Shanna

  “Have ye had enough of thither and yondering, daughter, or have you set your heart upon a husband?”

  His brawny hand lay firm upon his stout knee, and it was there Shanna placed her own so the plain gold band on her finger was ready to the eye.

  “You may call me Madam Beauchamp, papa, if not by my given name.” Her eyelids fluttered downward, and she ventured a peep at him from their corners. “But alas,” she let sadness creep into her voice, “there is also something I must tell you that is most distressing.”

  Shanna felt strange in her tale, for his eyes, the same shade as her own, turned in silent question to her. Unable to meet them, she averted her face. Tears came, though much in part from shame at her deceit.

  “A man I met, most gallant, most handsome—we wed.” She swallowed hard as the lie grew more bitter on her tongue. “After one brief night of bliss,” —she dissolved in grief for a moment and then forced herself to continue—“he stepped from our carriage and turned his foot upon a stone. Before the surgeons could do aught, he died.”

  Orlan Trahern slammed his staff against the floor of the barouche with an unworded curse.

  “Oh, papa,” Shanna sobbed tearfully. “I was so late a beloved bride and so soon a widow.”

  With a snort Trahern turned from her and sat quietly staring off into the distance, deep in thought. The well traveled road passed between thick groves of palms and stretched into the sunlight again. The daughter quieted her weeping and, for the most part holding her peace, gave only an occasional sniffle until they reached the sprawling white mansion. Riotous colors flooded the lawn as poincianas unfolded their scarlet blooms, and clusters of fuchsia frangipani graced the air with sweet scent. The neatly clipped lawn spread as far as the eye could see, broken at regular intervals by the great trunks of towering trees that spread thick foliage high at their tops. Only rare shafts of sunlight pierced the crowns, dappling the wide porticos that stretched endlessly along the front and wings of the mansion. Covered archways of white-washed brick shaded the raised veranda bordering the house on the main floor, while on the second story ornate wooden posts lined the long porch with sections of lattice-work, lending privacy to the separate chambers. The mansion was weighted down by a steep-pitched roof bedecked with dormers. French doors were an easy access to the porches from most any room in the great house, and the small, square panes of crystal within the doors sparkled with the mottled light, showing the care and attention of many servants.

  Trahern sat silent, unmoving as the barouche halted, and Shanna glanced at him with a certain amount of trepidation, not willing to break his mood. She made her own way from the carriage and up the wide steps to the broad veranda, there pausing uncertainly to glance back. Her father sat still, but his head turned and he stared at her, his brow heavily furrowed in thought. Laboriously he rose, stepped down, then slowly climbed the stairs as if his cane were leading him by the hand. Shanna went ahead to the front door and opened it, waiting for him. Several paces away he stopped and peered at her again. The wonderment left his face and slowly was replaced by rage. Suddenly he raised the stick high over his head and threw it flat upon the porch.

  “Dammit, girl!”

  The door slammed shut as Shanna’s hand flew to her throat, and she shrank away from him, eyes wide with fear.

  “Do you take so little care of your men?” he roared. “I would have at least seen the lad!” In a slightly lower tone he inquired, “Could you not keep him alive ‘til you got with babe?”

  In some awe of her father, Shanna replied softly. “There is still that chance, papa. We did spend our wedding night—together. ‘Twas only a week before we sailed, and I know not—”

  She blushed slightly at the lie, for she was as certain now as a woman could be that she bore no seed of Ruark’s in her belly.

  “Bah!” Trahern snorted and stomped past her, leaving his cane where it lay and letting the door slam again behind him.

  Meekly Shanna retrieved the stick and followed her father into the house. She paused a moment in the entrance hall as all the memories of her years in the manor came flooding back with a rush. She could almost imagine herself a child again, squealing with excitement as she raced down the staircase that seemed to curve around on itself and encircle the long, crystal chandelier suspended from the lofty ceiling. The shimmering prisms that set the hall aglow with myriad dancing rainbows had always been a source of fascination for her. And she could well remember scooting on all fours upon the marble floor as she searched around the large and lavish ever present ferns and greenery that bedecked the room for the small, darting kitten Pitney had given her, or when she stared up in awe at the portrait of her mother which hung near the drawing room door, or squirmed with girlish impatience upon the large carved chest which sat below it while she waited for her father to return from a tour of his fields.

