Authors: Juliet Waldron
Stretching, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself and rang for the maid. The Swiss clock on the mantel chose that moment to strike the hour—nine o’clock!
And—I’m still abed! Shameless hussy, she thought, to dream away the best light of a rainy day about a man I barely know. To dream about a stranger, when I should be remembering—’Bram!
At once, her heart contracted with an old, dull ache. She imagined this was how an arrowhead, buried too deep in living flesh for the surgeon’s knife, must feel.
A knock on the bedroom door brought her back to the present. “Enter,” she called.
“Miss?” The door opened and the tiny, pinched face of her aunt’s upstairs girl peeked around the massive walnut frame.
This newest of her aunt’s charges, fresh to service, looked for all the world like a tiny mouse, all pink and white and tremors, bright eyes darting everywhere at once, seemingly searching for whatever large cat might be lurking nearby.
If I meow, she’ll run for her life, Angelica thought, smiling at the
girl.
“Ah, Maysie! There’s a good girl. Quickly now, help me make myself presentable. I’ve a lot to do and little time in which to accomplish it.” Angelica turned to her wardrobe. “The gray silk, I think. It suits the day.”
And, my mood, she thought. Cloudy, insubstantial, the unbroken rule of past sorrows was interrupted by a narrow, here-and-gone ray!
Dressing, the maid’s fingers stumbling at her back stays, Angelica felt suddenly oppressed, pursued by some unknown force which hovered on the horizon, a storm pushing through a darkening sky.
As she sat to arrange her hair, she examined herself in the dressing room mirror.
She must stop this before it got started. Brooding on things lost and gone forever, she reminded herself, is no virtue!
Carrying her sewing reticule, Angelica entered the morning room where her Aunt Laetitia was seated before the double window facing the garden. On a table beside the opposing chair was a silver service, its contents wafting the rich aroma of that glorious and rare breakfast drink—coffee.
***
Laetitia had ordered coffee rather than the usual tea because this was the last breakfast she would be sharing with her treasured niece for some time, and she wanted it to be special. She had personally overseen its brewing, as well as the baking of Cook’s famous raisin and cinnamon scones.
Hearing her niece enter the room, she turned. “Ah, how lovely you look this morning, dear! Such color in those cheeks! Come sit with me and brighten this dreary day.”
Laetitia motioned towards the empty chair. “Would you pour, dear? We can attempt to bring the sun of the islands into a dismal day with this heavenly blend Cook procured at Mr. Cruger’s shop.”
Angelica dropped a kiss upon her aunt’s cheek and squeezed her plump shoulder. “It smells divine! How does Cook always know when Mr. Cruger has something special?”
“She has yet to fail in thirty years of service.” Laetitia smiled. “And I dread the day she will leave us. We have been together since I was a bride in this house and together have watched our springtime fade. And, sons! Lord! Sons!” her aunt exclaimed.
“I was a perfect wife, I’m sure, raising five boys, but would just one daughter grown to womanhood have been so much to ask of the Almighty? Which is why we love having you here, my darling!”
“Auntie! Enough.” Angelica knew better than to allow her aunt to dwell on those adored, lost daughters, all buried before they were ten. It would make a gray day even grayer—for both of them. “You are nowhere near the crone you make yourself out to be, and Cook is...just Cook! Forever here and faithful.”
Angelica placed her reticule on her lap, opened its drawstrings,
and removed the square of blue calico along with stork’s head scissors, silver thimble and a wooden spool of finely spun cotton thread. A packet of needles completed the array.
“And so, dear aunt, what do you think of Minerva’s Philadelphia calico?” Angelica spread the smallish square, printed with bluebirds hovering around a nest—traditional symbols of love and marriage.
“It is perfectly lovely. And perfect for the center, as well. Did you have a plan, or...?”
“No, although perhaps you can help me. When I get to Caroline’s, she and I will start a round robin together, and then I’ll carry what Caroline and I make on to Lucy’s. But I love these dear little bluebirds, and wonder if I should give them up to the round robin!”
Laetitia placed her white hands atop Angelica’s. “Look at me, dear.” As Angelica’s gaze met hers, she said, “I sense something is not well with you today. What is it, my dear? Can I help?”
Angelica gazed upon her aunt’s hands, so elegant, which had stilled hers. She knows, she thought. She always knows.
“Dear auntie,” she said and sighed. “Perhaps it is the war. Perhaps it is the weather. And perhaps I’m just a spoiled brat who does not know her own mind. At any rate,” she said, laughing ruefully, “this will not get the quilt underway. So—how to proceed?”
Laetitia gazed steadily at her niece’s face, at the periwinkle blue eyes that always held a hint of sadness, of loss. She thinks she suffers, Laetitia thought, but she knows nothing of it—not yet.
She shrugged slightly to dislodge the sudden feeling of oppression that had settled on her. “All right, dear. As you will. And for your quilt, well—I’ve already been thinking.”
Laetitia reached for a small willow basket resting at her feet. “I think this will do nicely.” She offered a folded package, wrapped in rough muslin.
