The patroon was right. Charity liked Daarkenwyck. She liked the deep-silled windows in the walls which were some three feet thick of solid stone. She liked the beautiful view of the river flowing past, the huge stone barn with its vast beams, the well-stocked cellar with its fruity smell from the bins of apples. And because she loved wildlife, she was charmed by the custom of nailing old hats to the kitchen windowsills, each with a small round hole in the crown to make a nest for the wrens. More surprising were the skeleton heads of horses and cattle mounted on poles that were also used as nesting places for the wrens—and much beloved by them.
She had learned that the bouweries produced corn, oats, wheat and hops for beer. The land was fertilized with rotted oyster shells from the old “kitchen middens” of past Indian feasts along the river banks. Oyster shells had been ground into mortar, too; and used in building the house at Daarkenwyck.
As Charity walked past the open door to the old lady’s bedroom one day, she caught a glimpse of Pieter’s grandmother. The obese, coarse-faced woman sat propped among many pillows in her big four-poster bed with its billowing feather mattress, her fat ringed hands lying idly on the damask counterpane, a large tray of cakes and sweetmeats ever at her side. That she ate heartily of fish and game and all else that graced the patroon’s table could be attested to by the groaning trays that were carried up to her by the servants and tie empty platters and broken bits that came downstairs again. The servants muttered that she got drunk on beer as well, but Charity was not certain. Although well served, Pieter’s grandmother seemed pointedly ignored by the rest of the household.
Charity thought it a pity and suggested reading to her, but Pieter said she would not welcome it. He added that his grandmother preferred a stolid life of eating and sleeping and would, when the occasion moved her, come down and join them at dinner, listening to the gossip and occasionally joining in it. He added that she never missed a ball that was held at Daarkenwyck.
One night Charity went downstairs, thinking to get a new candle from the kitchen pantry for her own was burning very low, and saw Annjanette in her nightdress slip out of the patroon’s room and hurry down the stairs. Charity checked her advance and would have gone back, but Annjanette had already seen her. Her cheeks very red, Annjanette said defensively that Clothilde was “worse tonight” and that she was going down to get her some hot milk. Charity pretended to believe her. It was no business of hers where Annjanette slept or with whom.
In an odd way she was even grateful to the French girl, for she had the feeling that if Annjanette had left in a huff on Charity’s arrival, she herself might have been summoned to tend “Cousin” Clothilde in the night—and in so doing would have been unpleasantly close to the patroon who ruled this manor as any other feudal lord ruled his demesne.
Although she would sometimes turn to find Killian van Daarken staring at her with something akin to dark greed in his small eyes, he made no move toward her. On the whole Charity found life at Daarkenwyck with its many servants very pleasant.
She rode horseback with Pieter to nearby portions of the estate and boated with him on the river. Often they were joined by Ryn and Cordelia as well, for the two young van der Dooncks were glad to leave their three younger sisters and brother at home and seek the more sophisticated company at Daarkenwyck.
Ryn made every effort to single her out, but Charity, sensing a competition in that regard between Ryn and Pieter, avoided being alone with Ryn. Her situation, she told herself grimly, her very livelihood, depended upon her spending long hours with Pieter. The patroon might take a dim view of her spending too much time with happy-go-lucky Ryn.
And besides, there was something challenging and mocking in Ryn’s eyes that told her he did not necessarily believe she was Killian’s “cousin.” Plain and open hostility was the only attitude Cordelia evinced toward her. The feeling was shared by the rest of the van der Doonck family, she knew. Once, when they went boating upriver as far as the van der Doonck’s brick manor, they found it too late to go home and spent the night there. Charity was made aware all through dinner and afterward that her hostess despised her and felt affronted that she should be eating at the same table. And that night she was squeezed into the smallest, plainest room in the house—a servant’s room tucked away under the eaves.
Ryn, ignoring his mother and sister, recklessly continued to pay court to Charity.
Pieter seemed not to notice, for which Charity was grateful. After that unpleasant stay at the van der Doonck’s manor, she made an effort to steer Pieter in some other direction whenever he seemed to be heading his horse or the sailboat toward his neighbors to the north.
Still she was happy at Daarkenwyck, and could find nothing to criticize in the elegance of their life, which—except that they ate off pewter and silver rather than china—fully equaled Stéphanie’s luxurious way of living in Bath. Their tumblers and teapots and tankards were of massive silver and very imposing. Even the lovely ooma or sifter for the cinnamon and sugar which was sprinkled over cakes and toast was of silver, and there were a few plates of fine delft. She enjoyed their well-laden table, with its pies and puddings and scrapple and sausage, headcheeses, milk cheeses and pickles and preserves. It surprised her that in a place where almost everything was dear to buy, both butter and beaver pelts were cheap.
But then beaver pelts were to the Dutch what the gold of Central and South America was to the Spanish, and fur pelts flowed out of this vast new continent by the hundreds thousands.
