Pride of the King, The (35 page)

Everyone reverted to the old ways again except Isaac. Always courteous, never rude, the young man avoided Lauren, and she avoided him. He did not invite conversation, and Lauren did not encourage it. She did not press him and stayed at a respectful distance. Reluctantly she admitted St. Clare had been right; Isaac had cared for her beyond friendship. She did not try to ease her guilt by making amends with him, but carried on in silence.

She was also silent about the absence of Captain St. Clare and her longing to see him again. It had been easy to push the man from her mind in New France. She was infatuated with Julien and life at the fort was a novel distraction, but now back on
The Pride of the King
she was reminded of him constantly. His imprint was on every aspect of the ship, his memory a constant.

On one occasion she stole into his cabin in the quarterdeck and stood as if hypnotized, memorizing every detail of his room and his belongings. It appeared as if James had just stepped out. Maps and parchments were scattered on his desk, he had left his chair pushed back, and his berth was rumpled and unmade. The cabin was small but warm and inviting.

An old barrel, gray and rusty with age, caught Lauren’s attention. It appeared to be serving as a nightstand by the bed with a half consumed glass of brandy sitting on top of it. Barely visible on the side of the cask were the words, ‘
Châteaux St Clare, Provence.
” Lauren gasped, realizing that this was the barrel from which he had obtained his surname. She ran her hands along the coarse wood, smiling at his sentimentality.

Then impulsive as always, she stepped over and pressed one of his shirts to her to nose, taking in his scent once more. Suddenly, tears filled her eyes, and she brushed at her face frantically, fearing discovery. Lauren left the room abruptly, vowing never to return.

The days grew shorter as autumn arrived in the Hudson River Valley.
The Pride of the King
returned to Albany and Lauren felt the excitement in her grow. She did not care if St. Clare had been with his wife or any woman for that matter; she just wanted to see him once more. She told herself she needed to thank him for his daring rescue, but in reality, she just wanted to be near him.

The first day in Albany she waited patiently, and he did not return to the fluyt. The second day, Lauren found herself bored and irritable as the crew went on shore for leave. She cleaned her room and the galley from top to bottom, collected slush from the barrels, shined pots and pans, did her laundry, and then when the warm autumn sun beckoned, she went ashore to shop and amuse herself. When she returned, Henry Bologne handed her a note from Captain St. Clare. Lauren’s heart jumped. At last, he had contacted her. He requested her presence at the 'Red Lion Tavern' at sunset for an urgent meeting.

For Henry’s benefit, she showed no emotion, but he spied her racing down the companionway to her room. She pulled off her clothes and stepped into a hipbath, lathering and rinsing her skin and hair. She put on a clean shift, laced her stays tightly, and chose a gown the color of amber to match her eyes. She piled her hair on top her head and looked at herself in the mirror. A little voice reminded her St. Clare was a married man, and she muttered to the mirror, “I don’t care!”

Lauren placed a wide-brimmed, straw hat over her cap, tied the cream-colored ribbons under her chin and started down to the 'Red Lion'. When she arrived, the tavern was filled with men, smoking and drinking and talking loudly. It was dark in the establishment, the wood floors and paneling absorbing every bit of light. Lauren was hesitant to enter the tavern without an escort and looked in the door, biting her lip. Finally, she stepped over the threshold, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

“Are you looking for Captain St. Clare?” a woman called to her. It was the female innkeeper Lauren had seen a year ago. The woman leaned over the bar, her face drawn and tired with a new baby on her hip. She was trying to retain her good humor in spite of the drunken customers seeking her attention.

“Yes,” replied Lauren.

“The Captain sends his regrets,” she shouted over the din. “He can’t join you tonight.”

The blood rushed to Lauren’s face, and she clenched her fists.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the innkeeper said turning back to her work.

Lauren stepped out of the inn grinding her teeth. The sign of an angry red lion swung over her head mirroring her own expression. In a fury, she pulled off her straw hat and stomped on it. It was only an hour ago St. Clare had demanded her presence, now he had other plans. It was unthinkable. “How could I have ever been so stupid,” she muttered, tossing her head. “I am nothing more than a business associate to him.”

Furious and hurt, Lauren traversed the streets of Albany, returning to the fluyt. The sun had dropped low in the sky and already the streets were teeming with raucous workmen and prostitutes. On several occasions, Lauren had to break free from the clutches of an amorous sailor, hurling curses at him like a fishwife.

Finally reaching the fluyt, she stepped onto the deck pulling her cap off and yanking the pins from her hair, her tresses tumbling down. She marched toward her room.

“Why are you retiring so soon?” someone said.

Lauren whirled around. In the dimmest of light, she could see James St. Clare, smoking his tobacco.

“I thought--” she uttered.

“You thought you would go to bed after Henry and I went to all this trouble?”

St. Clare casually pulled a flake of tobacco from his tongue, then stepped back revealing a table set for two on the deck. A small seaman’s lantern sat in the center illuminating the seating area, leaving the rest of the vessel enveloped in darkness. She heard Mathias playing his fiddle from the stern of the ship.

“I wanted to thank you for a job well done at Fort Frederic,” he said.

“I-I don’t understand,” she stammered. “Why weren’t you at the tavern?”

“I was here on board, getting your supper ready. The rendezvous at the ‘Lion’ was only a ruse to lure you away from the fluyt temporarily.”

She searched St. Clare’s eyes for answers. Only moments ago, she had vowed never to trust this man again, but now this gesture of gratitude warmed her heart. She walked to the table, running her fingers over the white tablecloth, her anger melting away.

