[“John” was not John Smith, but John Rolfe, Pocahontas’s
devoted husband.]
“There
is someone here who wants to see you. . . . As John led her toward the great
hall, she heard men’s voices, and then a familiar laugh, a deep, throaty
chuckle, made her pull back.
So
he had come at last.
“What
is it?” Her husband was looking at her in total bewilderment.
“I
don’t know,” she said. How could she explain to him that she did not want to be
in the same room with him and the man she had loved since she was thirteen?
Just hearing that laughter made her knees weak. What would she feel when she
saw him? Was this some kind of game these Englishmen were playing with her,
keeping her from seeing him for so long, and now, when I suited them,
presenting her to him for their amusement?
“Then
come on,” John said cheerfully. “The company is waiting.”
Her
hands had grown suddenly ice-cold. If only I had a muff, she thought
frantically,and then she remembered that muffs were only for outdoors, no
matter how cold your hands were. Stupid, these English were, about some things.
All stupid, except for John Smith. She lifted her chin, clutched her husband’s
arm, and swept into the cavernous, tapestry-hung hall, her red velvet gown
trailing behind her. Three men were standing with their backs to her, facing
the warmth of the huge fireplace.
“Here
she is,” Rolfe said proudly, and they all wheeled around. There was George
Percy, much healthier looking than when he had been at Jamestown. There was
Thomas Dale, without the Indian mistress he had yearned to bring back, looking
vaguely discontented.
The
third was John Smith.
--from JAMESTOWN: THE NOVEL, to be continued.
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