“I am beholden for the glove.” Georgiana rose and made her guest a stiff curtsy. From her formal manner the scene at the ten Haers’ ball might never have happened. Nicolas might never have held her in his arms and she might never have trembled and looked up at him in an agony of doubt.
“The pleasure was mine—in seeing you again,” said Nicolas bitterly. “Be about your household duties, Georgiana. I can let myself out.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Georgiana, loftily correct. She accompanied him to the door, saw him through it and bid him a last good-bye out upon the green lawn before the house. Her heart quickened as he brushed her hand with his lips and then strode down the bluff to the waiting sloop—a shade less jauntily than he had strode up it.
She watched him step aboard and turned to go back to the house when she saw Linnet catapult through the front door. She raced toward Georgiana with skirts flying. Surprised, Georgiana stepped back or she might have collided with the girl. Linnet bent to pick something up and then fled on down the slope.
“Mynheer van Rappard!” Georgiana heard her calling. “Mynheer, wait!” Her voice trailed back to Georgiana, who watched in astonishment as Linnet, with her skirts hitched up, pursued their departing guest all the way to the dock.
But Linnet was too late. The sloop had already cast off and Nicolas waved debonairly to those on shore as he departed. Georgiana lifted a hand to him and then waited for Linnet, who came back up the hill looking defeated.
“I was looking out the front bedroom window,” she panted with a defensive look at Georgiana. (Spying on me, thought Georgiana in some amusement, knowing how gossipy Linnet’s mind ran.) “And when Mynheer van Rappard told you good-bye I saw him drop his snuffbox. I could see it shining there, gold in the grass.”
“And you came running down at breakneck speed to restore it to him?” Georgiana’s brows rose. “Really, Linnet!”
“Well. I—I knew you would not wish him to use it as an excuse to return.” faltered Linnet. She studied Georgiana anxiously, hoping her mistress would not sense the real reason she had pursued Nicolas so wildly down the slope. And when Georgiana did not answer, “I called to you through the window, but you did not hear me through the glass,” she added defensively.
“No, I didn’t,” admitted Georgiana. Probably because my mind was on other things... I was concentrating on Nicolas, for all I tried to tell myself I was not!
Ruefully, she took the snuffbox that Linnet proffered.
“Doubtless he will return for it,” Georgiana told the crestfallen girl with a sigh. “It seems we are always strewing things about. Nicolas and I—he a snuffbox, I my glove.” But not our hearts, she thought. We are more careful with those. Nicolas’s heart is held fast to a dream of gold and as for me—I love my husband.
She gave Linnet’s drooping shoulder a pat, tucked the gold snuffbox into the capacious pocket of her white apron, and went off to find cook.
Fascinated by Dutch ways, and absorbed by cook’s intricate method of making pickled pigs’ feet, Georgiana gave little thought to Nicolas. She was unaware of how much her apparent disinterest had nettled him. She would have been startled to have seen his grim face, staring at the riverbanks flashing by as the ten Haers’ sloop, with wind and tide in her favor, fled fast upriver toward Rensselaerwyck.
Wild thoughts flew through his mind. His nearness to Georgiana had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. How enchanting she had looked in that prim slate blue housedress with the white collar only serving to emphasize the peachbloom of her skin and the tight bodice outlining a figure a man itched to hold in his arms! He had been honest in his offer to her—it surprised him now to admit it. He would promptly have abandoned his claim to Windgate and taken ship for Bermuda—if she would have gone away with him. They would have lived on love, he thought with a twisted grin—and Georgiana’s money.
For the thought that Georgiana might have no private fortune had never entered Nicolas’s mind. Her beautiful silver mare, which he had seen for himself in Windgate’s stables, was as valuable as any horse on the river—Arabian blood, he knew what that was worth. And had not Erica’s cryptic description of Mirabelle Plantation also described Georgiana as heiress apparent? Nor had Georgiana herself denied it. And to top it all off, those massive silver candlesticks that she had brought with her from Bermuda looked as if they belonged in a palace—no, Nicolas van Rappard had no doubts about Georgiana’s personal fortune.
