Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  His daughter ventured a smile, but it was frail and unconvincing.

  “Good heavens!” Shemus blustered, fearing the worst. “The girl has taken leave of her senses!”

  “Just how big is this Potts anyway?” Camille asked tremulously.

  Shemaine chewed her bottom lip worriedly as she turned her eyes askance. It was terribly difficult to meet her mother’s anxious gaze while she was trying to hedge on her reply. “Large, I think.”

  Shemus certainly didn’t care for her cautious reply. “Just how large might this man be, daughter?”

  “Were you able to meet Sly Tucker?” Shemaine queried tensely, fervently hoping they hadn’t.

  “Oh, noooo!” Camille moaned, clapping a quivering hand across her mouth.

  A roar of rage came from Shemus. “Did it ever occur ta ye, daughter, that such a man might have killed ye on the spot?”

  Having the time of her life, Mary Margaret answered in Shemaine’s stead. “Oh, the big lummox tried, but his handsome self, Mr. Thornton, went chargin’ ta her rescue. Kicked the mudsucker inta the street, he did!”

  “I’m going inside,” Camille declared faintly. “I’ve had more than I can abide for one day. And may I never have another like it.”

  Shemaine heaved a sigh, thankful the worst of her parents’ grilling had passed.

  “This bloody wilderness is ta blame!” Shemus muttered disagreeably as he followed his distressed wife. “She should come back home with us! On the first ship that sails to England!”

  Their entrance into the cabin seemed to encourage a like response from the servants and elders, leaving the twins and the Marquess standing on the porch and Shemaine in front of the steps leading to it.

  Maurice peered down at Shemaine, having been thoroughly delighted by her escapade. “I always thought you had it in you to turn a man on his ear, Shemaine. It gives me great satisfaction to know that I was right about you all along.”

  “I think she’s wonderful!” Gabrielle chimed in, yet she was most inquisitive about the relationship between the Marquess and the colonial’s wife, for she was wont to think that they had been more than mere acquaintances at some point in their lives. She decided to appease her curiosity. “Have you two been friends for long?”

  Maurice’s dark eyes gleamed with admiration as he stared at his former fiancée. He was not the least bit uncomfortable about claiming her as the woman he would have chosen to marry. “Shemaine was my betrothed before Mr. Thornton stole her away.”

  “Oh.” Gabrielle’ s response was barely audible, but her curiosity got the better of her and her voice strengthened as she asked, “I thought when a couple is betrothed, that’s nigh as good as being married.”

  Shemaine blushed furiously, not wishing to explain in detail. “Maurice and I were separated, and I had no reason to hope we would ever find each other again.”

  “How sad,” Garland offered in sympathy.

  “Not really,” Shemaine said carefully. “You see, I love my husband very much.”

  “But you must have loved his lordship,” Gabrielle interjected.

  “Aye, but perhaps not as deeply as I once may have thought,” Shemaine confessed haltingly, meeting the beautiful dark eyes that watched her closely. “Maurice and I were swept up in the excitement of being together. He’s so handsome . . .” She paused briefly, wanting to be truthful yet sensitive to any hurt feelings that he might yet be harboring. “I was in all likelihood a bit overwhelmed and . . . flattered by his attention.”

  Gabrielle glanced from one to the other and understood Shemaine’s statement completely. They would have made a fine pair, these two. But then, she was of a mind to think that Mr. Thornton was no paltry match for her hostess either. In truth, it would have been impossible for her to make a decision as to which man was more handsome. Since her sister would never dare ask the Marquess about his present circumstance, it was up to her to make the inquiry. “Is there another maid you’re presently courting in England?”

  Garland felt her jaw drop. Terribly abashed that her sister could be so forward, she hurried to advise the man, “You needn’t answer that, your lordship. My sister has surely forgotten the good manners our mother has tried to teach her.”

