Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  He didn’t answer. With one firm tug he lifted her shift, bringing it so high that not only was her flat belly bared but one breast as well.

  “Jack!” she said with a gasp, hoping no one would hear their struggles. “Stop! You—you can’t really love me!”

  “Oh, can’t I?” he whispered. “We’ll just see about that.”

  A soft-handed tussle began as she tried to stop him, but he kept on, pressing hot, sweet kisses upon her. His lips grazed her throat, seized and suckled the aching tenderness of a breast. There was an overwhelming feel of hard muscle and taut flesh.

  Oh, ‘Bram had been a beautiful young buck, but this is the king of the forest, broad of chest and powerful of limb!

  She could feel the melting begin, the growing blush of her flesh beneath his hands. Her body was flowing, hot as metal in a blacksmith’s fire.

  “This will put us to sleep,” he whispered, breath warm against her ear. He kissed her sweet and deep, as his muscular body moved to take possession.

  ***

  Angelica plunged her fair hands into the basin and splashed cold water on her face.

  In the light of day it seemed incredible to her—the thing she’d done in the night, the eager participation of which she was guilty.

  At the kitchen table, she ate their host’s bread and cheese, and drank the last of the sassafras tea, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. She thought she would die if she caught so much as a flicker of a knowing look.

  It was another beautiful day. After helping with the dishes, she joined Jenneke beneath the ancient maple that shaded one side of the house.

  As she settled into a chair, the day, all breeze and sun, felt wonderful. Jenneke had apparently finished the last of the peas, and a bowl full of dimpled green globes sat by her feet.

  Now she had taken up mending. Her agile fingers were already at work, neatly fixing a long run in a baggy man’s stocking. An overflowing basket of clothing in need of repair sat beside Jenneke.

  Out of Angelica’s pocket came her own, treasured needle, and soon she was helping with the van Driessen mending as well.

  It was soothing, sitting, sewing, and listening to the children chatter. So far, to them, this war was like a family gathering, an endless picnic, with all the cousins sharing meals, beds, chores and fun.

  “That bed is a danger,” Jenneke suddenly said. Her round, fair cheeks flushed.

  As she did so, Angelica, who had colored, too, became certain Gerrit had got his wife exactly as Jack guessed.

  “I wonder at my mother-in-law insisting you sleep upon it.”

  “ Well, it did surprise us,” Angelica replied. “Mr. Church jumped up when the cats began to chase mice and it just came tumbling down. After our troubles,” she added, “he’s primed for danger.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then, Jenneke asked a question she had probably been dying to ask. “Um, Mrs. Church, I hope you don’t think me bold, but—but had you ever met Mr. Church before your wedding?”

  “Only a week before, Mrs. van Driessen,” Angelica replied. It is astonishing how this tale spinning works, she thought. Somehow, in spite of the rest of the lies, this part is nothing less than the truth.

  She paused, amazed at herself. Tall tales—and—what I keep doing with handsome Jack Church!

  “Goodness me!” exclaimed Jenneke, her green eyes widening. “They said Gerrit and me was sudden, but...”

  “Of course,” Angelica went on primly, suddenly discovering a perverse enjoyment in the pretend, “I had no choice in the matter. My marriage was arranged.”

  Jenneke flushed darkly. “What has Mrs. van Driessen been sayin’ about me?” she cried, gripping the socks she had been mending as if she wanted to strangle them.

  “Not a word of ill,” Angelica replied.

  Finally, Jenneke muttered, “My mother-in-law and I don’t get along too well. I guess that’s plain to see.”

  “She’s got you working pretty hard, that’s for certain,” Angelica replied. She’d been surprised to see the girl, as far gone as she was, bent over the wash tub beside the servants.

  “I was indentured here, Mrs. Church,” Jenneke replied. Her fair face shone red as she waved a water-roughened hand. “I was just a servant, but my Gerrit is a good, dear man. Yes, he is! Quite the kindest, sweetest man in this whole country.”

