Captive Embraces

by Fern Michaels

  Sirena turned to the looking glass for the full effect of her costume. She was wearing a new aquamarine outfit. The color of the Mediterranean, she thought when she selected the velvet fabric. The gown sported a snug-fitting jacket, deeply embossed with golden scrolls at the lapels and full sleeves. Her hair gleamed darkly against the pale color and her eyes were enhanced, looking brighter and greener from under her black lashes. Although severely tailored, the delicate hue lent a femininity to the costume. On her head she set a narrow, peaked hat with wispy veiling falling over her face and an array of exotic feathers decorating the crown. Pulling on white kid gloves, Sirena was ready to depart.

  “Is the carriage ready for us, Frau Holtz?” she asked, smiling as the older woman hastened to clamp her plain hat firmly on her gray head and don her heavy, woolen cloak.

  “Ja, and Jacobus is waiting for us. He thinks it all fun and games to play footman to you, Mevrouw. Sometimes I wish he’d go back to the ship,” she complained. “All he does is spruce himself up in that fine livery you bought him and hang about the house all day plying cakes and pies out of Cook.”

  Sirena’s smile broadened. “Frau Holtz, do I detect a spur of jealousy?”

  “Nein! And why should I be jealous of the likes of him? I can’t shake loose from the man! He’s taken it upon himself to watch over the two of us and he does a fine job of that. Whenever I turn about, he’s there. He’s always underfoot! And God forbid you should return from a party or dinner later than he thinks you should, Mevrouw! Ach! The man’s a fool!” she exclaimed, but Sirena noted there was a softening in her eyes when she spoke of the old man.

  At the intersection of Corn Hill and Threadneedle Street stood the Royal Exchange. The immense building was in the shape of a quadrangle and encircled a courtyard and galleries that were divided into tiny shops which were attended by comely girls to draw the trade of the gallants and fops who frequented the pubs and eateries. The traffic surrounding the famous marketplace was thick and disorderly.

  After a lengthy ride through town along cobblestoned streets and the various disputes with hackneys over the right of way and interminable processions of chicken carts and tallow carts and vehicles bearing every variety of goods, Jacobus’ patience was at an end. “Just give a man the freedom of open water,” he complained to Sirena. But she knew Jacobus would be heartbroken if she ever sent him back to the Sea Spirit with the rest of the crew. Jacobus would be lost without the Frau and herself to look after. He had appointed himself their guardian and he meant to see the job through, whatever the costs to his temperament.

  As Sirena and Frau Holtz went into the Exchange, they were assaulted by myriad aromas coming from cookfires and heard the hawkers displaying their goods. Ascending the stairs to the top gallery with Frau Holtz close behind, Sirena pretended not to hear the compliments extended in her direction by fastidiously dressed gallants who hung about flirting with the shopgirls and unescorted ladies. Frau Holtz sniffed and sent them scourging looks as she huffed up the steps after her Mevrouw. Daunted, they left the women to their shopping and bedeviled other likely prospects.

  Through the shops the women wandered, stopping now and again to examine a pair of gloves or a length of ribbon. Sirena was caught up in the enthusiasm of the Change. She bought seven pairs of gloves, each in a different color. Frau Holtz, too, was enticed by the bargains. She also bought gloves, two pairs, both black.

  Stockings, feathers, fans, laces, buttons, needles, spices, exotic essences, all found their way into their packages. On the lower gallery, Sirena and Frau Holtz happily neared the end of their adventure. The Frau’s feet hurt and Sirena’s head ached and her nerves were taut from being jostled by the crowd. In the center of the courtyard, merchants dickered over the prices of stocks and mortgages and their prospective cargoes which were coming by ship.

  Just as they were about to leave, they rounded a goldsmith’s shop and Frau Holtz stopped to admire a pair of earbobs. On impulse, Sirena stepped into the stall and bought them for her friend. The jeweler looked at Sirena with a speculative eye, noting her rich dress and obvious wealth, and he said in a low voice, “If Madame would be interested in a most unusual piece of jewelry, she has come to the right shop.”

