"What happened to the driver?"
"I don't know."
"He didn't come around to apologize? You mean there was no offer to make amends?"
Jonna looked out the carriage window. They were turning the corner to Beacon Hill, and she was grateful their ride was nearly at an end. Decker's questions didn't bother her half as much as the way he was watching her answering them. It was as if he knew what she said was not nearly so important as how she said it, almost as if he were anticipating a lie or perhaps that she would not tell the whole truth. Carefully schooling her features, she returned his steady stare. "I suppose he had his hands full with his animal. I was probably gone by the time he had the poor thing calmed."
Decker didn't dispute her theory. He eased her foot off his lap as the carriage slowed in front of her home. The door opened and he helped Jonna up then delivered her into the hands of the driver. She leaned against the driver until Decker stepped out and lifted her. Her arms slipped around his shoulders without prompting. Decker carried her up the walk while the driver ran ahead to get the door and announce their approach. Although Decker was only ten paces behind the man, Mrs. Davis was already hovering by the time he and Jonna crossed the threshold.
Jonna dropped the boot she was carrying into the housekeeper's outstretched hands as they passed. True to his word, Decker didn't pause to let her remove her bonnet or slip out of her coat. Without once pausing in his stride, he took her directly up the stairs to her room. Mrs. Davis's presence behind him was no more annoying than a puppy nipping at his heels.
In spite of Decker's careful handling, Jonna's eyes were glazed with pain by the time they reached her room. He set her on the bed before he helped her with the bonnet and coat. "Cold compresses, Mrs. Davis," he said. "And laudanum. It's a severe sprain."
"I'm going to send for the doctor."
"That's fine," Decker said. "In the meantime, cold compresses and laudanum."
The housekeeper turned to find two of the maids hovering in the doorway. Their large brown eyes were anxiously taking in the scene, and there was a grayish pallor to their dark complexions. "Tess, you fetch the doctor. Emily, get the other things Captain Thorne wants." The girls disappeared immediately, but not before Decker had glimpsed them.
"What's wrong with them?" he asked.
The housekeeper sat on the bed beside Jonna. "I don't know what you mean."
"It's a sprain, not a fatal disease," he told her. "Those girls looked frightened."
"I'm sure I don't know what gets into their minds," she said dismissively. "They're like children."
Decker was surprised by the housekeeper's tone. It was not a statement merely about Tess and Emily. She was speaking of every person of color. He was about to ask why she hired them when Jonna's wince drew his attention. "I think we should elevate her foot," he said. He leaned across Jonna, drew a pillow from the other side of the bed, and slipped it under her ankle.
When there was nothing else for him to do but wait, Decker elected to wait elsewhere. He excused himself and went downstairs. Neither Jonna nor the housekeeper heard him leave by the back door.
Mrs. Davis's voice was hushed. "God forgive me, I dislike the things I have to say sometimes. Captain Thorne must think me the worst sort of person."
"He probably has no opinion on the matter," Jonna said, wondering that the housekeeper cared. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the pain. "He rarely has an opinion on anything."
Mrs. Davis laid her hand across Jonna's brow. Her employer's skin was clammy. "Let me help you change," she said. "And cover you up. The captain's right about the cold compress and laudanum. You need both." She helped Jonna sit up then began to unfasten the back of her gown. "How did this happen, Miss Remington?"
Jonna told her, offering no more or less of the story than she had offered Decker. The housekeeper said nothing until she had finished helping Jonna change into a shift and had tucked the quilts around her. When she spoke she didn't offer Jonna sympathy. She went directly to the problem that was uppermost on her mind—and Jonna's.
"What will we do?" she asked. "Did you see Tess and Emily? Captain Thorne didn't mistake their feelings. They are most definitely frightened."
"Then you will have to calm them. As the captain said, it's a sprain, not a fatal disease. You'll have to make them understand that nothing's changed except the timing. A week is all I'll need. Two at the most."
"Isn't there someone else?" she asked. "Perhaps I could—"
"No." Jonna was firm, and pain made her voice harsh. She caught her breath and tried for a softer tone. "I'm sorry... but, no. I won't let you."
