Millicent, Southern Hearts Series, Book One

by Felicia Rogers

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hedges lined the garden path and Stephen used them to his advantage as he secretly followed Millie and Thomas, the young man from Bayou Sara. Stephen heard him consistently address Millie as "Miss Beaumont."

  Millie laughed at his jokes and silly quips. She clapped delightfully when Thomas turned flips and told of his previous experience as an acrobat with the circus.

  "You're amazing!" she exclaimed

  When they stopped to sit on a bench next to the hedges, Stephen paused and listened to their conversation. Thomas explained, "I ran away from home at sixteen and joined the circus, but I grew tired of it after a couple of years."

  "A circus? My tutor, Mr. Hughes, taught about such groups. If I remember correctly, they came about in fourteenth century Rome. They had horse races, mock battles, jugglers, and other acts similar to a modern day circus."

  Thomas replied, "I guess."

  Millie continued, "The vivid way in which Mr. Hughes described a circus helped me visualize one. Of course, I understand that today they are much more civilized."

  "I'd imagine so."

  "But you said you were part of one. How can you not know?"

  "During my time in the circus, I mostly kept to myself."

  Millie responded, "If I was near something so spectacular, I would want to know everything about it."

  Stephen smiled to himself and walked back to the main house. He had little to worry about with young Thomas. The boy may be well-traveled and have physical skills, but he was still a young man whose dull nature wouldn't appeal to a vibrant young woman like Millie.

  ****

  Millie flopped into a chair in her room. Her sigh rent the quiet and she pushed her hair away from her face.

  "How was your day?" asked Amelia, as she set her needlepoint on a side table.

  "Do you have to ask? Did you not hear my exasperated sigh, dear sister? Can't you pick up on my cues?"

  Amelia burst out laughing. "Millie, you're speaking absurdities.

  Suddenly, Millie laughed, too. "I am speaking absurdities."

  When they had gathered their composure, Amelia asked, "Really, how was your day?"

  "Terrible. Just terrible."

  "What about Peter and Thomas? Didn't you have a good time? Did you learn anything?"

  "I learned plenty. The most important things being that I have no interest in either Peter or Thomas."

  "Truly?"

  "Peter is a sniveling young man who is only pursuing me to get back at Priscilla. He's afraid of frogs and irritated by weeds. And Thomas, whom I had high hopes for, is unimaginative and unlearned. Did you know he traveled with the circus? He can flip through the air and yet he knows absolutely nothing about the history of that profession." Millie fell against the back of the chair and crossed her arms. "How can Father expect me to marry someone who never wants to make something of himself? Or someone who isn't curious? I would be bored to tears."

  "Agreed."

  "Amelia, what am I going to do? Stephen keeps following me and–"

  "Stephen?" asked Amelia, sitting straighter.

  "Yes, Stephen Green; remember he is the last suitor of the week."

  "And he is following you around?"

  "Well, yes. Unless, of course, he just happens to be everywhere I am." Millie smiled at the falsity of that statement.

  "Hmm, I think he's breaking Father's rule."

  Amelia stood and Millie rushed to her side. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to tell Father."

  "No, Amelia, please don't."

  Amelia paused. "You like Stephen?"

  Heat rushed to Millie's cheeks as she nodded.

  "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Why would you think that?" Millie asked, brushing her hair with her fingertips.

  "Because you settle your hair across your face like a veil whenever you're hiding something."

  Millie said softly, "I've told you everything you need to know."

  "And you don't want me to tell Father that Stephen is breaking the rules?"

  "True."

  "How is that fair to the others?"

  Millie stood and paced the room. "How is any of this fair to me? I'm the one who will possibly spend my life with one of these gentlemen. Don't I have the right to be happy with my choice? So what if I like that Stephen interrupts every interlude. So what if I find him handsome, and funny, and interesting."

  "I won't tell Father."

  Millie rushed to her sister's side. "You promise?"

  "I promise. Now you need to prepare for bed. My understanding is that tomorrow morning belongs to the gentleman from France."

  Millie rolled her eyes and groaned. Would he prove any better than Peter or Thomas?

  She knelt at the side of her bed. The rote prayer fell from her lips, but the simple words seemed inadequate and she deviated. "Lord, help me make the right choice."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The cock crowed awakening Millie. She tossed back her covers and placed her feet on the cold floor. The fire had died out overnight and no one had come to stoke the embers.

  Padding across the room in her bare feet, she lifted the poker and shifted the logs. Hot embers glowed and a small flame shot upward. Assured the fire was well lit, she searched her closet. What did one wear to greet a Frenchman?

  A few minutes later, gowns littered her bed and Millie sifted through them. Nothing seemed quite right. Several times she picked up the simple dress she'd worn in New Orleans when she'd met Stephen. The memory of caressing his face made her hand tingle. Millie glanced at her hands and frowned.

  Walking to the window, she pulled back the curtain. The extra light illuminated her hands and she gasped. Red welts and a rash ran along their backs and up her forearms to her elbows. Using the mirror, she searched her torso and back.

  "I came to check on–" Cora stopped talking and stared wide-eyed at her sister.

  "Cora, get Mother."

