Ashton chafed at this unexpected turn of questioning, but he had no intention of spilling his heart and his hopes before so many. His only concession would be to make them aware of the injured state of the one he carried. “There was an accident with the carriage, Marelda, and the girl was hurt when she was knocked from her horse.”
“She was out riding in her nightgown? At this hour?” Marelda cried. “Really, Ashton, how can you expect us to believe a story like that?”
Ashton’s jaw tensed with his growing irritation. Marelda Rousse had dared many things, but never had gone so far as to question his word, especially in his own home and before so many. “I don’t have time to explain now, Marelda,” he answered curtly. “The girl needs attention. Please, just let me by.”
Marelda opened her mouth to complain, but her words were squelched by his piqued frown, and she could only move aside as she sensed a growing current of anger in his manner. There were times when Ashton Wingate seemed almost cruel in his reticence, and she knew it would do her little good to insist.
Amanda was embarrassed that she had allowed her own suspicions to leap out of control and saw the need for urgency. “The pink room in the east wing is empty, Ashton. I’ll fetch Willabelle and send her up immediately.” As her grandson strode toward the stairs, she gestured to the young black girl who had been watching the proceedings from the upper balustrade. “Luella May, run ahead and make the room ready.”
“Yas’m, Miz Amanda!” the girl answered and promptly darted off.
Leaving behind a rising murmur of voices, Ashton swiftly climbed the winding staircase that swept upward against a curving wall to the second level. Three years ago he had dreamed of carrying his young bride up these same stairs and whisking her away to his own bedchamber. Now here he was, holding close to his heart a woman he believed was Lierin. Were she conscious, he might have settled the matter of bedrooms with a quick inquiry, and he would no more know the loneliness that had haunted him since that tragic night on the river.
He arrived at the guest room to find Luella May folding down the covers on the canopied bed. The girl quickly smoothed a narrow hand over the sun-whitened sheets, readying the place for the injured one before moving out of his way. “Dere ain’t no need to worry yose’f, Massa Ashton,” she assured him. “Mama be here directly, and she know what to do fo de lady. She knows all dere is to know ’bout doctahing….”
Ashton hardly heard the girl’s chatter as he lowered his charge to the bed. Reaching to the bedside table, he wet a cloth in the washbasin and began to gently wipe away the mud from the colorless cheeks. His task complete, he held the lamp close and carefully studied the oval face, seeking out whatever truth was to be found there. His eyes followed the slim, straight line of her nose downward to the soft, pale lips. The darkening bruise temporarily marred the perfection of her brow, but the creamy skin was otherwise unflawed. Soft brown brows swept upward in a delicate arc above thickly fringed black lashes, and he knew, if this was indeed his wife, the eyes were a deep emerald green and as lively as new leaves dancing before the wind. Her thick hair was matted with broken twigs, dried mud, and dead leaves, but the debris could not hide the bright hue. She was the very image of the one he had held so tenaciously in his memory. It had to be his wife!
“Lierin,” he breathed in a yearning whisper. How long had he kept that name from his lips? Was he wrong in letting it escape for a second time this evening?
A tall woman of generous proportions entered the room and made a brief analysis of the situation before she gave hurried instructions to the girl: “Go fetch dat nightgown Miz Amanda was lookin’ for, an’ bring some hot water so’s Ah can give dis lady a bath.”
Luella May took off like a shot, and her mother hastened to the bedside to examine the bruise on the cool brow. Ashton watched from the end of the bed, where he gripped a post with white-knuckled tension.
“What do you think, Willabelle?” he asked anxiously. “Is she going to be all right?”
The housekeeper heard the concern in his voice, but did not pause as she lifted the girl’s eyelid. “Now don’ go frettin’ like dat, massa. God willin’, dis li’l gal gonna be fine and dandy in a few days.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
Willabelle wagged her white kerchiefed head sorrowfully. “Massa, Ah ain’t no doctah. Yo jes’ gonna have to wait an’ see.”
