Uncaged (9 page)

             
Wren tossed her head back and giggled. “Surely you jest! You swooned at a bit of blood?”

             
Rose frowned. “It wasn’t a bit, ma’am. It
was a mess of it.
The sheets were covered and both of you appeared dead
upon entry to your chambers.
”

             
“Haven’t you ever spent yourself on passions beyond anything you’ve ever experienced? That was all it was. Exhaustion. Pure and simple.”

             
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Not like that.” Rose crossed the room to fetch some towels.

             
Wren sighed. “I’m anxious for this day to pass.”

             
“Yes ma’am. I’ve pressed your dress for you.”

             
“Gads! Black looks horrid on me.”

             
“No color can diminish your beauty, ma’am,” Rose added. Best to stay in her good graces just in case her mistress r
eally meddled in black magic.

             
“Such a shame that I have to don such a color.”

             
Rose helped her out of the tub and wrapped a towel around her.

             
“Tis true, but you’ll look lovely as ever.”

             
“Even more of a shame that I should be thrust into mourning when I feel like celebrating.”

             
Rose arched a brow. Wren waggled her finger at her maid. Rose inched closer, leaning her ear near her mistress’ lips. “Let’s pretend this will be a celebration.”

             
“A celebration, ma’am?”

             
“Indeed. A holiday to rejoice in my father’s demise.”

             
Rose’s hand clasped over her heart. So it was true! Miss Wren had cast a spell on her own father! Whether she would pass this bit of knowledge onto the cook or not, she was unsure of. Now she feared her own mistress.

~*~

             
Wren was seated at her vanity, inspecting her bruised breast. Two of the wounds were beneath the breast, but the other two were spilling out over her bust, giant purple orbs. If not for her darker coloring, they’d appeared much worse. She wiped off the balm that Rose had smeared over the sores and applied as much rouge as possible to the delicate area. Luckily, she would be wearing her high necked mourning dress to the wake. There was a gentle rap at her door. Rose let herself in.

             
“The guests are gathering, ma’am. We best get your dress on you,” Rose informed her mistress in a shaky voice.

             
Wren sighed as she patted her hair and then pulled on one tight curl, watching it bounce back to her ear. She frowned at her reflection. “Oh how I dread this.”

             
She rose as her maid entered the room and helped her dress. Neither of them said a word as Rose pulled at her corset and buttoned the dozens of tiny black pearls that trailed from her neck all the way down to her waist. With one last glance in the wavy looking glass, Wren nodded to her maid. The two of them left in silence. A sense of dread clung to the air as Rose followed Wren down the hall and winding staircase to join the mourners in the parlor. Twenty people or more were milling about in black when the butler opened the door to allow more guests entryway.

             
Wren was surprised, considering the captain had little or no friends among the elite. He would be remembered best for his staunch support of slavery when it was becoming most unfashionable and many had seen it for the inhumane practice that it truly was in
Europe
and beyond. Selling his mulatto wife back into slavery was his worst act ever. Wren noticed as she watched those gathered that most were gentlemen of her father’s age, men who came from a different time. These men were of her father’s generation, many of them slave owners themselves who found no wrong doing on the captain’s part. She knew most of them were aghast at the new legislation in the works to liberate the slaves. The fact that Bruce worked so valiantly to abolish slavery made her only love him more. Oh how she wanted to climb back up the stairs and bury her head beneath her pillow and ignore them all! She took a deep bre
ath as she entered the parlor,
realizing fully that she was among enemies.

             
Where is Bruce? He promised he’d come. He knows I detest these things!

             
It was as if he heard her calling for at that very moment, there were three strong knocks on the front door. Wren’s eyes followed the butler as he strode to the door and opened it wide. There standing in his
mourning attire, stood Bruce.
Wren was instantly at ease. She rushed to his side and took his hand. Bruce brushed a small kiss along her hair line. His scent comforted her. Now she was safe.

             
“Oh, Bruce, thank you for coming,” she whispered.

             
“Of course, my darling. Shall we go pay our respects?” he asked grimly, wanting this over as quickly as she.

             
Wren nodded. They made their way to the casket, though Bruce had already seen the bastard a night ago, bumping into him in the dark. His manner
of decay had already worsened.
The captain’s cheeks and eyes had sunken further into his wrinkled face and a most unnatural deep scowl slashed his ruddy features. Two coins lay upon his eye lids as was customary. It gave Wren a small measure of comfort, indicating that her father had died with them open. She could only hope that he’d been in terrible pain just before passing. The bastard deserved it for all he’d done to her and her dear mother. She had no doubt he would spend the rest of eternity burning for his sins.

             
A fire had been lit in the far corner of the parlor. Wren noticed a hoard of men gathered around one tall, thin man. The group was laughing raucously. Wren thought it in terrible taste during a wake and wondered who the man could be. She’d never seen him before. She also noticed he held her father’s brandy snifter in his hands, for the
Whittier
family crest was etched on the outside. Rose walked into the parlor, carrying the silver tea pot. When she knelt to place it on the table, Wren tapped her on the shoulder.

