Passion Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Asher struggled to keep the hot, angry words that crowded his throat from spewing forth. He had not helped save Apple Hill—without his intervention the family would have been homeless and penniless. And the colonel had always managed to come about because he, not Denning, had come up with the funds. He took a deep breath, choking back the resentment and fury that threatened to strangle him. It had been his choice, he reminded himself, to keep the extent of his stepfather’s losses over the years from the family and after all this time, he wasn’t about to disillusion his brother about the colonel. What would be the point? he thought wearily. John most likely wouldn’t believe him and he’d find himself estranged from a brother he loved.

  Though it cost him, Asher managed to say, “Yes, of course, you’re right. The colonel has always managed to come about.” He forced a smile and murmured, “It would appear that you have events well in hand and do not need for me to meddle in your affairs.”

  Affection in his voice, John said, “But I do appreciate the notion that you were ready to stand by me.”

  Asher smiled at him. “Always.”

  The conversation became general and they spent an agreeable time together, their talk roaming from the latest on dits from London provided by Asher, to John’s improvements around the farm and his plans for more of the same and eventually onto the doings of the various family members. Despite the over seven-year gap in their ages, the two brothers enjoyed each other’s company and the hours passed swiftly.

  It was the chiming of the clock on the mantel that made Asher aware of the time. Glancing at the clock, he asked, startled, “Is that correct? Can it be three o’clock already?”

  “Indeed it is.” John grinned at his brother. “We have been as gossipy as two old ladies over tea.”

  Asher rose to his feet, saying, “I did not mean to keep you so long. I shall be on my way.”

  “You don’t have to leave,” John protested, also rising to his feet. “The hour is late enough. Why don’t you stay and dine?”

  Before Asher could reply, the door to John’s office opened and the colonel, his peg leg tapping on the floor, walked into the room. A wide smile on his lips and a warm light in his blue eyes, Lieutenant Colonel Denning exclaimed, “I couldn’t believe my ears when Woodall informed me that you had come to call.” Reaching out to shake Asher’s hand enthusiastically, he said, “By thunder, boy! It has been ages since you have visited with us. What have you been doing since we saw you last?”

  His stepfather always aroused mixed emotions within Asher’s breast and today was no different. Only to himself would he admit that underneath all his rage and resentment he harbored the remnants of affection for his stepfather. The colonel had turned sixty-seven in April and despite the signs of dissolute living in his face, he was lean and lithe and he still walked with an upright military bearing, his spine and shoulders ramrod straight. He moved with such elegant precision that one almost forgot that he had lost a leg, only the sound of the wooden stump thumping on the floor bringing it to mind. Denning’s sandy hair was liberally threaded with gray giving it a champagne hue that was very attractive against his tanned skin and bright blue eyes. At a younger age, he had been a stunningly handsome man and coupled with an abundance of charm, Asher understood how his mother could have fallen under his spell. Despite the years of heavy drinking, hard living and the loss of his leg, he was still a handsome man, and Asher thought wryly, feeling the old, familiar tug of it, possessed far more charm than was fair.

  In Denning’s presence, unable to hang on to his mistrust and resentment, Asher smiled and shook the colonel’s hand. “It is good to see you again, sir,” he said warmly. “I’ll admit I have been somewhat remiss in coming to call, but I am settled back at Fox Hollow for good and will do better in the future.”

  “Excellent! Excellent!” The colonel glanced around the room and, spying the cluttered desk, frowned and looked reprovingly at John. “Never tell me you’ve been boring your brother with business.”

  John smiled, shaking his head. “No. I was working when he arrived and we just settled here to catch up with each other. I have been trying to convince him to stay and dine with us.”

  The colonel looked expectantly at Asher. “Capital idea! Woodall has informed me that goose and turkey pie is on the menu.” He smiled affectionately at Asher. “And I do seem to recall that it is one of your favorite dishes. Do say that you will stay and dine with us?”

  What could he do but say yes?

