Toward Love's Horizon

by Michele du Barry

  But he wasn’t, and when her eyes shifted to the other side of the locket and saw the miniature of the Dark Lady, Angela was instantly depressed again. The ship was now a wreck at the bottom of the ocean. It had all been Laporte’s doing, that and so much else.

  With a click Angela snapped shut the small heart and lay down on the bed grasping it tightly in her hand. She was tired. Perhaps she had been overdoing it so soon after the baby’s birth. As she drifted toward sleep she vowed to remove the painting of the Dark Lady and have it replaced with a miniature of Robert and Lorna. Bad memories could be destroyed. Only the good would be allowed to remain.

  A baby was crying. The crying stopped abruptly and Angela struggled into a sitting position. She had been lying on her stomach and the front of her nightgown was wet with milk. Her breasts were swollen to the bursting point and even the delicate cloth clinging to them made them hurt unbearably.

  Taking off the nightgown Angela poured tepid water into a basin and washed the stickiness from her throbbing bosom. She moaned as the damp cloth touched her fevered flesh. Her pain was Laporte’s doing, her torment of flesh and spirit, his fault. The grimacing smile rose before her eyes and his harsh choking laughter filled her ears. “No, go away!” she cried closing her eyes, putting her hands over her ears. Would she never be rid of his memory, his ghost? Would he haunt her all her living days?

  Rage and despair welled up in her and Angela felt like striking out at him—but how? He was dead yet his memory taunted her. His child slept in a room just down the hall.

  Pulling on a clean nightgown she found herself gliding silently toward Jack and Amy’s room. The door was partly open and as her fingertips found the tangible reality of carved wood it swung inward, soundlessly on well-oiled hinges.

  The two shapes on the bed slept the sleep of exhaustion unaware of the invasion of their privacy. Amy’s golden head rested on Jack’s shoulder and she stirred, moving closer to the solid comfort of his body. Though even in sleep her ears were tuned to the needs of the infant not far away, Angela’s movements were as silent as a shadow flitting across the floor.

  The cradle was lit by a spill of moonbeams like a beacon drawing Angela on. She looked into the recesses of the cradle and the silent baby looked back at her, its wide round eyes disconcertingly serene. With a swift movement Angela drew the blanket over the baby’s face. She couldn’t stand to see the creature but she could still discern its movement beneath the blanket. If only it would be still!

  She picked it up and it curled warmly against her shoulder as if it belonged there. With a jerk Angela pulled the soft bundle from her body and held it in both hands in front of her. That was better. The other more intimate contact had been too disturbing.

  The baby squirmed, encased in the blanket, and Angela wondered if it would smother beneath the folds. To be rid of this reminder of Laporte’s degradation would be the ultimate relief.

  Amy stirred and she slipped silently from the room, down the stairs on cat-quiet feet with a dark purpose forming in the back of her mind. The swift, merciless sea was the solution to her problem. The Gulf Stream was notorious for seldom giving up its dead. Once the deed was done they could all wonder to no avail what had become of the child.

  The sand was soft and warm beneath Angela’s bare feet and she laughed at the specter following her. How fitting that a pirate’s daughter should return to the sea. She could follow in her father’s footsteps—and he was dead!

  The rolling moonlit waves rushed forward swirling around her ankles, wetting the bottom of her nightgown. A bird cried shrilly in the shadows and the baby still moved in her outstretched hands. It was so small and warm, emitting no sound as if resigned to whatever fate had in store for her.

  She should have removed the nightgown. It clung and made her stumble as it wrapped tenaciously around her legs. Even though the infant couldn’t have weighed more than seven pounds the strain of carrying it in such an unnatural position pulled at Angela’s arms. Slowly she lowered the burden until the water lapped at the trailing blanket.

  Laporte’s harsh laughter was still in her ears as the child began to cry.

