The Pride of the King
Page 15
Before the day was out Lauren was back to boisterous suppers and raucous carriage rides. Yet she was fundamentally changed, the carefree flibbertigibbet of Duke Street was gone, replaced by a cold apathetic shadow caring nothing for her own well-being.
Chapter 24
After that day, Lauren remembered very little of the years she spent with the Benchs. She continued with her undisciplined existence, caring nothing for her safety or well-being, throwing herself into any situation no matter how perilous. She would go for days without sleep, attending every ball and supper New York had to offer, indulging in every excess and then fall ill only to recover and stagger to her next soiree. Filled with self-loathing, she drowned herself in drink denying what she had become; an insipid, self-serving aristocrat of New York society.
After a while, she forgot Frederick Brink. He meant nothing to her, but she could not rid herself of the nagging doubts about her future. She was approaching twenty-one years of age, and she had not yet found a home. She felt trapped on Duke Street, merely a pawn in their game of society chess, so out of frustration and impotence she drowned herself in revelry. Others could see the toll it was taking on her health, but she listened to no one. Heloise and Cornelius tried to talk with her, but she shut them out reminding them that she was still delivering the wealthy and well bred to their front door.
It was early spring 1753 and hostilities began to escalate with the French. There was grumbling from the colonists that England was about to engage in a war with France, and some of the discussions became heated at the house on Duke Street. Lauren cared nothing for their bickering. She learned just enough to sound informed, nothing more.
“The menu card you wrote looks fine, Rosalie,” said Heloise to the cook one afternoon. “Clam chowder, green beans, and lobster--everything is fine except your use of that provincial term, ‘Albany beef‘. How many times do I have to tell you? It is called sturgeon. Obviously your previous owner was Dutch.” Heloise continued to peruse the menu. “Let me see flummery, tarts, and nuts for dessert. Yes, very good, very good.”
“Heloise, do you have a lover coming to supper tonight?” teased Lauren. She poured herself a glass of port and looked around the room. “Honestly, the way you are fussing. You are a nervous wreck.”
Mrs. Bench had taken great care to set the table in the latest style a la francaise. In the middle of the table were three salvers, or footed servers, one heaped with faux jewels and decorations, the next with fruit and nuts, and the last with a richly frosted torte. Her shipment of porcelain dinnerware had just arrived that morning, the very latest creation. She used her best serving pieces, finest linens, and most precious bayberry candles all to create the impression of opulence and good taste. She had been working on the menu for a week and even engaged some musicians for entertainment.
Lauren finished her drink and went upstairs to bathe. Heloise had instructed her to wear her finest gown tonight because there would be a special guest at supper. She did not give a damn who was coming to the house on Duke Street. She was sick to death of the aristocrats and dandies. They were all alike. She stepped out of the tub, dried herself and dabbed some oil of lavender behind her ears. Of all the luxuries Lauren had experienced in the last few years, scent was her favorite. She loved the work of the stillroom and created new perfumes on her own at every opportunity. Many of the recipes she learned from Marianne back in Kaskaskia, and every time she distilled a new scent or extracted oil she remembered working with the gentle old slave woman in the Aberjon kitchen long ago. Sometimes a smell would remind her of Simone or Eugenie, and she would search herself for emotion, but all she found was emptiness.
Lauren refilled her glass of port then slipped a gold sacque gown over her head. After lacing the bodice over a snow-white shift and lace petticoat, she attached a richly beaded stomacher to the front of the dress and stepped to the mirror.
“My God! You need makeup,” observed Corny from behind her.
Lauren jumped, and cried, “Damn it Corny! Announce yourself!”
He leaned close to the mirror. “Look at the rings under your eyes. You look like you haven’t slept in a month and your skin. It is so gray.”
“Mind your own business!” snapped Lauren. "Look at that your own face. You look like a mummer. That white makeup is hideous.”
