Most galling of all was the memory of his encounter with Brett Danforth, when he had sought to down Danforth with his whip and Danforth had torn the whip from his hand and stood over him like the Angel of Death with the tip of his naked blade pressed against Arthur’s throat. Arthur’s heart still lurched in his chest at the appalling memory of that dark, angry, near-demonic face framed with heavy shoulder-length dark hair falling down over a pair of light gray eyes that had murder in them. Arthur's indignant protests that Anna was his bondwoman and he had every right to chastise her had been of no avail. Danforth had contemptuously flung gold at Arthur’s feet and forced Arthur at swordpoint to sign a receipt for the wench—and for her horse as well! Arthur’s handsome face turned livid at the thought and his mouth formed a snarl. Where had Anna found the fellow? And in such a hurry too!
Hatred of Anna blazed up in him anew. She was the cause of all his troubles, she alone! He glared murderously at the house where his wife’s face had appeared momentarily in one of the small-paned windows. Repulsively plain she appeared to him, with her dull brown hair and blotchy skin. Their eyes met and for a moment her gaze was reproachful before she quickly cast her eyes down and disappeared from the window. To complain about him to her family no doubt! For although Arthur smarted under the humiliation of his recent encounter with Brett Danforth, he also chafed under the sudden coolness that had come over the Waite family toward him. He read mockery in Sue Waite’s eyes, although she tried her best to hide it for Mattie’s sake. He even read ridicule in innocent things his young wife Mattie said—and this morning he had slapped her across the room when she asked him if his broken front teeth still pained him.
When Mattie rose from the blow, burst into tears, and fled the room, Arthur had paced about like a caged animal, cursing the heat, Bermuda, everything—and then flung out into the relative coolness of the garden to continue his angry pacing. His temper, never well held in check, was about to devour him. He now habitually snarled at people who tried to be civil to him, and was rapidly becoming shunned even by the senior Waites who, for Mattie’s sake, had tried their best to like their unpleasant son-in-law.
Now he struck his balled fist into his palm. He saw before him the pleasant lawns and gardens of Waite Hall but he saw something else too. He saw in his mind visions of beautiful Anna Smith, who had somehow managed to elude his clutches. He saw her crumpled form lying before him on the driveway, when he had finally brought her down from her horse with his whip—and he saw her scramble up and her turquoise eyes glory in triumph as Brett Danforth shoved him backward at the point of his blade and forced him to write out a bill of sale for Anna’s Articles of Indenture.
He struck his hand again with his fist and his teeth ground painfully. They were out there somewhere, the two of them, laughing at him! It was Danforth, not he, who was enjoying that lovely body! The hours he had spent imagining Anna naked and in his power, spread out on his bed for himself alone to enjoy, to torment, to ravish, now came back to haunt him. In his fevered mind he saw Anna in beauteous disarray as she had been that day in the cedars when he had fallen off his horse and seized her in fury. He had been near to having his way with her, if that fool of a Walter had not stopped him. And then he’d have brought her to heel right enough!
The vision of Anna “brought to heel” coursed over him like a bright flood. He imagined her bare white form down on her knees, groveling, imploring, he could feel her frantic arms clutching his thigh as she begged him not to leave her, to keep her with him, she would do anything, anything—for once back in Boston he had fully intended to frighten her into submission by threatening to rent out her services for part-time work as a scullery maid in the most disreputable places he could find, taverns and inns that were but thinly disguised brothels. Even innocent Anna would have had no doubt what was in store for her when night came and she had finished her chores. First the landlord and then, who knew?
It would have been so easy! He would have had her pliant body under his, her tear-wet face against his own, her soft voice pleading desperately—and then her whole body coming alive to his embraces, thrilling to his touch. His chest expanded at the thought, threatening to burst the buttons from his green silk doublet. He would have been master over her and she his slave!
So Arthur envisioned what might have been, a vein standing out on his forehead from the strain as he glared out across the pleasant gardens of Waite Hall.
