Captive Splendors (9 page)

Regan's eyes held an amused glint. “You'll live through it. I did.”

“Thank you, Father, for your words of wisdom, but you'll forgive me if they don't give me much comfort at the moment.”

“A hot soak in a tub, a little rest, and you'll be as good as new in a month or so,” Regan teased.

Caleb's eyes widened. “A month!”

“Maybe two. It's hard to tell. I wasn't there to see or feel the force of the . . . the impact. It would be best if you set your sights on six weeks, and then if you recover ahead of time, it will be like an extra reward. You'll live, Caleb. Let this be your first lesson. You need eyes in the back of your head when it comes to women. You can't ever let them best you in anything, for if you do, they have you right where they want you, in the crook of their little finger, and you'll be dancing attendance for the rest of your life. You're the master, remember that. It's up to you to tame the woman, not the other way around.”

“I can't say I exactly admire your philosophy, knowing your past and how Sirena has had you dancing attendance all these years.”

“Ah, you're so young, you don't understand. It just appears that way to you. I
allowed
her to do what she did,
that's
the difference. Of course she doesn't know that, and we'll just keep it our little secret. You have to fool women, lull them into what seems like a false sense of security. For a man of the world, you have much to learn,” Regan concluded calmly as he lighted a cigar and leaned back, his manner amused and arrogant.

“Just remember what I said, Father. No more favors. As far as I'm concerned, Wren can do as she pleases. You've heard the phrase ‘ill wind'? Well, your little Wren is an ill wind, and don't forget I'm the one who warned you.” Caleb rose and made his way from the terrace without a backward glance at his father.

Not for all the nutmegs in Java would Regan have admitted that Caleb was right. He would leave it up to Sirena to take matters in hand. Who could blame him for trying? Poor Caleb. Well, his son would never fall into that trap again. At least he had learned something. The experience had not been a total loss.

 

 

Sara Stoneham stood in the dim alcove next to Tyler Sinclair's study, an intense look on her face. Another secret meeting between her father and Tyler? What could it mean? What was going on? She had to find out. Careful lest someone see her, she sidled over to the heavy double doors and pressed her ear against them, hoping against hope that she would hear something that would give her a clue to what was going on.

The voices were faint, almost unintelligible, but she didn't move, knowing that sooner or later her father would raise his voice.

“Time is of the essence, Baron. You promised you would help us, and now you want to go back on your word!” Suddenly, as if remembering his station compared with that of Tyler, Jason Stoneham softened his tone. “I'm afraid I'll have to insist my money be refunded. Immediately. Unfortunately, I cannot wait for money owed me the way I was once able to. Our circumstances have been—er—reduced, to say the least.” Stoneham's face bore the pitiable lines of defeat. “Excuse me. I wouldn't ever have spoken to you in such a manner,” he apologized, “but my son, Bascom, and his wife have been hiding at a lodging house near the wharves for over a fortnight. Margaret is beside herself with worry and anguish because she doesn't know what's to become of us. Damnation, man! You gave us your word that by noon tomorrow we would all be on our way to the American colonies!” Jason stormed, unable to hold back his fear and discouragement.

Sara, outside the door, could almost see Tyler bristle at her father's tone.

“Listen to me, Jason. The delay, for want of a better word, is not of my doing. There are hundreds, no, thousands of people of your sect seeking passage to the colonies. Unfortunately, for Puritans like your family who are also considered enemies of the Crown, the problem is increased a thousandfold. You, Jason, are not the only man of your religious persuasion who has lost everything he owned. As a matter of fact, I would think it safe to say that the Stonehams are faring much better than most.”

“Bah! Easy enough for someone like yourself to say. You don't know what it's like to be hounded and pursued after being stripped of nearly everything you've worked a lifetime to attain.” Jason's mouth turned down in a bitter line.

