Shades of Twilight

by Lind Howard

  Davencourt was a hundred and twenty years old, built in the decade before the war. That was why there was a gently curving staircase on the left side, to provide a discreet entrance to the house for carousing young men, back when the bachelors of the family had slept in a separate wing. At Davencourt, that wing had been the left one. Various remodelings over the past century had done away with the separate sleeping quarters, but the outside entrance to the second floor remained. Lately, Webb had used the staircase a time or two himself.

  And it was all going to be his.

  He didn’t feel guilty over being chosen to inherit. Even at fourteen, Webb was aware of the force of driving ambition within him. He wanted the pressure, the power of all that Davencourt entailed. It would be like riding the wildest stallion alive but mastering it with his own force of will.

  It wasn’t as if Jessie and Roanna had been disinherited, far from it. They would still both be wealthy women in their own right when they came of age. But the majority of the stocks, the majority of the power—and all the responsibility—would be his. Rather than being intimidated by the years of hard work that lay before him, Webb felt a fierce joy at the prospect. Not only would he own Davencourt, but Jessie came with the deal. Aunt Lucinda had hinted as much, but it wasn’t until a few moments ago that he’d realized fully what she meant.

  She wanted him to marry Jessie.

  He almost laughed aloud in exultation. Oh, he knew his Jessie, and so did Aunt Lucinda. When it became known that he was going to inherit Davencourt, Jessie would instantly decide that she, and no one else, would marry him. He didn’t mind; he knew how to handle her, and he had no illusions about her. Most of Jessie’s unpleasantness was due to that massive chip on her shoulder, the burden of her illegitimacy. She deeply resented Roanna’s legitimate status and was hateful to the kid because of it. That would change, though, when they married. He would see to it, because now he had Jessie’s number.

  Lucinda Davenport ignored the ongoing chatter behind her as she stood at the window and watched the three young people sitting in the swing. They belonged to her; her blood ran in all three of them. They were the future, the hope of Davencourt, all that was left.

  When she had first been told of the car accident, for a few dark hours the burden of grief had been so massive that she had felt crushed beneath it, unable to function, to care. She still felt as if the best part of herself had been torn away, with huge gaping wounds left behind. Their names echoed in her mother’s heart. David. Janet. Memories swam through her mind, so that she saw them as tiny infants at her breast, rambunctious toddlers, romping children, awkward adolescents, wonderful adults. She was sixty-three and had lost many people whom she had loved, but this latest blow was almost a killing one. A mother should never outlive her children.

  But in the darkest hour, Webb had been there, offering her silent comfort. He was only fourteen, but already the man was taking shape in the boy’s body. He reminded her a lot of her brother, the first Webb; there was the same core of hard, almost reckless strength, and an inner maturity that made him seem far older than his years. He hadn’t flinched from her grief but had shared it with her, letting her know that despite this massive loss, she wasn’t alone. It was in that dark hour that she had seen the glimmer of light and known what she would do. When she had first broached to him the idea of training to take over the Davenport enterprises, of eventually owning Davencourt itself, he hadn’t been intimidated. Instead his green eyes had gleamed at the prospect, at the very challenge of it.

  She had made a good choice. Some of the others would howl; Gloria and her bunch would be outraged that Webb had been chosen over any of the Ameses, when after all they were the same degree of kin to Lucinda. Jessie would have good cause to be angry, for she was a Davenport and direct kin, but as much as she loved the girl, Lucinda knew Davencourt wouldn’t be in good hands with her. Webb was the best choice, and he would take care of Jessie.

  She watched the small tableau in the swing play itself out in silence and knew that Webb had won that battle. The boy already had the instincts of a man, and a dominant man at that. Jessie was sulking, but he didn’t give in to her. He continued comforting Roanna, who as usual had managed to cause some sort of trouble.

  Roanna. Lucinda sighed. She didn’t feel up to assuming the care of a seven-year-old, but the child was David’s daughter, and she simply couldn’t allow her to go anywhere else. She had tried, out of fairness, but she couldn’t love Roanna as much as she loved Jessie, or Webb, who wasn’t even her grandchild, but a great-nephew.

