Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  “… terrified,” she finished on a little puff of breath.

  “And? Do I still terrify you?”

  “No. Yes. I … don’t know.”

  He stared at her intently for as long as it took to send her lashes wilting down over her eyes again.

  “An honest answer, anyway,” he mused.

  “Will you be equally honest with me?” she asked quietly.

  “Depends what you ask me. If you want me to admit that I was equally determined not to enjoy myself and equally pleased and surprised that I did ... well ... I suspect it would be too easy to call my bluff."

  She would have smiled had her question not been deathly serious. “Would you really have turned around and taken me home tonight if I’d asked you to?”

  For all of two heartbeats, he debated the shine in her eyes and the silky wet tightness of her body where she still held him snug and tight."

  “I don’t know. I honestly do not know.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Amanda did not know what time it was. And it took a full minute of concentrated effort to pinpoint what had wakened her. She was lying on her stomach—sprawled, more like it—one leg covered, one folded over the rumple of sheets and blankets. Her head was where her feet should have been and there were pillows everywhere but under her head.

  She pushed back the thick veil of tumbled hair that was restricting her view and cautiously looked around. She was alone in the huge bed, alone in the cavernous room. The fire was a smoldering pile of gray embers nestled around the charred skeleton of a log. An empty wine bottle was on the hearth beside two glasses—one of them tipped on its side. The sight of two more feather pillows lying alongside the bottle and glasses sent Amanda sinking back into the tangled crush of her hair, her fingers pressed over her lips, her eyes tightly shut against the images flooding back into her mind.

  It wasn’t possible. It simply wasn’t possible that she had done the things she had done last night or that she had allowed him to do the things he had done. On the bed, on the floor in front of the fire … on the chair, for pity’s sake …

  Far from the swift and perfunctory introduction to his bed that Amanda had dreaded, Michael Tarrington had taken great pains to ensure she would not be left with the impression he was either swift or perfunctory. Or that there was anything to dread, except perhaps chafing in places there ought not to have been chafing.

  Amanda felt a smile pulling at her mouth and tried in vain to smother it. Her lips were still swollen and sensitive, and she recalled complaining at one point about the roughness of his moustache. If she didn’t like him kissing her on the mouth anymore, he had declared, he would just have to kiss her elsewhere. And all of the various elsewheres he had found had proven not to mind the rugged abrasion at all.

  She stretched through an embarrassed giggle and rolled onto her back, acutely aware of the bevy of pleasant new aches that made their presence known almost everywhere in her body. She felt soft and glowing inside, tingling and sensitive on the outside.

  She ran a hand across the sheets, imagining she could still feel the heat of his body where it had lain next to her.

  Where was he?

  Nothing of Michael Tarrington’s behavior thus far suggested he conformed to anyone’s idea of what should or should not be expected from him, yet it was, after all, their first morning—afternoon?—together as man and wife. One would have thought he would have been there to ease her into her new surroundings.

  She gathered up the top blanket and wrapped it toga-style around her nakedness. She had no idea where her nightgown had gone. At some point during the night he had flung it away in the shadows, but although she craned her neck and looked around, there was no trace of it anywhere.

  Her first attempt to stand brought her heavily down again as the sheets tangled around her ankles. Her knees were none too steady either and her legs felt as wobbly as those of a new born foal.

  On her second attempt she managed to stay upright, but the room was so gloomy she headed first for a window to pull aside the heavy, dark draperies. To her delight, the curtains concealed a deep alcove, complete with a small kneehole writing desk and chair, an ornate brass lamp, and a wide window-seat padded with fat cushions covered in the same plush velvet as the draperies. The windows stretched from knee to ceiling height, the panes built to fit the octagonal shape of the alcove, and divided into myriad squares of leaded glass that absorbed and refracted the rays of the sun like crystal prisms.

  Amanda stepped into the self-contained well of sunlight and heat, deciding instantly it could become one of her favorite places. The view from the window was magnificent, overlooking acres of rolling green lawns and landscaped beds of roses, shrubs, and hedges of oleander. The courtyard was off to the left, ringed by a half circle of stables and carriage bays that had recently been repaired and whitewashed—so recently there were signs the painting and repairs were still in progress.