And Brett Danforth had robbed him of all this! Yes, and the girl too—she had cheated him! He was past worrying about Sue’s and Lance’s implication in the plot; a local court would probably do nothing about it anyhow even if he did bring action against them. The wench had reportedly fled with half of Mirabelle’s silver—and nothing had been done about that! If he made trouble for Lance and Sue, the Waites would promptly cast him out and he would have to seek less comfortable quarters at the inn in St. George. No, he would forget their part in it—it was Brett and Anna he wished to be revenged upon!
He would not go to Boston! He would find the lying wench who had forced him into a preposterous marriage and schemed that he should buy her Articles of Indenture, and then cheated him of her luscious body! He would find her, he would wrest her from Brett Danforth—or steal her when Danforth was not looking—and he would punish her! He would not use the whip—no, he would find more subtle ways of inflicting pain that would not mar her loveliness, ways of hurting her that would not show up as bruises. Arthur had a fertile imagination and it was filled with visions of the hell he would create for Anna Smith when he caught up with her.
And as for Mattie, he would leave the little fool here! No—his lip curled slyly. Anna was very fond of Mattie. He would take Mattie along—she could come in useful if Anna, in spite of everything, chose to resist his advances. He would discover how much agony softhearted Anna could see Mattie endure without buckling to his will! Ah, yes, Mattie could well be important to his success in this venture—he would take her along.
Chapter 3
Driven nearly to frenzy, Arthur went down to see the minister who had performed the ceremony that had united Brett Danforth and Anna Smith. He found him inside the lime-washed white parish church inspecting the work of the sexton.
Mr. Cartmell looked up as Arthur entered. Seeing him only as a silhouette against the harsh sunlight at first, his expression was tranquil. As he recognized that swaggering gait and elegant attire advancing upon him, his mouth formed a straight, disapproving line. Mr. Cartmell had heard unsavory stories about Arthur Kincaid’s treatment of his young wife.
“Yes, of course I know where Danforth is going,” he told Arthur testily. “But I had it from him privily. You will not have it from me.”
Arthur, raging inside, saw he must use guile. He attempted a smile. “I have something of value that Mistress Anna left behind,” he said in a somewhat ragged voice. “I would post it to her if I knew where she had gone.”
“What is it?” Bluntly. “And how came you by it?”
Arthur took a deep breath that strained his tight puce satin doublet. He must tread carefully now; the bait was being considered. “It is a box of things she forgot when she sailed—mementoes, items of that sort. The world may not value them, but Mistress Anna does, my wife assures me. It is on Mattie’s behalf that I am here seeking her destination, for Mattie wishes to send the box to her.”
It had been on the tip of the minister’s tongue to say tartly that there’d be the devil of a time doing that—sending a box to a Dutch colony with Holland at war with England! Still, if young Mattie really did wish to send the box, a way could no doubt be found.
“I suppose it can make no difference,” he told Arthur reluctantly, “since ’tis Mattie who asks it. I would not know Danforth’s destination myself save that I refused to perform the ceremony until I was told the reason for all this unseemly haste. I insisted that I would not wed the girl to Danforth if his hurry was necessitated by being one jump ahead of the law.”
“And y
ou were right to insist!” cried Arthur ringingly.
Cartmell considered Arthur with distaste. He hoped he was doing the right thing. There were some nasty rumors going about concerning Arthur. “Danforth told me that his problem was that he was an Englishman living in a colony that has now gone Dutch, and he must hasten back for he feared for his holdings there. He mentioned the Hudson River and that is all I know about it.”
Arthur gave Cartmell a suspicious look. He wondered briefly if the minister had guessed his real intentions and was deliberately sending him off on a wild-goose chase, but dismissed the thought. Cartmell had an open, if disapproving, face and the man had no imagination anyway—that was plain from his sermons, which Arthur had reluctantly fidgeted through in the company of his hosts. No, Cartmell would not invent a lie merely to balk him.