  Amy’s heart bumped painfully against her ribs as she stared open-mouthed at the empty cradle. As if to reinforce the baby’s absence she touched the cool embroidered sheets she had spent so many happy hours working on.

  “Jack.” The whisper didn’t even make him stir. “Jack!” He sat bolt upright at her half-strangled scream.

  She shook like an autumn leaf in the wind, her trembling lips moving soundlessly now that she had his attention. Amy pointed wordlessly to the vacant cradle, thinking the worst, knowing something dreadful had happened.

  Jack swore softly as he came to stand by her side. He slipped his arm about her waist and she buried her head against his shoulder, saying pathetically, “She’s gone and I wanted her. Angela hated her, couldn’t even stand the sight of her own baby. What do you think she has done to her?”

  “Calm down, Amy. Let’s find out what has happened before you go to pieces.”

  With one accord they rushed to Angela’s room only to find it empty, and Amy was sure she would never see the baby again. The whole household was aroused and a frantic and fruitless search of the house and grounds ensued.

  “We must search the island,” Ezra declared, visibly upset. After all he, more than anyone, knew the depths of Angela’s hatred for Laporte and the child he had forced upon her. “She has to be somewhere and it shouldn’t take that long to find her. Maybe she went to see the Old Lady.”

  “But Neptune is still in the shed. . . .” began Amy. “Well dammit she has to be somewhere! She can’t just have disappeared off the face of the earth!” Jack turned to Ezra. “Get some men together and go to the Old Lady’s. Spread out and search that section of the island thoroughly. I’ll take the other half of the key.”

  In the brightening light of dawn everyone scattered, each in a different direction and each with his own fears as to what he would find. Amy remained behind with the children, impotent to help, wishing she could have at least accompanied Jack. But he would search more efficiently without her along.

  Dawn split the sky with golden rays driving black thunderheads before it. The storm skirted the key and headed out to sea leaving behind a clear azure sky lightening with yellow and amethyst waves. The sea reflected the heavens and was reflected back by the strange rolling clouds until each was indistinguishable from the other. The curved horizon melted softly beneath the warming rays of the sun.

  Daybreak always brought a comforting reaffirmation to Angela, and this morning she felt a rebirth of her old spirit and a compassion that had been dormant for some time. The tiny rosebud mouth closed around her nipple and tugged gently, spreading a feeling of tranquillity and acceptance through her whole body. With a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth she touched the plump pink and white dimpled fist kneading her breast.

  At the last moment she had been unable to go through with it. That awful moment when Scott had plunged her beneath the waves had flashed before her with such electrifying brilliance she had frozen where she was. How long she stood there with the waves lapping around her knees she couldn’t remember. But her feet led her back up the beach and in the bright moonlight she had undressed the baby and examined it minutely for any defect.

  She was perfect with her guileless blue eyes and a surprisingly thick thatch of hair the color of cornsilk. Her sturdy little limbs had flailed protestingly until unable to resist the inevitable, Angela had begun suckling the hungry baby.

  There was nothing about the infant that reminded her of Laporte, in fact there was such a striking resemblance to her own mother that Angela had been dumbfounded. The eyes, the hair, the tiny features, usually indistinguishable in such a new creation, were a mirror image of Clarissa. That, more than anything else, had decided Angela.

  “Poor little girl,” Angela crooned rocking her gently, watching the eyes close. “Everyone wanted you but me�
��your own mother! I’m afraid we must make the best of it now, you and I. But you will help me, won’t you? And I will try and love you, try to make up for everything that went before.”

  Good lord, she thought removing the sleeping child from her breast and covering herself, how would she ever explain her existence to Scott? Then Angela’s chin lifted defiantly and her eyes glared out to sea. Whatever the future held, she would worry about it then and there. There was no use causing herself anxiety now over some problem that might never occur.

  The beach began stirring with life and the eagle-eyed fishermen spotted her sitting against a palm tree with a tiny bundle in her arms. They approached cautiously but only a few eyebrows were raised at the fact that she was only wearing a nightgown. If the duchess preferred a morning walk in her nightgown who were they to say it was strange? Perhaps it was the style now in faraway London where the chemise dresses left little to the imagination.

