Chapter Five
Lunch had been a gay and lively affair, and much to Wren’s relief, there had been no mention of her outrage at breakfast. In fact, it appeared as though Malcolm was winning her family over in his own quiet way. Sirena, at least, seemed to hold him in high regard, judging from the way she had directed her attention to him time and time again.
Sara had been totally captivated by Caleb’s stories of his adventures in the service of the Dutch East India Company, and Wren had to admit a twinge of resentment over Sara’s flirtation with him. But she really couldn’t blame her friend; Caleb was charming and extremely handsome. Then again, any envy she might have experienced had been assuaged by Caleb’s eyes constantly falling on her, and she hoped Malcolm had noticed Caleb’s attentiveness. It pleased her to think Malcolm might be jealous. Then she realized that Malcolm believed Caleb was her brother and had no grounds for jealousy. That belief was something Wren intended to correct at the first possible opportunity. Malcolm’s jealousy was an exciting thought, but first he had to know her true relationship with the van der Rhyses. Perhaps she could get him alone after dinner tonight. She was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to go for a drive with him, as she had promised, but the luncheon festivities had lingered far too long into the afternoon. Besides, a few minutes ago Sirena had invited her to go down to the wharves so that Caleb could show his family how he had careened the Sea Siren, and she had jumped at the chance. Even in Java, when Caleb had brought the Sea Siren into port on his infrequent visits, she had loved to see the warm glow in Sirena’s and Regan’s eyes whenever they inspected the vessel, and the way they touched each other when they thought no one was looking. The Sea Siren was the ship on which Sirena and Regan had first discovered their love for one another, and just the sight of her brought back tender memories for them.
Tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, Wren turned from the pier glass to face Sara. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to come along with us? I know Sirena and Regan wouldn’t mind.”
“No, you go along. I’ve a terrible headache,” Sara whimpered. She was lounging on the high bed.
“Shall I have someone bring you a headache powder or cool cloths?” Wren inquired, moving over to the bed to touch Sara’s head. “You do feel warm. Shall I have Camilla send for the doctor?” A note of concern rang in Wren’s voice, and worry narrowed her eyes. She had never known Sara to be ill.
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Sara assured her. “You go on and have a nice afternoon. Food just doesn’t seem to agree with me these days. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You do look a little green about the edges,” Wren teased. “Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”
Sara groaned and rolled over onto her stomach. “If you don’t get away from me with that scent you use, I’ll be sick all over the bed! Now go!”
After Wren had closed the door behind her, Sara tried to lie very still. What was wrong with her? She’d never been sick a day in her life. Lately she had had this queasy feeling every day before breakfast and sometimes after lunch. But she had always recovered before dinner. Through her misery she reasoned that the emotional upheaval of Malcolm’s rejection and the worry over her parents’ financial difficulties, not to mention those concerning her brother’s criticism of the King, were causing the butterflies in her stomach. And if those reasons weren’t enough, there was always the horror of facing her parents’ wrath when they arrived in London.
Sara awakened to a noisy commotion in the main hall below. Greetings wafted upward, and the sound of an autocratic, booming voice brought her fully alert. Her father! There was no other voice as forceful as Jason Stoneham’s, except, perhaps, that of his son, Bascom.
Sara’s blue eyes snapped open wide, and she quickly rose from the bed. Suddenly the room began to reel about her so violently that she had to sit down again. Her stomach rolled once more, and she dreaded the thought of going downstairs and facing her parents. She considered lying back on the bed and pretending to be asleep.
From the sound of Jason’s voice booming up the stairs, it seemed the decision was to be taken out of her hands. “Sara! Where are you! Answer me this minute!”
Then Margaret Stoneham’s lighter voice joined his. “Jason! Jason! You’ll wake the whole house! We were told the Baroness was napping! Jason!”
“Hush, Margaret! I intend to see my daughter immediately! Sara! Sara, where are you?”