With the patroon’s family and servants, Charity attended services in the small stone kerk with its lofty pulpit. Services opened by a reading from the Bible by the clerk or voorleser, who stood in the baptistry below the pulpit and laid out his text. During this time Charity always watched the deacons who stood facing the pulpit, the alms bags in their hands. The deacons then collected the contributions of the congregation while the domine dwelt piously upon the necessities of the poor and invoked blessings on those who gave liberally. Charity watched with fascination the kerk sacjes of velvet which were suspended from the end of a long pole and thrust in front of each row of seats by the deacons. A bell was hung at the bottom of the bag which would call attention to niggardly gifts. Charity had a moment of deep mortification the first time she went to services when the bell rang for her. Having nothing to give, she had slipped into the velvet bag a handsome button from the blue velvet dress the patroon had given her. She estimated it to be of some value and something she could manage to do without. But her face reddened with shame as the entire congregation turned to stare at her. Killian van Daarken frowned, and the next morning she found beneath her pillow a small bag of copper coins which she understood to be “kerk money.”
She did not enjoy the sermons, which were very long. As they began, the voorsinger would turn the hour-glass which marked their length. When the sermon was over, the voorleser would rise and with a long cleft rod hand to the domine, in the pulpit above, the requests for prayers or thanks from the members sitting solemnly below. The petitions were read aloud—the family of the patroon was prayed for frequently, their health and prosperity espoused—then another psalm was sung and everybody filed out in procession.
How different, she thought wistfully, from church services at home, and for a little time felt a homesickness for Devon, for the quaint little houses rising tier on tier in Torquay, with flowers spilling over their walls.
CHAPTER 14
As the days sped by, Charity learned more and more Dutch. She tested her proficiency on the maids, and found them quite willing to discuss the family with her. One of them, who had served the family for years, told her fondly that she remembered little Pieter when he was a wee one. He was always breaking or discarding his toys and getting new ones. A real little devil he was, she laughed. In those days it was toys. Now, of course, it was girls. Then she flushed scarlet as if she had said too much.
After that Charity began to notice the way the servant girls looked at Pieter. There wa
s a certain archness in their manner toward him. Deviously, she asked the little maid who cleaned her room about Ryn and was told proudly that Mynheer Ryn had tried her, but she’d beaten him off. Indeed, she liked Mynheer Pieter’s way much better! And then she too had blushed. In her confusion, she added that one of the servant girls had had a baby by Ryn.
Charity wondered if any of them had had a baby by Pieter. And what would happen to the mother and child if they had.
She could almost believe the event would go unnoticed, for delicate Clothilde hardly seemed to be aware of her surroundings.
Charity thought that a strange way for a grown woman to act, and warmed to Pieter, who was, she felt, saddled with an odd mother and a crude father and rather spiteful friends. Pieter responded eagerly to every encouragement she gave him. After that first night, however, he made no further effort to touch her intimately. She rather thought his father had laid down the law on the subject, and was glad.
But Pieter, young and fervent, still pursued her relentlessly. He was everywhere she was. He took her riding, he played cards with her, he taught her the game of bowles. He continued to teach her Dutch, which she learned readily, and conversed merrily with her in French or English—although he steadfastly refused to bother with Spanish, in spite of all her entreaties. But he was not leaving for Holland until spring and she hoped she could prevail on him to concentrate more earnestly on his studies before then.
The gift-giving season came early in December, Charity learned. St. Nicholas visited Dutch children December 6 instead of at Christmas. With it came the first really cold snap. A shallow pond near the house froze over and the clang of skates rang out across the smooth ice. Pieter offered to teach Charity to skate and she learned quickly. She soon was able to flash about the pond along with Pieter and the Dutch servants, all of whom skated. In fact, the younger ones took every available moment from their duties to hurry out into the crisp weather and glide about the pond.
By now she had come almost to think of herself as a member of the family, a lesser member, but indeed a cousin, and she faced the occasional insult of one of the neighboring ladies with cool unconcern.
She could almost forget her stormy arrival in New England, her cruel time in the jail, and her bittersweet romance with Tom Blade, as she found herself drifting along contentedly at Daarkenwyck. Pieter, she knew, yearned to possess her. Indeed he could hardly keep his hands to himself although he had never once so much as walked by her door at night. But when he set her skates to her shoes on the edge of the pond, his hands would close around her slender ankles and his suddenly upturned face would send her an unmistakable message: Pieter desired her.
Her skates made fast, Charity would give him a Mona Lisa smile and skate away until he caught her and they swooped together across the ice.
For Charity, these days passed in Pieter’s company were unreal, a time of dreaming.
But the ice she skated on was thin and getting thinner. This was brought sharply to her attention the night of December 5, for that evening Pieter gave vent to what she had been reading in his face all along.
The younger children of the estate farmers had been invited to spend the festival of St. Nicholas at Daarkenwyck, as they were every year. Charity came downstairs that evening to find that the children had spread a white sheet on the floor of the living room and were singing verses enthusiastically imploring St. Nicholas to ride from Amsterdam to Spain, and promising to serve him always.
She smiled and met Pieter’s eyes across the room. He stood a little behind the children, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting while the rest of the household gathered.