Drumming his knuckles irritably on the rail as the sloop made speed upriver, he asked himself suddenly if Georgiana herself would be enough—without the money. He had a treacherous feeling that she would be, that he would be willing to settle down to making a living in some decent respectable way if only he knew she were waiting for him—with that glory in her eyes that had been there when she mentioned Danforth’s name.
He shook his head to clear it. These were strange thoughts that occupied his roiling mind as the forested shoreline swept by.
He refused to admit even to himself that he was in love with Georgiana. Instead he wondered if she had found the gold snuffbox he had so carefully let drop when he kissed her hand in farewell. It never occurred to him that that was what Linnet was calling to him about from the shore; he had assumed it was something else, some personal wail to resume a relationship that had not yet even flowered—a relationship Nicolas had decided to let drop as carelessly as he had dropped his snuffbox. Whatever the girl had been calling could have been of no importance, but the gold snuffbox, ah, that was his perfect excuse to see Georgiana again. With difficulty Nicolas wrenched his thoughts from her and began to speculate on what arguments he would use to convince the patroon of Rensselaerwyck that it would be wise for him to part with a small parcel of riverfront property.
Chapter 21
At Windgate, the butchering had proved so monumental a task—for some forty hogs were being slaughtered this day to fill the big smokehouses with hams and pork shoulders and the huge crocks with lard—that even the house servants who normally had no kitchen duties were being called upon to help.
Georgiana stayed well away from the actual killing ground, which sickened her and which was staffed entirely by men. She wandered about watching cook bawling orders and stomping around in great glee. Cook was in her element when acting as a “straw boss", she loved ordering others around. Georgiana almost protested when cook stuck a large butcher knife in Linnet’s hand, aimed her at a side of pork and gave her an impatient push. But, then, she told herself, the other house servants were helping, and Linnet might well incur their dislike and eventual retribution if she were excluded.
But Linnet was still downhearted and all thumbs. Working listlessly and paying little attention to what she was doing, she promptly slashed her arm with the heavy knife and gave an anguished cry so piercing that cook nearly dropped a boiling pot she was carrying. Trumpeting her rage, cook promptly ordered the sobbing girl out, and Georgiana, with a reproving look at cook, withdrew her and cleansed and bandaged the wound herself.
“There now, you’ll be all right,” she said as she finished—and Linnet burst into a fresh shower of tears. Since the wound had turned out to be superficial, Georgiana was astonished by so much grief and could not help asking herself if Linnet was not perhaps crying over something else—some cut that went deeper. “Come along,” she said, feeling sorry for the girl. “We could both use a respite from all that noise and the smell of blood. Why don’t you take me on a tour of the garrets? Somehow I missed them when I went through the house.”
Swallowing, Linnet wiped her eyes and quavered that she’d be glad to lead the way.
Georgiana was amazed at how huge they were. Windgate’s roofs were so steep that there were two stories of garrets—an upper and a lower. Linnet explained that when the weather was warm and wet, clothes were hung in the upper garrets to dry—and indeed Georgiana could imagine it would be stifling there in summer. But mostly the upper garrets were just used to store things, mainly
flax for spinning, which would become a major occupation during the long winter months. She then escorted Georgiana through the lower garrets where most of the servants slept, for beneath Windgate’s high gables—as in the step-roofed houses in Dutch New Orange, the lower garrets were used for servants’ quarters. Georgiana exclaimed at their capaciousness, remarked that the servants must be provided with more wool blankets against the cold, and led Linnet back downstairs,
“ ’Tis only my arm I cut—not my hand.” Linnet turned forlornly to face her. “I could go back and help with the butchering.”
Georgiana thought of cook’s angry howl of “Get out and stay out!” when she had so nearly dropped the boiling pot.
“No, I think you might do some mending instead,” she suggested, smoothly finding a way to evade Linnet’s handsome offer. “For you’re deft with a needle.” She thought for a moment. “The guest room Erica stayed in when she was here—she showed me a place at a corner of the drapes that her little dog had chewed. Do you think you could mend it?”
