The Willows

by Mathew Sperle

  Another son might curse his father for landing him such’s drays, but Lance chose instead to follow the man’s example. Taking to a drinking–and other gentlemanly entertainments–was the one sure way to escape the reality of his situation. Hard work would not make a difference, he knew. Lance could break both back and heart, and still never compete with their neighbor. As mother continued carped, Bella Oaks was too small, too poorly situated, to ever be as grand as the Willows.

  It had been with mother’s encouragement that Lance spent many a childhood hour there, but she cannot know–and he did not dare tell her–that he’d far rather be part of Gwen’s family than his own.

  No man had been more forceful than John, no female lovelier than Amanda. Back then, they had it all, and they’d graciously shared it. Whenever he visited their home, Lance had been made feel he was one of them.

  Until the day Gwen made it clear that she wanted him there on a permanent basis.

  Like a slap to the face, her parents rejecting his suit, an insult from which Lance had yet to recover. Oh, they’d been polite about it, as was their ways, but nothing could mask the sudden coldness. Lance might be good enough for escorting their precious daughter to the important engagements, but they demanded someone of greater means and far higher social standings to be her husband.

  While Lance had been planning their wedding, trusting her dotting parents to come around in time, Amanda had died, and Gwen had been whisked off to Boston. It took five long years to be invited back for a visit, and this time, he’d come close to realizing his dream of living there forever. He’d been one thrust of a jousting spear away, only to watch the Willows slip from his grasp once more.

  He kicked the rotten wood of the baseboard. Only this morning, John had called him into his study. Nothing had been directly said, yet the man made it clear that he’d overstayed his welcome. Ever polite, from one gentleman to another, John suggested that perhaps it was time Lance went home to see his mother.

  As if anyone had to take care of his mother.

  Lance loved her like any good son should, but the woman could badger a brick wall, and she delighted in pointing out his flaws. It was his fault Gwen had run off, he maintained; Lance must have scared her off with his base passions. Didn’t he have the good sense to find a quadroon, like his father and grandfather before him?

  Little did mother know that Lance had found someone. Indeed, it was his affair with Edith that had most likely precipitated his dismissal. The little busybody, Homer, had them in the stable. Lance should have known by his disapproving frown that the servant would soon be saying something to his master.

  Lance kicked the baseboard again. As part of it came away on his foot, suffered a wave of self-pity. He was in a sorry fix, indeed. He had neither fiancée nor mistress, nor even his share of the competition profits. Jervis had kept it all, claiming Lance had used his share on his expenses of his horse which did not win. All protests about Michael’s cheating had fallen on deaf ears; the double dealing Jervis was happy to seize any excuse to hold onto every last penny.

  Forced to retreat to Bella Oaks and mother, Lance had to bite his time, waiting for Gwen’s return. Jervis might have been a steppingstone, Edith an exciting bed partner, but Gwen alone could still give him the Willows.

  If only he knew where she was. He refused to believe that Gwen had gone off with Michael by choice. The man must have kidnapped her. Smiling, Lance pictured himself dashing to the rescue, when she needed him most. How grateful her she would be, how eager to repay him, if he were the one to bring her safely home to her father and uncle. Seeing her whole, and so happy with her Lancelot, even they were not deny her plea to marry her hero.

  I’m easily remembering his last interviews with both men, Lance conceded they might prove resistance to romance. But not scandal. Brightening, he reasoned that that they would be so relieved to have the rumors stalled, they’d probably announce the banns the very next morning.

  With a quick glance about his decaying mausoleum, Lance knew that announcement could not come soon enough. He cannot wait for word from Gwen; must find where Michael was hiding her.

  Rumor had it that the man was living in the bayou, since his ill-fated duel. Deep in the swamp, where mysteries and legends abounded, Lance would be out of his elements, but where was his choice? If he wanted the Willows, he had to find and marry Gwen – and the sooner the better.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would go into town and hire himself a guide.

  Chapter 14

  Michael pulled toward the right fork, already dreading what might await him at the cabin. He’d tried to get home earlier, hoping to forestall whatever danger might be brewing, but one problem after another had required his attention, until it was midday before he could get away.

  Gliding through the water, he listened for shouts, or screaming, or any other indication of a problem in the cabin I had. Utter silence greeted him. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he told himself to relax, to stop into the anticipating calamity – but he couldn’t help think it’s seem to quite. He could smell trouble as if it was in the air.

  But then, maybe what he smelled was the debris floating in the bayou, looking down as he beached his boat, he noticed the dishes piled on the river bottom. He didn’t need to lift want up to recognize the flowered pattern-his mother had ordered that China from France. The question was, what were his dish is doing in the water?

  Puzzled, he marched to the porch. Boys, he called out, receiving no answer. Nor did he find any sign of them inside. It was lunch time; it wasn’t like them to miss a meal.

  More concerned by the moments, he hurried down the porch steps and headed out back. He was rounding the side of the cabin, muttering, “Where the devil is everyone?” When he collided with Gwen.

  With a faint gasp, she jumped back away from him, as if he found contact between them intolerable. Not that he could blame, after all the way he brought in laughter here, but still, the thought stuck.

