Crimson Rapture (39 page)

Time
passed miserably slow until it became clear Justin had sent no one to escort
her up. She swallowed her disappointment. She told herself it didn't matter; in
time she would have to see it.

Finally
the door opened and Justin himself walked in.

Gone
were the faded breeches and vest, the windblown hair, and the unshaven face,
the familiar costume he had again adapted the day the ship set sail. The
gentleman to replace the sea captain, and the contrast was startling. His thick
dark hair was brushed neatly back and his face was clean-shaven. He wore a
crisp cotton shirt, finely tailored brown breeches, the kind loose only at the
knees where they were tucked into shiny black boots. A gentlemen, but not. His
shirt had none of the fashionable frills, no lace or ruffles or neck collar.
Then as though such stark masculinity needed accenting, a pistol hung from a
worn leather shoulder holster, a jeweled dagger hung from a black belt.

Justin
greeted his son and took him from her, and then addressed her forthrightly.
"Since we'll be disembarking by late morning, I should explain a few
things to you. Boston, Massachusetts—like any major port city—holds a diverse
conglomeration of people. However," he continued to the point, "the
Puritan historical influence is still strong and you'll find the social
stratification every bit as rigid as England's. For these reasons, and until I
receive the annulment papers, you will be introduced as my wife."

This
information was what Brahms had told her. Brahms had added the amusing fact that,
unlike the rigid hereditary lines of English elite, all of Boston's upper
echelon's wealth came from "privateering" English ships during the
revolution. Some brave captains found themselves not with one ship but ten, and
suddenly wealthy. Then they remembered all their uncles, aunts, and cousins who
were dukes, duchesses, lords and ladies of the English court.

Christina
watched little Justin fondle the ivory handle of the pistol. She held her
breath. His father didn't seem to notice or care.

"As
you know," Justin looked at her to say seriously, "the only bond
between us is our son. I don't know how that will affect him—I suppose one day
he'll ask us about it and we'll tell him."

Christina
looked away uncomfortably. She had already thought of this. The day would come
when Justin would ask why his father didn't like her. She knew this; what she
didn't know was how she could possibly explain it.

"I
want this to work. With the exception of certain social obligations arising
from my work and politics, as my wife I'll ask nothing from you."

She
knew this too. After the night in the carriage, he had made this perfectly
clear. She tried to tell herself she was glad. Physical love with hostility
could only be ugly, if not even terrifying.

"In
other words," he finished, "I hope to live as amicably as
possible."

Christina
nodded in acquiescence. The speech held nothing unexpected, and was delivered
with no outward hostility but rather calm indifference. As though he had
accepted the sad fact that he disliked his wife—nay, hated, she was certain of
this—and he would make the best of his misfortune.

Little
Justin abruptly decided he was bored with his father's long stream of words,
words he sensed had little to do with him, and he began squirming with all his
strength. Only to discover what he already knew— while his strength caused his
mother some concern, it had absolutely no effect on his father. He laughed and
playfully socked his father's face.

Justin
laughed too, tossed his son in the air, and swung him around, receiving a peal
of laughter as reward. "Would you like to see the new land?" he asked
as he turned toward the door.

Christina
did not wait for an invitation to join them.

"And,
oh, one other thing," Justin remembered. "A carriage should be
waiting to take you and Justin to the house."

Christina
lifted her eyes to him.

"My
house is in Middlesex," he explained, "about fifteen miles from
Boston. I also keep a household in town for convenience. I'll be staying there
for a few days."

"I—"
She couldn't believe he would do this. "You would send us to your house
alone?" she asked on the heels of a frightening pause.

"You've
demonstrated your ability to travel far greater distances without me. I don't
see why it's a problem." And with that he left her alone.

But
he did know. She knew he understood. To be forced to a new household alone—why,
she didn't know a soul, not a single soul. She didn't even know if he had
servants, and if he did, what would they think of her arriving alone without
her husband on such a momentous occasion? It was unheard of. No introductions
or even a trunk and her dress—

She
looked down at the miserable state of her dress. It had once been the prettiest
dress she had ever owned, but the fabric had not been made for travel. Her only
garment showed every day of its excessive wear and was as stained as any
beggar's rag. And her hair—

She
felt her hair. She had not wanted to bother him and therefore she had never
asked for some fresh water to bathe. He had never offered the luxury, only
dressing water and salt water in which to wash little Justin's clothes. It had
been over a month since she had washed it and it showed, despite the tight
braids wrapped around her head.

She
looked a pathetic creature indeed. She would not blame anyone for finding her a
source of ridicule, even laughter—if not to her face, then behind her back. He
thought she deserved it. He hated her that much.

Tears
swam unwelcome to her eyes and she covered her face in her hands.

An
hour or so passed before Justin returned his son for feeding and, no doubt,
changing. He left without a word. It was Brahms who finally came to escort her up.

A
cold biting wind greeted her and little Justin as she stepped onto deck. The
sky was a crisp blue that comes only in winter. Clouds hung in the far horizon,
drawing her gaze to take in her first sight of the new land.

She
had never seen a port as large as Boston. Over thirty wharves and numerous
docks. Ships docked everywhere. Quaint, whitewashed buildings mixed with brick
ones and these stood in the foreground of thick green forests. Marshland spread
to the right as far as the eye could see. She clutched her cloak tight around
herself and her child, marveling at the sparkle of the rooftops, how very clean
and uncluttered the lovely town looked compared to London. It was breathtaking.

The
ship slipped slowly into dock. The men crowded around the rail, already calling
to the sizable crowd waiting for their arrival. The clamor of metal sounded as
the great anchor was lowered, this requiring the strength of five men at the
turn wheel.

