eyebrow, his face tense. “Maybe.”

  “Ian…”

  Moving quickly from behind the desk, he opened the door for her. “I have a great deal to do this afternoon. Give Molly my regards. And don’t wait supper for me. I shall be late.”

  Bethlyn uttered her farewell, sensing that he wasn’t that busy. He was too angry and disappointed with her to even speak to her another moment. And there was something else which accounted for his brusqueness, the mistrust she read in his eyes. But what?

  Stepping into the carriage Molly told her she didn’t feel like shopping today and could they please return home. Suddenly Bethlyn didn’t want to shop anyway, only too glad to order the carriage back to Edgecomb, welcoming Molly’s silence. All Bethlyn could think about was losing Ian.

  ~

  Thomas Paine glanced up from the papers in his hand, his brows knitted into a frown when his gaze settled on Bethlyn, who sat across the desk from him.

  “You’re serious about having your poems published, Mrs. Briston.”

  “Yes, I am. I can see from your expression that you’re not exactly pleased. Are they very bad?”

  “No, not all. In fact, your poetry is excellent, and I’m quite certain that if the poems are published, the Dove will be a success, and the British will be beside themselves, trying to discover the Dove’s identity.”

  Bethlyn clutched her fox muff in her hands and licked her lips in nervousness. “Thank you for the praise, Mr. Paine. I was undecided whether to approach you on this matter, but having recently read your pamphlet Common Sense, a piece I much admired, I decided to visit you. I do hope you aren’t upset that I came to your home today unannounced.”

  Paine leaned back in his chair and smiled a wary smile at Bethlyn, who made a becoming picture as she sat near the window, the soft sunlight of a late January afternoon highlighting her natural beauty. “I assure you that I welcome your visit, Mrs. Briston, but, if I recall, Common Sense was published anonymously. Why do you credit me with the piece?”

  Bethlyn looked away, feeling the color rise to her cheeks. She couldn’t very well tell the man that she’d overheard Ian speaking to Marc about Paine’s pamphlet. In fact, she’d been blatantly eavesdropping, actually pressing her ear to the library door to discover why Ian never stayed at home nights anymore. She knew about his secret meetings, but she doubted the men met more than once a week. So where did he go when he left home?

  The eavesdropping hadn’t answered that question, but she did hear about Paine and decided to approach him on the publication of her poems after secretly obtaining and reading a copy of his Common Sense. Now she felt ungodly stupid, hating to lie to him, so she skirted the issue with a half-truth.

  “My husband mentioned you were the author of Common Sense,” she commented, lifting her gaze to Paine.

  “I see, but why would your husband, a noted loyalist, think I’d written such a piece?”

  Bethlyn cleared her throat, sincerity etched on her face. “We both know my husband isn’t what he appears to be, Mr. Paine.”

  With well-manicured fingers, he tapped the top of his desk. “Forgive me, ma’am, but you’re the daughter of a British nobleman. Your roots are firmly entrenched in England. I find it hard to believe that your allegiance is with the American cause.”

  “But it is, sir,” she persisted. “I’ve come to care a great deal about Philadelphia and her citizens. I’ve seen the cruelties forced upon some of our people by the soldiers when they wish to meet, to voice their views on liberty. I’ve heard about the hardships at Valley Forge, and I’ve read other pamphlets besides your own, enumerating the reasons why we must rid ourselves of tyranny. I freely admit that before I came to this country, I never thought about the war at all. But liberty is important to me now. I hope soon to conceive a child. I
don’t wish to raise a child in a country which has no say in its government.”

  Bethlyn’s face flushed becomingly and her eyes gleamed a bright brown. A person would have to be blind not to see her sincerity, and Paine was definitely not blind.

  He gestured to the papers before him. “If I agree to have these poems published, you risk danger of exposing yourself and being hanged as a traitor.”

  She winced, not caring for the image of herself swinging from a rope, but she’d already considered this possibility. ‘‘I’m aware of what may happen to me.”

  “Yes, I believe you are, Mrs. Briston,” he said, and his face suddenly glowed with warmth. “I’ll have these published and distributed for you. Before you know it, you’ll be as popular as Emmie Gray.”

  “I’ve heard of her.” Bethlyn had, of course, more than heard of Emmie Gray, having recently seen her in an intimate conversation with Ian and not about to forget her. The past month Emmie Gray had become an undisputed heroine. Her name was on everyone’s lips, from the servants at Edgecomb to the employees at Briston Shipping, her sad but heroic story recounted with such fervor and tear-filled eyes that Bethlyn had grown tired of hearing it. Truly, the citizens had taken the orphaned waif to their breasts, but Bethlyn didn’t like her.

  Bethlyn stood to leave, extending her hand to Paine. “I have one request to make of you, sir. I know already that the poems will be published under the Dove’s pseudonym and that you shall keep my identity confidential. But I would deem it a great favor if you would not tell my husband.”