The Hudson River... so that was where Danforth had taken her, to a Dutch colony. Somehow that surprised Arthur. He had imagined Danforth to be one of the wild Virginia gentlemen who sometimes came up Boston way and tangled with the hardfisted Yankee traders Well, now he knew where she was at least!
With a brusque “thank you,” Arthur stalked from the church and took himself down to the busy docks. He would find a way to New Netherland even if that way be circuitous!
A ship, the Mary Louise, was leaving for Philadelphia the next morning and Arthur—and with him a surprised, unhappy Mattie—were board her when she sailed. The Waites had not guessed Arthur’s intentions, for he had not taken Mattie into his confidence about their journey—they thought he was merely eager to get away from Bermuda and since there was no ship for Boston available in all likelihood for some time, that he would transship from Philadelphia to Boston. But from Philadelphia Arthur had no doubt that he could find some adventurous sea dog who’d sail him into New York harbor—into that place the victorious Dutch had renamed New Orange!
Deborah Waite watched her daughter board the Mary Louise with some foreboding. Mattie looked so downcast. Even the new gown of blush coral taffeta with its stiff skirts and rustling petticoat had done nothing to cheer her. Watching from the shore, Deborah bit her lip and wondered if she should even now keep Mattie from sailing. But Arthur’s deportment during the hours before his departure had changed markedly—indeed, he had evinced an almost sunny disposition, despite his newfound lisp due to his broken front teeth, which, quite naturally in her estimation, would anger a man. He had been most civil to Mattie, even suggesting she take an extra trunk to house all her books and gear. Could it be that now beautiful Anna Smith was out of the way, Arthur would see that he had made the right choice of a wife in earnest little Mattie? And if Deborah did pluck Mattie from the ship now on some pretext—as for a moment, looking at her dejected daughter, she had a wild desire to do—might she not be ruining the girl’s life? For Deborah doubted that Arthur would ever come back for her. Mattie would live out her life in limbo, neither maiden nor wife, unable to marry even if a man appeared who would fall in love with her.
Deborah sighed. Best, she supposed, to let well enough alone. A wife’s place was by her husband.
So Deborah reasoned. So she deceived herself, and waved a suddenly tearful good-bye as she saw her daughter’s figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance on the departing ship.
And so, intent on revenge, Arthur sped north.
Anna would not have slept as soundly in her bridegroom’s arms aboard the Dame Fortune if she had known what was in Arthur’s mind.
Deborah Waite would indeed have wished her daughter back with her in Bermuda had she been able to witness the scene that took place between Mattie and her reluctant bridegroom aboard the Mary Louise but half a day out of St. George’s harbor en route to Philadelphia.
The sun was beating down upon a sparkling sea, alive with white-capped wavelets. The canvas sails were filled and the ship ran merrily before a brisk wind. This first day out an almost festive air prevailed and passengers strolled the deck whispering that the pair who stood alone by the rail—yes, that handsome unsmiling fellow in scarlet silks and the shy, "timorous-looking creature in pink taffeta beside him—were a honeymoon couple, journeying to Boston by way of Philadelphia. Curious glances were tossed their way, but most of the passengers could remember honeymoon journeys of their own and kindly kept their distance.
They would have been astonished had they guessed the tension between this well-dressed pair, for, irritated by Mattie’s probing questions about Boston, Arthur had let slip that Boston would not be their immediate destination.
“I realize that we are going first to Philadelphia,” said Mattie in an injured tone, for she was ashamed that Arthur should think her so dim. “I only inquired what kind of house we would have in Boston and what your friends are like.”
“The house is large,” he grated.
Her mother had predicted it would be, but now she had it from Arthur’s own lips. “Then we will have plenty of room to entertain,” mused Mattie. “Have you a wide circle of friends there, Arthur? Will there be many girls my age? Will your friends hold a reception for us when we arrive?”
