Pride of the King, The (29 page)

Lauren was breathless. His hands felt hot upon her arms, and she struggled to free herself, but his grip was too tight. He continued, “If I had wanted you, I would have taken you a long time ago."

Their eyes locked in an angry stand-off.

"But you don’t interest me,” he growled and pushed her away.

Her heart pounding, Lauren straightened her gown and pushed the hair from her face. The minute she heard the door slam, hot tears filled her eyes. She took her Christmas dinner and pitched it in the fire.

*        *        *

Later that night when Lauren was asleep, James returned to the cottage. She had cleaned up everything from the meal, banked the fire and gone to bed. He lit a candle and leaned over some maps, stealing a look at Lauren. He shuffled some more papers around, scribbling some calculations and looked up once more at her.

Sighing, he started toward the bed and then changed his mind walking to the window. After watching the snow, he approached the bed and leaned over her. Lauren had forgotten to braid her hair, and her tresses tumbled over the pillow in copper waves. He reached out tentatively and touched it. Something disturbed her slumber and she turned onto her back, her lips parted. James bent over Lauren so closely he almost brushed her lips and whispered, “I didn’t know how to say this,” he said studying her face. “But yes, I do love my wife.”

Chapter 32

The winter seemed endless for Lauren. Most of January she spent gaining back her strength. Her shoulder continued to be stiff and painful, but she was diligent about completing her household tasks to increase her flexibility and endurance. On many occasions, she thanked Anne Lupone for teaching her skills necessary to survive and make life more comfortable on the frontier. She mended clothing, cooked, scrubbed the cabin, did laundry, and on occasion did the work of the stillroom. James spent most days hunting for game or chopping wood and in the evenings pored over maps and plans, inventories and records. He discussed little with Lauren about his business ventures, and for that, she was grateful. If it did not involve her directly she was not interested, and she knew from her days on Duke Street that remaining ignorant was a safeguard against danger.

When Lauren did have some free time, she took the opportunity to do some needlework or slept. She tired easily, but as the days passed and her strength grew, she became restless and bored. Sometimes she had nightmares of the mangled face of the man she killed at the outpost, and she would awaken with a start. Rest would not come easily after that, but it was comforting to know St. Clare was nearby. James conversed little with Lauren, and she did not encourage it. Their encounters had always ended badly, so she kept silent longing to put distance between them. She hated herself for stealing looks at him when he was leaning over his maps or watching the muscles in his back when he was chopping wood. She attributed it to isolation and loneliness, but when he was gone she found herself watching for him out the window. What she did not know was that he was watching her as well, watching her take her hair down at night or studying her face while she slept in front of the fire.

A thaw came in late February, and James told Lauren he would be gone all day visiting the family of George Blasco.

Lauren’s eyebrows shot up. “There are people up here?”

“Yes, the snow has melted enough for me to get through. I will be back tonight,” he said as he put on his coat and took his rifle. “I have business to discuss.”

She followed him to the door and asked, “These people are related to that carpenter from the fluyt?”

“Yes, they are gypsies. They are the Romany. They have a hatred of the Crown as we do on
The Pride of the King
. They are outcasts and lead a gypsy existence traveling the Hudson in the warmer months, but in the winter they stay here in the back country.

He opened the door and said, “Keep your rifle close. I’ll be back late tonight.”

The next day, he left again and the day after that and every day for a week until the snows returned. By that time, Lauren was happy to see the blizzard. It meant an end to her loneliness even if James was her only company. He came back late just as the blizzard was starting. She was bending over the fire, removing a kettle for tea. She looked up and smiled.

“Oh, the fire looks good,” James said shaking his coat off and stepping over to the hearth rubbing his hands together. “I thought I was going to lose my way. The snow is blinding.”

Lauren poured some tea into a pewter mug, added rum and molasses, and handed it to James. He stood by the fire and took a long drink. “Grog,” he said with a sigh. “This always gets the chill out. I haven’t had it since I was a boy at sea. Where did you learn to make it?”

“Isaac taught me,” Lauren replied as she fussed with the trammel, getting St. Clare’s supper ready.

He looked down at his cup then said, “You know that boy’s in love with you.”

“Oh really? Contrary to what you may think, men and women can be friends.”

“You are blind, Lauren,” he said shaking his head. “He is in great pain.”

“Oh I see,” she said straightening up and putting her hands on her hips. “Here is where you make some base reference to scalps on a belt.”

“The men on the fluyt are starved for the love of a woman, and you sharpen your fangs on them.”

Lauren gasped, “Do you really believe that I am so calculating?”

James shrugged and looked away, dismissing her.

*         *      *

Spring was on its way, and James traveled to see the Blasco family several times a week. One foggy morning, he announced to Lauren that she would be accompanying him. Lauren jumped at the possibility of going on an outing.

“It's time you meet them. These are the people who will be taking you to Fort St. Frederic.”

“Are they familiar with the French?” she asked putting on her cloak.

“Yes, a bit. They move freely between cultures. They are the Romany, nomadic people,” James said, shutting the door behind them.

They started down a path on the creek. The snow had melted leaving the trail greasy with mud, and ice chunks floated swiftly along Popple Creek.

“Shouldn’t these Romany be the contacts instead of me?” Lauren asked.

“No one trusts them,” he explained. “They are not welcome anywhere, so they remain aloof to all. They have been successful though, trading guns with the Huron and Abenaki, and this is one of the things that brought them into The Pride of the King
.

“So, they are part of the crew on the fluyt too?”

James stopped and looked at her curiously. “What are you talking about? Has no one told you?”

“Told me what?” said Lauren.