“Damn!” Ashton growled and, turning from her, began to prowl about the room in restless agitation.
Surprised by his manner, the housekeeper considered him with increasing concern. There was more here than just what appeared on the surface. When the waters were troubled, one could bet that beneath the roiling turbulence there was a cause. She was even more certain of this when he returned to the foot of the bed.
“Isn’t there something we can do until Dr. Page arrives?” he pressed.
“Yassuh,” the black woman answered solemnly. “Ah can bathe her an’ make her fresh an’ comfor’ble, whilst yo go an’ do de same fo’ yo’se’f.” She met his piqued frown, knowing she had offered him what wisdom she could.
Reluctantly Ashton relented, finding no argument to put forth. Laying his coat over his shoulder, he strode to the door and from there gazed back at the one in the bed. She lay deathly still, and it filled him with a cold, expanding dread. “Take good care of her, Willabelle.”
“Ah aims to, massa,” she vowed. “Don’t yo worry ’bout dat.”
Ashton swung the portal closed behind him and slowly made his way down the corridor. Pausing a moment beside the upper balustrade, he rested his hand on the polished rail and bowed his head in thought, trying to find answers for the many questions that plagued him. He knew it would have taken a miracle for Lierin to reach the far shore after she fell into the river, but if she had accomplished such a feat, why had she not let them know she was there? The River Witch had remained on the sandbar until the repairs were made, giving his men enough time to search several miles up and down the river, but they had failed to find any trace. If she had not drowned, why in the three years following the incident had he not received some word from her?
Finding no plausible explanations to encourage his hopes, he rolled his head back along his shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache that had formed behind his neck. As he tried to push the troubling doubts to the back of his mind, he deliberately focused his attention on his surroundings. He had built the mansion after accumulating some wealth, and now he wondered how Lierin would accept his home, if she would find it a delight as so many had before her, or if it would compare unfavorably with her father’s estate in England.
His gaze wandered over the pale marble floor of the lower hall and the delicately hued mural that swept around the curving wall. He saw things he had taken for granted for many months, while he remembered facts he had let slip from his mind. High above the circling balustrade, a large crystal chandelier hung from an elaborately plastered ceiling where dancing prisms of light frolicked and played and chased each other across the raised scrolls and flowers that formed the intricate pattern. No evidence now remained of the damage suffered when a drunken, fun-loving river rat from Under-the-Hill broke into the house and, encouraged by Ashton’s absence, threatened the servants by using the fixture for target practice. It was Amanda who had set the miscreant to flight when she had leveled a loaded gun at him. Later Ashton had demanded that painstaking care be taken by the craftsmen he hired to restore the hall to its former beauty; then he had sought out the brutish fellow who had caused the destruction and presented the bill to him. Just to even the odds in that rat hole by the river, he had taken a man with him, and between the two of them, they had taught the foolish buffoon and a full half-dozen of his cohorts a good lesson: keep their penchant for mayhem confined to the river’s edge and pay their bills when due, especially when the one doing the asking was Ashton Wingate, ably assisted by his huge black overseer, Judd Barnum.
Ashton continued on to his suite, but he could find n
o relief from the fears that beset him. Moving automatically, he doffed his muddied clothes and went through the process of washing, shaving, and dressing before he returned to the door of the guest room. Willabelle gently shooed him away, saying she was still attending the girl, and reluctantly he made his way down the stairs. When he entered the parlor, he was met by a veritable wall of eager male faces.
“Tell us about her, Ashton,” they urged.
“Who is she?”
“Where did you find her?”
“Is she from around these parts?”
“What was she doing out at night and all alone?”
“Is it true she was only wearing a nightgown?”
