by Grace Walton
Connor couldn’t choke back a chuckle at the sight of his dignified uncle draped in orange satin and brocade. Sander frowned in his direction. He sat majestically across from Rory.
“How do you feel this morning, Miss Rory?”
At least the black man had the courtesy to ask after her. She appreciated his concern.
“I have fared better.” She tried to give a dignified answer. Her wildly streaming hair and lack of shoes made this almost impossible. She forged ahead into polite conversation. “I hope you will be attending the party at the Wingates' with us tonight?”
Sander looked to Dylan for a confirmation of this before speaking. Seeing his nephew nod, Sander answered her, “Miss Rory I'm more than delighted to say I'll be among your party this evening.”
“That will cause quite a commotion, I would think,” Connor mused aloud. “Black men don't often frequent ton parties in Savannah, I imagine.”
Dylan sat comfortably back in his chair. He stretched out his long legs. “He will be an excellent diversion.”
She’d reached her absolute limit. Rory was so tired of the man's sangfroid, she exploded. The angry words poured out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Is everyone just a diversion to you?”
Dylan's heavily lidded eyes never wavered as he answered her pointedly, “No, my dear, some people are liabilities.”
His meaning was clear to Rory and everyone at the table. She was a liability. She’d ceased to be important in his scheme. In fact, she was decidedly in the way. She’d gotten him into Savannah society. He’d learned who was smuggling the guns. Now he didn't need her anymore. Rory Windsor had fulfilled her limited purpose. She was being cast away like so much dead useless wood.
All the time they'd spent together, the dancing lessons, the rides on the beach, and the endless lessons in deportment, in the end all of it hadn't meant a thing to him. When this job was finished, he'd go somewhere else. He’d do the same thing over again. That's what was the hardest to swallow.
In three months’ time, he'd probably be dancing and dressing and molding some other woman. He’d be using some other woman. He’d be calling that woman sweetheart. He’d be kissing that woman.
In three months’ time, he’d most likely be unable to recall her name. Rory knew he didn't love her. He'd told her so too many times. But she thought they were at least friends. Right now, she didn't even feel like a person. He'd made her feel like a thing, an ugly and worthless thing. It was precisely the way she’d felt the night before in the carriage on the way to the ball.
She knew she wasn't going to cry. She felt too empty to cry or even feel pain. Maybe those would come later. She wondered about that in an abstract sort of way as she stood. All the men rose in unison with her. They bowed politely.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” It was a preoccupied little murmur, and she left. Slowly and quietly she drifted out of the room like a sad wraith.
Dylan and Sander sat back down. But Connor stood and stared after her until she was up the stairs and out of sight. Then he turned. He furiously blasted his brother. “Go after her and apologize. You can't come here, turn her life upside down, and then treat her like something you'd wipe off your boot in the stable yard.”
Dylan met his damning eyes. But he said nothing.
“If you don't go after her, I will.” Connor meant it as a threat. Still, Dylan was silent. “She's dying. Can't you see she's dying? The life’s just draining out of her. And you did it. Curse you for a feckless scoundrel, you did it.” Connor couldn't believe his brother's cold-blooded rejection of the girl. “You should have just taken your pistol out and shot her. That would have been kinder.”
Finally, Dylan spoke. His words were hard and clipped. “You don't know the lady. She's stronger than she seems.”
“I know her well enough to wish Arthur had sent me here first instead of you. Good Lord man, you must be as heartless as they say if you can turn her away. She loves you Dylan. Even I can see that. It's in her eyes and her voice. She loves you like I'll wager no other woman ever will.”
He waited to see if his elder brother would make any response. When there was none, he threw his napkin down on his plate in disgust. “Perhaps I should tell you what she said to me about you in that godforsaken attic last night.” His hands were clenching spasmodically at his sides.
Dylan stifled a bored yawn behind his hand. “She’s a lovesick child.”
“She's not a child. Are you blind as well as heartless? If she's just a child, and you have no interest in her, why did you mow me down in that attic last night?” Connor challenged his brother.
Dylan casually wiped his mouth on the damask napkin before answering, “Expediency, Connor.”