  According to Ryan, the Glen had been in need of more than just whitewash on the outbuildings. Michael Tarrington must have had a small army working here these past few weeks to have accomplished so much in so little time. And the cost!

  A small shiver raced up her spine and she remembered the night on board the Mississippi Queen. He had taken hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and gambled them away without a blink or a qualm. Exactly how wealthy was he?

  Her thoughts were distracted by a volley of muted thumping. Off to the right was a formal terrace enclosed by walls of tall shrubbery and a stone balustrade. The latter was under repair, and, as she watched, a badly broken pillar was being chipped away completely, hammered into small chunks by a man wielding a large iron maul. He was thin and bony in appearance. His sleeves were rolled above the elbows and the sweat poured off his temples, soaking dark patches across his shoulders and down the back of his shirt. His face was not familiar—there was no reason it should be—but Amanda was treated to an unobstructed view of it when he stopped to wipe the greasy strands of hair out of his eyes and looked directly up at the bedroom window.

  Narrow and pockmarked, it was an unremarkable face for the most part. His nose had been badly broken some time in the past and listed to one side. The scraggly tufts of brownish hair that grew on his chin were, she suspected, the best he could probably do by way of a beard. His clothes were ill-fitting, the trousers too loose, the shirt too tight, and as he raised his hand to push his hair out of his eyes again, she saw that two fingers were missing and a third was badly misshapen. His teeth were all there, however. Short and stubby, but white enough to show in a leering grin.

  She stepped quickly back from the window, but not before she had given the workman a fetching view of bare shoulders and tousled blonde hair. She retreated farther, hastily drawing the curtains closed behind her and cocooning herself in the cool shadows of the main room again.

  Where was Michael Tarrington?

  Where were her clothes?

  Dragging the sheets behind her like Lady Muck, Amanda went in search of her carpetbag, thinking she could at least don a shred of dignity by way of her underclothing.

  Her bag was not in the corner where she had left it.

  A frantic heartbeat almost made her miss the daguerreotype, baby bonnet, and prayer book that had been carefully placed on the nightstand. But the bag, along with her meager assortment of linens, was nowhere to be seen.

  Had Mrs. Reeves come into the chamber and moved it while she slept?

  Amanda groaned and bit her lip. If the housekeeper had come into the room, she had no doubt left it again in shock. And if Amanda needed any proof of what Mrs. Reeves would have seen, the image reflected in the cheval mirror confirmed it. Her hair was as scattered and rumpled as the bedsheets. Her lips not only felt puffed and tender, they looked swollen and well-kissed.

  She looked debauched. Thoroughly, sinfully debauched.

  Where was the man who had left her this way?

  With the inner glow rapidly fading, Amanda tried the doo
r to the dressing room. It opened easily enough—small relief to find she had not been locked away for the moral safety of the rest of the household. The tulip-shaped tub was empty. A pitcher on the washstand held water, and there were fresh towels folded over the harp-back. Beside it, hanging where she could not possibly help but see it, was a frock of cornflower blue muslin, and below it, arranged in neatly folded piles, were new underpinnings: chemise, drawers, stockings, petticoats, all made from the softest, richest foulards and silks, edged in the most delicate lace she had seen in years. Even her ruined shoes had magically disappeared and in their place, delicately cross-laced slippers in soft morocco leather.

  Amanda bit her lip and glanced back into the bedroom, but there were no answers there. She tested the doorknob at the other end of the dressing room, but it only revealed a second, much smaller bedroom, empty of any furniture save for a small cot and curtains.

  She closed the door again and stared at the clothes. Her hand went out of its own accord and touched the silk chemise. Not even Montana Rose had worn such finery. The silk was so slippery and sheer, it made her blush to think of it next to her skin.

  Having little choice between the toga and the muslin, she shed the one and, after washing away the last trace of any lingering glow, she stepped shiveringly into the layers of silk and foulard. She paused after each addition to inspect herself in the mirror, giving credit to the fact that her new husband had five sisters and thus would have been able to make a fairly good guess at her size.