Justin
finished calling the last of his orders and came by her, lifting Justin from
her arms. He looked at her almost quizzically. She quickly turned her head, not
wanting him to discern her tears. Too many tears had been shed. This was her
fate and she, too, must learn to accept it.

As
Justin led her down the gangplank, she found herself looking at a dozen or so
faces, all of which seemed waiting for him. Everything happened at once. At the
same time the crew rushed down, the crowd rushed up, two surges clashing.
Greetings and noise and confusion. Everyone rushed forward with greetings and
Justin was suddenly surrounded. She was forgotten.

It
became painfully obvious Justin did not intend to introduce her to anyone in
the large gathering that surrounded him. He must be embarrassed, she realized,
clutching the folds of her cloak tight about her. She stared hard at the tips
of her worn slippers, wishing the earth would open to swallow her up, so great
was her embarrassment. She prayed no one noticed her and if they did, that they
wouldn't connect her pathetic lot with him or his son.

She
finally heard Justin explain in a loud voice that he could not receive guests
till the evening. The crowd disbanded one by one until she finally looked up
and saw only Jacob; and in his arms was a lady.

She
was beautiful and lovely and looked ever so different. She wore a fashionable
day dress of pale green, gloves, and a matching darker green cloak. Her hair
was styled into pretty ringlets around her face. Christina might not have
recognized her but it was her—it was Hanna!

A
surge of emotion rose through Christina and it was all she could do not to run
into her arms. She had missed her so much! And if only Hanna didn't disown her
friendship, if Hanna could forgive her...

She
could not swallow this hope as she approached the small gathering. Hanna lifted
little Justin from his father's arms and, for several long minutes, she happily
engaged in the traditional conversation and exclamations one makes to an
infant. Justin suddenly left, seeing another friend, and just as Hanna's eyes
finally fell on Christina. Christina held her breath, seeing her concern and
worry and—

"How
do you do, Christina?"

"Fine...
I'm fine. I, oh Hanna—" She reached out to her.

"He's
a lovely boy," she replied too quickly as she handed Justin to her and
turned at once to Jacob. "We've got to rush on."

Christina's
heart broke swiftly in two.

Not
wanting to make matters worse, Jacob nodded and quickly steered Hanna away. In
mute pain, Christina stood suddenly alone with her child in her arms.

Her
gaze swept the crowd for Justin. She found him several yards away talking to
someone in a fine carriage. He leaned forward. A lady leaned her head out.
Beautiful did not come close to an apt description of this woman's loveliness.
She reached a gloved hand to his face and, laughing, she kissed him.

Christina
barely remembered anything else.

Justin
returned to her and quickly led her to another carriage. He exchanged a lively
greeting with the driver, introducing the handsome colored man as Chesapeake.
She barely managed. He saw her into the carriage and, after kissing his son
good-bye, he motioned Chessy forward. The carriage bolted forward and, as it
fled past, she caught sight of Justin just as he climbed into the lady's
carriage.

Why
did it shock her so? She should have known he had a mistress; that she would be
rich and beautiful, probably witty, intelligent, and charming too; that he
would flaunt his affairs publicly—he cared so little for his wife.

Then
why, oh God, did it hurt so badly?

Chesapeake
shook his head sadly and, determined to reach the house by dusk, he cracked the
whip across the mare's back, pushing the horses to a faster pace. He just
couldn't fathom it, no sir. How in tarnation could a man be so good that he
captures slavers and frees people of color and yet so mean to a young lady who
was his very own wife?

Makes
no sense, really.

'Course,
he thought to himself, he hardly knew his employer, Mr. Justin Phillips. He
knew the rumors, everybody did; he knew of his employer's reputation, a
reputation that would do any man proud if you could believe it. Mr. Phillips
made his wealth in the time-honored Boston tradition of privateering. Then,
too, some said Mr. Phillips came from a wealthy family—some or 'nother lord or
something. Near everyone who was anybody this side of the 'Lantic had one of
them in their family—them lords and ladies must breed like mice in a wheat bin.

He
knew somethin' else about Mr. Phillips too. Over two years passed since Mr.
Phillips's house was built and staffed. Two years of absentee landlord and
employer; two years of gettin' paid for no work. First they was told Mr.
Phillips got caught by the British and hung. Fine but they still got paid. Then
they was told Mr. Phillips didn't get the noose but died in a storm on his way
to prison. And still they got paid, as though a dead man's goin' ta need a
driver, house servants, cooks, and gardeners!

Someone,
it seems, had the good sense to know a dead man wasn't all that dead.

So,
sure 'nough, three months pass, the dead man shows up, but only to say he's
leavin' again to fetch the new mistress and his son, and, lickety-split, the man's
gone again.

Now
he's back.

Chesapeake
shook his head, feeling his dander rise like a rooster in a cockfight.

He
didn't care how great they all said Mr. Phillips was—he didn't take kindly to
no man who treats his wife mean. No sir. Lordin' it over her like that. First
flaunted that lady right in front of her, then the worst, sendin' her into her
new house all alone, no one to introduce her proper but the damn driver! Why,
it's just not done! Everyone's gonna know right off, the master don't care for
the mistress and if the master don't care, then no one else does either. That
pretty little lady's gonna be lucky if she don't have to wipe her own floors.

She
was sure pretty, too, and young! Whooo, did she look young. What in tarnation
could possess a man? Was he blind? Didn't he see how sad and hurt and pained
she looked?

Lord,
it was a shame. Ain't no excuse, no sir...

Thinking
on it, Chesapeake worked up a frightful anger, and wanting to help his
mistress, to do anything he could, he stopped the carriage and tied the reins.
He jumped down and went around the side to open the door.