The Hawk and the Dove (2 page)

Though fear gripped her and her heart pounded frantically inside her breast, she would not let him see her fear. “John Thatcher, my lips will not be sealed if you make one more move toward me!”

He hesitated for only a second. “You wouldn’t dare let the worthy reverend know you’d been cavorting naked in the woods.”

“What could he do to me? Thrash me? I’ve already had one beating today,” she retorted bravely.

He finished disrobing and plunged into the lake. Sabre quickly ducked beneath the surface and swam underwater, not surfacing until she reached the grassy bank some thirty feet away. She flung on her petticoat and dress and was in the saddle almost before he spotted her.

“Sabre, help! My legs are tangled in the weeds,” he called, and she could hear the irritation in his voice.

She laughed as she dug her heels into Black Sabbath’s haunches. “I hope you never untangle them!”

Sara thought she had gotten away with her escapade when three days had passed and the wrath of God had not descended upon her. She grabbed an opportunity to go into Gloucester so that she could collect the mail for the church and priory. Her mother and Beth, the bride-to-be, were traveling into the city of Gloucester to select bed linen and deliver the wedding invitations to the aunts and uncles and cousins related to them through Mrs. Bishop’s three marriages.

The Swan Inn was the posting house where the coaches brought the mail up from London. Sara quickly sorted through the papers that were addressed to the rectory and church and her heart skipped a beat as her fingers closed about the long-awaited reply from Lady Katherine Ashford in London. She stuffed it down the neck of her gown and wriggled it inside her busk, where the long-anticipated message it might hold almost burned her breasts. She then took the rest out to the coach and turned it all over to her mother.

Her heart was singing with such joy that even a dreaded visit with the cousins could not quell her happiness. She closed her ears to the incessant chatter of weddings.
Beth was wearing a pale blue silk afternoon dress with a fetching little pelisse in the same shade. Her blue satin slippers also matched and she sat crossing her ankles so that her pale blue silk stockings could be glimpsed by all.

Sara’s thoughts were diverted from the letter when one of her cousins said, “That dark wine gown doesn’t become your odd coloring, Sabre. It looked much prettier on Margaret before it was handed down to you.” Beth and her cousins all giggled.

Sara answered sweetly, “But I fill the bodice out better, don’t you think?” Then she pointedly looked at each girl’s small breasts.

The name of the game was spite as her cousin asked, “You must be very upset because Beth has had a proposal. Before we know it, Ann, too, will be betrothed, and you will be left a spinster.”

God, how she hated them all. Her cheeks flushed and she said loftily, “I’m not in the least upset, for I shall very likely be going to court shortly.” She could have bitten her tongue the moment the words were out. She had such a habit of saying the first thing that came into her head, and it usually landed her in hot water.

Beth laughed and said, “Why, Sabre, that’s an outright lie.”

Her cousin, instantly jealous that there might be a grain of truth in Sabre’s remark, said to Beth, “I’m afraid Sabre suffers from delusions of grandeur. There are many locked up in the Gloucester Asylum with such afflictions.”

“Is it your habit to visit asylums? Amazing they don’t mistake you for an inmate and detain you,” replied Sara lightly.

“If you don’t watch your tongue, Sabre Wilde, I’ll get Daddy to give you another beating,” threatened Beth.

“Beating?” asked her cousin breathlessly.

“We held her down across the table while Daddy took his cane to her bottom!”

Somehow Sara’s teacup slipped through her fingers and its contents ruined not only Beth’s blue silk, but the afternoon visit as well. Everyone watching would have sworn it was an accident, yet they knew better. Beth was in tears, incoherent, then hysterical, and there was nothing Mrs. Bishop could do but gather her two daughters and depart quickly amid a flurry of apologies for the disastrous turn of events.

Mary Bishop leaned her head back onto the velvet squabs of the coach and closed her eyes. Sara felt guilty, for she knew her mother had a delicate constitution. Beth was carrying on ridiculously, so Sara had no alternative but to fix her with a penetrating look. “If you don’t shut up instantly, I’ll thump you.” Beth sat back quietly and sniffled, for without the backing of her cousins or sisters, she was gutless.

When the coach arrived back at Cheltenham priory, Mrs. Bishop ushered Beth into the house to repair the damage to the blue silk and Sara stayed with the coach as it was taken to the stables. She reached into her busk and drew forth the treasured letter.

