by JoAnn Wendt
Anne, however, was thrilled with the king’s request that they stay the day. Attracted by her beauty and wit, several of the ladies had attached themselves to her, and Anne was fast making friends. The men were attracted, too, Drake noticed with a jealous eye.
He was acquainted with most of the men. If he hadn’t known them to be loyal supporters of the king who’d accompanied him into exile, sharing His Majesty’s poverty there, starving when food was short, going threadbare and ragged and living in unheated quarters in the dead of winter when there was no money even to buy wood for the king’s fireplace, he would have dismissed them as a bunch of wastrels, lounging about lazy as lizards, drinking wine, flirting with women, playing mindless parlor games.
When the women withdrew to the garderobe room to primp and pee, Drake went out and strode across the grounds to the Office of the Admiralty, intent on Thomas and Harry. He mounted the stairs to the third-floor Office of Records, went in, and felt the same sense of frustration he’d had on his first visit. It was a slipshod place manned by indifferent, slow-moving clerks who sat at their worktables doing as little as possible. Wooden boxes heaped with unattended correspondence stood everywhere.
Realizing he would get nowhere without a bribe, he slipped the chief clerk five pounds sterling and promised him another five when information on Thomas and Harry Crawford was produced. He could ill afford to spend ten pounds, but Edwinna’s peace of mind was worth it. It was the least he could do for her. The clerk’s greedy eyes lighted up like lanterns, and he promised to expedite the records search.
Going down the narrow stairway, Drake nearly collided with a man coming out of another government office. They both stepped back, second-glanced at each other, and burst into pleased laughter.
“Charles!”
“Drake!”
“Good lord, Charles, you’re back. I’d feared you dead. It’s been so long since anyone heard from you,”
“Dead? Not me. Where’d you get such a flea-brain idea?”
They embraced heartily and shook each other by the shoulders. Drake’s smile spread ear to ear. Charles looked the same—a big, handsome blond man with a rakehell smile—but his manner seemed oddly skittish.
“Where in hell have you been for the past year and a half?”
“Italy.”
“Italy? And you just got back today?”
“A mite earlier than that.”
“What ship?”
“The Bountiful Queen.”
Drake was taken aback. “She’s been in port two weeks. You mean you’ve been back two weeks and you couldn’t take a minute to let your best friend know it? Lord Almighty, you’re William’s godfather.”
Charles hedged. “I’d heard you were in Barbados.”
“You could have come to the wine shop and checked.”
Charles shifted uncomfortably, then smiled in his rakehell way. “Ah, Drake! You know how it is. I’ve a woman—a hot-blooded Italian petticoat. She doesn’t like to let me out of her sight. She’s a real terror. If I don’t keep her sheets warm, she’ll look for someone else.”
Drake smiled a little. That could explain it. Charles could be a perfect idiot over a petticoat. They talked a while longer. Drake gave Charles a quick, sketchy account of all that had happened to him and Anne, and then, needing to get back to the king’s court, he and Charles parted company on the promise they would dine together soon. Charles seemed glad to go. It bothered Drake. It bothered him even more that Charles had been in the city two whole weeks. Preoccupied, he rejoined the court.
As the day wore on, the ladies switched to music for amusement, and here Anne shone. She was an extraordinarily accomplished singer. Invited to take her turn, she eagerly did so, and Drake glowed with pride. She had a faultless voice —a trained, silvery soprano. She adored singing and had studied music during her youth. Accompanied on the virginal by Lord Kersey, Anne’s voice soared like a lark’s, her control perfect. It was a thrilling performance. She put all the other singers to shame.
When she finished, she received a standing ovation, which she acknowledged with charming modesty, a flush of pink excitement on her cheeks. Drake was extremely proud of her. She was asked to sing again, and this time, drawn out of his chamber and away from his business by the purity of Anne’s voice, even the king strolled out to listen.
“You had quite a triumphant day,” Drake murmured, kissing her flushed cheek and holding her in his arms as the hackney coach clattered through the dark streets, carrying them home, swinging them to and fro.
