Across Captive Seas

by Michele du Barry

  So Angela set about finding a Tutor for her daughter. Jane did most of the work since Angela was still confined to bed for most of the day. She inquired among her circle of friends and put a discreet advertisement in the newspaper but none of the applicants were quite right. Jane screened them first and if any showed promise they were interviewed by Angela, but so far only two had even passed Jane’s questioning.

  Then one afternoon Jane brought a man upstairs who had passed her test. He was just a shade under six feet tall, with chestnut-brown hair and an honest, straightforward manner. Jane sat discreetly in a corner of the room while Owen Vaughn took a chair near the bed, His clear, sea-green eyes sized Angela up but not with the ogling look most men gave her.

  She was certainly a beauty, with her cloud of wayward ebony hair, a startling contrast to her creamy complexion. And Owen had never seen anyone with such strange, melancholy eyes, not quite green but not blue either. She quickly scanned the résumé, and he acknowledged to himself that she would be a fascinating woman to get to know. But above everything else he needed the job and he tried to ignore her ethereal fragileness and the sensual curve of her mouth.

  Things he had heard and read about her jumped through his mind like startled rabbits and he had to believe that they were all exaggerated. She looked like a girl no older than seventeen yet she had been married twice, had a daughter who was almost five, a son, and a string of strangely diverse lovers to her credit. If he got the job at least life wouldn’t be boring.

  “Why, you are a viscount,” said Angela looking up at him in a quandary. “Why in the world did you apply to be a tutor?”

  “A title, my lady, does not pay the rent. And being born a second son is a distinct disadvantage in the society we live in.”

  He smiled and Angela’s heart leaped beneath the yellow velvet of her robe. She exchanged a quick look with Jane and she nodded imperceptibly from the corner. They had both recognized the crooked, boyish grin, so like Scott’s, that lit up his whole face. It wasn’t that he looked like Scott, it was just the way he smiled that was similar.

  Owen was not unaware of the flutter he had caused the Duchess of Brightling. In fact she stared at him speechlessly, far longer than a lady should. Curious, Lady Montgomery’s reaction had been the same.

  Angela asked him several more questions; they discussed the salary and settled on a month’s trial. He was qualified for the job, overqualified really, and she liked his sincerity and the truthfulness of his answers.

  “Shall we start at the beginning of next week, Lord Vaughn?”

  “Yes, that will be fine. I’ll look forward to getting acquainted with your daughter.” Owen got to his feet. “May I say, before I leave, that I would like to offer my condolences on the death of your parents. It was a terrible tragedy—”

  “What? You must have me confused with someone else.” Angela frowned and looked at Jane who sat frozen, her hand clapped across her mouth.

  “I don’t think so. Lord and Lady Carlyle were on the list—unless there was a mistake in the printing.”

  “Jane!” The résumé fell unheeded to the floor as Angela’s stricken eyes went from Jane to Owen and back again.

  The high note of bewilderment in her voice brought Jane to her feet and it was Owen’s turn to be confused as he frowned thoughtfully at the dread on Jane’s face. He had been right about there being never a dull moment in this house and it seemed he was the cause of this particular incident.

  “Go! ” said Jane choking on the word and pointing to the door.

  “I’m sorry if I said anything out of place—” he began.

  “Get out!”

  She was actually shouting at him, him! At first glance Jane seemed the cool untouchable type that never got flustered but now—Owen’s eyes ran over her distraught form reappraisingly. Then she ejected him bodily from the room and he stood in the hall uncertainly. No woman had ever treated him like that before. Granted, she was upset, and he unwittingly was the cause. It was going to be quite an undertaking to get to know her better, and his step was jaunty as he left. He was sure that today was only the beginning of a great adventure.

  Angela’s hands shook so that she could hardly hold the newspaper clippings that she insisted Jane bring her. She couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true! Not her parents. Not her sweet, gentle golden-haired mother or her absentminded poetic father. They could never die, she thought with the irrationality of a young child.

  Yet it was right before her in black and white, the awful story of a sudden storm at sea, a shipwreck and her parents became mere statistics, names on a casualty list in the newspaper. The words blurred together and Angela looked up at Jane hovering uneasily by the fireplace.

  “I want to be alone.” Angela’s voice was cold and her eyes were frozen, shattered shards of aqua ice in a face as white as the newly fallen snow outside in St. James’s Square.

  Angela got up and went to the window pushing aside the lace curtain. The sunlight glittered through intricately frost-etched panes of glass, the white translucence veiling the shadowy movements below. Suddenly weak, she leaned against the window sill, the soft warmth of her cheek pressed against the cold, smooth glass. Warm tears traced a different pattern on the inside of the window, melting the fragile frost where they touched, like fire and ice.

  Chapter Five

  Spring’s promise was in the air as Keith and Angela drove down the Mall in his snappy new phaeton. For once the dismal weather had cleared and the sky was a brilliant, sunny blue. The rest of London had the same idea evidently, because everyone was out for a drive and they slowed in the snarl of traffic.

  “There’s Beau Brummel,” said Keith nodding in the direction of the impeccably dressed man in skin tight trousers surrounded by a crowd of dandies.

