Bertrice Small Page 2

  “Not one penny, Father,” pronounced his son. “I will not give you so much as a pennypiece for your yards. It’s mine, all mine. Besides, you don’t need it.”

  “You are a Dunham!” thundered John. “The shipyards are our life!”

  “Not mine! My ambitions lie elsewhere, and thanks to Grandmother Lightbody’s generosity I can now be my own man—free of your damned shipyards, and free of you! Touch one cent of my inheritance and I’ll burn your shipyards down around your ears!”

  “And I’ll help him,” Jonathan spoke up, astonishing his father.

  John Dunham’s face puffed up like a blowfish, and he grew beet-red.

  “We don’t need Jared’s money, Father,” said Jonathan, soothing the older man. “Look at it from my point of view. If you invest his money in the family business then we are beholden to him, and I do not want that. You have my baby son, John, after me, as heir. Let Jared go his own way.”

  Jared won, and immediately following his twenty-first birthday, he sailed for Europe.

  He stayed several years, first studying at Cambridge, and then getting polish in London. He was never idle. He made discreet investments, reaped his profits, and then reinvested. He had an uncanny knack, and his London friends nicknamed him the Golden Yankee. It was a sport among the bon ton to try and find out where Jared Dunham was placing his next investment so they might place their money where he did. He traveled in the best circles, and though pursued at every turn, enjoyed his freedom and remained single. He bought himself an elegant townhouse on a small, fashionable square near Greene Park which was furnished in excellent taste and staffed with a core of well-trained servants. For the next several years Jared Dunham then traveled back and forth between America and England, despite the problems between the two countries, and France. When he was not in residence in London the house was managed by his very competent secretary, Roger Bramwell, a former American naval officer.

  Jared’s first return to Plymouth, Massachusetts, found the peoples of New England in an uproar over the Louisiana Purchase. Though a Federalist like his father and brother, Jared Dunham didn’t believe as they did that expansion west would subordinate New England’s commercial interests to the agricultural South. Rather he saw a greater market for his goods. What bothered the politicians and bankers, he believed, was the definite possibility of losing their political superiority and clout; and this was, of course, a serious consideration.

  The peoples of the East were different from their southern and western counterparts. The owner of a vast plantation scarcely held the same views or had the same interests as a Massachusetts merchant prince; but then his views were also quite different from those of a fur trapping mountain man. Jared saw no serious conflict, although other Federalists did.

  In Europe war had again broken out. England constantly agitated in St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Berlin against the French emperor, trying to persuade Tzar Alexander, Emperor Francis, and King Frederick Wilhelm to join in a common alliance against Bonaparte.

  None of these leaders would listen, hoping perhaps that if they remained neutral, the French would not deign to notice them, and go away. Besides, the French army seemed unbeatable although Britain still dominated the seas, a fact that rankled Bonaparte. Still, mid-Europe was controlled mostly from the land and not the seas, so the English were of little help.

  When England successfully withstood the combined French and Spanish navies at the Battle of Trafalgar, Napoleon next resorted to an economic war against his greatest enemy. From Berlin he issued a decree ordering the seizure of all British goods in his and his allies’ territory and forbidding English ships entry from his and all allied ports. Napoleon believed that France could produce all the goods previously supplied by England; and the continent’s supplies of non-European articles would be delivered by neutral nations, primarily the United States.

  England was quick to act in response to the Berlin Decree with their own Orders in Council. Neutral vessels were forbidden from stopping at ports from which the British were excluded unless they first stopped at British ports to take on consignments of British goods.

  Napoleon’s next move was to declare that any neutral ship obeying the Orders in Council would be subject to confiscation, and, indeed, many American ships were seized. Enough of them, however, got through the various blockades, and on the whole American merchant interests prospered extremely well, Jared Dunham among them.

  By the beginning of the year 1807 he owned five trading vessels. One was off in the Far East seeking spices, teas, ivory, and jewels. The other four he kept plying the Atlantic and the Caribbean. Fat bribes usually silenced any overzealous French officials, for the French were no longer as strong in the Caribbean area.