             
“Some tea, ma’am?” Rose asked softly.

             
Wren ignored her question. “Rose, who is that man over there?”

             
“Where, ma’am?”

             
“That man in the corner. The one holding my father’s brandy snifter. I’ve never seen him before.”

             
Rose frowned as she looked to the corner of men and back at her mistress, vying for the right words. Gentle words that wouldn’t shock her.

             
“Rose!” Wren hissed when Rose only wrung her hands.

             
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m tr
ying to recall his last name.
Ah, yes. Sheldon is his name. Mister Ralph Sheldon.”

             
“Why is he here?” Wren pressed.

             
Bruce leaned closer, now just as curious as Wren.

             
Rose fought for the right words, looking first to Bruce and then back at Wren who stared at her, waiting. She thought of making something up, but realized that Wren would find out anyhow and besides, she didn’t want any of her mistress’ anger at the matter to be directed toward her. Now that she knew for certain that Miss Wren dealt with the devil, she certainly didn’t want any black magic cast her way.

             
“He’s here to claim the estate, ma’am.”

             
Wren gasped. Bruce clasped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. Both of them had believed Wren to be the only heir. It had been written into her father’s will years ago. This was her ticket to freedom. She would be financially sound for all her remaining days, or so they thought.

             
Wren blinked uncontrollably, gathering her wits about her. “Wh-what?”

             
“Aye, ma’am. I’m so very sorry. He was named benefactor in the captain’s will.”  
             

“Bu-but my father named me heir in his will years ago. He told me so himself. Are you certain?”

             
Rose blinked at her mistress. “Quite certain, ma’am.”

             
“When did he arrive?” Wren asked between clenched teeth.

             
“This morn, ma’am. I would have told you sooner, but I just learned of it myself,” Rose lied, praying that
witches couldn’t read minds.

             
“Is he related?”

             
“Aye, he is.”

             
“An uncle perhaps?”

             
Rose shook her head. “No, ma’am. He’s the captain’s son.”

             
“A son?” Wren had no idea she had a sibling.

             
Rose nodded and whispered in Wren’s ear. “He was born on the wrong side of the blanket. The captain only found out about him five years ago. He had his will rewritten when Mister Sheldon came into the picture.”

             
Wren turned to look at her maid in horror. “Who told you this?” she spat, keeping her voice low.

             
“Rumors have been swirling, ma’am. Some of the other servants heard the details whilst serving the solicitors and Mister Sheldon in the library
this morn. I suspect most of it i
s true. Betsy caught wind of most of the talk and she’s honest as they come.”

             
“And he’s as white as they come,” Wren replied.

             
“And he’s coming this way,” Bruce warned.

             
Wren’s spine stiffened when the stranger took her hand and kissed the back of it. “You must be Wren, my half-sister.”

             
Wren plastered a smile on her face and curtsied. “Mister Sheldon, this is Mister Remington.”

             
The two men shook hands.

             
“Forgive me sir, but I’d never even heard of your existence,” Wren said sweetly.

             
Sheldon laughed out loud. “Strange indeed, miss. I’ve known of our father for the past five years and I’d never heard of you either.” Wren seethed inside while Sheldon went on. “You see, I was the result of a torrid affair some years past. My mother informed me of my true heritage when I turned five and twenty. I met the captain at that time. We’ve corresponded through letters. We’ve taken holiday together twice.”

             
“How lovely,” Wren replied, feigning niceties.

             
“Yes, well, there is much to do here now and I’ll be taking over his fleet of ships. I’ve always fancied myself a seafarer.”

             
“How wonderful for you.”

             
“Yes, and what are your plans, miss?”

             
“My plans?”

             
Sheldon nodded. “Aye. You have no family left. The captain told me about your mother. Do you plan on following her?”

             
“Following her? Whatever do you mean, sir? She was sold back into the wicked hands of slavery!”

             
“Exactly what I said. Isn’t it your every waking desire to find her and reunite with your kind?”

             
Wren turned beet red. Her eyes flashed with anger. Her nails dug into the fists at her sides. “My kind?” she spat.

             
Sheldon surveyed her with hooded eyes, looking down upon her as if she were a meddlesome fly. A fly he could easily crush. “Yes, your kind. You quadroons, half breeds if you will.”

             
“Well, I’ve never been so in-”

             
Bruce guided her away from the ill mannered man. “Come, darling. Mister Sheldon is hardly worth the effort.”

             
Sheldon grunted, eyeing Bruce with new disdain. “Don’t tell me a man of your quality is fucking a blackamoor!”

             
A deep hush fell over the parlor. All eyes were on the three nearest the captain. Bruce pushed Wren behind him.

             
“Hold you tongue, Sheldon or I’ll rip it out of your fucking throat!”

             
Sheldon took a step back. Bruce was at least two heads ta
ller and much wider in stature.
“Get out of my goddamn house, Remington and take your black whore with you!”

             
Wren gasped. She was being thrown from her own home, the home where she’d grown up. The home that held memories of her mother, but little else. But it was all she’d known. She never guessed the captain’s death could make her life worse that it already was.