Not Quite Married (24 page)

“Silas, you are kind. I would not willingly detain anyone—but fashion is a merciless mistress.” Looking at Aaron, she said simply, “Good evening, Captain.”

“My lady.” He bowed from the waist with an irritating air of amusement.

“The way Brien talks,” Helen said, “she’d see us all in breeches and boots.”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “Surely not, Brien. And deprive us of the unceasing delight of femininity in extravagant array?”

“Delight for you, perhaps, for you do not have to be laced and powdered and weighed down by layers of cumbersome, useless clothing. I assure you, men have the best of it, by far.”

Aaron cleared his throat. “I see you have resumed wearing hoops under your skirts, my lady.” His impertinence caused Helen and Silas both to stare and Brien to glare hotly at him.

“Yes, Captain, I have,” she said, turning to Helen with emphatic poise. “On the ship, the narrow passages would not admit my hoops and I was forced to abandon them while on board, to save my modesty.” She fixed a warning look on Aaron, but he simply smiled. “How perceptive. I did not realize you followed ladies’

fashion so closely.”

“Not ladies’ fashion, my lady.” He met her annoyance and raised it. “Only a few ladies.”

Brien almost strangled on the breath she was drawing. He’d just announced his continuing pursuit of her in front of Helen and Silas . . . who muffled surprised laughs and cleared throats. How dare he?

During dinner, seated across from Aaron, Brien had little appetite even though she had been ravenous only an hour before. She was vastly relieved when Silas plied Aaron with queries about ships and their construction. He said he had heard that Aaron planned a line of fast cargo ships and pried mercilessly into details of the venture. Brien found herself sneaking looks at Aaron, trying to imagine him as a businessman. It seemed she was always having to reassess her opinions about him. . . .

“And your business, madame, have you succeeded in finding a buyer?” Aaron asked, turning to her.

Noting Silas’s consternation at the comment, Brien said cautiously, “There is an interested party, but we have yet to fix a price.”

“And who is this buyer?”

“That should remain—” Silas started to object.

“There can be no harm in divulging his name, Silas. The captain will no doubt be discreet.” Brien gazed at Aaron coolly, making the comment more a command than an observation. “A Dutchman from Philadelphia by the name of Horace Van Zandt is near to making an offer for our entire holdings.”

“Van Zandt?” Aaron seemed surprised and not pleas-antly so.

“You know of him?” Brien was a heartbeat away from raw fury.

Now he had opinions on her business dealings. He was insinuating himself into every blessed aspect of her life!

Whatever had she done to deserve such torture at fate’s hand?

“I know him well enough.” Aaron frowned.

Brien wanted desperately to ignore his opinion and change the subject altogether. But it was clear that his opinion was counted of some worth by her friends and by others well versed in trading.

If she hadn’t pursued it, Silas would have.

“You do not make your acquaintance sound like a happy one.”

“Van Zandt made his money running the blockade during the war. I ran into him when I served as a ship patrolling the New England coast. It is rumored that even now his ships prowl the Caribbean looking for prey.” He scowled, studying the wine in the glass he held. “He played both sides during the war to fatten his own purse. He has no scruples. I can only caution you to see the color of his gold before signing any property over to him.” He looked up and met Brien’s gaze unexpectedly. She couldn’t make herself look away. “I would rather that Weston Trading continue its American trade. This country is growing; the need for goods grows steadily and will make fortunes for merchants with foresight.”

“Tell that to the colonial assemblies,” Brien said, reddening and looking sharply away. “They are the ones who have forced us to this.”

“Give it time.” Aaron gazed at her evenly. “They will come to their senses.”

Helen turned their attention once again to their meal. “Shall we take coffee in the parlor? The seats there are far more comfortable.”

Murmuring agreement, they rose and followed their swaying hostess.

Brien realized that Helen’s face was pale and that she had served coffee but had taken none herself. She had noticed that Helen picked at her food and that her hand periodically went to her middle and lingered there. In a flash, the quirks of her behavior fell into place. She was in labor, but was too polite to spoil the evening. Brien was astounded at her friend’s self-control . . . and at her own ignorance in such matters.