  Despite her fierce support for her daughter when Janet was pregnant without benefit of a husband, Lucinda had expected to, at best, tolerate the baby when it came. She had been very much afraid that she would actively dislike it, because of the disgrace it represented. Instead she had taken one look at the tiny, flowerlike face of her granddaughter and fallen in love. Oh, Jessie was a high-spirited handful with her share of faults, but Lucinda’s love had never wavered. Jessie needed love, so much love, soaking up every snippet of affection and praise that came her way. It hadn’t been a starvation diet; from her birth, she had been cuddled and kissed and made over, but for some reason it had never been quite enough. Children sensed early when something about their lives was out of kilter, and Jessie was particularly bright; she had been about two when she had started asking why she didn’t have a daddy.

  And then there was Roanna. Lucinda sighed again. It had been as difficult to love Roanna as it was easy to love Jessie. The two cousins were total opposites. Roanna had never been still long enough for anyone to cuddle her. Pick her up for a hug, and she was squirming to get down. Nor was she pretty the way Jessie was. Roanna’s odd mix of features didn’t fit her small face. Her nose was too long, her mouth too wide, her eyes narrow and slanted. Her hair, with its unDavenport-like tinge of red, was always untidy. No matter what she wore, give her five minutes and the garment would be dirty and likely torn. She favored her mother’s people, of course, but she was definitely a weed in the Davenport garden. Lucinda had looked hard, but she couldn’t see anything of David in the child, and now any resemblance would have been doubly precious had it existed.

  But she would do her duty by Roanna, and try to mold her into some sort of civilized being, one who would be a credit to the Davenports.

  Her hope, though, and the future, lay with Jessie and Webb.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lucinda wiped away the tears as she sat in Janet’s bedroom and slowly folded and packed away her daughter’s clothing. Both Yvonne and Sandra had offered to do this for her, but she had insisted on doing it alone. She didn’t want anyone to witness her tears, her grief; and only she would know which items were precious, because of the memories, and which could be discarded. She had already performed this last task at David’s house, tenderly folding away shirts that still faintly carried the scent of his cologne. She had wept, too, for her daughter-in-law; Karen had been well liked, a cheerful, loving young woman who had made David very happy. Their things had been stored in trunks at Davencourt for Roanna to have when she was older.

  It had been a month since the accident. The legal formalities had promptly been taken care of, with Jessie and Roanna permanently installed at Davencourt and Lucinda as their legal guardian. Jessie, of course, had settled right in, commandeering the prettiest bedroom as her own and cajoling Lucinda into redecorating it to her specifications. Lucinda admitted that she hadn’t needed much cajoling, because she understood Jessie’s fierce need to regain control of her life, impose order on her surroundings again. The bedroom was only a symbol. She had spoiled Jessie shamelessly, letting her know that even though her mother had died, she still had a family who supported and loved her, that security hadn’t vanished from her world.

  Roanna, however, hadn’t settled in at all. Lucinda sighed, holding one of Janet’s blouses to her cheek as she pondered David’s daughter. She simply didn’t know how to get close to the child. Roanna had resisted all effor
ts to get her to choose a bedroom, and finally Lucinda had given up and chosen for her. A sense of fairness had insisted that Roanna’s bedroom be at least as big as Jessie’s, and it was, but the little girl had merely looked lost and overwhelmed in it. She had slept there the first night. The second night, she had slept in one of the other bedrooms, dragging her blanket with her and curling up on the bare mattress. The third night, it had been yet another empty bedroom, another bare mattress. She had slept in a chair in the den, on the rug in the library, even huddled on the floor of a bathroom. She was a restless, forlorn little spirit, drifting around in search of a place of her own. Lucinda estimated that the child had now slept in every room of the house except for the bedrooms occupied by others.

