Chapter Seventeen
Deborah studied her reflection in the floor-length mirror she'd borrowed from Lady Celia's bedchamber. Two candles burned on the table next to her bed, casting bright fingers of light across the plastered walls. She brushed her hand over the flat muscles of her bare stomach.
"Funny," she said aloud. "But I don't look pregnant."
The initial shock of the revelation had turned to awe in the last two days. She was amazed that a babe could be growing inside her . . . Tshingee's son or daughter.
Her first impulse, when she had realized she was with child, was to run to Tshingee and tell him her wonderful news. Once his wounds had healed sufficiently for him to ride, Deborah had taken him to a vacant outbuilding on the far side of her father's land. The wooden structure had once been used to store bales of tobacco, but after a fire it had never been repaired. There she knew he would be safe and comfortable until he was strong enough to leave. He'd been there for nearly two weeks already.
Deborah had gone so far as to sneak out of the house, saddle her horse, and travel to the barn in broad daylight to tell Tshingee about the baby. But when she'd reached him, she couldn't bring herself to tell him. It would only make things more complicated.
Pregnant or not, John's life still depended on Deborah remaining at Host's Wealth. If Tshingee took her with him now, John would most certainly die. Deborah just didn't see any sense in making her inevitable parting with Tshingee more difficult. It would be better for both of them if he never knew of the child she carried.
Throwing herself onto her bed, Deborah buried her face in her hands. "So what am I going to do now?" she asked the empty room. "I can't have a baby here!"
Her father's words came back to haunt her in a rush of frightening reality. "I'll have no redskinned bastard for a grandchild!" he had shouted. "You spawn before your due time and that satan's child will never see the light of day!"
Tears sprang in Deborah's eyes and she wiped at them with the back of her hand. The plan was simple enough. She had to get out of this house and out soon—somewhere safe. Deborah rolled onto her back, staring at the plastered ceiling. I've got to get out of here before I begin to show. Calculating on her fingers, she realized she'd gotten pregnant on the trip back to Host's Wealth. Before then she had been taking the Lenni Lenape's birthing powders and her courses had come regularly.
She stroked her stomach. The obvious immediate solution was Thomas. The fact that she had refused to marry him and he'd agreed to release her from the contract was only a minor obstacle. If she married him at Christmas—only a week from now—she would be out of her father's house and within the safety of Tom's. If she married him right away, the babe could be passed off as premature. With her own dark hair and suntanned complexion, who would notice if the child's skin was a little dark? The thought of marrying Thomas, of lying with him, made her shudder, but to save her child, she would do anything. It was the only way.
Relief flooded Deborah as she leaned and blew out the candles. She wouldn't allow herself to think of Tshingee or how this would end any possibility of her going with him. It was all too painful. Tonight she would sleep peacefully and tomorrow she would see to Thomas and the wedding.
The following morning Deborah dressed with care in a low-cut woolen gown of forest green with red piping. She brushed her hair until it shone and pulled part of it back off the crown of her head to tie in a ribbon. Adding a string of pearls that had been her mother's and pinching her cheeks, she went downstairs for the morning meal.
"Deborah!" Lady Celia exclaimed, rising out of her chair. "This is certainly a change from the sleeping wrap you've been wearing. You look lovely."
The Earl glanced up from his plate of fried ham and sweet potatoes. "Decided to be sensible, have you?"
Elizabeth and the other younger girls kept their eyes on their plates, remaining silent. James gulped his cider nosily, watching with interest as his sister took her seat near the end of the dining table.
Deborah lowered her gaze subordinately. "If it would please you, sir, I'd like James to escort me to Deliverance this morning." Her heart pounded in her ears.
Betrayal! her mind protested. You betray the man you love! "I . . . I have to speak to Tom."
"So you've finally seen the ill of your ways? I told you a few weeks in you chamber would change your outlook on your situation." The Earl stuffed a fork full of dripping ham into his mouth. "Of course you've made such a mess of things, I'm not sure they can be salvaged."
"I can fix them. I'll tell Tom I've changed my mind and that I want to marry him. I'll apologize for my behavior. It was just the strain of it all; I didn't know what I was saying." She repeated the words she'd rehearsed before she came downstairs. "I . . . I want to be Tom's wife."
