by Grace Walton
Matters really became interesting when St. John sauntered down the stairs. Why was everyone upstairs Irene wondered? People usually stayed in the public rooms during a ball. In any event, St. John had strolled across the dance floor like he owned the place. Then he’d led Aurora into the most shocking waltzing exhibition the city had yet seen. They seemed glued together during that waltz. The hard look in his eye dared anyone to comment upon the fact. Then he spirited her off to this private table in the supper room.
As Irene approached their table, Dylan rose. He bowed with practiced grace and started a conversation before she had the chance to ask any uncomfortable questions. “Miss Avansley, I hesitate to say anything.” He let the statement dangle enticing her.
“Yes, Lord St. John?” She was pathetically eager.
“You may have noticed I was away from the ballroom for a long while earlier.”
How should she respond, she wondered? Of course I noticed. Everyone at the party noticed. If it could be printed in The Gazette without fear of libel, everyone in Savannah would know by the morning.
“Well, yes, I had noticed,” she answered weakly.
“I hadn't wanted to make this known to anyone. But this is your house.” He sounded so rational and helpful.
“Well, what is it Lord St. John?” She was caught hook, line, and sinker.
“I was upstairs trying to help one of your guests.” He paused.
“Is someone ill?” Irene scanned the room to see who was missing.
“I'm not sure,” Dylan lowered his voice conspiratorially. He would get his revenge on his pesky little brother sooner rather than later. “He was a very large gentleman. I didn't catch his name. He was rather rough looking, long fair hair, and strange green eyes.”
“Oh, that would be Reverend Washburn.” A smile creased her thin lips as she remembered the big good-looking preacher.
“He's a man of the cloth?” Dylan expressed surprise.
“That's what my mother told me, sir.” She nodded. “He's a circuit rider for the Methodists. She met him at the church this afternoon. At vespers, I think. Mother feels it’s her Christian duty to support the circuit riders. Their life is so hard you know. Traveling hundreds of miles a year on horseback in all kinds of weather.”
“Yes, I've heard the stories. No wonder the poor man was so exhausted,” Dylan murmured sympathetically.
“Exhausted?” she asked, puzzled.
“I found him stumbling up the stairs and offered to help,” Dylan explained. “He said he didn't want to put a damper on the ball. But he wanted a place to sleep. I offered to fetch a servant. He wouldn't allow it. The last time I saw him, he was going up a narrow set of stairs on the second floor. He was intent on finding a humble bed. He said something about sleeping in the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh, but those stairs lead to the attic.” She was horrified. “The poor man is probably up there in the dark and there's no warmth up there at all. Oh, I've got to go get him down before he becomes even more ill.” She scurried off, a woman with a God-ordained mission.
Even through the haze of her painful head, Rory could see Dylan's satisfied smile. At that precise moment, she knew he'd manipulated Irene.
“You really are an awful, awful man,” she mumbled through lips that refused to form the words correctly.
Chapter Thirteen
Rory caught her head in her hands as she carefully tried to sit up in the bed. The room rocked slowly from side to side like a ship on a rolling sea before it settled back down and was still. The muted light from the draped windows tormented her eyes when she'd first glanced in their direction. In self-defense, she'd snapped her eyes shut and refused to open them. Anything that painful was not worth doing again.
What was wrong with her head, she wondered? It felt twice as large as normal. Much too heavy for her neck to support. The taste in her mouth put her in mind of sawdust and rusty nails. Was this how the marsh fever started?
Surely not, Rory hoped. She decided to open one eye. She couldn't just sit here and wait for the pestilence to carry her off. She frantically tried to remember the list of symptoms Tirzah had taught her for swamp fevers. Rocking rooms weren’t on the list. When she’d cautiously opened the one eye, the light wasn't quite so painful. She glanced around the room. Her beautiful beaded ball gown was draped carelessly over the back of the one chair in her bedchamber. Rory frowned. She'd have to speak to that new maid Marie.
