Anna’s clear turquoise gaze played over him. “Tell me the truth, Brett. Am I the first woman to live aboard the River Witch?"
“Yes.” His voice roughened. “Don’t ask so many questions. Anna. I haven’t time for it. Believe me, I’m only doing what’s best for us. Stay in the cabin until I return.”
He turned on a booted heel and was gone. Like a woman in a dream, Anna went over to the small brass-fitted chest and lifted out the items in it one by one. There was even a wedding circlet made, not of real flowers, but of simulated ones made of white silk and seed pearls.
What, she asked herself, troubled, had Brett not told her?
She looked up from her worrying. The cobbler had arrived. He was a short fellow in baggy pants who came bustling in, smiling. In voluble Dutch, of which Anna understood nothing, he described the wares he spread out before her. After he had gone Anna sat and stared at the white satin bridal slippers she had selected.
When Brett arrived with a little birdlike woman in a starched apron who helped Anna into the wedding gown, Anna gave Brett a grave look. She was standing stiffly while the little woman knelt on the floor with a mouthful of pins, pinning up the skirt. “Tell her I do not want it too short,” she said. “A bridal gown should sweep the floor.”
“As you like,” Brett shrugged. He leaned over and spoke to the woman in Dutch, who protested but began pinning all over again.
When the pinning up was completed, Brett left them again while the stitching up was done. Anna watched the needle flying deftly through the cloth, propelled by experienced fingers. She felt helpless and adrift.
Their second wedding ceremony took place that afternoon. Holding up her white satin skirts to keep them from getting dusty, Anna was escorted through the streets of New Orange with everyone staring. Her face flamed at all this unwelcome attention, for she felt like a fool, but Brett seemed to relish it. He was dressed with unusual care in dull gray satin with a brocaded doublet and a great wealth of Venetian lace at his throat. His wide-brimmed gray hat was loaded with silver plumes caught with an ornament of flashing jewels and the middle finger of his right hand sported an enormous ruby.
Anna’s eyes widened at sight of that ruby. She herself was wearing the elaborate white beaded gloves Brett had bought her, as became a bride. Her ankles were encased in the white silk stockings he had bought in the town. And around her bright hair, shining in the sunlight, was not the circlet of pink Chain of Love blossoms, hurriedly woven, that she had worn in St. Peter’s church in Bermuda, but a graceful circlet of seed pearls and brilliants and a misty veil of gossamer lace. It was almost the wedding gown she had dreamed of long ago—but not in this place, not with these staring people.
“I can see from your ring that we are still solvent,” she murmured with an attempt at humor as she picked her way along, managing to avoid an aproned woman in a lace-trimmed cap who shouldered her way through the street carrying a brace of live ducks.
“Just barely,” Brett told her in an undertone. “It’s glass.” And swept a deep bow to a lady in black who looked at him coldly but returned his greeting.
Anna, startled at this admission, almost lost her footing. She would have lurched into a buckskinned Indian, moving silently along on moccasined feet, save that Brett caught her elbow and steadied her.
“And the jewels on the hat?” she whispered.
“Glass also,” he muttered. “Smile. Look prosperous.”
Anna swallowed, wondering what game they were playing, dressed to the teeth and making their way through the crowded narrow streets of this unfamiliar Dutch town. She was dying to ask him, but she did not dare. She had expected Brett to introduce her to those he met—and he was obviously acquainted with almost everyone—but instead he bowed gravely to people he knew, and they moved aside to let them pass when he told them they were indeed in a great hurry, for they were already late for their own wedding!
And then she was standing in a strange church beside Brett, once again facing a preacher.
Once again only a handful were in attendance—but that handful was a scattering of polite Dutch burghers dressed in rich black with frosty white linen collars, and wearing heavy gold chains about their necks, and beside them their richly clad Dutch-speaking wives adorned with gold and silver girdle chains and jingling gold necklaces.
