JoAnn Wendt Page 23

  Flavia glanced at Dennis. He shook his head.

  Mr. Gresham signaled and the wedding procession moved forward. It was as awkward an assortment of wedding guests as Flavia had ever seen, bondservants on foot, tavernkeepers on their mules, well-dressed gentry in landaus, in chariots, on handsomely saddled horses or carried in Negro-borne sedan chairs. The retinue surged forward, tight-lipped and ill at ease.

  Flavia had to smile ruefully at Betsy Simm’s stubborn loyalty. Betsy would not marry, she’d told Mr. Gresham, unless she could marry in St. Paul's and invite her friends to the celebration. Mr. Gresham had given in, and Flavia suspected the gentry would never forgive Betsy for this untidy mix of guests. They would have forgiven her for marrying into their ranks if she’d done so quietly and with decorum. She was, after all, the daughter of an earl and titled by birthright.

  For some twenty minutes they sauntered along in the chill November sunshine, chaises rattling ahead, an occasional wheel squeaking. Finally Flavia heard the distant sound of pounding hooves. Riders broke over the crest in the road. Flavia’s hand tightened on Dennis’s arm.

  “Is it Jimmy?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Shouting to the carriage driver to stop, Betsy jumped up, squealing in excitement, her hands clapped to her mouth. The winning rider came charging like thunder, bottle hoisted high in one hand, the bottle’s gay ribbons streaming in the wind like the gold and scarlet banner of an ancient knight.

  “Jimmy!” Betsy squealed.

  Thundering up to the retinue, Jimmy Barlow jerked his horse to a halt, leaped down and pushed his way through the crowd to the wedding carriage.

  He grinned, his white teeth flashing.

  “My prize, Mrs. Gresham?

  Betsy giggled. She stooped to give him a chaste kiss on the mouth. But he’d tossed the beribboned bottle to a friend, and with a quick unexpected movement, he grabbed Betsy round the waist and swung her up and out of the carriage. Betsy shrieked in shock, and the crowd gasped its astonishment.

  Mr. Gresham jumped up.

  “Here, now. Stop, I say. Stop!” the elderly bridegroom stormed as his young wife’s petticoats went flying and a silk-stockinged leg flashed.

  From atop his horse, Mr. Byng joined in.

  “Mongrel! Cur. Stop, we say. What God hath joined together —”

  Jimmy Barlow paid no attention. He set Betsy on her feet. He drew her into his arms. He kissed her soundly and with obvious enjoyment as a shocked buzzing rippled through the crowd. It was a long kiss, and when they parted, the moistness of their young lips attested to the intimacy of it. Flavia swallowed hard, her eyes misting. The kiss had been sweet and fervent, carrying her back to what she’d shared with Garth. She remembered his strong warm arms sheltering her. She remembered his thrilling kisses, his tongue seeking hers.

  Without meaning to, Flavia clutched Dennis’s arm. He looked down at her. But whatever he saw in her misty eyes must have given him pain, for he looked quickly away.

  In the carriage, Mr. Gresham stood stiffly, his face red with rage under his white powdered wig.

  “Elizabeth! Get into the carriage at once.”

  Apoplectic, Ira Gresham tore at the carriage door latch, finally flinging the door back with a loud bang that shied the horses and rocked the carriage. “Get in!” he repeated.

  As Flavia watched, the soft joyous happiness faded from Betsy’s face. She jerked herself from Jimmy’s arms, put a hard bright smile on her face and jumped up into the carriage.

  The incident provided more grist for the gossip mill, and the mill eagerly began to grind. Trailing along in the dusty rear of the party, Flavia unhappily caught bits of it.

  “Indecent. Everyone knows what she’s been to that oaf, Jimmy Barlow!”

  “How could Ira Gresham wed such a tramp?”

  “They say his grown children are livid. Imagine burying a mother one-week and greeting a stepmother the next!”

  “Mind you, there’s always a reason for haste. But I think I can count to ‘nine’ as well as anyone else in Kent County.”

  “Is it true that now we must call her Lady Elizabeth?”

  Angrily, Flavia shut her ears to the sniping. Her loyalty lay with Betsy. And even with Jimmy Barlow. Crude ruffian that he was, he’d done his bit to cover Mary Wooster’s escape.

  Within the carved and paneled splendor of Gresham Manor, the bride’s receiving party proved to be as awkward and stiff as Flavia had feared. Guests gathered in two camps, a large no-man’s-land of polished ballroom floor between them. Hostility bristled from each camp.

