The Maidenhead (11 page)

“I believe I am well acquainted with the legend," he said drily, "that fairies sometimes become visible to a person who has stepped inside the ring. I suppose you have stepped inside one?"

She placed one foot on her bench in a truly brazen manner, braced her elbow on her knee with her chin propped on her fist, and smiled broadly. "Nay. I am a fairy meself."

“Oh, are you now? I suppose you are Titania?”

“Titania?"

“The fairy queen. More lovely, more innocent than any other. She almost lost all, but for the protection of the gentle and powerful strength of the fairies who saved her by their love."

There he went again, needling her about her innocence and her past. But with that transfixing voice, as smooth as fresh cream and as potent as Trinidad rum, one was almost willing to disregard any insults.

"In faith, master, I am but one of yewr ordinary fairies—angels forced to leave heaven because of a wrongdoing.”

"A former angel?” One black brow climbed. “Now, somehow I find that difficult to—"

"Aye, I am. But a human being came to fairyland and married me, he did. Then brought me to his home. Yew do know ’ow the fairy tale goes, don't yew now?”

He put her churn down, planted a forearm on his thigh, and leaned toward her with a positively wicked smile. “No. Do tell me."

“Why," she said quite earnestly, “the human being must follow strict rules in order to remain married to a fairy. For example, a human husband must never scold or strike his fairy wife or refer to her being a fairy. If he does, the fairy immediately returns to fairyland.”

“I should be so lucky." He collected his musket and rose to leave but at the door paused and looked over his shoulder. “Do not get any ideas in that scheming head of yours about going with me to Jamestown for General Assembly. I have no desire to have my good wife arrested for further nefarious deeds. You have already cost me dear enough."

She was gripped by a terrifying sensation that he understood her better than she understood herself, and that it was the unsympathetic understanding of an antagonist.

Chapter Ten

Modesty pulled on Betsy’s warm teats, one after the other, with rhythmic movements. Often, the milking could be tedious and monotonous, but sometimes pleasantly soothing. A rhythm of life, it was. The steam rising off the milk in the crisp, early morning frost. The rooster tiptoeing along the fence. The husky rustling of the com tassels.

The pumpkins yet to be harvested lolled lazily in the garden, as large and orange as last night’s full moon. A hunter’s moon, Mad Dog had called it.

The picture seemed idyllic, until her thoughts stopped drifting and she remembered that she was married to a man who was likely to cut her throat with his whittling knife if the whim took him. Didn’t he brand his cattle by a personalized notching of their ears?

Next thing she might know, he would be notching hers. She had indeed jumped from the frying pan into the fire. She could choose between the risk of roasting in Jamestown or having her throat split at Ant Hill. London, with its hazard of Fleet Prison leering at her, seemed infinitely preferable.

On the surface, she and Mad Dog had taken on a rhythm of life in their relationship. Rising early by candlelight, they ate a silent breakfast, then off to their own chores. At midday she would carry lunch to him and Jack if their work took them far afield.

Lately, though, both men had been working furiously in the tannery. The salted meats and tallow that Mad Dog exported went neglected. At sunset the men were back for dinner and after the meal would return once more to the tannery for a few hours more of concentrated work.

In spare words, Mad Dog had told her that it took a full year to turn a new hide into good leather: removing the hair, scraping the inside, soaking and turning the hides in vats of tannic acid and the bark of sumac and chestnut. Lastly, there was the currying of the hide to smoothness and softness. It was a smelly process. Only Juana smelled worse.

Some evenings, she would show up in her usual will-o’-the-wisp way and teach Modesty how to spin the flax tow she had combed into yarn, or help dip candles in the candle wheel.

Once, the spry old Spanish woman even climbed on the cabin roof to drop a live chicken down the chimney—her method of cleaning a chimney that wasn’t likely to put chimney sweeps out of work.

But after the candles were snuffed and Modesty and Mad Dog were at last alone, the nights were something else. No rhythm to them at all. She never knew if Mad Dog’s passion would be wild and tempestuous, like the storm-tossed
God Sent
, or gentle and sweet, like a lamb nibbling carrot tops from her palm.

"Had I udders as large as yewrs, Betsy, then yewr owner would sit up and take notice, verily." She chuckled at the image.

It was almost as if she were indeed an invisible fairy, so little note did he take of her. Discounting the nights, naturally.

Compared to someone of Lady Clarissa’s station, she was lacking in appeal. Not that his opinion mattered a whit to her, except for his permitting her to accompany him to Jamestown.

