Crimson Rapture (41 page)

She
stopped for a long moment. Justin was back. She wanted to turn away, hide in
the woods and forever. How would he treat her? Would he even say a good day? Or
would he simply ignore her very presence and pretend she wasn't there?

The
only reason she forced her feet forward was because she had no choice.

After
finally seeing his son to sleep, Justin had returned to his study and stood
looking out the huge picture window, thinking of all his work ahead. Just as he
had expected, Jefferson had managed to get his embargo act through congress.

The
next four months were objectively among the most important, and perhaps
ominous, of his life. The day after the morrow he would meet secretively with
his six best captains to discuss, decide, and assign the next shipping runs.
There was much to be done before then and yet like a curse he could think of
naught but her. He had not completed even the first set of calculations,
calculations that were so simple for him, Jacob often joked he could do them in
his sleep.

The
danger and risks in smuggling was directly proportional to the rewards: the
greater the risks, the greater the rewards. No more so than now after
Jefferson, desperate to stay out of the war between England and France, had
gotten the Embargo Act through congress. An act Justin saw as disastrous for
the country, yet simultaneously a fantastic opportunity for anyone with the
brass guts to run the blockade.

England
and France both desperately depended on American trade and shipping. Throughout
the past five or so years both countries had enacted laws forbidding American
trade with the other. American ships were seized at every opportunity, the
cargo confiscated and the crew impressed. Well over four hundred ships had been
lost to date, but none of them, with the single exception of the time he had
been captured, had been his ships. And because he picked his captains and his
runs so well, because he had both the talent and boldness to outrun and
outmaneuver the French and English alike—opportunely chose one as bedfellow,
one as enemy, then switching on the next run—he had made his fortune.

Jefferson's
Embargo Act changed all this. Desperate and determined to see that both England
and France grant American ships freedom of the seas, to stay out of their war,
Jefferson and his well-meaning but foolish bank of lawyers got their law
through congress. No American shipping in any form, to any port, at any time. They
hoped it would force England and France to renege all laws restricting American
shipping but he knew all it would do was bring gross depression to the country
as a whole, especially Boston, but with unemployment and suffering to Americans
everywhere. Except for smugglers. For men like himself, more than willing to
take the risk, it meant money and a lot of it.

Justin's
plans were secret. Only Jacob and his secretary, Mr. Richardson, knew the
details. And if he could keep the plan concealed, he'd have amassed just enough
to launch the rest of his plans.

He
caught sight of Christina in the distance as she turned onto the lane and he
watched her hesitancy once she saw that he had returned. Her picture looked
drawn from some sad fairy tale: she looked slight and forlorn and, God, ever so
beautiful, standing there all alone, staring off at the house with apprehension
and, no doubt, fear as well.

He
cursed softly under his breath.

Justin
heard the door open and shut quietly. He could not hear her footsteps, she
walked so quietly. But then there came a strange flip-flop sound, a shuffling.
He did not know she was tiptoeing in trepidation of disturbing him, hoping to
disappear in her room unnoticed—and the strong sound was the worn sole of her
only pair of shoes.

Christina
reached the top of the stairs when Rosarn called up to her. "The master!
He's home." Christina nodded at her and turned back up the stairs.
"He said to send you into the study as soon as you got back."

Christina
froze, then took a deep breath and descended the stairs. Rosarn watched from
below, noticing her hesitancy, the telling sole on her shoe that had ripped
apart. Lord, the poor lady had not even a decent pair of shoes. A real life
Asherella, just as Aggie said. Thankfully she had already taken the liberty of
talking to the master about it.

Christina
thanked Rosarn quietly and slipped through the study doors. Justin was waiting
for her. Her gaze swept up from the shiny black boots, the tailored black
breeches, and white silk shirt, a face that was still familiar and strange
both. She immediately perceived his disapproval. She wondered what she had done
now.

"Good
day," she ventured in a whisper, then awkwardly, stupidly, "I hope
all is well?"

"Yes,
all is well." He paused, moved in front of his large mahogany desk, and
leaned casually against it, folding his arms. "I see you made it here in
one piece," he first said, pointedly ignoring the social niceties.

She
nodded.

"I
also see you have managed to win the collective concern of the household. Rosarn
found it necessary to ask me if she might send for the dressmaker. She should
be here tomorrow."

She
looked up, startled.

"In
the future," he continued, "I'd ask you to manage your own affairs. I
don't want to be bothered with them."

Christina's
eyes quickly responded to his cruelty. Her gaze lowered to the floor. "A
dressmaker is not necessary," she whispered. "If I could just have a
roll of fabric, I could make my own dresses." She had done so her whole
life.

"I
think I can afford to clothe my own wife," he replied sarcastically. He
suddenly thought of Darrell's comment on her clothes—"imagine if you let
me dress her properly... she had them lined up all evening."
"Besides," he added, looking at her dress and suddenly angry,
"if that is the sorry result of your industriousness, it will be money
well spent."

Christina
jerked slightly as though slapped, and his punishment came as he watched her
desperate struggle not to cry.

She
wanted only to win her struggle but this the evidence of how much he hated her
could suppress tears for but a moment. Her lip trembled and she caught it. Then
she nodded quickly, stupidly, as though this ended the conversation, and turned
to leave.

"I'm
not through yet, Christina."

She
stopped but did not turn around.

