Captive Innocence (8 page)

Finally, choosing an aquamarine moiré silk morning dress, she sat before the mirror to dress her hair. She freed the thick blond masses from their ribbons and began to brush the snarls and tangles from it.

It fell almost to her waist, cascading around her white shoulders. Every time she dressed her hair, she reveled in its wealth and sheen. She couldn't help but remember when she was a young girl of thirteen. She'd suffered from a fever and the doctors had insisted on cutting her hair. “It saps her strength.” She could still hear the dour physician's voice and her father's murmured cry of dismay at this radical treatment. For months after that Royall had refused to venture from the house. It was not until her hair grew back to a decent length that she allowed her father to buy her a frivolous bonnet, and she shyly accompanied him for a ride in a hansom through the city park.

Now, as she dipped her fingers in the pomade and stroked them through her hair, she could bless the doctor who had issued the order. Her hair had grown back in a very short time, and where once it had been fine and silky, now it was heavy and glossy, obedient to the will of her brush. Royall considered it her most valuable feature.

As she was placing the last of the pins in her coiffure, Mrs. Quince knocked at the door. “Yoohoo, Royall, are you awake?”

“Yes, Mrs. Quince. I've just finished dressing my hair.”

Rosalie Quince maneuvered the chair into the room, still in her dressing gown. “Dear, would you prefer breakfast here in your stateroom, or would you prefer to eat on deck with the other diners? Perhaps you would enjoy a view of Brazil as you sip your coffee?”

“I'd like that very much, Mrs. Quince. I didn't get to see much of it yesterday.”

“I thought as much. It will only take minutes for me to dress. Perhaps you would come into my stateroom and lace my stays for me?”

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Quince and Royall were seated at a small table on the upper deck of the riverboat. Royall, in her aquamarine gown, had turned every head as she made her way through to their table. She adored the attention she was receiving and only hoped Sebastian Rivera was close enough to notice.

The richness of the moiré silk and the vibrant hue of aquamarine set off Royall's golden skin and turned her blond hair to gold. Conscious of the admiring stares, she followed Mrs. Quince's wheelchair and seated herself. Every nerve in her body was tightened to alertness. Then she felt, rather than saw, Sebastian Rivera approach them.

“Good morning, ladies. I trust you rested well?” His tone was light and casual, his eyes sharp and piercing. Royall exalted in their uncompromising approval as he surveyed her. He had noticed.

“It seems Senora Quince, I am in that unfortunate position in which you found yourself last evening. There is no available table.”

Rosalie Quince, a smile playing about her thin mouth, lowered her head in a mock curtsy.

“Please, Sebastian, I entreat you to join us for breakfast.”

“I warn you, Senora Quince, had you not done so, I would have invited myself,” he chided as he winked at her.

Remembering Mrs. Quince's words from the evening before, Royall laughed openly. “It would seem, Mrs. Quince, that Senor Rivera has quite a memory for conversation.”

Feigning annoyance, Mrs. Quince replied sullenly, “Yes, so it would seem.”

“Tell me, Senor, how is your memory concerning other matters?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could have died. She must be insane to remind him, to practically give him permission to acknowledge what had occurred between them.

He met her head on, brows lifting, dark eyes daring, a crooked grin twisting his mouth. “I assure you, Senora, my memory serves me very well.” His gaze flicked over her arrogantly, saying more than his words that he remembered her quite well indeed.

Sebastian signaled to the waiter to bring a chair to the table. His poise and authority did not escape Royall. Once seated, he directed his full attention to his companions. “Tell me, Senora Banner, has Rosalie fully prepared you for the rigors of plantation life?”

Before she could answer, Mrs. Quince interrupted. “The rigors of life in Manaus would be more the case, Sebastian, and you know it.” Turning to Royall, she began to explain. “I'm sure, dear, you've heard of the decadent society of Paris. Well, let me assure you, Manaus will soon rival that European city for its gluttony and distasteful displays of garish accoutrements. I, for one, much prefer the quiet, serene life on the plantation. I could well do without splendiferous-gowned ladies and men who tipple the most expensive wines. Were it not for the fact that I am sure it is only to flaunt their new-found wealth, I might accept it more gracefully. But this society is so ostentatious that it is actually perverse.” Turning to Sebastian, “And the less said of it the better. Were it not expedient to maintain a townhouse for the sake of Alonzo's business dealings, I assure you I would not set foot in that devil's shrine.”

