She was looking forward to summer on the Yellowstone.
In the days since Adam had returned to his ranch, he took unalloyed pleasure in the tranquillity of life without Isolde. Always a devoted father, he and his daughter Lucie became inseparable. She rode with him when he surveyed the horses in the summer pastures or observed the training runs of the thoroughbreds. Perched on his lap or shoulders, she kept him company at the daily meetings with his men and household staff. With the carte blanche of a favored child, she added her voice to the scheduling discussions, her interruptions politely accepted by her father, his replies always calculated to bring forth a happy three-year-old smile.
From Adam’s first day back from Virginia City, Cook’s menu had been adjusted to cater to a child’s palate, and dinner was served again unfashionably early so Lucie could join her father. After dinner, in lieu of the former de rigueur period of the last few weeks in the drawing room, when a sulky or querulous Isolde had presided over the tea table, Adam and Lucie went directly to the nursery and played together until Lucie’s bedtime.
No one had seen Adam so happy in ages.
Like the old days before his marriage, everyone close to him observed.
But beneath the surface a private distraction compromised this life of unruffled well-being, for persistent visions of Flora Bonham continued to tantalize him. He found himself dreaming of her at night, the scenes invariably those of unrestrained passion, and he’d taken to riding out after Lucie fell asleep, avoiding his bed and the searing images. The cold night air helped, and the wide, quiet expanse of moonlit countryside. He felt free from all impediments in the untrammeled, limitless land, one with nature under the star-studded sky, absolved from intemperate desire. And later in the foothills on the northern boundary of his holdings where he always rested his horse, he’d gaze down on the darkened plain with a satisfying sense of accomplishment. He could see for miles, all the rolling country lush with green grass, enough for his herds, for those of his clan, enough to see the horses through the winter. After years of hard work, his ranch was thriving, becoming profitable, his racehorses were acquiring a reputation on the racetracks here and in Europe, and if the persistent greed of the cattlemen pressing the borders of his property didn’t develop into an all-out war, he could build a contented, peaceful life here for Lucie and himself.
Always more cool-headed after the hard ride, his restlessness and hunger for the earl’s daughter having dissipated, he was able to dismiss the intoxicating dreams as impractical illusions. Flora Bonham was just a hotter-than-hell female, lush, voluptuous, sensual—but best forgotten. He didn’t need any complications in his life.
With travel uncertain due to flooding spring rivers, George Bonham had allowed ample time for the trip north to Adam’s ranch. But the weather had cooperated—so much so, that not only did the earl’s party arrive without mishap or delay—they arrived one day early at the ranch on the Musselshell.
Only to find their host absent.
He was out tracking some horses stolen from his eastern herd, they were told by his housekeeper as a full retinue of staff came out to greet them. But Adam was scheduled to return for his meeting with the earl, Mrs. O’Brien explained in a lilting Irish brogue, and in the meantime, she finished with a beaming smile and a bobbing curtsy, they were entirely welcome.
Adam’s home was handsomely situated against low foothills covered with dark pines. One of the many streams flowing into the Musselshell ran through the grassy meadow in front of the house. Orchards had been planted to the west, the chartreuse tracery of new leaves like feathery down from a distance. The mansion, built of native stone, was vast in dimension; the exterior sprawling with terraces and verandas; the roof, moss-covered slate, verdant green in the cool shadow of the pines; the whole framed by two spiral-staired turrets reminiscent of Blois. A solid French château in the wilds of Montana.
They met Lucie soon after their arrival, when she pulled her reluctant nursemaid into the drawing room where Flora and her father were having tea. “I’m Lucie,” she informed them with a smile, standing just inside the doorway, her large dark eyes surveying them with childish candor. “This is Baby DeeDee,” she added, lifting up the porcelain-faced doll she held by its golden hair. She spoke English with a faint French accent. “Papa’s gone,” she declared with an emphatic shake of her shiny black ringlets.
