Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

  Angele nearly choked on the piece of bread she had just put in her mouth and stammered, “I…I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Of course you do. That awful slit gown you wore to tea was bad enough, but this”—she gestured, nose wrinkled in disgust—“this is abominable.”

  Angele was swept with indignity. “Ryan and his father didn’t seem to think so.”

  “They’re too gentlemanly to say so. They don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “But you don’t seem to mind doing it.”

  “Someone has to tell you that you are an embarrassment to this family.”

  Before Angele could respond, Clarice turned on her heel and swept from the room.

  Angele was no longer hungry. What she wanted, needed was to find Ryan and see in his gaze once more that he found her pretty appealing…and not at all what Clarice accused her of being.

  Wandering about, she could not find him anywhere. Passing Roussel, he asked if she was enjoying herself.

  “Oh, yes,” she managed to sound sincere. “I was just wondering where Ryan was. I’d like him to dance with me.”

  “Sorry, but I haven’t seen him, dear.” He turned back to the man he had been talking to.

  Another man standing nearby leaned toward her. “I saw him go out on the terrace a little while ago,” he said.

  She thanked him and moved toward the French doors that led to one of her favorite spots. By daylight, there was an inspiring view of the carefully manicured gardens with masses of daisies, zinnias, and the spectacular rose gardens. There was also a reflecting pool and a huge fountain and even statuary.

  The doors were flanked by sweeping potted palms. Angele stepped outside and glanced around. Then, in the light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom, she saw Ryan standing at the end of the terrace.

  And he was not alone.

  The silver-haired woman was with him.

  Her first impulse was to walk right up to them. After all, he was her husband. She had every right. But another part of her urged that she draw back into the shadows. By so doing, she might discover whether Denise was actually a threat.

  “I’m so looking forward to the jumping tomorrow, Ryan. I wish you’d compete. I know you’d win that saddle.”

  Angele couldn’t hear Ryan’s response because his back was turned. Denise was standing sideways, facing him, her voice easily carrying.

  “Remember when we used to ride together? You said I was the best woman rider you’d ever seen.”

  She was gazing up at him, making her voice soft and cooing.

  Angele wrinkled her nose. She reminded her of a pigeon.

  “I’ll never forget that beautiful weeping willow tree by our secret pond…the way the fronds tickled our faces when we were lying on the ground under it. Those were such wonderful times.”

  Angele couldn’t hear what Ryan said in response.

  Then Denise gave a feathery little laugh and twirled completely around, her skirt billowing. “Ryan, I was such a fool. If I had it to do over again…”

  Moving quietly, and as fast as she dared, Angele tiptoed closer, desperate to hear what Ryan might say. But just as he started to speak, another couple came up the steps from the rose garden. They all exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and, finally, Ryan said he needed to get back to his guests.

  Pressing tightly against the wall, Ryan didn’t see Angele in the shadows as he passed. She didn’t, however, return to the party after the others left. Instead, she mulled Denise’s words over and over.

  If I had it to do over again…

  What had he been about to say—that he wished it were possible to turn back time?

  She felt tears welling and blinked furiously.

  When she had vowed never to cry again, she hadn’t considered the anguish unrequited love could cause.

  But dear Lord, she knew it now.

  Hearing more voices, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was trapped where she was but didn’t care. If she went back inside and saw Ryan with Denise again, her heart might break so loud everyone would hear it.

  If not for Clarice being so against her, probably saying terrible things to Ryan about her, Angele knew she might not feel so insecure where Denise was concerned.

  Then, too, she knew she had made some foolish mistakes that caused him to doubt her. And, perhaps even worse, he might decide he had made a mistake himself—by marrying her.

  Two men appeared. She remembered having met them in the receiving line. Frank Borden and Larson somebody.

  They went to the end of the terrace and lit cheroots.

  Lost in her own misery, she wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation till one said, “That’s bad about the runaway last night, Frank. Do you think your boys will find him?”

  Larson sounded very angry. “I hope so, and when they do, I’m gonna have him strung up and whipped and make every slave I own watch so they’ll think twice before they try to run.”

  “I hope you get him, but I heard Joel Winstock say awhile ago that there’s stronger talk about some kind of underground railroad helping slaves make it north. And I think it makes sense. I mean, think about how few have got caught lately. They just seem to drop out of sight. Even the dogs can’t keep their scent.”

  “I’ve heard that talk, too,” Larson said, “and I’m starting to think the same thing. I also believe we’ve been wrong in figuring they head straight for the James River.”

  “Well, that’s where the dogs lose the scent,” Frank pointed out.

  “True, but I think that’s done on purpose—to make us think that’s the way they went—to cross where the river bends below the Berkeley plantation. Actually, I believe they’re going farther north, skirting up around Hopewell and then crossing inland to the York River and then making their way down to the bay area. From there, somebody is waiting to take them on up to Philadelphia, and, damn it, once they get there, they’re safe.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget the law Congress passed over twenty years ago that makes it a crime to help a runaway.”