  Sirena glanced at him and was reminded of the wealthy old Jews who used to come to her father’s house in Cádiz. She instinctively knew the goldsmith was to be trusted in the quality of his merchandise. Jewelers’ reputations were more precious to their trade than diamonds. “If you would care to show me,” she said, “I would be most interested.”

  The man’s expression brightened as he glanced warily around his stall. It wouldn’t be wise to advertise to the scoundrels who hung about the Change that he had something valuable in his possession. Swiftly, he bent over to bring out a box from beneath the table, and Sirena caught a glance of the spotlessly clean yarmulke covering the crown of his head. The tiny satin cap was in such contradiction to his otherwise seedy appearance that Sirena knew him to be a wealthy man under the guise of a poor merchant. She realized the goldsmith knew it was unwise to sport his comfortable circumstances.

  His hands shook slightly as he raised the lid for her. “This came to me by way of the Orient, madame, and when I saw your eyes, I knew it had been crafted for you.” Sirena’s eyes were fixed on the jewels which lay on a bed of black velvet. There was the most spectacular piece of jade jewelry she had ever seen. It was in the shape of a mandarin dragon with two glowing rubies for eyes. The craftmanship of the pendant and gold chain were exquisite.

  Thinking of the gown she had commissioned Mrs. Wittcomb to create for her out of the serpentine silk, Sirena knew she must have the piece. “You are truthful, sir. It is by far the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen.” Her voice was excited and, try as she might, she could not disguise the thrill the object caused in her. She knew it was bad bargaining to allow the merchant to see this, yet she would gladly pay thrice what the pendant was worth to wear it with the gown.

  Breathlessly, she told the merchant where she lived and invited him to come by. He introduced himself as Solomon Levy and gave her one of his cards. When Sirena reluctantly placed the royal dragon back in its case and walked away with Frau Holtz, Solomon Levy smiled with satisfaction. He certainly could pick a likely prospect, he congratulated himself. The jade was beautiful, rare and worth every cent Sirena would pay for it.

  Goldsmith Levy was an honest businessman with insight as to character and means. When Sirena hadn’t inquired about the price, he knew she could afford whatever he asked.

  Tucking the box safely beneath the table again, he thought to himself that it had been a profitable day. He experienced a small regret at having sold the pendant. Sometimes at night, when he was all alone and safe from prying eyes, he would take out the velvet box and look at the Chinese jade in the flickering light of a candle. His consolation in losing this enjoyment was that Sirena was as lovely as the pendant itself.

  Frau Holtz and Sirena bustled out of the Change, laden with packages. “You wait here, Mevrouw,” the Frau said. “Look at the filth on the streets. You’ll ruin your shoes. I’ll go and fetch Jacobus and the carriage. I wear sensible shoes!”

  Sirena succumbed to the Frau’s mothering. “All right, but leave the parcels with me so you won’t have to carry them around.” Looking up at the sky, she muttered, “It looks like rain. We’d better get home as soon as we can. I’ve heard of carriages turning over on the slick cobbles.”

  “Ja, I hurry!”

  Standing alone, Sirena ignored the inquisitive glances and bawdy appeals directed at her, a lady without escort or companion. Across Threadneedle Street carriages were lined up waiting for their charges. Sirena strained to see if her coach was among them. A chill washed over her which she attributed to the sun going behind clouds and the change in the air. From out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hired hackney pull out of line on Threadneedle Street and block the traffic behind it. The drivers swore epithets at the impeding vehicle,
which seemed to be having some sort of difficulty. Just then, Jacobus came up behind her.

  “I’ll take those packages off your hands, Capitana,” he said softly, relieving Sirena of her burden. “We’ll have to cross the road. Corn Hill’s impassable; there’s been an accident.”

  Jacobus stepped into the street, Sirena behind him, her thoughts on the royal dragon. When she was nearly across, the hired hack drew into the road, the team of horses broke into a gallop, their driver whipping them into a frenzy. They were almost upon her before she saw them and then it was too late.

  Whinnying, snorting, the steeds came. She looked up and saw the dark driver with whip raised, standing with his cloak billowing about him. In that instant, Sirena saw death!