The blonde haired man kicked his chair away from the table. He strode out of the dining room without another word.
“Do you want to rail against me too Sander?” Dylan's tone was flat and stoic.
“No,” the black man said as he studied his nephew. “No, I don't.”
“Good.” Dylan got up to leave. “Have everyone ready to go by four o'clock. I'll be out riding for the rest of the day.”
Sander sighed as he cut the ham on his plate. He replied into the empty room, “I'm sure you will Dylan. But I don't think you'll solve your dilemma with a wild ride this time.”
Staring out of her window on the second floor Rory watched Dylan tear out of the stable yard on the meanest most fractious horse in the barn. Nobody had been able to ride the brute since Gray bought him the last spring. She was surprised that the stable boys hadn't warned Dylan of the horse's nasty temperament. Or perhaps they had, and Dylan had chosen the devilish mount anyway. She was past caring really.
Her mind was full of trying to decide what to do with her life now. Now that her grand adventure was practically over. True to his word, Dylan would be leaving. Things would be back to normal. Normal, ha, that was a cruel jest. Her life would never be like it was before. Living on Windsor's Island would never be the same. Every part of the island would remind her of Dylan St. John. The school, the house, the dock, and especially Dolphin's Point.
Maybe she should consider touring the continent with Gray. He'd asked her to do that very thing many, many times. Her friend Rebekah spent a whole year in London at a school for genteel young ladies. She’d come back with some marvelous stories to tell. If Rory did travel to Europe would it just be an excuse to look for Dylan in every city, in every country house, and at every party? She didn't want to spend her life vainly searching for a man who didn't want to be found.
Through the turmoil in her mind, a quiet verse kept repeating itself over and over. Be still and know that I am God, Be still and know that I am God. At that moment, Rory decided to finish dressing. She’d go check on Arlene's baby. He was with a wet nurse until they could get him home to the island. Both babe and nurse were installed in one of the servants’ rooms in the attic. As she left her bedchamber, she came face to face with Sander, still in his costume.
“Hello Sander,” she said.
He was encouraged and a little surprised by the serenity on her face. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” he admitted sheepishly.
“I'm fine,” she answered and smiled. “Would you like to come with me and meet someone very special?”
He was puzzled and intrigued. “I suppose I would.”
“Come with me then.” She led him up the narrow stairs leading to the attic rooms. She knocked lightly on the first door. A young woman opened the door and invited them into the chamber. By the hearth were two tiny cradles. Rory went to one of them and lifted out Arlene's son. The wet nurse left quietly with the other baby.
“Mr. Lysander Goodman meet the newest resident of Windsor's Island.” She expertly laid the child in his surprised arms.
Sander studied the perfect baby in awe. “What's his name?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“He doesn't have one yet.” She watched him carefully stroke the baby's little fat cheek. “
But that doesn't mean he hasn't been loved. His mother risked her life, bringing him into the world. And she risked it again, letting him go. If her master ever finds out what she's done, he could kill her. The man has that right.”
“He's one of the children from the sporting houses isn't he?”
Rory nodded. She didn't bother to ask how he knew about her work with the prostitutes. “His mother is a Christian. And she wants him safe and not in bondage.”
“How can a slave woman working in a bordello be a Christian?” The idea seemed fantastic to the black man.
She reached over and took the boy into her own arms. She kissed his sweet-smelling forehead. “Being a Christian doesn't mean your life isn’t difficult Sander. It doesn’t mean nothing bad will ever happen to you. Being a Christian just means you don't have to face the hard parts of life all alone. If every person I depend on fails me, and they might because we're all just imperfect humans, the Lord never would. In the Bible He says He'll never leave me nor forsake me. So even when I foolishly give my heart to a man who doesn't want it,” she said. “My Lord is still there. He’s waiting for me to turn to Him.” She rocked the baby in her arms for a few seconds. Then she carefully lay him back in his cradle.
“Miss Rory?” He wanted to say the right words, the perfect words to ease her pain. “Dylan is a very complicated man. I don't think he meant intentionally to hurt you downstairs.”