Elizabeth gave a muffled squeak and pushed out of her chair, running from the room. The Earl glanced at his retreating daughter and back at Lady Celia. "What ails her?"
Lady Celia dabbed her lips with her linen napkin. "I assure you, I don't know, sir. Woman's complaints, I should think."
James giggled, reaching across the table for a muffin. "I don't know how we stand it, Father, living among so many females." He buttered the muffin and crammed it into his mouth. Crumbs fell out of his mouth and onto the linen table cloth as he continued to speak. "I had other plans this morning. I'm not certain I have time to ride about with Deborah."
The Earl scraped his plate with his fork. "I'd like to have this settled, James. As a favor to me, would you take her? I've better things to concern myself with than this matter. The sooner Thomas and Deborah are married, the sooner we can begin work on the prize houses."
"Very well." James pushed back from the table, crumbs falling to the floor and onto the chair. "But she'll have to hurry. The dance master will be here at noon. I'd hate to miss my lesson after he's come all this way."
Deborah hung her head. "I'll be ready in five minutes," she said quietly.
"This is certainly quite the surprise." Thomas leaned against the doorway of his mother's parlor.
Deborah rose from her chair and walked toward him, forcing a smile. "I was afraid I might not still be welcome after the way I behaved."
To his surprise, she kissed his cheek. A genuine smile rose on his face. "You look beautiful today, Deborah. Like your old self." He took her hand, leading her to an upholstered settle.
"Tom." She rested her arm on his coat sleeve, fixing her lips in an enticing pout. "I've come to ask your forgiveness. I've said things I didn't mean, things—"
He shook his head. "Don't," he interrupted. "You don't have to do this."
"But I've treated you terribly and I want to say I'm sorry." She looked away. This was harder than she'd thought it was going to be. How had she played all those silly games for so many years?
"You've been through such a abhorrent ordeal. I was wrong to be so harsh. I expected too much of you. I think we all did, the Earl included." The scent of Deborah's soft skin taunted his senses. He leaned closer.
"It's no excuse for speaking to you the way I did. I shouldn't have said those terrible things. You must know I didn't mean it, not any of it!" Liar! a voice accused from within herself. Liar! You meant every word!
"I know you didn't." Tom draped his arm over her shoulder, and feeling bold, he brushed his lips against her cheek.
The bile rose in Deborah's throat as she allowed him to draw her closer. The sensation of his mouth on the soft flesh of her neck disgusted her, but she didn't push him away. Her child's life was at stake and Thomas was the only person who could save it. "Tom." She brushed a hand through his thinning hair. He smelled of shaving soap and ink, nothing like the clean fresh scent of Tshingee.
"Deborah," Tom murmured. He closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to hers.
She let him linger for just a moment and then pushed her hands on his chest lightly. The air in the parlor was hot and stifling. For a moment Deborah was so dizzy she thought she would faint, but she pressed on. This was only her chance.
"Tom. What I said about your father, about mine . . ."
"You were right, Deborah, my father holds too tight a control over me." He rubbed the bare flesh of her arm, nuzzling her neck.
"No. You were right and I was wrong."
"I was?" His wet, slack lips touched hers.
"It's only because your father cares for you. He . . . he wants you to marry properly so that Deliverance will be well taken care of. So you will be taken care of properly." She leaned back, trying to edge away, but Thomas only pressed her deeper into the settle. "Tom! Are you listening to me?" It was all she could do to keep from wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"I'm listening, dearest." He tried to fondle her breast but she pushed his hand aside.
"Tom, what I'm trying to tell you is that I want to marry you," she declared in a rush of words. "I . . . I mean I want you to reconsider."
"Reconsider? Oh, Deborah. I've wanted to touch you like this for so long . . ."
"Tom." She took a deep breath, fighting the nausea he evoked. Her hand slid to her flat stomach and her resolve was strengthened. Tom could be manipulated. She could do it, she'd done it before. "Tom. We mustn't do this. Not here, someone will see us. My brother's just in the kitchen. What if one of the servants were to come by?"
"Oh, God, Deborah, I want you so badly . . ." He ran his fingers along the piping of the bodice of her gown. His breath was becoming ragged; his face was flushed.
"Tom," she whispered in his ear. "If you marry me, I'll be yours."
"Yes," he moaned, pressing his lips to her neck.