  She had met him briefly several times and though she had heard that he had absolutely no use for women and could be extremely rude, he smiled at her briefly, a flicker of interest in his eyes. His friends then demanded his exalted attention and Angela felt relieved that she didn’t have to speak to him. She couldn’t abide all the fops and dandies that seemed to abound in the city. In comparison Keith was excessively masculine and wherever they went female eyes followed him predatorily.

  Angela had once again flouted convention and instead of wearing mourning and secluding herself from the world, as any proper lady would do, she had thrown herself into the whirlwind of the beau monde. There was the never ending round of receptions, fêtes, balls, soirees, and assorted amusements to take up all her time so that there wasn’t a spare minute left to think about the dark, upsetting things. She pushed all her troubles aside and refused to think about them, much to the consternation of Jane and Keith. What good would it do to dwell on her future and the emptiness that was constantly ahead? Instead she filled the void with other activities as some would have turned to drinking.

  “I’ve heard,” said Keith, “that it takes five hours for his toilette every day. He bathes in milk, eau de cologne and water; spends an hour with his hairdresser and two hours just creasing down his cravat. His Hessian boots are polished with the froth of champagne and he has three hundred and sixty-five snuff boxes, one for each day of the year.”

  “I think that’s disgusting!” exclaimed Angela.

  She couldn’t help but think of Scott in comparison to the men of London; none of them could hold a candle to him. He was the epitome of what a man should be; dashing and handsome, with an intense virility that put them all to shame. No, she couldn’t think about him because whenever she did for any length of time she descended into a deep depression, sometimes lasting weeks. So when the thoughts began Angela always threw herself into a new endeavor, anything to keep misery at bay.

  “Keith, take me out tonight. I can’t bear to stay at home, not tonight!”

  He frowned at the forced gaiety in her voice, her eyes sparkling with tears she never shed. She was thinking about him and trying to distract herself from those thoughts. Keith
only wished she would let him divert her in the way he wanted to—in bed. But instead she made him squire her around town, while she flirted outrageously with every man in sight, only to freeze them out when they made the slightest advance. She was like a diamond, beautiful to look at and admire but hard and cold to the touch. It would be a very long time before she got over Scott but she was worth waiting for. He had bided his time before and almost won the prize; this time she wouldn’t slip through his fingers. He was dug in for a long siege and nothing was going to prevent his capture of Angela.

  “We have gone out every night this week. Aren’t you getting tired of all those parties?”

  “I didn’t have anything quite that tame in mind,” explained Angela cajolingly. “I want to go to Madame Saisset’s.”

  “Never! Do you think I would actually take you to that—that den of iniquity? There are things that go on there that are utterly depraved!”

  “Such as—” she prompted innocently, only making him angrier.

  “Men take their mistresses there, married ladies meet their lovers in the private dining rooms upstairs. There is gambling and drunkenness—”

  “I heard they had an orgy there one night, but don’t worry about my reputation. You will be there to protect me and we could leave if things get too wild. Besides there’s an unwritten law that everyone is faceless and nameless, no matter who you recognize. Please, Keith, it would be such fun.”

  “No, and the subject is closed!”

  “What a stuffed shirt you are. I’ll bet you have been there before, haven’t you?” His heightened color proved her right. “What a hypocrite! Did you take your mistress or did you have an assignation?”

  She had gone too far, his blazing blue eyes told her that, and the pressure of his hand on her knee bruised the flesh beneath her amber velvet skirt.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting me and people are beginning to stare! Take me home!”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” Keith said grasping the reins tightly with both hands and maneuvering deftly through the crush of carriages.

  Angela sat as far away from him as she could on the seat, her face averted and a pout on her pink lips.

  “You need a good spanking, you’re turning into a spoiled child!”

  “Scott wouldn’t have been afraid to take me, but then if he was here there would be no need to go to Madame Saisset’s for stimulation. He could cause excitement just by looking at me!” The barb hit home and they sat in silence all the way back to the house.

  Flouncing into the library in a rage Angela let loose a few choice words. She could have any number of escorts at her beck and call to take her to Madame Saisset’s but she didn’t trust any of them. Keith was the only person it would be relatively safe to go there with because he didn’t just want her body, he wanted her love.

  Angrily she threw a china shepherdess to the floor and watched with pleasure as it shattered. She hated them with their insipid painted faces and frozen charms. Her mate, the shepherd, joined in her fate and the curtains by the window stirred as Owen Vaughn got up from the window seat, book in hand.

  “Oh!” was all Angela could say as he looked at the destruction she had wrought and flashed a smile.

  “I never could abide those figurines either, dull looking, the lot of them!”

  “Dull. Yes everything is, and I’m bored to tears! I would like to smash every shepherdess in the house!”

  Over the past few months they had become good friends and he had been right; she was the most fascinating woman he had ever met. The glimpses into her private life had been colorful and exciting, and he had learned the real truth behind some of the rumors that were bandied about in the drawing rooms. Surprisingly, when she was upset, Angela liked to talk to him. He was a good listener, sometimes offering pertinent advice, and she knew their conversations would never be repeated.

