Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(43)
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.