Then a smoky partial recollection of the previous evening's end teased her memory. It started with a cup of lethal Chatham Artillery Punch. That part seemed pretty clear. At the moment, a reason for drinking the vile stuff seemed to escape her. But Rory definitely remembered drinking it, a lot of it, far too much of it. She groaned and anchored her throbbing head with her hands again. What a witless fool she’d been. She’d innocently taken that cursed punch cup from Bram. No wonder being a drunkard was a sin. Anything that made you feel this bad should be a sin.
She had a vague memory of Dylan giving some far-fetched excuse to Mrs. Avansley about Rory being sick. He’d picked her up. He’d carried her out of the Avansley's home amid the interested faces of servants and gentry alike. The carriage pulled up. The door was shoved open. And she’d been lifted carefully inside. The details after that were rather sketchy in her mind. But somehow she’d ended up here in her own chamber and out of her dress.
At the moment, she felt like the blasted carriage had run over her. She wished it had done so and put her out of her misery. The door to the bedchamber opened with a long, wrenching squeak that made her grit her teeth and set her sensitive ears ringing.
“Miss Rory?” Tirzah stuck her head in the door and whispered, “You awake?”
“Yes.” A tortured whisper was all the pale girl could manage.
“Mister Dylan sent me here to give you this.” She walked quietly into the middle of the room holding a steaming cup of something.
The acrid odor coming from the cup sent a rampant surge of nausea through the girl sitting on the bed. “What is it?” she asked weakly.
“I don't rightly know what’s in it.” The black woman was at the bedside. She held the cup out for her mistress to inspect. “Mister Dylan make it up and say you gonna need it. If you want to feel better, you got to drink the whole thing down.”
“Well,” she said, reaching out to take the remedy. “Give it to me then.”
Rory sounded pettish, which was completely unlike her. But she should have known Mr. Perfect St. John would have a cure for too much Chatham Artillery Punch. She sniffed the contents of the cup and complained, “It smells awful.”
Looking to the black woman for sympathy and getting none, she held her nose, gagged, and forced the warm milky drink down her throat. It had a pleasant after taste of nutmeg. Now, she thought darkly, if I can just get the stuff to stay down I'll be all right. She closed her eyes. She lay carefully and slowly back down against her pillows and waited. Nothing happened. She felt just as bad as she had before. So much for instant cures, she thought darkly. Maybe the all-knowing Mr. St. John wasn't so perfect after all.
“Uh, Miss Rory?” Tirzah hovered over her.
The girl refused to open her eyes. But she did favor the housekeeper with a grim reply, “What?”
“Mister Dylan, he say you got to get up. It won't work if you just lay there.” Tirzah stood waiting to help her from the bed.
“Well, you can tell him to go straight to…” Her words were cut mercifully short by the black woman's anger.
“Miss Rory Windsor, you get yourself out of that bed and stop cussin’ like a bad mouth sailor. I didn’t raise you to be talkin’ like no white trashy gal.” Tirzah whipped the covers brutally off the girl in the bed. “You the one who got carried in the house last night all liquored up. Now you’re the one with the big head. Now get your sorry self up, and put on these here clothes.” She thrust one of the white day dresses toward the girl on the bed and left the room in a furious flurry of angry pettico
ats.
Rory considered the gown across her lap for a long time before she launched her feet off the bed and onto the cold floor. She swayed for a long moment. One hand clutched the bed post. The nausea wasn't as bad this time. She eyed the dress draped across the bed.
This particular dress Tirzah had given her fastened easily up the front. After pulling on the correct undergarments from the chiffonier and easing them on, Rory had no problem getting dressed. Tired with the effort, she flopped down on her vanity seat with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. She stared at the pasty-faced girl in the mirror.
Drinking really was bad for the complexion, she thought as she dragged a painful brush through her hair. Tirzah had always said as much. But Rory had never believed her. Now she saw the evidence right in front of her. Dark circles underlined her eyes. Her cheeks were a greyish chalk color.