  Maurice was hardly offended. He had held himself in check for a lengthy time in his desire for Shemaine, and having now lost her, he knew that finding another who was just as admirable would be the only way he could ever ease the ache that still weighed heavily upon his heart. If truth were told, he’d take Shemaine back in a trice and never make her regret anything that had happened while they were parted. Garland was a winsome young woman, and her pert, quiet manner pleased him. Still, he could not predict what might come of their relationship, but he would not be unwilling to give her some attention while he bided his time, waiting to see what happened between Gage and Shemaine. “I must assume, Gabrielle, that with Shemaine married to Thornton I must begin searching for another in the near future.”

  The young woman’s responding grin could have easily been the most calculating he had ever viewed. It made him wary of what would follow.

  “Perhaps you’d like to visit our home upriver after we come back from New York,” she suggested. “I’ve been trying to find a fit mate for my sister so I can have our bedroom all to myself—”

  “Gabrielle!” Garland gasped, outraged. “How dare you suggest that the Marquess may have some interest in me! We’ve only just met.”

  Her twin continued on as if Garland had never spoken. “As it is, we must share the room, and she’s so persnickety! I’m forever harassed because she claims I’m untidy. The truth is that I like things a lot more comfortable than she does.”

  Maurice accepted the fact that if he seriously intended a formal courtship of her sister then he would have an ally in Gabrielle. “If you’ll tell me when you’ll be expecting to make your return, I’d be delighted to visit your lovely family.”

  “Good heavens!” Garland whispered breathlessly, taken aback. In a nervous dither, she smoothed her lacy jabot, wishing she had a fan to cool her burning face. The Marquess was the very vision of what she had dreamed of for a husband, but she had never expected to be wooed by him. She was terribly aghast at her twin’s outrageous boldness . . . yet more than a little thankful for it, too.

  Bess came out to the porch and began spreading tablecloths on the makeshift table that the apprentices had quickly erected. “Me darlin’, do ye have enough dishes for everyone?”

  “Aye, I’ll be right with you to show you where, Bess,” Shemaine replied. Mounting the steps, she paused beside her former betrothed and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m glad to see there might be some benefit in you coming so far from England, Maurice. I shall hope that someday you’ll be able to forgive me for breaking my pledge to you by marrying Gage.”

  “I’m not yet over the hurt, Shemaine,” he said forthrightly in a subdued whisper. “Whether you loved me or not, I loved you and wanted you for my wife. And there is still a matter I must deal with before I will consider leaving you in your husband’s care. ‘Tis your life and your welfare that concern me . . . and, of course, your happiness.”

  “I’m happy, Maurice, please believe me,” she pleaded.

  “For the time being, you are, but I have a care for the future, Shemaine, and will not rest until I’m assured of that. If Gage is not a fit mate for you, then I most certainly want to be.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Edith du Mercer had dispatched herself with haste from the shores of England only a few days after receiving word that her grandson had set sail for the colonies with the O’Hearns in a quest to find Shemaine O’Hearn. Though Edith had paid a considerable sum for a private cabin on the Moonraker and had come unescorted by either servant or attendant, she had found, upon boarding, that she would be required to share her accommodations with another woman of comparable wealth. It had been a thoroughly torturous voyage. Having her sleep relentlessly disturbed by loud, piercing snores that came n
igh to shattering her nerves had been a test of endurance that she had not expected to encounter en route to the colonies. Even a mild-mannered lady would have grown understandably vexed, but Edith du Mercer had never known anything but wealth and power. Her imperious disposition had been carefully nurtured by a demanding grandfather who had instilled within her the importance of aristocratic breeding and their family’s preeminent ranking above lesser nobles.

  If she had been able to manipulate circumstances in her favor without arousing any suspicions, she would have bribed someone to throw the lady overboard. But she had tried not to think of her own comfort in this instance, only her ultimate goal, and that was to see her grandson married to a woman of prominence and nobility who, by her own credentials, could be effective in elevating him to a seat near the throne. No one could dispute that Maurice had character, charm, dignity and integrity, but if there was one thing her grandson lacked, it was an overriding ambition to become a close confidant of His Royal Highness, King George II, and perhaps the sire of those who would one day rule England.

