Paxton Pride (67 page)

When dawn came and before the wind shifted offshore, the women were herded aboard the flagship of the tiny fleet. Marie hardly noticed the ship's motion when it eventually set sail, nor did she hear the keening sorrow of the unfortunates who had seen whole families destroyed and could no longer bear the torment in silence. She noted not the passing of the days and nights, only sat benumbed in one corner of the dungeonlike hold.

Three days out they ran into an early storm. The hurricane came from the southeast and tossed the awkward galleons about like so much flotsam. Still Marie sat in her corner, holding onto a piece of line, scarcely caring when the ship cast her against the heavy timbers and left her battered and bruised.

The winds increased. Main- and foremast split, left the deck a jumble of rope and gear. The ship broached, lay on its beam. Tortured wood shrieked and split. A huge wave picked up the galleon, slammed it into a trough and broke it like a toy. Marie was in the water. Amid the cries of the drowning her father's fading whisper gave her the strength to cling tightly to a hatch cover. Later, by sheer luck she managed to gain a seat aboard an already crowded and half-swamped longboat.

Two days later Marie was one of the few left alive when an English vessel, only half its mainmast still standing, hove to and rescued the half-dead survivors. Hauled aboard, she was dried out, fed warm gruel, given new clothes and a hammock. By the time they reached the straits of Florida, she had recovered enough strength to walk the deck. There, she caught the eye of the captain who, because of her great beauty, resolved to keep her and install her in his household.

Sun, wind and the passage of time. Creak of line and hiss of wave. Boundless track of deep waters, cold and clean and pure. No matter how horror strewn the past, the young are strong and soon discover that life goes on. Days passed as in a dream. When the
Glorianna,
captained by Lord Roger Penscott, came at last to anchored rest in the great Pool of London, it was the spirit voice of Jean Ravenne repeating a final entreaty that bolstered Marie's courage as, in Lord Penscott's entourage, she traversed the teeming, vulgar streets of London and rode the choppy waters of the Thames to a strange new life.

Her father's voice echoed still. In her mind's eye Marie Ravenne watched from afar as she bent close to hear Jean say, with the conviction of impending death, one single word: “Live!”

Chapter II

“Ravenne!” The shrill bellow reverberated down the long hall of the servants' quarters.

“Ravenne!” Stern footsteps underlined the repeated word, emphasized each syllable.

“Ravenne!” The strident voice promised angry punishment. All the doors along the hall save one stood open. Penscott Hall's personnel had scurried to their posts half an hour past, long before the sun rose.

Master Servant Thrush's spare frame was rigid with indignation. The low-hanging, stiffened skirts of his coat flapped and fluttered like the wings of his namesake. A beakish nose protruding from a heavily powdered face completed the vision. He slapped a short length of cane against one spindly shank and hurried toward the single remaining closed door.

Dragged from a nightmare of death and ocean storms by the master servant's vocal talons, Marie glanced with dismay at the faint predawn glow softening the room's single window. The narrow bed along the opposite wall lay mussed and empty. Arabella had purposefully stolen out without waking her, that Marie might incur Thrush's wrath on this of all days. At twenty, a year older than Marie, Arabella possessed no little animosity toward her roommate, the newest upstairs servant in the house. There could be no doubt. Arabella was jealous because Marie had been advanced to an undeservedly exalted position. That the upstart child refused obeisance to her elder, in fact tended to look down her nose at or even ignore Arabella, served to further infuriate her. Worst, since coming to Penscott Hall some two years earlier, the French bitch, as Arabella was fond of calling Marie to one and all, had blossomed into a thoroughly enchanting young woman whose nymphlike beauty the chunkier servant girl could never hope to match.

If three reasons were not enough, another more heinous could be found. Not a single roister in the Penscott household and holdings had been refused Arabella's favors, a romp in the stables, a rump offered in the privacy of one of the manor's multitudinous closets. In contrast, Marie scorned such behavior and, though well beyond the age for bedding, adamantly refused to permit the least caress. Above all else, Arabella hated Marie's virginity and imagined that the “sweet mistress of Mysteré,” another favorite epithet, disapproved of her roommate's promiscuity.

