Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (27 page)

“Sir?” Antoine Garrett said, obviously confused.

“Find a staff large enough to accommodate
Belle Riviere
. I
don’t care how or where you obtain them, but I want this house to run like a
well-oiled machine, just like the old days, and it must be done immediately. Do
you take my meaning?”

“Oui,
m’sieur, but what shall we
do about M’sieur Emil? He cannot be left unattended, and there is no one to sit
with him in my absence!”

All eyes turned to Jackson, while Jackson looked down into the
upturned face of his recalcitrant ward. “I can think of but one person
obstinate enough, besides myself, to weather Papa’s tempers.”

“You can’t mean—” Reagan said.

“Oh, but I do. I am in need of someone to sit with that old man
upstairs, and you are in desperate need of something to do, something that will
give you a purpose, and I think I may have found the perfect solution.”

Moment by moment, hour by hour, Reagan was being drawn further and
further into Jackson’s world. It was like being cast adrift on a tiny raft, at
the whim of a vast and turbulent ocean, and at moments like this one, she felt
sure she would drown. Trudging up the long and winding stairs, accompanied by Annette,
who carried an ornate silver tray with a pot of
cafe noir,
a plateful
of plump, raisin-filled pastries, and cream and sugar for the old master’s
breakfast, Reagan paused just long enough before the door to Emil’s room to
exchange nervous glances with the maid.

How she longed to defy Jackson’s edict, to avoid the old tyrant
moldering away behind the mahogany panel. It would be so much easier to play
the coward, to retreat to the comfort and familiarity of her room. Yet Jackson
was counting on her, and it was just for an hour or two. Besides, she’d dealt
with Luther Garrett and her brothers, Luck and Lafe, when all three had come
down with the measles at once. One genteel old man with a stubborn streak could
hardly begin to compare.

Taking a deep breath, Reagan raised her hand and knocked firmly on
the panel.

A brooding silence greeted her bid for admittance. Thinking of
Jackson and all that he was trying to do for her, no matter how unwelcome or
misguided the end result happened to be, Reagan turned the knob and boldly
entered the lion’s den, followed closely by Annette.

Annette hurried to place the tray on a nearby table, then sank
into a deep curtsy, addressing the room’s occupant in her soft and lilting
tones. “M’sieur.”

The gruff old man fixed the maid with his hard black stare and
said in a growl, “Begonnne wi’ you.”

Annette looked at Reagan, her eyes round with trepidation.
“M’sieur?” she said hesitantly.

“Oowwtt!”  He thrust one imperious finger at the door, glowering
at Reagan and Annette each in turn, and making himself understood despite his
garbled speech. Annette bobbed a quick curtsy and, with an apologetic glance in
Reagan’s direction, hurried from the room.

Reagan stood her ground, giving the old man glare for heated
glare. “It sure is easy to see where Jackson gets his amiable personality
from,” she said quietly; then, girding herself for battle, she faced him
squarely. “You might as well know right off that your black looks and
grumblin’s don’t scare me one whit. I’m a Dawes through and through, and I’ve
dealt with far worse in my lifetime than anything one sickly old gentleman can
dish out.”

Emil emitted a perfectly executed snort and turned his face away.
“
Enfannn,”
he muttered disdainfully.

“Malcontent,” Reagan retorted; then, determined to try again, she
softened her tone. “You know, just because you’re feeling poorly doesn’t give
you call to go ’round abusin’ folks and bein’ so all-fired mean.”

Emil raised a silver brow at her, but said nothing.

“I know it can’t be easy for you, havin’ a stranger take you to
task, you bein’ so proud an’ all, so I’ll apologize if you will, and maybe we
can start again My name is Reagan Winifred Dawes, of the Kentucky Daweses, and
I’m greatly pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Reagan offered her hand, and as she watched, the proud old
gentleman shifted slightly in his chair; then slowly, almost grudgingly, he
reached out with his left hand and grasped her fingertips; his right arm hung
useless at his side. There was something of the gallant in the gesture, despite
his infirmity, and Reagan noticed that when he glanced her way again, some of
the brittleness had left his dark eyes.

“I confess, I haven’t eaten, and this coffee smells delicious. Can
I pour you a cup?”

He looked down at his shoes for a moment as his scowl wavered;
then slowly, carefully, he composed his features and inclined his head. Reagan
smiled to herself as she turned away.

It was a beginning.

By the time Antoine Garrett returned to his duties, the pastries
had been eaten, the coffeepot was empty, and Reagan and Emil had enjoyed a
long, if somewhat one-sided discourse on the Dawes family history. The dainty
ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour of two as she rose to go. “Monsieur,”
Reagan said, “I am glad to have made your acquaintance. You are not the villain
I supposed you to be.”

The old gentleman’s mouth worked in an effort at speech, but he
only grew frustrated. He breathed hard through his nose, and his black eyes
flashed fire.

Reagan laid a compassionate hand on his paralyzed arm. “Take a
deep breath and try again, only more slowly this time. Try not to force it;
just let the words come as they will.”

His anger seemed to swell up inside him. His jaw worked, and he
shook like a leaf with the force of his fury. Then, as if with a will, he
closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and said softly, quite clearly,
“Demoiselle... c-come again.”

Reagan just smiled.

By late afternoon the house was a veritable hive of activity. The
potential workers recruited by Antoine Garrett had trickled through the
kitchen, each to be interviewed by Bessie, who had been elevated to the
position of housekeeper with a substantial raise in pay.