  Chapter 8

  Dinner was most enjoyable and when the three men rose from the table a few hours later, they were in a relaxed, convivial mood. Neither Asher nor John had drunk as deeply as the colonel, but despite the prodigious amount of liquor he had consumed, Denning was clear-eyed and steady as he led the two younger men to his private study in the north wing of the sprawling house.

  Like John’s office, it was a pleasant, masculine room, the furniture owing more to comfort than style. Faded gold velvet drapes hung at the windows, a carpet woven in age-muted tones of bronze and green lay on the oak floor and several heavy chairs covered in brown mohair were grouped in front of the brick fireplace; small dark wooden tables were placed here and there. Crystal decanters and glassware rested on a mahogany lowboy behind two of the chairs and one wall held a bookcase filled with leather-bound books, their gold, scarlet and blue spines adding a burst of bright color.

  Off to one side of the room sat a dainty cherrywood writing desk with a blue tapestry-covered chair and at the sight of it, Asher’s breath caught and pain stabbed through him. It was his mother’s desk and too well did he remember her sitting at it, in that very chair, staring blindly out the window, for what had seemed like hours to him, before she would bring herself back to the matter at hand. And it was usually, he reminded himself with a tightening of his lips, an unpleasant matter having to do with money.

  He had been too young for Jane to share her troubles with him, but he had been a perceptive child and, he thought with little shame, not above reading over her shoulder when she had been too preoccupied with their financial woes to notice him. The old anger he had kept at bay during the evening stirred but before it sprang free, Denning’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “I see you recognize your mother’s desk,” the colonel said, unaware of the black feelings the sight of it engendered within Asher’s breast. “I was complaining to Woodall just the other day that I needed a table to write on and he suggested your mother’s old desk. Said it was in the attics gathering dust and that I should make good use of it.” Denning walked over to the desk and, running his hand over the gleaming surface, he stared down at it. For a moment, he seemed to forget the presence of the other two men and almost to himself, he said huskily, “She deserved a far better man than I could ever be.” He took a deep breath. “I wasn’t the husband I should have been, but she was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.” He glanced over at Asher and smiled crookedly. “To this day I find myself listening for her voice…her laugh….”

  Looking into his stepfather’s eyes, Asher realized something profound: as much as Denning had been capable of doing, he had loved his wife. Asher studied his stepfather with a new awareness. For the first time, he saw him as a decent man seduced by liquor and helplessly enthralled by the turn of a card, the outcome of a wager, rather than the indifferent, careless creature he had always thought him. Which doesn’t change the fact, he reminded himself coolly, that while Denning may have loved Jane and his children, he had loved his liquor and gaming more.

  Perhaps Denning read some of what Asher was thinking, for his gaze fell from Asher’s, and glancing down at the desk, Denning said, “I miss her.”

  John cleared his throat and said quietly, “We all do—even Elizabeth, who cannot even remember her.”

  Denning roused himself from his reflective mood and said briskly, “Well, now, enough of this maudlin talk!” Forcing a jovial note into his voice, he went on, “It isn’t often these day
s that I have two of my sons at home and I don’t intend for this delightful evening to end on such a somber note.”

  Walking to the lowboy, Denning asked, “What would you like?” He winked at Asher. “I believe that I have some fine brandy here that a friend of mine who lives near the coast shared with me. Just imagine—he found a whole case of it stashed in the corner of one of his stalls.”

  “Smuggled?” Asher asked dryly.

  Denning laughed. “In Kent what else would we have?”

  All three men decided upon brandy and once snifters were poured they scattered around the fireplace, Denning and John taking two of the mohair chairs, Asher standing with one arm resting on the wide oak mantel. This time of the year the hearth was swept clean but a neat pile of apple wood faggots was stacked within, ready if needed.

  “So what do you intend to do with yourself, now that you are settled at Fox Hollow?” Denning asked.