  Cora's wasted no time in running down the hallway.

  Moments later, Alice entered. Cautiously she approached Millie.

  "Mother, the rash is only on my hands and arms. What do you think it is?"

  Alice shook her head. "I don't know. Are you hot?"

  Millie placed her hand against her forehead. "No. I don't think so. It's just this rash."

  "Does it hurt?" Her mother lifted her hand toward her daughter but didn't touch her.

  "No."

  Alice gnawed on her lip. "Stay here while I call the doctor."

  Millie nodded and dropped onto the nearest chair. She cradled her chin in her palm. This was going to be a long day.

  ****

  Jacque, the Frenchman, stood inside the door of the study. The doctor and Henri Beaumont discussed Millicent's condition.

  "I've assessed Millicent and the way that girl gallivants around these woods, I believe she simply rubbed against a plant that does not agree with her."

  "But what if it is scarlet fever? I don't want to be exposed," interjected Jacque.

  The doctor arched his brow. "In my professional opinion, scarlet fever is an unlikely diagnosis. First of all, she has no fever. Secondly, most patients with the disease are much younger. Thirdly, the rash is in the wrong place. Need I go on?"

  "No. But what if the rash is contagious? Do you know for sure that it is from the plant you speak of?"

  "Of course I don't." The doctor looked at Henri and continued, "All I can say is, I don't think it's contagious. It's up to Henri to decide if he wants to keep his daughter quarantined for a time. My professional opinion remains that isolation is not necessary."

  Henri thanked the doctor and walked him to the door. The suitors in the study waited for Henri's word. Most of them needed to leave by week's end. While Stephen should leave as well, he would wait until he'd had his turn with Millie, no matter how long it took.

  "What is your decision, Monsieur Beaumont?" asked Jacque.

  Henri paced an
d tapped his forehead. Stephen started to speak, but Chandler cut him off.

  "I believe Mr. Beaumont needs time to consider the doctor's words. Why don't we all go to the parlor for a drink and Henri can meet us there with his decision?"

  The men agreed and Henri thanked Chandler for his thoughtfulness. Stephen followed the group and settled into the crowded parlor.

  Chandler played host by taking it upon himself to dig through the liquor cabinet. "Here we go. This should suffice."

  While the men commended his choice of drink, Stephen only pretended to sip.

  "This could be it for me. I must return home soon. Today was my last hope of making a connection with the young Mademoiselle," said the Frenchman

  "What does Millie have that French ladies don't have?" asked Peter.

  "For one thing she has land. Her family is well established with a name known in social circles."

  "And this is important to you?" asked Stephen, staring over the rim of his glass.

  "Of course. What man would marry into a family holding no status? Certainly not I. I have a reputation to uphold. I believe most of us here feel the same way."

  Heads nodded. Stephen took note of each one.

  "I'm not in it for the land or the money," said Chandler, gazing at them with a wide grin. "I'm in it for love."

  "Is that so," said Jacque.

  "I've loved Millicent for as long as I can remember. We've never kept secrets from one another. For instance, I know her favorite color is pink."

  Wrong. It's blue, thought Stephen.

  "I also know her favorite flower is an orchid. She loves the way it smells."

  Wrong again. Orchids give her hives. Her favorite flower is the red rose. Her family has planted extra roses outside her window because the scent helps her relax at night.

  "Keep talking," said Jacque, leaning closer to Chandler.

  Chandler paced and puffed out his chest. "Let me think. Besides her favorite color and her favorite flower, Millie loves the pet name her father uses for her."

  "What is it?" Peter asked.

  "Don't you recall, he calls her his little dove." Chandler's lips twitched as if he were laughing at a private joke.

  Stephen couldn't tell if Chandler believed the words he spoke or if he was trying to sabotage the suitors' chances with Millicent.

  "Go on," said Jacque.

  "Her favorite gem, contrary to what some people think, is a pearl."

  Stephen ignored the jab. He knew that while emeralds may not be Millie's favorite, she did yearn to have the gem. In one of her letters she had described how beautiful the stone was and that she hoped to own one someday.

  "And I know Millie seems stubborn, but in reality she is docile. She loves dressing in fancy attire and attending parties, and she hates the water."

  "Hates the water? Are you sure?" asked Peter, a frown creasing his face.

  "Of course I'm sure. I took her on a rowboat ride in New Orleans last summer and she couldn't wait to reach the shore."

  Probably because she wanted to get away from you, thought Stephen. According to Millie's letters she loved the water and spent every free moment on the dock with her feet hanging over the side.

  Chandler continued talking, but Stephen had stopped listening. It was apparent the man didn't know what he was talking about.

  Henri entered the room several minutes later with a serious expression. "Gentleman, I'm sorry to say this, but I've thought about the doctor's words and about your needs, and I think it would be best to give Millicent a few days to recover. Even if she is not contagious, she hardly feels like being civil."

  "This is an outrage," said Jacque, propelling himself to his feet.

  Henri stiffened. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I won't endanger you or my daughter by allowing her to have visitors at this time. You are free to stay on my property until she recovers or improves. Now if you will excuse me, I must visit Millie."