Of twenty-five workers, four had immediately declined the offered
positions upon discovering that they were to serve the black sheep, instead of
the patriarch, of the Broussard family. The twenty-one workers who chose to
remain were Irish immigrants, poor as proverbial church mice, and would have
worked for Satan himself had he offered gainful employment.

With Bessie in a managerial position, a fresh-faced Limerick lass
called Lucy O’Hara assumed the kitchen duties.

Annette’s position in the household was elevated as well, to that
of lady’s maid. She had strict orders from Jackson himself that she was to
serve Reagan, and Reagan alone, a fact with which she seemed inordinately
pleased.

Reagan, on the other hand, was not taken with the idea. She had
never had a maid to help her bathe and dress, and it seemed an affront to her
competency that Jackson thought she needed one.

Once she recovered from her initial pique, however, Reagan came to
realize that there were certain areas where Annette’s help and advice would be
most welcome.

One matter in particular had tugged incessantly at her thoughts
from the moment Annette had first broached the subject the previous day,
hinting broadly that she was privy to secrets that could aid Reagan in catching
the jaded eye of a certain gentleman. It was Reagan’s most sincere wish,
however, to capture more than his eye, a risky venture at best. And she was
well aware that if she were to succeed, she would need all the help she could
get.

She found Annette in the garden, cutting sprigs of lavender and
placing them gently in a large wicker basket. The girl looked up from her task,
and smiled.
“Bonjour,
mam’selle.”

“Afternoon,” Reagan replied. “Nice day, ain’t it?”

“Oui,
mam’selle. Very nice
indeed.” The girl waited, but Reagan said nothing. Finally she prompted, “Is
there something you require, mam’selle?”

Reagan bit her lip. “I’ve been
thinkin
’ ’bout
what you said yesterday, and though it pains me to ask, I sure could use some
help. It’s about Jackson.”

Annette’s smile broadened. “I was hoping that you would come to
your senses. When shall we begin?”

Reagan’s metamorphosis began that very day. She soon discovered
that beneath Annette’s gentle demeanor lurked an iron will. She proved a hard
taskmaster, and the lessons were anything but easy. At times they were
frustrating and painful.

A lady is never outspoken. She is demure, willing to please, but
not too willing.

Above all, a lady never loses her temper.

It was a great deal to digest, but Reagan did her best. Conquering
the impulse to speak her mind at will and holding her temper in check were her
greatest challenges.

The last week of September arrived, marking her tenth day in Saint
Louis, and bringing with it a change in the weather. Mornings were cool and
foggy; the nights bore a chill sharp enough to tip the leaves with shades of red,
gold, and russet. The bright, cloudless afternoons found Reagan in the garden,
in the company of Annette, who seemed pleased enough with Reagan’s progress to
suggest that they advance to the next level.

“You must learn to speak in a genteel fashion,” Annette was
saying. “A lady would never use the word
ain’t,
not even upon pain of
death. It simply is not done.”

“Where I come from it’s done all the time,” Reagan insisted. But
she listened, and eagerly implemented Annette’s expert advice, remembering how
her slovenly speech patterns had annoyed and rankled Jackson when first they’d
met. If she was to realize her goal, and capture Jackson’s heart, then she must
first capture his admiration, and that meant exceeding all of his expectations.

She and Annette were closeted for most of that afternoon, and by
the time their session was concluded, Reagan had begun to question everything she’d
ever learned. She must learn to walk with her head held high, her shoulders
back, placing one foot precisely in front of the other in order to achieve a
gentle, seductive sway of her skirts. Men, Annette insisted, found the gentle
swish of a woman’s skirts hypnotic.

“Every gesture, every word, every step must be carefully thought
out beforehand as to the effect it will have upon the gentlemen present in the
room.”

“But I don’t give a hang about those other gents.”

“Ah, ah,” Annette said, wagging a chastising finger at Reagan.

Reagan made a face, then with a will gave Annette what she wanted.
“I do not care one whit for the opinion of other gentlemen,” she said in a
honeyed drawl, surprising even herself. “It’s Jackson I want. I’m just not so
sure he wants me.”

“Oh, but he does, mam’selle,” Annette assured her. “He just has
not realized it yet. It is your job to make him see that he cannot live without
you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Reagan retorted. “You’re all soft and
feminine, at home in petticoats and skirts. I’m nothing at all like you,
Annette.”

“But you are,
ma cher,”
Annette countered. “We are all sisters under the skin. Tell me,”
she said, placing a hand over her heart, “what do you feel here when m’sieur
walks into the room?”

“Strange and fluttery,” Reagan said. “Not at all myself. It’s like
I’m all out of control. My knees get weak, like I’m a boneless thing, and my
heart...
my heart
pounds like it wants to leap right out of my chest. Given half a chance, I feel
sure it would land at his feet... and my greatest fear is that he’ll stomp the
life right from it. It takes all the will that I possess just to act like I
don’t care.”

Annette just smiled her secret smile. “The object of the game is
to intrigue, not to discourage; men love nothing more than a good hunt. Smile
at his comments, no matter how inane. Touch your fan to his arm, or your finger
to his cheek, and let that touch linger. Then, when he tries to steal a kiss,
turn away.”

Turn away from Jackson’s kiss?

Reagan could not imagine, but she was willing to try Annette’s
method. She listened to everything, drinking in the smallest scrap of insight
into the perplexing mystery that was the male species in the hope that it would
aid her in her cause.