The truth, were it known, was far different. Marie's reclusiveness was a result of several factors, none understood by Arabella or any of the others. Born and raised French, English was still a tongue with which she felt uncomfortable. Born and raised Roman Catholic, the Protestants still seemed heretical. Born and raised a child of love and freedom on an island of peace, hate and servitude in a vicious and violent England were beyond her understanding or ability to assimilate.

Forced to live in an alien society, Marie's thoughts ever ranged to the past. There, protected by a blanket of shyness, she took refuge in a dream world of warm and wondrous memory which in turn spawned dreams for a similar future. There was hope. Marie Ravenne would not remain in England forever, surrounded by vicious, pale louts. Time and again she remembered the night on the beach with Guy. Guy was dead—she'd seen him, blood-drenched on the sand—but another, a wildly passionate hero, would one day appear at Penscott Hall to rescue her. Together, they would return to the Caribbean and live in a castle on a marvelous plantation. Sunlight would drench their bedroom, and they would live for love.…

Once, before she knew better and on a night when the loneliness was too great to bear any longer, Marie confided in Arabella. The older girl listened intently, then laughed outright in derision. Stunned, Marie stammered something about “only a dream” and fled the room, followed by a torrent of caustic jests, soon taken up by the rest of the servants. From that night Marie's only recourse was to keep silent counsel, work as diligently as possible and dream in solitude, for she was yet too inexperienced to wage battle against such odds.

The door to her room flew open. Thrush, rouged cheeks streaked with sweat and eyes glaring, pointed a long, furious finger. “Unspeakable behavior!”

Marie clutched the cotton nightshift to conceal her nakedness. “I'm sorry, Master Thrush. Arabella promised to wake me. Instead, she—”

“Enough! I will listen to no excuses. You will be punished later. Were it not that Lord Penscott wishes to see you this moment, it's a good caning you'd get.”

“I'm terribly—”

“Silence!” Bony fingers pinched the flesh of her arm. “The king,” he hissed importantly. “Our new sovereign graces us on the morrow and the little mistress lies abed? Perhaps our great French lady disapproves?”

“Of course not, Master Thrush,” Marie managed, wincing with pain.

“Of course not. Of course not,” he mimicked. “Worse and worse. Lovely.” His tone darkened and his face flushed. “Insolent French pig. Your disrespect will be punished.” He loosed his hold and a reddening bruise flowered against the whiteness.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Marie vowed, vigorously rubbing her arm.

“Silence!” Marie yelped as the cane cracked sharply against her taut buttocks, naked beneath the shift. “Get dressed and to the library. Do not keep m'lord waiting, or I'll see you in the scullery, to serve with the blackguards.” Coat wings fluttering around spindly stocking-wrapped legs, he strutted down the hall, a diminishing picture of authority in the frame of the open door.

Marie watched ruefully, then closed the door and slipped out of her sleeping chemise. “That Arabella!” she said aloud, rubbing her behind and peering over her shoulder at the line of scarlet. “She's no better than any of the others, from the grand ladies on down. I should have known her generosity but a stinking trick.” Marie rummaged through a small stack of neatly folded clothes. “I've early duties myself, love,” she mimicked. “Besides, we'll all be up before dawn tomorrow. I'll wake you as I leave.…” She returned to her own voice. “I should have known. She's jealous, is all. Jealous and petty.”

The house would be a beehive of activity today, she mused, already depressed. Master Thrush would keep an ever watchful eye and his cane would be handy, ready to inflict quick punishment for the slow or bungling servant. The king was coming and there were a thousand things undone. A new thought sprang to mind. All the commotion could work in her favor. If she hurried through her tasks there might well be an opportunity to steal some time with her one true friend in all the household, Behan, the tutor.

“Ill started, ends well,” she muttered hopefully, rubbing the welt on her hips. A simple working dress slipped over her head. An apron followed, tied tightly in the back. Long black tresses, uncut for the past three years, were piled beneath the traditional servant's cap. Losing as little time as possible, Marie hurried through the house, down the long halls to the library. Lord Penscott himself, Duke of Brentlynn, answered the knock. Marie adjusted cap and apron, patted her cheeks and finally entered, uneasily noticing how the huge portrait of Lord Blythmoor Penscott glared from the south wall, the graying pigment of impassive features repeated in the grizzled countenance of the current duke.