  Larson’s laugh was bitter. “You think those Northerners care about the Fugitive Slave Law? The Negroes up there are organized. They call themselves the Free African Society. I’ve even heard there’s a group called the American Colonization Society that’s started up a place in West Africa where freed slaves are being sent. You think they aren’t going to transport runaways there, too?”

  Angele was practically holding her breath so they would not know she was there. Now she believed, beyond all doubt, that the young Negro she’d seen crashing out of the woods at the compound last night was Larson’s runaway. Evidently BelleRose Negroes were the first link in the underground railroad, and she needed to hear as much as possible so she could pass the information along to Selma—if she could get her to admit it as true.

  “Anyway,” Larson went on, “as soon as my boys either catch the latest runaway or lose his trail completely, we’re going to start keeping an eye on the north roads and woods instead of the river due east. We’re going to put a stop to it, by damn.”

  They tossed away their cheroots and went back inside.

  Angele waited a few moments, then followed.

  Entering the ballroom, she noted first that the music had become livelier. Then she saw that men and women were lined up across from each other, one couple at a time moving toward the center to join hands and then skip to the end of the line.

  “It’s called the reel.”

  Angele snapped her head about to see Clarice at her side.

  Coolly, she said, “Watch carefully, and maybe you can learn the steps. Especially watch Ryan.” she added with a smirk. “He and Denise are considered the best dancers in Richmond.”

  Angele watched as long as she could bear it, then wandered away. She wasn’t feeling well and told herself it was nerves. So much had happened, and she was a maelstrom of emotions. She wished the evening would hurry and e
nd and that Ryan would later come to her bed or ask her to his.

  And she also yearned desperately to find a way to tell Selma what she had heard the men discussing on the terrace so she could warn the others.

  The night wore on. Then Roussel retired upstairs and guests not spending the night began to leave.

  Angele went to search for Ryan to tell him she was also going to bed.

  She found him in his study. Larson, Frank, and some other men she recognized as planters were there also.

  They fell silent when they noticed her standing in the doorway, but she had managed to catch a word or two before they did.

  Slaves.

  Runaways.

  Patrols.

  They were planning their strategy.

  And Ryan had apparently been trying to make them understand why he did not want to be involved.

  “Excuse me, everyone,” she said quietly, politely. “I want to tell my husband good night.”

  He followed her out in the hall. “Forgive me if I don’t go with you,” he said, “but I have to see to the rest of the guests.”

  “I’ll wait up,” she murmured.

  And she did so until she could hold her eyes open no longer.

  She had curled up in Ryan’s bed, but when she awoke at the first light of dawn, she saw, with heavy heart, that his side was empty.

  He had been out all night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Angele awoke feeling even more nauseated than she had the night before. And when she got out of bed, she was dizzy and thought for a few seconds she was going to faint.

  It did not last long, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten anything and decided that was probably why she felt so bad. Then again, she might be coming down with some- thing. But even if she was, she had no intentions of staying in bed and giving Denise free rein to flirt with Ryan.

  And where was he, anyway?

  She dressed quickly.

  It was still quite early. Stepping into the hall, she didn’t hear a sound. She went to the stairs and leaned over the railing, but all was quiet below. Everyone was still asleep and probably would not be up for a while yet.

  As she crept down the steps, she was torn between looking for Ryan and finding Selma to tell her what she’d overheard last night.

  Then she realized perhaps she’d be better off not knowing where Ryan had slept, because if she found him in Denise’s room, she was not sure what she would do.

  Slipping out the back door, she headed for the compound.

  She didn’t know that Roscoe was awake…and waiting to follow wherever she went.

  “Miz Angele, what are you doin’ here? It ain’t even good daylight yet.”

  Selma was standing on the porch of her little shack, washing her face in a basin of water she’d brought up from the creek like all the other women did first thing every morning.

  Angele ran up on the porch. “I have to talk to you right away. It’s important.”

  Toby appeared in the doorway. He had just got up, but his sleepy eyes opened wide when he saw Angele.

  “Both of you need to hear. Let’s go inside, please.” Exchanging an anxious look with Toby, Selma said, “All right, if that’s what you want.”

  Angele glanced about. There was only one room, and it was sparsely furnished with a rickety table, two chairs, and a mattress on the floor, which was cluttered with their few belongings.

  Angele remained standing, even though Selma politely offered her a chair. “This won’t take long, and I can tell you’re nervous about me being here.”

  “It could get me and Toby in a peck of trouble,” Selma said.

  “I won’t let that happen, and I don’t intend for anybody to know I was here this morning, anyway. I have to ask you a question, and I want the truth.”

  Selma nodded uncertainly. “All right.”

  “Is this plantation the first stop for a runaway slave?”