“The Pride of the King
is not just a vessel. It is a network, an entire organization reaching far beyond the crew of the fluyt. It encompasses scores of outcasts throughout all of New England working together in many commercial ventures.”

Lauren was flabbergasted. “And all of this was started by you?”

He shrugged and said, “Well yes,” and turned back onto the path.

Lauren followed St. Clare, observing him much differently. Here was a man dressed in a tattered shirt, leather vest, and topcoat. Aside from his leather boots and fine features, he appeared to be of no particular status or wealth, nothing more than an ordinary gunsmith or merchant captain, yet he was probably one of the most powerful men in all of the English colonies.

Lauren followed him for what seemed like a long time until the tree line ended, and they stepped into a clearing. Several men were standing outside a small outbuilding which Lauren recognized as a sugar house for cooking maple syrup. A large crucible was bubbling on an open fire by a cabin. Several pony carts covered with animal skins were off by the woodpile as well as a large enclosed wooden wagon.

“Hello, Captain!” boomed a tall, dark-haired man who reminded Lauren of George Blasco. Two other men stepped forward as well. One had a long black mustache with dark skin and curly hair, and the other had high cheekbones and a straight ponytail resembling that of an Indian. “So this is the day we meet her,” the first man said looking at Lauren. “My name is Vincent Blasco, and these are my brothers, Gaspar and Davi. My mother is inside with my sister Fatima. Welcome. We will be taking you to Fort St. Frederic.”

Before he could go on an older woman came down the steps of the cabin, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling. She was a tiny woman and had dark features like her sons. She took Lauren by the hand and escorted her inside talking in another language.

Lauren was stunned when she stepped into the small cabin. She had expected a table and some chairs in front of a hearth, maybe a braided rug and a bed, but instead the room was crammed with racks of clothing, wigs, bolts of material, feathers and musical instruments. There was a fiddle, a horn, and some large drums in a corner and a small dressing table with an open box of makeup. Lauren had never seen anything like it. Every way she turned there were splashes of color, glittering beads and the smell of heavy spices and perfume.

Mrs. Blasco encouraged her to look at everything. The woman proudly showed her a gown for a wizard with a long white beard and a costume for a pixie and a highland kilt. Lauren sighed and ran her hands along a red velvet cape made for a gentleman in a medieval play. Just as she was about to pick up a cap studded with glass beads, a girl emerged from a rack of costumes holding a swath of silk, needle and thread.

“Welcome to our home. I am Fatima,” she said with a brilliant smile. Lauren was stunned at the exotic beauty of the young woman. Her skin was the color of cinnamon and thick lashes framed her deep blue eyes. Her wavy black hair was short and curling just above her ears, and her full lips were as red as her cheeks.

“Thank you. I am glad you speak English,” Lauren said. “Do you speak French as well?”

“A little,” the girl said. “But my oldest brother is much better.”

Fatima was dressed like Lauren, in a shift and bodice with a homespun skirt, but beside her, Lauren felt like a common sparrow.

“You are from France, Madame?” the girl asked.

“New France, by the Mississippi River,” explained Lauren.

“I have heard of this river. You are far from home.”

Lauren nodded her head. Mrs. Blasco pushed some ribbons and lace off the table so Lauren could have a seat for tea. After pouring, the old woman and her daughter pulled long pieces of material onto their laps, sat down and began to sew. Their fingers moved quickly and deftly, but they were oblivious to their work as they visited with Lauren.

They spent the afternoon conversing in English and French. Lauren learned that in the warmer months, the family toured villages up and down the Hudson with their wagons, entertaining with music, dance and theater. Sometimes they would join with other troupes and put on small festivals celebrating midsummer or the harvest. The Blascos would entertain, all the while making contacts and new customers for The Pride of the King. Lauren noticed whenever the girl spoke of James, her eyes dropped demurely to the floor as if she was embarrassed.

Looking at Lauren’s copper tresses Fatima apologized for her short hair. “I must keep it this way to wear wigs. Sometimes I must play a boy on stage as well.”

Lauren looked at Fatima’s figure and thought the role of a boy would not be very convincing.

“Do you get lonely out here all winter?” she asked

“Oh Madame, there are ten or twelve more cabins not far from here,” gestured Fatima. “There are aunts and uncles, cousins, and many more of our people. Vincent and Gaspar have wives and children too. My Father died several years ago, so it is Mamma, Davi, and me here in this cabin.”

Leaning forward, Lauren addressed Mrs. Blasco and said, “I was on
The Pride of the King
with your son, George.”

The elderly woman looked at Fatima who translated her words. Madame Blasco shook her head and looked down. “She misses my brother very much,” Fatima said. “We are all very grateful to Captain St. Clare for his help sheltering him.”

“He is an excellent ship’s carpenter,” Lauren offered.

Fatima put her needle down and sighed, “Yes, he is a good carpenter, but George has been in trouble many times. Many times he has disappointed my mother, yet he remains her favorite child.”

Late in the afternoon, a chill came into the air and Fatima and her mother brought the fire up to warm the cabin and make supper. They made spicy soup of fish, dried tomatoes and peppers which Lauren found delectable paired with herb bread.

Lauren saw nothing of the men all day. They stayed by the sugar house watching the sap boil and making plans for the upcoming season of trade for
The Pride of the King
.

When it was time to leave, Lauren thanked the women. Just as she stepped to the door, Fatima touched her gently on the arm to say something, but when she opened her mouth no words came.

“Mademoiselle Blasco,” said Lauren. “What is it?”

“Oh--” the girl hesitated. “Oh, it’s nothing, but--you are not what I thought. You are very nice. I did not want to like the Captain’s wife.”