  All exactly as Jack had suggested. The discovery brought Angelica a smile. “I think you’ve only done what’s natural, Mrs. van Driessen,” Angelica said, patting her companion’s hand. “I congratulate you. Your mother-in-law will surely sweeten after the baby comes.”

  It was easy to be kind. Gerrit and Jenneke, so young, with their round, fair Dutch faces and their impetuous love, were a distant echo of herself and ‘Bram.

  “And you’ve had good luck too, haven’t you, Mrs. Church?” Jenneke smiled now, her upset borne away on the cool breeze. “To get such a handsome, brave husband, and to escape unharmed from those wicked brigands.”

  “I’ve had quite an adventure,” Angelica replied.

  Yes, I am lucky. But, oh, this Jack Church! He is a comet shooting across my sky—unexpected, rare.

  And, just like a comet, she mused, heaven knows what fortune he will bring.

  “Oh, but I can’t imagine marrying someone I’d never met.”

  “We met in New York City and some days later, we were married.”

  “You must have been nervous.”

  “My aunt in England assured my father that her son was an honest, upstanding gentleman,” Angelica said, slipping with shameful ease back into the part she’d assumed. “And, so, it seems, he is,” she added, though she didn’t know whether she entirely believed it herself.

  “When this war is done,” Jenneke said, “Gerrit and I plan to go west. No one will care I was an indentured girl out there.”

  “How else can it end but happily, when you have a man who loves you by your side?” Angelica asked. She squeezed Jenneke’s little hand and her own heart warmed with the rush of sympathy flowing between them.

  The ladies sewed on. Angelica sat straight, feeling the wind sweep at a lock of gold, which had slipped from beneath her cap. Her fingers went on working automatically, but her thoughts drifted.

  Soon, I will be home. I wonder if Mrs. De Keys was able to get Uncle Jacob’s peas shelled and all the rest of the spring garden chores done without my help?

  There was Jack, coming around the house. She decided it was no use ever putting him into any kind of poor man’s disguise.

  Even in Dutch farmer’s clothes, he was obviously a gentleman— and a soldier. His every movement shouted of purpose and pride.

  As soon as she’d caught sight of Jack, Jenneke got up.

  “You don’t have to go,” Angelica said.

  “Never mind, ma’am. They’ll be calling for me in a minute,” the girl replied. “It’s near dinner time.”

  She clambered to her feet. Lifting her plain homespun skirts, her great belly like a swollen sail, she walked slowly toward the kitchen. Jack, seeing her, first tipped his hat then changed directions in order to open the kitchen door for her. Even at a distance, Angelica could see the blush his politeness raised.

  A moment later, her husband was back on course, approaching the place where she sat in that wonderful shade.

  “Good day, Mrs. Church,” he said, with that beautiful smile. Again, he politely removed the tricorn from his sandy head.

  “Good day, Mr. Church,” she replied. “What have you been doing since this morning?”

  “ I’m I’ve just returned from reconnoitering with the young van Driessens,” he replied, getting down beside her. “I gave them a few pointers about setting up a defense for this place. They took it pretty well, although amateur soldiers are always the hardest to teach. Does every other man in this country own the military manual of Frederick the Great?”

  “Don’t laugh at us, Jack. We may be provincials, but we do know how to read. And how to learn.”

>   “I’m not laughing. Mr. Balthazer van Driessen very earnestly showed me his copy of that selfsame manual. It was dog-eared and carefully studied. I confess I find this universal interest in books among you Americans intriguing. In the tents of most British officers, all you’ll find are cards, dice and naughty pictures.”

  Angelica smiled, but did not answer.

  “By God, Mrs. Church—” Her husband leaned to drop a kiss that momentarily brought the long, blowing, blonde lock against her rosy cheek. “—you look ravishing today. Or... is it ravished?”

  She silenced him by popping peas into his mouth. The pause only lasted while Jack savored them. Then he said, “I wish with all my heart I didn’t have to go as soon as I get you back to your uncle in Kingston, but a lone man can only fight one battle at a time.”

  “What do you mean, leave as soon as you get me back? You are going to speak to my Uncle Jacob as you promised poor Captain Vanderzee, aren’t you?”

