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Authors: Jamie Carie

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BOOK: The Duchess and the Dragon
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WHAT WAS THE girl’s father implying? Was he offering him his daughter? He had nothing to give her. The irony stabbed at Drake. It was the first time he could ever remember wishing to shower a woman with everything the earth had to offer, and he had nothing. He’d showered many women with the desires of their hearts, but it had always meant little to him. Just a means to an end, and a happiness from them that would last a moment—a moment he’d known would come and took full advantage of.
As he and Serena walked toward the door to the church, he breathed in the crisp winter day and imagined Serena in a duchess’s finery. A satin ball gown in green, to match her eyes. Jewels hanging from her ears and around her neck, dipping into the ivory hollow of her throat. White silken gloves that reached just above her elbows where the tender flesh of her upper arm would be bare until the slender lace of a sleeve began. With her hair artfully arranged and just a touch of pink on her lips . . . she would be devastating. And she had no idea, no idea the power she could wield. He pictured her dancing, close in his arms, whirling to the violins in one of the many grand ballrooms of his world.
Glancing at the top of her head, neatly covered by an unadorned mop cap, he smiled, internally shaking his head at himself. Even had he the riches, she would likely scorn such trappings as sinful. He sighed. Perhaps they were. They hadn’t done
him
much good.
The entry to the meetinghouse was barren, leading to a large square room. There were rows of wooden pews on all sides facing the center. Everything was brown, none of the splendid color of the Church of England. None of the stained glass, the holy relics, the statues, the altars with their gleaming gold and silver utensils and velvet cloth. No solemn, rich priest to stand before them like a demigod. Here there were only beams of dusty sunlight streaming from plain rectangular windows. A dull, weathered floor echoed with a hollow sound as they walked, arm in arm, to their place.
Like their home and work, these Quakers were austere in their worship.
“Thou wilt sit on the men’s side, with father,” Serena whispered before unclasping his arm and moving away. He watched her graceful, flowing stride as she left him, and felt the warm place where her hand had rested on his forearm growing quickly cold. Josiah Winter clapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow.
The seats were less than comfortable, but Drake supposed that kept them awake, at any rate. He watched as the congregation filtered in. Like solemn brown sparrows alighting on an equally brown branch, they blended in with their surroundings. Men and boys to one side, women and girls to the other. He waited, while they settled themselves, for the service to begin.
It finally dawned on him as they closed their eyes, some bowing heads showing tanned necks, that no one was going to speak. Drake closed his eyes. The minutes ticked by.
Tick . . tick . . . tick . . .
He could almost hear a clock in his mind. He forced himself to relax, took a long, silent breath as his shoulders gradually loosened. His breathing lengthened, his heart slowed, and he suddenly realized that it was peaceful here. It was like a thickness had settled in the air and then rested on him. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with its still calm. His mind cleared of all else. His astonishment was only eclipsed by the inability to feel anything more than this sense of overwhelming peace. The minutes ticked quickly now.
Into the quiet a voice spoke. So in tune with the serenity was the voice that Drake didn’t know if it was human or in his mind, but he listened as though it held great import.
“To everything there is a time. A time to mourn and a time to laugh. A time to sing and a time to cry. A time to give thanks and a time to know thanksgiving. To each life a season for all things to be revealed. Give thanks and know the peace of thanksgiving in all things.”
Drake waited with bated breath for more. He wanted answers. He wanted ease from this constant confused pain that gripped him. Maybe here, among these people, he would find something he sought. But there was no more. The person sat down, leaving Drake to meditate on what the speaker had said. The Ecclesiastic feel to the words was familiar; mayhap he’d heard it at a funeral, some long-ago acquaintance that barely registered on the important business of his life. But the end, about thanksgiving . . . he didn’t know that. Did it bring peace to be thankful in all seasons? Was that the message?