With eager eyes she scanned the contents, skipping over the flowery salutations and small talk. Ah, here it was….
As mistress of Her Majesty’s wardrobe I do indeed have need of many assistants and I would be pleased to take one of your gentle daughters under my wing, should you decide to send her to court I know that you will appreciate this great opportunity I am offering and
assure you that a gentlewoman with manners and breeding may receive many offers of marriage which would be otherwise closed to her. We are at Greenwich until the hot summer months make London an unhealthy place, at which time we go on progress, so I urge you to hasten your daughter’s departure and rest assured I shall welcome any child of yours wholeheartedly. All I ask, dearest Mary, is that you do not saddle me with the little redhead of the volatile temper. I need a girl who is both amenable and biddable, and we both know that the “Wilde” one is neither.

Sara let the letter fall from her fingers and a single tear slipped down her cheek; all her fine dreams and schemes reduced to ashes. It was almost an hour before she gradually became aware of her surroundings. The smell of leather and horses teased her nostrils and she stirred herself, sighing deeply for what might have been, and walked slowly to the house. As she passed her stepfather’s study, his cold command reached her ears. “Come in here!”

She pushed open the doors and met his eyes. Suddenly she knew the reprieve of three days’ standing was over. He knew that she had swum naked. She stood motionless through the endless sermon, only longing to know her punishment and to get it over with. She was the scandal of the neighborhood. Her behavior was wanton, wicked, eccentric. She was an instrument of the devil. Her Wilde Irish blood was tainted and she responded neither to chastisement nor punishment; she neither regretted nor repented. She heard him list her long catalogue of sins and waited for his verdict. When it came it was totally unexpected. It was said quietly without anger, yet it was more terrible for her than any beating.

“From now on you will be deprived of your privileges,
beginning with your riding. To ensure your obedience, I sold your horse today.”

“No,” she whispered, stunned. “Who did you sell her to?” Her mind screamed its denial.

“Silence!” he ordered.

Her pale green eyes narrowed. She dipped him an insolent little curtsy and departed with dignity. Cheltenham was a small enough town that she soon discovered where Sabbath had gone. At the moment she was helpless to do anything about losing her, but she resolved to get her horse back come hell or high water when it was possible, and until that time she accepted the fact that she could only visit her occasionally and then only after a two-mile walk in each direction.

The wedding of Beth was imminent. Such loving attention had been given to each detail of the lavish affair that Sara was sick to death of it all and wished the ordeal were over and done with. She dreaded the wedding ceremony itself with her stepfather officiating at the marriage of his own daughter. Jane’s husband was to walk Beth down the aisle of the English church, which would be packed with all their relatives from Gloucester and all her father’s regular congregation from Cheltenham. The church would echo to the rafters with whispers about why she was not being married. After all, it was her turn, and Beth was almost five years her junior. In Tudor England girls married before the age of sixteen or were considered to be left on the shelf—unsuitable, unmarriageable, unwanted.

Damn, I’d like to give them something to talk about,
she thought unhappily. She sat in the orchard, thinking
up one scheme after another, rejecting her ideas almost as quickly as she thought of them.

The deep pink bridesmaid gown, which she hated, was finished and hanging in her room. She felt depressed every time she looked at it. Ah, well, in two days’ time it would all be over but the shouting, and then she would have the attentions of three brothers-in-law to dodge instead of just two, for the bridegroom had already caught her alone a couple of times and tried to steal kisses from her.

As she walked past the washhouse she saw one of the servants busy over a large washtub. “What are you doing, Mrs. Pringle?”

“Ah, lovey, I’m busy dyeing the choirboys’ cassocks. The reverend sets great store by a grand show in the church. These cassocks are to be scarlet, do ye see. With the white lace surplices over the scarlet cassocks it will be like a pageant!”

“Do you need any help, Mrs. Pringle?”

“Well, now, lovey, ye know how sore me old back gets. While I’m taking these cassocks out to the orchard to dry, you can empty the tub with yon bucket. But be careful to let it cool down first so ye don’t go scaldin’ yerself.”

As Sara watched the scarlet dye bubble, her own wicked juices began to stir. Did she dare? Why not? The only color that would make her look worse than deep pink would be scarlet! She wasted no time in smuggling her pink bridesmaid gown down to the washhouse.

