This cannot be happening, she continued to chant in her mind as she walked away from the house. Uncle Jervis had a tendency to overdramatize; surely things weren’t as bad as he had complied. Thinking back, she realized there had been no Stinting during their stay in the city. If money were short, why book first-class passage up river?
“Keeping up pretenses,” she could almost hear Missy Mae proclaim. Just like the Allentons, her uncle hoped to trick his creditors into believing nothing was wrong.
But everything was wrong. She could see proof of this as she passed the empty fields, which by now should be green with prospering crop. Nor did anyone stir in the quiet servant compound as she came upon it? Proving uncle Jervis had not lied about it. A soft breeze whispered through the oaks overhead, making it sound as if the spirits of those servants still lingered.
Gwen remembered the yearly Christmas celebrations, when daddy would bring drinks for the men and toys for the children? While him and mother dispensed their treats to the women. Each cabin had welcomed them, for each week, Mama had come down here to attend to the hurt and the sick, and often, Gwen accompanied her. How proud she’d felt, standing next to Amanda, every man, woman, and child in the compound had adored her. They would have walked on fire to keep her from harm.
But they’d been unable to help her that night, Gwen thought with an ugly pang. And because of it, always gone-mother, the servants, and for all the intense and purposes-even father.
Here, breathing the cooler air but need the oaks, she had time to truly consider his reception. She could no longer hide from the truth. More than a bad mood had caused him to reject her. He blame her for what happened to mother, and probably always would.
A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away. You’re a McCloud, she could almost hear him admonish, stop acting so maudlin.
She was right, rather than be moaning as lack of reception, she should be trying to work her way around him. No sense dwelling on the past she cannot change; she might better be thinking about what she could do to improve the future.
Yes, she thought, gaining spirit. Somehow, she would find they key to saving Roseland, and when she did, her daddy would be grateful, he would hardly even remember that Mama was gone.
She thought of the old sharecroppers’ cabins, up ahead on the path. Back when he’d first come to Louisiana, daddy had leased part of Roseland to the small farmers, using the rent to help defray the costs of starting up the plantation. Once the fields began producing a steady sugar crop and there was no further need for income, he’d stopped renewing the leases, until one by one, the renters had gone away. Where were they now? Gwen wondered could they, or other farmers, be induced to again rent this land?
With growing excitement, she quickened her pace, anxious to see the cabins. If the homes were habitable, they could raise the money they needed for the Willows by leasing out land again. Admittedly, she had no idea where to find such farmers, but hadn’t uncle Jervis assured that she could trust her menfolk see the details?
Beneath her feet, the path became muddier and more overgrown with every step. Funny, she hadn’t realized how near to the marshland this area was, but then, she’d never been allowed near the cabins as a child. “They’re not our kind,” daddy had told her, when she asked if she could play with the children there. “I won’t have my little Princess sorting with common dirt farmers.”
Swatting off the memory even as she swatted at a buzzing mosquito, she reminded herself that she did hardly been consorting with these people. She’d be offering them a place to live and to farm, and exchange for much needed revenue for the Willows. It would not matter if this land was close to the Bayou, that she hated the swamp and everything in it. There was no reason she never ever come here at all.
Rounding the curve in the path, he came upon the small colony of cabins. It, too, was damp and overgrown, as if the swamp had already reclaimed it. There were people desperate for land, she told herself stubbornly, people who would not mind the work to clear it.
A horse ran on the path up ahead. Startled, Gwen turned in the direction of the sound. Was someone already living here? Giving no thought to her isolated position, or to the facts that no one knew where she’d gone, she ran forward. What an accomplishment it would be, should she returned to the Willows is not only a plan to save it, but with the first tenant, signed and ready to farm.
She stopped, though, at the site of the huge, black stallion.
It was a magnificent beast, its sleek coats glistening in the waning son, as it waited outside the last of the cabins, the one backed up to the Bayou. No rope tethered the animal; it just stood there, stopping the ground, as if to summon someone from inside the ramshackle, vine-covered shack. As the horse stomped again, this time in greeting, a dark-clad man in her from the door.
With alarm, she recognized the stranger from the docks. Everywhere she went of late, seem to put in an appearance. “What are you doing here?” She was startled into saying as she marched towards them.
He paused on the battered porch, as if he found her presence no less unsettling. “We really must stop meeting like this, my lady, “he said with a half-grin., “Or people will begin to talk.”
“Meeting?” How dare he suggest that go anywhere to see him. “Coming upon you was not my design, sir. Indeed, I’m sure the local authorities want to know what the likes of you are doing on my land.
The grin vanished; scowled as he descended steps. “That, Miss McCloud, is none of your business.”
“It most certainly is my business,” she said to his back as followed him to his horse. “I demand to know why you are following me.”
“Following you?” He turned, eyeing her with disdain. “I’ve always known you were selfish and shallow, but your vanity, milady, quite astounds me.”
Her chest heaved with indignation. “What does a man like you know anything about me, unless you were playing my shadow?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but even the likes of me has a past, Princess.” He gestured back at the cabin. “You obviously forgotten, but once I lived in that building.”