  Selma paled and cut a glance at Toby, who shook his head ever so slightly. With a thin laugh, she replied, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. The other night after I left here, I heard strange noises and turned back to see what was going on. A Negro came out of the woods, and he looked out of breath and scared.”

  “I stiff don’t know what—”

  “Selma, stop lying,” Angele snapped. “I know a slave ran away from another plantation the other night, and I believe it was the boy I saw coming out of the woods.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Selma said, lips trembling. “I swear there ain’t no runaways here.”

  “I didn’t ask if there were any here now. I want to know if this is where they come first when they run away. I only want to help, and I promise your secret will be safe with me.”

  Selma looked to Toby again, and this time he gave his head a firm swing from side to side.

  Angele saw him and cried, “Don’t you understand? I want to help. I overheard some of the planters talking last night about how they think there’s some kind of underground movement—a railroad, they called it—to help runaways go north. And they think they’ve been wrong about which direction they’ve been heading.”

  She recounted everything the men had said.

  When she had finished, Toby walked over and knelt in front of her so they were eye level. “Miz Angele, now I want you to listen to me. Our people like you, but you ain’t got no business gettin’ mixed up in this, so it’s best you just get on back to the house and forget whatever it is you think you saw the other night.”

  She knew she was getting nowhere. They were not going to admit anything, but at least they could pass along the information she had given them.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” She noticed that Selma looked as though she was about to cry.

  Toby went to the door with her, while Selma hung back. “We appreciate you caring about all of us, Miz Angele. We really do. But there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here that ought not be, and I hope you’ll tell anybody that who might think otherwise.”

  “You don’t have to worry.” She looked past him to where Selma was still huddled in a chair. “Selma, do you by any chance know what time Master Ryan retired last night? He was asleep when I awoke this morning, and if the guests were terribly late leaving, I want him to sleep as long as possible so he won’t be tired today.”

  Selma’s fingers were splayed across her face, and she peered through them at Angele. “No, ma’am. I was busy cleanin’ up. I didn’t see him.”

  The minute she was off the porch, Selma leaped up to run to the door and watch till she was out of sight, then whirled on Toby to cry, “I don’t trust her. She was tryin’ to get us to admit we’re helpin’ runaways so she can tell. I just know it.”

  Toby looked uncertain. “I don’t know, honey. She seems like a real nice lady. Maybe she does want to help. And don’t forget that runaway came the other night just a minute or two after you finally got her to leave, so she probably did see him.”

  “Maybe she did, but she can’t prove anything, and that’s why she was tryin’ to get us to tell her. She probably made up the whole story about hearin’ those men talkin’.”

  “I’m still gonna pass the word along, and if any white men and dogs are where she said they’d be, we’ll know she was tellin’ the truth. Then we can trust her.”

  “Humph,” Selma grunted, continuing to stare down the path. “Probably all she really wanted was to find out whether I saw Master Ryan with Miz Denise after everybody left.”

  She went back to the basin to finish washing her face.

  Toby watched her in silence for a few moments, then quietly asked, “Did you?”

  She wiped at her eyes with a rag, then hung the towel on a nail to dry. “All I know is, the last time I saw either one of ’em, they were together.”

  “And where were they?” Toby persisted.

  Selma’s expression turned sad. Actually she liked Miz Angele and hated for her to be
hurt. “Everybody was gone but them. I went to get the last of the glasses, like Mammy Lou tol’ me to, and that’s when I saw ’em—goin’ into Master Ryan’s study. He closed the door, and when I left the house a long time later, they were still in there.”

  “That don’t look good,” Toby said with a solemn shake of his head. “That don’t look good at all.”

  It was still so early that Angele felt it was safe to cut through Roscoe’s woods and pass his cabin to get back to the house faster.

  Her heart was aching to know whether Ryan had made love to Denise. It would mean he loved her, and, if so, Angele would have no choice but to set him free.

  She slowed as reason set in.

  It was obvious Denise had been throwing herself at him last night, but Angele had no proof that he enjoyed it…no reason to assume he had bedded her. And if she went tearing into the house to search all over to try and find them together, she would look like a fool.

  The thing to do, she decided, was give him the benefit of the doubt as long as possible. Meanwhile, by God, she would fight for him.

  She only wished she felt more like fighting.

  She still felt sick to her stomach. She was tired, and her nerves were on edge. That was not like her, and she needed to get hold of herself in order to think clearly.

  What she also needed to do, she thought with determination rolling through her veins like liquid fire, was to make Ryan really sit up and take notice of her—and not by merely looking pretty. She wanted him to see that she was smart and knowledgeable.

  She came to a halt as the idea struck like the mosquito she quickly slapped off her arm.

  There was something she could do that would not only make him notice her but also outshine Denise.

  She would show him and everyone else she could not only ride—she could beat all the men at jumping the hurdles. But she would need a horse, and—

  A twig snapped, breaking the silence around her. Whirling about, she gasped in surprise to see Roscoe Fordham.