The Maidenhead (19 page)

"Through expressing our love for both the servant and the master, the red man and the white, the commoner and the aristocrat.”

“Oh!" She felt like stamping her foot. “Your nobility is too much to suffer!"

"And between the puritan and the sophisticate," he continued, unperturbed, then lowered his head over hers and kissed the rounded O of her mouth.

When he released her, her fingertips flew to her lips. "You kissed me," she mumbled in astonishment.

His smile was gently mocking. "Aye. Even puritans are capable of expressing affection.”

Affection? She wanted unbridled lovemaking, as wild as the new land itself.

Reluctantly, she let her footsteps follow along with his as he walked on to the gunsmith’s house. Mistress Mercer greeted them at the door. She held an arthritic finger to her lips. "The husband is already asleep," she whispered.

Patrick nodded and led Clarissa on through the darkened house to the small anteroom where their bed was barely large enough for one.

In the dark, she and Patrick changed into shift and nightshirt, much as they did at home. But when they climbed into bed, there was no empty space as in their own bed.

Forced to lie on their sides, they faced the wall in the time-honored spoon fashion. His breath stirred the tendrils of hair that had escaped her nightcap. She was acutely aware of his larger thighs supporting her own, his left arm draped negligently across her waist, and, most of all, that fleshy scepter that proclaimed itself most prominently.

She had never seen a man naked, and her imagination dueled with her curiosity. "Patrick, I feel cramped. I need to turn over.”

Wordlessly, he shifted, and she found herself facing his broad back. One bent arm cradling her head, she wrapped her other arm, almost carelessly, around his midsection. Her hand touched a long ridge just below.

He tensed.

She left her hand there.

His breathing quickened.

Slowly, gradually, her fingers closed over the ridge, measuring its thickness through his nightshirt. Marveling, she let her fingers follow its length.

She wasn’t certain, but she thought that he made a low noise. It was a rusty sound like that of a gate hinge grating somewhere in the distance.

Her hand slipped beneath his nightshirt to encounter hard flesh.

This time, she was certain that the noise he made was a groan.

It didn’t stop her. With excitement zephyring through her, she grasped his shaft which seemed to throb with a life of its own. From exploring, her fingers turned to caressing.

She took perverse pleasure in hearing his low, mumbled words. "Oh, God, Clarissa. Please.”

“Aye." She had finally made her mild husband lose control!

But her entertainment was short-lived when he rolled over suddenly, pinning her beneath him. "What—!”

His hand clapped over her mouth. “Sssh."

His hand still silencing her, he pushed her nightrail up to her waist. With great care, he placed himself at the entrance to her maidenhead. She gasped against his palm.

"Sssh," he said again. "The gunsmith's good wife will hear thee."

He hesitated, and she feared that his common sense would be restored. She goaded him further. As if by accident, her tongue stole out and licked the center of his palm.

"God help me!” He prodded that thin wall of resistance, saying, "I fear I am lost to the clamor of my senses!"

With that he thrust inside her. Whatever pain she felt was overcome by a great burst of pleasure as he continued his long, rhythmic strokes. Later, when they both lay spent, he whispered, "Forgive me, Clarissa."

Her cheek upon his sleek chest, she smiled in the darkness. Until he muttered, ‘"Twill not happen again. I swear I'll abide by your decision if it means keeping you forever.”

Why couldn’t he fight for her love?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mad Dog sprawled in the wainscot chair. A direct descendant of medieval thrones, it was made for dignity, not comfort. Everything was uncomfortable in the small house he rented from John Smith, who was presently mapping the Somers Islands that some were calling Bermuda. "You refused to go to the public ball last night, so why this?”

Modesty, still in her nightrail that early in the morning, ran a boar-bristle brush through her tousled hair that did not quite reach her shoulders. With her slender hips, she would have made an enchanting boy—were it not for her small, pert breasts. Neither they nor her stomach gave any indication that she was with child. He had taken himself a woman whose womb was as barren as his heart.

She peered at him from beneath her upraised arm. "Why would I want to mingle with the very people who wanted to burn me?”

“Yet you want to go to Market Square today."

Her bewitching eyes glanced to the window, where the shutters had been thrown back to let in the morning breeze off the river. “Aye. Polly, Rose, Annie, Clarissa—all the women transported with me will be there."

He watched her over his pyramided fingertips. "You wouldn’t think of sailing with the
Maidenhead
on this evening’s tide, would you now?" he drawled in an offhanded manner.

She turned wide eyes on him. "Why would I do that? We made a pact, didn’t we?"

“You are an endless source of amusement, Modesty.”