Angelica unwrapped the package and then exclaimed, “Oh! How beautiful!” Her hands fluttered among scraps and squares of blue and white cotton sateen that was somehow familiar to her. “But this blue— this cannot possibly be from the chairs. It is so bright.”
Smiling, her aunt unfolded several of the pieces. “Which only proves my point, darling.”
“Pardon me, auntie, but I’m lost.”
“The chairs, Angelica...” Laetitia was enjoying herself completely now. “They are as old as you are, darling. But, unlike you, they have faded with time, and are now the pale blue you know, not the brilliant blue they once were...like these scraps.”
Her expression sobered slightly. “You must remember, above all else. No matter what a thing becomes, what it was will always be part of it. Everything changes, yet, everything remains the same.”
***
Angelica felt tears
prick. She loved this woman, even as shallow and conventional as she could sometimes be, for there was a depth here that defied the exterior.
Chapter Two
The day had cleared, and Angelica and her young boy cousins, George and Charles, had gone for that promised sail. They’d only gone around the second point when a long boat, sailed by marines, had flown out from behind a snag. They’d aimed to intercept, and Angelica felt a thrill of foreboding.
They’d called for a halt in the king’s name, and the boys, having nothing to hide, hove to. A moment later, the marines had hooked the little boat, pulling theirs alongside. Men scrambled over like a pack of rats and, suddenly drawing pistols, seized Angelica. She’d screamed and hit one in the face. The boys attempted to fight, too, but they were laughingly pushed into the river.
At first, shock and her fear of falling into the deep water—for, of course, she could not swim—were strong. She screamed and clung to the side of the boat, although she knew they were too far out for anyone to hear cries for help. Once she had a close look at those ugly, pocked faces, she resolved it would be best to simply throw herself into the river and die a clean death.
However, they were all around, and she was brutally forced into the wet bottom of the boat. One used his weight to hold her down while another one expertly bound her, hand and foot. All the time they were binding and gagging her, they’d shouted at her, but their accents were so strong of the London gutter she couldn’t understand half of it.
The current carried them. Overhead, she could hear someone yelling, “Swim for shore, you little bastards! Swim or I’ll shoot, damn you!”
Almost at once they were sailing again, ripping along in the wind. After they’d bound her, her captors, evil looking they were, did not touch her again. The rope cut into her wrists. Angelica prayed her cousins would know the better part of valor, and that the cold river water would not overwhelm them.
They’d landed upriver a few miles more, sailing to the jetty of an old two-story house. As the men had dragged her out and pushed her along the path, she saw, with horror, a long, lean man wearing an all
too-familiar grin coming to meet her.
***
“
Give me back my locket, you monster!” The skin of her throat burned as if she’d been garroted. His first act, after dragging her up the stairs, had been to tear away the locket she always wore—the one with that last precious lock of ‘Bram’s fair hair.
“How foolish to carry a dead man over your heart!”
“Who dared to tell you that?”
“Money buys everything, my dear, don’t you know? But it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll not need this anymore. I’m the man in your future.”
Jamming the locket into his pocket, Armistead came at her like a whirlwind. Angelica seized a chair and held it in front of herself, attempting to ward him off. He pinned her and the chair together against the wall. She was not certain how long they’d been trapped in this mean little room together.
“My descent,” she raged, gripping the ladder back for dear life, “is from the first Patroon. The insult you offer me will bring the wrath of every gentleman in this state—Tory or rebel—down upon you.”
“Marriage with a gentleman of my stature is hardly an insult, miss. Wouldn’t you like to be presented at court? Think of that! I have a charming little house in London. You can go there as soon as our solemnities have been adequately...celebrated.”
The chair was torn away and tossed. Major Armistead seized her, a handful of golden hair and one wrist. She was learning his rules— struggle was rewarded with pain; submission led to brutal lovemaking.
Exhausted, she let him force a kiss. It was hot, wet, and meant to be persuasive.
When he drew back, Angelica spat full in his face. His pitted skin reddened furiously. Although he roughly jerked her head back, he didn’t slap her.
The glow in his eyes seemed to say that there was, for him, a certain enjoyment in this mingling of pleasure and pain, this game ofcat-with-a-mousecat and mouse
.
“I think, my stubborn dear, you ought to consider that after this unfortunate, little American skirmish is concluded—when General Howe catches that fumbler, Washington—”
“General Washington, damn your black heart!”
“Scold away, miss. But when your uncle and all the other traitors are about to be hanged for treason, perhaps you’ll see where prudence lies. Your family will be stripped of their property and lose their lives. That is, unless you have me. I am, after all, a friend of the Prince of Wales.”
“Boast away, sir,” she cried. “We will not lose, for we’re in the right.”
Armistead snorted contemptuously, but rage had boiled away all Angelica’s fear. “As for your inducement of saving my uncle from hanging and our lands from impoundment...why should I trust promises made by a kidnapper?”
Armistead shook his head back and forth, like a bull trying to get a fix on a barking dog.
“I must say your resistance shows admirable spirit,” he said. “And spirit is exactly what I desire—both in my horses and in a lady upon whom I shall certainly sire some magnificent sons.”