The questions flew at him with ever-increasing fervor, like a flock of disturbed bats. He held up a hand to plead for mercy and gave them a wry smile. “Gentlemen, please. I’m not a soothsayer. I can put no name to her at the moment. She’s not from this area and, as far as I can tell, no one that any of you know. To explain why she was out there in a nightgown would be difficult, except that there’s been a fire of some sort in the area, and she might have escaped from a burning house. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that she caught us completely by surprise when she came charging out of Morton’s Woods.”
“I hear she’s a real beauty, Ashton. How do you manage to be so lucky?”
Lucky! His mind screamed the word. How could they even suggest such a thing when he had lost his love and then perhaps…in the very act of finding her again…had nearly killed her? “I won’t consider myself lucky until I know she’s all right.”
“Aye, that’s true,” an elderly gentleman agreed. “If she’s seriously hurt, I think all this caterwauling about Ashton bringing her home will bear heavily upon our conscience.”
Marelda eyed Ashton from across the room, pricked that he had not seen fit to join her immediately. She contemplated several courses of action to convey her displeasure with him. Remaining distant for a noticeable period of time was one option, but when he seemed oblivious to her now, she could guess that such a ruse would be wasted. Had it been some other man, she might have fetched her wrap and left, but Ashton was an exceptionally handsome man. Indeed, a most magnificent specimen. Even in something less than the carefully tailored garments he now wore, he cut a figure to be admired, and she certainly had no wish to jeopardize her tenuous relationship with him. Perhaps a more direct maneuver would be advantageous. After all, she had gained much already by her boldness.
Marelda approached her host with as much determination as a full brigade of charging horsemen. She had spent many an hour perfecting a pretty pout and gave Ashton what she considered a best effort as she slipped an arm through his.
“I should scold you, Ashton, for making such a startling entry tonight.”
Ashton accepted the hurried excuses of the other men and watched them scatter. They no doubt assumed Marelda’s confrontation would lead into a lover’s spat, and it was amazing to him how she had managed to establish herself as his chosen one. Still, he had to admit that as a widower he had been rather lax and blasé about her warming attentions and frequent visits. His indulgence had probably given encouragement to many unwarrented assumptions. “I apologize, Marelda. I didn’t plan ahead to create a scene.”
Marelda turned her head slightly to allow him an unhindered view of her profile. She knew she was pretty and was quite fond of her own silky black eyes and raven curls. “I suppose you couldn’t help the little dear throwing herself into your path, but you do seem to have that effect on women….” A sudden thought struck her, and she asked hopefully, “Or is she a child? She seemed so small….”
Ashton shook his head slowly. “Definitely more than a child!”
“And of course you would know that”—her pique was clearly audible—“having seen her in her gown. She certainly knew what to wear to catch your eye.”
For her comment she received a casual regard with a hint of bland humor hiding somewhere in it. She had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her in the back of his mind, but jealousy had already sunk its sharp claws into her and would not free her from its grasp. Finally he deigned to give her a lazy shrug. “Actually she was wearing a cloak over her nightgown.”
“She was still undressed underneath it!”
“Whatever your preference, Marelda,” Ashton rejoined with light sarcasm. “It doesn’t change the fact that it was an accident.”
“Of course it was,” Marelda scoffed. “She only waited to see if it was your carriage before driving her horse into it.”
“I’m sure Dr. Page will soon be here to disclaim any doubts about her condition.”
A high-pitched giggle came from behind them, and they turned, realizing they had gained an audience in the person of M. Horace Titch, a squat little man whose dark, liquid eyes seemed always on the brink of tears. Now he plainly relished his ability to deliver some news: “Doc Page can’t come.”
Ashton knew the fellow as a tiresome individual who made a point of minding everybody’s business but his own. Amanda only invited him out of friendship for his sister, a woman who had, by good common sense, saved a sizable inheritance and the family plantation from the bungling efforts of her brother. Horace apparently had not been gifted with the same talent for management or astuteness as the older sibling had inherited and was definitely the last person Ashton wanted to see tonight.
