18

TAKING FLIGHT

Amsterdam, Kalverstraat 18

January 3, 1745

MINNIE CAREFULLY BRUSHED powdered sugar off the ledger. The early queasiness of pregnancy had mostly passed, replaced by the appetite of a ravening owl, according to her father.

“An owl?” she’d said, and he nodded, smiling. His shock had passed along with her queasiness, and his face took on a rapt look sometimes when she caught him watching her.

“You look at food, ma chère, and turn your head to and then fro, as though you expect it to bolt, and then you swoop on it and—gulp!—it’s gone.”

“Bah,” she said now, and looked to see if there were more oliebollen in the pottery jar, but, no, she’d finished them. Mortimer’s antics had abated and he’d fallen into a stupor, as he usually did when she ate, but she was still hungry.

“Is dinner nearly ready?” she called downstairs to her father. In the usual Amsterdam style, the house was long and narrow, the shop on the ground floor, living quarters above, and the kitchen in the basement. A savory smell of roasting chicken had been creeping up the steps for the last hour, and she was famished, in spite of the oliebollen.

Instead of an answer, she heard the sound of her father’s feet coming up the stairs, accompanied by a rattle of stoneware and pewter.

“It’s not even noon,” he said mildly, setting down a tray on the counter. “Dinner won’t be ready for another hour at least. But I’ve brought you some coffee and rolls with honey.”

“Honey?” She sniffed pleasurably. Even though the queasiness had mostly gone, the acute sensitivity to smells remained, and the strong aroma of coffee with fresh buttered rolls ravished her.

“That child is nearly as big as you are now,” her father observed, with an eye to her protuberant belly. “When did you say it will be born?”

“In about three months,” she said, reaching for a roll and ignoring the implication. “And the midwife says it will be just about double in size by then.” She glanced down at Mortimer’s bulge. “I don’t actually think such a thing is possible, but that’s what she says.”

Her father laughed and, leaning across the counter, rested a hand lightly on the curve of his grandchild.

“Comment ça va, mon petit?” he said.

“What makes you think it’s a boy?” she asked, though she didn’t move away. It touched her when he spoke to the baby; he always did so with the greatest tenderness.

“Well, you call him—it—Mortimer,” he pointed out, and with a gentle pat withdrew his hand. “I suppose that means you think he’s a male.”

“I was just taken by the advertisement on a bottle of English patent medicine: Mortimer’s Dissolving, Resolving, and Absolving Tonic—removes stains of any kind: physical, emotional, or moral.”

That took him aback; he wasn’t sure whether she was joking. She saved him by laughing herself and waved him away to the kitchen. She loved Sundays, when Hulda, the maid of all work, stayed at home with her family, leaving the two Snyders—Willem Snyder being her father’s nom de guerre in the Low Countries—to fend for themselves. Her father was a much better cook, and it was peaceful without Hulda’s solicitous questions and repeated suggestions of “nice gentlemen” among the shop’s clientele who might be willing to take on a young widow with a child, if Mr. Snyder was able to offer a sufficiently generous inducement….

Frankly, she thought her father wouldn’t be above it. But he wouldn’t push her into anything, either. She thought he was actually loath to part with her—and Mortimer, no doubt.

She closed her eyes, savoring the contrast of bitter coffee followed by a bite of buttered roll dripping with honey. As though stimulated by the coffee, Mortimer suddenly stretched himself as far as possible, making her clutch her belly and gasp.

“You little bastard,” she said to him, and paused to swallow the last of the honeyed bite. “Sorry. You’re not a bastard.” At least he wouldn’t be, as far as he or the rest of the world knew. He’d be the posthumous child of…Well, she hadn’t quite decided. For the moment he was the child of a Spanish captain of rifles named Mondragon, dead of fever in some conveniently obscure campaign, but she’d think of something better by the time Mortimer was old enough to ask questions.

Perhaps a German; there were enough small duchies and principalities among which to hide an irregular birth—though the Germans were annoyingly methodical about registering people. Italy—now, there was an unmethodical country for you, and it was warm….

He wouldn’t be an Englishman, though. She sighed and put a hand over the little foot poking inquisitively under her liver. Mortimer could be a girl, she supposed, but Minnie couldn’t think of him as anything other than male. Because she couldn’t think of him without thinking of his father.

Maybe she would marry. Eventually.