Linnet brightened a little. She liked to sew.
“And when you finish, you might unstring the black and white beads of the wampum belt Brett left for me. You’ll find it lying on a chest in my bedchamber. You could fill my little plum velvet purse with them so I’ll have small change handy. And, Linnet,” she added kindly, for she knew how Linnet stored wampum in a personal horde, “if the little velvet purse won’t hold them all, you can have the overflow" Her eyes twinkled for she knew there’d be extra beads.
That offer brought Linnet to life. She was speculating in wampum, sure that it would soon increase in value, for how could the Indians, busy trapping every animal that moved, have time to grind all those shells into beads? “Can I keep some black ones too?” she cried breathlessly, for she knew that while the white wampum made from periwinkle shells were more prevalent, the black wampum ground from the clam shells’ blue hearts were more valuable.
“Of course you may,” laughed Georgiana. “And if your arm starts bleeding again—stop, come down, and we’ll have another look at it.”
She left Linnet dashing away, and went back downstairs humming, this time to pitch in and take Linnet’s place, for she told herself all hands were needed. Nightfall found her too tired to eat and she fell into bed to sleep dreamlessly till Linnet woke her, reminding her cheerfully that she had asked to be roused at dawn.
Georgiana groaned, stumbled into her clothes and went down half awake to find that energetic cook was already marshalling her forces. And so the time passed until Georgiana, deeply immersed in sausage rendering and perspiring before the heat of the fire around the iron pots, heard someone call, “The patroon is back!”
She dropped the ladle with which she had been skimming the contents of the pot and rushed out to meet him. She got there just as he swung down from the big black stallion.
“You’re home early,” she cried, and her voice sang with joy at his return.
Brett swung her up into his arms and kissed her hot face.
“Faith, your skin burns me,” he murmured.
“I’ve been near a fire,” she laughed, pushing back a lock of damp golden hair from her perspiring forehead. “You will have to content yourself with fresh pork and succotash and suppawn tonight." she told him happily. “For we are still busy with the butchering and have no time for fancy dinners!”
Brett set her down. “Well, many’s the time I’ve made do with Indian meal porridge alone,” he commented, but his swift smile approved his wife’s sudden wave of domesticity. “We’ll make you a Dutch housewife yet,” he laughed. “Making duffel cloth and sauerkraut, and pickling oysters, and with a knitting bag hung from your belt!”
Georgiana shook her head ruefully. “I doubt it. I cannot even get used to these high shallow fireplaces and today cook scolded me for forgetting to order the servants to take down the cloth ruffles across the top on Saturday to launder them for the Sabbath! We did not have fireplace ruffles in Bermuda! Cook is in a rare temper—she kept muttering something in Dutch I couldn’t quite catch about the upstairs maids.”
“Called them scatterbrained flibbertigibbets,” laughed Brett, swinging his saddlebags over his shoulder and heading toward the house with Georgiana almost running beside him to keep up with his long stride.
“However did you know that?” marveled Georgiana.
“Because it’s what she always calls them,” Brett chuckled. “And I see she’s taken a liking to you, since she’s instructing you in Dutch ways. She’s a woman who loves to dominate. Don’t let her bully you, Georgiana. Learn from her, but keep the upper hand.” He ruffled her hair affectionately.
“Have done,” she said breathlessly, pulling away. “It’s tangled enough. I don’t doubt I’ll break the teeth of my comb, combing it!"
To distract him, she asked, “Did you find out why the cattle were dying?” For that had been the reason for his journey.
“Mismanagement, I think,” he told her frankly. “Two calves had died. Mulvaney, the tenant, met us half drunk, startled to see us. I had a feeling he'd drunk himself into a stupor one evening and left the calves shut out of the barn all night and wolves had gotten them. He must have waked at the noise and driven the wolves off but the bodies were half eaten. Mulvaney claims it was done after they died, but I could find no sign of disease.”
“You think the Irishman lied?”