  In his desire to have that Irish twit, Maurice had failed to imagine that he would be giving up all hope of attaining that goal in his zeal to claim her as his wife. Had he been satisfied just to have Shemaine as his mistress, he could have taken a titled wife and not thrown away his chances for a place of eminence. But he had been far too intrigued with Shemaine and too content to think of his own happiness rather than the high position he could attain as a marquess. No doubt he’d have been gratified to sire a brood of Irish-tainted whelps who would have done nothing but sully the Du Mercer name and, at best, could have risen only to nominal distinction and position. In Maurice’s many arguments to convince her of Shemaine’s merits, one thing had become clear to her, that her grandson could not be swayed from his choice. If his marriage to that creature was to be halted at all, Edith had realized that it would be up to her to arrange for an alternative by devious methods. In that endeavor she had succeeded, with Maurice none the wiser. He was far too honorable to imagine the limits to which a grandmother would go to insure that the Du Mercer heirs would come to fame and greatness.

  Now here she was in this squalid little hamlet called Newportes Newes, trying to find a private room for herself. She had grown a bit irate at the innkeeper when he had told her there were absolutely no vacancies to be had in his establishment. When she had tried to persuade him by offering twice the normal rate, he had complained that he already had three sleeping to every bed and each of them had bribed him just to be given a place to sleep. He had even spread out extra mats on whatever space was available in the rooms and halls just to placate everyone, and if he did not adhere to what he had already agreed to, his guests would surely turn on him and rend him to shreds.

  “Ye might try the tavern,” the innkeeper suggested. “They’ve got rooms ta let if’n ye can find one what ain’t being used by Freida’s girls an’ their customers. Nowadays the cooks at the tavern are servin’ better food than we’ve got here. Other than that, there ain’t much choice outside of a private family rentin’ out a room, but ta me mind, the tavern is yer best bet an’ one worth inquirin’ inta.”

  “Thank you, I will,” Edith answered crisply. Turning arrogantly away, she settled a long, bony hand on the silver knob of her walking stick and strode out of the dingy establishment. She was especially thankful there was an alternative available, for she hated dust and filth with a passion, and it was obvious the inn needed a thorough cleaning.

  Edith paused to dab the perspiration from her face with a lace handkerchief. Her black silk gown seemed to collect the heat from the sun, and though her costly bonnet shaded her face, its black hue made the heat nearly unbearable. Indeed, if she had had her grandson anywhere within speaking distance right at that moment, she’d have given him a severe dressing-down for putting her to such bother, all for that winsome miss she had attempted to get rid of.

  Obviously the promise of great reward to the one who could provide proof of the chit’s demise had gained her nothing more than frustration. Countless appointments with her barrister, clandestine carriage rides to Newgate in the dark of night, and veiled meetings on the street outside the prison with that foul-smelling turnkey had proven utterly futile. Even after news of the convict ship’s departure, she had continued to hope the man had been right about the prisoner whose aid he had enlisted after he had failed to strangle the Irish wench. But then came news that Maurice was voyaging off to Virginia, and Edith had realized how imperative it was for her to do the same. She just couldn’t take the chance that her grandson would find his beloved alive and bring her back to England. All of her efforts would have been for naught!

  It had served her purposes well that favorable winds had filled the sails of the Moonraker, bringing them into port a mere day after Maurice’s ship had docked. Her timely arrival rallied her expectations that she could handle every thing efficiently and on the sly before her grandson ever became aware of her presence.

  After questioning a local inhabitant near the wharf, Edith had learned that Shemaine O’Hearn was not only alive but apparently in good health and living with some backwoods colonial who had raked up enough coins to buy her. But the woman who had given her this news had seemed to fluctuate drastically between eager spurts of information and, without warning, a nervous reticence, as if fearful of being watched and saying anything at all. Mrs. Pettycomb was certainly the oddest creature with whom she had ever come in contact. Most of her gibberish had been just that, utterly useless. Still, Edith had to remember this was a land inhabited by convicts and the residue of whatever country could put forth a ship to transport them to these climes, and she shouldn’t expect too much of the inhabitants. She had never agreed with Maurice’s efforts to stem the export of felons, for the wilderness seemed the best place to send the refuse of their society.