Striking at her advantage, she pressed on. "If you marry me, you can take me to your bed as your wife." He buried his face between the mounds of her breasts that peeked from the bodice of her woolen gown. "Yes" . . . His face was damp with perspiration, his breath hot and wet. "Oh my, yes."
"If you marry me, I'll be yours forever." Deborah's own words echoed in her mind like a death sentence.
"Yes. When?" he begged breathlessly. "Just say when."
Unable to stand Thomas's mauling another instant, Deborah leaped up. "Before this gets out of hand."
Suddenly made aware of his inexcusable behavior, he pulled his handkerchief from his coat and wiped his mouth. "Yes, I think that's wise," he said, coming to his feet.
"You have to tell your father and the Earl that you've reconsidered. That we've settled our differences and we want to be married immediately." She took the handkerchief from him and gently wiped his brow.
Thomas's eyes drifted shut. "Immediately."
"On Christmas day as planned."
His eyes flew open. "Why that's only a week away. The bans have to be read, invitations have to be sent . . ."
She folded his handkerchief and tucked it into his coat. "There are ways around the bans," she murmured in his ear.
"I guess there are, aren't there?"
She nodded. "If you truly want me . . ."
"Oh, Deborah, of course I do, it's just . . ."
She kissed his cheek.
"Well, I suppose you are right." He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "The sooner the better."
"I think so," she whispered. There, it's done, she told herself. Your fate is sealed, but no harm will come to your babe. Tshingee's child will be safe.
Thomas threw his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him. "I can't believe it, Deborah. You're going to be my wife!"
Deborah squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened her performance and buried her head in his shoulder. "I can't believe it either," she muttered.
Deborah smiled woodenly, accepting words of congratulations as she and Tom moved through a crowd of well-wishers, all Yuletide supper guests of the Earl's. Men pounded Tom on the back and women smiled behind their fans, welcoming Deborah to the life of a Tidewater matron. Again and again Deborah's glass was filled with blood red wine and she drank it mechanically. She didn't care for the heavy taste of the expensive French vintage, but it warmed her insides, dulling her thoughts and somehow making it easier to stand at Tom's side.
"Deborah. Deborah. . . ."
Deborah blinked, looking up at the guest who held her hand. A genuine smile brightened her face. "Martha! When did you get here? I thought you weren't coming for Christmas this year." She threw her arms around her elder sister, lowering her voice. "So old goat Danforth gave in, did he?"
Martha chuckled, tapping her sister playfully with her fan. "Hush your mouth before he hears you and makes a scene. You know how Randolph loves a fuss."
Thomas came up behind Deborah. "Lady Danforth." He took Martha's hand, making an issue of kissing it. "I hope you'll be with us long enough to celebrate with Deborah and I on Christmas day."
"Celebrate?" Martha's face fell for an instant then she smiled politely. "Whatever do you mean? I thought the engagement had been called off due to mutual agreement."
"Pshew! You bunch across the bay, you're always a month behind in the latest gossip." He slid his arm around Deborah's waist, giving her a squeeze. "No, indeed, we'll be in-laws, you and I, within the week."
"I suppose congratulations are in order then, Thomas. And to you too, sister." She brushed her lips across Deborah's pale cheek. "Tell me, Tom, would you mind if I borrowed your intended, just for a few moments?" She linked her arm through Deborah's. "It's been so long since I've seen my dear sister."
"Not at all." Thomas released Deborah. "But don't be long, love. Charlie MacCloud is here somewhere and I want to be sure and show you off on my arm. He's been dying to do it for years."
Deborah stood dutifully while he gave her a peck on the cheek then she walked away, arm and arm, with her sister.
"I can't believe you gave in," Martha hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Martha, please."
"What did those savages do to you? Everyone said you were fine, but . . ."
"Martha, please," Deborah interrupted. "Not here."
"I always looked up you," Martha went on, weaving through the crowd of guests. "You were the only one of us who could ever stand up against the Earl. I didn't think you'd let him trap you like this. You told me you'd never marry Tom. I thought there was hope for you!"
Deborah released her sister's arm, pushing her way through the crowd. "Not here, I said!" Opening a small door beneath the grand staircase, she stepped into the servant's back hallway.