The wedding day dawned and none had time to give Sara Bishop a passing thought. She would keep her cloak on until the last possible moment; then she would throw it off as she walked down the aisle and everyone would
recognize that Sara’s alter ego, Sabre Wilde, had turned up.

Every pew of the church was packed. Her mother was escorted to the front row, while the bridegroom and the Reverend Bishop stood at the altar. Fourteen-year-old Ann was to go first in the procession, scattering rose petals, then the lovely dark-haired Margaret and Jane, so alike, were paired to walk hand in hand. The bride, on her brother-in-law’s arm, was to be followed by Sara, who would carry her train.

Beth was far too concerned over her own wedding attire to pay heed to eccentric Sara, who had insisted upon wearing her cloak until the last possible moment. The notes of the virginal rang out and the choirboys’ sweet voices rose like the sound of angels. Then the solemn little procession started down the aisle and an expectant hush fell over the congregation.

Suddenly the musician struck a discordant note, the choirboys forgot the words to the hymn, and the assembled congregation gasped in unison. The girl was in bright red! The color screamed aloud its shocking unsuitability for a nuptial ceremony, especially inside a church, a hallowed place of God.

Sara had her revenge, upsetting the smug propriety of her half sister’s wedding day, and at the same time reducing the Reverend Bishop’s sacrament to the level of farce. The wedding would be talked about for months, and after the first shock waves wore off, people could not hide their laughter. That Sabre was a red-headed virago who had a penchant for scandalous behavior and they would never tame her!

The magnificent dragon symbol on the sail was sighted from Devonport long before the ship was brought expertly into harbor. A cry went up from the seawall and was carried to every person abroad in the port town this fine May morning. “The Sea God! The Sea God!” The children took up the cry until the cobbled streets rang with it. Shopkeepers left their stores and along with their customers came out to witness the spectacle that always accompanied the arrival of their beloved native son, for the Sea God did not refer to the name of one of his ships, but to the man himself.

The Hawkhurst family, with its vast shipping empire, had ruled the sea town of Devonport near Plymouth for over a century, but it had taken the good sense of the present queen to reward that family with its first title of nobility. Early in Elizabeth’s reign Sebastian Hawkhurst had been named Lord Devonport and appointed her lieutenant for the County of Devon. Now his seafaring days were past, but his sons carried on the glorious name of Hawkhurst, rivaling Howard, Raleigh, and even Drake in the eyes of the townfolk of Devonport.

His elder son, Captain Hawkhurst, had been at sea for almost six months and did not know yet that his father was ailing. A crowd had gathered on the seawall and jetty, all jostling for a position that would afford them a look at the magnificent, near-legendary figure. The women almost swooned in anticipation of a glimpse of the handsome, powerfully built man the queen called her Sea God. They were agog over the prize he had in tow. It was obviously a Portuguese or Spanish galleon and they
speculated about its cargo of gold or silver, or jewels at the very least. They would have called a liar any man who referred to Hawkhurst as a freebooter or pirate. To them he was a merchant seaman, a privateer, and a defender of England’s sea lanes. No wonder Britannia ruled the waves when the queen had the sworn loyalty and strength of men such as the Sea God.

He stood on the forecastle bridge, his deep masculine voice booming forth his orders to his seamen. The steering sails were pulled in by sailors high in the rigging, then the ship lowered anchor, once more safe in harbor. A cheer went up from the crowd and The Sea God’s teeth flashed white in his bronzed face as he waved his acknowledgment. He was well over six feet tall, with surely the broadest shoulders in England. He was deeply tanned and his hair, which was naturally black, had highlights where the strong sun had streaked its tips. He wore it long and it reminded one of a lion’s mane.

The crowd waited patiently until he came ashore, knowing the show he would provide would be well worth the wait. Seamen carried his trunks and chests up to the big house on the cliff. Then came his matched pair of Irish wolfhounds, which traveled everywhere with him, and his beloved black stallion, Neptune. Sooner or later his personal manservant would emerge from belowdecks —the monklike “baron,” who wore a long dark robe and never uttered a word. Lastly would come the small doll-like woman with the slanted almond eyes, dressed in richly embroidered silk pantaloons and slitted tunic. The tales of her strange origins and the Sea God’s possession of her would run the gamut from concubine to slave.