Leslie LaFoy (26 page)

“As what, child?”

The words were there; so were the feelings. But they were all jumbled and tangled together, no one clearly distinguishable from the others. It was so confusing, the task of sorting through it all so daunting. “As not being sure of my way, I suppose,” she finished with a sigh.

“Life will show you the right road to travel,” the other woman assured her, gently patting her arm. “It always does. You'll know it when you see it.”

Claire wasn't as certain. “I hope so,” she offered non-committally, summoning a smile. “So tell me, Hannah… What would you suggest as appropriate fare for the distinguished guests about to descend upon us?”

Hannah's arched brow said she recognized an effort at evasion when she saw one. “It's been a good while since the Lee brothers were here,” she said, graciously acceding. “But I seem to recall that Mr. Richard Henry likes his salsify fried.”

Claire didn't have the foggiest notion what salsify was, much less the various means of preparing it. But Hannah clearly did and there was immeasurable comfort in being able to trust someone else's wisdom and experience. It had been such a very long time since she'd had a shoulder to lean on.

EVON LOOKED UP
from the column he'd just totaled and sighed. “Well, I suppose there's something to be said for the fact that the balances have been worse.”

Not pausing in his entry-making, Ephram muttered to his ledger, “That's not saying very much, sir.”

No, it wasn't, but for some reason the reality of poverty, unpaid taxes, and impending bankruptcy didn't depress him this morning the way it usually did. “I'm trying to find a silver lining in the cloud of despair, Ephram. We've been through this a thousand times before. I say it's been worse. You agree with me and then assure me that Rosewind will be debt free by summer's end.”

“Yes, I know,” his half brother admitted, laying his quill aside and looking up to meet Devon's gaze. Cocking a dark brow, he asked, “But by
which
summer? It certainly wasn't either of the last two. And looking at the figures, we can both see that it's not going to be this one. Or the next.” After a brief pause, he added perfunctorily, “Sir.”

Devon smiled. “I'm open to any suggestions you might have as to how to make more money.”

It was Ephram's turn to sigh. “I don't see any. If all else fails, you could do what Thompkins did. Sell everything and make a grand show of returning to the civilized bosom of our dear Mother England. If you'll recall, your father talked often about leaving Virginia and returning home.”

Devon's smile faded.
Your father
. Not
our
. It was never
our
father. Because their father had blindly adhered to cowardly Tidewater tradition and refused to formally acknowledge that Ephram was his son. But he hadn't gotten away with it forever. Devon had created a social scandal when, at the age of twelve, he'd decided right was right and that the only honorable thing to do was publicly admit what everyone already knew—that Ephram was his brother. His mother hadn't risen from her bed for over a month. His father had gone to Charleston for that month and the two that followed it. And in the absence of his parents, he'd faced down his very proper English tutor and firmly installed Ephram in the schoolroom. It had been the wisest thing he'd ever done.

“Our father was an Englishman,” Devon pointed out. “I'm not. I'm a Virginian, an American. England isn't my home. Rosewind is and I'm not selling her unless I'm forced to by our father's creditors. We can only hope for good weather, good crops, and outstanding prices.”

“That,” Ephram agreed, “and that the Lee brothers don't eat us out of house and home while they're here and make all the effort irrelevant.”

Yes, and that, too. Devon looked out the study doorway and into the hall, instantly feeling again the sense of wonder that had enveloped him that morning as he'd made his way down to breakfast. The scent of food had been glorious, made even more powerful by the uncommon
freshness of the house itself. His feet had actually left tracks in the carpets, and the sunlight streaming through the windowpanes had almost blinded him. The silver sparkled, the copper glowed, and the brass positively gleamed. Furniture had been polished until the surfaces could be used as mirrors, and all of it had been moved about and repositioned in ways that somehow made the rooms seem bigger and more inviting. There was a sense of rightness, a completeness about it all that he had never felt before. Rosewind was a new house, the house she should have always been.