Rory was horrified and embarrassed as the full memory of the night before came slowly back to her. Dylan and Lady Avansley- there was a lot more there than met the eye. That woman had looked at him like he was a feast, and she was starving to death. And what about that rogue brother of his, Connor? He was surely born to hang if ever a man was.
She dropped reddened eyes and turned away, unable to look in the mirror. She recalled herself in Connor's arms. Then she remembered the murderous look on Dylan's face. She should have never gone along with Connor. He was probably wild to a fault and she had fallen right in with him.
“Oh Lord help me,” she prayed fervently. What would happen now? Would Dylan actually hurt his brother, believing something had happened between them? Nothing had happened. That fact, at least, she remembered. Nothing, it was a mean and foolish attempt to make Dylan jealous. To pay him back for flirting with that poisonous Celeste Avansley.
Lord, forgive me, it was a silent plea. I already knew Dylan wasn't for me. I still tried to make him jealous. Stupid, stupid, she was without mercy towards herself, how could I be so stupid? Now he wasn't jealous, he was infuriated. Was he mad enough to kill someone? She wondered if that was possible. Rory hoped not, but the best way to stop any violence was to explain exactly what had happened to Dylan. Exactly, with no excuses, to shield her pride. She would tell Dylan the cold hard truth.
Find him. I've got to find him, she told herself. Then a worried frown creased her forehead. He might have already done something horrible. Rory seemed to recall being very angry with Connor the night before. She’d even ordered Dylan to kill his brother. A terrible anxiety was building within her. Why had she told Dylan to kill his brother? Had it been a bad jest? I've got to find Dylan, she thought as she threw her hair over her shoulder. I've got to find him right now.
She didn't wait to fish her shoes from under the bed. She didn't tie her hair back. She dashed barefoot out the door into the long hall and down the long polished staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused breathing raggedly.
Where would he be? Rory wasn't sure what time it was. The sun was well up. It could be past noon. He might not be in the house. Dylan might already be out in the city hunting down Connor. She ran through the parlor towards the dining room. Her feet made a hushed slapping sound on the shiny wooden floors. She didn't feel dizzy anymore. She was long past that.
Rory's one thought was to get to the stable, mount a horse, and prowl the streets of Savannah to find Dylan. She had to stop him. She would never forgive herself if there was bloodshed between the brothers on her account. The furniture in the parlor was a colorful blur as she sped through it. She reached the open entrance to the dining room.
She was halfway through that room when her brain vaguely registered the sound of chair legs dragging across the uneven floor. People were rising from their seats. Rory stopped dead in her tracks. She turned to see who it might be. She felt horrible. She looked like a barefooted banshee. And she was terribly worried about the consequences of her rash action. But polite manners had been pounded into her brain since birth. So she couldn't very well totally ignore whoever was eating. Besides, she thought rationally, they might know where Dylan is.
Her eyes widened in shock. Standing politely and waiting for her to speak to them were the two brothers in question. And, she noted with disgust, they looked to be in perfect charity with each other. Connor brought his napkin up to his lips in a movement, she was convinced, was intended to hide the condescending smirk settling on his lips. Dylan's face was unreadable as always.
“Going somewhere sweetheart?” Dylan's words were rife with irony. He glanced at her bare toes.
“No, I'm not.” Rory straightened her shoulders. She tucked one offending foot behind the other. She was not about to let these two rascals get the best of her. Here she’d been half out of her mind with worry. And there they sat eating a huge breakfast. It was disgusting, she fumed. How could those two insensitive barbarians eat while she was upstairs worrying about them?
“Wonderful, I'm so glad you decided to come down.” He pulled out the chair beside his. “I hope you'll join Reverend Washburn and I.”
In a reflex motion, she walked to the chair and sat down. Now that she wasn't consumed with worry the drums in her head began their pounding again. Eating anything was totally out of the question. But sitting might be all right. As long as she didn't have to move.
