Justin pushed Christina through the door and down the hall to the top of the stairs just as two soldiers started up at Richard's call. Everyone stopped at once at the sight of Justin Phillips holding a pistol to a young lady and her child. The room was abruptly still. Betty simply fainted, quietly falling in a heap at the doorway.
"Gentlemen," Justin addressed the crowd at large, "have you ever seen what a pistol does to a head? Not a pretty sight," he assured them, looking from face to face for the one man—and there was always one—who would play the hero to attempt a rescue. "Unless you've a curiosity for it, I suggest you grant me passage."
She could not believe this was happening to her.
The soldiers seemed to be waiting for someone else to give orders. "Oh, God!" Richard cried strategically, positioned between the soldiers and Justin on the stairs and holding his chest as though about to suffer a seizure. "Let him go! Dear God, don't let him hurt her—let him go!"
Justin was impressed by Richard's performance. "Don't doubt it, gentlemen," and then in that commanding voice, "Now move it!" The soldiers slowly fell back. "In there." Justin indicated the parlor and to a young man wearing a lieutenant's uniform, "Tell them outside. And oh—do drop that pistol."
The young lieutenant stared angrily for a moment, unable to accept his impotence, and Justin saw suddenly the hero. The young man dropped his pistol, turned in a sudden rush to the door. "He's got a woman and a child," he called out. "Stand back and allow passage."
"My driver too," Justin ordered.
The order was related and Brahms, held by the pistols of four men, found himself suddenly released. He climbed back to the driver's seat and quickly took the reins, knowing this would be a hasty departure if ever there was one. The soldier's attention was fastened to the house; no one noticed the driver fussing with the carriage lantern but the neighbors who watched from the safety of their windows. It would be a story they told for years to come.
Justin made his way slowly down the stairs, Christina and child held firmly in tow. Richard kept in front, looking every bit the terrified husband. "Back up, lieutenant," Justin snapped as he neared the door. The young man slowly backed toward the parlor, waiting his chance, while Justin, careful to keep his back to the wall, progressed to the door. He kicked the lieutenant's pistol out of the way, then purposely turned his back at the door frame to allow the young lieutenant this one opportunity to play the hero.
The opportunity was instantly seized. With hands firmly on an already drawn sword, the young man charged at Justin, and at the exact moment, Justin swung around and slammed the butt of his pistol into the lieutenant's face. And before anyone else could move, Justin had the pistol back to Christina's head again.
Little Justin woke with a start. Sensing his mother's fear and the cold night air, he started crying. Christina clutched him even tighter to herself. Any minute the soldiers would decide she wasn't worth the price of losing Justin Phillips. They would fire indiscriminately, and oh God—
Brahms calmly withdrew two pistols from the driver's seat and ordered the soldiers to drop their weapons. Reluctantly, one by one, each man tossed his pistol to the ground.
After a quick assessment of another dozen or so soldiers disarmed outside, Justin pushed Christina down the steps toward the carriage. "Should anyone follow," he stopped to warn them, "I shall shoot them both and escape with less of a burden. Do not doubt my ruthlessness; history should speak for itself."
Beauty could not believe the nerve of the cat sitting snuggled in the tree. Just feet away! She barked furiously at it, wanting to make the cat see she would tear it to pieces, but the cat just sat there, watching the foolish effort with but lazy indifference.
Beauty barked, jumped, barked.
What? What was that?
She stopped barking to listen to the unfamiliar sounds. She sniffed; too many humans for this hour. Sounds of humans coming from the direction of down the street...
The hair slowly lifted from her coat and she started running.
With Christina still held at gun point, Justin slowly made his way down to the carriage. A dog barking sounded from the near distance. Closer. Christina's head snapped around to see. Beauty ran toward her to attack him. No warning or stalling, just a great rush. She saw it even before it happened.
"Beauty! Nooo!"
