Captive Secrets (26 page)

“What about your brothers' wives?” Fury asked hopefully.

Juli snorted. “They mend. Where would they learn how to sew for fine ladies? No, there is no one—not even in town. Every seamstress will be overworked.”

“Then we must improvise,” Fury said briskly. “Show me the material. Perhaps something will come to us.”

“Something?”

“A solution,” Fury said tightly.

“Hrumph.” Juli snorted.

Minutes later Fury's bedroom was draped with the costly bolts of material, one an emerald silk shot through with silver, the second a lovely plum embroidered with gold thread. “The emerald one, I think,” Fury said, frowning. “The plum is lovely, but I prefer the green. You were right, Juli, it's magnificent! Now, if we just put our minds to it, I think we can come up with a solution. . . .”

An hour later the two women were still staring at each other and the fabric. Suddenly Fury gathered the handsome bolt of emerald silk and draped it around her entire body. She swayed seductively for Juli's benefit. “What do you think?”

“That's perfect, Miss Fury! A sari, the kind women of India wear. We won't have to sew at all,” Juli said in relief, “providing we can cut a straight line with the scissors.” The brilliant silk was unwrapped and rewrapped around Fury's slender form. “See, we'll drape this here as a sleeve of sorts to cover your scarred arm. Your other arm and shoulder will be bare. You can wear the diamond garter on your bare arm, like this,” she said, circling Fury's upper arm with her hand. “And diamonds in your ears will add just the right touch. What do you think?”

Fury grinned. “I think I wouldn't be able to get along without you. If we make a fringe at the edge, we won't even have to sew a hem. It's absolutely perfect.” Fury pirouetted slowly, glancing behind her to catch the effect of the billowing fabric. “I wonder if I will know anyone at the soiree beside Mynheer Dykstra and a few of the governors,” she mused.

“I'm sure Señor Domingo will be there,” Juli said slyly.

“That would be nice, I'm sure. He's never seen me in anything as breathtaking as this. The dress I wore to my birthday ball was fashionable, but of schoolgirl quality. And at our dinner I wore one of Mother's gowns. This will be something that will—”

“Make
his
blood sing,” Juli giggled. “We'll have to give you an elaborate hairdo and color your lips and cheeks as well.”

“For a public appearance?” Fury gasped.

“Of course. Your mother loved to shock the local inhabitants. And she succeeded time and again. Your father would turn white with jealousy when men dropped at her feet. Yet he knew in his heart she was his. It was a game they played. Your father would huff and puff, and your mother would flirt so outrageously, it was sinful. It was all so wonderful back then.” Juli sighed happily with her memories.

Fury sank down on the bed. “I want to be like my mother, but I want to be myself, too,” she said slowly. “All the things I know about her and all the things you've been telling me confuse me sometimes. I don't want to impersonate her, Juli. On shipboard it's different, but not here. I have to be me, Fury.”

“But you are!” Juli exclaimed. “You picked the fabric you most admired. Your coiffure will be of your own choice. The garter is yours; your mother never wore one. It will be Fury van der Rhys who attends the soiree, not your mother.”

Fury hugged the older woman. “Thank you, Juli, you're a wonderful friend. I truly appreciate your help.”

“It's my pleasure, Miss Fury.”

Somehow Fury managed to while away the rest of the day walking in the garden and reading from an old book of poetry. She fed the hawks and had an early dinner, then retired to the privacy of her bedchamber.

As she undressed, she realized that she'd lied to Juli earlier when she'd said she was tired. She wasn't the least bit tired. In fact, she felt more alive—now, this minute—than she'd felt at any time since arriving in Batavia. She'd learned something, something she needed to think about seriously.

The silky sheet pulled up to her chin, Fury braced herself in her nest of pillows, the heady flower-scented evening air wafting through the open balcony doors to tease her nostrils. Now, at last, she thought she knew the answers to the questions that had plagued her all her life.