  In deference to the scarcely departed Mrs. Gresham, there was no music, no dancing. But buffet tables sent out tantalizing aromas of plum pudding, buttered smoked oysters and all manner of delicacies. Wine, ale and rum toddy bowls abounded.

  While most of the lower class huddled like sheep, scared to sample food or drink lest they spill, the upper class began to celebrate with haughty confidence. Begrudgingly, they paid their respects to the bride, and Betsy’s clear gay voice rose above the rest.

  “It is Lady Elizabeth,” she said with crisp maliciousness, correcting a guest who’d addressed her merely as “Mrs. Gresham.”

  Flavia and Dennis exchanged looks of amusement. Across the ballroom Betsy clung demurely to the velvet-jacketed arm of her haughty bridegroom. But with each sip of wine, her glance flew more boldly across the room to Jimmy Barlow, who stood amused and drinking at the rum toddy bowl.

  Betsy’s hand pulled from the velvet sleeve. Her heels clicked over the empty expanse of no-man’s-land. Rich satin swooshed against Flavia’s green lutestring silk gown as Betsy linked arms with her.

  “Stroll with me, Jane,” she commanded, disguising her intent. Flavia demurred, but she was drawn along. By a circuitous route Betsy made her way toward the laughter at the toddy bowl. Jimmy Barlow’s laughter died as Betsy suddenly stood before him, a ravishing dark-eyed gypsy, her lovely bosom rising and falling as she looked up at him.

  He stared at her and she at him. Flavia could almost feel the regret that flowed between them. They were unsuited and yet they loved each other. Her heart melted with sympathy. To know love and then to lose it—wasn’t that life’s greatest sorrow?

  As though he could stand no more, Jimmy Barlow rudely turned his back on Betsy and flirted with the tavernkeeper’s daughter. Betsy’s lips trembled, but immediately she gave her dark glossy curls a toss. With a forced gay laugh, Betsy tugged at Flavia’s arm, drawing her across the polished ballroom floor toward the gentry.

  “No, Betsy—please!”

  But it was useless, and she was suddenly very glad she’d cut material from the deep hem of the green lutestring gown, fashioning silk rosettes to cover the patches Raven McNeil had so made fan of the night of the Tate ball. She knew she needn’t be ashamed of her appearance. With Mrs. Byng still gone to her sister, she’d managed a tub bath, washing her hair and brushing it dry before Mrs. Byng’s mirror. Her hair was shiny and clean, its color a deep wine red that spilled to her shoulders and framed her bosom. Her cheeks and lips felt rosy from the long walk in nippy air. Glances from the gentry confirmed what she knew. She looked pretty. Only Mr. Byng’s glance was not an admiring one. He scowled, throwing a look that commanded her to stay on the other side of the room with the bondslaves. But she couldn’t. Betsy grasped her arm firmly, drawing her along.

  She endured Betsy’s introductions, feeling comfortable only when she met the Tates. The large Tate family was as friendly and unpretentious as Dennis had described them. She was delighted to meet Maryann Tate. The eighteen-year-old wasn’t a beauty, but she had a sweet eager manner. She would make Raven a good wife. And, she thought with sadness, Maryann would make Garth a sweet, kind sister-in-law.

  The eldest Tate son, a young man just returned from studies at Oxford, invited Flavia to stroll the ballroom. She couldn’t refuse. As she drifted off on William Tate’s arm, Mr. Byng glared at her disapprovingly.

  Following in the
wake of other couples, she and the young man politely reviewed the ballroom portraits, admired the marble mantelpieces and viewed the distant vista of the Chester River from each of the tall front windows. Conversation went naturally to Maryann’s wedding, and Flavia plucked up her courage to inquire, tremulously, if Captain Garth McNeil would attend the wedding. He would, William Tate assured her. Flavia’s knees grew wobbly,

  “You are highborn,” he said suddenly. “Like Betsy Gresham.” Flavia jerked, startled.

  “No! No, sir. I—I—once served as maid in a duke’s house.”

  “Where?” he asked, smiling in mild curiosity.

  She’d not expected him to press. Her mind whirled. Glasses tinkled against wine bottles, voices rose in the ballroom as wine and rum toddy did their work, loosening tongues. Her hesitation had brought a quizzical look to his face. “Tewksbury Hall,” she blurted, her mind a sudden blank.

  He smiled, nodding.

