The way was hot and dusty, but her father seemed immune to the discomforts. His nose and cheeks grew red with the aging day, but it had little to do with the heat, rather with whatever was in the silver flask he frequently tipped. At the Pearl River he sought to gain a free crossing by challenging the ferryman to a drinking contest, which would likely have seen them both under the table in a drunken stupor. His daughter strenuously objected and frowned her displeasure until he relented and doled out the necessary coin.
It seemed part of the routine that by midafternoon he was feeling high of spirit. She was amazed at the endless repertoire from which he was able to draw, for he recited long and varied verses with a silver-tongued flair that softened his crisp English accent. Well into his cups, he was very garrulous and would start to relate stories that seemed foreign to his life as a merchant; then with a chortle he would slash his hand back and forth before him as if to erase the tale and explain, “That was before I met your mother, my dear.”
Occasionally he napped, and his loud snores filled the confines of the well-appointed conveyance until his daughter was tempted to nudge him to awareness again. She wished she could have found that same depth of slumber for herself, but whenever she closed her eyes, Ashton was there waiting. He haunted her through every waking hour, and when she fled in exhausted relief to the arms of slumber, her dreams took up the chase. Perhaps it was because she had no prior memories of her life that she cherished these recent ones with Ashton so much. Whatever the case, she was frustrated by failure when she sought to direct her mind to other things that might have been less disturbing.
By the third day she was nearly spent, and her frayed nerves could no longer deal with the constant conflict within her. She deliberately set herself the task of accepting this man who rode with her as her father, striving diligently to cast aside any doubt that he could be mistaken, while at the same time making a concerted effort to regard herself as Lenore. After all, if anyone knew who she was, surely it would be her father. Still, when she considered his constant tippling, she wondered if he really had enough presence of mind to tell who she was.
It was by dint of will that she took on the name Lenore, though the conflict of her identity still raged within her. The application of her resolve further sapped her energies, and by the time they reached the large house on the shore and the carriage swept up the curving drive, she was totally drained, both mentally and physically.
Robert Somerton stepped nimbly down to aid in her descent as a maid hurried across the porch. Lenore accepted his helping hand but avoided meeting his gaze, and without pausing she moved up the path toward the wide steps, letting her eyes sweep over the graceful facade of the two-story house. Dark green shutters trimmed the french doors and windows that were positioned in symmetrical order along the porches on both levels. Wood railing closed the area between square-columned supports and swept up the curving stairway that led to the upper veranda. Though it did not come close to the beauty of Belle Chêne, the house was not without appeal, and she felt a strange kinship with it, as if it had once offered comfort and security.
The cheery-faced maid dipped into a quick curtsey as Lenore mounted the steps to the porch. She guessed the woman’s age to be at least ten years older than her own, but her manner was sprightly and energetic, as if she held the secret of eternal youth within her grasp. Her blue eyes twinkled kindly above a bright smile.
“Me name’s Meghan, mum,” the maid announced. “I be hired by Mr. Sinclair to see to the needs of the household, if ye be havin’ no objection, mum.”
“Mr. Sinclair?” A delicate brow arched in question. “I was not aware that Mr. Sinclair was lending his authority to the management of this house.”
Meghan appeared momentarily confused by her comment. “Well, seein’s as it be yer house, mum, isn’t it right fer yer husband to attend to such matters in yer absence?”
Lenore half turned to regard her father with open suspicion. She had been assured that only the two of them would be living in the house with the servants.
Clearing his throat, Robert hastened to speak in a hushed tone to his daughter: “Malcolm said he would move out, Lenore, so there’s no reason to get upset.”
“I hope not.” Her tone was perhaps somewhat less than gracious, but she was leery of being pushed into a situation she was not ready to accept. “As I’ve tried to explain before, I will need time to adjust.” She reiterated her stance while wondering how many times she had done so thus far. On the trip her father had been effusively complimentary about the younger man, as if trying to sway her toward an early acceptance of their marital state. At the moment, she had no desire to become intimate with Malcolm, for her heart was still much entangled with Ashton, and that is where she feared it would remain for some time to come.