She eyed him through narrowed lids. "Wot do yew mean?”

“You could have gone to the trouble to unpack your valise. After all, we're going to be here a full week." He canted his head. "Unless you didn’t plan on staying.”

“I don’t understand wot yew’re talking about."

“Mayhaps you’ll understand this—that the
Maidenhead
sailed this morning—on my instructions."

"Yew knew! Yew—" Beyond self-control, she hurled the brush at him.

He ducked. It glanced off the chair’s paneled back, and he laughed at her furious expression.

She flung herself at him. "Yew scurvy clod-skulled arse! Yew bloody piss-bowl of an oaf! I could—!"

"Ought, ought, Modesty,” he reproved, trying to subdue her flailing fists.

When that didn’t work, he threw her across his knee and hitched up her nightrail. The magical half light of an August dawn lent a rosy tone to her buttocks that he couldn’t resist. He slapped the delightfully curved bottom with the flat of his hand.

Her answering scream was more from rage than the pain left by his reddened handprint. "Yew bugger, yew—"

His hand clapped one rounded cheek and stayed there. “Is that what you prefer? To be buggered?"

She tried to wriggle free, and when he held her fast, she screeched, "Better that horror than the other—to conceive by yew!"

Abruptly, he stood, dumping her unceremoniously on the floor. "I am late for the assembly.” He watched her scramble nimbly to her feet, her eyes flashing fury, then said, "Try to make yourself presentable by the time the courts adjourn for dinner."

Mad Dog forced himself to put aside his disgust with his marital situation and turned his attention to the General Assembly. For one purpose only, he sat through tedious debates concerning competition with the superior Spanish tobacco, the planters’ resentment about marketing their tobacco by way of the Company when they might do better on the open market, and grumbling over the Indian menace.

Throughout the session that day, Mad Dog studied his formidable opponent, the burgess member sitting diagonally to his left.

The private plantations had presented a tricky problem to the Company. They represented the investment of influential men, the sort the Company wanted to attract to Virginia but also the sort who would bristle at interference in their affairs. To solve this, the plantations employing both bondservants and tenants were allowed their own representative in the House of Burgesses.

Richard Radcliff was now by far the most influential planter in the colony. And a burgess member. At every turn, every discussion, every vote, the man sought to improve the status of Radcliff Manor.

Mad Dog knew that he had guessed aright about the chink in Radcliff s self-satisfied armor. And it was within Mad Dog's means, or would be when Holloway returned from England, to bring down Radcliff s estate as easily as toppling a house of cards.

He wanted to see the man sweat blood, he wanted to see the man lose what he valued above all else—as he himself had.

Chapter Seventeen

Strange, Rose thought. Home was over two thousand miles away, more than a year and a half in the past. And yet, here she sat, once more carding wool.

She added another small bunch of wool between the thickly wired teeth of her two paddles and began rubbing them back and forth. These days the grinding noise set her own teeth on edge.

She glanced at Bart and Isaac, snuggled beneath the goose down blanket. October’s howling, freezing wind warranted a fire that evening, and Walter had stepped out to the woodshed to return with another armful of logs.

The door banged shut behind him. Chilly air slithered along the floor. “Gonna be sn—snow by morning. I should have kno—known to expect an early snowfall. The hornets built their nest higher than usual this year.”

"And I was planning on making apple butter tomorrow." It was a chore better suited for outdoors.

"Lucky for us, some Powhattans st—stopped by to sell us the two turkeys they killed." He knelt to lay two logs on the andirons. "We won’t have to lo—look to our larder.”

"Aye, but I still feel uneasy around them, Walter.”

"’Tis just that ti-time of year again that makes you feel that way." He brushed the dirt and bits of bark from his spindly fingers. “But I te—tell you, Rose, those Indians who kid—kidnapped you at this time last year were just renegades."

“True,” she conceded. "The Indians are being unusually friendly.” She paused in carding long enough to lean over the wicker cradle and tuck the blanket more securely around little Jack.

"Rose.”

She glanced up at his thin, anxious face on a level with hers. "Aye?"

"I’ve never asked you about your pa—past, have I? About the child you carried when we mar—married.”

"No, Walter.” She leaned over and smoothed into place the thin wisps of hair across his smooth pate. He smelled of earth and sweat and new-sawn wood. “And I am verily grateful for that kindness. 'Oo are a good man.”

She had been especially proud of him at the meeting of the burgesses two months earlier. With only a few stutters, he had argued persuasively against the Crown's right to end the Company's seven-year exemption from English import duties.

He looked down, as if concentrating on brushing the scattered wood chips toward the hearth, and mumbled, "The child, Jack, is it that man’s you danced with at the Sta—State Hall?"