The young maid, obviously embarrassed by her charge’s intrusion, tried to pull her from the room, but Lucie shook her hand free. Breaking away, she ran across the broad expanse of pastel carpet in a flurry of yellow muslin, came to a skidding stop before the tea table, pointed at a strawberry crème cake with a chubby hand, and said, “I’d like that, please.”
Flora handed her the cake without hesitation, instantly sealing their friendship, and when she went on to ask the young girl to join them for tea, Lucie’s sudden smile reminded her of a similar quirked grin.
Lucie had her father’s eyes too, very dark, heavily lashed, riveting in their beauty, and his same directness of speech. Sitting very straight on a Louis Quinze chair upholstered in coral satin, her short legs barely reaching the perimeter of the cushioned seat, beaded moccasins incongruously peeking out from under her dainty muslin skirt, she proceeded to entertain them with a child’s-eye view of ranch life in Montana Territory while she systematically demolished the tray of sweets. Her vocabulary was precocious for her age, though Flora quickly realized a surfeit of personal staff no doubt accounted for her language skills. The drawing-room doorway had quickly filled with hovering nursemaids.
“I’m almost four,” she said when asked her age, holding up the proper number of fingers. “How old are you?” she inquired pointing a whipped-cream-covered finger at Flora and her father. When she heard their ages, she thought for a moment before declaring, “I think Bellemere and Maman are like that. But Maman went to France to live with Bellemere. She hates the dirt, Papa said. And we don’t have pav-ed streets,” she went on, pronouncing the word with two syllables. “I like my pony Birdie, and I’ve never seen a pav-ed street. Have you?”
“The city I live in has many paved streets, but I like the country too,” Flora replied. “What color is your pony?”
“She’s a paint. My cousin Raven taughted me to ride. Do you want to see her? Birdie likes cookies.” Grabbing a handful of cookies, she’d already begun sliding off her chair.
George Bonham politely declined the invitation, preferring a peaceful brandy and a cigar after their long ride, so Flora went alone with her small guide. Lucie brought Flora up to the nursery first—because she needed her riding boots, she said with the seriousness of a well-learned injunction—and after exchanging her moccasins for boots, she proceeded to introduce Flora to all her nursemaids—who were hovering now in a different locale; her favorite toys merited introductions as well. She was enchanting like her father, Flora thought, charming with ease as she took Flora in tow, and, beginning with Birdie, gave her a grand tour of the ranch, the countryside, and the spacious house.
The progression of the tour was informal, dictated by Lucie’s schedule and fancy, and in the process of looking for Lucie’s misplaced riding quirt the next day, Flora found herself standing in the doorway of Adam’s bedroom.
A sudden heat raced through her senses, uncontrollable, heedless of circumstance, and she wondered at her loss of restraint. It was only an empty room, she told herself, an austere chamber with hardly any indication of the man who inhabited it. But she felt the hot sensation regardless of the monkish atmosphere, as if Adam were standing before her, reaching out to touch her.
Lucie was chattering at her side, tugging at her hand to guide her within. And as Flora stepped over the threshold into the room, she was struck by his fragrance. It pervaded the large chamber, subtle, seductive; his skin and hair smelled like this—of pine and mountain sage, with undertones of bergamot.
“See,” Lucie was saying, and Flora shook away the overpowering weight of fragrant memory. “That’s
me.”
A small pastel portrait on a gold easel held a place of honor on a bedside table, and an exquisite rendition of Adam’s daughter smiled up at her. The polished wood surface was otherwise bare, as was the matching table on the opposite side of the oversize mahogany bed. Her gaze dwelled for a moment on the plain white seersucker coverlet crisply tucked under the pillows and around the mattress, the corners almost military in their preciseness, and she found herself jealously wondering how Isolde looked against such pristine purity. She’d seen Isolde’s room yesterday when Lucie had brought her in to show off the shiny green eyes on the gilded swans decorating her mother’s bed; Flora had taken note of the fashionable Winterhalter portrait over the mantel of a delicate woman with flaxen hair and a sultan’s ransom in diamonds adorning her bosom. Adam had married a very beautiful woman.