“Sander,” she protested softly. “Please don't lie to me. False hope is so much worse than the truth. I'll be fine. I might not be fine today or tomorrow. But one day, I will. I would hate to think of you wasting time worrying about me. I don't know what the rest of my life will be like. But I know I'll be just fine.” She turned away and he couldn't see her face. “You know, if I had enough money, I'd buy Arlene. That's the baby's mother. Then I'd take her home with me. She could raise him herself on the island.”
“What’s her price?”
“The last time Bram asked, her master said she wasn't for sale.” Rory led the way out of the chamber. The wet nurse was waiting in the hall to return to the child. “But I think if someone offered him enough coin, he'd let her go.”
“Someone like the rich Arabian Bu Allah?”
“Sander you couldn't.” She was cautiously hopeful. “Could you?”
“We'll see Miss Rory.” He chuckled, trying to decide how he could accomplish the impossible this time. “We'll just have to see. Who is her owner?”
“You'll meet him tonight. The party is at his home on the river. His name is Joseph Wingate. I'm not supposed to know, but Bram told me last year when he tried to buy Arlene's freedom. Mr. Wingate is a very wealthy man. He owns a bank and a cotton warehouse and a rice plantation. But he doesn't want anyone to know he owns The Lavender Rose.”
“Miss Rory?” he called after her as she sailed lightly down the attic steps.
Standing at the bottom holding the door open for him, she answered, “Yes Sander?”
“Dylan wants us to be prepared to leave by four this afternoon. Will that be all right?”
He phrased it politely. But she knew she had no choice in the matter. The great St. John had spoken. He must be obeyed. And at this point, she really didn't care. She'd do whatever the man wanted, if it would get the whole thing over with sooner.
“That will be fine.” She was already walking down the corridor towards her bedchamber. “The sail down the river to Isle of Hope will take several hours.” Her door clicked behind her. Sander went off to search through his sea chest for a deck of cards.
At every aristocratic gathering he’d ever attended, whether as a guest or as a servant. There’d been gambling. Usually, the gentlemen would stray from their wives. They’d settle into a quiet room to play serious cards, sometimes for serious money. There was a sly notion rambling around in Sander's head. Bu Allah was going to play for deep stakes tonight. And he was going to be very lucky.
Crossing the parlor downstairs to get to the chamber he shared with Graham, Sander heard Tirzah usher someone into the house. He quickly eased himself out of sight and into the bedchamber. But he left the door ajar and listened intently from behind it. A lifetime of listening at keyholes served him well now.
“Tirzah will you go up and fetch Miss Rory for a ride?” It was a petite dark-haired lady who spoke to the housekeeper. She was dressed in a fashionable dusty rose gown and a high-poked hat. She lowered herself regally into a parlor chair expecting the servant immediately to fulfill her request.
“I’ll let Miss Rory know you’re here.”
He could tell by the unfriendly tone of her voice the black woman had little use for the doll-like girl perched on the edge of the chair. Tirzah trudged up the stairs and disappeared around the corner. Soon Sander heard light footfalls coming down. Then he heard Rory's happy greeting.
“Rebekah, How good it is to see you.”
The other girl rose and answered, “It's good to see you too Rory,” Then she giggled. “You left Irene's party indecently early last night, you know.” She shook a reproving finger at the red-haired girl. “Of course, if I had been leaving with a man as delicious as your fiancé instead of my dull old brother, I would have been glad to leave as early. I'll wager you took a long time getting home. In a closed cozy carriage, umm, I know I would have.” The last word trailed off into another irritating suggestive giggle.
Rory scolded her friend lightly. “Rebekah where do you get such fast ideas? Nothing happened in that carriage on the way home last night.”
At least, she hoped nothing had happened. She really couldn't remember much after being lifted into the carriage. But the way Dylan was acting of late made her certain he had avoided her like the plague. Unless there was someone watching them of course.
“Your mother would have the vapors if she heard you talking like this.” Her smile softened the criticism. Then it was her turn to tease. “You're not the same girl who left two years ago for that fancy English finishing school.”