Drake wasn’t sure, but the remainder of the hour went surprisingly quick. At some hidden signal they all stood and shook hands with each other. Drake nodded to several men as Josiah introduced him. Looking around, he now recognized a few others from onboard the ship. They, too, must have been rescued by these Quakers.
At Josiah’s urging, Drake followed the men into another, smaller room. There, laid out before them, was a long table loaded with covered dishes. Mary Ann passed by him and dimpled prettily. “Now, ’tis time to eat.”
As she sailed by to help her mother, he joined the line that formed, answering those questions he could from the men around him, but all the while looking . . . feeling . . . for Serena.
He found her ladling something from a steaming pot into a bowl. She looked up, her eyes finding his, and then smiled at him, the connection like a thing of old, like something they’d been born to. Drake felt himself melt in the warmth that was such a part of her.
“Drake . . . let me introduce a friend of mine. A botanist, Mr. Bartram.”
Drake dragged his eyes from Serena’s with difficulty. With a slight bow he directed his gaze at the man. “Mr. Bartram, a pleasure.”
Mr. Bartram had a clear gaze that searched his. “I understand thou art recently from London?”
Drake nodded. “Northumberland, actually. But most recently, London.”
“Ah. Northumberland. Beautiful land. Yes, well, I am looking for an apprentice for my studies in botany and was wondering if thou wouldst be interested in such a trade? I have a homestead just west of here with acres of forestland waiting to be explored. I find I do not have enough time to do all the work myself.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
Drake struggled with an appropriate response while the man continued.
“Forgive me, I presume much. Thou hast just recovered from what must have been a horrendous journey and an illness, I am told. But please, in our effort to help thee and thy fellow shipmates, is there a trade at which thou art skilled?”
A skill? Well, he
had
tripled his father’s estate in business ventures, making him one of the wealthiest men in the world. But what could he tell this man? “I seem to have a head for numbers. I’m afraid, aside from some general knowledge in farming horticulture—” and the ownership and management of tens of thousands of acres of farmland, he added silently—“I know little about plants.”
Drake hoped it would suffice. The mere suggestion of spending his days tromping through thick forests, identifying and cutting plants, sent genuine despair through him. He needed to take some hand in the cards fate had dealt him, so he continued doggedly while the line moved forward and men began filling their plates. “I was hoping for something in business.”
Mr. Bartram nodded to Josiah. “Mayhap he can help thee then, Josiah.” He grinned and confided to Drake, “’Tis an artist, your host. He complains often enough about the paperwork and calculations accompanying such a thriving business as his.”
Drake looked at the gentle man beside him. He could work for this man. He could live in his house.
He could spend his free time with a woman named Serena.
As if he read Drake’s mind, Josiah’s brow knotted and he looked deep into the younger man’s eyes.
The need to reach for a plate broke the uncomfortable moment. Attempting lightness, Drake asked, “What say you, Mr. Winter? Have you need of an apprentice?”
Josiah nodded. “Indeed, I have need of help in many areas. A man is rarely able to do everything with ease. Dost thou think thou couldst work with thy hands, also? I need someone to do the more simplistic work of a silversmith.”
Drake thought of the shiny metal. He had only been intent to accumulate it, never to create with it. His attempts at drawing were mediocre at best and he abandoned the arts long ago for the more manly pursuits of hunting, swordplay, horseflesh, and gaming.
He had just reached Serena, with her steaming dipper of soup. He looked up into her eyes as he answered. “Truthfully, I have never attempted anything like it, sir.” Still staring into her eyes he finished softly, “But I find I would like to try.”
Serena knew Drake wasn’t aware how high-handed he sounded, but Josiah and the botanist exchanged amused glances. It was obvious to all that Drake was used to giving orders, not taking them.
Serena handed him his bowl of stew and smiled up at him. “What wouldst thou like to try?”
The immediate response that rose to his lips made him suddenly clear his throat. Stopping the words from escaping, he said instead in clear resolve, “Silversmithing. Your father and I are discussing an apprenticeship in his shop.”