Anna guessed these were local merchants with whom Brett did business. They greeted Anna with great earnestness, but she was sure she would never remember any of their faces later, for just before the ceremony Brett leaned over and whispered, “Everything will be in Dutch—I will tell you what to say and you will repeat it exactly as I tell you. And do not worry about the names—if my name were Henry, here they would call me Hendrik.”
As if that had not been enough to upset her, Anna was not able to identify even her own name in the ceremony. It seemed to her that the domine was calling her “Georgiana”—could that be Dutch for Anna?
And afterward, when the guests crowded around and she and Brett accepted smiling congratulations, she was certain from the disappointed look on one or two faces that they had been offered hospitality which was regretfully turned down, after which she was hurried from the church.
“l am surprised you did not wait to have the ceremony until we were at Windgate,” she told him as they were walking back to the sloop and being stared at once again, “where you could invite some of your friends.”
“I am not sure of my friends anymore,” he muttered, guiding her past a man carrying a large wicker basket full of live chickens. “Things are changing rapidly in this colony. Smile, Anna. Remember, you are a bride and happy about it!”
Hastily, Anna turned her brilliant smile on all comers. The pink in her cheeks deepened as they passed a knot of giggling Dutch girls, one of whom pointed at the length of Anna’s bridal skirts and snickered. Anna cast a scornful look at their short quilted petticoats that displayed to advantage their high-heeled shoes and their trim ankles in red and green and blue worsted stockings decorated with parti-colored clocks. Such short bright petticoats would have been totally out of fashion in Bermuda, she told herself wrathfully. But it was a shock to her to see the exuberant ostentation of the town. These wide-breeched Dutchmen wore handsome hats of beaver, and sometimes caps of taffeta or fur. And their lace-capped women sported gold and silver girdle chains and heavy gold necklaces. Their linens were snowy—she was to learn that every household had numerous spinning wheels for flax and wool, and many sported looms as well. So hope chests were brimming with home-fashioned items, hand-loomed, hand-sewn, and hand-embroidered—and the owners of those hope chests could poke fun at a stranger from Bermuda whose skirts were too long by New Orange standards!
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she muttered darkly to Brett, for she felt resentful that she—clad in her dream of a bridal gown—should be made to feel foolish merely because of its length by these women with their sophisticated scoffing glances. ‘‘Parading through the town as if I’m on display!” She hopped aside to avoid collision with a buxom serving maid determinedly surging through the crowd carrying a pair of leathern buckets slung on a wooden brace over her fat shoulders. Even that serving wench, Anna noted wrathfully, with her home-dyed blue skirts and her steel-and-glass bead necklace, lifted her brows at the sight of Anna’s trailing skirts!
“Trust me,” was all Brett said, and nodded briefly to acknowledge the greeting of yet another passerby, this one a heavyset man in buff plush trousers who bowed scrupulously low to the English patroon.
Perhaps that bow was too low, thought Anna. Could there have been scorn in it? Slyness in the look he gave her?
She wondered if Brett had noticed as they made their way through a chattering group carrying baskets of fish, and a party of silent Indians unconcernedly munching on large fresh-baked cakes as they strolled about. Brett maneuvered her through them all adroitly and they were face to face with another group of short-skirted women staring pointedly at the hem of Anna’s brida
l gown.
Anna, her burnished gold head erect under her now tossed-back bridal veil, swept on.
“Are we supposed to have increased your popularity with this charade of a wedding?” she demanded indignantly as they climbed back aboard the sloop.
“Perhaps.” Brett’s tone was noncommittal. “Having a pretty girl in tow is apt to increase any man’s popularity! Observe my crew—they are overcome by your splendor!”
Anna sniffed at this sally and stalked in her white satin slipper back to their cabin. “I’ll wager Floss is as tired of boats as I am,” she flung over her shoulder as she went through the door. “And as anxious to be ashore!”
“You’ll feel better,” Brett chuckled, closing the door behind him. “after we’ve shared a glass of wine to toast our second nuptials!"
“I am surprised your Dutch-speaking friends did not bear us away to a reception after the ceremony!” she said tartly.