“The doc’s gone out to the Wilkins’ place,” Horace announced bluntly. “They’ve got another brat coming, and with the trouble the missus had the last time, Doc Page didn’t want to take any chances. Seems to me they’d be a sight better off if they were to lose it, considering the mouths they have to feed.”
Ashton smiled without humor. “Too bad there wasn’t someone as selective as you when you were born, Titch. They might have brightened the whole outlook of Natchez.”
Horace reddened profusely, and with his straight, dark hair standing out from his head, he gave a good impression of an enraged porcupine. “I…I’d advise you, Ashton, to keep a civil tongue in your h-head,” he stuttered. “Re-remember some of that cotton you haul on your boat belongs to me.”
Ashton laughed sharply. “I do business with your sister, Horace, and provide for her a larger profit than any vessel on the river. If she is ever of a mind to take her trade elsewhere, there’ll be another planter to fill the space.”
“Don’t even speak of it, Ashton,” Corissa Titch said as she joined the gathering. Somewhat brassy and unfeminine, she was not one to remain silent when there were matters to be set straight. “I know where I get the better value for our crops”—she stared hard into her brother’s reddening face—“even if Horace doesn’t.”
Horace met the hazel eyes of his host and recognized the mockery gleaming in their smoky depths. Unable to deliver the threats he wanted to, he stumped away, chafing and silently vowing revenge upon his host. Corissa shrugged a mute apology to Ashton and followed her brother, knowing how his moods were wont to wallow in self-pity. Sometimes she wondered what his fits of depression would lead to someday.
A servant paused beside Ashton to offer champagne, and he used the respite to cool his irritation. Taking two goblets from the tray, he handed one to Marelda. She lifted hers in silent toast, and her heart tripped a time or two as she looked into the handsome visage. His features were crisp and classic, lightly bronzed by the wind and sun. His lips were sometimes warmly expressive, other moments stern and forbidding. Discounting the heavily lashed appeal of those smoky green-brown eyes flecked with gray, she sometimes thought his cheeks were the most expressive and fascinating feature about him. Beneath well-sculptured cheekbones the flesh was taut over muscles that were wont to tense and flex when he became angry.
Smiling up at him with glowing warmth, she reached out and caressed his lean, brown knuckles. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you. I missed you terribly.”
Thick lashes were lowered over cool, hazel eyes as he stared into the pale amber wine.
His thoughts were on Lierin, and it was a long moment before he responded: “It’s always good to come home.”
Marelda ran her fingers beneath his lapel, and the feel of the firmly muscled chest against the back of her hand brought a curious stirring in her own breast. “You worry me when you go off to New Orleans on one of your ventures, Ashton,” she murmured. “It does something to you, makes you reckless. Why can’t you just stay home and take care of your plantation like any normal planter?”
“Judd is more than adequate as an overseer, Marelda,” he stated, “and I have no qualms about leaving the management of this plantation in his hands while I search out potential customers for my steamboat trade.”
“You set a lot of store by Judd Barnum, don’t you? Indeed, you’re the only planter in these parts who has a black man for an overseer.”
“May I remind you, Marelda, that I am also thought of as one of the most successful. Judd has proved that he and his judgment are to be trusted.”
Marelda was never one to give up easily. “It just seems like you’d get more work out of your blacks with a white man taking over Judd’s position.”
“Make no mistake, Marelda. Judd expects them to work and work hard, but they’re given enough food and rest to compensate for the hours they spend in the field. Considering Belle Chêne’s prosperity, there’s absolutely no reason for me to change the way I run the plantation. Now”—Ashton stepped back with a shallow bow of apology—“if you will excuse me. I thought I heard Latham returning, and I’d like to hear what he has to report.”
Marelda held up a hand to delay him, intending to invite herself, but he quickly turned on a heel and was gone. She sighed and watched him leave the parlor. At times she was awed by his ability to bring life into a room with his mere presence and even more sure that, when he left, he took the joy with him.