Justin had no choice. One shot fired and Christina screamed at the same moment Beauty cried out and fell with an ugly jerk to the ground. Christina started forward with her scream, but the wind was knocked from her as Justin thrust her forward to protect her with his life.
"Don't anyone move!"
Brahms enforced Justin's order by aiming his pistols at any number of the helpless soldiers. No one moved. Justin quickly pushed Christina and his son inside the carriage with himself and instantly the carriage jerked forward. So taken by the rush of events, not one of the soldiers wondered why—if Mr. Phillips had truly intended to shoot the lady—he had placed himself in the line of fire those tense moments after the dog went down.
Justin quickly slipped out the opposite door to join Brahms in the event someone followed. The carriage was joined by his men. It would be a long ride to Portsmouth, where his ship sat waiting to take them to Boston.
He shouted to Jacob, who nodded and drew back to make certain no one followed. He turned back and settled in the seat beside Brahms, watching with some disbelief as the man attempted to rekindle his tobacco beneath the wind and moist fog, the terrifying speed of the carriage.
"Anything for a smoke," Justin commented dryly.
"After that, I deserve it," Brahms in turn called against the wind. "I suppose you already know who informed the authorities of your whereabouts?"
Justin nodded.
"Not one of ours?" Brahms queried.
"What do you think?" Justin asked rhetorically.
"No, but I can't figure who then."
"Someone from my father's house. I was suspecting it. God knows there's enough rivalry and jealousy to warrant it."
Justin would not be surprised if his father's entire house—from the stable hands to Lady Phillips herself—knew every intimate detail concerning Christina and her child. His father had never been very careful to guard the secrecy of either his personal or business matters, a subject he would definitely bring up in the next letter. If Jefferson's Embargo Act got through congress—and he thought it would—he and his father would be partners in one of the grandest smuggling adventures yet. He would need his father's complete trust.
"It makes sense," Brahms said finally as a cloud of sweet-smelling tobacco disappeared into the moving fog. "If it had been one of our men, they would have taken us at the ship."
"Exactly."
Brahms expertly guided the horses around sharp bends and twists in the road and Justin still found himself bracing the driver's rail for each. Danger was suddenly a force with which to contend with Christina and his son inside.
"Well, that was a close one for sure." Brahms laughed, managing reins and pipe simultaneously.
Justin didn't know he meant the last turn or the run-in with Britain's finest.
"Had it been anyone else but you, I'd have wagered my life they'd have got you. Christina? She's all right?"
"I think so." Justin stared straight ahead.
"That must have been her dog." Brahms thought out loud. "It looked just like Beau. She must have got it because she missed the old fellow."
This thought had also occurred to Justin.
"And that was your son in her arms." Brahms steered the conversation as well.
Justin nodded.
"I couldn't take my eyes off the redcoats long enough to look. But you've seen him?" Justin nodded again and Brahms laughed at his expression. "Now that's a father's pride written all over you. Let me guess—he's big and healthy and he looks just like you."
The carriage raced along and as Justin waited for Jacob's return, he related to Brahms all he had been told of his son, including that str
ange sense of familiarity he felt upon seeing him, as though he had already known him.
Brahms was interested in this. "Well now, either Cajun's heathen beliefs in the reincarnate soul are right or—" he grinned—"the feeling comes because he is already so much like you. In which case, I bet he's a handful for his mother."
Justin smiled. "That's what her maid said."
Brahms added purposefully. "The two of you will be fine parents—that boy is bound to be spoiled rotten."
"Yes. At least if I have anything to do with it."
Brahms laughed just as Jacob returned to signal all was clear. The carriage slowed to an even pace and Justin rose to return inside the carriage.
"Is Christina nursing the babe herself?" Brahms asked.
Justin had no idea.
"If she is, she'll be thirsty. Take her this cask."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"My wife." Sadness marked his features. "She was a midwife before she died. Babies are one thing I know all about."