“Helen, who is your midwife?” She deposited her cup on the table and went to put her arms around Helen’s shoulders. “You must come upstairs and we will send for her.”

“W-what?” Silas jumped as if he’d been shot. “Has the t-time come?”

“I fear so.” Helen smiled apologetically.

“Silly goose!” Silas anxiously wrapped her hand in his. “You should have said something!”

“There is plenty of time.” She smiled up into her husband’s concern-lined face. Then a sharp contraction caused her to draw breath in surprise. She clutched her stomach instinctively. “Well, things are moving along. I suppose you’d best fetch Mrs.

O’Grady.”

“But will you be all right until I return?” Silas was ashen as he and Brien helped Helen to her feet and started for the stairs.

Aaron stepped forward. “I can fetch the midwife for you, if you will just tell me where she lives.”

Silas shot a grateful look at him. “The little house at the end of Walpole Street. And do hurry.”

Brien roused the servants and set them to preparing water and linens. Then she helped Helen undress and get into bed while Silas paced outside the room. When Aaron’s knock sounded on the front doors, Silas raced down the stairs to meet him and bustled Mrs. O’Grady straight up to the bedroom. Moments later he entered the drawing room, looking dejected, and asked Aaron to stay and keep him company.

“There doesn’t seem to be much a mere man can do in these things.” He sank into a chair. “This is our fourth and if we had a dozen, I should never get used to it.”

Aaron poured him a brandy and sat down beside him to wait.

BRIEN HAD NEVER felt so inadequate as now when she tried to be useful at this birthing. She had no idea what needed to be done or when help was required. She thanked heaven for Mrs.

O’Grady, who issued orders with military precision and calmly explained the signs and stages to her and the other female members of the household.

Two hours of gradually intensifying pain were followed by a sudden release and Helen almost smiled as she brought forth the baby. Mrs. O’Grady did smile, and her countenance and the atmosphere of the room both changed. The worst was past.

Brien held the baby while the cord was tied and cut, and she realized that she was having difficulty seeing. Emotion filled her throat and eyes as she wiped off the wriggling, squalling baby and then wrapped him snugly in a fresh blanket. The glow in Helen’s face as Brien placed him in her arms for the first time made her seem the most beautiful woman on earth.

The exhilaration of the moment seized Brien so that she trembled, scarcely able to comprehend the wild mix of feelings whirling in her. As she watched mother and baby discovering each other, she felt privileged to have been a small part of such a life-altering event . . . and sensed that one of the lives that had just been altered was hers.

After they bathed Helen and helped her into a fresh nightdress, Brien hurried downstairs to get Silas. Bleary-eyed and coatless, he jumped up at the sight of her.

“You can go to her now, Silas,” Brien told him with a loving smile. “Don’t scowl so. Helen and the baby are both fine.”

Relief spread through his frame and he squeezed Brien’s hands before bounding out of the room. When she turned back she found Aaron staring at her strangely.

“I didn’t know you were still here.” She smiled, inexplicably pleased.

“Silas felt the need for companionship.” He reached for her hand and led her to the settee. “I was happy to oblige.”

She sat down and Aaron brought her a glass of sherry. As she accepted it, their hands touched and a small shock of pleasure raced through her. When he sat down beside her, she felt a rush of warmth and connection to him that she didn’t want to have to explain. She looked up at him with all of her joy and reverence for the experience visible in her unguarded eyes.

“It was wonderful.” Her voice softened. “I’ve never attended at a birthing before. It’s—” She shrugged with wonderment.

“Miraculous?” he offered.

“A good word for it.”

She reached instinctively for his hand and felt him startle at her touch. Before she could withdraw, he had taken her hand between his and raised it to his lips. Moved by her recent encounter with the miracle of birth, she felt drawn to him as never before. She touched his face, tracing the squareness of his jaw as she had done so often in her mind.

“If you could have seen the baby . . . so tiny and helpless. I just wanted to hold and protect him. . . .” She shook her head. “And Helen was so strong and so beautiful. When we put the baby in her arms, I half-expected to hear trumpets sounding from the heavens.”