She had to find another way to get there— safely. The colony’s capital was little more than a living cemetery, but at least she would have the opportunity to buy passage for England before the good citizens decided to serve her up as skewered chicken.

At the sound of a clanking bell, she ceased her milking. Through the haze of the Indian summer morning, she sighted the square sails of a sloop. Betsy turned those round, long-lashed eyes on her as if to inquire what the holdup was. "Not now, Betsy. We’ve visitors!"

She pushed back the stool and collected her half-filled pail. Sloshing the milk, she set off in a quick pace for the cabin. Why would a merchant ship be upriver this late in the year? Mad Dog had made it clear that by this time, before the arrival of the gale season, most of the trading vessels had already set sail for their respective countries.

She left the pail on the table, smoothed her skirts, and tucked into her coif the errant wisps of her newly grown hair. Duck curls she derisively called them. She hurried back outside. The sloop was already putting in at Mad Dog’s long pier. Juana came trotting out of the woods to investigate also.

Ant Hill had not had visitors from the outside world since Clarissa and her husband had called to visit almost three months before. Anticipation of having contact with other people, and finding out the latest news, filled Modesty with excitement. Her feet fairly flew down the oystershell path, while the reclusive Juana hung back.

Modesty’s life on the Thames, England’s major trade route, had taught her much about ships. This one was an old, rotting three-masted merchant caravel, barely serviceable. But to Modesty the
Röter Lowe
, bronze cannons and all, was a beautiful sight floating upon the James. By the time she reached the dock, the East Indiaman’s gangplank had been lowered.

A blubberous, red-cheeked man who could have easily been rolled down the gangplank was followed by a lanky, hard-eyed man in a sailor’s Monmouth cap. Aboard deck, a score or more hands scurried to secure the ship’s rigging.

The fashionably dressed man in the forefront doffed his Copotain hat with its high conical crown to reveal short, sparse flaxen hair. "Captain De Ruyter, madam.” The middle-aged man bestowed a half bow and a full grin. His lips were as naturally red as his cheeks. He wore a wide-sleeved, short cloak with a falling collar and wide breeches gathered at the knees. "You are—?”

"Master Jones’s wife."

A flicker of surprise passed over his apple- dumpling face. "My first mate, Schouten," he said, indicating the taciturn man behind him. She had seen plenty like him and the
Röter Lowe
’s crew on the Thames waterfront. They had prowled the ports of the world and would as soon rob you of your life as your purse.

“Is the master at home?” De Ruyter’s English had a distinctly Flemish accent which she could identify from her working for a Flemish calligrapher, and his gestures were distinctly effeminate.

"Aye. He should be here shortly." Of that, she had no doubt. "Won’t yew come on inside and—’’

The captain had transferred his gaze beyond her, and she turned to see Mad Dog, his musket cradled in his arm, striding toward them. “Ho, Mad Dog!”

"Henrick. I had begun to doubt you made the trip this year.”

“And miss out on your quality hides? Not on your life."

“My bondservant is in the tanning shed now, finishing with their bundling."

De Ruyter winked. “I'll furnish a detail of my hands to load the hides, if you will furnish us a glass or two of your brandy.”

Mad Dog raised a brow. “Brandy this early in the morning tells me your constitution is made of iron."

De Ruyter grimaced. “I drink it to wash down the foul taste of your English duties.”

“Then brandy it is. And bread and cheese to ease its passage."

“I see you have taken yourself a—wife."

Mad Dog wrapped an affectionate arm around Modesty’s waist. His smile was more cynical than fond. “Ahhh, yes, my charming helpmeet."

"Me beloved husband.” Modesty ground her heel into his soft moccasin and was pleased to see him wince.

Once inside, she found Juana already preparing a repast of cornbread and hard cheese. Putting her alehouse experience to use, Modesty poured drinks for the three men who straddled the board table’s benches and discussed Bristol, which was the destination of Mad Dog’s hides, and the price they were expected to bring.

“The price my employers receive does not make it worth my while,” De Ruyter complained. “Not when I have to forfeit your colony’s custom duties out of my own return from the Dutch East India Company."

Mad Dog's hands gripped his tumbler. “So you fattened Yeardley's purse again, eh?"

Juana, her leathery face set in disapproving lines, supplied the men with a wooden trencher of cheese and day-old cornbread. Schouten snapped up a hunk of both.

