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 danced 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.