  When Webb got up every morning, the first thing he did was go on a Roanna hunt, tracking her down in whichever nook or cranny she had chosen for the night, coaxing her out of her blanket cocoon. She was sullen and withdrawn, except with Webb, and had no interest in anything but the horses. Frustrated, not knowing what else to do, Lucinda had given her unlimited access to the horses, at least for the summer. Loyal would look out for the child, and Roanna had an uncommonly good touch with the animals anyway.

  Lucinda folded the blouse, the last one, and put it away. Only the contents of the nightstand remained, and she hesitated before opening the drawers. When that was finished, it would all be finished; the townhouse would be emptied, closed, and sold. All traces of Janet would be gone.

  Except for Jessie, Janet had left precious little of herself. After she’d gotten pregnant, most of her laughter had died, and there had always been sadness in her eyes. Though she’d never said who fathered Jessie, Lucinda suspected it was the oldest Leath boy, Dwight. He and Janet had dated, but then he’d gotten in an argument with his father and enlisted and somehow ended up in Vietnam in the early days of the war. Within two weeks of setting foot in that miserable little country, he’d been killed. Over the years Lucinda had often looked at Jessie’s face, searching for some resemblance to the Leaths but instead saw only pure Davenport beauty. If Dwight was Janet’s lover, then he had been mourned until the day of her death, because she had never dated anyone else after Jessie’s birth. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had the opportunity either; despite the awkwardness of Jessie’s illegitimacy, Janet was still a Davenport, and there were plenty of men who would have wanted her. The lack of interest had all been on Janet’s part.

  Lucinda had hoped for more for her daughter. She herself had known deep love with Marshall Davenport and had wished the same for her children. David had found it with Karen; Janet had known only pain and disappointment. Lucinda didn’t like to admit it, but she had always sensed a certain restraint in Janet’s manner toward Jessie, as if she were ashamed. It was the way Lucinda had expected to feel but hadn’t. She wished Janet could have gotten past the pain, but she never had.

  Well, putting off an unpleasant chore wouldn’t make it any less unpleasant, Lucinda thought, unconsciously straightening her spine. She could sit here all day musing over the intricacies of life, or she could get on with it. Lucinda Tallant Davenport wasn’t one to sit around whining; right or wrong, she got things done.

  She pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand, and tears filled her eyes again at the neatness of the contents. That was Janet, tidy to the bone. There was the book she’d been reading, a small flashlight, a box of tissues, a decorative tin of her favorite peppermint candy, and a leather bound journal with the pen still stuck between the pages. Curious, Lucinda wiped away her tears and pulled out the journal. She hadn’t known that Janet kept one.

  She smoothed her hand over the journal, knowing full well what information might be on the pages. It could be only private comments on day-to-day life, but there was the possibility that here Janet had divulged the secret she’d carried to her grave. At this late date, did it really matter who Jessie’s father was?

  Not really, Lucinda thought. She would love Jessie no matter whose blood ran in her veins.

  But still, after so many years of wondering and not knowing, the temptation was impossible to resist. She opened the journal to the first page and began reading.

  Half an hour later, she blotted her eyes with a tissue and slowly closed the journal, then placed it on top of the pile of clothes in the last box. There hadn’t been all that much to read: several anguished pages, written fourteen years ago, then very little after that. Janet had made a few notations, marking Jessie’s first tooth, first step, first day in school, but for the most part the pages were blank. It was as if Janet had stopped living fourteen years ago, rather than just a month. Poor Janet, to have hoped for much and settled for so little.

  Lucinda smoothed her hand over the journal’s leather cover. Well, now she knew. And she had been right: it didn’t make any difference at all.

  She picked up the roll of masking tape and briskly sealed the box.

  BOOK TWO

  Torn Asunder

  CHAPTER 3

  Roanna bounced out of bed with the dawn, hurrying to brush her teeth and drag her hands through her hair, then scrambling into jeans and a T-shirt. She grabbed her boots and socks on the way out the door and ran barefoot down the stairs. Webb was driving up to Nashville, and she wanted to see him before he left. She didn’t have any particular reason other than that she seized every opportunity to have a few private minutes with him, precious seconds when his attention, his smiles, were only for her.