She loved her mother and as a child had tried to emulate her, taking pleasure in the compliments that compared her prettiness with her mother's. “So like your mother in every way.” In every way . . . except one. In the beginning she'd savored the comparisons, especially when her father uttered them, but she always knew in her heart that there was only one Sirena. And at some point after the death of her brothers, she'd consciously tried to change her physical appearance—her hair, her nails, her mode of dress. But she couldn't change her features. With each passing day, she grew more and more to resemble her mother. Her expertise with the rapier, her sailing skill, all as good as her mother's. Her social graces she knew now had been sabotaged deliberately . . . by herself.

Her decision to enter the convent had been a last attempt to reclaim her own identity—to herself, not Sirena van der Rhys's daughter, not an exact replica of her mother, but Furana van der Rhys, postulant, novitiate, and finally nun. Fully, totally committed to God.

All those prayers, all the rosaries, all the sore knees, weren't for God, they were for her—selfish prayers that would allow her to be separate from her glamorous, glorious mother. And the more her parents had argued with her, the more determined she'd been.

Fury sat up in bed as the hawks called gently to her from the balcony railing.

“Yes,” she murmured as she crept from the bed. “You knew, didn't you. I don't know how, but you did; otherwise you wouldn't have followed me. You've been wonderful—true and loyal friends to me.” She reached out to stroke them. “I don't know if I am meant for the convent. Perhaps it was an excuse for me to find a life for myself, a life of my own. I love my mother, but I don't want to be her. I want her to be proud of me for my own accomplishments. Clearing her name is something only I can do. And with your help I know I can succeed.”

She laughed ruefully. “You see, I'm still uncertain how far my abilities will carry me. I've never had a price on my head, and I've never fought a life-or-death duel. I know I don't want to die, at least not yet. I want to love and be loved. I want my blood to sing when I wake in the morning, and I want it to be singing when I fall asleep at night next to the man I love, but my commitment to God . . . I don't suppose you understand a thing I've been saying, and that's all right as long as you're here. It's taken me ages to learn about myself, and tonight was my time to begin.”

Gaspar's wing tip fluttered softly as it inched up to caress Fury's cheek. Not to be outdone, Pilar stretched and spread her wing around Fury's shoulder, her glittering eyes warning Gaspar that this was a woman's moment. Fury laughed with delight when Gaspar inched his way down the balcony. “Thank you,” she crooned, then gently made swooshing motions with her hands for the birds to retire for the night.

Sleep proved to be elusive, however. So many words, so many thoughts . . . The explanation was too simple, Fury thought in dismay. How could she wipe away her commitment to God and the church in just a few hours, and with mere words?

Instantly contrite, she leaned over the side of the bed and fumbled for her rosary on the night table. “Holy Father, I haven't forsaken You,” she prayed. “For so long I believed . . . still believe I am meant to serve You in whatever capacity I can. I will never again believe that You have forsaken me, this I swear. You are all about me. Show me what it is You want me to do. I can give up this life, I know I can. Forgive me, Merciful Father, for my sins. . . .”

 

The week passed slowly for Fury. She was aware of the men watching the casa and herself but refused to be intimidated by them. Each day she saddled Starlight and rode out to the rise to gaze down upon the
Rana.
She did nothing out of the ordinary, however, and Juli always reported to her when she returned that the men had not left their posts. She felt she was setting up a valuable pattern from which to draw on in the coming days.

On the morning of the soiree she sat gazing longingly at the bolt of China silk in her bedroom. She couldn't wait to be wrapped in its silky softness; she wanted to feel a man's arms—Luis Domingo's arms—about her, crooning sweet words under a bright moon and winking stars. She wanted so to attend this soiree, wanted to see Luis Domingo again. She wanted . . . craved . . . needed . . .

It was possible she was tormenting herself needlessly, for she didn't know if the handsome Spaniard would even be there. But that possibility was too painful to contemplate. He simply
had
to be.

Fury could feel tears of shame stinging her eyes at her lustful thoughts. But she couldn't stop them. Over and over she wondered what it would be like to make love with Luis Domingo.