  Jacobus saw it, too. He threw the packages away from himself and rushed back to Sirena, tumbling her to the ground and knocking her out of harm’s way. The coach plunged forward, the thundering of the horses’ hooves loud on the cobblestones.

  It was a full minute before Sirena and Jacobus collected themselves to get to their feet. Numerous passersby looked on, but none offered aid. Sirena’s velvet suit was ruined; the filth of the gutter staining it beyond repair. Her hands were scraped right through her gloves and she had twisted her ankle painfully.

  Jacobus inquired if she had been injured. “I’ll be fine, good friend, but what of yourself?”

  “I’m only glad I’m not too old to take swift action. You were very nearly killed, Capitana! I swear that vehicle bore down on you with intent!”

  “Nonsense, you’re imagining things!” she scowled, remembering something vaguely familiar about the driver of the onrushing hackney.

  “Don’t tell me nonsense, Capitana. I saw it myself!” Embarrassed by the commotion she had caused, Sirena was grateful to see her carriage round the corner and drive up to where she and Jacobus were standing.

  “Liebchen!” Frau Holtz cried, “what happened? You old fool!” she scolded Jacobus, “what did you do to her!”

  “He saved my life, is what he did,” Sirena stammered, still shaken. “Move over Frau Holtz, Jacobus has had as much a shock as I did. I want him inside with us.”

  “Ja, ja,” the Frau uttered, a new respect for Jacobus in her eyes.

  When they had settled in the coach and were on their way home, Sirena thought of her near miss with death. She must keep her wits about her in this city, she scolded herself. London is a busy place and can be cruel to those who don’t keep their mind on the affairs at hand.

  Sirena rested her head against the plush interior. The vision of the hackney and its wild, heavily cloaked driver pierced her thoughts. There was something about him she found familiar. Was it the size of him, or the set of his shoulders or the tilt of his head? She sighed and admonished herself for being fanciful. Perhaps it was because of her interest in the arts of self-defense. Fencing required her to develop a certain perception of the way a man moved, his height, his agility. Somehow the driver of the hack reminded her of someone but, for the life of her, she couldn’t think who it was!

  The ride from Drury Lane to Tyler’s offices on New Queen Street should not have taken over half an hour, as Camilla knew quite well. But just before she left the house, dark clouds had descended over London and the populace prepared for the oncoming storm. Hackneys and coaches jammed the streets as people rushed toward home before the downpour obliterated the kennels in the streets and sewage and filth floated about, foul-smelling obstacles to foot and vehicle. Checking the tiny timepiece pinned to her dress, she realized she had been riding for forty-five minutes and was still quite some distance from Tyler’s office.

  In the gloom of midday Camilla tried to relax. As a native of London, she knew it was useless to prod the driver to hurry or to curse the weather. She lifted the paper shade covering the mud-spattered window and looked out. If anything, the sky grew blacker, the impending rain making the air thick and still. Suddenly, the hackney came to a stop and she leaned forward to see what the trouble was. There, coming out of St. Bride’s Lane, was a cart rigged with wooden slats that made it a cage. Inside was a woman, her hair matted with filth and her body emaciated. Camilla shuddered, knowing the cart was taking the poor soul across London to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital, popularly known as Bedlam.

  Camilla watched, mesmerized by the woman’s suffering. Her rags hung in tatters, revealing her scrawny form and the raw, bleeding sores across her upper chest and bony arms. A sign on the cart stated that it belonged to Bridewell, a combination prison and hospital for women and children. Desperation and panic clutched at Camilla’s heart. The vacant apathy and confusion in the eyes of the incarcerated woman brought back fearsome memories Camilla had thought were long forgotten.

  How many years ago had it been when she had seen that same vacant terror in her own mother’s eyes? She had been only a child, no more than ten. “Mother is very ill, dear,” she could still hear her father’s voice. “Papa is going to put her in a hospital where they can help her.”

  “No, no! Please, Papa, don’t take Mummy away! Please, Papa, I’ll watch over her, don’t take Mummy away!” But he had. Stephan had explained to his young daughter in the gentlest of terms that Lady Langdon needed more than the loving care of her family. She needed expert help. Help she would receive from the doctors at the Bethlehem Royal Hospital.