Ignoring her comment, Corny pulled Lauren to the dressing table. After much arguing, she allowed him to apply a bit of cochineal rouge to her cheeks and brush some lampblack on her lashes. He stepped back to inspect his work. The cosmetics had not helped. Lauren still looked drawn and ill, her complexion gray and lackluster. Corny was worried but said nothing instead suggesting, “How about a little orrisroot to whiten--”
“No! Now I have enough on!”
“Have it your way,” he shrugged. “Mother wants us downstairs now. The guests are about to arrive.”
“Who is this mystery guest she talks about?” asked Lauren.
“I’m guessing its General Stuart’s replacement, General George McAffee. He arrived in New York this week.”
The guests were starting to arrive as Lauren came down the stairs to join the party. She was the quintessential hostess, engaging them in witty conversation, offering them refreshments, encouraging them to relax and enjoy themselves. The musicians played in the garden while guests drifted in and out sipping Madeira and port before supper.
The only one who was not entertained was Lauren. As the evening progressed, she turned more and more to drink for amusement. It lessened her contempt for the pompous snobs and their endless prattle. She assumed her mark for the night was General McAffee, so after some easy maneuvers she found herself alone with him in the garden. He was a large, unattractive man with bushy eyebrows and a loud voice. Lauren swallowed hard and approached him. Why are they always so hideous?
It was a beautiful evening with a warm breeze carrying the scent of roses throughout the garden. A half moon sailed in the sky as the musicians played a minuet. “I hope you will be a frequent guest of ours, General,” gushed Lauren as she swept up to him smiling.
“Oh, I am most grateful, Madame, I will be in New York most of the time, but occasionally I will travel to Albany. In fact I leave in a few days for a visit there.”
He is leaving in a few days. I must work quickly, thought Lauren. Heloise was in dire need of investments. “Oh my, you will be going to the interior?” she asked biting her lip. “How that terrifies me, the thought of savages and wild animals.”
The general stepped closer.“Those are things a lady should never have to encounter,” he murmured
“Oh, I am so grateful the hostilities are on the frontier and not here in my beloved city,” she said. The wine made her unsteady, so she backed up against the trunk of a tree putting her hands demurely behind her back. She knew it would push her breasts upward and with any luck, he would try to kiss her.
“I will leave all the danger to you brave men,” she said breathlessly.
Just as General McAffee moved closer, a gravelly voice barked, “You would be surprised at the dangers that lurk right here in the city.”
An old gentleman hobbled up to the couple. “Don’t you agree?”
The General sighed, clearly aggravated and stepped back from Lauren. “I haven’t had the pleasure, sir.”
The elderly gentleman apologized. “Pardon my intrusion. My name is Leopold Fitch. I too have just arrived in New York.” He was dressed in a white periwig, dark coat and britches. He moved slowly as if his joints were stiff, but his dark eyes were as alert as a hawk.
“Charmed,” Lauren mumbled.
Her eyes could no longer focus properly, so she was relieved when supper was announced. She hoped that food would help her regain some of her composure. The dining room was magnificent. Bayberry candles bathed the room in a golden glow as chamber music drifted in from the garden. The table glistened with silver and crystal resting on a deep plum tablecloth. The guests were enchanted and praised Heloise for her impeccabl
e taste.
Much to Lauren’s surprise, she was not seated next to General McAfee. Her card was in the seat next to Leopold Fitch. Unsure who her mark was for the night she cast a desperate look at Heloise, but the woman was far too busy entertaining to notice.
The supper dragged on endlessly as Mr. Fitch asked tedious questions about Lauren’s life in New Orleans. She avoided talk about her past especially when she was intoxicated, so after supper she ditched the old gentleman and convinced several acquaintances to go for a ride.
After Lauren left, Mr. Fitch approached Heloise. “I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Not here. Not now,” she hissed.
“Yes now!” he demanded under his breath.
“You’re upset.”