It was not on her tongue to call him a liar, but a memory intruded. As children, there had always been a dark-haired boy, a sharecropper’s child, who watch them as they played. Even then, something in his intensity had touched her, stirring up questions she dared not face.
“You’re that boy,” she half- whispered. “You’re Michael Williams.”
He dipped down into a mock bow. “In the flesh. How gracious of you to finally remember.”
She blushed, not missing the emphasis on “finally.’ He was right, of course; she should have recognized him, and probably would have, had he not always left her feeling so flustered. “Now that you’re done wallowing in nostalgia,” he told him stiffly, “you’d best be off our land, for I tell my daddy. He’s not overly partial to trespassers. Nor is he particularly kind to them.”
“As I recall, your father isn’t particularly kind to anyone.” He turned back to his horse and mounted. “But then, there is really no need to go running to him, Gwen, I’ve no intention, and even less desire, spend a moment more than necessary on sacred McCloud land.”
“Then what are you here? What do you mean to do?”
“Do I make you nervous?” He looked down from the saddle, and with an awful tingle, she thought of his kiss. “Sorry, my lady, but my being here has nothing to do with you. I learned my lesson years ago. As you and your friends pointed out, my kind must never reach too high.”
Gwen winced. “You can’t hold me responsible for some hasty words spoken as a child,” said stiffly. “I never meant it the way it sounded.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Maybe, I can’t blame the child, but aren’t you still looking down your nose at me?”
“I am not-I I would not-“realizing she was beginning to sputter, Gwen set her lips into a tight line. “You have no rights thus. You owe me-that is, I expect-don’t look at me like
that. I am entitled to more respect.”
He towered over her, gazing down with an anger of his own. “No one is entitled my respect unless they earn it. Search in your conscience, Miss McCloud. If there is any debt here, you should find that you are the one who owes me.”
“You’re talking about a childhood incident-“
“You made a promise,” he said harshly, “and you broke it. So stop yelling out accusations and making demands, or you might provoke me into collecting on that debt.”
Spurring the horse, he rode off, leaving Gwen stare after him.
Frowning as she turned back to the house, she tried to bury the unpleasant memory of that childhood promise in her mind, but like all the other pleasantries she’d faced since returning to the Willows, it’s would not easily go away.
Was it merely a silly broken promise that brought Michael Williams back here? She cannot help but wonder.
And worse, just how did he expect to be repaid?
Chapter 5
Pacing across the room, Gwen waited for dinner. With neither wardrobe nor maid, her toilette had been quick and simple she’d pulled back her hair in a bun and donned an old, childish frock she did found in the armoire. The effect was on stylish, snug, smelling faintly of camphor, but she had little thoughts spare for her appearance, not while her mind wondered with unwelcome memories of the stranger.
No, no longer a stranger-she knew now his name.
She wonder why she’d taken so long to recognize him; she should have known him instantly by his intensity, his hostility. “Search in your conscience” he had said, as if expecting her to recall every last detail. For pity’s sake, it was a childhood incident; was it time to forgive and forget?
Yet Gwen found herself remembering the striking boy he had been, the dark angel who had watched from a distance as she and the neighboring children played Camelot. Perhaps it had been more than merely noticing the quiet Creole, with his sculpted features and arrogant stance-even then, as young as they were, she’d felt drawn to him some indefinable way.
Ignore him, Lance had urged the first time he’d caught her staring at Michael; he is just the insolent offspring of a poor farmer.
Gwen had been disappointed, for however intriguing she might find him, Michael was what daddy would call common trash. A man was worth nothing, John maintained, if he did not have land of his own. As Lance pointed out, she would risk angering her father if she did not ignore the boy.
Yet Lance could be entirely too full of himself, and she saw how her looking at Michael annoyed him. Returning his stairs became a game, until she grew so bold she began smiling at him. He never smiled back, but she was aware of how his eyes followed them as they played.
Then one day she and Lance had an argument, and to spite him, she invited Michael to join their game. Outraged, insisting the newcomer must we a lesser vassal, Lance proceeded to give Michael all the least popular tasks. Michael accomplished them, and so well, when announced that her new vassal could compete for his spurs on the following day.
Spite the impossible obstacles Lance set in his way, wrapped the past each new test with athletic grace. Furious, Lance demanded that she refuse to knight this stranger, but she quickly reminded him that she was Queen. When she turned to go, he’d pushed her from behind, knocking her to the ground.
A hand was offered to help her up, but to her surprise, it was Michael, who had come to her rescue. Michael, who challenged Lance in defense of her honor.
Lance merely laughed in his face. He was not, said scornfully, about to dirty his hands on the common trash.
In his quiet, yet no less commanding tone, Michael cited their rule that Lance must answer all challenges. The winner, by Royal decree, would be named King.
Michael turn to Gwen then, his dark eyes questioning. She could hear Lance sputtering, demanding she refuse, but she stubbornly nodded her approval. She wanted to punish Lance for pushing her, to teach him cannot always have his way. Then, too. She rather like the thought of two men fighting for her favor.
