The Maidenhead (13 page)

“But of course," he said dryly.

She looked affronted. "Well, I did! I worked under Joos de Hondt himself, no less!"

Mad Dog was impressed. The Flemish calligrapher was also a scientist and cartographer who had migrated to London just before the turn of the century. He later had become famous for the first wall map of Europe. "That was during one of your more reputable periods of activity, I take it?"

“No.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "It was during one of Joos’s disreputable periods of activity.”

Laughter burst from him. “I should have known."

She ignored his remark and leaned further over the figurehead. She flicked away the curls the breeze had tumbled across here forehead and lowered her voice even more. "Mad Dog, why wait years for yewr revenge? I can furnish yew with what yew need! Now! Have Jack bring me back Radcliff’s signature, and I can falsify a mortgage of the estates. All Jack would have to do would be to file it in London with the Company and bring back the lien on Radcliff’s property. Radcliff Manor and every single candlestick in it would be yewrs within the year!”

He picked up on her drift. He could buy up Radcliff’s paper debts at a fraction of their face value and have them reimbursed in full for himself. “And in return?”

“And in return, yew let me go." She hurried on. "When Jack comes back from soliciting the planters, we can sail with him when yew go to Jamestown for the General Assembly. While we are at Jamestown, yew and I can arrange to be divorced. Just in time for me to take passage back to England with Jack. It all works out quite nicely, doesn’t it?"

She looked so hopeful. He hadn’t realized how miserable she was at Ant Hill. All at once, he recognized the trail of signs she had been leaving, which he had been too obtuse to read. “The water sprite." He gestured at the figurehead. "And the nymphs and leprechauns and fairies you paint. All this preoccupation with these fantasy beings—they’re your way of coping with the unbearable, are they not?"

Her bewitching, mismatched eyes held a nostalgic expression. "The people of the nether world are like wise children who never grow up. They are never malicious as adult humans can be, only mischievous sometimes. And the human world can’t hurt them."

He couldn’t stand what he saw in her eyes and fixed his gaze instead on the coarsely carved water sprite emerging from the warrior. "I am not one for grand gestures," he said gruffly, “but if your work proves worthy, then divorce you I will."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A freshly gilded water sprite graced the ship’s bow. Within less than a fortnight the caravel was ready to sail under her new guise, the
Maidenhead
. So, too, was Jack Holloway.

He was in possession of a letter of introduction from Thomas West, twelfth Baron De La Warr and grandson of a first cousin of Queen Elizabeth—courtesy of the magnificently mendacious Modesty.

For his role, Jack was bedecked in the garb of a gentleman. A fashionable narrow sword belt that followed the shape of his waistline was buckled at his side; a plumed hat was rakishly tilted over one eye; his high, standing collar had been stiffened with buckram; his blue velvet doublet with points of red ribbon and slashes in the sleeves revealed the red silk lining; and lastly, high bucket boots were ornamented with ribbon knots and spurs.

A tuck here, a feather there, a bit of ribbon, and Modesty had redesigned the apparel of the vanished Captain De Ruyter.

Jack wriggled his scrunched toes. The boots were a wee bit small, and De Ruyter’s hose were somewhat baggy in the seat. The doublet was too short-waisted, so that the peasecod, the pad in the center front of the doublet, barely covered his cod.

He knew he could convince the average colonist of his genuineness, but a greater test lay just downriver, at Henrico. So it was for that village he first sailed.

The miserable wretches who had agreed to stay on obeyed his orders readily enough. After all, his command could be no more brutal than that of De Ruyter, and at least the sailors were assured of continued employment. A dependable first mate would be helpful, but Jack had to count himself lucky just to have his own ship.

He blew a gallant kiss to Modesty, who waved good-bye from the wharf. His lot could be worse. He could still be confined, as she was, under the hawk-eyed watch of Mad Dog.