"Then Mr. Sheridan. He's the most logical choice."
"I won't have him involved either."
"But surely... if I went to him and explained—"
"No!"
Mrs. Davis sat back. She frowned disapprovingly but said nothing. Emily had entered the room with the laudanum and compress. The housekeeper took both, laid the compress carefully across Jonna's ankle, then ladled two spoonfuls of laudanum down her throat. "You can go, Em," she told the maid. "I'll speak with you and Tess later."
Emily looked uncertainly from the housekeeper to her employer. Her eyes remained troubled, but she didn't question the order. "Me and Tess," she said shyly, "we both hope you feel better soon." Then she seemed to realize how that might sound and added quickly, "Not because of us. I mean, we wish—"
The housekeeper came to her feet. "Miss Remington knows what you mean, Emily. Please wait outside. I'll be with you in a moment."
Emily bobbed a curtsy and fled.
"I think she's frightened of me," Jonna said.
Mrs. Davis straightened her apron and smoothed the front. "Emily's in awe of you," she said. "She's frightened of me."
That made Jonna smile because she knew how untrue it was. "Would you ask Captain Thorne to come up here? I'd like to talk to him before the laudanum dulls my senses."
It was Emily who returned a few minutes later to inform her employer that Decker Thorne was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Jonna was able to walk with a cane after two days of bed rest. She had suffered her confinement, rather than embrace it. Conducting the business of Remington Shipping from her bedroom, in spite of Dr. Hardy's orders to the contrary, Jonna managed to see that contracts were honored and cargoes were held.
Decker never explained his disappearance from the house that morning, and Jonna, less sharp from the effects of the laudanum, forgot about it until after he had sailed. As the days passed it didn't seem so important.
It was not that she didn't think about Decker Thorne. On the contrary, and somewhat to her annoyance, Jonna found his likeness appearing in her mind's eye at the oddest moments. She told herself it was because she had entrusted him with Huntress and a valuable cargo of rugs and rum. He was returning with cotton, for which the New England mills were paying the best money in two years for a shipment. She concentrated on that when she thought of him. It was less troubling than remembering the kiss in her kitchen.
Grant visited her daily while she was confined to her room and came for dinner when she was able to move easily up and down the stairs. After meals they would retire to the music room, where he would play the spinet. Jonna shared the bench and turned the sheet music, and while she watched his beautiful hands move over the keys with fluid grace, she thought of Decker's lean fingers sliding over her ankle, his hands disappearing under the hem of her gown, his thumbs caressing the undersides of her wrists.
"I'm leaving for Charleston tomorrow," Grant told her ten days into her recovery. "I hope you understand I wouldn't go unless it were absolutely necessary."
Jonna looked past Grant to the doors of the music room. A maid was framed in the entrance, holding a tea service in front of her. Her dark eyes betrayed her uncertainty. Jonna motioned her to enter. "Bring the tray here, Mattie. I'll pour."
Mattie nodded once and proceeded into the room slowly, carefully balanc
ing the tray with its delicate china cups and heavy silver service. She set it down on the table beside Jonna.
"Thank you," Jonna said when the girl simply stood there. "You may go."
The young woman didn't respond immediately. She smoothed the front of her neat apron in a perfect imitation of the housekeeper. Her wide mouth was tremulous, and there was heat rising in a face that was the color of cocoa. It was difficult for her to keep her hands from pressing her cheeks.
"Yes?" Jonna asked. "What is it?"
"Miz Davis tol' me to ask if there's anythin' else."
"And now you have," Jonna said. "Please tell Mrs. Davis that nothing further is required."
"Yes, ma'am." Mattie did not so much take her leave of the room as flee it.
Jonna began to pour tea while Grant, who had watched the exchange with interest, got up to attend the doors that Mattie failed to close. "Where do you find these girls?" he asked as he returned to the settee. He took the cup and saucer Jonna held out to him. "That one can't have any experience in service."