“Oh, they wanted to.” Brett’s smile was urbane. “But I explained that we had not the time.”
“ 'Had not the time?' " Anna turned to face him. “But what was our hurry?”
The gray eyes above that steady smile had turned steely. “I told them we had to return to the sloop.”
“Surely the sloop would have waited for us no matter how long we took!”
“Oh, yes, the sloop would have waited,” he said easily. She would learn soon enough, he told himself with an inward wince, that he had chosen his wedding guests with care—all Dutch-speaking so that his English-speaking bride could ask no questions and get no answers. And when she did learn—and learn the reason for it—that knowledge might well destroy their happiness.
Anna gave him a bewildered look. Surely he was not planning to keep her cooped up on the River Witch with all of New Orange out there to explore! She would have preferred a few explanations to wine and she took only a sip of the rich red port he poured into a pair of chased silver goblets before she tossed off her misty veil and glittering wedding circlet.
“I do not feel like sitting around a small cabin in this dress, Brett,” she complained. “I feel I should be out dancing in it—or receiving guests. If we are not going ashore, then at least let us get into something more comfortable!”
The tall man in gray satin complied with alacrity. Brett was more than glad to help Anna out of her wedding finery!
After he had lifted the magnificent dress over her head, he pushed down the neckline of her chemise, and the palms of his big hands rested lingeringly on the cool firm roundness of her bare shoulders. He sighed as his caressing fingers slid downward over her warm breasts and his hands cupped them lovingly.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You drive a man mad, Anna.”
Anna, her irritation over this strange second wedding ceremony driven from her mind, exulted against him, pressing her smooth cheek against the heavy gray brocade of his doublet, thrilling as she felt his hands gently knead her throbbing breasts through material thin as gauze, so delicate it hardly seemed to be there at all.
“I think we will not stay in New Orange this night,” he said hoarsely. Anna, looking up, saw something driven and tormented in his gaze, something she did not understand. “Anything you desire to buy can be sent upriver for your approval. I will go tell Kryn to cast off.”
He dropped his hands from her breasts, leaving her trembling. His face was again a cool mask as he went out on deck to give the order to up-anchor.
Anna watched him go, feeling outraged. She quickly pulled on her yellow voile dress over her shimmering wedding petticoat and with half the hooks still unfastened, hurried out on deck. She did not want this last sight of New Orange to escape her, for who knew when they would venture downriver again from Brett’s distant stronghold?
They were already pulling away from the dock and Anna was made sharply aware of her half-hooked bodice by a golden-haired Dutchman who was arriving at the dock on the run. At the end of the dock he came to a halt, his hot gaze roved over the River Witch and came to rest on Anna. Anna was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the gaps in her bodice and put up her hands to shield them from his gaze.
She saw his wide face split into a grin and heard him laugh, a wicked and delighted laugh that rippled his long golden mustache and his pointed Van Dyke beard. He propped a booted foot upon a wooden cask, set a gauntleted hand upon his knee, pushed back his broad-brimmed, gold-plumed hat and stared at her. He was a resplendent figure in his honey-colored satin doublet and buff velvet trousers. A gold chain swung from his throat. Anna stared back at him, hypnotized.
“Is he not a gorgeous sight, a veritable peacock?” muttered Brett’s ironic voice behind her.
“Who is he?” she wondered, seeing the man on shore sweep on his hat with a deep bow to her that swept the dock with golden plumes.
“Nicolas van Rappard, claimant to Windgate.”
Claimant to Windgate! Anna gave Brett a startled look, turned as the Dutchman on the dock called to them in perfect, if slightly accented, English. “I came to pay my respects to the van Rappard heiress, Danforth, but I see you are already beating a retreat!”
“I have pressing business elsewhere, Nicolas,” called the man behind her. He put an arm around Anna’s waist and drew her toward him. “You can pay your respects at Windgate.”
“Aye, you’ll be seeing me—at Wey Gat!” was the blithe response.
“Wey Gat?” wondered Anna, turning her face up to Brett’s.