Mad Dog had estimated that there were thousands of miles of navigable waterways in the colony and well over a hundred plantations to visit between now and General Assembly time. They were widely scattered along the banks of the James and Chickahominy Rivers, Chesapeake Bay, the Pamunkey and Rappahannock Rivers to the north, and even a few as far north as the Potomac and the Susquehanna.

Jack bypassed the profitable Varinas tobacco plantation and Falling Brook to put in at Henrico, a little less than an hour’s journey for the
Maidenhead
. The town’s inhabitants, delighted by a ship’s arrival, turned out at the wharf.

And he was delighted to learn that the good Reverend Dartmouth was away at the ironworks on Falling Brook. The rector’s house was in little better condition than the others, whose timbers were rotted by the damp. Clarissa greeted him at the door. A white coif covered her golden hair. But not even the somber gray of her dress could detract from her pure beauty.

There was the instinct for the dramatic about her.

Was she making an effort to fit in with these backwoods people?

His eyes roamed her wonderful oval face, remarkable for its classical lines, aquiline nose, violet-colored eyes veiled by long dark brown lashes, and clear-cut mouth. "You haven’t changed since last we met, nigh five months ago."

Her eyes scanned his attire. “You have."

She had unwittingly followed his lead. Good. “May I enter, mistress?"

Her gaze darted beyond him, to Clem, the old cowherder, leading the hamlet’s cows across the muddy green, then to a plump woman pinning a wet apron on a hemp line strung between two hickory trees. The chill wind whipped at her scarlet tippet and batted the white apron back and forth.

At last, Clarissa's gaze came back to him. Her hands twisted an embroidered, lace-edged handkerchief of lawn. “People will—’’

“Leave the door open. The afternoon is not so chilly that a few moments of fresh air wouldn’t revive you."

Without waiting for her reply, he removed his hat and stepped past her. He glanced around. The main room, while as sparse in furnishings as that of Ant Hill, was made more personal with small family portraits that adorned the plastered walls. "Nobility evidently runs in your family.”

"I suspect the same of yours." Her eyes searched his face, as if seeking confirmation.

He quashed an impulse to laugh. “But not wealth. My forebears have a tendency to squander their inheritance. By the time I came of age, my inheritance had been wasted by relatives, and I found myself in debtors’ prison.”

“I suspected that. Somehow I just knew that life had treated you unfairly."

She was close to the mark, and it made him nervous, made him feel vulnerable. That need to feel important reared its deceiving head. He decided to put his guise to the test. He unrolled the document tucked beneath one arm and passed it to her.

Rapidly, she scanned the forged letter of introduction from Thomas West.

“The baron always had faith in my mercantile abilities and arranged to buy my papers from Mad Dog Jones,” he explained with a smoothness that surprised even himself. "He put up the major portion of the capital for this venture."

Her hands, no longer magnolia-white, rerolled the document. “Thomas was a friend of my father’s."

He could feel the sweat break out on his palms. "What a small world." He mentally cursed Modesty for her selection of patrons.

“Indeed." She passed the document back to him. "You know Thomas died en route to Virginia last year?"

He swallowed hard and studied her face for a sign that she was on to him. Her gaze was guileless.

"Aye. It was a big setback. Cost me six months of servitude before West’s last instructions caught up with me."

Timing had always been a factor in his luck. Now was the time! He fished in his string-drawn purse of suede and held out in his palm the object his irate employer had given him with the warning to restore it to its rightful owner. "Your brooch. I found it outside Mad Dog's cabin. I’ve been wanting to return it to you at the earliest moment possible."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, this was my mother’s! I was heartsick when I lost it!" She threw her arms around him. "Thank you, thank you, Jack!”

He clapped his arms around her slender waist. His nostrils quivered at the fragrant scent of her hair. He closed his eyes to savor the sweet moment. Aye, timing was with him again!

"Uhmmm.”

He spun around. Patrick Dartmouth stood in the doorway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What perfect timing, Clarissa thought.