“Come into the house, mum,” Meghan gently urged. “Ye’ve had a long journey, an’ I know ye must be tuckered clear to the bone.”
Lenore entered the hall as the maid held the door and halted just inside to let her eyes adapt to the darker interior. Despair congealed in the pit of her stomach when her vision adjusted, for what she saw made her sure that she had been in the house before. She could name neither the day nor the year, but she had the distinct recollection of having been in this same hall many times before. The narrow corridor ran the full length of the structure, with a staircase laid against one wall and then curving to the other for its ascent to the upper level. The decor was tasteful and uncluttered, with cool, serene colors providing a sense of space and airiness. Rugs of varying sizes adorned the wooden floors in the hall and the adjoining rooms. The largest of these nearly filled the spacious parlor on her right and lay beneath a grouping of several chairs, small tables, and a settee. Across the hall and in the opposite direction, a pale-hued Persian carpet was spread beneath the dining room table and chairs.
“We’ve had some lemonade cooling in the well, mum,” Meghan stated. “Would ye be wantin’ me to bring ye some, with maybe a few teacakes to nibble?”
Lenore smiled. “That sounds very tempting.”
“Ye rest yerself in the parlor, mum,” Meghan encouraged. “I’ll be back shortly.”
In the ensuing silence Robert Somerton peered at his daughter and finally came to stand beside her. “Well, girl, do you find anything that seems familiar to you?”
Without committing herself to an answer, Lenore entered the parlor and approached the french doors that offered a panoramic view of the shore. Aware that her father watched her closely from the hallway, she opened one, allowing the tangy salt smell of the sea to waft in on a fresh breeze.
“The servants haven’t been here long, have they?” she stated matter-of-factly.
His wispy brows shot up as his gray eyes fixed her with a questioning stare. “How come you to arrive at that conclusion, my dear?”
“Meghan introduced herself to me.” She shrugged casually. “If she had been here all along, she would have known me.”
“The old servants were let go when you were kidnapped. Malcolm had to hire new ones in their stead.”
She turned to him in bemusement. “Were there none who returned? No favored one who came back to work?”
“Ah, no…I think they had all found employment elsewhere.” Robert wiped the back of a shaky hand across his mouth, while his eyes searched about the room. He spied a set of crystal decanters on the sideboard, and for a moment it seemed as if he battled a strong urge as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Nervously smoothing his coat, he yielded to the impulse and hurried across the room to pour himself a liberal glass of whiskey. “I don’t really know the detail of it. I came here only a short time ago myself.” He tossed down a goodly draft before he faced her again. “After you…and Lierin…left the nest for your respective homes, I did some traveling. Then I decided to visit here and see how you and Malcolm were getting along. I guess it’s lucky I did.”
“Lucky?” Lenore whispered the word distantly and gave him a wan smile. “T
hat remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
Robert looked at her closely. “Whatever can you mean?”
Thoughtfully Lenore drew off her gloves and doffed her bonnet, laying them both aside before strolling leisurely about the room. She inspected the appointments, hoping some minor object would encourage a deeper recall. She eyed her father in much the same manner, wanting to know with unmistakable conviction that he was blood kin. “It’s only that Malcolm will take some getting used to. I had begun to believe that I was Ashton’s wife, and it was a considerable shock to learn that it might have been a mistake.”
Her father stared at her in consternation. “Are you saying, young lady, that you actually…shared a bed with the man?”
Lenore felt an insidious warmth creeping into her cheeks. How could she tell him of all the nights she had spent in Ashton’s arms? How could she allow those moments, which were still precious to her, to be aired and sullied by him and Malcolm Sinclair? She had given herself to Ashton, believing she was his wife, and she would not reveal that knowledge just to appease their curiosity.