“Dutch for Windgate,” said Brett briefly. His body had gone suddenly still.
“What is it?” asked Anna. She turned back to look at the dock and stiffened. A woman in peachbloom velvet and a large hat afloat with apricot plumes had just joined the golden Dutchman. She took his arm and he turned away from the departing sloop with a jaunty wave of one gauntlet glove.
“I see the wolves are gathering,” Brett murmured.
But Anna hardly heard him. She was straining forward. “Brett, who is that woman?”
“No one important.” His tone was unconcerned—too unconcerned. “Her name is Erica Hulft.”
They were gaining distance now as their sails took the wind. Gulls screamed overhead and Anna squinted her eyes across the glittering water to see better. That woman in peachbloom velvet with hair like a fox’s brush—she looked like the same woman who had sat in a carriage just outside Mirabelle and waited for Anna to come out! So she could view her!
The Voyage Upriver,
1673
Chapter 5
Anna seized Brett’s arm.
“That woman, Erica Hulft,” she gasped. “I—I have seen her in Bermuda.”
It seemed a long time before he answered her. Above them the sea gulls swooped and screamed and the sloop gained speed as they left New Orange behind them. When he did speak his voice was heavy with irony.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, and the gaze he turned on her was unfathomable. “She is known on many shores. What name was she calling herself there?”
“I—I don’t know.” Anna’s head was whirling. “I saw her but twice: once when she sat in her carriage—oh, she was obviously waiting for me to ride out of the driveway and through the gates of Mirabelle. She promptly engaged me in conversation but I had the feeling that she did not care about what I was saying, that she only wanted to hear my voice. She did not tell me who she was and I did not ask her. The next time I saw her was on a departing ship as it was leaving the harbor in St. George—she stared at me then too. I made inquiries but I could not find out who she was.”
“Ah,” said Brett softly. “So that was the way it was....”
Anna, frowning as she tried to remember, missed that. “I remember she was fingering a necklace of pink pearls with big silver links as she sat in the carriage—she seemed to be flaunting it at me.”
“No doubt she was, if she seemed to be,” said Brett gravely. “Erica is subtle only when she thinks it will serve her purpose.”
Anna, caught up in her memories, rus
hed on. “That necklace—it was the necklace made me remember something that happened years ago when Aunt Eliza was alive. There was a tall man with the same fox-colored hair, and a wooden leg, that Aunt Eliza tried to run away from in St. George, but he caught up with us. She called him Claes and she was afraid of him. He wanted money from her. I remember Aunt Eliza protesting that the necklace of pink freshwater pearls from Scotland with the big silver links should have kept him well, but he said he had gambled—and then she said she had only one thing left to give him, a ring that she had been keeping for my dowry. He promised to sail away and never bother her again if she gave him the ring—and he did. But before she took it to him. Aunt Eliza showed me the ring. It was of gold set with a single sapphire. She said it had belonged to my mother.”
Brett was gazing at her with a very set look on his face.
“What else did she tell you?”
“Nothing. Brett, who was that man, the one who took the ring? I can see from your face that you know.”
“He was Erica Hulft’s brother.” He fished in his gray satin sleeve, brought out something. “Is this the ring, Georgiana?”
With widening eyes Anna stared down at the blue sapphire winking back at her from its big gold setting.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered.
“Claes Hulft led me to it just before he died. You will wear it at Windgate. You will say it belonged to your mother and was given to you by the woman who brought you up.” He leaned toward her intensely. “You will do this for me, Georgiana.”
Anna’s face went very still. “Georgiana,” she repeated. “You have called me that twice. And that was the name that was used today in the marriage ceremony, wasn’t it? Georgiana—and something else, something I can’t remember.”
“Georgiana van Rappard. That is your name, Anna. Not Anna—Georgiana.”
She stared up at him, stunned. The ring slipped from her nerveless fingers and Brett bent to sweep it up in his big hand. “Then—I am the van Rappard heiress, as the man on the dock said?” Her world was whirling.
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