“In here, Father,” Sara managed to choke as she braced herself for the confrontation. The door to her room banged open, and through the doorway stepped Jason Stoneham. For a moment Sara almost didn’t recognize him. Gone were the meticulously tailored clothes which gave such authority to his deep-chested, slightly portly figure, and in their place were the black frock coat and high-crested hat which had become the popular garb of those of the Puritan sect. Stoneham had even chosen to relinquish the broad white collar that at least offered relief to the somber costume. He removed his hat, placed it carefully on a chair and then came to stand wordlessly in front of his daughter, his hands planted firmly on his hips and a cold glare in his eyes.
“How do you do, Father?” Sara managed to speak. “Well, I trust?”
“Well enough for a man who’s learned his own daughter is little less than a trollop!” he boomed at Sara’s cowering figure. “How could you shame me this way? I’ve just come from the academy, where I heard for myself your implication in one of the tawdriest affairs I’ve ever been told of. The headmistress apprised me of the entire situation, and I’ve never been so ashamed in my life. To think that a child of mine would involve herself in a—in a—tryst! I can only wonder how long it would have been before you had this van der Rhys girl standing watch while you slipped away in the dark with some simple-minded idiot who had nothing but lust on his mind!”
“Malcolm is not a simple-minded idiot!” Sara shouted, the words out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. “I—I mean, I did what I did to help a friend. Wren is going to marry Mr. Weatherly, so you see there was nothing evil about it.”
Jason was astounded by her outburst. Neither she nor his wife had ever spoken to him that way. “See here, daughter, remember to whom you are talking—”
“Sara! Sara!” A breathless Margaret Stoneham rushed into the room, still holding her skirts above her ankles from the climb up the stairs.
“Mother! What have you done to yourself!” Sara’s mouth dropped open. Margaret Stoneham had always prided herself on her fashionable dress and carefully coiffed hair. Now she looked like an old woman. Her hair was pulled back from her face, revealing streaks of gray beneath the brim of her white cap. The silks and satins she had always worn had been traded for a coarse gown of the deepest black that was relieved only by a white collar and cuffs.
“She has done nothing more than uplift her spirit to the Lord by leaving foolish trappings behind and dedicating her life to Him,” Jason expounded. “Something you could have done rather than involving yourself in a scandal, young woman. Well, all that will be behind you when you adopt the dress of our sect. Fripperies are the devil’s work, turning young people’s heads away from the true Word.”
Sara shook her head in disbelief. Her parents had followed the Puritan doctrines for years now, but they had never carried them to extremes. Only Bascom, with his wild eyes and unhealthy gauntness, had worn the somber black costume. “When did all this come about? Surely you haven’t gone to such lengths because of what I did at school!”
“Certainly not. Your mother and I have been shown the true path to our eternal rewards. Our dress signifies that we are devoting our lives to the Redeemer.”
“You mean ever since you’ve been condemned by the Crown for upholding Bascom’s preachings and because you’re close to financial ruin, you can’t afford to wear anything else!” Sara stormed hotly, defying her father’s masterful gaze. “Mother, where are your lovely clothes, and what have you done to your hair?”
A wistful expression passed over Margaret’s face, but when she realized she was under her husband’s angry scrutiny, she blanched and said soothingly, “Come, now, Sara, it’s not so bad. It’s the way to salvation, you know. You’ll soon get used to wearing our dress. If nothing else, it solves the problem of what to wear each day.”
“I’ll soon get—No! Never! I’ll never go about looking like a black crow! Not when I’ve a clothespress full of silks and satins. I’ve worshipped with you and Father, I’ve listened to Bascom’s preachings, but I will never wear that—that—that!” She pointed at her mother’s gown and shuddered.
“You will do as I say, daughter. Margaret, have that servant girl bring up the satchel you packed for Sara. And have a footman sent to remove her things from the clothespress. My daughter will believe as I do, and her behavior will be in keeping with the sister of the leader of our congregation.”
“I refuse, Father. I won’t wear that nun’s habit! I’d sooner go about naked than look like—”
Jason interrupted his daughter’s blasphemy with a smart slap on her cheek.
Shocked, Sara gasped and held her hand to her face, too outraged even to cry.