“You promise that if I win, I shall be named King?” Michael pressed, his gaze never leaving hers. “On your word of honor?”
Seeing only how angry that made Lance, she nodded again. It was the collective gasp from her friends that snapped her back to her senses.
Too late. Michael and Lance were already squaring off, brandishing sticks as swords. Her friends gathered near to insist that she’d cheer for Lance. Consider the consequences, they warned, should this intruder win. Crown some nobody King, and their brave, noble Lancelot would go off in a huff. Then, who would protect their kingdom? A former, this obvious adventurer? Why, everything they had ever known would change, and so drastically, it would no longer be Camelot at all.
Gwen had not considered this, for in her heart, she had never dreamed Lance could lose. He had always been her hero; Michael, with his dark close and looks, must therefore be the villain, who had inevitably lose.
Yet it was Lance who had stick knocked away as Michael tossed his aside and agreed to use fists as weapons, her misgivings grew, became fear. If he won, what then? She and Lance were meant to rule this kingdom and their future could be destroyed.
Lance went down in a flurry of blows, soundly defeated. Stunned, her friends shouted in instant denial. Let some stranger-this peasant-be king? It was unheard of, outrageous. Gwen must send the imposter away.
Michael strode over, going to one knee before her, taking her hand as he offered his victory in her honor. Knowing of her friends watching, Gwen thanked him for restoring her good name and handed him a shiny apple in reward.
The Apple was not necessary, he told her, his dark eyes clouding with confusion. Being around King was all the reward he sought.
As the other children left, Michael stiffened, his grasp tightening so on her hands that she had to gate it free. Lance scrambled up from the dirt, bruised and bloodied from the fight, spitting out that Michael must even lost fantasy if he thought his kind could ever be more than a dirty farmer.
Rising slowly, Michael returned that Apple. “Is this your decision?” He asked quietly, his dark eyes locked on hers. And when she nodded, he looked at her with such disappointment that for it instead she seemed to shrivel. “A true queen keeps her word,” he said, his gaze going cold with distaste. “She never makes promises she does not intend to keep.”
He had marched off then, and that was the last time she had seen of him. After a time, it became easier to put the unpleasant scene out of her mind, for Michael never again came to watch them play, and soon after, daddy had dismissed all attendance from the Willows.
Only now here was Rafe again, stirring up a pass she’d as soon put behind her, tossing out insults like “spoiled” and “shallow.”
And don’t forget “vain,” he thought with a blush.
Had it truly been vanity, thinking he might be following her? For the life of her, she could think of no legitimate reason for him to be on McCloud land. She might know little about the man, but she’d bet her own share of the Willows that Michael wasn’t the sort to mess in nostalgia.
Hearing the dinner bill, she rose from the dusty window cushion, annoyed to find herself thinking about the man again. Haven’t her homecoming been sending enough, without letting some arrogance farmer spoil her dinner?
Going down the parlor, she managed to endear that out of boring conversation only by imagining the food packed in their servants’ gumbo. When needed at less ran out of boring things to say, when Lance and uncle Jervis ran out of alcohol, Homer announced dinner, Gwen rose quickly, her taste buds already watering.
But as she entered the dining room on Lance’s arm, the vision in mind did not match reality. Gone was the elegant oak set her mother had installed-the server, the dry sink, the huge china cabinet. In its place, the new pine table appeared far smaller than its actual size. Its battered surface should had been covered, but the linen, like the china and silver, must have already made its way to the pawnshop.
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br /> Uncle Jervis headed towards the chair at the foot of the table, leaving the one at the head empty, a jarring reminder of her father’s absence. As they sat, Gwen could hear the faint echo of chairs scraping the under carpet floor. In this cavern of a room, she feared, conversation would prove even more uncomfortable than it had in the parlor.
Although more determined to enjoy her gumbo, she was appalled to find an inedible substance on her plate. What seemed to be dried beef had been drowned in a week cream sauce and smothered with peas, all of which had been dumped on a slice of stiff bread. “What is this?” She asked, unable to keep the dismay out of her tone.
Edith turned beet red, then raised her chin in the air. “Pardon us if it’s not up to your fine Boston standards, but we find it a good honest meal and quite filling.”
“Filling?” Gwen kept digging through the pile of food, hoping against hope to find shrimp. “I cannot eat this.”
“Then starve.”
Uncle Jervis said lightly, drawing their attention to him. “Girls, please. Do try it, Gwen. After all, Edith is trying her best.”
With amazement, Gwen looked back to her cousin. “You’ve fixed this? But you do not know how to cook.”
“I had to learn. Lavinia comes up lame most evenings now. It we want to eat someone has to do the cooking.”
Her cousin should have spent longer at her lessons, Gwen thought angrily, eyeing her plate. She had wanted gumbo, not this.
Unable to come up with a name for the meal, she was tentatively bringing the fort to her lips, wondering if she’d be able to swallow it, when Homer entered the dining room. She put the fork down gladly, as the servant announced that someone awaited in the hall to see uncle.
“We’ve just sat down to dinner,” her uncle said, making a shooing motion with his hand.
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