Jonna set the silver pot down and stirred sugar into her tea. "I couldn't say. Mrs. Davis hires all the help. But you're right about Mattie. She doesn't have experience. Mrs. Davis has been training her these past few days, and I think she's coming around. She's just nervous about pleasing me."
"That, at least, I can understand."
Jonna's head tilted to one side as she regarded Grant consideringly. "Now what do you mean by that?"
"Well, my dear, you cannot be the easiest employer to work for. You seem to change your staff as regularly as you change bonnets, and with no more consideration."
"What are you talking about, Grant?"
"I haven't seen that one colored girl who served us dinner a few evenings ago."
"You must mean Tess," she said.
"Yes, I think that was her name."
"And I'm certain that's still her name," Jonna said tartly. "If you're really interested in what's become of her, you'll have to get the details from Mrs. Davis. I believe the girl was let go because of some missing silver. And before you ask, her friend Emily elected to go with her. Apparently she thought her friend was wrongly accused."
"Well," Grant said somewhat stiffly, "you did have Decker Thorne staying in this house."
"Are we going to argue about that again?" she asked. "I'd really rather not."
"It doesn't have to be an argument."
"Not if I agree with you, it doesn't."
Grant leaned back on the settee and raised his cup. His distant and dark eyes regarded Jonna over the rim before he drank. "When does Huntress return?" he asked.
"A few days from now," she said. "No more than a week."
"You're confident he'll return with your ship."
Jonna poured more tea for herself and spoke when she could do so lightly, without sarcasm. "I don't think he'll steal the clipper, Grant. It's not as if he could slip it into a pocket and not be noticed."
Grant set his cup and saucer aside. "You're too trusting, Jonna. He's not his brother."
"I've always been aware of that," she said. "But it's an interesting observation coming from you. You never bore Colin any particular fondness that I can recall."
"My concern was the amount of influence he had on Remington Shipping. He and Jack Quincy were allowed to manage your holdings much too freely."
"Which is precisely as my father intended," Jonna reminded him. "Your family, on the other hand, particularly your father, would have liked nothing better than to take over Remington. I haven't forgotten that, Grant. I haven't forgotten that it was your father who thought a marriage between us would solve his financial problems and negate the concerns about my youth and inexperience."
Grant's head snapped back as if he'd been struck. "My God, Jonna. Have you been thinking this way since I proposed? Is that why you won't give me an answer?"
"I've given you an answer," she said. "The answer is no. You simply ignore it."
Grant took the cup and saucer from her then he took her hands in his. He leaned toward her, his handsome features compelling her to listen. "My father's been dead four years now. You can't think I'm influenced by his wishes in regard to marriage. I was just a young man when he conceived that idea, and you were little more than a child. The financial problems that he thought a merger could solve have long since been righted by me. They've never been a factor in my proposal to you. We're not those young people anymore, Jonna. Sheridan Shipping is a solvent enterprise and will continue in just that vein, with or without a firm connection to your business."
Jonna searched his face. She found she very much wanted to believe him.
"Who put this idea in your head?" Grant asked, giving her wrists a small shake. "Did Jack or Colin make you think you aren't desired for yourself? That I could only be interested in what you have and not who you are? Don't you know how often I think of you or how much I want you?"
Jonna raised her face, her eyes unwavering in their regard. "Do you want me, Grant?" she asked softly. "Would you love me?"
Grant stared back at her, wondering what she was about.
The boldness of Jonna's words was at odds with the flush in her cheeks. "I mean would you make love to me?"
"Now?" He came to his feet. "Here?"
"Now," she said. "Here, if you like. My bedroom, if you prefer." She stood and took a step toward him, holding out her hand.
Grant's astonishment faded as his beautiful smile lighted his face. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms. Hugging her close, he kissed the crown of her dark hair. "Your sense of humor always confounds me," he whispered. "You never let on." His mouth moved to her ear. "I should take you up on your outrageous suggestion, you know. Ravish you right here on the settee and not give a damn which one of your maids walks in on us." His hands moved up and down along her back then he held her from him long enough to study her face. "If you could have managed the thing without blushing," he said, "I might have been taken in." His smile was more teasing than wicked. "I might have taken you."