“It was thrilling. It was marvelous. It was splendid!”
“I’m glad you had a good time.”
“A good time? Drake, it was the very best day of my life. The ladies begged me to come back on Thursday and sing with them. May I do so, darling?”
He would have thought the best day of her life was the day they’d wed. That was his best day. Drake hesitated. The king’s court had a sordid reputation. It was a bachelor court. Affairs ran rampant. But Anne was in a glow—so happy, so thrilled with her triumph, that he hadn’t the heart to say no. One more visit couldn’t bring harm.
“If you like.”
“Oh, thank you, Drake!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him—a bumpy kiss in the hackney coach. They both laughed a little when their teeth clicked. Their breath smelled of wine and happiness.
“Tell me about your interview with the king. When will you be knighted? When will I become Lady Anne Steel?”
“June first, Lady Anne. In the royal banqueting house.”
“Oh, Drake, how exciting. What else?”
“Well...I now have the patent to supply all the wine sold to Whitehall Palace. I am now the king’s royal vintner.”
“Drake, that’s splendid!”
He smiled ruefully. “We’ll see. I’m not sure it’s splendid. It may be dreadful. It may cost me a fortune. The king hasn’t any money. He’s poor as a street beggar and can’t pay his bills. At least, he can’t until he refills England’s treasury, which is completely empty. To do that, he will have to start a war with the Dutch, they say, to get back the rich colonial trade routes the Dutch stole from us during our civil war. In the meantime, Lady Anne Steel—” he kissed her cheek “ —I am likely to become impoverished if I’m obligated to supply free wine to the king’s household. Either that or drive myself and Arthur crazy, pounding on the king’s steward’s door every week to collect what is owed.”
“I think it’s splendid. It is a great honor.”
He laughed. “An honor likely to drive us right into the almshouse.” Still Drake smiled. He was proud—proud for the Steel family name, for his father’s sake, for Verity, and most of all, for Anne. She loved honors. She would delight in being married to the king’s royal vintner.
In the midst of his contented reverie, he felt a pang. Edwinna would be pleased, too. Above all, she was loyal. She would be proud of everything he accomplished. He wished he could share it with her right now and watch her eyes glow on his behalf.
“What was it like, being in the king’s bedchamber? Was it rich and beautiful?”
He smiled in amusement. “It stank to high heaven. The king’s favorite spaniel bitch had whelped in there three weeks earlier. There were puppies, dog shit, and dog pee everywhere.” Anne giggled. They held each other, content, bumping along, basking in the afterglow of a glorious day.
Only one incident had marred the day, Drake thought sadly, and that incident should have filled him with joy—Charles Dare.
“Guess who I saw when I ducked out to the privy and went over to the Admiralty office for a moment? Charles Dare. I nearly dropped in my tracks. I’d feared he was dead.”
Anne stiffened and sat upright. “What did he say?”
He gazed at her, perplexed by her reaction. “What should he say? He told me he’d been in Italy, that he’d returned two weeks ago. He hadn’t realized people thought him dead. He said he’d written to me during his time in Italy, but likely the
letters hadn’t reached London or the wine shop. And of course he hadn’t known about my pirate experience or Barbados. But I admit I felt a stab, Anne, knowing he’d been in the city two whole weeks and hadn’t tried to see me. I’d thought we were best friends.”
“Oh. Well, I meant only that Charles Dare can be a great liar. I wouldn’t put credence in anything he says.”
“That’s true.” Drake smiled. “He was always a rake, but he’s never lied to me, so far as I know. I invited him to dine with us tomorrow, but he cannot. I invited him for the next day, and he made vague excuses. I admit it hurts. It puzzles me. I’d thought us best friends.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “Never mind, darling! We don’t need Charles Dare. We’ll have our new friends at court.”
She gave him her mouth to kiss, and he kissed it. She smelled so sweet. “They’re not friends, Anne,” he warned. “They’re acquaintances. And questionable ones. I don’t want you becoming overly involved with them. They live fast lives. They tread too near the borderline.”