  Jared Dunham saw the handwriting on the wall, however. War was coming as sure as spring, and he had no desire to lose his ships to anyone else. So far he had managed to keep the good will of the English, evade the French, and, by running his Baltimore clipper at his own personal expense, to rescue enough impressed seamen to appear an obvious patriot and mask his far more dangerous missions. If governments were run, he thought irritably, more like businesses, there would be fewer problems; but alas, egos and personalities were always taking over governments.

  Jared Dunham’s carriage pulled up before the Abbott town house. Telling his driver to wait, he entered the mansion. His cloak taken, he was escorted upstairs by Gillian’s maid.

  “Darling!” Gillian greeted him from her bed with outstretched arms. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight.”

  He kissed her hand, wondering why she seemed so nervous, and noted the artful way in which she clutched the silken sheets to her naked breasts. “I came to say good-bye, my dear.”

  “Why are you joking, Jared?”

  “I am returning to America shortly.”

  She pouted adorably, and shook her dark red curls at him. “You can’t! I won’t let you go, my darling!” He let her pull him onto her bed, inhaling the musky perfume she always wore. “Oh, Jared!” she whispered huskily. “Abbott cannot last much longer, and when he is gone … Oh, darling, we are so good together!”

  He untangled her from his neck, and said in an amused tone, “If we are so good together, Gillian, then why do you find it necessary to take other lovers? I really do insist on fidelity from my mistresses, at least while I keep them. And I have kept you very well indeed, Gillian.”

  “Jared!” She tried looking hurt, but as she realized that she was having no effect on him, her topaz eyes narrowed dangerously and she hissed at him. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

  His mouth twitched. “Gillian, my dear, your rooms stink of bay rum. It is certainly not your scent, nor is it mine. Therefore I conclude that you have been entertaining another gentleman. Since I came only to bring you this token of my admiration, and to bid you farewell, you are quite free to continue as before.” He casually flipped the jeweler’s case at her, stood up, and turned toward the door.

  “Jared!” Her voice held a pleading note.

  He turned back, and saw that she had lowered the silk sheet to expose her magnificent breasts. He remembered the pleasure they had given him. Seeing him hesitate, she murmured, “There really is no one but you, my darling.”

  Vanity urged him to believe, but then he caught sight of a rumpled gentleman’s cravat lying on the arm of her chaise lounge. “Goodbye, Gillian,” he said coldly.

  Striding purposefully down the stairs, he called for his cape, and left the Abbot town house.

  Chapter 2

  “OH, PAPA!” AMANDA DUNHAM’S CORNFLOWER-BLUE EYES filled with tears, and her blond ringlets quivered. “Must we really leave London now?”

  Thomas Dunham regarded his younger daughter with amusement. Amanda was so predictably like her mother. As he had been dealing successfully with Dorothea for the past twenty years he felt little challenge in dealing with Amanda now. “I’m afraid so, puss,” he said firmly. “If we don’t leave now we will be forc
ed to either stay the winter in England at a time when things are not good between our countries, or else make an uncomfortable, very likely stormy crossing.”

  “Oh, let us stay for the winter! Please! Please! Please!” Amanda danced around her father, childlike. “Adrian says there are wonderful skating parties at Swynford Hall on the lake, and at Christmas the mummers and carolers go from door to door. There is a huge Yule log, wonderful wassail, plum puddings, and roast goose! Oh, Papa, let us stay! Please!”

  “Oh, Mandy! Don’t be such a spoiled little fool!” came a sharp voice, and the voice’s owner emerged from the shadows where she had been sitting on the window seat. “Papa must return to Wyndsong. His obligations are there, and on the chance that your social rounds have kept you from noticing, things are not particularly cordial between England and America at the moment. Papa brought us to London as a treat, but we are better off going home now.”

  “Miranda!” wailed Amanda Dunham. “How can you be so cruel? You know the depth of my feelings for Adrian!”