De Ruyter wiped the ale from his upper lip. "Let the other foreign vessels put in at the port of customs and pay the duties. Not this Dutchman. Tell them, Schouten."

“
Ya
, this is our last time to put into the English colony." He popped the cheese in his mouth, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth.

De Ruyter leaned forward. "You see, I plan to buy guns and ammunition manufactured in Liege, Belgium, take the cargo to Africa’s Niger delta, and barter with an African king there for his captives. Then I will take the captives and sell them into slavery at the Santo Domingo sugar fields for five times the cost of the gun cargo."

The year before, a Dutch ship had brought twenty-odd Negro slaves, the first in the colony. Mad Dog had said that Yeardley and Radcliff had bought most of them.

“After that,” De Ruyter continued, "I load the
Röter Lowe
with sugar and return to Liege to buy more guns. And Santo Domingo," he finished slyly, “does not charge such high custom duties.”

“What will your employers say about this?” Mad Dog asked.

"The Dutch East India Company be damned." De Ruyter swallowed the last of his brandy, then said with a conspiratorial smile, "They can count the
Röter Lowe
lost at sea.”

Modesty set a basket of dried oysters before the men with a thud. They were busy talking and did not take note of her sour expression. While she openly acknowledged herself as mildly unscrupulous, hoodwinking from the well-to-do, men like De Ruyter and Radcliff who had no qualms about trading in human flesh disgusted her.

Nevertheless, her mind was racing. How to get De Ruyter to drop her off at Jamestown?

Granted, she had nothing to barter for passage, not even her body. Not when flesh came so cheaply for men in the captain’s business. Unless. . . . Why hadn’t she thought of it before!

She smiled and poured the men another round of brandy—and yet another.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Through narrowed eyes, Mad Dog watched his wife liberally fill the guests’ tankards. That wide smile of hers—she was up to something.

But then so was he. Apparently their plans shared the same modus operandi.

He drank little after that first tankard but encouraged the two men to drink heartily. He hefted his tankard more than once in a toast.

“To sugar, slaves, and Santo Domingo."

And again. “To the success of your new trade."

“Here, here," Schouten said. His sullen expression had been replaced by a sloshy grin.

When Modesty disappeared out the door, Mad Dog generously poured the contents of his tankard into De Ruyter's and excused himself.

“Whither goest thou?" the befuddled captain asked.

Mad Dog stood at the doorway and watched Modesty. "To check on the loading.”

She did not head down the path to the dock but set off in the direction of the outbuildings. He doubted that she was seeking the privy.

With a cordial expression, he turned back to his guests. “Raise another bumper. I shall return shortly.”

He caught Juana’s attention and in Spanish told her to summon Arahathee at once. The old woman nodded stolidly, spit into the fireplace, and trotted past him out the door.

Next he found Holloway in the tanning shed, beyond the paddle vat where a few pallets of hides still awaited loading aboard the ship. Modesty was not with the bondservant.

Curious, the relief he felt. He doubted the woman’s fidelity. She made it quite clear how barbaric she considered him. He had never thought about taking a wife again, and certainly not one as coarse as Modesty.

Yet she was his wife now. And he could not deny that sometimes he hungered for the warm touch of another. After all, he was human, although his wife expressed considerable doubt about that.

At first, after the killings, he had wanted only to retreat from life, retreat from his conscience. Then he realized there was nowhere to hide. He had thought that if he could stay alive in the charnel house that was the Virginia Colony, he could put an ocean’s distance between himself and civilized society’s heavy hand of authority.

But colonial life had little to offer him. And the pleasures and comforts of normal human relationships, the things that gold could not buy, were not to be had at all, doomed by his guilt. Still, like a fool, he yearned.

Holloway left off securing a pallet with rope and straightened. Despite the mild weather, sweat beaded his suntanned face. "Aye, master?"

"I want to stage a party.”

The bondservant’s fair brows met over the bridge of his nose. "You what?”

"Take all the remaining kegs of peach brandy in the springhouse and give them to the seamen. I want them to drink heartily. Do you understand?”

With a grin, Holloway wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm. "I do not understand your reasoning for all of this, but I think it a most splendid idea. I shall set myself about this delightful task.”

"Something else. I desire you to remain sober. Quite sober."

The man looked crestfallen.

"Stay with them. Entertain them.” In truth, the bondsman had the makings of an actor. Shakespeare would have appreciated his talent. “I will explain later.”