  Jack took her hand and gently squeezed the fingers. Above them, the lovely old maple rustled. Twinkles of light fell through the leaves’ dance.

  “I’m days late now for my military errand. Besides,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood by teasing. “The deed is already done and the marriage contract sealed with a good deal more than a kiss.”

  Angelica withdrew her hand from his and studied him gravely. “What shall I expect then, sir?” she asked.

  “Now, Angel, you may rely upon my promise. But, I am loyal to my king, and I have a sworn duty as an officer of His Majesty’s army.” She rubbed her forehead. The ache had bloomed again.

  “I shall take you to the door of your uncle’s house and leave you. I should account for myself in person, but I fear my appearance might eventually put your family in some difficulty with your neighbors.”

  “Jack,” she whispered. “You’re making me afraid.”

  “There is no reason. I shall write to your uncle and you shall carry the letter. I’ll do as I say, Angelica,” he said, gently capturing her hand again. “I’ll take you home, do my duty for the army, and then come back to you.”

  “This is terrible.” She rubbed her forehead with the hand that remained free. “Every day something important, something I’ve been relying upon, changes. Please don’t make things pretty for me, Jack. I can deal with the truth better than all these evasions.”

  “Since the conversation with Vanderzee, many things have changed,” he said earnestly. “I need to complete my mission at once and then return to protect you. I can’t risk being caught. You know what happens to spies.”

  She stared at him. Fear multiplied with every word.

  “Angelica, listen,” he said, speaking to the dread he saw in her eyes. “I have a duty to you. This is not only to love you, but to survive to take care of you. I know too much of the world to think that the game of Romeo and Juliet is for rational people. But, damn it, woman, here we are, right in the middle of the play.”

  “Speak with my uncle,” she pleaded. “He’ll show you the truth of our cause.”

  Jack’s eyes filled with tenderness. “If I were to be persuaded, it would be by you, my angel, but I cannot change. I’m resigned to the idea you will not change either.”

  She lowered her head and tried to hold back the threatening tears. He raised her hand to his lips.

  “Courage, dear heart,” he said, after the most tender kiss. “Our case is hard, but not hopeless. We shall see the end of this war, and we shall see it side by side as man and wife. I won’t let it happen any other way.”

  In the flickering light filtering through the maple, that solemn pledge echoed in her ears. Her hands rested between his, so lean and brown. Raising her fingers to his lips again, he kissed the fourth, snugly encircled by the worn, pale band of gold.

  “Keep faith with me, my beautiful Angel,” Jack entreated, his eyes sincere transparencies. “This is ‘til death do us part.”

  Her faded green skirt lapped the brown of his breeches. Their blonde heads—hers of gold, his of ash—bent together as if in prayer, both dappled with dancing light.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They were on the familiar, rutted track that ran up the north branch of Esopus Creek, the eastern boundary of TenBroeck property. Hal was steady beneath. Angelica rode in front today, leaning back in Jack’s strong arms.

  This was the land of Jacob TenBroeck, great-grandson of the very first Hendrick to arrive in America. There was a queer sensation in Angelica’s chest, joy and sorrow, a powerful potion.

  She was within an hour of home. She was going to say goodbye to Jack—goodbye to a man who owned her, body and soul. This goodbye might last, just as it had with ‘Bram, forever.

  Angelica thought she’d never seen so much beautiful weather so early. It was a paradox, of course, like everything this year. In this time of war, of wanton destruction, of killing and violation, nature had heedlessly dressed in her best.

  In the azure sky, a hawk made a slow spiral, his wings a motionless cross. The fields were high and green.

  The valley of Esopus Creek was not especially wide. Rounded hills, once forested, were now either pasture or orchard.

  “It is very beautiful here,” Jack observed.

  Angelica believed his careful survey was not entirely a response to the visual charm. Nevertheless, no matter how much she chanted the words “Tory” and “spy” to herself, she could not make them more important than the man who held her in his arms. Not even “fortune hunter” could summon a chill.