Aaron chuckled and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. She laid her head on his chest, feeling not the slightest inclination to move. He smelled of soap and brandy—a musky, spicy scent that seemed to fit him. She could feel the drumming of his heart against her cheek and felt her own slowing to match its rhythm. She had never felt such closeness, such intimacy with anyone. He seemed to want to share her very experience and the emotions it stirred in her. Even more amazingly, she wanted to share them with him.

It was some time before they heard Silas’s footsteps on the stairs and broke apart. Brien jumped up shakily, smoothing her dress, and turned to greet him.

“I have another son!” Silas said as he strode in, grinning broadly.

“And he is
beautiful
! Let’s have a brandy to celebrate.”

Brien stole a look at Aaron. He was truly a remarkable man. She wondered if in a lifetime a husband and wife would tire of seeing each other. It didn’t seem so with Silas and Helen.

The drift of her thoughts disturbed her. Too much had happened this night to see it all clearly now. And she was so very tired.

“No, thank you.” She declined the glass Silas offered her. “I cannot or I will spend the night in a chair. Good night, Silas.” She turned to Aaron and extended her hand. “Good night, Aaron.”

Silas studied his companion as Brien quit the room. Something had passed between them; he was sure of it. Helen had said as much, but then she always seemed to know about these things.

He regarded the captain closely as they raised their glasses.

Aaron Durham’s rapt attention to Brien had not been casual desire for a beautiful woman. He was truly smitten. Silas marked that he would give his wise wife her due—in due time.

Seventeen

THE NEXT FEW DAYS were difficult for Aaron, knowing Brien was in the city, conducting business with the likes of Horace Van Zandt, and knowing he had no pretext for involving himself in her business. Worse still, he kept recalling the way she had looked that night in Hastings’s drawing room . . . with her eyes luminous with earthy pleasure and a poignancy to her half-smile that stirred his heart. She had settled into his arms as if she would be content to never move again.

Now each time he thought of that heart-melting contact his chest felt naked and his arms felt empty. It was longing, pure and simple. And it was nothing short of infuriating.

He fled for a few days to New York, hoping to divert such thoughts by raising capital to expand his shipbuilding venture.

But when he met with his friend Harold Caswell and a handpicked cadre of potential investors, he realized that every one of them had served aboard a ship during the war and every one had crossed paths—if not swords—with Horace Van Zandt.

At the end of the war for independence, people had been anxious to put the conflict behind them and were loath to ask questions about the Dutchman’s suspiciously lucrative wartime activities.

Perhaps, Aaron suggested to Harold and the others, it would be good to have some documentation of Horace Van Zandt’s double-dealing activities. They agreed.

Thus as he collected funds for a new ship, he also collected affidavits and ship’s logs showing that Van Zandt’s much-improved fortunes were the result of the way he had fleeced both England and the colonies at every turn. The question of what Aaron could do with that proof, however, was far from answered. Brien was more likely to be furious than grateful if he produced it . . . would be sure he did it to prove she wasn’t capable of conducting her own business.

Successful beyond his expectations, but no closer to achieving what was becoming the core of his desires, he returned to Boston to arrange construction space in a local shipyard, materials, and workmen.

It was at the end of a long day of meeting with shipwrights, strakers, sail makers, and riggers that he stopped at a tavern called The Golden Spar near the waterfront. Seated alone at a small table in the corner, he watched the flow of the trade as he waited for his food and nursed a tankard of good ale.

The service seemed too slow to meet the satisfaction of two burly patrons, backwoodsmen from the look of their rough deerskin shirts and wrapped leggings. They pounded their empty mugs against the planking table and the tavernkeeper disappeared behind a tattered curtain and returned with a serving wench, shoving her ahead of him.

“Get to it ’fore I lay you flat,” he growled, brandishing a fist.

The young woman’s carriage was erect, her dark hair was pulled back into a long, thick plait, and she seemed cleaner than most tavern wenches. As she approached, one of the woodsmen laughed drunkenly and grabbed for her with both arms. She pulled back in the nick of time, and he went sprawling on the floor. The trapper’s companion howled with laughter, but he came up red-faced and sputtering.