Martha followed, closing the door behind her. A small lamp on the plastered wall illuminated the narrow passageway. "I can't believe you gave in. You said you were going to marry for love."
Deborah stared at her sister's face. "You don't understand. I had to do it."
"I wanted for you what I'll never have." She reached out and brushed at the shorn lock of Deborah's hair. "I wanted you to be happy."
Deborah was tempted to tell Martha of Tshingee, of the babe. She wanted her sister to know her reasons, but she feared telling her. She couldn't put her baby's life in jeopardy, not to rationalize her decision with herself or Martha. "I'll be happy with Tom."
"You can lie to him. You can even lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me, Deborah Montague. I know you like the back of my hand. Thomas Hogarth will kill you just as Lord Danforth will kill me. If Randolf doesn't throw me down the stairs and break my neck in a drunken stupor, he'll kill me in the birthing bed." She twisted the lace on her sleeve. "I've another babe on the way."
"Not another?" Deborah shook her head. "Little Henry's but three months old!"
"That's the way it is with a man who has no respect for you. I'm nothing to Randolph. Less worthy than a parcel of land or a slave." She laughed bitterly. "Certainly less worthy than his whore."
Deborah bit down on her lower lip. "Thomas says he loves me. He's not like Randolph. He doesn't drink. He's not a brutal man."
"You think I ever saw Lord Danforth strike anyone before the first time he hit me?"
Deborah shook her head. "You're wrong. Tom is less a threat to me than the Earl is."
"So that's it? This is your way of getting off Host's Wealth?" Martha ran her hand over the plastered wall. "You'd have been better to have bound yourself in the New England Colonies. At least then you'd have been free one day."
Tears sprang in Deborah's. "I have my reasons, Martha. Can't you respect that?"
"I had so much hope for you." Martha shook her head. "Don't do it, Deborah. For God sakes don't do it."
"I have to."
Martha shrugged. "You've sentenced yourself then, girl . . ."
Tears ran down Deborah's cheeks as she watched her sister gather her skirts and leave the servants' hall, closing the door quietly behind her. Sobbing, Deborah sank to the cold hardwood floor. "Tshingee," she cried into her palms, rocking back and forth. "Tshingee, why have you done this to us?"
She was tempted to saddle a horse and ride to him now. She hadn't gone to him since she'd agreed to marry Thomas. If she told Tshingee of the baby, if she begged him to marry her, how could he refuse? Deborah pulled her handkerchief from her bodice and wiped her nose. No, she wouldn't do that to Tshingee. She loved him too much. She respected his responsibility to his brother too much.
A distant high-pitched shriek made Deborah suddenly sit up. Wiping her eyes with the lace handkerchief, she listened. There it was again—a woman's screaming.
Slowly Deborah got to her feet and took the lamp from the wall. She followed the passageway to the end where there was a door leading to the kitchen and one leading down into the cellar. Hesitating, she listened. A feminine sob rose from behind the door leading downstairs. Cautiously, Deborah opened the paneled door.
"Hush your mouth," came the Earl's voice from below. "Hush your mouth before someone hears you."
"Lemme go," the terrified blackamoor sobbed. "Please lemme go, sir."
Deborah left the lantern in the hallway and stepped down one step. Crouching, she peered over the rail. Below in the faint light of a candle's glow she saw one of the young black kitchen maids lying on the dirt floor. Her legs were spread, her homespun skirts spotted with blood. The girl was new in the house, just purchased in Annapolis. She couldn't have been more than thirteen. Deborah's father was standing over the maid, hiking up his breeches.
"Let's just call this your initiation into the Montague household, shall we?" The Earl chuckled. "Now get up and get back to work! We've got guests to attend to!"
The girl cowered.
"I said get up!" He grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet. "And you tell anyone about this and you'll be gone from here. You understand me? Because that bay out there, it has a way of eating up little girls that don't do as they're told."
The kitchen maid nodded. "I . . . I understand, sir. I won't say nothing," she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
Deborah leaned her head against the rough wooden rail, in shock. She'd always heard rumors that her father bedded the servants, but this was rape. Suddenly the Earl turned and headed for the steps. Soundlessly Deborah slipped into the hall and through the kitchen door, taking the lamp with her. She clicked the latch on the kitchen door just in time to hear her father come up the steps.