  Now as a woman Shanna saw the bleached woodwork of the balustrade and the carved panels of the French doors, which led to other rooms off the entranceway gleaming with touches of gilt. Here and throughout the house, furniture of the French Régence style was in abundance. Rich Aubusson carpets, rugs from Persia, laquers, jade and ivory from the Orient, marbles from Italy, and other treasured pieces from around the world tastefully embellished the rooms.

  Long hallways jutted in opposite directions from the spacious foyer, leading into the wings. To the left were her father’s large chambers including the library and study where he worked, a sitting room, his bedchamber, and a room in which he bathed and dressed with the assistance of a valet.

  Shanna’s own chambers were up the curving stairs and to the right, well away from the squire’s quarters. There, before gaining the sleeping chamber, one had to pass through her sitting room, where walls of soft cream moire complemented the subtle hues of brown, mauve, and vibrant turquoise of the chairs and settee. A luxurious Aubusson carpet combined all the colors in an ornate pattern. Rich mauve silk covered the walls of her bedroom. On the floor was spread a carpet of brown and mauve. A pale pink silk canopy hung from the large tester bed, while a brown watered silk chaise waited to be reclined upon.

  The memories dissipated as her father glared back over his shoulder at her. Grumbling beneath his breath, he turned back and bellowed up the stairs, setting the crystal chandelier gently atremble above the foyer.

  “Berta!”

  The answer was immediate. “Yah! Yah! I come!”

  The housekeeper’s light clogs beat a rapid tattoo on the circular stairway, betraying her haste. She came in view, breathless and rosy-cheeked. The Dutch woman barely topped Shanna’s shoulder and was plump and round with a fair complexion. She never seemed to move at less than a trot, and her feather duster was always tucked into her long apron’s pocket. It was mainly through her efforts and her charge over the servants that the mansion was kept spotlessly clean.

  Berta paused a long pace from Shanna, staring at her in awed wonder. After Georgiana’s death the housekeeper had taken over in her firm Dutch manner and had on more than one occasion watched tearfully from the door as her protégée departed for Europe. Though it had only been a year, the girl had still been much of a child when she had left home, but now she stood regal, self-assured, poised—a graceful young woman of stunning beauty. Thus it was that the old servant was not quite sure how to approach her. It was Shanna who solved the dilemma. She flung her arms wide, and in the next second the two were clasped together, sharing tears of joy as kisses were exchanged and cheeks were pressed lovingly together. Finally Berta stood away.

  “Ah, m’poor babe. Have ya finally come home to stay?” Not waiting for an answer, Berta rushed on. “Yah, dat fool Trahern, he send away his own daughter. Is like cutting da nose from his face. And he leave dat boob Pitney to take care of a young girl. Dat big ox, ha!”

  Trahern chafed at her prodding and roared for Milan to fetch him a rum and bitters as he felt himself in need of a strong libation. Berta clucked her tongue at him, and her wide blue eyes dance
d in merriment as she turned them back to the young woman.

  “Let me look at ya now. Yah, I’d lay a guilder ya’ve done da best of dem all. Ya be lovely, darling, and I missed ye so, I have.”

  “Oh, Berta!” Shanna exclaimed ecstatically. “I’m so happy to be home!”

  Jason, the doorman, came from the back, and at the sight of Shanna his black face lit up with pleasure.

  “Why, Mistress Shanna!” He rushed forward and took her extended hands, his clipped, well-schooled voice surprising her as it always did. “Lord, child, you add the sun to the sky with your return. Your father has been most anxious to see you.”

  A loud clearing of the throat gave evidence that Trahern was still in earshot, but Shanna giggled happily. She was home at last, and nothing could hinder her joy.