“You must be hungry. Please sit down,” he suggested. St. Clare was wearing clothes he ordinarily reserved for evenings with the Dutch gentry of the Hudson River Valley. He wore a fine white linen shirt and cravat with an indigo blue vest, dark britches and his best boots.

Lauren swallowed hard, trying to absorb everything, and sat down sweeping her gown under the table. She scanned the place setting for two with sparkling wine goblets and then looked up at the sky. The moist night air was blurring the stars slightly and across the harbor, candles winked in the windows of Albany. She could hear the waves gently slapping the hull of the fluyt, and when she looked across the table, St. Clare was studying her face. He opened his mouth to say something but suddenly changed his mind. Instead, he looked out at the city lights and said, “I have been on business in Albany recently. This is why I asked you here tonight.”

Any illusion of romance vanished the minute St Clare brought up Albany and business. She remembered his wife. She pursed her lips and snapped her napkin open. “I see. What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Well, our attempt at a contact in New France failed,” he said.

Lauren was about to argue, but before she could speak, James held his hand up to silence her. “But without you, I never would have known that it was Gautier who was trying to kill me.”

She frowned and shifted in her chair, wishing he had allowed her to go to her cabin instead of dining with her in the moonlight. Luckily, Henry Bologne broke the tension, rolling up with a tray of food, wearing his best smock and a gold earring in one ear. He avoided eye contact, handing them each a plate of food and bowing deeply. He had instructions to be on his best behavior tonight.

“You deceived me earlier today with that note, Mr. Bologne,” Lauren said with a smirk.

“That I did, Ma’am,” he said, a smile flickering on his lips. He continued to look down arranging serving pieces. “But I had to get you off the vessel so we could prepare everything here.”

“I see,” she said raising her eyebrows. “We shall discuss it later.”

“As you wish, Madame,” he replied with a wink, then left.

The smell of supper reached Lauren, and she realized that she was ravenous. Everything looked delicious; there were chops in wine sauce, buttered carrots, pickled beets and Sally Lunn bread.

Begrudgingly she said, “It has been a long time since anyone has cooked for me. Thank you.’

St. Clare shrugged and poured Lauren a glass of wine.

“Most of it was Bologne. You know he thinks the world of you. He missed you when you were in New France--we all missed you.” Lauren looked up as he said, “Some of us were in a closer proximity than others.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Some were in the neighborhood chapel.”

They both laughed, easing some of the awkwardness. The food was delectable, and when Lauren was finished she sat back and sighed.

The fluyt rolled lightly and a breeze blew her hair. “So what was the business you wished to discuss?” she asked.

James wiped his mouth and said, “We had a bargain, you and I. You would identify a contact for me in New France, and I would give you land. Even though it was unsuccessful, I believe you have done me a much greater service.”

“How so?”

“You saved my life.”

“Oh,” she chuckled, shaking her head.

“You saved mine,” she returned.

“You are to receive payment. There will be no more discussion. The papers have been drawn up for your land.”

Lauren sat back in her chair, thunderstruck.

St. Clare said, “If you want to make the Hudson your home, it is yours. “

A smile spread across her face, and tears filled Lauren’s eyes. All her life she had searched for a place to belong, and at last she had found a home.

Seeing her struggle to maintain her composure, James looked away.

Wiping her eyes, Lauren sat up straight and whispered, “Of course this will be my home.” Maybe it was her imagination, but Lauren thought she saw relief pass over his face.

“But what of Heathstone?” she asked. “What if he should find me? The land would be his to take.”

James shook his head. “My dear Lauren, you are a landowner in the outermost reaches of the English Colonies. Do not give that man a second thought.”

He stood up, lighting two torches then went aft. When he returned, Mathias was playing dance music. “Come now,” he demanded holding his hands out. “Tonight is a celebration and you have never danced with me. It is time.”

“No, James really,” Lauren protested, putting up her hands. “I couldn’t. I am not in the mood.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You have danced with everyone on
The Pride of the King
except the Captain. You owe this to me.”

She smiled and reluctantly stood up. He took her hands and they started to dance. They twirled and parted, linked arms and swung around in circles. At first, Lauren’s dancing was stilted and restrained, but St. Clare took charge of her every movement and gradually she lost her inhibitions. Each time he brushed near her, she felt a shiver run up her spine. His breath on her shoulders felt delicious, and she felt her face grow warm under his gaze. Never in all the years she had been on Duke Street had a dance partner taken her breath away like this man.

Mathias finished his tune but struck up another immediately, and they danced again but this time more intimately. James drew Lauren closer, pressing his body against hers more firmly. They danced around the deck and each time Lauren was near James he would pull her firmly to his chest looking down into her face as if he was about to kiss her.

This time when the music stopped, he did not let go of her. He pulled her close and kissed her, running his hands up and down her back and over her arms.

“I can’t breathe,” she gasped.

“Tell me to release you and I will,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. Lauren’s legs felt weak. His hands held her upright as his kisses grew more urgent. He bent her head back and ran his lips down her neck lingering where her breasts met her gown. His firm thighs pressed against her legs.

“Did you love Gautier,” he asked. “I must know.”

“No, James. I never loved him. How could I?”

He stopped and looked into her eyes, then scooped her into his arms carrying her to his cabin.

After a while, the music stopped, and old Mathias went to bed. The torches burned low, and Henry Bologne rolled out on his platform to clear away the dishes. He pulled himself up and snuffed the torches, then turned to look at the shoreline. He remembered a girl he had known a long time ago in Albany and wondered if she ever thought of him. She had kissed him on an autumn night like this one. He chuckled and shrugged his shoulders, jumping back down onto his platform. He glanced at the Captain’s cabin and smiled, congratulating himself on a job well done.

Chapter 38