Sebastian, who had heard this same point of view at other times from Mrs. Quince, smiled and commiserated with her. “I, too, prefer plantation life. And you're right; the less said, the better. I wouldn't want to discourage Senora Banner before she has had a chance to decide for herself.”

“I assure you, Senor Rivera, it would take much more than the evils of Manaus to discourage me in my opinion of Brazil.” She half-turned in her seat to admire the view along the shore. “From what I've seen of your country, the only word with which I could describe it would be
lush.”

The waiter arrived and Sebastian ordered quickly. Royall found it hard to concentrate on her plate under Sebastian's scrutiny. He watched her in open admiration. A table close to theirs was occupied by three gentlemen. Their admiring glances directed toward Royall brought a scowl to Sebastian's face, and he glowered at them, causing her to experience a delicious tingle. Jealousy? It serves you right, Sebastian Rivera.

With a last sip of coffee Sebastian grudgingly excused himself, saying, “I have a meeting to attend in the lower lounge, but I would like it if both you ladies joined me for dinner.”

Mrs. Quince accepted quickly for both of them.

Royall watched Sebastian's graceful movements as he took his leave. “Shall we indulge ourselves with another cup of this marvelous coffee, Royall?” she heard Mrs. Quince break into her thoughts.

“Yes, please, Mrs. Quince, and perhaps another wheat cake.” Anything to occupy her thoughts, anything to drive Sebastian's image from her mind.

“Another wheat cake? Why, you hardly touched ...” Mrs. Quince broke off in mid-speech. She grinned at the blushing Royall like a cat that has just discovered a mouse in the pantry. “Yes, of course, dear, another wheat cake.”

Most of the tables were empty by now, and the waiters were clearing away the debris left behind.

Royall attacked her breakfast and was putting the last crumbs into her mouth when Mrs. Quince said shortly, “He's a bastard, you know.”

Mrs. Quince's proffered statement brought about the desired results; Royall choked on the crumbs.

“What ... who?”

“Sebastian, of course.” Mrs. Quince's penetrating look sought out Royall's opinions.

“Why do you tell me this? What concern is it of mine?” She tried to act blase and was determined Mrs. Quince would not get any satisfaction from her scandalous remark.

All the while Rosalie Quince was peering into Royall's gold-flecked eyes to measure her mettle. It was a cruel thing to do, but Sebastian was dear to her, and it would be best to see what stuff Royall was made of before he lost his heart completely to the golden girl. She liked Royall very much, “exceedingly fond,” some of the sophisticates from Manaus would call it, but she liked Sebastian also. If the matter of his bastardy would put the girl off him, it would be best to know it now, not after when real damage could be done to both.

“I only tell you this because I have eyes, and I wouldn't want you to hear it from anyone else. To be fair, before you make any judgments, I want you to hear me out.

“Society in the jungles of Brazil is much different from that to which you are accustomed. Here we are swayed by what a man makes of himself; his beginnings are of little consequence. The natives and the Negro slaves so outnumber us English- and Portuguese-speaking people, it is only a matter of better judgment that we not hastily cast aside a member of our society for something as trifling as dubious parentage.”

To her knowledge, Royall had never listened to a conversation in which the subject was illegitimacy. She couldn't bring herself to question. Mrs. Quince answered her unasked inquiry.

“Oh, yes, dear, Sebastian's mother was a native, an especially beautiful girl with a sweet disposition. She was devoted to her son until her death. As to his father, that is unknown. I doubt if even Sebastian knows who his father is. Although some say it was Farleigh Mallard, who left Sebastian a failing plantation and a barely adequate income—just enough to send Sebastian across the ocean to England to complete his education. When he returned from England, he took up the reins, so to speak, and worked day and night to make the plantation the thriving holding it is today.”

“But why do you tell me this, Mrs. Quince? Don't you like Senor Rivera? You seemed so glad to see him, and your manner is quite friendly.”

“Good Lord, child. Of course I like him. I'm quite fond of him, actually. Even when he was a small boy, there was something intense about him, as if he were fated to be a powerful man. The men also think a great deal of him. They consider him most honest and reliable. I'm glad to see he is finally accepted into the society in which he belongs.”

“What do you mean, ‘finally'?”

“Be it because of his Indian mother or just plain humanity, Sebastian's sympathy is with the Indian. When the plantation began to thrive, he freed his slaves and began to pay them a small wage in return for their labors. And labor they do. They honor Sebastian; they love him. He is their redeemer; their god here on earth. It is unheard of for a master to free slaves in these parts.”