Time enough for such considerations. For the moment, there was an inconsistency in the accounts between September and October, and she took a fresh sheet of foolscap and picked up her quill, on the trail of an errant three guilders.

Half an hour later, the stray guilders finally captured and pinned firmly to their proper column, she stretched, groaned, and hoisted herself to her feet. Her belly, much given to odd noises of late, was gurgling in ominous fashion. If dinner wasn’t ready yet, she was going to—

The bell over the door tinged briskly, and she looked up, surprised. The virtuous Protestants of Amsterdam would never think of going anywhere on Sunday but to church. The man standing in the doorway, though, was neither Dutch nor virtuous. He was wearing a British uniform.

“Your…Grace?” she said stupidly.

“Hal,” he said. “My name’s Hal.” Then he caught full sight of her and turned as white as the spilled sugar on the counter. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not…” she began, sliding out from behind the counter, “what you think…” she ended faintly.

It didn’t matter. He took an enormous breath and strode toward her. She dimly heard her father coming up the stairs but saw nothing but that bone-white face, caught between shock and determination.

He reached her, bent his knees, and picked her up.

“Jesus Christ!” he said again, this time in response to her weight, which was considerable. Clenching his teeth, he clutched her tightly and wove his way across the shop, staggering only slightly. He smelled wonderfully of bay leaves and leather.

The door stood open, with Harry Quarry holding it and a blast of cold winter air coming in. His solid, square face broke into an enormous grin as he met her eyes.

“Pleased to see you again, Miss Rennie. Hurry up, old man, somebody’s coming.”

“Minnie! Stop! You—” Her father’s shout was cut off by the slam of the shop door, and a moment later she was dumped unceremoniously into a coach that stood waiting. Hal shot in after her, and Harry hung precariously off the coach’s step, shouting at the driver, before swinging inside himself and slamming the door.

“Minnie!” Her father’s shout reached her, faint but audible.

She tried to turn, to look out of the rear window, but couldn’t manage it without actually standing up and rotating her entire body. Before she could even contemplate doing that, though, Hal had wriggled free of his blue military cloak and was tucking it round her. The warmth of his body surrounded her, and his face was no more than a few inches from hers, still white, the warmth of his breath on her cheek white, too, misting in the frigid air of the coach.

His hands were on her shoulders, steadying her against the jolting, and she thought he might kiss her, but a sudden lurch as the coach swung round a corner sent him staggering. He fell backward into the seat opposite, beside Harry Quarry, who was still grinning from ear to ear.

She took a deep breath and readjusted her skirts over her bulge.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?”

He’d been staring at her intensely but evidently without actually seeing her, for her words made him jerk.

“What?”

“Where are you taking me?” she repeated, louder.

“I don’t know,” he said, and looked at Harry, beside him. “Where are we going?”

“Place on the Keizersgracht,” Harry said with a shrug. “Called De Gevulde Gans.”

“The Stuffed Goose? You’re taking me to a pub?” Her voice rose involuntarily.

“I’m taking you to be married,” Hal said, frowning at her.

He was very pale, and a muscle near his mouth twitched—the only thing he couldn’t control, she thought. Well, that, and her.

“I married a lady and she became a whore. I cannot complain if it should be the other way about this time.”

“You think I’m a whore, do you?” She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted. Perhaps both.

“Do you normally sleep with your victims, madam?”

She gave him a long, level stare and folded her arms atop the rounded curve of her belly.

“I wasn’t asleep, Your Grace, and if you had been, I think I would have noticed.”

THE STUFFED GOOSE was a rather down-at-heel establishment, with a drunkard bundled in rags picturesquely huddled against the steps.

“Why did you pick this place?” she asked Harry, picking up her skirts to avoid a small heap of vomit on the stones and glancing at the grimy doorknob.

“The landlady’s husband is a minister,” he said reasonably, leaning to open the door for her. “And reputed not to be too fussed about things.”

Things like a wedding license, she supposed. Though perhaps you didn’t need one when getting married in a different country?

“Go in,” said Hal impatiently, behind her. “It stinks out here.”

“And you think it will be better inside?” she asked, pinching her nose in preparation. He was right, though: the breeze had shifted, and she caught the full impact of the drunkard’s scent.

“Oh, God,” she said, turned neatly on her heel, and threw up on the opposite side of the step.