  “Fiddlesticks!” said Miranda Dunham sharply. “You are always in love with one man or another, and you have been since we were twelve. You didn’t want to leave Wyndsong several months ago because you believed yourself in love with Robert Gardiner—or was it Peter Sylvester? In the time we’ve been in England you’ve had a tendresse for at least six young men. Lord Swynford is only your current beau.”

  Amanda Dunham burst into tears and flung herself into her mother’s lap, sobbing. “Miranda, Miranda,” scolded Dorothea Dunham gently. “You must not be so impatient with your twin.”

  Miranda made a derisive sound and clamped her lips together, a gesture that made her father chuckle. Twin daughters, he thought, as he had so often. My only legitimate descendants, and they don’t appear even to be related, let alone twins. Amanda was petite, dimpled, and round, like her Dutch-American mother, a pink-and-white feminine confection with large blue eyes and daffodil yellow hair. She was gentle, and fairly simple, a fluffy creature who would make a charming wife, a loving mother. He understood Amanda, as he had always understood her mother.

  He was not so sure about Miranda, the elder twin. She was a far more complex creature, a quicksilver girl of fire. Born two hours before her twin sister, she was five-feet-eight, four inches taller than Amanda. A coltish girl, Miranda was more angles than curves. The curves, he suspected, would come later on.

  Amanda’s face was round, but Miranda’s was heart-shaped with high cheekbones, a straight, elegant nose, a wide, lush mouth, and a small, determined chin with a little cleft. Her blue-green eyes were oval and fringed with thick, dark lashes. Where had she gotten those sea-green eyes? Both he and Dorothea had blue eyes. Miranda’s hair was another mystery, the color of moonlight.

  The twins were as different in temperament as they were in appearance. Miranda was bold and confident and brave. Her mind was quick and her tongue sharp. She lacked patience, but she was kind. He suspected that her wicked temper came from his having spoiled her.

  But Miranda had a deep sense of justice. She disliked cruelty and ignorance, and was quick to defend the helpless. If only, he thought sadly, if only she’d been the son he wanted. He loved her greatly, but he despaired of finding a husband for her. She would need a man who would understand her fierce streak of Dunham independence. A man who would handle her firmly, yet gently and with love.

  He had told young Lord Adrian Swynford, Baron Swynford, that his formal engagement to Amanda must wait until Miranda, the elder, was betrothed. Thomas Dunham had met no one in England he felt right for his oldest child. He did have an idea on that subject, but first there was a matter to be changed in his will.

  He smiled. Dear little Amanda! She was so sweet and gentle. She would grace the Swynford family table, and the Swynford family jewels. She would never be a particularly interesting conversationalist, but she played the pianoforte nicely, and she painted pretty watercolors. She would be an excellent breeder, a dutiful wife who would never complain if her husband amused himself occasionally with a bit o’ muslin. In Amanda, he and Dorothea had produced a perfect daughter, Thomas thought smugly.

  In the elder of the twins he had produced a self-willed, independent vixen, and had he not seen her slip from her mother’s straining body himself he would have sworn that she was someone else’s child.

  As the girls had grown it was Miranda who was the obvious leader of the pair. She walked a full five months before her twin, and spoke clearly by the end of her first year. Amanda babbled nonsense for over two years before she became intelligible. Only Miranda completely understood her, sometimes translating the childish prattle and other times anticipating her twin’s desires in a wordless form of communication that amazed everyone. Amanda was uncomplicated, Miranda complex—yet they loved one another dearly. Miranda might storm and rage at Mandy, but no one else was allowed, and woe betide anyone foolish enough to offend the gentler of the two girls, for Miranda protected her twin like a tigress her cub.

  Now, though, Miranda Dunham was impatient. “For pity’s sake, Mandy, stop wailing!” Miranda could not contain her irritation. “If Adrian Swynford really loves you he’ll offer for you before we return to America.”

  “He has already offered for her,” said Thomas Dunham quietly.

  “Oh, Papa!” Amanda scrambled to her little feet, her eyes shining with delight.

  “There, you see? I told you so!” said Miranda as if the matter were finished.