“Unheard of?” Royall was incredulous. “But my father was jubilant because Princess Isabel passed the law of Ventre Livre. I remember reading about it in my school books. When the law was passed saying all slaves were to be free when they reached the age of sixty, my father told me it would be a matter of generations before all men in Brazil were free!”

“You are right, dear. In 1871 the Ventre Livre law was passed. This provided that all children born of slaves after 1871 would be free as well as all slaves that belonged to the State or the Crown. But unscrupulous plantation owners are only concerned with their rate of profit. They cannot find it in themselves to pay even a small wage for the work they have been getting for the price of spoiled food and a miserable thatched hut. Don't be shocked to come across deplorable conditions here in Brazil. Many of us are petitioning for the emancipation of all slaves. As of yet, the government feels the economy is too shaky. But if enough of us raise our voices, we will have to be heard. Sebastian is a great example for abolition; he owns no slaves and yet his plantation yields the most rubber.”

“How can these unscrupulous plantation owners keep the Indian at work? Surely they want to see their children free men?”

“Most certainly. The Indian's love for his children is unequaled. Yet, there are those owners who say, ‘If the child will not work in the field beside his parents, there is no room for him here. Put him out!'

“Parents don't want to be separated from their children, so they stay on and work for the owner, even those over sixty who might want to consider themselves free. Where can they go? Old and worn, who would give them work? No, they stay on at their plantations and labor till they drop dead in their tracks.”

“What of you and Mr. Quince? Have you freed your slaves?”

“We have, those born after '71. But they are still too young to work in the fields, so it has not strained our budget. And those old folk who are sixty and over, they have nowhere to go, so we give them light chores around the garden or in the dairy with the livestock, and they are grateful to have the food we feed them, and just to stay with their families. Besides, we treat our help most humanely. The conditions under which they live are far superior to those on many plantations.

“Sebastian is forever trying to induce the owners to improve the conditions of their slaves and raise their standard of living. He is indeed worthy of the adulation of his help. Kindness is his bylaw. He is the guardian of the downtrodden people. Make no mistake, though; when he is dealing with the rubber traders, he matches their ruthlessness. He is, on the whole, honest, but he is not to be put upon and cheated. He is wise and compassionate, truly a remarkable man.” Mrs. Quince picked at a piece of lint on the front of her gown and said distractedly, “I had wished at one time he would be my son-in-law. But it was not to be. I can take comfort in the fact that none of the other doting mothers of debutantes seem to be making much headway. I suppose it might seem strange to you that a mother might welcome a man born on the wrong side of the covers for her daughter's husband. But remember, I told you: Society here is very different from that which you have known.”

Royall smiled and gazed reflectively toward the water. She felt the light touch of Mrs. Quince on her arm. “Forgive me, Royall. I wanted to tell you this in as kind a way as I knew how. I startled you in the beginning, but it was for a reason. I'm proud of you for coming from so sheltered a life and accepting things as they are here. I can see it now. You will give the plantation life some sparkle. All the young men will be after you like flies to a honey pot.”

Royall laughed aloud. As long as Sebastian is the fly, she thought secretly.

That evening Royall dressed with extra care. Annoyed that her hair kept turning into unexpected curls, she tugged and pulled and combed and smoothed until she achieved the effect she wanted. A high coif, not too high, but higher than she was accustomed to wearing. That afternoon she had buffed her nails till they had a soft gleam that enhanced her oval-tapered fingertips. The bath, which the stewards on the paddlewheeler brought to her after many trips back and forth to the galley, carrying the heated water in great jugs, had been scented and taken leisurely.

Picking through her wardrobe, she chose a smoky rose silk gown with a puckering of ribbons at the bodice. “Simplicity itself,” the New England dressmaker had sighed. It was of classic design, soft folds falling unhampered from the slightly elevated waist. A drop neckline left her arms bare and showed smooth, flawless skin against the muted color. Against her tawny hair, its contrast was striking. She picked up the ostrich plumes that were popular, and then abruptly threw them back again on the dressing table. She would feel foolish and flighty wearing them. She knew they had been a mistake when the dressmaker insisted they would be a perfect foil against the simplicity of the rose gown. A simple pendant of quartz was all the accessory she felt she needed. All Sebastian would like to see her in. She did not take him for a man who liked to see women dressed in “gadgets,” as her father had called them. As she sorted through her dainties to select a fresh handkerchief, she thought again of what Mrs. Quince had revealed to her that morning. What a strain he must have lived under, although he seemed to fare with it very well. A doubtful parentage was not exactly a boost to a man's career, and she was delighted for him that he had overcome its burden.