  Asher shrugged. “I haven’t decided.” Staring into the amber liquor in his snifter, he murmured, “There are not that many acceptable occupations for a gentleman. I suppose I shall be a farmer, like John.”

  John shook his head, his green eyes dancing. “And do you know anything about farming? What sort of soil you have? Which crops will grow well in this area? When to plant them? Harvest them? Market them?”

  Asher half smiled. “You point out the very reasons why I have not yet made up my mind what to do.”

  “Er, do you have to do anything?” Denning asked with a raised brow. “Surely, the farms that go with your property and your investments can keep you comfortably without having to dig in the dirt? Even John, for all the time he spends on the farms, doesn’t have to actually do the work. His tenants do that.”

  “Now, I protest,” teased John, looking at his father. “I’ve planted my share of new orchards and been out in a cold January morning pruning. You have no objections to my digging in the dirt—why can’t Asher get his hands dirty?”

  Denning waved his hand. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.” He looked proudly at John. “You have a talent for making things grow and you’re a good manager.” His mouth softened. “Got that from your mother. But Asher now…” Denning glanced across at his tall stepson. “Asher strikes me as a man of action. Surprised you didn’t go into the military. You always were adventure mad.”

  Thinking back to last spring and the sight of Collard’s body lying on the ground outside of Sherbrook’s stable, Asher said, “I believe that I have had enough adventures to last me a lifetime. No, I think I shall simply watch over my estates and live quietly in the country. I may,” he said slowly, “even take a wife and set up my nursery.”

  John guffawed. “You?” he hooted. “And has your fancy settled upon a likely prospect?”

  Asher took a long swallow of brandy. Setting the snifter on the mantel, he grinned and said, “Ah, now that would be telling.”

  He endured several moments of teasing and probing from his stepfather and brother, but when he would not be drawn, the conversation shifted to other topics. Two more brandies and an hour or so later, he rose from the chair where he had finally settled and said, “I fear the hour is growing late. Agreeable though it has been, I must be on my way.”

  John yawned and said, “Why don’t you stay? Woodall can have a bed made for you.”

  Asher shook his head. “I’m looking forward to clearing my head on the ride home. I haven’t had this much to drink in an age.”

  Denning snorted. “Green boys, the pair of you. We haven’t even finished the decanter. Why, I remember when…”

  John groaned and Asher put out his hands. “Please,” he said with a smile, “no tales of your Army days and the amount of liquor you and your fellow officers consumed.”

  Not offended in the least, Denning lurched upright, grinning. “Disrespectful, the pair of you!”

  Asher said his good-byes and was on the point of turning to leave, when Denning said, “Wait! Just remembered I found something you should have.”

  Denning stumped over to the desk and, opening the long drawer in the middle of it, reached in and pulled out a necklace. Asher came to stand at his side. Placing the necklace in Asher’s hand, Denning said, “I was cleaning out the desk and I found this at the back of the drawer where your mother must have left it.”

  Asher stared down at the distinctive gold and ivory chain, an exquisite cameo dangling in the middle of it. Memories of his mother wearing this same piece of jewelry flashed across his brain and his heart felt heavy in his chest. “She always said that my father gave it to her,” he muttered.

  Denning nodded. “That’s true. She told me once when I commented on it, that it was the only thing of his that she had to remember him by.” He patted Asher gently on the shoulder. “And you.”

  Beset by strong emotions, Asher managed to say, “I’m glad you found it. Thank you.”

  Shutting the drawer, Denning said, “Lucky thing I needed a table to write on, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t have found it otherwise.” He rapped the top of the desk with his knuckles. “Always told Jane that she brought me luck and now that I’m using this little desk of hers, I feel like my luck has come back.” An odd smile curved his mouth. “Yes, indeed, my luck has changed and I have your mother to thank for it.”