Isolde’s rooms were ornamented lavishly in swathed silk and gold tassels, gilded stucco work shimmering on the woodwork, the walls richly covered in rose damask. The suite was filled with pillow-strewn furniture upholstered in pale silks, expensive porcelains and bric-a-brac in lavish array adorned every tabletop, small gold-framed paintings of bucolic landscapes covered the walls. The scene was reminiscent of a stage set, a rococo palace. Or an expensive bordello.
In sharp contrast to such drama, Adam’s room held only a glass-fronted bureau, a small desk, a leather sofa before the fireplace, a Feraghan carpet in subdued shades of navy and wine, the massive bed. A utilitarian room stripped of personality—or perhaps devoutly personal.
If compatibility was measured in decorating tastes, Flora thought, she wondered that Adam and his wife had survived marriage for so long.
“Come see Papa’s knives,” Lucie coaxed, interrupting Flora’s jaundiced speculation, already moving toward the dressing-room door. And moments later, when Lucie threw open the doors of one of the built-in armoires lining two walls of the narrow room, Adam Serre stood revealed. Arranged on shelves or hanging from brass hooks inside the double doors, a colorful array of decorated sheaths held dozens of knives. Bone-handled, bronze-handled, large, small, plain, and embellished—a lethal collection of exquisite Indian craftsmanship.
“How spectacular,” Flora declared, struck powerfully by the latent force, each weapon potently functional. This wasn’t a glass-cased museum display.
“These are pretty too,” Lucie went on, moving to the next cabinet. “Maman says they’re barbaric, but Papa and I like them.” Two more doors opened as she released the latch, and before Flora’s fascinated gaze appeared a stunning display of fringed, beaded, fur-draped leather clothing. Lavishly decorated moccasins lined the floor of the armoire. The hanging garments were constructed of pale, almost white leather or buttery yellow skins soft as heavy silk, ornamented with ermine tails, wolf tails, liquid leather fringe, embellished with elaborate beaded designs on shirtsleeves, shoulders, sweeping down the length of fringed leggings. Obviously Adam Serre was proud of his Absarokee heritage.
“They’re very lovely,” Flora said, her voice subdued before such magnificence. She understood the lengthy, skilled process necessary to produce clothing of this quality.
“This is Papa’s special spirit sign,” Lucie declared, pointing at the stylized portrayal of a wolf repeated within a fretwork border decorating a shirtfront. “And here too,” she added, pulling out a sleeve with a beaded medallion of a wolf head in black on red. “His people call him Tsé-ditsirá-tsi.” She spoke the words with the quiet sibilance of the Absarokee language. “It means ‘Dangerous Wolf.’ Although Papa is ever so nice, even if Maman doesn’t think so.” She sighed a curiously grown-up sigh for a child so young. “Maman always screamed at Papa. Even though she told me it was unladylike to raise your voice, she screamed a lot. Papa said she was un-sym-pa-the-tic”—Lucie struggled slightly with the long word, an obvious new addition to her three-year-old vocabulary—“to the outdoors. And I’m glad she didn’t ask me to go with her to Paris, because I like Montana the best.”
The artless disclosures left Flora feeling like a voyeur in a very personal relationship, and for a moment she wasn’t sure how to respond. Although shamefully, she felt an ungracious elation at being reminded that Adam and his wife weren’t deeply in love. “I’m so glad you enjoy Montana,” she said, opting for a neutral reply. “My father and I think the country is beautiful. And now we should see if we can find your quirt,” Flora suggested, deliberately changing the topic, “so we can take Birdie out for a ride. She’s going to wonder what happened to us.”
“I’ll use one of Papa’s,” Lucie said with the kind of decisiveness Flora was recognizing as a Serre trait. “And I’ll show you the lodges where Papa’s cousins live when they’re at the ranch.”