She stood before the mirror and studied herself. The gown was perfect, but she had doubts about the hairdo. Was it too high? Too affected? “No, silly,” she told herself, “you'll do just fine. No sense trying to be what you're not! Still ... no, it's fine,” she assured herself. Before she could change her mind she hurried down the hall. “Mrs. Quince, are you ready?”

Sebastian was waiting for them outside the dining room. He was handsome in a dinner jacket of white gabardine with snowy frills on his shirt front. His deep tan and dark hair were in startling relief against the whiteness of his dress. He turned in their direction and saw them. His eyes fell on Royall and seemed to drink her in. Her patience in her dressing was well rewarded. He kept his eyes on her face as he bid them hello, and it was with effort that he drew his attention to Mrs. Quince.

With little conversation, he led Royall into the dining room, a steward pushing Mrs. Quince's chair. The table was the same one as the previous night, and he explained that he had reserved it for the entire journey.

“I wish we had thought to do the same, Sebastian. Were it not for you, we would have been in that din waiting for a table,” Mrs. Quince said, looking toward the doorway where a myriad of people stood waiting to be seated.

“I repeat, Senora Quince, the pleasure is all mine.” This he said as he looked in Royall's direction. She felt her skin grow warm under his gaze. Why could this man make her blood race through her? Why did she find herself at a loss for words in his presence? Why was she acting like a schoolgirl instead of a poised widow who had had the benefit of an education and profited from a finishing school, not to mention the lovemaking they had shared? Why, when she wanted to be at her best, did she find her confidence in herself falter? But then, when he looked at her as he was doing now, her fears disappeared and she could feel herself preen under his attention. Her pulse would quicken and the very air she breathed would exhilarate her being. She felt herself fill out—a woman, nothing more, a woman. His kind of woman?

Sebastian picked at his dinner, feeling nourished by Royall's presence. He watched her. Slim and lithe, poised, quiet. Not babbling on, the way some girls did. She was gracious, almost queenly in her bearing. He, Sebastian Rivera, sometimes described as the most eligible bachelor in Manaus, felt as though he had feathers instead of a backbone. Yet, there were times when she looked at him, waiting for him to answer her question, or looking to him in conversation, when he felt he could be all she would ever want him to be. A man whose opinion was valued, whose words meant something. He believed she measured his words, listened to him. Not like most other women he had known, who patiently waited for him to finish his sentence just so they could lead the talk back to themselves. Or perhaps, while he was speaking, were wondering if their hats were on straight or their hair falling out from some of those outlandish coifs they wore, or were fidgeting with their gloves, or, worse, giggling in punctuation at the end of his every statement. This was a woman who was interested in him and what he had to say, what he was thinking. Nothing would ever convince him she was feigning interest. A man could tell those things. And in her deference to him, he found he weighed his words more carefully, pondered his judgments, considered his banter. He enjoyed himself, liked himself. He felt good to be with her, more a man, and always the memories of the night they had shared. Was she too remembering? He had been wrong. This young lady was different. If he wanted more to come of their relationship, and he admitted to himself that he did, he would have to tread softly.

After dinner Sebastian escorted Royall to the top deck. The night was sultry, and from where they stood, the sound of the great paddle wheel was a low whoosh as it propelled the luxurious boat through the dark waters of the Amazon.

The stars hung in the black sky, shining their dim, celestial light upon their faces. The moon at its first quarter was like an orange slice, precariously teetering in the heavens.

Royall breathed in the heavy scent of the tropical air. She became lost in the moment, entranced in the magic of the Brazilian sky, warm in the nearness of Sebastian.

He watched her as though from afar. Inwardly he groaned with longing for her and silently cursed himself for being at a loss for words. As he watched her, a breeze lifted itself across the water and blew against her. The soft folds of her gown were drawn against her, revealing the sensuous lines of her body. The breeze caressed her and wafted in his direction, bringing with it the scent she used. It reminded him of the earth, the sky, and the river he loved.

She turned to face him, somewhat embarrassed by her long silence, shy that her emotions were all too evident, afraid he would sense her desire.

His expression, as he looked at her, made her feel giddy; she was aware of his feelings and reveled in them. The embarrassing silence became a silent understanding—no words were needed. He approached her as she turned to look out over the water. His arms slipped around her and held her close. She could feel his warm breath against her cheek and she pressed herself closer to his chest.