“I’ve been here before,” she acknowledged, ignoring his question. “I know that. Everything seems familiar.” She inclined her head toward the sea and, for a brief moment, watched the surf lap lazily at the pale shore. “I’ve felt the waves rush across my bare feet as I walked along this lonely stretch of land.” She swept her hand about the room in an encompassing gesture. “I accept the idea that this is my home…but…” She came around and stared at him with eerie effect as the setting sun, shining in through the crystal panes, stripped away the deep green hue of her eyes and imbued them with a shining light until they seemed like two crystals glowing between jet lashes. “But…I still don’t remember you.”
Staring into those bright orbs, Robert Somerton felt the hackles prickle on the back of his neck. A chill seemed to penetrate to his inner soul, and he had to shake himself from the spell of it. He gulped down another hearty portion of whiskey and straightened his back indignantly as he turned from her. “It’s a terrible thing when a daughter forgets her own flesh and blood.” He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose and sniffed as if he fought a sudden battle with tears. “I must say, Lenore, it grieves me deeply that you’ve thrust me from your mind.”
“I don’t remember Malcolm Sinclair, either,” she murmured in a small dejected voice. She discounted the carriage ride in New Orleans that had stirred a recall of a man with a mustache, for the memory had been too vague and general. There were a goodly number of men who could fit that description.
“And that’s another thing. Forgetting your own husband.” Somerton swung around and stared at his daughter, as if astounded that such words had come from her lips. He sipped from the glass and, rocking back on his heels, shook his head in sorrowful lament. “I don’t know what’s taken hold of your senses, girl. The men who’ve held you most dear you’ve pushed from your memory as if we meant nothing to you…as if we were no more than a speck of froth on yonder sea.” He drained his glass in a single gulp, then sucked in a deep breath as the liquor traced a fiery path down his throat. “In the same course, you’ve taken to your heart a man who led your sister astray, then discarded her as worthless trash when he had had his will with her. Ashton Wingate might not have murdered Lierin himself, but if he didn’t, he’s at least responsible for her death. If he hadn’t taken her off, she’d still be with us today.” He plumbed the depth of her clouded gaze as if trying to find some hint of agreement. “Don’t you remember how we mourned her loss? Don’t you recall your vows of revenge?”
In roweling distress Lenore shook her head, rejecting his arguments. “Ashton loved Lierin. I know he did! And I will not accept your claims that he deliberately murdered her or is responsible for her death.”
Robert Somerton went to his daughter and, in a conciliatory manner, reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but with a small cry, Lenore shrank away from his touch. A weary sigh slipped from him as he returned to the sideboard. He refilled his glass and, savoring the spirits, began to pace the room in pensive concentration.
“My dearest Lenore.” He assumed the lecturing tone of a disturbed father, speaking slowly and carefully so that each word would carry its full impact. “I do not wish to distress you unduly. Heaven knows your mental state is delicate enough. I only wish to point out several facts that you must already know. The man is an accomplished roué, and I can understand why a helpless and confused young girl could be easily swayed by his intense persuasion, but, my dear child,” he chuckled lightly, “I cannot accept the idea that such a man believes in ghosts. ’Tis more reasonable for me to believe that he knew who you were all the time.” He took a deep draft and smiled in what could only be satisfaction with his own logic. “Can you not see room for some error in your conclusions?”
A wearying perplexity nagged at the edge of Lenore’s mind. Her father made it seem so simple, but she could not and would not doubt Ashton’s passion for his Lierin, and she was far too tired to explain her reasons to her father. Her hands became white-knuckled fists as she clenched them in her lap. Slowly she shook her head from side to side. “I will hear no more of this.” A trace of anger crept into her voice. “You will refrain from degrading Ashton Wingate in my presence ever again. He is a man of honor, and despite what you say, he is a gentleman!”
“What’s this I hear? Is it possible that you’re in love with the man?”
Lenore stared at her father while she fought the urge to cry out, “Yes…oh, yes! I love him!” She wanted to scream the declaration to the world at large, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought how her statement would be crushed beneath the stern heel of criticism.