  The need for warehouses was not critical in the pleasant climate, and the buildings that crowded the dock area were for the most part only roofs standing on wooden piles. It was beneath one of these, in the cool shade it offered, that John Ruark and his companions squatted. Their beards had been shaved away and their hair cropped close. After being issued strong lye soap, they were led to the forecastle and hosed down beneath the ship’s pumps. Some of the men had cried out as the caustic soap found raw spots, but John Ruark had enjoyed the bath. Nearly a full month he had lain in his small cubicle with only an occasional exercise on the gun deck to ease and stretch cramped muscles. The fare on the voyage had been ample, but he had begun to despair that there was nothing left in the world to eat but salt beef, beans, and biscuits washed down with brackish water.

  John Ruark smiled slowly at his thoughts and rubbed his hand down the nape of his neck, familiarizing himself with the shortness of his black hair. He was garbed like the others in new duck trousers and sandals for his feet. The clothes were all of one size and uniformly large for him and his eight cohorts. Along with the items given him were a broad-brimmed straw hat, a loose white shirt, and a small canvas bag. This last had remained empty until they were taken to the Trahern store and given a razor, mug and brush, a small wooden-handled penknife, two more issues of clothing, and several towels as well as a supply of strong soap and an admonition to use it.

  When the fitful breeze waned, the heat was intense beneath the board roof. A single overseer watched them, and it would have been a simple act to escape. But John Ruark surmised there would be little effort wasted in search or pursuit, for it would only be a matter of time before any man would have to come out of the jungle. There was nowhere else to run.

  His eyes took in his surroundings as he plucked idly at the loose knee of his canvas breeches. They waited for Squire Trahern; they had been informed it was his habit to inspect and lecture all new arrivals. Ruark was eager to get a look at the fabled “Lord” Trahern and squatted patiently with the others but kept carefully to the end of the line. He was still alive and in the one place in the world he cared to be, that being the place currently occupied by Shanna Trahern. Or would she more properly call herself Shanna Beauchamp? He chuckled to himself. She had gained his name while he, in the same course of events, had lost it; and that would be another matter to settle.

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the open barouche that had borne Shanna away from the docks. The tall, thin man called Ralston was the first to dismount and struggling down next came the man Ruark had seen greeting Shanna earlier. He assumed this was the dreaded Squire Trahern.

  Ruark watched with interest as the man drew near. The squire’s manner was that of authority. He was large and portly, and there was an aura of power about him. Contrasting oddly with the dark woolens of his lean companion, he was dressed in neat white hose and gold-buckled, black leather shoes. His breeches were spotless white linen, serviceable but light and cool. His long waistcoat was of the same cloth and white like the shirt; ruffles and fancy stitchery were noticeably absent. An immense, wide-brimmed, low-crowned, finely woven straw hat shaded his face; he carried in his hands a tall, well-worn blackthorn walking stick as if it were his badge of office.

  The two men came toward the shed and after saluting them, the overseer ordered his charges to stand and form a line. The squire took a packet from Ralston and unfolded a paper from it, studying it for a moment before stepping to the man at the beginning of the line.

  “Your name?” he asked bluntly.

  The bondsman replied in a mumble, and his new master made a check mark on his tablet and proceeded to carefully inspect his purchase. He felt the man’s arm, gauging the muscle in it, and studied the hands for signs of toil.

  “Open your mouth,” Trahern commanded. “Let’s see your teeth.”

  The man obeyed, and the squire shook his head almost sadly and made several notes in his log. Proceeding to the next man, he repeated the ritual. After the third bondsman, he faced Ralston.

  “Dammit, man!” Trahern swore. “ ‘Tis a beggardly lot you’ve brought me. Were these the best you could find?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Ralston chafed beneath the other’s scowl. “These were all I could get for love or money. Perhaps the choice will be better in the spring if the winter is hard enough.”

  “Bah!” Trahern snorted. “A dear price, indeed, and all from the debtor’s block.”

  Ruark’s brows lifted slightly as he took note of the man’s reply. So, the squire wasn’t aware he had purchased a felon bound for the gallows. Ruark considered this a moment and what effect it might have on him. He glanced up to catch Ralston’s frown directed toward him. Aye, ‘twas Mister Ralston’s doing, Ruark deduced, and if he had no wish to return to London to see his own hanging done, he’d best play the game.