  The glow had definitely returned when she twirled, fully clothed, in front of the mirror. The muslin was the exact shade of her eyes, the style coming surely out of the most recent pattern books, with delicate concertina pleats concealing the front closure. The sleeves were fitted to the elbow then flared into a gracefully soft bell, edged in lace and banded in a froth of thin blue satin ribbons. There were more ribbons tied in clusters on each of the four scalloped tiers of the skirt, and at the center of each cluster, a perfect pink silk rosebud.

  Her hair was the last thing she tackled. There were no pins or combs with which to subdue it properly, but, after recalling her husband’s opinion of trapped, confined hair, she settled for purloining a bit of ribbon off one of the flounces and tying the yellow mane loosely at the nape of her neck.

  Another slow pirouette in front of the mirror and she was satisfied. Even Alisha would have approved.

  Amanda stopped twirling and stared at her reflection.

  Alisha had made it painfully clear she had married Karl von Helmstaad just so she could have all of these things—the fine clothes, the grand house, the wealth to support her every whim. Amanda had never aspired to anything of the sort for herself. She would have been content with a roof over her head and a viable crop in the field. She certainly never expected to marry a man like Michael Tarrington: a Yankee, a gambler, a handsome rogue she had seen a total of three times before they were wed. A man she knew absolutely nothing about, but one who already knew some of her deepest, darkest secrets.

  Cool, level-headed, practical Amanda Courtland Jackson, the serene and devoted widow of a Confederate hero— eloped and wed to a Yankee scallywag in less time than it had taken Alisha to choose a trousseau. She did not even want to think of the stories that would fly around Natchez.

  A noble sacrifice was one thing. Complete loss of credibility was another. It was probably not as complete as if she had married Forrest Wainright, but the repercussions were bound to make her the fodder of gossips for months to come.

  After a last glance around the bedroom, she ventured out into the hallway. It was as quiet and tomblike as she had last seen it, almost as gloomy with the two windows at either end of the hall so far apart that what little sunlight did come through was diffused long before it met the middle. Once again she was struck by the enormity of what she had done. Briar Glen, with its stately elegance, its rich history, and haunting grace, was now her home. She, not Emma Porterfield, was its mistress. And her name was no longer Mrs. Caleb Jackson; it was Tarrington. Mrs. Michael Tarrington.

  “Mrs. Tarrington. There ye are. I was beginnin’ to wonder if I should venture in an’ check ye fer a heartbeat.”

  Mrs. Reeves was standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, her eyes twinkling on the strength of her own humor.

  “Slept well, did ye? Nay thanks to that man o’ yourn, I vow. Made enough clatter this mornin’ to roust the dead, he did. Orders flyin’ here an’ there—fetch this, fetch that; have this ready, have that cooked in case, mind, just in case a body might have a taste fer it. Left strict orders ye were not to be disturbed, he did. It weren’t that sop-eared son-in-law o’ mines what woke ye, was it? I told him not to go bangin’ and thrumpin’ outside Mr. Michael’s window, but then Ned Sims never takes heed o’ a word I say anyroad. Still, I’ll skin his scrawny hide an’ take a deal o’ pleasure doin’ it, ye say it were him what woke ye.”

  “No. Please, Mrs. Reeves,” Amanda said quickly, believing the crusty Scotswoman was more than capable of carrying out her threat. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was high time I was awake anyway.”

  “Aye, ye’ll hear no argument from me. Breakfast is long away and lunch is gone cold."

  “I … didn’t expect anyone to go to any trouble—”

  “Trouble’s done already,” Mrs. Reeves announced flatly. “So we’ll just have to make the best o’ it.” She eyed Amanda closely as she descended the last few steps. “Aye, ma Sally did right by ye. Mr. Michael said as how ye were about the same size as his sister Meg, then he sent ma daughter Sal out wi’ a shopping list the length o’ ma arm. Near wore her feet to the bone, she did, goin’ from shop to shop. If ye don't like what she fetched, ye can blame him. He give her all the orders, right down to the color o’ ribbons on the shimmy.”