She laughed, her breath wine-sweet on his lips. “Just because they flirt? Drake. Don’t be foolish.”
“Foolish.” The word bothered him. She’d called him that once before. Doubtless she’d forgotten. He hadn’t. She’d called him that at William’s Breeching Day party when he’d caught Charles Dare kissing her in the garden. He gently leaned his forehead against hers.
“Anne, answer me truly. Do you love me?” It was silly the way his heart pounded as he waited for her answer. He loved her so much.
“You idiot! I love you terribly.” To prove it, she seized him by the hair, nearly wrenching it out by the roots, and thrust her sweet, quick tongue into his mouth. Low in his throat he growled with pleasure. She aroused and satisfied him as no other woman could.
“Anne, let’s have another child. To crown our reunion, our love.” He kissed her flushed temple. In bed she’d reverted to her old disappointing habit of insisting he withdraw before climax to protect her from quickening.
She smoothed his warm, moist brow with two pretty fingers, trailing the ridge, then stroking each eyebrow, petting the black, bushy hair into obedience.
“Let’s talk about it next year, darling. Not this year. I’m having such a splendid time right now. I don’t want to go to court, to your knighting, in an ugly, great-bellied condition.”
“There is nothing ugly in it. A woman’s crested beauty is lovely to behold. Especially to her husband. It thrills me to see you carrying my child, Anne.”
“Let’s talk about it next year, Drake. Please?”
She was a beautiful woman. She deserved her moment in the sun—deserved to be looked at, admired. Still, he felt disappointed. He could not help but think of Edwinna, Edwinna, who had wanted with all her heart to have his child, but couldn’t.
* * * *
‘My dearest brother,
Come at once. Edwinna has just received a visit from a representative of the Office of the Admiralty. Thomas and Harry Crawford are dead. Fever. Last year. In Tangier, North Africa. Edwinna is devastated.
Your loving sister, Verity’
Drake looked up from the message, incensed. It had been two nights since the note had been delivered, but he’d received it only now from Anne as they supped by candlelight.
“Why didn’t you give this letter to me the instant it arrived? You read it; you can see the seriousness of this!”
Wearing a frock of red wool with a white linen cape collar, angel blond hair tumbling, Anne drew herself up defensively.
“For all I knew it was some trick of Verity’s to spirit you away from me to that Barbados woman. Verity hates me.”
“Trick! Verity has nothing to do with this.” His chair scraped as he stood. He angrily threw down his napkin and strode to the dark entry hall. Anne followed, voice high-pitched, wobbly.
“Where are you going, Drake?”
“Where do you think I’m going? To Verity’s, of course.”
“Drake, you cannot go in the dark. You’ll never get a coach.”
“Is that why you waited until now to give me the letter?”
“Drake! I don’t like to be alone at night.”
He grabbed his short sword and buckler from where it hung on a wall peg and buckled it on. He might need it, walking three miles through pitch-dark London. He swung into his cloak and grabbed his hat.
“You are hardly alone, Anne, You have several servants and two children. That is hardly being alone.” He was furious with her. How could she have done this? Edwinna, suffering this blow without him...
Anne’s lower lip trembled in a pout.
“You can at least eat supper with me first.”
“You eat it. You seem to have the stomach for eating, despite such news. I haven’t.”
He wrenched open the door, trotted down the brick steps into the moonless darkness. His swift, angry stride crunched fallen leaves.
“Drake, I hate you!” Anne shouted, infuriated at his leaving.
He turned. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the glow of the candlelight that spilled from the dining chamber.
“You know? Sometimes I think you do.”
He strode off, boiling. Her pretty pleas sprinkled the night.
“Drake? Come back. I love you. I do. I love you!”
He made it to Verity’s door without incident, despite the footpads who roamed thick as rats in London’s streets every night. They doubtless recognized fury when they saw it and feared the thrust of his sword in their belly.
Verity answered the door the instant he banged on it. “Why didn’t you come at once—the moment you got my note?” Verity scolded.