  After a close scrutiny of the eighth man, Trahern moved to Ruark, and there he came to an abrupt halt. His eyes narrowed keenly as he surveyed the last of his lot. The bondsman’s amber eyes revealed more than an average level of intelligence, and the smile that played about his lips was strangely disquieting. Noticeably different from the rest, this one was lean and muscular with wide shoulders and strong arms, a straight back, and the unbowed legs of a young man. There was no flab on him, and the flat, hard belly bore no hint of a paunch. It was rare that such a fine young buck would be found on the debtor’s auction block.

  Trahern consulted his list, finding one name left.

  “You would be John Ruark,” he stated rather than asked and was surprised at the rush of words he stirred from the fellow.

  “Aye, sir.” Ruark affected a slight brogue to disguise his origin. Too many of the islanders were touchy about the mainland colonies. “And I can read, write, and cipher.”

  Trahern cocked his head as if listening to every word.

  “My back is strong and my teeth are sound.” Ruark drew back his lips, displaying the gleaming whiteness for a moment. “I can pull my weight, given a good meal of course, and I hope I shall prove worthy of all your family has invested in me.”

  “My wife is dead. I have only a daughter,” Trahern murmured absently and then silently rebuked himself for chatting with the man. “But you are a colonial, from New York or Boston I would guess. How did you come to be on the sale block?”

  Ruark drew a sharp breath and stroked his chin. “A slight misunderstanding with several redcoats. The magistrate was not in the least considerate and believed them over me.”

  It was not completely untrue. He had not taken kindly to being rudely dragged from a sound sleep, and he had reacted instinctively, breaking the captain’s jaw as he found out later.

  Trahern nodded slowly and seemed to accept the tale until he spoke. “You are a man of some wisdom, and I think there is much more to your story, but,” he shrugged, “that day will out. I care little for what you were, only for what you are.”

  The bondslave, John Ruark, quietly considered his master, having already realized that he would have to tread lightly when dealing with him, for the man was as sharp-witted as it had been rumored. Still, the truth had a way of coming out, and since he could think of no words worth
y of his effort, Ruark held his tongue.

  Leaving him, Trahern went to stand before the line of men, bracing his legs wide and resting his hands on the knob of his walking stick. Slowly he studied them.

  “This is Los Camellos,” he began. “Named by a Spaniard but deeded to me. I am lord mayor, sheriff, and justice here. You have been bonded to me for debts unpaid. You will be apprised of your debt and its progress upon request to my bookkeeper. You will be paid for Sundays and holidays, but sickness and otherwise are your own account. Your wage will be sixpence a day for each day that you work. On the first of each month you will receive for each day you have worked, tuppence for your needs; tuppence to go against your debt, and tuppence which will be repaid for your keep. If you work hard and advance yourselves, you will receive more and may adjust the payments as you see fit.” Pausing, he looked hard at Ruark. “I expect some of you will pay out your debts in as little as five or six years. You may then work for passage back to England or wherever you would go, or you may, if you wish, settle here. You have been given the wherewithal to keep yourselves clothed and clean. Tend your clothes carefully, for whatever else you get you will have to pay for. ‘Twill be some time before you have any money and then precious little.”

  Trahern ceased and held his silence until he had their complete and undivided attention.

  “There are two ways to get into serious trouble here. The first is to abuse or steal anything of mine, and most everything here is mine. The second is to upset or annoy any of the people already here. Do you have any questions?”

  He waited but there were no volunteers. The squire relaxed his stance and stood more at ease.

  “You will be given three days of light chores to recover from the voyage. After that you will be expected to spend the daylight hours in productive labor. You will begin your toil the day after Christmas. Good day to you all.”

  Without a further glance he mounted to his carriage, leaving Ralston to see to them. The gaunt man stepped before them as the barouche departed. Slapping the palm of his gloved hand with the ever-present quirt, he began to speak.