  Even at five o’clock in the morning, Grandmother would have had her breakfast in the morning room, but Roanna didn’t even pause there on her way to the kitchen. Webb, while thoroughly comfortable with the wealth that was at his disposal, didn’t give a snap of his finger for appearances. He would be scrounging around in the kitchen, preparing his own breakfast since Tansy didn’t come to work until six, then eating it at the kitchen table.

  She burst through the door, and as she had expected, Webb was there. He hadn’t bothered with the table and was instead leaning against the cabinet while he munched on a jelly-spread slice of toast. A cup of coffee steamed gently beside his hand. As soon as he saw her, he turned and dropped another slice of bread into the toaster.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, poking her head into the huge double-doored refrigerator to find the orange juice.

  “You never are,” he returned equably. “Eat anyway.” Her lack of appetite was why, at seventeen, she was still skinny and barely developed. That and the fact that Roanna never simply walked anywhere. She was a perpetual motion machine: she skipped, she bounded, occasionally she even turned cartwheels. At least, over the years, she had finally settled down enough to sleep in the same bed every night, and he no longer had to search for her every morning.

  Because it was Webb who’d made the toast, she ate it, though she rejected the jelly. He poured a cup of coffee for her, and she stood beside him, munching dry toast and alternately sipping orange juice and coffee, and felt contentment glowing warmly deep in her middle. This was all she asked out of life: to be alone with Webb. And to work with the horses, of course.

  She gently inhaled, drawing in the delicious scents of his understated cologne and the clean, slight muskiness of his skin, all mingled with the aroma of the coffee. Her awareness of him was so intense it was almost painful, but she lived for these moments.

  She eyed him over the rim of her cup, her whiskey brown eyes glinting with mischief. “The timing of this trip to Nashville is pretty suspicious,” she teased. “I think you just want to get away from the house.”

  He grinned, and her heart flip-flopped. She seldom saw that cheerful grin any more; he was so busy that he didn’t have time for anything but work, as Jessie consistently, relentlessly complained. His cool green eyes warmed when he smiled, and the lazy charm of his grin could stop traffic. The laziness was deceptive, though; Webb worked hours that would have exhausted most men.

  “I didn’t plan it,” he protested, then admitted, “but I jumped at the chance. I guess you’re go
ing to stay in the stables all day.”

  She nodded. Grandmother’s sister and her husband, Aunt Gloria and Uncle Harlan, were moving in today, and Roanna wanted to be as far from the house as possible. Aunt Gloria was her least favorite of aunts, and she didn’t care much for Uncle Harlan either.

  “He’s a know-it-all,” she grumbled. “And she’s a pain in the—”

  “Ro,” he said warningly, drawing out the single syllable. Only he ever called her by the abbreviation of her name. It was one more tiny connection between them for her to savor, for she thought of herself as Ro. Roanna was the girl who was skinny and unattractive, clumsy and gauche. Ro was the part of herself who could ride like the wind, her thin body blending with the horse’s and becoming part of its rhythm; the girl who, while in the stables, never put a foot wrong. If she had her way, she’d have lived in the stables.

  “Neck,” she finished, with a look of innocence that made him chuckle. “When Davencourt is yours, are you going to throw them out?”

  “Of course not, you little heathen. They’re family.”

  “Well, it isn’t as if they don’t have a place to live. Why don’t they stay in their own house?”

  “Since Uncle Harlan retired, they’ve been having trouble making ends meet. There’s plenty of space here, so their moving in is the logical solution, even if you don’t like it.” He ruffled her untidy hair.

  She sighed. It was true that there were ten bedrooms in Davencourt, and since Jessie and Webb had gotten married and now used only one room, and since Aunt Yvonne had decided to move out last year and get a place of her own, that meant seven of those bedrooms were empty. Still, she didn’t like it. “Well, what about when you and Jessie have kids? You’ll need the other rooms then.”