“You will do as I say, Sara,” Jason intoned threateningly as he loomed above her. “I have accepted the Baron’s hospitality under the condition that I won’t have you spend another night in the same apartment with that hellion Wren van der Rhys. You will move your belongings immediately, and they will be few, to your mother’s room, where we can keep a watch over you.”
Sara gulped back the tears which were choking her. Helplessly she watched her mother open the satchel containing a plain black gown and stiff muslin petticoats.
When Wren returned from the wharf with Regan, Sirena and Caleb, she bounded up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Sara. She wanted to change into something especially beautiful for dinner tonight; then perhaps Malcolm would look at her the way Regan had looked at Sirena aboard the Sea Siren. Their past was so romantic, so adventurous, so passionate. Somehow she could imagine Caleb looking at a woman the way his father looked at Sirena, with such love and smoldering hunger, but she couldn’t imagine Malcolm doing the same. Maybe she had been foolish to insist that they wait until they were married before consummating their love. Chills danced up Wren’s spine when she thought of Malcolm’s ardent lovemaking and his protests when she begged him to stop.
“Sara, Sara,” she called excitedly as she threw open the door to their sitting room, only to find the upstairs maid in place of Sara.
“Miss Sara’s down the hall in Mrs. Stoneham’s room,” the woman explained.
“Oh, has she already dressed for dinner?” Wren asked, disappointed that she would have to wait until later to tell Sara about her afternoon.
“You might say she’s as ready as she’ll ever be,” the maid answered mysteriously. “Miss Sara will be staying in the same room with her mother,” she added.
“With her mother? Won’t that be crowding it a little?” Wren’s curiosity was piqued. Then she remembered that Sara hadn’t been feeling well earlier. “I suppose Mrs. Stoneham wants Sara close by in case she becomes unwell again. Now, do you think you can prepare a bath for me? I’ve only an hour to dress for dinner. While I’m bathing, you can press my magenta satin gown. I want to look especially nice tonight.”
Everyone was gathered in the drawing room, waiting for dinner to be announced. Everyone but Sara. Wren was concerned for her friend and wanted to ask the Stonehams if Sara was feeling better, but Mr. Stoneham kept throwing her such black looks that she lost her nerve. After the introductions had been made, Wren tried to explain Sara’s innocence to the Stonehams, but she was quickly silenced by a scathing look and a curt remark. Caleb came to her rescue and led her to the far side of the room to tell her something about the natives of Brazil, where he had taken his last shipment.
Even Malcolm seemed to fall under Jason Stoneham’s loathing, and if Sirena hadn’t gone to his rescue, there was no telling how fierce Jason might have become. Only Camilla seemed happily oblivious to the turmoil about her.
Suddenly Sara was standing in the doorway, her eyes downcast and red-rimmed from crying. Wren gasped in spite of herself when she saw what Sara was wearing. The funereal black contrasted dramatically with her skin, making it appear ghostly. Her silky, white-blond hair was drawn into a severe knot at the back of her head, and a white cap perched on top of her head.
Everyone in the room was stunned into silence. Jason stepped over to his daughter and took her arm. “How lovely you are, Sara. So pure and chaste.”
Sara could not answer; she kept her eyes downcast, unable to face anyone. She wished Malcolm were not there to see her this way, and when she finally mustered the courage to look at him, all she could see in his eyes was blatant disapproval.
Wren sympathized with her friend. No one, nothing, could ever persuade her to dress herself like a Puritan if she lived to be one hundred.
Sara tiptoed out of her mother’s room and closed the door on Margaret’s light snores. Hastily buttoning her hated black Puritan’s gown over her nightdress, she listened for a moment before moving toward the back stairs, which led down to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was the Stonehams’ habit to retire early, and after a rather long session of Jason Stoneham’s praying for his daughter’s salvation, they had finally settled down for the night.
Jason had held true to his word and had all of Sara’s clothes removed. Even her dressing gowns were considered devil’s attire and had been taken from her. Now all she had to wear over her nightgown was the black dress.