“You’re damned right I’m upset! The girl is a mess. What have you been doing to her?” he growled.
Heloise shifted uncomfortably, then trying to disguise her agitation waved to someone across the room calling, “I’ll be right there, darling.” She turned back to Fitch and declared, “What have I been doing! What have you been doing? You are over a year late.”
“Why don’t you ask the authorities where I have been for that year?
Her mouth dropped open. “What! What do you mean? Prison again? How is it that I received orders from you?”
Fitch’s eyes darted around the room. “Never mind that now. Listen to me closely. I want you to go upstairs and pack a bag. You are leaving tonight.”
“What! What are you talking about? I can’t leave!”
“One way or the other you three will be leaving this house tonight, either right now or in the chains of a British regular later.”
“Oh, My God!” gasped Heloise. She rubbed her forehead trying to absorb the news. “My furniture, my clothing, my silver.”
“There is no time for that. You, Cornelius and the girl are in grave danger.”
“I’ll tell Corny right now,” gulped Heloise. “But I don’t know where Lauren is.”
“Don’t worry about her. You and Cornelius leave for Boston tonight. I’ll take the girl with me.”
The old gentleman turned and shuffled out the door leaving Heloise confused and frightened. She crossed into the dining room, ignoring the guests and approached the walnut sideboard. Taking out a brandy decanter, she poured herself a stiff drink and emptied the contents in one gulp. Taking a deep breath, she started up the stairs. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 25
It was late at night when Lauren’s carriage pulled up to the house on Duke Street. The coachman opened the door and Lauren jumped out crashing into a woman passing by on the street. After exchanging apologies, Lauren saw the woman glance back at her before turning the corner. Not giving it another thought, Lauren arranged her hair as she climbed the stairs of the townhouse.
She fully expected to hear the chinking of crystal and the laughter of guests, all was silent, and the front door was standing open. Confused, she walked into the sitting room finding the chamber silent and deserted. Candles were burning and chairs had been overturned. There was broken glassware everywhere.
She stepped carefully around the room shaking her head. She couldn’t imagine Heloise tolerating such raucous behavior. She turned toward the dining room. Something was wrong. Something did not feel right. Her eyes widened as she discovered the remains of Heloise’s elegant supper strewn on the dining room floor. Broken porcelain and shards of crystal were scattered everywhere, and someone had removed the tablecloth, silver and all.
Suddenly, Lauren’s heart jumped. Intoxicated guests had not committed this mayhem; they had been ransacked!
Anxious to know if Heloise and Cornelius were safe, she grabbed a candle and started upstairs. Her heart was pounding so furiously she could hear nothing but the blood rushing in her ears.
The first room at the top of the stairs was Heloise’s bedchamber. As she entered Lauren held the candle high, but it illuminated only part of the boudoir throwing the rest into shadows. A few clothes littered the floor, but other than that nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Her breathing was rapid and shallow as she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the lowboy. Her eyes were wide and her expression strained as the flickering candle cast eerie shadows across her face. Suddenly a strange sensation came over her. She could feel the warmth of someone standing behind her, and a man’s face appeared in the mirror. Before she had time to scream he grabbed her around the waist and clapped his hand over her mouth. The more she struggled the tighter her assailant’s grip became. The man’s grasp was like iron as he dragged her out of the bedroom and into the hall. She thrashed madly, kicking and squirming frantically trying to free herself. Lauren almost swooned from fear.
“Calm down!” someone barked.
The blood pumped in Lauren’s ears. She heard nothing.
“Be still girl! He won’t hurt you!” someone said, stepping in front of her from the shadows. The speaker held a candelabrum up. Lauren instantly recognized Leopold Fitch. Her breathing slowed, and she quit struggling.
Jerking free of the stranger’s grip she demanded, “What’s going on here! Where are the Benchs?”
“Everyone is safe. Don’t worry,” he replied in his raspy voice.
“Where did they go?” she demanded panting from fear and rage.