The men resumed their seats. They continued their conversation as if she wasn't there. It was a lot of talk about cotton prices and evangelizing savages. It didn't make much sense to the girl. This was the wrong time of the year to sell cotton. And all the Indians around Savannah were already Praying Indians. They had been since the Wesley brothers lived in Savannah so many years ago.
In the fog that was her poor brain, Rory began to remember Dylan talking to Irene Avansley the night before about someone in her attic. Someone the irritating girl called Reverend Washburn. Now the puzzle fell neatly into place. Connor was going around town calling himself Reverend Washburn. Lying must run in their blood, Rory thought sourly.
She remembered how Connor had won her confidence neglecting to mention he was Dylan's brother. She flushed as she relived their conversation in the attic. Would she never learn to curb her wayward tongue? Now that gallows’ bait knew she cared for his equally reprobate brother. How would he use such private information Rory wondered? She’d prided herself on hiding her feelings from Dylan since the last embarrassing time he’d felt the need to discourage her.
She must seem like the veriest schoolgirl to him now. Especially if Connor had spoken of their conversation in the attic. Soon Tirzah bustled in and laid a plate before Rory. She left without so much as a word or a backward glance. Rory knew she had a fence to mend with the housekeeper. Drinking was not a fit occupation for Godly women in Tirzah's eyes. Rory felt the same way. But at the moment, Rory was more concerned with the two men sitting at the table.
“Reverend Washburn?” she rudely interrupted them.
Connor didn't even have the grace to blush, the beast. He merely met her gaze steadily and replied in the most respectful tone, “Yes Ma'am?”
As he faced her, Rory noted he had an impressive bruise adorning his forehead. “You are a man of the cloth?” she asked in disbelief.
“It’s a temporary vocation.” He sported that insufferable Viking's grin and dared her to dispute him.
She sniffed at his audacity. She looked instead at Dylan. “I wasn't aware God's calling on a man's life could be temporary.”
He refused to rise to the bait. He merely shrugged his massive shoulders. He replied without emotion, “All things are possible to them that believe.”
“For a man who insists there is no God, you surely can quote scriptures.” she answered miffed and attacked the eggs on her plate. “And you constantly twist them to serve your purposes.”
“I never said there was no God, sweetheart.” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips before he continued, “I'm convinced there is a God. When I die, I'm sure He'll be there posthaste to deliver me directly to the gates of Hell.”
There
was nothing she could say in reply. They had been over this ground before. She knew his opinion on the matter.
“Did Connor explain about last night?” She changed the subject.
“I did, Miss Rory.” The culprit nodded unrepentant. “It was entirely my fault. I apologized profusely.” He brushed his hair away from the bruise on his forehead to make it more noticeable to her.
“You hit him?” she accused, glaring at Dylan.
He returned her look with no emotion. He said nothing.
“How could you have hit him?” Rory demanded incensed. “He's your brother.”
“I found my betrothed in a compromising position with another man.”
“But he's your brother.”
“He's a man.”
“Miss Rory,” Connor interrupted them. “I would have done the same thing to him if the tables had been turned.
“You would have hurt him?” She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
“If you were engaged to marry me, and I found you in his arms. I would have killed him.” His words were so cut and dried they frightened her.
A derisive snort from Dylan made Connor grin and correct himself. “I would have tried to kill him.”
“But it isn’t real. None of it is real,” she insisted. “You weren't trying to seduce me. You just wanted to tweak your brother. And Dylan and I aren’t engaged. We’ll never be married.”
“That’s the only reason I'm still alive.” Connor seemed totally unruffled and unconcerned.
Rory stared down at her plate. She tried to make sense of what she'd just heard. Men were so confusing.
Dylan and Connor seemed to consider that part of the conversation complete. They were back onto the subject of cotton prices. Before she came any closer to understanding how the masculine mind worked, Sander swept into the room in his Bu Allah robes.