Suddenly the door burst open and a shower of candies and other goodies landed on the sheet, and St. Nicholas himself appeared. Charity recognized the enormous hulk of Big Jan, dressed up for the part. St. Nicholas was attended by his own servant who, Pieter explained, was the traditional Knech Ruprecht. Black Ruprecht, portrayed this night by one of the two black house servants of Daarkenwyck, carried a sack and threatened loudly to put all bad children in it. He gestured at a bundle of switches under his arm, at which they all pretended to cower. And all the while St. Nicholas was gravely handing out gifts from his sack.
To her surprise, Charity found that she was included in this gift-giving ceremony. Exclaiming with pleasure, she opened Killian’s gift which was a handsome length of dark gold velvet, almost the color of her lashes. To this Clothilde graciously added a pair of gold satin slippers, while Annjanette shyly gave her some black satin ribbons. Charity was pleased and touched. Late in December there was to be a great ball at Daarkenwyck and she knew that all the ladies were to have new dresses for it, but she had not been certain that she would be included.
Pieter put his hand on her arm and murmured, “I have a gift for you too, but not here.”
She followed him as he took a candle and led her into a pantry, which he insisted was practically the only place in the house with any privacy at the moment, since even the servants were all running about under the happy influence of jolly old St. Nick. Charity followed him past barrels of salt fish and sauerkraut and pickled pork, past stone jars of pickles, and cool butter in firkins, and kegs of soused pigs’ feet.
Beside a bin of sweet-smelling apples he paused, put the candle down carefully and told her to close her eyes.
Charity did so warily, but peeking through her lashes, she saw that he was pulling a length of lovely creamy lace from his pocket. So, she promptly closed her eyes tightly and waited for the lace to be handed to her.
It was not.
A moment later she felt Pieter’s hot hands at her breasts, his fingers pushing down beneath her clothing against the warm skin. Her eyes snapped open in shocked surprise.
“I’m—trying—” he said, “to fasten this lace around the top of your chemise where it belongs.”
Charity gave him an affronted look as she reached up to push his hands away. To her surprise, he resisted her efforts, pushing the lace—and his fingers—down into the smooth valley between her breasts.
“Pieter!” she cried.
Suddenly, almost with a sob, he clutched both her breasts in his hands and buried his curly blond head in the valley between them, covering them with hot insistent kisses. As she jerked away from him, the material of her bodice ripped and one breast was exposed. The lace he had been pushing into her chemise pulled free and fell in a long wafting streamer to the floor as Charity jerked free and stood regarding him with blazing eyes.
Pieter stood a moment, undecided as to what to do. He took a step toward her, his expression wild, and she retreated.
“You must not misunderstand me,” he cried beseechingly. “I swear I mean you no harm. It was touching you that maddened me. Oh, Charity, when you are near, my blood pounds in my head and throbs through my veins—oh, God, I can’t stand it. Charity, I must have you—I must!”
She swayed away from that outburst, but his hands seized her shoulders, and Charity cried, “No!” violently.
In their concentration on each other, neither was aware that someone else had joined them. They both jumped when Annjanette’s surprised voice cried, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone here!”
Charity, crimson faced, pulled at her clothing, tucking the material around her white breast to shield it from view.
“What are you doing here?” Pieter snarled.
“I—I only came for some candles,” cried Annjanette, confused. “The servants were busy and—”
“Meddler!” cried Pieter. “Spy!” And before Annjanette could elude him, he delivered a stinging slap to her cheek that spun her around. She gave a short half-shriek as the blow struck her, then crouched white-faced for a moment staring at him before she turned and fled. Charity too stared at him for a moment in angry accusation before she hurried after Annjanette.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Annjanette as they reached the first floor hall.
“Don’t be!” snapped Charity. “I’m glad you
came! I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Is there anyone in the hall?”
“No,” sniffed Annjanette.
“Would you walk in front of me? I—my bodice is ripped.”
“I know,” muttered Annjanette. “Pieter’s always in a hurry.”
Charity caught her breath. She stared at Annjanette.
Annjanette turned a tear-stained face to her as they hurried along the hall. “Pieter took me in the pantry too,” she burst out, wiping her eyes with her hand. “Against that big apple bin. He slipped up behind me and whirled me around and bent me backwards. He tore my petticoats and he almost broke my back. I was sore for days.”
“When was this?” demanded Charity, shocked.
“It was a month after I arrived. I didn’t know then to watch out for him.” She looked anxiously at Charity. “You won’t say anything about it, will you? I mean, it’s such a long time ago—”
“Well, surely you told the patroon?”
Annjanette hung her head. “I was afraid to,” she muttered. “I was afraid he would say I had led Pieter on and deserved no better than I got.” She bit her lips.
Annjanette looked about to say something else and thought better of it. “I—I must be going,” she said hurriedly. “They will miss me and wonder where I am.
“You mean you aren’t going back for the candles?” Charity said, sarcastically.
“No, I will ask that pretty new servant girl—Elyse. I will ask her to get them.”
“But . . . Pieter may still be down there, raging about.”
“I know.” Annjanette did not meet her eyes. “That is why I will send Elyse.” She moved nervously under Charity’s shocked look. “It is better for all of us,” she muttered. “I know that by interrupting I have made him very angry. Perhaps if I send Elyse that will appease him.”
This Loving Torment Page 15