Jonna found herself held loosely in his embrace again. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, and his hands lay lightly on the small of her back. She could feel his breath stir her hair.
"It's a good thing I know you so well," he said deeply.
"Yes," she said. "Isn't it?" She pushed gently at his chest to free herself. Her features were perfectly composed, and the color that had crept into her face was gone now. Taking his hand in hers, she urged him back to the settee and picked up the threads of conversation as if there had never been a moment's interruption. "Tell me about Charleston," she said evenly. "How long will you be gone?"
* * *
Michele Moreau had never cared for the term "fancy house." If there must be a euphemism for her brothel, then she preferred it simply be called an establishment. That was less painful on the ears of the well-bred Charleston ladies who sometimes had to hear of it. Though the business was discreetly run, any married man who sought refuge or comfort there ran the risk of discovery. He could learn that his wife had always known about Michele's establishment and that she had grown up knowing about it. The knowledge had been passed from mother to daughter just once, usually on the eve of the daughter's marriage then never spoken of again.
Michele Moreau was sensitive to the wife's dilemma, so she did not mind when they used the euphemism.
The two men sitting at a table by themselves did not have a care for such things, she knew. They did not represent her usual clientele as neither of them was married.
Michele idly ran an index finger along the edge of her bodice and straightened the pearls at her throat. She did not have to glance in the mirror above the bar to have confidence in her appearance. She knew that at fifty she was still a handsome woman and that many of her regulars would be surprised to discover she was not ten years younger. It was not often that she experienced any regret about aging. These two men made her think of that now. If she had not liked them half so well she woul
d have thrown them out for the inconvenience they caused her emotionally.
She walked over to their table and placed her hand on the back of an empty chair. Her slim, jeweled fingers tapped lightly on the uppermost wooden slat. Their conversation ceased, and they raised their heads simultaneously. "Gentlemen," she said, basking momentarily in their welcoming smiles. "You might at least invite a girl to sit with you. My other customers may think you find the women lacking; worse, that you only have eyes for each other." Her glance darted between them, her own eyes dancing with humor. "And if that were true I swear I would have my best girls jumping out windows in despair." She touched them both on the shoulder. "Do not flatter yourselves over much. They are only silly girls, after all."
"Aaah, Michele," Decker said, laying his hand over hers. "Vous êtes trés amiable."
"You know I don't understand a word of French," she said. But her handsome face was alight with pleasure anyway. "Come. I will let you use my private rooms. I would have taken you there immediately if I had seen you come in. You should have asked for me."
Both men rose and followed the madam to her private apartment at the rear of the house. She gave them brandy to drink from her bar and saw to it that they were comfortable before she left them alone.
Decker leaned back in the large leather chair he'd been shown to. It held the faint rich fragrance of cigar smoke, and he wondered if it was Michele's vice he smelled or that of one of her customers.
Graham Denison watched Decker's attention wander about the room. "It's quite something back here, isn't it?" he asked. "Less is never less with Michele. And more is never quite enough."
It was true, Decker thought. Michele's apartment was opulent to excess. Tapestries hung on the walls, and the floor was overlaid with Oriental carpets. Porcelain and jade figurines crowded the marble mantelpiece and every other available surface. Heavy gold tassels held back blood red drapes at each window. The furniture was large and thickly upholstered in brushed velvet. There was more of it than the room could strictly handle.
"I take it you've been here before," Decker said.
Graham nodded. He had a reserved smile that did not always reach his eyes, and a flinty, blue-gray stare that rarely let others see past his guard. His Southern drawl was tempered by a New England education, and he could use either accent to great effect. With Michele Moreau he had a voice like honey over velvet. With others it was clipped Yankee tones that offered no quarter. Occasionally, with someone he respected and trusted like Decker Thorne, it was a smooth mixture of the two. "It's good to be seen here from time to time," he said. "Not just when I need to be."
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