As evening approached, Mrs. O’Brien entered the drawing room where Flora and her father were playing a simple card game with Lucie. “I’m afraid Adam’s not returned yet,” she said, apologizing for Adam’s continued absence, “and dinner won’t wait. He’ll be here tonight, though,” she firmly added, opening the doors into the dining room. “If he said Tuesday, he means Tuesday. Now, there’s huckleberry pie for dessert, Lucie,” she went on, gazing at the little girl swinging her feet over the edge of an embroidered chair, “but you have to eat some vegetables first. You like new peas, and Cook made a small Cornish pasty for you.”
“I always eat my vegetables, Mrs. O,” Lucie cheerfully said, looking angelic in pink organza.
“Humpf … or that dog at your feet does,” the housekeeper muttered, glancing at the large otter hound sprawled at the foot of Lucie’s chair.
“Caesar only likes meat.”
“He likes anything eatable, raw or cooked, but eat the peas at least before your dessert,” Mrs. O’Brien said with a small sigh, giving up the struggle.
“I’ll remind Lucie to eat her vegetables, Mrs. O,” Flora interjected, on a familiar footing with the housekeeper after visiting in the kitchen with Lucie several times in the last two days. “And I’ll see that Caesar stays under the table during the meal.”
“Thank you, Miss Flora,” the housekeeper said with a grateful smile. “It’s a pleasure to have a real lady in the house. Now, Lucie, you mind Miss Flora. And we have a fine claret for you, my lord,” she added, turning her smile on George Bonham. “From Adam’s special stock. Come, now, dinner is informal now that she—well … on the count’s orders,” she quickly altered, “so please eat while the food is still warm.” And bustling like a mother hen, she saw them into the dining room.
Dinner was an extravagant affair, decidedly not informal in terms of variety and elegance but casually served, with Lucie and the servants gossiping throughout the meal. The young girl was obviously everyone’s pet, though treated in a curiously adult way. Without playmates her own age, Flora thought, it was natural the staff should take the place of friends for Lucie. And during dinner Flora heard a number of anecdotes in which Adam figured prominently, so by meal’s end she knew several more revealing fragments of a decidedly remarkable man.
He cooked, Flora heard. He made a perfect Lady Baltimore cake—an American recipe, apparently—no one surpassed his wild grape jam, and his biscuits were of unequaled lightness—for which skilled hands were a requisite, everyone agreed. That didn’t surprise her, she decided, recalling the sensitive touch of his hands. And he played the piano. Which accounted for the well-used look of the Bosendorfer in the drawing room and the disorganized stack of music on its top. He had an unrivaled reputation for training horses in the Absarokee style, where horse and rider were friends rather than adversaries. He played a vicious game of croquet, dressed a baby doll with finesse, and could shoot the eye out of a fly at fifty yards. Before long Flora realized that nor only was Lucie adored by the staff, but her father was as well. She wasn’t surprised. He had an extraordinary appeal.
After Lucie was seen off to the nursery to prepare for bedtime, Flora and her father relaxed on the veranda. Rocking gently in deep-seated wicker rocking chairs cushioned and sculpted to offer
maximum comfort, they enjoyed Adam’s best cognac and a spectacular twilight sky. Although the sun had set, a warm golden haze still lightened the horizon, bathing the plains to the east in a tawny glow. A palpable peace as unclouded as the gilded landscape enveloped the shadowed veranda.
“Are you happy?” the earl softly asked.
“Very much,” Flora replied, her head resting against the chair back, her eyes half-shut.
“I worry, you know.”
Flora’s eyes opened, and she turned her head slightly so that her gaze rested on her father seated on the other side of the table separating them. “You needn’t worry, Papa. I’m vastly content.”
“You probably should be in London with your friends, not out in the wilds again with me.”
“You’re my dearest friend and I like the wilds. Don’t bring up those old conventional arguments again. I find society so much less interesting than our studies. You’ve spent your life researching Blumenbach’s theory of the biological equality of all peoples and given me the opportunity to observe and document cultures all over the world. It’s exciting, Papa, and enlightening, and so much more fascinating than devoting my life to finding a husband, as every society miss is programmed to do.”
Pure Sin Page 3