  Carlos, a short lithe Cuban, reached her first and he smiled broadly, his sun-darkened face splitting into a hundred wrinkles. He sank down on the hot sand to her level, just a few feet away and the others soon joined him. There was silence in the thronged circle of sea-roughened men but their eyes held a faraway delight reminiscent of better times and other lands.

  With a dimpled smile of pride Angela showed them the sleeping fairy-child that nestled so naturally against her. The sun glinted on the fair hair and the wistful fishermen gazed in wonder, unable to tear their eyes away. They were complete opposites, this lady of the darkness and her child of the dawning. But the fishermen knew they belonged together as surely as day follows night.

  Ezra found her on the beach, a queen holding court before the stunned silent homage of her dazzled subjects.

  PART TWO

  * * *

  Forgotten Yesterdays

  New South Wales

  1811-1812

  Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again;

  Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

  Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

  Nor ever chaste except you ravish me.

  —John Donne

  four

  After the endless vistas of countless oceans the huge headlands guarding the entrance to Port Jackson seemed about to tumble in on the Cygnet. The deep channel of dancing blue water cut a mile wide swath of grandeur between the headlands to their final destination, Sydney Cove. They were all assembled on the deck—Ezra, Lorna, and Robert, and Clare was clasped tightly in Angela’s arms. She was a year old, her curls as pale as freshly churned butter shining yellow-gold in the bright sunlight. With unperturbed acceptance she observed the alien shore with her quiet all-encompassing gaze. Ezra took her from Angela keeping a sharp eye on the two mischief makers, as he called them.

  The inlet swallowed them up and Angela leaned on the railing straining for a glimpse of civilization. The sharp, pungent scent of eucalyptus trees vied with the familiar smell of the sea. And on the horizon, blurred with strange gray-green vegetation, she made out a jumble of buildings carved from a wilderness.

  How different it must have looked to other eyes when the First Fleet arrived in 1788. Landfall had actually been Botany Bay six miles to the south, but the glowing report of Captain Cook was not realized. Instead they found a port wide open to the sea with no protection for the ships. The fresh water had been too scanty for their needs and the swamps, sand dunes, scrub, and low-lying land were definitely inhospitable.

  After a brief exploration, Captain Arthur Phillips had moved the colony to its present site at Sydney Cove. There they had water, stone, and timber with which to hack for themselves a niche in a world that had rejected them as the flotsam of society. It had been a struggle against all odds.

  In spite of the desolation and feeling of utter isolation there was a harsh, exotic beauty to the land. Angela, who had seen so many strange places, caught her breath at the wooded coast, the inlets and bays that poked deep blue fingers into the primeval land and the peninsulas jutting boldly into the port. Fine sandy beaches spread like white blankets at the foot of the cliffs and promontories, and the surf crashed as they passed.

  Then they glided into Sydney Cove and her eyes were full of the meandering, ramshackle town held in a close embrace by the arms of the bay. It was a rough unbeautiful place, houses hastily thrown together for shelter and nothing more. But as Angela’s eyes swept the shore she picked out a handful of simple gracious dwellings holding their own with the squalor of the rest of the colony.

  It’s a penal colony, she reminded herself, made up mostly of convicts. But it didn’t matter what the place looked like because Scott was there! The culmination of all her dreams lay somewhere on this largely unexplored continent so far from home.

  She touched Ezra’s arm and he turned his gaze from the new land to her shining eyes. Without a word between them he knew exactly what she was feeling, the exaltation and overwhelming joy of a journey accomplished, a search almost at its end. He smiled, sharing the moment with the intimacy of long acquaintance and the full knowledge of all the odds overcome to bring her plans to fruition.