Her father considered her with a lazy smile. “Malcolm had better not hear how you’ve fastened your fancies on another man. You know what will come of that?” He nodded as if he knew she understood. “That’s right. A duel.”
Of a sudden Lenore found herself running from the room. She had heard enough!
“Lenore!”
Her father’s cry only spurred her on. Her cheeks were hot with the flow of tears, and her chest ached as she struggled to contain the sobs. She fled across the hall, nearly colliding with Meghan, who was approaching with a tray of refreshments. She brushed past the maid, hardly caring that she had not partaken of a meal since daybreak, and flew up the stairs.
The journey had taken its toll, but this latest abuse nearly rent her soul. As she reached the upper landing, the sobs burst from her in a torrent of emotion, and she ran, giving no heed to her direction as she turned down the hall to her right and burst through an open doorway at the far end. Her gaze chased wildly about the room as she entered, and through a teary blur she saw a tall four-poster and other furnishings appropriate for a large bedchamber. The french doors and windows were open to catch the cooling breezes from off the ocean, and like the parlor below, the room was suffused with a light that now had begun to take on a pinkish cast. The delicately hued floral wallcovering seemed to glow with a soft sheen that was both inviting…and familiar. Smothering her sobs beneath a trembling hand, she stumbled across the room to the french doors and there leaned her head against a frame as she stared out with misty gaze upon the crashing surf. The burden in her breast seemed unbearable, and a ragged sigh did not ease the pain. Though the view could have been appeasing, she yearned to have the lush green lawns of Belle Chêne in sight and to know within her mind that she was Ashton’s beloved, no matter what name she bore.
Her chin lifted, and her heart quickened as she detected a man on horseback riding at a full canter toward the house. For a moment she held her breath, wanting it to be Ashton, but all the while knowing it could not be.
She fell further into despondency as the rider came nearer. The man’s body was too thick, and he rode without the skill of the other man. Recognizing Malcolm Sinclair, she waited with quaking heart as he dismounted and came into the house. Eons seemed to pass before she heard the scra
pe of his boot against the stairs. His footsteps came down the hall, pausing before each door as if he searched for her in the other rooms. A rising panic took hold of her as he drew near, and she cast her gaze about for someplace to hide, but she forced herself to remain where she was, knowing that reality had to be dealt with and that she would have to face the man sooner or later.
Malcolm paused at the door of her bedroom and cast a glance inward, then seeing her, entered with a rather sheepish smile. “I thought you might have forgotten which room was ours.” He spread his hands. “I’ve been waiting here, hoping your father would be successful in bringing you home and yet fearing that Ashton would not let you go.”
Lenore appraised him with a reserved air. He was as tall as Ashton, a stone or two heavier, and perhaps five or so years younger. He had to be considered handsome with his brown eyes and tawny hair. His mustache was neatly trimmed, lending him a rakish look. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and his riding apparel obviously had cost him a considerable amount, but he failed to do for them what Ashton did for his old riding garments. He did not carry himself with the same proud, straightforward stride of the other man. There was almost a careless swagger to the way he moved, a slight rolling of one shoulder or the other as he sauntered forward.
“I know this is my room.” She gathered her courage and forced herself to meet his gaze. “But I can’t recall sharing it with anyone.” She managed a meager smile. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I just can’t lay hold of any memory of you in my life.”
“That’s easily solved, my love.” He laughed softly and, laying his hands on her waist, tried to draw her near, but Lenore broke free as a sense of desperation filled her. She quickly stepped away, widening the distance between them as she moved across the room, conveniently taking a place behind a chair.
“I’ll need time to adjust, Malcolm,” she said firmly. She was even more serious now than she had been when she had pleaded with Ashton for the same consideration. “Even though I’ve been assured that you are my husband, I am unable to turn my thoughts around and accept the idea of our marriage right now.”
Come Love a Stranger Page 24