He came down deliberately and pressed a kiss against her neck with his thin lips. Angelica accepted it without a struggle, allowing his passion to rise. Then, as hard as she could, she jerked up a knee.
As he doubled, gasping, she tore herself free. Swirling to the washstand, she grabbed the full pitcher and heaved it at him.
Armistead let out another shout, but recovered himself sufficiently to get out of the way of her cumbrous missile. Arc harmlessly completed, the blue-and-white pitcher burst upon the floor. A shower of crockery and water exploded, splashing everything, both her checked calico skirt and his high black boots.
“I regret,” he choked, “that I have not the leisure just at this particular moment to begin your education.”
He was nursing the injured part, a bulge huddled between the four buttons of his trouser drop. He will not, she thought, with satisfaction, walk with ease for some time.
She thrust her hand into her pocket. There were her needles, her thread, the folded center with the sateen she’d pieced with Aunt Laetitia just yesterday. At the bottom, she found her scissors. Short— but sharp—a weapon of last resort.
Maybe, if I am quick, I can drive them into his neck.
Limping to the door, his pale, hairy hand went to the latch and gave it a sharp rattle. “Mrs. Crimp,” he called. “Let me out.”
The woman must have been waiting, for at once there was the scrape of a key.
“What’s broke?” she asked. “Damn it, major! You Army gentlemen are always bustin’ up my rooms.”
“Just a pitcher, ma’am,” Armistead soothed.
The madam’s fat, gaudy figure was momentarily visible as he ducked through the opening.
“Do not open that door for any reason. I’ll be back about seven to continue this—discussion.”
“By morning, I’ll warrant,” the woman said, with an appreciative chuckle, “a fine gentleman like yourself will certainly make yourself understood.”
This remark sent Angelica careening against the door. She knew she couldn’t get out, that nothing she said or did would help, but it was impossible to stop.
“Monster!” she shouted, hammering the dark wood with both fists. “Criminal! I shall never agree to marry a man without honor!”
“Now, now, Miss TenBroeck! Don’t excite yourself. When I return, we shall have a lovely supper together. Then we’ll talk. Reasonably, I hope, but if not—well, one way or another, by morning I promise, we shall be on far more intimate terms.”
Angelica shrank, lifting her slender fingers from the wood. She felt as if his touch might somehow reach her, sully her, straight through the door.
Next, she heard the sound of retreat—his booted stride and the woman’s heels, a speedy, shuffling clack, attempting to keep up.
Heart pounding, she ran to the open window and peered out, but she could see no foothold, no ivy, no nearby sturdy branch. What she did see were milling marines, laughing and joshing as two of their number, jacketless, their shirts hanging loose, emerged from a first floor window.
Then she heard something else—a creak—as if someone was still not only upstairs, but nearby. In a whirl of the serviceable blue-and
-
white check she’d worn to go boating with her cousins that morning, Angelica turned.
Yes! The delicate click of a lifted latch...
The sound was muffled, but close. It seemed to come from behind the folds of an ancient blanket draped across one crumbled plaster wall of her prison.
Holding her breath, Angelica retrieved the largest piece of the broken pitcher from the watery mess on the floor. It was a heavy chunk attached to the bulky handle.
The old blanket billowed. A man emerged. Putting every ounce of strength she had into it, she threw.
There was a momentary look of surprise on the face of this new intruder. Then, in a smooth, infuriatingly effortless gesture, his arm warded off what otherwise would have struck exactly where she’d aimed—his forehead.
The missile, deflected, fell to the floor and shattered. At the same
instant, there was a dizzying flash.
His blonde good looks were marred by a long, fine scar...
With a finger pressed against his lips, he stepped forward. “Miss TenBroeck,” he whispered, “it’s me, Jack Carter. I’ve come to get you out of this damnable mess.”
Angelica stared. She hardly believed her eyes—much less her
ears.
“Come.” He gestured with one of those strong hands, as graciously as if he were ushering her out to dance. “We’ll go through here.”
To demonstrate, he raised the blanket. It concealed a low door.
What followed was a blur. Wrapping Angelica in her cloak, Jack led her through the door into the adjoining bedroom. Then, after a spell of listening, they made a quick march down the hall, through another door, and down a rickety outside stairway. From there, they dashed into the overgrown shrubbery surrounding the house.
They emerged by a rutted road, where the first thing Angelica saw was a well-dressed black servant holding two horses. After passing a purse and a few quick sentences with
t
his man—something about a ship and a letter—Jack mounted the larger of the horses, a tall, powerful bay with a magnificent black tail.
“We’ll double. Do you know how to go astride?”
“Well—” she began.
“Put your foot on my boot,” he directed, cutting off her explanation. “Daniel will help.”
In the next instant, the servant’s hands were on her waist. With his assistance and Jack’s hand on her arm, Angelica was briskly lifted to a seat behind.
Then, as she tightened her arms around his waist, they were away, trotting north. As she looked back, the last thing she saw was the servant and his horse. They, too, were traveling fast, kicking up dust, but they were heading south back to the city.