A Cry at Midnight (12 page)

As if she could. Then how would she get back to where she belonged?

With a few minutes, Melody had unhooked the back, placed a folded rag beneath the fabric of the bodice, and removed the spot. With more patting and a little heat from a small iron instrument resting on the hot stove, the dress looked fine.

Randi smoothed the skirts of the green dress. Between the demands of the "master" and his teething daughter, she was going through clothes pretty fast. "Okay, I'm as ready as I'm going to get." She looked around the kitchen, where the cook and serving staff--including the slightly-built boy she'd noticed at breakfast--prepared to carry the meal into the main house.

"I hope you have a good dinner, Miz Randi," Melody said shyly.

"Thank you," she replied warmly, giving the helpful girl a squeeze on her shoulder. Apparently not all of the people in the past were suspicious of her. At least a few seemed to like her. She wondered if Jackson Durant would ever feel that way. Probably not. And she didn't have any reason to
want
him to be attracted to her, even though her feelings had been hurt just minutes ago when he'd referred to his "needs" rather than any real desire he might have experienced.

She preceded the servers into the house, arriving in the dining room first. Should she be seated or standing? She wished she knew more about the customs of the time. She should have paid more attention to history in high school. If she'd known how much the events and philosophies of each period influenced the architecture, she would have studied those boring dates, revolutions, and explorations more diligently.

This opportunity to study history first-hand was an entirely different experience. She had to admit that after getting over her initial shock, she could look at what was going on around her with a little more interest. When she got back to her own time, she was going to have some vivid memories of this bygone era.

She watched a server carry in what looked like condiments for the table. Two others brought in silver chafing dishes. They worked quietly in the background, leaving her alone.

She folded her arms across her chest and wandered around the well-decorated room, taking in the expensive-looking flocked wallpaper, the elaborately carved and gilded mirror over the fireplace, and the wide, detailed crown moldings at the ceiling. Not even the museum curators could have produced a more beautiful setting for the heavy cherry or mahogany furniture. Seating for twelve around the table, a long, marble-topped sideboard, and a huge china cabinet. As a matter of fact, everything in the room was on a grander scale than she could have ever imagined.

She should sketch this room, she thought suddenly. Besides helping her remember the details for when she returned to 1998, the activity would give her something to do while Rose napped, or after she went to bed at night. That is, if Jackson Durant gave her the job.

"Pardon me for being late," he said from the doorway.

She jumped at the sound of his deep, disturbing voice, but tried to hide her reaction by turning toward him and smiling. "I've only been here a minute."

"I see dinner is ready," he said, striding toward the long table. "Would you like to be seated?"

Randi picked up her skirts, hoping she didn't trip as she walked to the chair he stood behind. As she allowed him to seat her at the table, she felt very much a part of this time, like pampered princess.

But, she reminded herself, she was no princess . . . and she was only playing dress-up in a make-believe land. Sooner or later, she'd go back to her own time, where she was much closer in social class to the people serving the food to the master of the house, who took a seat at the head of a table that cost more than her dad made in six months.

"Tell me, Miss Galloway," Jackson Durant said from his throne-like chair, interrupting her thoughts, "since you want to become Rose's governess, what is your philosophy of child-rearing?"

"My
philosophy?"

"Yes. What are your views on the care and raising of children?"

She seemed surprised by the question, but he wasn't about to let her off the hook. Especially since he'd learned from his valet that Lebeau hadn't yet returned from is fact-finding mission . . . and she was pressing for an answer to her request to become Rose's governess.

"I think babies need lots of attention and stimulation."

"What type of stimulation?"

"Light, color, sound. They need to hear people talking, and not just baby talk. They need to be spoken to just like older children. That helps them talk when they get a little older."

Her explanation was interrupted by the arrival of their plates, loaded with medallions of beef, onions baked in a puff pastry, and a colorful relish. Jackson appreciated the efforts of his cook. While other planters had sent away for French chefs, he'd seen that expense as unnecessary. Instead, he'd sent his cook to New Orleans for training with one of the best in the city. His efforts had been rewarded in much improved meals.

A rich red wine was poured, then he motioned the servants away. He watched Miss Galloway look askance at her forks, finally choosing one. She blushed when she realized he'd been observing her. Taking pity on her, he turned his attention to his own meal. After two delicious bites, he directed their conversation back to the topic.

"Very well. I suppose our views on infants are similar."

"Good. I'm glad you're more . . . open minded."

"What do you mean by that?"

She looked up from her plate. "You know . . . progressive. I know that a lot of people in your . . . position might not spend much time with their children. They let them be raised by servants, don't they? I noticed that first night that you aren't like that."

"I believe that children should know their parents. After all, the child will inherit your estate, so they should know your values."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it," she said, a furrow on her brow. She frowned at her meal. He supposed her viewpoint was directed at him and not the tender fare.

"So you have had dealings with the planter class," he stated.

"Some," she said faintly. He decided not to pursue that remark, lest she start accusing him of inviting her to dinner so her could interrogate her again. She had unusual views on what was appropriate for him, in his position, and what was equitable for her. She continued to interest him because of her unique ability to turn around the most conventional and usual situations into points of contention.

Sometimes, she even made sense--a disconcerting notion.

"Are you enjoying the meal?" he asked, deciding that was neutral ground.

"Yes, it's very good. I could use some salt, though."