“Oh, God,” said Hal. “Never mind, I’ll get you some gin. Now go inside, for God’s sake.” He pulled a large white handkerchief out of his sleeve, wiped her mouth briskly with it, and hustled her through the door.

Harry had already gone in and opened negotiations, in bad but serviceable Dutch, this augmented by a substantial purse, which he plonked on the bar with a loud clinking noise.

Hal, who apparently had no Dutch, interrupted Harry’s conversation with the landlady behind the bar by removing a golden guinea from his pocket and tossing it onto the bar.

“Gin,” he said.

Minnie had subsided onto a stool as soon as she entered and was curled over, eyes shut and Hal’s handkerchief clutched in one hand, trying not to breathe. A moment later, though, the sharp, clean scent of juniper cut through the miasma of the pub and the hint of dead rat. She swallowed, made herself sit up, and took the cup of gin Hal handed her.

To her considerable surprise, it worked. The nausea subsided with the first sip, the desire to lie down on the floor faded, and within a few moments she felt relatively normal—or as normal as one might feel if six months’ pregnant and on the verge of marrying Hal, she thought.

The minister, apparently rousted from bed and evidently suffering from an extreme form of la grippe, turned bleary eyes from Hal to Minnie, then back.

“You want to marry her?” The tone of incredulity seeped through the nasal congestion, slow and glutinous.

“Yes,” said Hal. “Now, if you please.”

The minister closed one eye and looked at him, then turned his head slowly to his wife, who tutted impatiently and said something rapid in Dutch, accompanied by a peremptory gesture. He hunched his shoulders against the tirade in a way indicating that such assaults were common. When she stopped speaking, he nodded in a resigned fashion, drew a sodden handkerchief from the pocket of his sagging breeches, and blew his nose.

Hal’s hand tightened on Minnie’s; he hadn’t let go since they’d entered the pub, and she twitched, not quite pulling away. He looked down at her.

“Sorry,” he said, and loosened—but didn’t release—his grip.

“She’s wis child,” said the minister, in a reproachful tone.

“I know that,” Hal said, tightening his hold once more. “Get on with it, please. At once.”

“Why?” said Minnie, mildly provoked. “Do you have somewhere special you have to be?”

“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “But I want the child to be legitimate, and I think you may give birth to it at any moment.”

“I will not,” she said, offended. “You know I’m no more than six months gone!”

“You look like a—” Catching a glimpse of her eyes at this point, he shut his mouth abruptly, coughed, and turned his attention once more to the minister. “Do please continue, sir.”

The man nodded, blew his nose again, and motioned to his wife, who bent to rummage beneath the bar, eventually emerging with a battered prayer book, its cover spotted with kronk rings.

Possessed of this talisman, the minister seemed to take heart and straightened up a little.

“You heb witnesses?” he asked Hal.

“Yes,” said Hal, impatient. “He’s—Harry? Dammit, he went out to pay the carriage. Stay here!” he commanded Minnie, and, dropping her hand, strode out.

The minister looked dubiously after him, then at Minnie. The end of his nose was moist and scarlet, and tiny veins empurpled his cheeks.

“You are willing to marry dis man?” he asked. “I see he is rich, but maybe better to take a poor man who will treat you well.”

“Ze is zes maanden zwanger, idioot,” said the minister’s wife. “She’s six months gone with child.” “Is dit die schurk die je zwanger heeft gemaakt?” She removed the pipe from the corner of her mouth and gestured from the door to Minnie’s belly: “He’s the no-good who got you pregnant?” A hefty kick from the occupant made Minnie grunt and double over.

“Ja, is die schurk,” she assured the woman, glancing over her shoulder to the door, where Hal’s shadow in the window was visible, a larger shadow that must be Harry behind him.

The men entered with a blast of winter air and the woman exchanged a look with her husband. Both shrugged, and the minister opened the book and began thumbing through it in a helpless sort of way.

Harry smiled reassuringly at Minnie and patted her hand before lining up solidly beside Hal. Oddly enough, she did feel reassured. If a man like Harry was Hal’s good friend, then perhaps—just perhaps—she wasn’t wrong about him.

Not that it would make any difference at this point, she thought, feeling a strangely pleasant shiver run up her back. It felt as though she were about to jump off a cliff but feeling a great pair of wings unfurling at her back, even as she looked out into the wind.