  Not now, when the time of parting was so near!

  Huge willows, some so ancient they were falling apart, trailed green and brushy branches into tinkling shallows. A thicket of young silver maples lifted their graceful arms, trembling and blinking in the strong light.

  The bustle of spring was on every side. Birds sang and flitted. Ducks splashed in the reedy edges. A pair of does, freckled fawns by their sides, glided into the thicket at their approach.

  High above the trail stood a cabin. A line of smoke curved into the sky. In a fenced square by the barn, calves frisked, while their mothers calmly fed in the ruffling grass.

  “Who lives up there?” Jack asked.

  “The M’Kinlays. Tenants of my Uncle Jacob.”

  “Hanging onto that hillside.”

  “They’re Scots, used to worse hard scrabble than that. At least that’s what Mr. M’Kinlay always says. There’s a good flat piece nearby where they grow corn.”

  A bend brought them to it, a field crowded with the fragile waving arms of sprouting corn. “The source of the god-awful mush,” Jack muttered.

  “After all those years in Canada, you should’ve learned to like it.” She could almost feel the smile behind her. “Fried, or as a hot cake with enough maple sugar, it is almost edible.”

  This said, he bent his head and kissed her shoulder.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” she cautioned. “It seems as if we are alone, but as I’m sure you know, someone will appear out of nowhere. They’ll want to see who we are and where we are going. News will get around quickly that Angelica TenBroeck has come home.”

  “Angelica TenBroeck Church,” her husband corrected, tightening his arm possessively around her.

  About a mile further on, they rode by a stand of enormous trees. “Why, look at those!” Jack exclaimed.

  “They’ve never been cut.”

  “Obviously. But why?” he asked. “Such a grove must be worth plenty. It could be easily milled, right here on this water.”

  “My great-grandfather Hendrick promised the Mahicans who used to live around here that they could keep their sacred place.”

  As she spoke, Angelica twisted round in order to gauge Jack’s expression.

  “And to this day,” she continued, “they still stand, the biggest trees anywhere. You know, Jack, there was an Indian massacre once, way back when Kingston was still called Esopus, long before the English came.

  “Even through that time, the Te
nBroecks and the Mahicans have lived together peaceably. Sickness has reduced the Indians, but there are still a few who come here. After they take their corn and those apples over there—” She paused to point to a ragged and unkempt group of fruit trees. “—they go to hunt in the mountains.”

  “Do they own the land, or are they tenants?”

  “Neither. My uncle always says it is theirs in the midst of ours. The women make wonderful baskets which they give us as presents.”

  “And that is all?”

  “It isn’t as if they are many or as if they live here all the time. They come and go.”

  “Your uncle doesn’t care?”

  “Well, sometimes I know he thinks about the money he could get for the trees, but our great-great-grandfather made a promise. Besides, in a way, they’re part of our family, too,” Angelica added gravely.

  “Let me guess.” She could feel Jack’s grin behind her. “If any of those Mahicans cared to lay claim to a white man’s name, it would have to be TenBroeck.”

  “Well, you know how it is when people live together.”

  “I do indeed. I myself have promptly found a native wife.” Another kiss sweetly grazed the back of her neck.

  “What I don’t understand,” she said thoughtfully, after small waves of pleasure had stopped reverberating, “is why I haven’t seen any of them today.”

  “Your Indians? No doubt they’ve grown wary, just like everyone else,” Jack replied. “Perhaps they’ll stay in the hills this year.”

  The emptiness of the sunny fields, the sight of the new corn shaking little green arms beside a lot of weedy competition, cast a pall over Angelica’s day. She sighed deeply.

  “You’ve not only taken a native wife, Jack Church, but one from the camp of your enemy.”

  Instead of answering, Jack chirruped to Hal, turned his head and trotted him briskly uphill, off the trail, and straight toward the huge trees.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I saw someone by the river.”

  Angelica turned to catch a glimpse of two buckskin-clad men by the water. “It might be Charlie M’Kinlay and his Duncan fishing,” she offered. “Or it might be our Mahicans.”