The trappings of wealth were commonplace in Penscott Hall, but the library, because it was the center from which Lord Penscott ruled, was held in awe by Marie and the other servants. Here was the inner sanctum of authority, entered only rarely and then by one fully conscious of the importance of the summons that haled one before the master. A massive bookcase lined the north wall. Amidst the books, especially carved niches held exquisitely wrought figurines and priceless vases of gold and jade and mother-of-pearl. Great velvet swags hung with gold tassels adorned the wide leaded-glass windows overlooking the formal gardens outside. A massive globe tracked with paths of silver wire to indicate the
Glorianna'
s journeys dominated the center of the east wall between the windows.

This was the first time in months she had actually faced her master. The lord of the manor wore a morning coat of olive velvet. The buckles on his slippers were broad bands of pounded gold. His head, bald from a combination of age and years beneath a wig, was wrapped in a brocaded turban. Gwendolyn, the newly acquired Lady Penscott and some twenty years his junior, had aged him more than Marie thought possible.

“Shut the door, child.” He spoke in French, gently and with no trace of irritation. Marie complied and approached the desk of carved walnut. The huge article of furniture dwarfed Lord Penscott's compact frame as he sat and stared at her without speaking for a long moment. “You are such a delicate creature,” he sighed. “Like a rare, fragile carving. It was that quality—that and your French, of course—that prompted me to separate you from your bedraggled companions. A bit over two years, wasn't it?” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Marie nodded, not wishing to risk a reply. Four or five times a year the duke sent Thrush for her. Then followed a short, one-sided conversation, with him doing most of the talking and Marie answering in subdued monosyllables. He seemed to be studying her, marking what progress she made. Not at all unkindly, he inquired of her health, asked if she found her duties suitable and even, once, if she was happy. The occasional interviews mystified Marie, for she could discern no reason for them beyond a patronizing interest in a piece of property. At the same time she knew there must be a deeper purpose, for it was common knowledge Lord Penscott did nothing without an end in mind. Furthermore, of all the servants, none other received the somewhat secretive attention of the master.

Lord Penscott waited in vain for an answer, hoping as always that for once she would dare respond, that she had indeed and at last become woman enough to face him without fear. Evidently, not yet. He sighed inwardly, envying Behan the pleasure of her quick tongue and reportedly rare intelligence. Perhaps a little nudge in the right direction would help. A suitable gown, makeup and a decent coif would accentuate her figure and do wonders for those soft, gray eyes that, were they bolder, would reduce a man to a quivering mass of jelly. And still a virgin, so his spies averred. A useful commodity, virginity, especially in one so beautiful. But one to be handled carefully. Adroitly. When the time was ripe, she'd blossom. And then? For a brief moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining the girl abed. By God! but she'd be marvelous to behold. And to play teacher to such lithe beauty! Smooth skin, firm breasts, not a sagging muscle … She'd learn quickly, no doubt.

Too quickly, aging flanks whispered dolefully. Difficult enough to rise to the occasion with Gwendolyn from time to time, and she but a year past thirty. However in heaven's name would he handle a nineteen-year-old? Better to sit back and watch and plan and dream. Lord Roger Penscott had had his day with nineteen-year-olds. To each was given only so much, to each was meted out a share and no more. Abruptly, his mood changed. He chuckled, poured a goblet of port, his second of the morning. “Of course it was two years ago. Who should know better, eh?” He rose, walked behind her and circled back to the great chair. “So my wife has grown fond of you, eh?”

“I don't know, sir,” Marie responded shyly.

“Well, she has. I have heard it said Marie Celeste Ravenne is the one she prefers above all others.”

“M'lady is gracious,” Marie answered dutifully.

Lord Penscott's countenance darkened. “Most gracious,” he echoed.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Lord Penscott sighed, bade the intruder enter. Thrush stepped into the room, carefully avoided looking at Marie. “A message from your son, m'lord. I thought you'd want to see it immediately.