“You aren't considered a real woman until you bed a man, and it doesn't matter if you're married or not,” a school friend had whispered once. She had been the most knowledgeable about the man-woman union, as she called it, although neither Fury nor the other girls at the convent school had ever challenged her as to the source of her knowledge. “Men's tongues are like weapons on a woman's body,” the young lady had declared authoritatively, adding that women had to be as aggressive as men in bed and make known their wants. “You must tell them what feels good, here and here,” she said, pointing to various parts of her anatomy. “Can you imagine letting a man undress you and looking at
all
of your naked body!” Fury
could
imagine, and
that
had been the problem.

She was startled from her burning thoughts when Juli poked her head in the doorway. “Everything is ready, Miss Fury. My brother brought your garter from the ship early this morning. We should be leaving soon. You did say you wanted to stop by the parish house to see Father Sebastian. The sooner we start, the sooner you'll be conversing with the
padre,”
she said cheerfully. “We can ask him if Señor Domingo will attend. Surely he'll know.”

“It's of no importance,” Fury said, as if it made no difference to her whatsoever. She could feel Juli's eyes on her but refused to meet her gaze.

“Of course it's important,” the housekeeper chided. “You will be the most beautiful, sought-after young lady at this soiree. All of Batavia will be talking about the stunning, exquisite Señorita van der Rhys. I want that Spaniard's eyes to pop from his head when he sees you. You wouldn't be a woman if you didn't want the same thing.”

Woman . . . Fury's heart thumped in her chest. “You make it sound like a contest,” she grumbled.

Juli nodded. “In a manner of speaking it is. All the women try to outshine one another. And there is always a winner. Men flock around you in droves, they shoot daggers with their eyes at their friends when they're luckier than themselves, and you favor them with a dance. Even the married men have roving eyes. My advice is to flirt outrageously with one and all. With the ladies who will want to scratch your eyes out, be demure and polite, respectful of their ages and their corsets.” This last bit of advice sent Fury into peals of laughter. Juli grinned. “But if you plan on taking a breath of air, make sure it's with Senor Domingo and no one else, or tongues will wag for weeks. You want only the most handsome, the most eligible man, and he is the catch of the season.”

“There is one problem I think we've both overlooked,” Fury said, standing. “How am I to dance in this tight dress we've created? I can just see it unraveling while I'm on the dance floor. My petticoat will be such a shock.”

“Petticoat . . . petticoat . . . you don't wear a petticoat with . . . absolutely not. You'll look ... fat and dumpy, like the ladies with corsets. No, no, no, the material must swirl and drape, there is no room for underpinnings.”

“None?” Fury gulped. “What if it comes loose by some . . . fluke . . . men are so clumsy . . . my God, I didn't think . . . no, I must wear . . . stop laughing, Juli. I could be exposed . . . good Lord, now what am I to do?” Fury wailed.

“It's too late to do anything, so you might as well stop fretting about what
could
happen and concentrate on making it not happen. If you really don't want to dance, say you hurt your ankle. You'll think of something,” Juli said loftily.

Fury's stomach turned sour when she thought of herself dancing unaware of the emerald silk unwinding until she was stark naked in Luis Domingo's arms, the guests hooting with delight. Dear God. She must have been crazy to accept this invitation and go along with Juli's idea for the dress—or was it her idea—damnation, she couldn't remember anything today. She turned to Juli and said sweetly, “I will personally throttle you with my bare hands if this dress so much as moves on my body.” Juli blanched and shrugged.

“If it does, there will be hundreds of men wanting to make an honest woman of you.” She almost hoped it would happen; nothing would stir up the party like a naked woman. Then she thought about Fury's promise. “I forgot to tell you that my brother said the prettiest girls from . . . you know, Clarice's place, are to be among the governors' escorts. Can you imagine! Of course the town
ladies
don't know they've been invited, because this time, it seems, the men are organizing the soiree.” Juli laughed and clapped her hands with glee. “I can't wait to see the expressions on the faces of those dowagers!”