"The salt cellar is just to your left, Miss Galloway."

She looked around, obviously not seeing the object. Jackson motioned to one of the servants, who lifted the porcelain lid and provided a sprinkling of salt to her plate.

"Thank you," she said with a smile to the cook's son.

She was extraordinarily polite and sensitive to the servants. He wanted to know why. Had she been in such a situation, and was therefore empathetic to the staff? Another mystery he intended to solve, once Lebeau returned.

They ate in silence for several minutes, finishing the first course with the polite clink of silver on china, the occasional sip of wine.

The plates were cleared and a compote of dried fruit in brandy sauce was served.

"I think you're trying to get me drunk," Miss Galloway observed after taking a bite of the rich dessert.

"I beg your pardon?"

"All this wine, and this sauce. What's in it, brandy?"

"That's correct. Do you like it?"

"Yes, but I may be tripping up the stairs in this long skirt."

He frowned, not knowing what she meant by that remark. He'd seen his wife's dresses on the itinerant young woman, and they didn't seem too long at all. In fact, he was surprised by the fit. Pansy had seemed much more ethereal, her fine blond hair pulled back from a delicate face in a becoming, modest style that wouldn't suit Miss Galloway at all. She filled out the bodice more than his wife, also, but seemed oblivious to the swell of her rounded breasts beneath the concealing clothing.

He was not unaware of her charms, however. Jackson shifted in his chair and broke his eyes from the silhouette of his houseguest. He couldn't wait four months to start looking for a new bride; he realized he had to find some outlet for his passionate nature. A suitable mistress, perhaps. Even a good courtesan would see him through a short courtship with a proper second wife. Since Miss Galloway's arrival, his celibate status had been proven his Achilles' heal.

Despite her remarks about "getting her drunk," he noticed she finished every bite of her dessert. She'd used the incorrect spoon, but he wasn't about to point that out. Hopefully, she'd be long gone before Rose had need of such instruction on the proper usage of flatware.

Or you could just get Lebeau to instruct Miss Galloway
, a little voice whispered in his ear. The idea shocked Jackson; he wondered where, in his convoluted mind, that thought had come from. He didn't actually want her around. Certainly, he didn't think of her as an appropriate governess for his precious daughter.

Did he?

Disgusted, he whipped his napkin off his lap and threw it beside his plate. "If you're finished," he said in a measured tone, hiding his wayward thinking, "would you care to join me in the study?"

"Well, okay," she said tentatively. "Is something wrong?"

Apparently he hadn't concealed his aggravation as well as he'd thought. "Nothing for you to be concerned about, Miss Galloway."

He motioned to one of the servants. "Have Suzette bring my daughter down now."

The young woman nodded and hurried away.

Jackson rose from his chair, then walked to behind Miss Galloway's seat. He looked down at her short, short hair, noticing again how the various colors blended together to form a light shade of blond. He'd never seen hair that looked like this.

"Mr. Durant?"

"Yes, Miss Galloway," he said, pulling out her chair so she could rise from the table. As she'd predicted, she did seem unsteady. Perhaps she wasn't accustomed to the potent wine he preferred.

He took a risk to his libido by guiding her from the dining room with a hand beneath her elbow. She seemed surprised at first, then smiled at him in a shy way he found captivating.

He would get a mistress as soon as possible, he vowed as they walked to the study.

"Is it necessary to call me 'Miss Galloway?'" she asked, her brow wrinkling as she took a seat on the settee beneath the window.

"What would you have me call you?" he asked, walking to the brandy decanter. He had need of a bit more reinforcement than the glass of wine he'd consumed at dinner.

"Could you call me Randi, at least when we're alone? I understand how you'd want to keep up appearances for others. The staff, neighbors, and so forth."

"That's very understanding of you," he said, amused at her request, turning to face her across the room.

"And I want to call you Jackson, not Mr. Durant," she added.

He froze, the snifter suspended in mid-air. "That's very forward of you."

"How can you say that after . . . And besides, it's only fair. Why would
you
call
me
by my first name when I have to be more formal?"

"Why, indeed? Are you totally unfamiliar with my position as your... benefactor?"

"No, but we do things a little differently where I come from."

"And where would that be, Miss Galloway?"

"Randi, remember? Why is so important to you?"

"The question is, why is it so important that you keep me from knowing where you family lives, where you went to school, or who was your last employer?"

"I . . . I suppose I want you to trust me for who I am, not where I come from."

Her words echoed in his head, reminding him of things he's said before. His own thoughts, long buried under layers of wealth and respectability. His needs, forever denied by an unforgiving society. Yes, he understood her request--far more than he would ever admit to her or anyone else.

"I'll call you Randi when we're alone," he acquiesced. "And as of today, you are truly my employee."

"I am? As Rose's governess?"

At his nod, her face glowed with delight. Impulsively, she sprang up from the settee, flew across the room, then threw her arms around his neck. Giving him a quick hug, she exclaimed, "Thank you! You won't regret this."

Very carefully, he stepped back from his exuberant new staff. "I hope you're right, Miss . . . Randi," he said, striving to control his reaction to both her display of affection and the feel of her breasts against his chest. She was only expressing her gratitude, he told himself, not soliciting a passionate response.

At that moment, Suzette walked into the room with Rose, who gave a squeal and reached for the two of them.

Jackson's face turned hot with a blush as rare--and as inappropriate--as Randi Galloway's actions.