The other girl sobered for a moment. “You’re right. I'm sorry Rory, really I am.” Brightening she urged Rory. “I promise I'll not embarrass you anymore with loose talk. Now get your wrap and hat. I'll take you for a ride if you'll promise to tell me everything about your wonderful fiancé.” She giggled again and continued. “Did you meet the new circuit rider for the Methodists before you left last night? He’s as attractive as your St. John, if you like big fair men.”
Rebekah didn't stop talking as Tirzah settled a white shawl around Rory's shoulders. The housekeeper handed her a delicate white bonnet.
Rebekah kept chattering. “I vow the new preacher’s almost handsome enough to make me want to change my religion.”
Rory tied her bonnet strings and trailed out the door after her talkative friend. But as she did, she sent up a little prayer for help. Nothing could be more nerve shattering than spending an entire afternoon trapped in a carriage with such an inquisitive chatterbox. Rebekah had changed dramatically since she’d been to that girls’ school in England. She wasn’t the kind, innocent young lady she had been only two years ago.
Sander felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he watched the two girls step into the carriage with the help of a black coachman. Something about Rory's friend bothered him. He couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly. She seemed empty-headed and only interested in men. But he would ask Connor to keep an eye on her just in case.
Chapter Fourteen
“Your wild ride this afternoon certainly didn't help this wound. Couldn't you spend just one day resting? Just one day would help this thing heal almost completely,” Sander nagged as he finally saw the gash after spending several minutes unwinding the soaked old bandage. He’d carefully pushed the voluminous sleeves of his green robes up past his elbows to try and keep them clean while he worked on his nephew.
Dylan was gone all day. He'd come in dusty and dirty an hour ago. He’d asked for a bath to be brought up to his room. Now he sat straddling a chair, wearing black
satin evening britches, in the middle of his chamber as Sander prepared to examine the wound.
“I don’t have a day. The stitches will have to mend without coddling.”
Dylan sat easily as the other man probed the healing stitches. If he felt any pain from them, his uncle couldn't tell.
“And it wasn't a wild ride,” St. John corrected. “I needed to catch up with Connor. He was in no frame of mind for a sedate trot.”
“I'm surprised he let himself be caught at all.” Sander seemed satisfied with the progress of his surgery. He cleaned and rebandaged it. “When he stormed out of the house, I thought we wouldn't be seeing him for a while. I haven't seen him that angry since Griffin took the Indian girl onto his sloop.”
“Connor is opinionated and bull-headed with it. He's the only St. John who is stubborn and irrational.”
A disbelieving snort from his uncle interrupted him.
“He didn't understand Griffin's motives for helping Mourning Dove. Just as he doesn't understand mine now.” Dylan experimentally moved his arm to see if the linen wrapping would hamper his movement. When he saw it didn’t, he got up and drew a clean, folded white shirt from the chest of drawers against the wall.
Sander started packing his supplies neatly back into the hat box. “Did you understand Griffin's motives for the escapade with the Indian girl?”
“She has a name Sander,” Dylan said as he buttoned the shirt. “But to answer your question, Griffin is a grown man. I didn't need to understand his reasons. It was none of my business. If he wanted to steal the Indian chief's daughter, take her halfway around the world, then leave her there - that was his concern and not mine.”
“Connor didn't think so,” Sander argued as he handed Dylan a freshly pressed neckcloth.
“He's stubborn and irrational.” He fitted the length of white material around his neck and began tying an efficient knot.
“I heard Mourning Dove's father planned to give her to Red Feather. It didn't matter to Connor that Mourning Dove hated Red Feather. Not just dislike mind you, hate. She hates the very air the man breathes. She told Griffin he was a dirty brutal animal. And she told Griffin some other things he wouldn't repeat to me. But I can well guess at what they were. Suffice it to say Red Feather is not a patient man where women are concerned. But all that didn't matter to Connor. Because he likes Red Feather, has since they were boys. Remember how they were always disappearing somewhere? In any event, no one thought to ask Mourning Dove how she felt. So when she came to Griffin begging him to get her away, he did. Is that what you heard?” Sander nattered on sitting comfortably in a chair.