  Most of the effects of Denning’s smuggled brandy had evaporated from Asher’s brain by the time he reached home and, deciding not to wake a sleeping stable boy, he unsaddled his horse and gave the animal a quick rubdown. After throwing a large pitchfork of hay into the horse’s manger from the loft above, he departed the stable. Walking through the mild night, the stars glittering diamond-bright in the black sky overhead, he reflected on the evening he had just spent. He had enjoyed himself and wasn’t even annoyed or feeling guilty for allowing Denning to charm and disarm him once more.

  Perhaps, I’ve mellowed, he thought as he approached the quiet house. Or more likely, with all the sins that could be laid at my door, I’ve learned to be more understanding of the demons that can drive a man. He knew it wasn’t in him to completely forgive Denning but he had reached a point, he conceded, where the white-hot rage that had once burned so fiercely in his breast had become bearable.

  Entering the house, he ascended the staircase and walked down the hall to his rooms. Someone, either Hannum or his valet, Rivers, had left a small candle burning on a bombé chest that sat near his sitting room door and another in the middle of the mantel of the fireplace in anticipation of his late return. In the fitful glow of those meager lights, he shrugged out of his jacket and after taking out his mother’s necklace from the pocket, tossed the jacket on a nearby chair. Walking over to the gray stone fireplace, he draped the necklace over one of a pair of tall, pewter candelabra that sat on either end of the wide polished oak mantel, centering the cameo so that it swung free. For a long time, he stood there, staring at the cameo, his thoughts vague and unfocused.

  After what seemed an age, he shook himself and, taking one last look at the cameo, turned away and sat down in a chair across from the one that held his jacket and pulled off his boots. Standing up, he took off his cravat and dropped the crumpled linen onto the jacket before moving aimlessly about the room.

  As he walked, he absently undid the buttons to his shirt and pulled it free of his breeches. Stopping in midstride, he eyed the barely discernible gray and burgundy velvet-hung bed through the door that divided the sitting room from the bedroom, but sleep did not appeal. Not yet ready for bed, but not experiencing the restlessness that had plagued him the previous night, he wandered around the handsome room, stopping once or twice to gaze out the windows; but met with only the darkness of the night, he moved on.

  He finally settled in a black leather overstuffed chair. Settled comfortably in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, he stared at the intricate design of the pale gray and blue carpet under his feet, seeing none of it. His thoughts turned inward, he considered the evening he had just spent.

  It
was a relief to find that Denning had given up trying to induce John to break the entail. Good news, too, that Denning appeared to have found some way of keeping out of the clutches of the moneylenders should his gaming losses—and Asher didn’t doubt for a moment that there would be losses—become onerous.

  His head resting against the high back of the chair, he stared up at the huge oak timbers of the ceiling’s exposed beams. Being with John was always a pleasure, but he could not say the same for his stepfather’s company—yet tonight he had enjoyed visiting with the colonel. It had been an enlightening evening, too, the discovery that despite the way he had treated her, Denning had loved his mother taking some of the acid sting out of the bitterness he felt toward him. He would never hold Denning in the same affectionate esteem that his siblings did, but he no longer considered his stepfather as being a man totally without merit.

  Asher’s gaze traveled to his mother’s necklace and his heart clenched with anguish. Even before she had married Denning, his mother had rarely mentioned his father but he knew that his father had been a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and had died before he’d even been born. Lieutenant Cordell had been lost at sea when his ship had gone down off the coast of Cuba in a hurricane shortly after they married and his parents’ time together had been pathetically short, mere weeks, he’d been told by his mother. He remembered her fingers caressing the gold and ivory chain, a faraway look in her eyes, as she told him about his father, how handsome he had been, and charming, and clever, and how much she had loved him.

  His grandmother hardly ever spoke of his father and from the way her lips thinned when she did, it was obvious that she had disliked him or disapproved of him. Why, he didn’t have a clue but it didn’t matter very much, since the man was dead and had been for over thirty years. Thinking of his early years growing up at Burnham, doted on by his mother and grandmother, Asher smiled. Those times had been some of the happiest in his life, he admitted, just the three of them, his mother, his grandmother and him. And then Denning had entered the picture….