  She was trembling, which annoyed him further, as did her slow building flush. Did he offend her feminine instabilities, demonstrate from the fields in his work clothes? Who was she to talk, with her hair dangled about her shoulders, and the blueish-gray gown in a soaked mess? Didn’t she know how the material clung to her skin, to her–“

  “What the blazes happen to you?” He blurted out, stopping that train of thought before it could go any further.

  She stuck out her chin. “Don’t you dare call me a drowned rat!”

  Surprise, he realized she must have been hurt by the remark. He’d thought her impervious to anything he might say.

  Odd, but he found he liked her better when she wasn’t so conscious of being a lady. All ruffled and flustered, she seemed more appealing, and certainly more approachable.

  Remind himself that he had more important things to deal with, he forced himself to look away from that clinging dress. “Where are the children?” He asked more sharply than he’d intended. “And why are the dishes in the water?”

  “Dishes?” Her expression clouded for a moment, then suddenly cleared. “Oh, I put them in there.” No doubt seeing his frown, she went on to explain. “They were dirty, and the boys refuse to wash them, so this morning I decided enough was enough. I saw no reason for that mess to clutter the kitchen.”

  “And never occurred to you that you could just wash them?”

  She gave him a funny look, as if the suggestion startled her. “I would not know where to start.”

  No, of course, she wouldn’t, anyone and that she’d see any reason to learn. The impervious Miss Gwen would consider such menial tasks beneath her. More and more, Michael was regretting the impulse that had brought this pampered female to his cabin.

  “Honestly, Michael, there is no need to scout. I can’t imagine why you must make such a fuss about it.”

  “Those dishes were loaded with food – old food – smell which is liable to draw scavengers, which in turn will bring alligators swimming, s
ince I have spent many a tedious hour waiting for a rifle, trying to convince the beasts that this is one place they don’t want to visit, pardon me if I find myself a bit upset.”

  “Alligators?” She looked over her shoulder, face going pale. “Here?”

  “This is the bayou.”

  “Oh my. I didn’t think.” She seemed terrified of the beasts, but then, maybe she shivered because of the damp clothing, clinging to her every curve.

  “That is the problem, my lady,” Michael snapped at her, annoyed anew by his response to her body. “You never think. You see what you want, and are blind to everything else.”

  “That is not fair. The children –“

  “where are the boys, anyway?”

  Her outrage visibly faded. “They ran into the swamp. We had a miss understanding.”

  “Is this about that locket again?”

  “No, it is not, it’s about how they woke me this morning.”

  Her indignation irritated him further. “Now what did you do? Toss a fit over not having a breakfast served in bed?”

  “They-“She stopped what she’d been about to say, though clearly not happy to be doing so. “Let’s just say they were not nice to me.”

  Having had a long, trying morning, after a night of little sleep, Michael reads that and of his patients. “Those boys haven’t slept past sunup in their lives, so I imagine they find it hard to understand why anyone would need to sleep past noon. Or why anyone would throw a tantrum with my dishes.”

  “Noon?” She muttered. “Tantrum?”

  “This isn’t Camelot, lady, and you were no longer queen of the manor. No one gets waited on hand and foot. We all pitch in and do our fair share.”

  “I-“

  “Can’t you be civil? Must you drive me or children from their home?”

  “Of all the air against…” She took a deep breath. “Who do you think you are, saying this to me? You know less than I what goes on here.” Step up to poke a finger in his chest. “Your children think you are evil, did you know that?”

  He stopped, as stunned as if she had bitten him. “Evil?”

  “They told me their mother named them after the Saints to protect them. They are so afraid of you, they don’t tell you half of what happens, and no wonder, the way you treat them.”

  “I have never raised a hand to those boys.”

  Her blue eyes flashed with fire. “Abuse takes many forms. How about neglect? You should be ashamed of yourself, leaving them here to cook and clean and fend for themselves, while you go off gallivanting in the bayou.”

  “Gallivanting?”

  “Yes, and while you are often immersed in your own concerns, Jude runs wild. Some father you are, to not even know your own son is a girl.”

  He grabbed her arm. “What in blazes are you talking about?

  “She did not want anybody to know. I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t decided it was time for the children to have a bath.”

  Speechless, Michael tried to take it all in. Jude, their Jude, a girl? Yet the more he thought about it, the more he knew the proof had been in front of his eyes. Always managing everything, mothering the younger ones, all her rapid mood changes – Jude was every inch the female.

  Yet why hadn’t Jeanette-or even Jude herself-told him the truth?

  “Don’t you dare accuse me of missed treating those children, Michael,” Gwen went on. “You must have done something pretty terrible yourself, for your wife to conceal the fact that you had a daughter.”

  “I never had a wife,” he blurted, stung into defending himself. “And for that matter, Jude isn’t my child.”

  Hands on hips, she looked at him with disgust. “But wonderful. For she neglect those poor children, and now you deny them!”

  “I am not denying anything. They are my sister’s children. I did not even know they existed, until I came home last year. By then it, Jeanette had already died.”