  “I’ve been there.”

  She felt faint. He drew her along to the next window and considered the sheep-cropped lawn that rolled gently down to the Chester River. He was done with the subject of Tewksbury, jumping in about this year’s tobacco harvest. She hardly listened. Trembling with eagerness, she knew she should leave the subject of Tewksbury closed. But she had to know. Had to find out.

  “Then you’ve met His Grace?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “What?” He swung an odd look at her, as though they occupied separate worlds. “What? Oh, the duke of Tewksbury? Yes. And I have met Her Grace.”

  “Her Grace?”

  Shock exploded in her brain like wood splinters flying from the woodcutter’s ax.

  He smiled pleasantly. “I believe the duke’s last wife died of some ghastly disease. Smallpox, if you will. His Grace married his late wife’s sister, Valentina.”

  “Oh!”

  It was an utter shock. She stared at the floor, trying to take it in. Valentina! She felt a surge of terror for her sister. Oh, Valentina, be careful! But relief galloped in on terror’s heels. If the duke had married Valentina, then her family was still safe, well provided for. Her younger sisters were assured a good future. Mother and Papa were secure. She drew a steadying breath. Valentina had been a doting, loving aunt to Robert. She would mother him, love him.

  “See here, are you ill, Bondslave Brown? If you’re ill I will escort you to a chair.”

  Flavia jerked her head up.

  “Oh. Oh, no. I’m not ill.”

  He smiled in relief, drew her along and plunged into a discourse on tobacco. They’d almost circled the room. Circle completed, courtesy would demand they part, and William Tate would invite another young female guest to stroll. She dragged her feet. Her opportunity to ask more, to ask about her baby, was fast vanishing. She gulped air to steady herself.

  “The duke’s son,” she uttered softly, unable to say more without losing control.

  “What? Oh, yes. A pity, wasn’t it?” He veered from the subject. “I should consider it an honor if you will allow me to call upon you at the Byngs.”

  He waited for her answer. She stared up at him, frozen dumb. A pity? Robert? Raw fear coursed through her. Her hands turned to ice. She was terrified to know. More terrified not to know.

  Her lips were wood. “The marquis?”

  William Tate blinked his bewilderment.

  “Oh, that. Yes. A tragedy. The child was sent to live in Germany. He drowned in the Rhine River in August.” He smiled sympathetically. “May I call on Tuesday next, Miss Brown?”

  She stared at him. Not comprehending, then fighting comprehension, she shook her head.

  “No. No!”

  He smiled uncertainly.

  “Perhaps Wednesday?”

  Beside herself with shock and horror, she whirled from him. She stumbled to the center of the room, drifted there without feet, with legs gone numb. The silver chandelier above her head began to spin slowly. She reached out, seeking something to hold on to. The room spun. Turquoise brocade, saffron silk, parrot green velvet, ivory fans, lace, and bondslave muslin spun round her like the streamers of a child’s Fair Day stick. Colors whirled dizzily, madly, fast, faster, closing in. The floor lurched up, crashing against her hip and an instant later, her head.

  She fell into merciful darkness.

  * * * *

  “Your drunkenness is a disgrace! A blot on my good name,” Mr. Byng raved. “All of Chestertown will speak of it. ‘She drank herself into a swoon,’ they will say. They will laugh behind my back, saying the Reverend Byng employs a wanton, drunken chit!”

  Flavia sat collapsed at the kitchen table. She’ sobbed in grief, her arms abandoned upon the table, her cheek resting upon the rough wood. Dead. Her bright-eyed darling baby was dead. All that sweetness gone.

  “What have you to say for yourself, Jane?” Mr. Byng demanded, his boots stridently pounding the oak floor planks as he paced.

  She made no response. She couldn’t. She couldn’t stop sobbing, even though the deep muscles of her stomach hurt from the endless, wrenching sobs. Dead. Dead since August. She had rejoiced on his second birthday in September, and all the while he had been dead. Dead.

  “Speak,” Mr. Byng ordered, bending over her and shaking her. She pulled away. The odor of his bad tooth flowed to her, melding with the salty taste of her tears, making her gag.