He
was silently cursing himself, knowing that if their sham of a marriage was to
have any chance of working, he would have to control his baiting anger. Another
woman might snap back, rebuke him, throw a tantrum or something but not her.
Not the shyest, most gentle and feminine creature it was ever his mistake to
lose his heart to.

"As
soon as you have a proper wardrobe, I'll see to having you introduced to
society. It will mean a ball, I suppose, and God knows how many dining
invitations. Are you up to it?"

Still
with her back to him, she nodded.

"And,
Christina," he said in a different tone, "it will hardly do if you
fall into tears every time I talk to you. You must try to control that, as I
must try to temper my words."

She
nodded again and he said softly, "That's all." She quickly departed,
leaving him lastly with the sight of her torn shoe, flopping sorrowfully with
each quick step away.

Justin
fell into a chair. It was not going to work. Her very presence, every time he
looked at her, brought such an avalanche of unwanted emotion: pain and hurt and
anger, the anguish from her betrayal, and some, like his anger, he could barely
control. He, who never had trouble controlling anything, least of all himself.

How
could they possibly last?

He
would gladly give his entire fortune to erase the past, all of it, with the
exception of his son. For his son, he would bear it. Perhaps time would erode
his feelings, leaving him with blessed indifference to her.

He
could not imagine indifference to her, though, even coupled with time. Anything
and everything but indifference. For desire was the monster that raged with all
other feelings; for even when she stood before him in a tattered dress and
cloak, her hair tightly wrapped around her head like a matron's cap, dark
circles under those large gray eyes, he wanted her. Her beauty might have first
attracted him but love had carried him far past that point. She might be an old
woman wearing every blessed sign of sixty or more years and he'd still want
her. Other women he kept in his life hardly helped. If anything, they
exacerbated the problem by offering blatantly bare comparisons. And even if
time stole all other feeling for her, how could he feel indifference with such
intense desire?

The
only possibility was to separate as soon as Justin was old enough, arrange
visits between two households. Yes...

The
idea provided long-term hope and brought him some small relief but left the
immediate problem unanswerable. As he turned back to his work, he had to wonder
just how he could get through a single night, yet alone the long months.

* * * * *

Weeks
later, Christina lay on her stomach atop the huge overstuffed feather bed,
staring into the fire in the hearth. She tried to refrain from looking at the
open carved wood doors of her clothes closet where over twenty beautiful
dresses hung neatly in rows. The dresses had just arrived from the dressmaker
that day. Not only dresses but petticoats galore, chemises, corsets,
undergarments, and a smattering of frilly nightclothes. There were hats, gloves,
cloaks, and slippers, too. They were things, all of them things, and she wanted
nothing to do with them.

What
she wanted and desperately was a sketchbook. A simple sketchbook. Sketching was
the only way she knew to cope with loneliness. It had worked throughout the
long hours of childhood and she knew it would work now.

Little
Justin filled many hours, it was true, and her growing son brought the only joy
and happiness she felt. But a small child was hardly enough. Not only did she
loathe the idea of depending on her son for her happiness and well-being, but
there were long naps and other caretakers as well, Rosarn and Aggie and Justin
himself—those times he was home.

She
supposed the arrival of her clothes meant the onset of socializing. There would
be parties and balls and dinners and plenty of chances to meet friends. How she
would love a friend! Someone to talk to and confide in, someone with whom to
share things! Someone like Richard and Darrell, or like Hanna and Elsie had
been.

There
was little hope of making friends at any social function Justin arranged. Like
their household—with the noted exceptions of Chessy and Hope, Rosarn and
Aggie—the people would be polite but distant, turned away as soon as they
observed Justin's animosity toward her. And they would notice it, she knew, for
Justin could not even look at her without feeling disgust. She wondered how he
could bear presenting her as his wife.

Reluctantly,
she eyed the small fortune represented in the closet. Had it been hers to
trade, she would gladly trade the entire wardrobe for the few coins a single
sketchbook would cost. But they were not hers to trade, they were his and
bought for his purpose. She had not a penny of her own. She owned nothing but a
jeweled whistle and the ring left from an annulled marriage.

Her
ring...

She
looked at the small gold band on her finger. She slowly slipped it off, and
holding it up to the firelight, she smiled. Oh surely she could get a few coins
for it! Richard would not mind! He always knew how much her sketching meant to
her!

Justin
was not home and since he was not home, she saw no possible way she could ask
his permission. Now was the time! She bolted out of bed and threw on a robe and
slippers, then quietly slipped down the stairs. The house was dark, quiet, and
no one was still up, but she knew from Chessy that there would be a card game
going on in the servants' quarters. She would ask Chessy if she might join him
on his next trip to town.

The
servants' quarters were divided into two parts: colored and not, then upstairs
for women and downstairs for men. All those who had families lived in separate
houses on or near the property. She quickly made her way through the chilly
night air.

Everyone
pretended not to notice the oddity of their house mistress, dressed in
nightclothes and holding a lantern, knocking on the door to the colored
servants' quarters at the late hour. Everyone but Chessy. He swung open the
door and was just about to ask worriedly what was amiss when he noticed
something. She was happy; happiness was etched into her face and he wondered if
he had ever seen anything quite as pretty.

"Oh,
Chessy, good evening! I'm so glad you're still up."

"Mrs.
Phillips?" he inquired.

She
glanced behind him to the card table and whispered, "I was hoping I might
go with you on your next trip to town?"

"Oh...
well, sure thing... why?" he asked all at once.

"I've
not seen Boston except for once and there's something I want to purchase. When
are you leaving again

"On
the morrow."