Serena blinked several times and looked at her father, “That’s . . . that is wonderful.”
“It is settled then,” her father said, focusing on Drake. “Thou wilt come with me to my shop, starting tomorrow morning.”
Drake turned, looking down at the floor, a feeling of unreality filling him. He blew out a breath, quieting the chuckle that wanted to escape.
He was a shop boy now.
Chapter Nine
Drake was awakened early, fed a fortifying breakfast, and then handed a simple, white linen shirt with crossties instead of buttons at the neck and dark leather breeches to wear. He wore his own boots and tied his hair, which had grown long enough to touch his shoulders, back from his face with a strip of leather. Mrs. Winter’s eyes twinkled merrily as she waved them out the door, wishing them a good day.
Serena watched from an upstairs window, a wistful smile playing across her face.
Dawn hovered over the city as Drake and Josiah Winter walked along the brick-paved streets, their breath creating little puffs of vapor in the still crispness. Josiah walked with a purposeful stride and a quiet air that Drake was loath to disturb. Instead, in the light of the fading stars, he looked over what, when compared with London, was really an infant town.
It was surrounded by rough wilderness, but there was a neat pattern to the growing city. Philadelphia, Drake knew, was the brainchild of William Penn, also a Quaker. Penn had been pointed out to him many years ago in London when Drake was only a student at Eton. The man’s sense of purpose was admirable, and Drake could now only respect Penn’s city. The man’s careful planning was obvious in the neatly arranged blocks that stretched out from the Delaware River. The waterfront made the town a thriving seaport. Drake remembered the typical squat buildings from his arrival: wood yards for fuel, shipyards for the boat builders and mast makers, and numerous sheds and storage warehouses. Further inland, the citizens had contributed a certain creative flair to the neatly quaint houses that lined the streets, mostly of brick or stone facade. There were the usual taverns, shops and churches, several churches. The meetinghouse they attended yesterday was situated on the southwest corner
of Second and Market Streets, but it was one of many houses
of worship.
They turned onto Elfreth’s Alley, where the artisans must practice their trades. As in London, signs swung out from brackets over the walkways. While some were painted wooden signs, many were a replica of what the establishment offered. The barber had a pair of shears, the farrier a horseshoe, the shoemaker a wooden boot. Drake smiled to see that Josiah’s shop had a silver plate hanging from its bracket. “Is the plate real silver? I would think you would fear it stolen.”
Josiah smiled back at him. “As did Serena. ’Tis wooden, with a special silver paint she made. It has fooled and tempted a few, as I have replaced it four times.”
They laughed together as they went into the dark shop. Josiah set about lighting a hurricane lamp and directed Drake in starting a fire in the forge.
Then Josiah showed him some of his work. There were spoons, ladles, snuffboxes, teapots, coffeepots, sugar bowls, and cream pitchers. Also, standing salts, caudle cups—for serving caudle, a spicy hot wine that Drake had yet to try—and in a special, velvet-lined box were all sorts of fancy silver buttons, buckles, and some jewelry.
Lastly, Josiah explained the silver trays with the customer’s “cypher” on it. “When a man has accumulated enough silver coin to keep him awake at night, he has it turned into plate.” Josiah turned it around so that Drake could see the inscription. “If it were stolen with his cypher on it, then the owner could easily identify it, should they catch the thief.”
Drake chuckled. “For want of a bank, it would appear a sound method. And profitable for you.” A thoughtful pause. “Have you considered branching off into banking?”
Josiah looked genuinely appalled. “I do well to keep my own accounts in order, young man.” He shuddered, “’Tis a horror for me to think of keeping those belonging to others.” He removed some tools from the cabinet. ”But with such an idea, I can see thou truly dost have a head for numbers.”
Josiah motioned him over to the long wooden worktable. “Let me show thee the tools.”
BOOK: The Duchess and the Dragon
9.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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