“Yes. But—” he hesitated. “It’s lonely up there and Mulvaney has no wife, and it could be this was a warning to him and the only time he'll forget about the stock. If he keeps on in this way, he won’t make it. He’ll get drunk at the table and fall across it and his fire will go out and he’ll freeze to death some cold night.”
Georgiana shivered, but she did not want to think on death just now—she wanted to think on life, and all it meant to her.
“Is he good-looking?”
“Who? Mulvaney?”
“Of course, who else?”
“I suppose so. Wild-looking and unkempt because—”
“Because there’s no woman to set him straight,” she smiled. “Undoubtedly.” His features relaxed into a grin.
“Perhaps we should have sent Linnet up there with you,” she suggested pertly. “She seems to be pining away over something and she has a marked predilection for handsome men!”
“I’ll remember that next time,” he said ironically. “If there is a next time.”
They had reached the house now and as they went inside, Brett tossed his saddlebags to Wouter and picked Georgiana up in his arms again. “It’s good to be home,” he said indistinctly as he nuzzled her throat.
“Put me down,” gasped Georgiana, wriggling in his grasp. “It’s undignified. Wouter—”
“Has tactfully disappeared,” said Brett. “See for yourself.”
A glance around the hall told her that this was so.
“But there are other servants who might pass by and see!”
“Let them see,” he said calmly. “For I’ve been gone these two days past and I’ve missed my wife and I’ve a mind to take a nap before dinner—with my wife. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought of for the past hour!” He was striding down the long hall toward the stairs with her as he spoke. “What’s happened while I’ve been gone—aside from the butchering?”
“Oh, nothing much. The trammel broke”—she was speaking of the chain that held pots suspended over the fire—“and cook near had apoplexy until the blacksmith fixed it. Two Indians came by with a brace of turkeys apiece and I paid them in wampum—I can't get used to it, using beads for money. And we fed them crullers and they went away happy. Which reminds me, there’s cold turkey in the larder. Would you like a bite? What with rendering the lard, supper will be late, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t try to distract me from my purpose.” He leaned down and rubbed his stubbled chin playfully against her cheek, causing her to start in his arms as he took the stairs two at a time.
“You should shave first!”
protested Georgiana in mock horror, putting her hand over her cheek and looking up roguishly into his eyes.
Brett grinned. “Indeed I’ll shave first—and take a bath too. Wouter!” Brett turned his head and called down the stairs to the manservant who had come into the hall at the sound of his master’s voice and was looking up at them rather wistfully. “Have a bath sent up.”
“I’ll need a bath sent up too, Wouter,” called Georgiana.
Wouter nodded affably but the smile he gave them held a trace of sadness. He was remembering what it had been like to be a bridegroom—with his first wife, not the second. His first wife had been a sweet little thing who had expired in childbirth and the baby along with her. His second had proved to be a harpy and he had left her in Delft and emigrated from Holland, never to return.
“You won’t need a bath sent up—you can join me in mine,” Brett told Georgiana as he swept through the door of her bedchamber.
Her cheeks pinked at that. “Even your big hip tub is far too small to hold us both,” she protested.
“You can sit on my lap.”
“I will not!”
“Look what you’ll be missing,” he chided. “I’d bounce you on my wet knee and scrub your back for you and we could splash together!” He gave her a little spank on the rump as he set her down.
Georgiana went over and threw herself upon the bed, rested herself on her elbows and kicked her heels as she watched him undress. First went the serviceable sword and the pistol. He had left his long gun in the hallway below. Next he divested himself of his heavy leathern doublet.
“It's too cold for you to take a bath in here,” he said, and strode to the door. “Wouter!” he bellowed. “Make a fire for my lady!”
Georgiana lay there and beamed at him. She had forgotten Erica, forgotten her jealousy even of Windgate. These last days since the ten Haers’ ball had been wonderful, interrupted only by his brief jaunt to an outlying bouwerie, and now they were back together again in their personal Eden. In perfect happiness she watched Wouter make the fire, watched the two baths brought and set before a half-stripped Brett.
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