Brahms reached a hand to stop him and Justin stared at it, illuminated by the carriage lantern directly above. Long and thin, his hand looked like a musician's or scribner's, too delicate for a man whose life was at sea. A wedding band tied the hand to a past which its owner would not forget. The calluses looked oddly misplaced and it reminded Justin that Brahms had never been meant to do the hard labor he demanded of his men.
"I know something else too." He looked directly at Justin. "I know she put you through hell—everyone does—but don't lose her. God, Justin, don't lose her. I had no choice," he added, "but you do."
"It's a different story, Brahms."
"Is it?"
Justin made no reply.
* * * * *
Christina was remembering the day she had gotten Beauty. She had yet to be showing then and Richard and Darrell had taken her out for an open air carriage ride in Hyde Park. She spotted the little boy on a corner standing alongside a dog much larger than himself, a dog exactly like Beau. And in his arms was the last puppy.
"Stop! Please stop!" she had called to the driver. The carriage stopped and before either Richard or Darrell could guess her intentions, she flew out the door and straight to the dog.
"Oh, just look at him," she said to no one but herself as she knelt to rub the huge head with both hands. "He's just like Beau!"
The boy saw that he was finally going to rid himself of the last pup. "E's a she mum and this," he said, knowing well his business and placing the bundle of living fur in her arms, "is 'er pup. Genuine Saint Bernard. Bred pure."
"Oh, Richard," she said as the two men approached, "just look at her!"
Richard was looking; looking at the size of what he feared was the mother. "Oh God, I think I'm in trouble."
The puppy seemed to sense that this was a momentous occasion and enthusiastically licked Christina's face. The mother barked happily. From the looks of their dress, the boy began an assessment to guess yearly income. And Christina turned to Richard with wide hopeful eyes.
"Oh God, I know I'm in trouble."
"I do have that sense," Darrell agreed.
"No doubt it's owing to all those mothering chemicals in her body."
"No doubt," Darrell agreed, then asked, "Did you know the Greek word for womb is hysterica?"
"It makes perfect sense suddenly," Richard replied.
Christina was used to their teasing but this was important. "Oh, Richard, please, I promise I'll never let—"
"Think of its fleas!"
"I'll bathe her regularly, I promise!"
"Where?" Richard wondered.
"Oh, Richard, she just reminds me of another dog I knew and, and I want her so badly—"
Darrell laughed. "If you can resist those eyes, I can not. How much?" he asked the boy.
Christina laughed and jumped up holding her treasure and kissed Darrell's cheek.
"A quid even," the boy said.
"A quid?" Richard screamed, "Why you cunning little thief—"
"That's the pick of the litter, sir!" the boy argued.
"The pick? You mean the runt! I'll give you—"
And on and on the bargaining went until finally a price was found. Once they were settled back in the carriage and Richard saw how happy Christina was, he knew in truth that had she wanted a hundred of those mongrels, he would have bought them. Such was his fondness for her.
"What will you name her?" Darrell had asked.
"Gargantua?" Richard suggested.
Christina knew already. "Beauty. Her name will be Beauty."
"Beauty?" Richard questioned with distaste. "How insipid!"
"Innocuous at best," Darrell agreed.
Christina looked from one face to the other. "Oh you two! Really," she sighed, "I don't know how I ever get along."
But she had gotten along and wonderfully. She thought of all she had lost: Richard and Darrell, Betty and Beauty. She loved them all and with all her heart. She could not believe it was over.
It was over though; it had been over the minute he walked back into her life. Peace shattered like a hammer to porcelain. He walked into her life and brought with him his violence...
They would be married, bound together forever by the single act of vows. They would live together; they would see each other every day in the intimate circumstances of man and wife. Yet he hated her. The very sight of her solicited his loathing.
Did he know this would be the cruelest punishment?
She could live without him, nourished by a thousand precious memories and the joy and pleasure of raising his son. This was how she had foreseen her life. Peaceful and quiet, filled with the small pleasures of daily life. She could have survived with this.