“Patrick, dear," she said easily, and picking up her voluminous skirts, circumvented Jack and went to her husband’s side. "Look what our dear friend has returned to me. My brooch! Remember, I lost it. On our trip to Ant Hill."

Patrick removed his black cloak and buckled hat and hung them on wall pegs before he even bothered to glance at the piece of jewelry in her hand. "It pleases me to see you smiling once more."

Her husband’s indifference exasperated her. He was never stirred to anger, not even jealousy. He would bore her if she didn’t find his attitudes so quaint. At least he and Nigel could stage a lively debate on the meaning of life.

What did it take to arouse deep feeling in her husband? Oh, not the passionate conviction of his faith, but the unbridled emotions of the heart. Lust, rage, envy, greed, love?

Not that she truly wanted love from him. It was the tedium of the hamlet that drove her to do perverse things like toy with her husband’s psyche. She spent her days in toil. Hands that had been meant to play the dulcimer and harpsichord had lost their loveliness from washing, rubbing, and scrubbing. Her scented gloves now bedecked a scarecrow in her herb garden.

Smiling, she whirled back to Jack. His handsome features wore a wariness that amused her. He was such a trusting soul. He really believed that her kiss of gratitude had been spontaneous. Fortunately for her, she had seen past him to Patrick approaching. “Won’t you stay for dinner? I would adore hearing more about your venture. And about Thomas. He was a most dear man.”

By now she knew Patrick was aware of her lie about not being able to cook. Luckily for him, she had an affinity for cuisine, for all too often a distressed parishioner would appear at their doorway for spiritual counseling and stay for supper.

Jack accepted her invitation, and the boiled mutton, hasty pudding, stewed tomatoes, and prunes with cinnamon and ginger tempted the man’s palate, while he related more to her and Patrick about his enterprise. "You see, by taking orders from all the planters, I can buy in quantity and thus obtain a better price for the planter.”

"Perhaps thee might wish something for the house," Patrick suggested to her. He took a swallow of the mulled apple cider. "A loom? A washtub?"

"La! You are always so practical." She pushed away her plate and leaned forward. "I would desire a harpsichord." She did not glance at her husband to see his expression. "Of course, such an expensive item is out of the question. In its place I would have a looking glass."

“A looking glass could never do full justice to your beauty, milady," Jack said.

At that moment, the ship’s bell rang the hour, and he excused himself from the table, saying, "We sail with the tide on the morrow."

After Jack was gone, Clarissa began removing the tinware and the salt cellar from the table. "Isn’t Master Holloway charming?” She had forgotten how exciting dinners were at her parents’ table, where notables, literati, and intellectuals had assembled.

Patrick’s narrow face was set in noncommittal lines. He turned to the mantel for his pipe. "A bit of the gasconade for my taste.”

She set the tin-glazed plates in the bucket of water she had drawn earlier from the new well. She glanced at her wash-reddened hands and silently despaired. Enough! The dishes could soak. A whimsical notion diverted her attention elsewhere for the moment.

Removing her taffeta apron, she picked up her embroidery and seated herself on the bannister-back chair. Patrick sat only an arm’s length away, facing the hearth’s dancing flames. “You do not like Jack Holloway?”

Smoke puffed from his pipe as if it were a chimney. “In faith, I do. How could anyone not like the man? Droll, personable, entertaining. Yet, I doubt the man’s honest intentions.”

Her needle plied rapidly in and out. "How can you say such a thing? ’Twas he who returned my brooch."

"There is something about him that—’’

“Aye, there is." She devoted inordinate attention to her cross stitchery. "He is truly a virile man."

The puffing ceased. After a moment of silence, Patrick asked, “Does thee think so?"

She had to refrain from gritting her teeth. “Aye." She could think of nothing to add, though.

“Because of the way he looks at thee?"

She glanced up, careful to keep her features expressionless. "Looks at me? How is that?"