AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(17)
No, it was as if she were a lightning rod that drew one’s attention. In London, she had frequently worn the fashionable mask when out; nonetheless, she found it puzzling that strangers high and low gravitated towards her. And now that she was on the run, as the source of others’ attention, it could well be a death knell for her.
Of course, she should have expected Peter Erichsson to pay his respects, prodded by Gertrude and her husband John, who accompanied Peter, much like an honor guard. Behind them, maybe fifty men and women were now participating in a round dance far removed from the French dances of courtly procession with which Evangeline was familiar.
“You dance, ja?” Peter asked. His holly leaf-green eyes peered at her nervously.
She shook her head and relayed to John, “Tell Peter I do not know the steps to these dances, please.”
Gertrude’s pleasingly plump face did not look so pleased.
While John interpreted, Evangeline glanced beyond the three to spot approaching their circle a short gentleman, who looked to be in his late thirties. He was accompanied by an entourage. His peruke’s curls fell upon his wired lace collar, and his slashed doublet did not cover his overhanging belly. He could be none other than the New Sweden Company’s governor. Immediately, John doffed his hat and Gertrude bobbed a curtsey.
“Rumor has it that you have a guest,” the governor told them, while eying her. His command of English was blunted by his strong Scandinavian accent. “An English damsel in our midst?”
It was as if the dead calm of a sinister sea swamped the entire Banqueting Hall. So, word had already circulated.
Evangeline dipped a low curtsey, worthy of King Charles’s court, and, unthinkingly, extended her hand, as only a lady of high birth would do. “An English immigrant, my lord.”
His thick lips grazed her gloved fingers. “Oh? From where?”
Her mind stuttered. “A little north of Lord Baltimore’s settlement.” All right, so her directions were slightly off. “Early on,” she babbled, “I lost my father and brother – and our tobacco farm – to the savages.” Tobacco farm? Her brother always said she had a vivid imagination. “Until recently I have been taking in wayfarers. At an inn, little north of here,” she corrected.
He fingered one end of a thin mustache pomaded to a curl. “No need to present your passport and papers tonight. I am sure the Croxtons will vouch for you – Mistress Wainwright, is it not?”
She lowered eyes. “Aye, my lord.”
“However, I do count our community most fortunate the day you agree to become a subject of Sweden –and shortly, I prithee.”
She lowered her head and dipped another curtsey. “But, of course.”
The bowing of her head in submission appeared to release the room’s tension. People began talking, and Risingh signaled to the musicians in a corner near one of the fireplaces. ‘The Lord Monk’s March’ was struck up, and he turned to her. “Will you honor me with this dance?”
Could things get worse?
Even with her inn twenty-odd miles removed from Fort Christina, travelers laying over at the Virgin Queen reported that Risingh had written home to Sweden for a wife to counteract the former governor’s daughter. Rather than return to Sweden with her father and husband, the woman had remained and insisted on presiding as First Lady, causing conflict throughout the colony.
Evangeline did not want to be his quarry for an immediate wife. A tight smile accompanied the reluctant extension of her fingers. “Aye, my lord.”
Her hand in his sweaty one, she and the governor joined the other dancers. The quiet, elegant music was accompanied by the gentle swish of silk clothing and the scrape and click of leather-sole shoes on the wooden floor.
The steps were not complicated; short and gliding to a rhythm of eight, the pattern of the steps separated the couples and brought them together again. Feet pointed, the dancers moved with graceful deportment and self-absorption.
She should have been pleased when the dancing came to an end without her making a misstep, until she glanced toward the front of the room, lined with tables of sweetmeats, delicacies, and beer kegs – and spotted Adam Sutcliff.
Tankard in hand, bucket boots crossed at the ankles, he lounged not far from the double-door entrance and watched with his air of casual superiority. That deceptively cheerful smile that did not conceal his hot animal threat. Clearly, he was not one to be much troubled by what others thought of him.
Whatever he hoped to accomplish by confronting her before the Governor and his court on such a trivial matter, reneging on a wager, caused her but little concern. What afflicted her greatly was Sutcliff’s link with William Craven, which meant her former betrothed had to be somewhere in the immediate vicinity.
Her eyes darted around the room and found no avenue of escape. She whirled to Risingh. “Please you, sire, I am feeling somewhat faint with the press of people.”
He proffered an arm, its slashed sleeve exposing the linen shirt beneath. “But, of course. The fresh air of my gardens should restore you, my dear.”
She placed her hand upon the back of his, letting him lead her toward the double doors and the great hallway where the cloaks had been stowed – and toward Sutcliff. The chandelier’s multitude of overhead candles dripped wax, but it was sweat that dripped from her temples.
Unlike William, Sutcliff was unpredictable. What was he doing here? And how much did he know about her past? She was no good at blustering, but surely feminine wiles she could wield. A renowned fencer, Sutcliff was said to be formidable with the blade. She thrust first. “La, if it isn’t the esteemed English peacock, Adam Sutcliff!”