Arthur’s answer was sharpened by rage that Mattie should be standing there beside him, tied to him, he felt, like a block and chain—for life! Especially since he had already noticed a brighteyed, black-haired miss who had been giving him mischievous glances and who carelessly flipped her petticoats to show her striped stockings every time she strolled past him on the deck. If it were not for Mattie, he would have left the ship’s rail and be strolling after that wench right now. He would be making a great pretense of indifference, and he would have every hope of bedding the wench before the voyage was out. But he had already seen her mother jerk her away and heard her fierce admonishing whisper, “Stop looking at him, Millie. I told you, he’s married!”
That whisper had carried to Arthur even as Mattie spoke. Now he turned on his bride fiercely. “If ye don’t stop pestering me with questions, ye’ll never see Boston. I’ll leave ye in New Orange!”
The moment the words were out, Arthur began to curse inwardly. For Mattie’s timid expression changed to one of horror. “New Orange? Ah, you’ll not go there!” she beseeched.
“I’ll go where I please,” said Arthur in a tone that would have shut most women up.
But now that she knew where Arthur’s vengeful nature was leading him, Mattie’s consternation forced her to protest. “There is no use pursuing her, Arthur.”
Arthur jumped as if a pin had stuck him. “Pursuing who?” he demanded with a belligerent frown.
If he expected his fierce demeanor to silence Mattie, he was disappointed. She felt she had to speak, and did so recklessly.
“Your only possible reason for going to New Orange, an enemy port, is Anna Smith—Anna Danforth,” Mattie corrected herself hastily. “And it is madness to pursue her, Arthur!”
“She is my bondswoman,” he muttered. “I’ll not be bilked of my property.”
“But she is Danforth’s wife now.” In her anxiety Mattie clutched at his scarlet sleeve. “You know he will not let her go!”
“I’ll hear no more about it!” shouted Arthur, turning suddenly on his young wife, who was plucking at his sleeve. “My mind is made up!” When Mattie did not immediately release his sleeve he raised his arm in fury and gave her a cuff that sent her sprawling across the deck, to the astonishment of the shocked passengers.
As Mattie, white-faced and frightened and with a red weal across her jaw where Arthur’s hand had struck her, scrambled up, the captain strode forward. His own jaw was very set and almost as red with anger as Mattie’s was with injury.
“I understand that woman is your wife,” he said loudly, confronting Arthur. “At least she is so noted on my passenger list.”
Arthur, a little taken aback, admitted this was so. He was massaging his knuckles and realizing with dismay the unwelcome attention he had attracted.
“Then since she is your wife, aboard my ship you will pay her the proper respect.”
�
��She was arguing about our destination!” retorted Arthur. “And anyway, anywhere a man may beat his wife with a stick as large as his thumb—-and I but brushed her with my knuckles.”
Captain Rodman regarded Arthur coldly.
“I care not a whit for your landlubber’s law,” he spat out. “On this ship, I am the law and you will answer to me, sir! And I say that if you strike that woman again—indeed, if you so much as raise a finger to her or she is heard to cry out or observed to have a single bruise—that you will spend the rest of the voyage in irons.”
“I protest!” cried Arthur. “A man’s wife is his property. He may use her any way he pleases!”
“On land perhaps, but if you do not choose to arrive in Philadelphia shackled, you will heed my warning.”
The captain turned curtly on his heel and made his way through the staring passengers, many of whom were nodding in approval and giving Arthur black looks, for gentle little Mattie with her shy smile had already made a favorable impression on them and lordly Arthur Kincaid with his haughty manner and unpleasant lisp had not.
“To your cabin, Mattie!” roared Arthur.
“But, Arthur,” pleaded Mattie, afraid he would follow her and beat her insensible. “It is so stuffy there and I—I promise not to try to persuade you from going to New Orange!”
“You misunderstood me,” said Arthur bitterly, for around him significant glances were being exchanged. England and Holland were at war and there was unfriendly speculation in the passengers’ curious gaze as to what his business might be in an enemy city. “We are bound for Boston.”
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