  Camilla squeezed her eyes shut against the vivid memory of that last afternoon when she had run into her mother’s room and threw herself into her arms in spite of the nurse’s protests. But there had been no answering embrace, no loving kiss.

  And when, at the last, Stephan had led Lady Langdon down the stairs and into the carriage, Camilla had hated him. Hated him for the times he had spoken bitterly to his wife. Hated him for the cries in the night that had awakened the little girl from her sleep. Hated him for always being a kind, loving father, yet a bitter, cruel husband to the gentle Lady Langdon.

  When Camilla looked into the street again, her coach had begun to move and the cart from Bridewell had passed on. Surprised to find her cheeks stained with tears, Camilla searched in her reticule for a handkerchief. The pain was still there, the loneliness of a child missing her mother was still able to come up from the bottom of her soul and engulf her in a black web of helplessness.

  Camilla loved her father, Stephan Langdon, in the emotional, all-encompassing way an only child loves her sole surviving parent. She blinded herself to his shortcomings, turned a deaf ear to his outrages and attributed to him all the endearing qualities of a storybook prince. Even their constant financial difficulties she did not really blame on his penchant for gambling and his inbred lack of responsibility. Rather, she believed him when he decried his bad luck. Even being hungry did not daunt her affection for him. If there was no food, they starved together. If they were besieged by creditors; they banded together; if they were homeless, they were homeless together. The only thing she had ever come to count upon in life was his true affection for her, and she rewarded this with her loyalty.

  And yet, whenever confronted with a reminder that there was such a place as Bedlam, Camilla experienced a deep-seated hatred for Stephan. It had become the fashion among the gallants and popinjays to pay a penny and tour the asylum to gawk at the miserable inmates. Camilla always constricted with fear and dread as she listened to these tales with a macabre interest. To this day, she did not believe Stephan was forced to commit her once lovely mother to that institution. She harbored the niggling belief it was because Stephan wanted his wife out of the way.

  As Camilla squeezed her eyes shut again against the boiling brew of mixed emotions which welled up inside her, she had the familiar recurring memory of Lady Langdon laying in her husband’s arms without protest as he carried her to the waiting coach, her eyes vacant and staring. Camilla remembered thinking how easily her father had lifted her mother. How delicate and thin she had been, a mere shadow of the lovely, bright-eyed girl whose portrait hung over the mantle in the parlor. And, at the last, when Stephan ha
d closed the carriage door and turned back to the house, Lady Langdon had turned to look at her daughter who was standing in the open doorway, tears running down her face. For the first time in months, Camilla saw her mother make a voluntary movement. Slowly, ever so slowly, the thin, skeletal hand reached up to wave good-bye.

  Stephan must have seen a change in Camilla’s expression, for he immediately asked, “What is it? What did you see?” and quickly turned to look back at the carriage. For a reason she’d never been able to explain, not even to herself, Camilla looked at Stephan. and said, “Nothing, Father. I saw nothing!”

  But her little girl’s eyes had followed the vehicle down the drive and into the street, waiting for her mother to turn back and look after her. She never did.

  By the time Camilla’s hackney turned onto New Queen Street, she had made the necessary repairs to her appearance. All traces of tears were gone and she had smoothed and straightened her deep-brown velvet gown. Tyler loved her in dark, rich colors; she had worn the gown expressly for him.

  Tyler happened to be looking out his window down onto New Queen Street when Camilla arrived. He was surprised to see her out on such a rainy afternoon. He knew Camilla abhorred thunder and, from the looks of the sky, thunder seemed more than likely. Sourly, he thought to himself, the only thing that could drag Camilla out on a day like this was the need for cash. Tyler mentally calculated how much he could spare her and took a quick glance into his billfold. Since turning that quick bit of profit by selling van der Rhys back his own cargo, it was a good deal more than she would ever expect. Aware of her suspicious nature, he decided he would only give her ten or twelve pounds. It wouldn’t do to have Camilla or her sly father poking about in his affairs. All it would take was the smell of money and they would delve into his activities like gophers in a turnip patch.