  “It’s your house and your china, why shouldn’t you have a smashing good time?” He laughed like a boy out to play a prank and she joined in infected by his enthusiasm.

  “Yes, let’s! But you have to help. Why there must be dozens scattered all over the place.”

  “But of course.” Owen grabbed her hand and pulled her after him. “We must seek them out in their lairs!” Giggling uproariously they began the search from room to room, under the mystified eyes of the servants. Angela was all for breaking them as they found them but Owen pointed out it would be too messy, better to gather them all and break them in one place en masse. So Angela got a pillowcse and they stashed all the statues in it until it was so heavy Owen had to carry it back to the library bursting at the seams.

  “Let’s count them first,” suggested Owen dumping the contents of the pillowcase onto a chair by the fireplace. “I never realized one house could contain so many!”

  “Just think of the millions, all over London on every mantel. We should start a club just for their abolishment. Let’s see—what could we call it?”

  “Twenty-eight!”

  “Yes, the Twenty-Eight Club. It sounds ridiculous enough to appeal to the eccentric tastes here. The price of membership will be the smashing of every shepherdess in their houses.”

  “No, I meant twenty-eight statues, including the two you already did in.” Owen handed two to her. “Are you ready? On the count of three, into the grate with them. One—two—three!”

  They threw the figurines into the fireplace as quickly as they could, laughing and getting in each other’s way. Owen was usually too serious for a young man of twenty-six but on this occasion was proving himself great fun. The destructive orgy was over in just a few minutes and Angela sank flushed and exhilarated onto the now empty chair.

  “Oh, Owen, that was so good for me! You can be very amusing at times. I haven’t felt so alive since— since—” Her voice trailed off and he crossed the room and sat on the footstool at her feet.

  Taking both of her hands in his he murmured, “Since your husband was arrested and sent away, my lady?”

  “You do understand. No one talks about Scott or my parents anymore for fear of upsetting me, but sometimes I need to talk.”

  “Yet you try and run away from your feelings of despair. No, don’t protest, my lady. I’ve seen your tireless pursuit of pleasure and forgetfulness. One would have to be blind not to. Yet, you never quite escape. There’s always that touch of sadness about you, that look in your lovely, lonely eyes. You love him very much.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

  Gazing into Owen’s level green eyes she wondered at his understanding of her feelings and the rare rapport that flowed between them. Only someone that had loved deeply and lost that love could sympathize the way he did. But then everything about him was uncommon.

  Angela was practically crying so she changed the subject. “You really must stop calling me ‘my lady’; I’ve asked you to call me Angela before. Are you so very proper? I thought we were friends.”

  “Well—” He paused seeming to ponder. “After engaging in an activity as intimate as shepherdess smashing with you, I think we should be on a first-name basis! Now tell me what prompted your display of temper and your rather strong language.”

  “I had a fight with Keith over a trifling matter,” she said brushing the incident away with an expressive toss of her dark head.

  “It must have been more than that to upset you so.”

  “He made more of it than it actually was. I wanted Keith to take me to Madame Saisset’s gaming hall tonight and he refused.”

  “Why did you want to go?” Owen looked at her contemplatively.

  “To forget, to distract myself from—”

  “If you wouldn’t mind the company of a lowly tutor, I would be pleased to escort you there tonight.”

  Angela jumped up clapping her hands, the smile back on her face. “Would you? that would be perfect! But don’t let anyone know. It must be a secret.”

  “Yes, a conspiracy,” agreed Owen.

  Pampered and scented from th
e top of her intricately braided à la grecque coiffure to the tips of her thin silk slippers, Angela observed the perfection of the lovely confection the dressmaker had created. Her tunic á la juive was of the finest diaphanous silk, a subtle interweaving of green and blue threads creating a shimmering fabric the exact color of her eyes. Angela hadn’t been able to resist the material and studying her reflection she knew her choice had been right.

  The draped skirt was open down the front revealing a gold and silver embroidered chemise of cream-colored silk. Thin tasseled cords of twined silver and gold circled below the empire bodice and fell straight to the scalloped hem in the back. Angela wondered if she dared breathe because of the extreme décolleté. Her round, half-exposed breasts swelled enticingly, threatening to pop out of the square-cut neckline.

  But the crowning touch was the aquamarine and diamond necklace lying warm against her bosom, the huge central gem shining in the hollow between her breasts. They sparkled and danced in the candlelight catching and reflecting every glimmer of light.

  The breath caught in her throat as Angela recalled Scott’s words on the day he had given her the bracelet and necklace. “I knew it, the exact color of your eyes. I saw them in Kingston and knew no other woman could ever wear them.”

  She went directly to her jewel box and found the delicate gold locket that she usually kept hidden from sight. It opened, revealing the miniature of Scott, his golden-brown eyes so alive Angela could feel the warmth from them. On the other side was a painting of his ship the Dark Lady and slowly a plan began forming in the back of her mind.

  With a click she closed the locket and carefully put it back where it belonged. Owen would arrive any minute and she wanted to be ready. Better to lose herself in frantic gaiety than be closed up in her room with only memories. She adjusted the small mask and flung a white satin cloak embroidered in gold around her shoulders. Then she marched determinedly downstairs.