  Ohhh, Edith moaned to herself, why couldn’t the little slut have died and eased her fretful worry about Maurice’s objectives and his future as a nobleman? Any true lady would have succumbed to the hardships of imprisonment and a sea voyage aboard a prison ship. It had to be that tainted Irish blood of hers that was too tenacious to succumb.

  Edith mentally jeered. Maurice certainly had no idea what he had caused his only kin to suffer by bringing that creature into their ancestral home and announcing in no uncertain terms that they would be married. All that red hair should have warned him ere they met that she wasn’t an aristocrat. But no! He had to prove himself magnanimous in his liberal impartiality. No good had come from his tolerance, to be sure, for he had forced his grandmother’s hand until it was nigh bloody.

  “ ‘Twill be yet,” Edith vowed beneath her breath. “All I need do is find the tart and set the hounds to eating her foul carcass.”

  Pausing on the boardwalk, Edith surveyed the facade of the tavern with a distasteful grimace and shivered in disgust as she heard a roar of laughter coming from within. A bawdy comment from a hoarse-voiced woman chilled her to the bone. What in the world had her grandson reduced her to? she thought in a panic. First the bribery of a conniving barrister to arrange for Shemaine’s arrest and sentencing, then a multitude of other crimes no fainthearted aristocratic lady would have dared soil her hands with. And now this latest affront to her pride! Inhabiting the den of drunkards and harlots like a mere commoner! Perhaps she had sought to kill the wrong person, she thought testily. Her distress and troubles would certainly have ended promptly upon Maurice’s demise.

  Heaving a sigh heavily imbued with revulsion, Edith pushed open the door of the tavern and stepped inside in her distinctive lofty manner. The loud din nearly made her recoil and certainly made her shudder inside, but in slow degrees it ebbed as every head turned to mark her entrance.

  Morrisa Hatcher leaned an elbow on the planks of a nearby table and dropped her chin into her hand as she stared at the newcomer in awe. She had never seen such a rich sheen to a fabric before, and though the hue was as black as her own hair, it was c
ertainly the richest, finest gown she had ever admired in her whole life.

  “An’ such an ol’ biddy wearin’ it, too,” she mumbled in envy. Pushing to her feet, she winked down at the harlot sitting next to her. “Maybe the liedy’s come ta service some o’ the lads, eh?”

  The other strumpet giggled behind a hand and encouraged her. “Why don’t ye go an’ ask her which one o’ the beds she wants ta work in.”

  Morrisa caught the madam’s attention and jerked her thumb to indicate the one standing just inside the door. “Where’d ye get yer new girl from, Freida?”

  Freida’s red lips curled in an amused smirk. “Buckingham Palace. I’ve got a whole shipment o’ ’em comin’ in.”

  Sauntering casually toward the entrance, Morrisa made a wide circuit around the black-garbed lady, looking her up and down. There wasn’t one stitch the woman wore that didn’t look expensive. “Are ye lost, m’liedy?”

  “My greatest fear is that I’m not,” Edith quipped haughtily. She sniffed as she dabbed a lace handkerchief daintily to her nose. The tart had obviously bathed in fermented toilet water, for she reeked of the nauseous scent. “I assume this is the tavern, the one I’ve been directed to, to inquire about a private chamber?”

  “Ho-ho!” Morrisa crowed at the elder’s elegant diction. “Ain’ ye the hoity-toity one.”

  Edith swept the raven-haired strumpet with a derisive stare. “Haven’t you ever heard a lady speak before?”

  “O’ course,” Morrisa answered readily. “I’ve heared ’em afore. I even seen ’em now an’ then. But the ones here don’t come in much unless they be with a man. Otherwise, they might be put ta work.”

  “To bed, you mean,” Edith challenged dryly. If the harlot thought her a half-wit, then she was seriously mistaken. She had not acquired seventy-four years to her credit without learning a few things. “I’m sure I’m far too old to interest any of your friends, so I shall deem myself quite safe here. All I need is a private room where I might bide the night, a hot bath and a tolerable meal. Is that too much to ask?”