“No, perhaps I don't,” soothed Tyler. “But I warned you. I told you to put a stop to your son's constant preaching against the Crown. But you refused to heed my advice. Bascom was a holy man, you insisted. He was appointed by God to speak out for the people. For God's sake, man! We've been friends for as long as I can remember. You were an associate in my father's law practice. Do you think I would cheat you out of a few miserable pounds?”

Jason hung his head in shame. “No, no, of course I don't. It's just that the hounds of Hell are on my trail, and I don't want to see the destruction of my family. Bascom was hasty, unwise, but nevertheless, he is the leader of our congregation. I tell you, Tyler, the change that's been wrought in him is so astounding it can only be called a miracle. Oh, I know you doubt it when he claims to have heavenly visitations. But what else can account for the fact that once he was a wastrel and now he burns with the light of salvation?”

Tyler reached out and laid a comforting hand on Jason's shoulder. “I have no right to disbelieve him. It is enough for me that you believe. I only regret that Bascom was so imprudent as to speak out publicly against the King, and in so doing, he has brought the black name of treason upon your family. However true it may be that King Charles boasts of his ‘divine right' to serve as king and upholds his intolerance of the religious reformer, along with his refusal to call together legal sessions of Parliament, Bascom's preachings have wreaked destruction on all of you.”

“What's done is done,” Jason said weakly. “The fact remains that if I am to save my family and any small measure of my savings, we must leave England now!”

“And everything is being done to insure just that,” Tyler assured him. “Already your land holdings have been sold and the money transferred to you. It should be a tidy enough sum to guarantee a pleasant life in the colonies.”

“Bah! I had to sell out to the scurrilous Farrington for one-tenth of the true value,” Stoneham said disgustedly.

“True. But it is one-tenth more than you would have had if the Crown had been quicker and had confiscated your holdings. As for the price, Farrington takes measurable risks also, and he paid the same as you could have gotten from another broker.”

“I never thought I'd see the day when the likes of Farrington would make a fortune from respectable Englishmen,” Stoneham moaned. “Once the titles have had a chance to clear, the man stands to reap great wealth by selling the properties at the market price.”

“Jason, it's senseless to expound on this. What's done is done, as you said. The important thing right now is to get you and your family out of England.”

“Well, what are you doing about it? I came to you for help—I begged you! And now here we sit, cooling our heels, and every moment the King's hounds are closing in on us!”

“Get hold of yourself, man! You sound as if they were on our front step. The Stonehams are not the only fugitives from the Crown. There are hundreds like you, for one reason or another.”

“Mark my words, Sinclair. Soon, very soon, Cromwell will force an end to these persecutions. And when that time comes, my family and I will be the first aboard a ship returning to England.”

There was a catch in Stoneham's voice that brought a choking response in Tyler's throat. Stoneham was a loyal Englishman, and the thought of leaving his country must be terribly painful to him. Tyler would have liked to pound his fists into Bascom's face and beat the man senseless. Not that he had much sense to begin with. Had it not been for his fanatical exhortations against the King, Stoneham and his family could have lived out their lives quietly and maintained their religious beliefs without interference. He supposed there was no fervor like that of a reformed sinner, which Bascom certainly was. The man actually had an insane look about him, and all Tyler could feel was pity for Stoneham, who, in his joy at Bascom's deliverance, would follow him blindly, all the while believing that his son had been found worthy of heavenly visitations from Christ Himself.

“To get back to the matter at hand,” Tyler said with authority. “I explained to you that seeing to your passage would be a risky business. Farrington is also the man who was to arrange that passage. You would be among a group of others emigrating to the colonies. However, Farrington finds himself in bad straits. He's under suspicion and has been watched for the entire fortnight Bascom and his wife have been lodged near the wharves. Contact between them at this time would be foolhardy. I hate to keep reminding you, but you are fugitives from the Crown, unlike so many other Puritans sailing for America. Would you endanger those good people by having the suspicion of conspiracy cast on them?” Tyler waited a moment for the impact of his words to sink in before he resumed speaking. “This delay is only a momentary setback. Good Lord, I don't know why I became involved in this at all. Whatever my sentiments about King Charles, I never wanted to put myself and my own family in jeopardy. For the time being, I've set you up in the same lodging house that your son is in. It is part of a public tavern, as you know, and your presence will not be conspicuous. Farrington will pay for all expenses incurred. What more can I do?”