She brushed her long, silky hair off her face and prayed that Malcolm had not left yet. She prayed even more fervently that her mother would not awaken and alert her father that their daughter was missing. From the front of the house she could hear good-byes being said. Caleb was leaving, and Camilla was complaining to Tyler that she was really quite weary. After a few moments, when she felt it was safe, Sara stole through the back door, into the kitchen garden and over to where the carriages were parked. The last one in line was Malcolm’s hired phaeton, the driver fast asleep on his perch. Silently she pried open the door and climbed in. She didn’t release her breath until she was safely hidden on the floor between the seats.
After what seemed an eternity, she felt a stirring atop the phaeton when the driver snapped to attention at Malcolm’s approach. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would explode through her breast. At least she would be alone with Malcolm. Within her stirred the faint hope that he would take pity on her and whisk her away. She didn’t know how she could face life without being near him, seeing him, hearing his gentle laugh and waiting for the occasional touch of his hand.
The darkness of her gown concealed her in the shadows, and she waited until Malcolm had entered the coach and the driver had pulled away before she revealed her presence. “Malcolm, Malcolm. . .”
He turned his head, his blue-black hair shining in the moonlight. “Sara . . . ! What are you doing here?” he asked, incredulous at her boldness. “What if your father should find out? A fine mess it would be for me to explain to the van der Rhyses why you’re with me!”
“Malcolm, Malcolm, please. I had to see you. It may be for the last time! My parents are taking me away somewhere, and they won’t tell me where. Malcolm, please,” she begged, crawling forward on her knees and placing her hand on his arm.
“Can’t you see I’m done with you, Sara? Why won’t you leave me be? I’ll never understand your sordid attachment to Wren when you knew I had asked her to marry me . . .”
Sara rose and sat beside him. His eyes flashed with fury and she silenced him with her lips. He tried to pull himself away from her, to release her arms from about his neck, but she pressed closer, burdening him with her slender body.
Suddenly his struggles ceased and his lips were clinging to hers. “Sara, Sara, you little fool,” he whispered, drawing her closer and burying his face between her breasts. Her flesh tingled where his fingers touched her, and her lips sought his again and again.
The buttons of her gown were quickly undone, and with the ease of familiarity, Malcolm pulled the black garment over her head, leaving Sara in her thin nightdress. The phaeton rocked through the streets, the driver oblivious to what was occurring in the cab beneath him. Sara’s hair veiled her nakedness as Malcolm pulled the nightdress down over her shoulders and bared her firm, round breasts. She shivered with uncontrollable desire as her arms closed about him, bringing him down on top of her, relishing the feel of his lithe body pressed against hers.
He whispered her name over and over, filling her with a delight she had never known before. This was Malcolm kissing her, caressing her, penetrating her very soul. This was her love.
His mouth grazed her flesh with a practiced art, his fingers tantalized her skin, his breath was hot upon her cheek and she could feel his muscular back beneath her hands. Surging yearnings locked them together as they rode the dizzy heights and approached the crest. Sara cried out, “Love me, Malcolm, love me!”
She never wanted to leave his embrace. Her heart sang with joy as she rested against him, their passions abated.
“Sara, you must get dressed now. I must get you back to the Baron’s home before your absence is discovered.”
“No, Malcolm, don’t make me go back there. I love you! I know you love me!” she implored, tears spilling from her eyes.
“Don’t cry!” Malcolm admonished. “Why must you always cry?”
“How can you be so cruel? I’ve given myself to you, Malcolm, and you took whatever I had to offer. How can you think of casting me away like trash?” she sniffed.
“Trash is trash, Sara. When something is no longer needed, it becomes either treasure or trash. You, my passionate little Puritan, are no treasure.” Malcolm smiled, his lips drawn into a sneer. “This is the last I’ll see of you, Sara, unless, of course, you attend my wedding. But perhaps your father will have something to say about that. He seems to consider Wren a bad influence on you.” Malcolm laughed aloud, the sound so derisive to Sara that she clamped her hands over her ears to block it out.
The phaeton took the return trip to the Sinclair home while Sara begged and argued and pleaded with Malcolm. But in the end she was left standing at the edge of the drive, near the stables, reluctant to go upstairs for fear her racking sobs would awaken her parents.