She could not survive with him and his hatred of her. It would be a slow death, as insidious as Diego's and just as painful. Love and hatred, two forces clashing in destruction—her destruction. Yes, it would be her end; he might more easily shoot her, certainly more merciful.
And she did love him! She had always and would always love him. Love had been the only constant throughout the tangle of feelings, thoughts, and motives, the unfortunate twists in fate that made her turn toward the wind to a British ship that carried her away from him and his love. Thoughts and feelings and circumstances that seemed but a jumble in her mind now, fuzzy and elusive like a dream upon the waking. And now the only clear thing in her mind was her love and his hatred, a future that was as cold and barren as a snow-filled desert.
The carriage door opened with an icy burst of wind and Justin slipped into the seat opposite her. She did not wipe her tears fast enough, though he would have known she was crying anyway. It seemed his fate to bring tears to those soft gray eyes.
"I'm sorry for putting you through that," he said sincerely, though in a permanent tone of animosity.
She nodded, not venturing to speak.
"Brahms said you'd be thirsty." He handed her the cask. "Here, let me," he said, lifting the bundle from her arms. She drank thirstily as he stared at his son's sleeping face. When she looked up again, she found him staring at her.
"That was your dog, I suppose."
She nodded.
"I'm sorry about that too. I had no choice."
"No," she whispered softly, "you never do."
That was not lost on Justin.
The carriage bounced over a hole with a loud thud. Little Justin woke and first stretched in his father's arms, arching all the way back. Justin watched with interest. He yawned, then lazily opened his eyes to see who held him. He stared in acute interest at the new face and then, as though reaching some happy conclusion, he grinned ear to ear and reached up to touch.
Justin chuckled and introduced himself, and for the next twenty or so minutes, Christina watched their relationship develop. She could not help but be surprised by both parties' quick affection; she hadn't expected it, at least not so soon. She had not expected the bittersweet joy of watching this.
Amazing Justin with his sm
all strength, his son squirmed, and realizing how hungry he was, he abruptly started screaming. Justin was not intimidated. He leaned back and looked at Christina.
"He's hungry," she explained softly, her gaze anxiously fixed on her son's signs of discomfort. Then to make it perfectly clear to Justin, I have to nurse him." Nursing was done in private. Richard and Darrell, even Betty, would excuse themselves from her company.
Save for the intensity of his gaze, Justin made no move, making something else perfectly clear. He would do what he wanted with her; she had no say. The subjugation of her will was not by choice or certainly desire, but rather came by design the day she bore him a son. The only choice she had was to leave him again, but now that meant leaving her son.
She stared in silence, understanding his message all too well. Her eyes dropped to the child in his arms, squirming in frustration. Then her gaze lowered altogether.
Justin watched as both her arms reached behind to unbutton the buttons of her gown. The gown finally slipped from her slender shoulders to hang loosely at her waist. She wore no chemise, only a corset, one laced in front. Her hands slowly untied the strings and, still without looking up, she parted it and leaned forward with extended arms to receive her child.
A jeweled whistle adorned a sight from which he could not take his eyes.
She waited; the seconds seemed interminable. Justin finally rose, placed his son carefully in her arms, and left wordlessly, wondering only who was the victim.
CHAPTER 11
The long journey to Boston was slow and trying for Christina. The seas were wild, the ship met with frequent storms, and more days than not the cold winter winds and rain prevented even short walks on deck. She and little Justin were for the most part confined to their cabin for the duration.
She met animosity at every turn. Justin hardly spoke to her unless it concerned their son. She expected this. Only it was so much worse than she imagined. From watching Justin play with his son, she saw how very important a father's love was. Justin thought to do things and play with him in ways she had not the inclination or idea to do. The pain came only when little Justin—with a smile or scramble to her—tried to include her in their fun, then how quickly and easily his father would distract him until the capricious little fellow forgot his mother altogether.
Horsman, Jennifer Page 26