  “Oh. I thought-“

  “It’s painfully clear what you thought.” He did not like how much her assessment bothered him. “I might be some levels of evil, but let me assure you, I draw the line at abusing children.”

  “If you ever let me finish a sentence, I could apologize for jumping to conclusions. Still, in my own defense, they do look a lot like you. No one bothered to tell me you were not there father.”

  “Did you ask? Do you talk to the children at all?”

  “And when am I supposed to do this? They’re gone each morning when I wake, and they stay gone in till I fall asleep at night. They don’t care if I have food to eat, or am safe from the creatures slithering through your shack.”

  “It is not a shack. It is a cabin.”

  She tossed her head, unconcerned with the distinction. “But what can I expect with the example of their own goals sets? Why should they confined in me, or be the least bit and considerate, when they see how you ignore me, how you always stop off without explanation?”

  Everything she said a grain of truth, which made him doubly angry. “Must the world revolve around you?” He asked. “I had the devil’s own time getting here, only to learn the children are missing, one of whom is a girl you sent off crying, and you expect me to worry whether or not you’re being entertained.”

  She stuck out her chin. “I’ve never asked to be entertained, Michael, where I came from, we treat our guest cordially, whether or not we particularly like them. So when you find the children – and I have no doubt they will materialize for you – kindly inform them that I expect an apology.”

  “Do you now?”

  “It would not hurt you to apologize, either you can’t expect the children to learn their manners, if you don’t set the proper example.”

  Despite her bedraggled condition, she flounced off in a self-righteous huff, every inch the haughty, spoiled, and thoroughly exasperating female. Part of him wanted to throttle her, but another part felt grudging admiration. Perhaps she had more grit then he had given her credit for. He almost grinned it as he thought of her wrestling Jude into the tub.

  Jude, his niece. Feeling torn, Michael thought of the men waiting for him in New Orleans. They weren’t the patient sort, he knew. Yet no matter what it ended up costing him, his family came first. Picturing poor Jude, alone and hurting somewhere in the bayou, Michael knew he could not leave until he found her.

  Alligators, he thought with a shudder. All things considered, it he could not find her soon enough

  Gwen sat on the porch swing, watching the trail into the marshland, willing for Jude to appear before it got darker. With the sun setting, the twilight grew thicker. Surely it wasn’t a good idea for the girl to be wandering about alone in the night?

  Her brothers had returned an hour ago, muttering only that they’d been sent home by Michael. It was by his orders, she assumed, that they were now in the kitchen, washing the dishes she’d carried back from the bayou. They’d sneered at her offer of help, making clear they did not want her help. It was only grudgingly, and after she how did them with questions, that they admitted they hadn’t seen her nor hear of their sister. Not even, Christopher had let slip of the secret fortresses’ location.

  Pushing him to silence, Patrick added proudly that if Jude wanted to vanish, she’d stay that way until she was ready to be found.

  Glenn did not want to feel guilt, but that darker it got, the more she regretted the way she’d handled things. She might have made matters worse by revealing the girls secret. Michael had seem awfully angry.

  She hoped he did not take it out on Jude, for the poor girl must be facing some pretty unpleasant truths right now. Jude had been able to strike out with panache and bravado when everyone thought her a male, but life’s rules deferred vastly for a female. After roaming free and a man’s world, Jude would find it hard to adapt to the feminine one, especially with no mother to guide her.

  Glenn should know. Hadn’t she been in that situation yourself?

  It was none of her concern, she insisted silently. Bet
ter to leave the girls situation in her uncle’s hands. Jude’s problems had begun before she came here, and would continue long after her departure.

  Still, Gwen’s gaze kept staring to the path, while her hands continued to rain in her lap.

  “It is all her fault,” she heard one of the boys and mutter inside the cabin. “If she had not, near, Jude would never have ran away.”

  “And with Jude missing,” one of them muttered. “How will we get rid of her now?”

  Earlier, Gwen might have gone inside to argue, but after the snake, and that emotional scenes with Jude and her uncle, she felt too weary to move. Let them hate her; from the look on Michael’s face as he went into the swamp, she wanted be staying much longer anyways.

  “She’s all right,” she heard little Christopher pipe up. “She fed me today, when I was hungry and you all left me.”

  “You would say that. You and your greedy little stomach.”

  “You don’t know anything, Peter. She smiles really nice, you know. And she took the oath of silence and kept it.”

  It did strange things to Gwen, hearing the little boy defend her.

  “You are such a baby, Christopher. All you want is a new mother.”

  “Leave him alone.” That from Patrick, the oldest. “You cannot blame him for wanting a new mother, Peter. We all do.”

  Though quietly uttered, the words hit Gwen squarely in the heart. There just children, Michael has said. Lonely children, who recently lost their mother.

  But before she could get maudlin, there was a rousing chorus of “not her!” There were tossing out objectives, running the gamut from cruel to stupid and useless, when Gwen noticed a tall, dark form on the path.

  Michael.

  Despite the fact that he was alone, Gwen felt suddenly, giddily happy. She rose to greet him, a smile on her lips. As he neared, he seemed so big and solid and sure of himself, she wanted no more than to stand beside him.