  Amanda smoothed her hand self-consciously down the pleated bodice. “Everything … the dress … everything is wonderful, Mrs. Reeves. And I am sorry to be the cause of so much bother. I had no idea … I mean, I did not plan on everything happening so quickly or so … unexpectedly.”

  “Aye, well, that’s the kind o’ man ye married, dearie. Best ye get used to feathers flyin’ every which way every time he blows in off the river. Still an’ all.” She stalled and seemed to lose some of her steam. “He should have told me sooner, is all. Changed his dresses when he was a bairn, I did. Raised him like he were one o’ ma own, an’ here he didn't even let on he were courtin’ let alone marryin'. Nary a breath, nary a whisper. Oh, aye, he took a lot o’ trips down the river, but he never said as how he were come here to see anyone special. Said as how he were come to look fer a home fer his wee babies. Pfaugh! Next we know, he’s up an’ bought this great hulkin’ plantation an’ sent home fer all his trappin’s. Says he were surprised to see me step off the boat? Aye, well, I were so surprised to see what like this place was—an’ him barely able to keep a sea chest packed proper—ma bowels missed the basin twice in the one day!”

  Amanda, struggling valiantly to keep pace with the thick brogue, did not know whether to laugh or cry. “I promise, Mrs. Reeves, there will be no more surprises.”

  “Aye, well.” The housekeeper glared pointedly at her new mistress’s trim waistline and snorted. “I’d be a rare, ripe old cow if I believed that one, dearie. When’s the baby comin’?”

  “I … beg your pardon?”

  “The baby. The bairn. When is she comin’? Did he no’ tell me ye had a wee daughter? Purity?”

  “Verity,” Amanda said on a breath.

  “Vurity?”

  “Verity, yes. It’s … a family name. On my mother’s side.”

  “Aye, well, he thought as how ye might like to put her in the room next to yours, but ye’ll have to check the list he gave me o’ what ye want aside from a cot an’ a lavvy. Ma Sally’s in a fair swoon about a child comin’ to live here. Loves them better than she loves life itsel’, she does. Miscarried her own, though, an’ tore up so bad it doesn't look like the good Lord is going to
give her another chance.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Aye, me an’ all. But she’s a good wee lass. Ye’ll now’t find anyone better to look after yer Vurity, black nor white.”

  It was then that Amanda realized Mrs. Reeves was every bit as nervous as she was, even worried that her Mr Michael had married a high-born Southern belle who might look down with scorn upon a Scottish housekeeper and her barren daughter.

  “Mrs. Reeves—” She laid her hand on the elderly woman’s arm.“My daughter is very shy and she may take awhile to adapt to her new surroundings, but I’m sure she and Sally will get along just fine.”

  “She’s comin’ soon, then?”

  The question was so eagerly asked that Amanda doubted Sally was the only one excited at the prospect of a child in the house. Relief made her smile openly for the first time in too many days to recall. “As soon as I can fetch her.”

  Mrs. Reeves was suddenly all smiles herself. “Aye, come along then. I’d best be fixin’ ye somethin’ to tide ye over till Himself comes back, or he’ll be thinkin’ he’s found an excuse to pack me on the first train back to Boston.”

  Amanda started to follow her down the hall. “You said he left early this morning?”

  “Aye. Gone down to the docks to meet his own babies. Foley said as how he’d go down an’ fetch them, but Mr. Michael said no. He’d be goin’ too.”

  Amanda stopped abruptly. And stared. “His own … babies?”

  “Aye. His babies. Ten o' them on this trip and he doesn't trust anyone else to look after them, although Foley’s been wi’ him … ach … ten years now, through the war an’ all, on the frigates an’ the iron monsters both even though he puked his guts o’er the rails every other day. Nay, Mr Michael tends his babies himself. Feeds ’em, mucks ’em, even helps with the birthin’ when it comes time.” She bustled into a large airy room off the main foyer and waited for Amanda to catch up. “Can't say as I like the wee beasties myself. Never saw the need fer a horse beneath me while I still had the use o’ ma own two legs. But he took a likin’ to them, oh, ten years gone—bettin’ on ’em mostly, o’ course. Now he has it in his brain he can raise and race his own. That’s why he bought this place, so he says. To give ’em enough room to stretch out proper.”