“Mag ik uw volledige naam alstublieft?” “What are your names, please?” The landlady had pulled out a ratty register book—it might be the accounts for the pub, Minnie thought, looking at the stained pages. But the woman turned to a clean, blank page at the back of the book and dipped her quill, expectant.

Hal looked blank for a moment, then said firmly, “Harold Grey.”

“Only two names?” Minnie said, surprised. “No titles?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not the Duke of Pardloe or even the Earl of Melton you’re marrying. Just me. Sorry to disappoint you, if that’s what you thought,” he added, in a tone that actually sounded apologetic.

“Not at all,” she said politely.

“My middle name’s Patricius,” he blurted. “Harold Patricius Gerard Bleeker Grey.”

“Really?”

“Ik na gat niet allemaal opschrijven,” the woman objected. “I’m not going to write all that.”

“Bleeker—dat is Nederlands,” the minister said, in surprised approval. “Your family is Dutch?”

“My father’s mother’s mother,” Hal said, equally surprised.

The woman shrugged and wrote down the words, repeating, “Harold…Bleeker…Grey,” to herself. “En u?” she asked, looking up at Minnie.

Minnie would have thought her heart couldn’t go any faster, but she was wrong. Loose as her stays were, she felt light-headed, and before she could gather enough breath to speak, Hal stepped in.

“She’s called Wilhelmina Rennie,” he told the woman.

“Actually, it’s Minerva Wattiswade,” she said, getting a solid breath. Hal looked down at her, frowning.

“Wattiswade? What’s Wattiswade?”

“Not what,” she said, with exaggerated patience. “Who. Me, in fact.”

This appeared to be too much for Hal, who looked to Harry for help.

“She means her name isn’t Rennie, old man. It’s Wattiswade.”

“Nobody’s named Wattiswade,” Hal objected, transferring the frown back to Minnie. “I’m not marrying you under an assumed name.”

“I’m not bloody marrying you under an assumed name!” she said. “Gah!”

“What—”

“Your bloody baby kicked me in the liver!”

“Oh.” Hal looked somewhat abashed. “You mean your name really is Wattiswade, then.”

“Yes, I do.”

He took a deep breath.

“All right. Wattiswade. Why—never mind. You’ll tell me later why you’ve been calling yourself Rennie.”

“No, I won’t.”

He glanced at her, brows raised high, and she could see him—for once—debating whether to say something. But then his eyes lost the look of a man talking to himself and focused on hers.

“All right,” he said softly, and held out his hand to her, palm upward.

She took another breath, looked out into the void, and jumped.

“Cunnegunda,” she said, and put her hand in his. “Minerva Cunnegunda Wattiswade.”

He said nothing, but she could feel him vibrating slightly. She carefully didn’t look at him. Harry seemed to be arguing about something with the woman—something to do with the need for a second witness, she thought, but she couldn’t concentrate enough to make out the words. The smell of tobacco smoke and stale sweat was making her gorge rise again, and she swallowed hard, several times.

All right. They’d decided that Mrs. Ten Boom could be the second witness. Good. Mortimer turned a somersault, landing heavily. Perspiration had broken out on Minnie’s temples, and her ears felt hot.

Suddenly she was possessed by the fear that her father would burst through the door at any moment. She wasn’t afraid of his stopping this impromptu ceremony; she was quite sure Hal wouldn’t let him—and that certainty steadied her. Still…she didn’t want him here. This was hers alone.

“Hurry,” she said to Hal, in a low voice. “Please, hurry.”

“Get on with it,” he said to the minister, in a voice that wasn’t particularly loud but plainly expected to be obeyed. The Reverend Ten Boom blinked, coughed, and opened his book.

It was all in Dutch; she could have followed the words but didn’t—what echoed in her ears were the never-spoken phrases from the letters.

Not Esmé’s—his. Letters written to a dead wife, in passionate grief, in fury, in despair. He might as well have punctured his own wrist with the sharpened quill and written those words in blood. She looked up at him now, white as the winter sky, as though all the blood had run out of his body, leaving him drained.

But his eyes were a pale and piercing blue when he turned his dark-browed face toward her, and the fire in him was not quenched, by any means.

You didn’t deserve him, she thought toward the absent Esmé and rested her free hand on her gently heaving stomach. But you loved him. Don’t fret; I’ll take care of them both.