“I removed the Benchs to a safe place. The British Regulars are responsible for tearing up your townhouse.”
“What!” she cried.
“Did anyone see you come in?” he asked.
“No! I mean yes—there was a woman outside on the street.”
“A woman saw you?” Fitch questioned. “Then they will return soon.”
“Why? What do they want? What’s going on here?” she demanded.
“I don’t have time for that now. You must come with me. You are in great danger,” he said clutching her elbow.
“I’m not going anywhere with anyone!” Lauren cried tearing her arm away. She turned to dash down the stairs, but Fitch’s huge friend caught her by the wrist. She winced from pain as his massive hand clamped down upon her arm. He was a giant of a man with wild black hair and a low forehead. He reminded Lauren of an overgrown monkey.
“No, Mr. Groot,” Fitch ordered. “Release her.”
Fitch withdrew a piece of parchment from his breast pocket and handed it to Lauren. “This will convince you if I cannot.”
Glaring at him, she stepped up to the candelabra and read the note.
My dear Lauren,
It has become necessary for Cornelius and I to leave New York, and you must leave immediately as well. My business ventures on Duke Street have been of questionable legality, and you are in grave danger. Flee now with Mr. Fitch.
Heloise
Lauren’s eyes narrowed as she said, “I don’t believe it.”
“We have no time to argue,” said Fitch. “Go to your room and pack a bag.”
The giant dragged Lauren down the hall, pushing her into the bedroom and slamming the door. She stood alone in the room, rubbing her wrist trying to comprehend everything. Flight from New York with this stranger was out of the question; she must escape immediately. Pulling off her evening gown, she reached into the wardrobe for her green wool skirt and riding jacket. She put them on, swung a cloak over her shoulders and approached the window.
Just outside her bedroom was a large oak tree with a sturdy limb stretching toward the house like an arm. Lauren lifted the sash and swung onto the limb, keeping her weight low. It all came back to her. She began scrambling down the tree nimbly, proud of the fact she had not forgotten her old skill. Suddenly, her skirt caught on a branch, and she began to tumble. Lauren fell through the tree scraping her face on bark, cracking her arms and legs on limbs. She came to an abrupt halt, still in the tree, tangled in the limbs with her skirt pulled above her waist.
Hanging on desperately to a branch Lauren heard Fitch say, “Just let go, you little fool, and Mr. Groot will catch you.”
Fitch hobbled over with two horses saying, “Get on.”
Lauren hesitated.
“Get on. Now!” he demanded.
Begrudgingly, she climbed upon the horse.
After the old gentleman was mounted the giant asked, “Will that be all, sir?”
“That will be all, Mr. Groot. I am most grateful.”
“God speed, sir.”
“To you too,” said Mr. Fitch kicking his mare.
The city was deserted and the sound of hooves on cobblestones rang through the streets. They dashed through the city with Fitch in the lead, tearing madly through the maze of the city. When the surroundings turned rural they slowed their pace. Trudging along, Lauren spied farmers starting morning chores and housewives coming in from the morning milking.
For the first time in her life she envied rural folk for their slow, simple lives. Her anger boiled once more. She leaned forward in her saddle and said, “I demand to know where we are going.”
Fitch did not reply. She repeated her question, but there was still no reply. Lauren sat back in the saddle and waited, watching his white periwig and cloak ahead of her. As the sun rose they left the farmhouses and barns and followed a path into the forest. They traveled deeper and deeper into the woods until an umbrella of trees and dense underbrush surrounded them.
Giving it another try, Lauren called, “Mr. Fitch! Where are we going? I demand an answer!” she screamed.
Fitch turned in his saddle and stated simply, “The interior.”
“The interior!” shrieked Lauren. “Only voyageurs and women of bad character go to the interior!”
“Oh, I had forgotten that you are a woman of good character,” Fitch mumbled sarcastically. Suddenly, he jerked up on the reigns of his horse.