She set aside her carding panels and took his face between her two hands. "Dearest, I didn't know Jack until the day he . . . saved me life."

She could feel the tense muscles in his jaws relax. "I just wanted to know."

"I understand. There is something, too, I would like to know."

She hesitated, and he prompted her with an "Aye?”

"Are 'oo still in love with your first wife?" She was weary of being nice, of being patient. She couldn’t carry on a one-sided marriage—no, wouldn't. It was up to Walter to take some initiative.

Blank astonishment yanked up his sparse brows. "Martha?”

She nodded solemnly. She had to know. She firmly believed that when one faced the worst, one could deal with it. It was the unknown that was so frightening.

He grinned. “Martha was a scold. I would have se—set her on the ducking stool had I the courage.”

"But 'oo said . . . once ’oo told me that in bed were the times 'oo liked the best.”

He flushed. "That’s because in the dark I found it easier to ta-talk.”

Of course, it made sense. She still had one more question. “We've been married over a year now. I’m no longer with child. Why haven’t ’oo. ...” Now it was her turn to blush.

He sifted dead ashes through his fingers. “I di-didn’t know if you would welcome . . . if you would like .  ..”

Her anger surprised her. “I think ’tis time ’oo found out." There, she felt better having challenged him. Anger didn’t have to mean she didn't love him or that he wouldn’t love her.

He came rapidly to his feet. He glanced around, took in the three sleeping boys.

She had been so intense, so intent on resolving her problem that she had all but forgotten the boys. “Where—where can we—?"

He grinned, then blushed from his prominent Adam’s apple up past his cheekbones, all the way across his balding pate. "Ever made love in a wood—woodshed?"

“Large flakes at first, the storm will last; small flakes at first, it’ll be over fast."

“When a dog howls at the moon in winter, it is a sign of snow.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At first, the folklore of the Henrico people had seemed ridiculous to Clarissa, but now she was learning to give some credit to local superstition. The snow was falling fast and thick, obliterating the parishioners’ tracks before they even closed the door behind them. Appropriate for Christmas Day. Against the cold, she was wearing a red velvet cloak with fur lining and a beaver muff.

Despite the blustery weather, the pews were rapidly filling for the Christmas service. Though church attendance was compulsory, few people wanted to stay away. Quite aside from its spiritual purpose, the church was the community source of mental stimulus, of gossip, of news, and of drama.

Patrick mounted the small flight of steps to the pulpit. Above his head was a wooden canopy, for a sounding board. He began, as he always did, with a reading from the King James version of the Bible.

“ 'Then Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife: And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son.' ”

He raised his eyes from the printed page, and his gaze impounded hers. She felt a rising heat that was quickly subdued by the sudden gust of frigid wind that entered the church.

All faces turned toward the double doors at the back of the room. A solitary soul stood framed against the dreary winter sunlight. Snow-flecked wind lashed his black hooded cape about his slender body. The man carried a gold-banded Malacca cane, and he was dressed with a wonderful sense of grace, his style favoring softer materials such as satin, velvet, and silk.

“Nigel!” Clarissa gasped, rising from her pew. The room had grown fiercely hot. He had to be aware of the drama he was creating.

He strode down the aisle toward her in his indolent fashion. He was in fact languid by nature, though she knew that horse racing and cockfights could excite him. A single gold earring gleamed against his curling black locks. He took her numbed fingers in his gauntleted hands. “I promised you I would cross the world for you, my lady.”

She had never lost her conviction that he would do so.

And yet...for so long, she had been awaiting a rescue. Expecting a magician to make everything right again, to restore the highborn heiress to her rightful place in society. She had known she was being extremely self-indulgent, but she had been brought up to believe firmly that she got everything she wanted, even compromises.

Not a person stirred in the tiny church. She glanced up at Patrick, then back at Nigel. "I have married," she whispered. “The Reverend Dartmouth."

For a fraction of a second, he looked stricken. Yet his lordly confidence did not crumble. He was everything and more her memory had promised. Flamboyant. Vital. Virile. His features were beautifully chiseled, his skin ivory.

"I see.” His gaze traveled to the pulpit, to the man also dressed in black. White deep cuffs and a white bibbed clerical collar contended with crimson sash and gloves. "An ocean could not stop me, my lady. Neither can a few words mumbled under pressure. Money can buy an annulment, especially considering the past circumstances.”

Clarissa swallowed. Her gaze flew to Patrick. His features were unreadable.

She looked back at Nigel. His eyes were impassioned. "Choose,” he told her.