  Stephen covered his mouth by sipping from his glass, trying to hide his delight, but the smile spread wider than the covering. "Excuse me," he said as he walked outside.

  Assured no one had followed him, he headed to the east garden. Once there he located the hot house. Inside the building, he quickly found what he sought. Clipping one, he cradled it to his chest. Outside, in the crisp morning air, he used his coat to shield it.

  It wouldn't be easy sneaking the object into Millicent's room, but her expression would be worth it. Stephen smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Father visited Millie long enough to inform her of his decision—the courting would cease until her rash disappeared. Relief flooded her. After he left her room, she leaned her head against the wall and sighed. With any luck, most of the suitors would leave before the spots were gone.

  Sitting at her desk, she reached for her quill and paper. She dipped her quill in the ink well and considered what to write. The ink dripped and made a splotch. Millie shoved the paper aside. The words she sought to write Stephenie about her experiences eluded her. Why couldn’t her friend have just come to the party?

  The scent of roses drew her attention. Pushing her chair back, she stood and walked onto the balcony. Her room faced the hothouse in the east garden.

  A tap on her shoulder brought a scream to her throat, but a rough hand clamped over her mouth. She fought, kicking her feet backward against her assailant.

  "Sunshine, it’s me. Please stop kicking."

  Stephen released her mouth and she twirled to face him. "What are you doing here?" Grabbing his hand, she drew him inside her room and insisted, "Answer me." She placed her hands on her hips.

  "Hmm, demanding. I like that."

  "Stephen, please. Why were you on my balcony? Don’t you know I could be contagious?"

  He waved away her concern. "You probably just rubbed a weed while walking outside with Peter or Thomas yesterday. I’m not worried."

  "You’re not?"

  "Not at all. Look, I brought you something to make you feel better."

  "You did?"

  Stephen held out a bright red rose. Millicent reached for the flower and inhaled its sweet scent.

  "Thank you. This helps."

  Stephen bowed low, his arm sweeping in front of him. Millie tried not to giggle and then knitted her brows together.

  "You’re bleeding."

  "It’s nothing. A thorn pricked me."

  "Let me fix it."

  Millie pulled a clean, white hankie from a drawer and dabbed at the small puncture. "You really shouldn’t let things like this go. One time a servant wounded himself with a pitchfork and the next week the wound turned green."

  "I don’t think I would look good in green."

  Millie laughed and finished wiping away the droplet of blood. "That should hold until you have it bandaged."

  "Hmm, thank you."

  "You’re welcome."

  Millie sat in front of her mirror while Stephen planted himself on the edge of her bed. Avoiding his curious stare, she sniffed the rose. "How did you know?" she asked, staring over the velvet petals.

  "Know what?"

  "That I like roses."

  "Seemed a likely choice." He shrugged and studied the carpet.

  "You shouldn’t be here, you know."

  Awkward silence filled the room. Millicent cleared her throat and Stephen lifted his head to study her face.

  "Is there a reason you came to my room? Again."

  "I thought you might be lonely. Of course if you would rather be alone." He stood and started toward the balcony.

  Millie jumped up and placed her hand on his arm. "Please, don’t go. I have been rather lonely." Stephen's intense gaze caused her heart to race and sent butterflies dancing in her stomach.

  "I've missed you…" He paused and whispered, "lovely Millie."

  Millie gulped. She wanted to pull her hand away, but his stare held her immobile. Heat from his flesh seared her palm and she rejoiced in the feeling.

  "Does the ra
sh pain you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Good. I would not wish for you to suffer."

  He moved away; breaking her hold. Walking to her desk, he straightened the papers she had shoved aside.

  "Preparing to write a letter?" he asked.

  "I was, but I changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  "It's a long story."

  "I have time."

  Stephen sat in her chair at the table and Millie paced the room. The walk helped to calm her racing heart. "Mr. Hughes is my tutor and he made me write to a girl in a different state.

  "And?"

  "And I was writing to her."

  "What is the girl’s name?"

  "Stephenie Treen. We are the same age and our families have similar backgrounds. Mr. Hughes thought the correspondence would improve my literary skills."

  "Has it?"

  "I think so."

  "Has your teacher not checked the letters for himself?"

  "Heavens, no! I would never allow him to read them. The words I write to Stephenie are some of my most private thoughts and are not to be shared with another living soul. I afford her the same respect she affords me."

  "So you have a pen pal?"

  "Yes, of sorts. How about you? Is there someone you exchange thoughts with?"

  Stephen crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. "I share my thoughts with my friend, Charles."

  "Oh yes, I’ve seen him. He seems to have an eye for my sister Amelia."

  "Hmm, I’m not sure if it is really an eye or just curiosity."

  Heat flushed her cheeks and she fought against her rising ire. "Curiosity? Is he a cat that stalks his prey, plays with it, and then flings it away?"

  "Calm down, Millicent. I meant nothing of the sort. Charles is in his prime. He finds many women attractive."

  "So he is unable and unwilling to settle for just one."

  "He is able but he is not willing. Many things plague him currently."

  "Like what?"

  "The death of his parents, for one."

  Millie’s mouth gaped. "Both of them have perished?"