  “It won’t be long now,” he said noting her determined, undaunted air. “When you sweep into New South Wales like a gale no barriers will be able to stand. I predict your husband will be found within a fortnight.”

  “What, are you a gypsy fortuneteller too?” she laughed. “As long as I find him safe and unharmed I don’t care if it takes another year.”

  Angela’s hand tightened on his arm and they both looked back at Sydney. There was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Almost a year after her decision to keep Clare there was still a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. All the incidents from her past that she would rather keep secret from Scott would now have to be aired—and soon!

  She had gone over imagined conversations a thousand different times and ways in her mind and still didn’t know how she could tell him. What to say, when to say it. Her speculations always ended in a jumble, with Scott angry and hurt and somehow enraged with her.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t accepted Clare; she had. In fact guiltily she showered her youngest daughter with extra affection trying to make up for the hatred she had felt at first and all those attempts to get rid of the baby before and after her birth. And the child was a delight in every way, growing more like her namesake, Angela’s mother, with each passing day.

  So, that was her only reservation about their meeting, the hurt that would have to be breached before they could get on with their lives and their loving. The very thought of Scott’s lovemaking made her knees so weak that Angela leaned on Ezra for support and she silently scolded herself for letting her daydreaming interfere with the more important matters at hand.

  The first place Angela went when she stepped on dry ground was up the hill to Government House. It was a white, crumbling, two-story residence that had seen better days. The setting though was tranquil, with lovely gardens and a grand view of Sydney Cove.

  Governor Lachlan Macquarie’s secretary was flustered by her appearance and after seating her he rushed off like a nervous old maid to inquire if the governor could see her. Angela smiled to herself and confidently smoothed her white muslin dress embroidered in red. The gold locket rested against the swell of her breasts containing the miniature of Scott that might prove invaluable in her search. And in her reticule was the pardon, slightly worse for wear, but still the most important thing she had brought on her journey. With it she held the key to Scott’s freedom.

  She was glad the governor was in residence for he frequently toured the countryside with a nabob’s camp equipage that cost over £551 and had earned him a stern reproof from Whitehall. But when in Sydney he was a hard-working man that kept regular office hours and liked to make himself available to the people.

  In just the few hours she had been in New South Wales Angela had picked up an amazing amount of information all of which she took with a grain of salt. Cut off from the world the colony was gossip
starved and any juicy tidbit of information was thoroughly masticated and digested before being passed on. So any fresh tales from England were as welcome as a ship full of gold and any new ears to pour their stories into would keep the ladies of the town in ecstasy for weeks.

  The secretary hurried back and with much bowing and scraping escorted Angela into the governor’s office. The man rose from behind his desk and his eyes were coldly assessing. He obviously hadn’t expected anyone like Angela to be a duchess but he kept the surprise from his face, wondering what she was doing in New South Wales and what she wanted of him. A land grant no doubt, that’s what most people passed through his office for.

  Some malicious gossip he had heard about the Duchess of Brightling buzzed in the back of his mind but Governor Macquarie dismissed it with a smile at the woman sitting before his desk. A woman as beautiful as she was could be excused a few faux pas.

  “Now, Your Grace, what can I do for you?”

  “I am looking for my husband, Governor Macquarie,” explained Angela drawing the papers out of her reticule. “He was transported at the end of 1807.”

  Governor Macquarie’s veneer cracked with surprise and she almost laughed at the incredulous look on his face. But a moment later his distinguished military bearing was back in place and he asked, “Do you mean to tell me that your husband, a duke, is a convict here in New South Wales?”

  Angela nodded and handed him the papers. “This should explain partly what happened during that miscarriage of justice that was called a trial. He was convicted of murder by witnesses whom we later found out had been bribed. Considering the fact that they perjured themselves the judge granted my husband a full pardon and has wiped the blot from our name.” The governor read the pardon quickly, the only sound in the room the crackling paper and birds singing in the gardens outside. When he looked up Angela said simply, “Now all I have to do is find him. Can you help me do that?”