"I... I... ” She shook her head. “This is all too soon for me to think clearly, Nigel!"

He searched her face, trusting it to memory or looking for hope that her indecisiveness might be swayed in his favor. “In order to reach you, I obtained permission to represent the East India Company at the Virginia Company’s quarter court session to be held in March in Jamestown." He bowed low. “Till then . . . enjoy the days full well, my lady.”

Somehow she got through the Christmas services. After that, the winter days passed tediously. Patrick did not attempt to dissuade or persuade her, and for this she cursed him. He was so vacuous in his feelings.

And yet, she was vacillating in her own. To remain in the colony was to give up hope of a life of refinement, of riches, of ease. Plantation life was so limited. Never would she have the opportunity to read daily gazettes; no operas or masquerades to look forward to.

What was there for her in this far-flung wilderness outpost?

Nigel loved her passionately.

Day after day, her mind waged both sides of the tortuous argument like some silent chess battle. Her emotions were a tiny boat on a storm-tossed ocean.

January gave way to February and the first signs that spring was not far off. Denuded trees sprouted tiny knobs that would soon unfurl. Shoots of green blades poked between the dead leaves of winter that speckled the ground.

One day late in February Clarissa sat outside, warming herself on the hickory bench secluded in the grape arbor.  The rustle of leaves underfoot announced a visitor, and she half turned her head to see Patrick. For six weeks now they had shared only the most superficial of conversations. "You have finished with writing Sunday’s sermon?” she asked.

“Almost.” He flipped out the skirt of his cassock-style coat and took a seat on the bench. "The time draws nigh."

"Aye. I know." They both understood of what he spoke. She waited. At long last, was he going to discuss the plight of their marriage? Would he plead with her to stay? Or tell her he had decided to release her from her vows?

“I have not spoken to thee much of my family"

Her eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t going to discuss genealogy at a time like this!

He gestured toward the sprigs of grass poking here and there through the dirt. “My mother loved to garden almost as much as she loved to read the Bible. I suppose that is why I love flowers.

“For the purpose of passing on wisdom, Mother often felt it necessary to construct a parable in plants. Once, when I was facing a difficult decision as a very young man, she laid down two paths. The first meandered aimlessly and was bordered by heavy-scented, almost decadent blooms. At the end was the plant, bleeding heart. The second, straight and narrow and hemmed in by primroses, led to a jack-in-the-pulpit. The message was not lost on me.”

He rose. Could it be? His hazel eyes, were they actually brimming with compassion for her? Her, a highborn heiress? “Well, my writing awaits me. Fare thee well, mistress.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Early one morning in mid March, Mad Dog was splitting wood. The chore took him out of the cabin. He felt too large for it. He needed to work off his excess energy—and his concern. Holloway should have been back soon after the first of year and here it was, the day before Good Friday.

With each swing of his axe. Mad Dog reviewed the facts. They were unpleasant. He had invested time, money, and faith in an enterprise that was not going to bring about its purpose— avenging Christopher’s death. Mad Dog had to stare at his botched ambition. Radcliff had evaded retribution. Meanwhile, Ant Hill, laboring under reduced funds, was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

At that moment, Modesty stepped barefoot from the cabin door. Arching her back, she curled her arms up and out and stretched languorously.

His axe, sharp enough to shave with, stopped in its upward path. To him, she looked like some satisfied feline. Sunlight filtered through her threadbare nightrail. All her feminine attributes were accentuated in gauzy relief.

Desire blazed through him like one of those fires that periodically ignited London—showers of burning sparks, molten lead running in scorching torrents, stones exploding from the intense heat and sounding like cannon fire.

"Put something on. You look like a strumpet."

"Well, well, another fine day."

His riven wood lay forgotten at his feet. "You let the fire go out last night," he growled.

She yawned, then said, ‘"Tis of little consequence."

"Oh?” He braced his hands on the axe handle.  "Do you want to tell me why?"

She smiled cheerfully and ran her hands through her mass of hair to rustle loose its tangles. “We leave shortly for Henrico. We can start a new fire when we return.”

He had forgotten that he had agreed to attend Dartmouth’s Good Friday sermon. The last thing he wanted to hear was another sermon. He felt a meanness boiling in his brain. “What makes you think you will accompany me?"

Across the distance, she squinted at him askance. "Why wouldn’t I? I am yewr wife."

"A fact I am well aware of. Which is why I want you here until you are with child. My son.”

"Wot?”

His laugh was low and nasty. "After all, how can I trust a woman of your repute?"

Her hands curled into claws, she charged toward him. He dropped the axe handle and caught her wrists. He held her at a distance, rendering her blows ineffectual.