Drake ignored it. No point in driving the wedge between Anne and Verity any deeper than it was. He shucked his outer clothes, sword and buckler. “How is she?”
Verity shook her head. “She should cry—she needs to— but she can’t. It’s all been too much, Drake. First you. Now this.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Is Arthur with her?”
“Yes. In the parlor.”
Drake let himself into the parlor, and Arthur, his kind face compassionate in the firelight, rose at once, nodded to him, and left. Edwinna got up, too. Tightly. Her face was ravaged with shock. She wore the mauve wool gown and shawl she’d worn on his first visit, and it struck him, irrelevantly, that she was not like Anne—she didn’t require a new gown for every day of the month. He went to her and took her into his arms. She leaned against him, her head drifting to his shoulder. He rocked her back and forth as they stood before the crackling fire.
“Edwinna, I’m so sorry—so damned sorry.”
“Drake, I can’t think. The blow. I can’t believe it. Both Harry and Thomas gone.”
“That goddamned savage sea.”
Verity was right. She needed to cry. It was all too much. His strong, brave Edwinna was at her lowest. He pressed her head to his shoulder, holding it there, cradling her soft hair, her warm head, in his hand. He wished he could repair her life, make it come right again, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t God. Sometimes he wasn’t even much of a man.
“Drake, they were on a naval ship—the Abundant. While it was in port in Tangier, a fever swept through the ship. Half the crew died, including the captain and the officers. In the confusion, the death lists were mislaid and didn’t arrive at the Office of the Admiralty until now.”
“Edwinna, Edwinna.” He rocked her, wishing she would cry.
“Drake, they were only nineteen.”
“I know, Edwinna. Cry, weep, rant, rave, be angry. Do anything you wish. I’ll stay with you as long as you need me.”
He heard, felt, the catch in her breast.
“Drake, thank you for coming.”
“I want to be here. I want to be with you. There’s nowhere else I want to be at a time like this. Don’t be afraid that I’m going to walk out that door. I’m not. I’m going to stay with you, sit with you, all night.”
“Drake,
thank you.” It broke his heart, her thanking him like this. For what? He’d brought nothing into her life but misery. He held her, rocked her.
“The worst part is, they’ve been dead a whole year, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t know they were sick, suffering, dying, perhaps delirious with fever, calling for me.”
“Edwinna, Edwinna.”
“All that time I was planting, making sugar, being happy, being with you, and they were dying.”
“I know, I know,” he soothed. “That’s what hurts most.”
She began to weep then—weak, defenseless crying, her entire weight upon him. She cried in his arms for a long time as he rocked her. The log in the fire slowly burned through, and a sliver of moon rose hazily in the smoky London sky. When she had wept herself dry, she wiped her eyes with one finger in that dignified, spinsterish manner he knew and loved.
“Let’s sit by the fire, Edwinna.”
She nodded wearily. He settled her into a chair before the fire, pulled another one close beside her, took her hand, and kept it securely in his. They sat for hours like this, gazing into the flames, talking when she felt like it, being silent, companionable.
Exhausted, she was unfit for sleep. So he went to Verity’s kitchen, found the Brazilian coffee beans, grinder, and tin pot Edwinna had brought with her from Barbados. He prepared the coffee and boiled it in the fireplace in the parlor. The rich fragrance steamed into the air, and they sat together drinking it.
The rest of the household had gone to bed hours earlier, but Drake kept vigil with her throughout the night. She never closed her eyes. Then, an hour before dawn, she let her head loll back and drifted to sleep in her chair. Drake slipped a footstool under her feet. Verity thoughtfully had put a goose-down quilt in the parlor, and Drake covered Edwinna with it and sat watching over her until dawn streaked the sky and he heard the sounds of the household rousing. He looked out at the cold winter sunrise, startled to realize he hadn’t given Anne a thought all night. He felt remiss, guilty, but he was still angry with her. It had been a jealous, childish thing to do, keeping Verity’s note from him, even though she’d read it and knew its seriousness.