“I realize I've imposed on our old association, Tyler, and I'm sorry if I've put your family in jeopardy. I'm half out of my mind with worry.” Stoneham's voice lowered. “Can you give me any idea how long this will take? When can we sail? A fortnight?” he asked hopefully.

“The best I can say for now is, as soon as Farrington finds himself a new ship's captain. He's got a line on a privateer, he tells me, but there seems to be a holdup. Farrington's reputation depends on his choice of captains and vessels. You wouldn't want to risk a crossing on a leaky old tub at the hands of some drunken fool. Farrington's choice is crucial, and I, for one, wouldn't want to be standing in his shoes. Make up your mind that it's his way or none. The lot of us could end up spending the rest of our lives in Newgate. One experience with Newgate in a lifetime is all I'll ever need.”

“We'll repair to the inn where Bascom is staying,” Stoneham murmured.

“Jason, you know I would gladly offer you the use of my home, but there is Camilla and our coming child to consider.”

“I understand, Tyler, and I would make the same choice if I were in your place. If I don't see you again before we sail . . .” His voice grew husky and he found it impossible to continue speaking. Instead, he extended his hand to Tyler, who put his arms around him and pounded him soundly on the back.

“Write to me when you're situated in America. Camilla and I might just make a journey there someday. And, Jason, between you and me, I hope the day comes soon when you can return to England. If that means we must first have a civil war between Cromwell and the Crown, then so be it.”

Outside the library door, Sara blanched. America! The colonies! Indians! Before the door had opened, she raced quickly down the hall and up the stairs to her room. She had to think. She had to make a plan. America was on the other side of the world, and if she sailed with her parents, she would never see Malcolm again.

Flinging herself on the high bed, Sara sobbed uncontrollably. “I hate them all!” she wept. “I hate my father for his radical ways, and I hate my mother for her sanctimonious ways; most of all, I hate Bascom for opening his treasonous mouth and for his so-called heavenly visitations!”

 

Sirena stood looking out into the blackness, the night breezes blowing gently against the sheer draperies. The lamp beside her outlined her slim body through the gossamer silk of her peach dressing gown. Her dark hair tumbled down her back in charming disarray, and the air was scented with her perfume.

Regan gazed at his wife and remembered another time, long ago, when he had first seen her, outlined by the light from a window. Sirena, although no longer the girl she had been then, was somehow more beautiful, more lovely and exciting, and he knew, by some masculine instinct, that within her beat the heart of that determined, mystical, eighteen-year-old girl he had first seen.

Sirena turned, sensing his presence. Her eyes clouded with questions, but a smile parted her lips. Regan came to stand beside her and took her in his arms. She sighed with pleasure and nestled against his chest, taking delight in his arms wrapped tightly about her.

“What's the problem, sweetheart? Still brooding about Wren?” Regan asked, his lips brushing against her ear.

“At what point does a mother stop worrying about her children? Of course I'm concerned about her. Malcolm Weatherly is not the man for our daughter. Tyler's right, he's a bounder. Even without Tyler's word on it, I would have known that immediately.”

“Ah, yes, your feminine intuition,” Regan murmured.

Sirena turned in his arms and looked up at him. “Regan, I'm serious! Don't tell me you want to see Wren spend the rest of her life at that dandy's hands.”

“No, sweetheart, I don't. But what's to be done for it? We can't tie her to her bed until she comes to her senses. And, knowing Wren, she'd deeply resent any interference by us. That girl can be as headstrong as you are.”

“You'd better smile when you say that,” Sirena teased, threatening him with a clenched hand.