  “Come, my girls,” said their father. “Sit down with your mama and me, and I will tell you everything.” He settled his daughters between their mother and himself on a long silk settee. “Lord Swynford,” he began, “has asked for Amanda’s hand in marriage. I have tentatively given my consent provided that no formal announcement be made or sent to the Gazette until I have also made a suitable match for Miranda. She is the elder, and her betrothal must come first.”

  “What?” the twins exclaimed in one voice.

  “I don’t want to get married!” shouted Miranda. “I will not leave Wyndsong, or be chattel to some damned pompous fool of a man!”

  “And I don’t want to wait to wed Adrian!” cried Amanda in a rare show of spirit. “If she doesn’t care if I’m the first to marry, then why should you?”

  “Amanda!” cried her mother, surprised. “It is a family tradition that the eldest weds first. It has always been so, and it is only fair.” She turned to Miranda. “Of course you will marry, child. What else would you do?”

  “I am the elder,” said Miranda proudly. “Am I not to inherit Wyndsong? Am I not to be the next lady of the manor? I need nothing else, and I certainly need no man! I have never met one besides Papa that I truly liked!”

  “A respectable woman always needs either a husband or a father, Miranda. I will not always be here to protect you.” Thomas Dunham was uncomfortable with what he had to say next, but he went on. “You are my eldest child, Miranda, but you are not a son. You cannot inherit Wyndsong, because the patent for the manor states that if there is no direct male heir, the present lord of the manor must designate from among his male relatives. I did so years ago, when the doctors said that your mother should not have any more children. The next lord of Wyndsong Island will be from the Plymouth branch of the family. You and your sister can inherit my personal wealth, but you cannot inherit Wyndsong.”

  “Not inherit Wyndsong?” Miranda was stunned. “You cannot simply give it to a stranger, Papa! Who is this cousin? Do we know him? Will he love Wyndsong as I do? No! No!”

  “My heir is the younger son of my cousin, John Dunham. He has never been to Wyndsong. His name is Jared.”

  “I will never let him have Wyndsong! Never, Papa! Never!”

  “Miranda, control your temper,” said Dorothea Dunham in a firm voice. “You must marry. All young ladies of your class marry. Perhaps now, knowing that you cannot remain at Wyndsong, you will make a serious effort to find a proper husband.”

  “There is no one I love,
” came the icy reply.

  “It is not necessary to love one’s betrothed husband, Miranda. Love often comes afterward.”

  “Amanda loves Adrian,” her daughter said flatly.

  “Yes, she does, and how fortunate that the object of her affections has offered for her, and is suitable. Were he not, my dear, then no amount of love would matter.”

  “Did you love Papa when you were first married?” Miranda persisted, and Dorothea felt irritation rising. How typical of her elder child to pursue a subject to the point of embarrassment. Why did she not simply understand how society operated? Amanda did. Dorothea began to suspect, as she so often did when locked in combat with Miranda, that her child understood quite well but was deliberately being difficult.

  “I did not know your papa when we were first betrothed. Your grandparents, however, having made me a suitable match, gave us time to get to know one another. By the time Papa and I were wed I was beginnning to love him, and not a day has passed in these last twenty years that I haven’t loved him more each day.”

  “Did you not hate leaving Torwyck? It was your home.”

  “No. Wyndsong was your father’s domain, and I wanted to be with him. Amanda will not regret leaving Wyndsong for Swynford Hall, will you, my love?”

  “Oh no, Mama! I want to be where Adrian is!” was the instant reply.

  “You see, Miranda? Once you have chosen a husband, where you live will matter little as long as you are with him.”

  “No,” said Miranda obstinately. “It’s different for both of you. Neither of you grew up loving your home as I love Wyndsong, nor did you grow up believing you would inherit, as I have believed. I do love Wyndsong, every bit of it! I know it better than any of you. Wyndsong is mine, whatever the original patent may say, and I will never let one of those prim and priggish Plymouth Dunhams have it! I won’t!” Tears glistening diamond bright in her sea-green eyes, Miranda fled the room. Crying was not like her, and she was embarrassed to show such a feminine weakness.