  She didn’t remember how she got back to the Byngs’. Vaguely, she recalled Dennis Finny’s drawn, worried face. Vaguely, she recalled William Tate and Dennis lifting her up to Mr. Byng, upon Mr. Byng’s horse. The funereal clop of hooves. The strong equine smell. Dazed, she’d heard none of Mr. Byng’s irate lecture. She was sobbing when he’d pushed her into the house. Her sobs had upset Neddy. He’d begun to bawl, babbling, “Jane—uh, uh—Jane hurt—”

  “Fool!” Mr. Byng had thundered at Neddy. “Tend to my horse. Get to the barn and stay there.” Neddy had scurried to obey.

  The fire crackled on the hearth, radiating waves of warmth, but she felt no warmth. She was cold as a stone. Still ranting, Mr. Byng thrust a cup of steaming tea at her. Its fragrance made her gag. She rolled her head away, too grief-laden to lift her head.

  “Go to bed,” he said in disgust,

  She tried to find her feet, but could not. Irritably, he pulled her up, stripped off her cloak and pushed her toward the loft where she slept. She stumbled numbly to the loft ladder.

  “You’re too drunk to climb the ladder,” he snapped. With an angry push, he shoved her toward Neddy’s sleeping pallet by the fire. She fell upon it, curling up into a ball of grief. The pallet smelled of barn. The worn sheet covering it was as cold as ice water. Water. Oh, God! She saw her baby. In her aching numbness she felt his bewildered shock as the cold Rhine River closed over his head. She saw the bright happy eyes go wild with fear. Tiny hands clawed. She felt the torture of the first lungful of water, the tormented gasp for air. His baby-fine hair swirling in the dark waters as he fought.

  God. Oh, God.

  She gagged at the vision, sobbing and curling into a tighter ball. The vision tormented her, freezing her to ice and then burning her with hellish, feverish heat. She twisted and turned, unable to sleep. She bit her lip to keep the vision at bay and scarcely noticed when Mr. Byng retired, casting a long last hot look at her.

  She burned with thirst as a sleepless hour crept by. Dragging herself up, she stumbled to the water bucket. She drew the shaking dipper to her mouth with two hands. Her throat was too choked to swallow. Water trickled onto her crushed, ruined gown.

  She shivered. She was suddenly cold again, cold as stone. Dizzy, she found her cloak and pulled it on. A door creaked open on hinges that cried for oiling. Dully, she turned toward Mr. Byng’s bedchamber and his door opened.

  He stood there, still fully dressed, glowering, his face crimson with anger in the firelight.

  “So. I caught you, you red-haired bitch. Not too drunk to sneak out of the house, eh? Who waits out there for you, eh? A man?”

&
nbsp; Too grieved to understand, she could only stare at him. He thrust an accusing finger at her, wagging it at the cloak she wore.

  “Brazen chit! I watched you play your charms upon young William Tate. So you planned to shame me by feigning drunkenness, did you? And then sneak out to meet him?”

  She shook her head, understanding not a word. Robert. . . her sweet baby son. Like a predator, her master lowered his head and stalked toward her. Softly. His boots noiseless.

  Fear knifed through her numbing fog.

  “Mr. Byng,” she whispered, backing away. “Please, sir—”

  Alert now, she saw what she’d been oblivious to as she rode home in his angry arms. His face was flushed, highly colored and puffed with passion. As she stared, his hooded eyes closed, snakelike.

  “You shan’t wait for the whipping post,” he whispered in a thick, shaking voice. “You shall be whipped this instant. Go to my bedchamber. Prepare yourself.”

  She gasped, fear exploding like musket shot. She tensed. His words were a lie. She knew it. Knew he did not intend to whip her. Knew exactly what he intended. Whirling in panic, she flew for the door. But he caught her, grabbing her wrist, twisting it, wrenching it until she fell against him. She struck out wildly and a chair clattered over, hitting the floor with a loud bang.

  “Submit, Jane.”

  He pawed her, trying to kiss her. Her feet went out from under her. She struggled to get her balance, stiff with fright, trying not to breathe in the foul odor of his breath.

  “No,” she cried out. “Let me go!”

  But he was beyond reason. He tried to kiss her again. She tore out of his arms with a scream. He slapped her silent, a great crashing crack on the cheek. The blow sent her reeling. She fell to her knees, cradling her burning face in her palms.

  Aroused by the violence, he seized both of her wrists. He dragged her to his bedchamber. She broke free with one hand and clawed at the doorframe, trying to hold on. She felt her fingernails split to the quick as he wrenched her through the door.

  She sobbed in pain and terror.

  “Please—I beg—don’t—”

  She managed to lunge away, reeling into the bedpost. She grabbed it, clinging to it as though to life itself.