He turned in his chair to see that Ephram had returned to carefully entering numbers into the various columns of the estate ledger.

“When,” Devon drawled, “was the last time this house looked as fine as it does today?”

Ephram abandoned his entries yet again and narrowed his eyes in an obvious effort to see into the past. After a moment he shook his head and went back to work, saying, “You'll have to ask my mother. Her memory goes back farther than mine does.”

At least it wasn't just him who couldn't recall Rosewind ever having been tended as lovingly as she had been for the last two days. He thought back, remembering bits and pieces of his childhood, trying to find a scrap of memory in which his mother had commanded a brigade of bustling slaves and servants. All he could find, though, were snippets of his father coming triumphantly through the door with carters in his wake, their backs straining under the weight of new furnishings. The old had been hauled up to the attic and supplanted with the new.

Nothing had ever been cleaned or refurbished, he realized. It had always been replaced at the first sign of wear or soiling. Nothing held sentimental value; nothing was important enough to keep or put effort into maintaining. No one, not his grandfather or his grandmother,
his father or his mother, had ever put anything of themselves into the nurturing of Rosewind's true possibilities. They had spent money by the handfuls and counted it sufficient to impress those with whom they shared the rarefied air of the Tidewater gentry.

But Claire had come at it differently. She'd rolled up her sleeves and put all of her heart into it. She'd made Rosewind more than mere bricks and mortar, plaster walls, furniture and carpets. She'd made it feel like a home.

“Claire's amazing, isn't she?” he mused aloud.

“Yes, she is,” Ephram agreed. “Her breeches notwithstanding.”

Her breeches. God, he hadn't thought about them today. Or yesterday, either. He'd actually gotten used to seeing her dashing through rooms and up and down stairs in her fawn-colored breeches. But today the Lee brothers were to arrive, and he couldn't afford to be tolerant of his wife's eccentricity any longer.

“Have you seen her this morning, Ephram?” he asked, rising to his feet.

“I caught a glimpse of her as she raced past me in the dining room earlier this morning. I assumed she had been out to the kitchen to discuss something of great import with Mother. I believe she was headed upstairs at the time to speak with Meg.”

“Was she wearing breeches?” he asked, hoping for a reprieve.

“Meg is appreciative of the freedom they afford,” Ephram replied absently as he considered an account statement, “but she says that she's too traditional to be so daring. She says she'll allow Lady Claire to blaze the trails for all womankind.”

“I meant Claire,” Devon explained, frustrated and sensing that the Fates weren't going to be kind to him. “Was Claire still wearing her breeches when you saw her?”

Ephram laid the paper aside and met his gaze with a cocked brow and a half-smile. “Do you honestly think you're going to win that battle?”

He had his doubts, but he wasn't about to admit them. Heading toward the door, he muttered, “I'd better go find her and make sure she's in a gown before the Lees get here.”

“Good luck to you, sir.”

He heard the suppressed amusement in Ephram's voice and turned back at the threshold. “You could at least
pretend
that you're on my side.”

The other laughed quietly and then confessed, “It's rather nice to see someone so openly defy you.”

“Everyone in this house defies me. Haven't you noticed?”

“Yes.” Ephram grinned. “But Lady Claire is the only one who can truly ruffle you with it. It's been most entertaining to watch you rail and sputter and then stomp off vowing to do something the
next
time you see her.”

“She'll be in a suitable gown when the Lee brothers get here,” Devon promised, wagging a finger at him. “You can mark my words, Ephram.”

“Duly noted, sir.”

Duly noted
, Devon silently groused as he strode down the hall and toward the stairs. God only knew what he was going to do if she refused to change her breeches for a gown. He suspected that he was going to have a choice between out-and-out begging her to have mercy on his social reputation and wrestling her to the floor of her room and forcibly stripping them from her body. If he had to do the latter, they were both going to regret her obstinacy for the rest of their lives and well into eternity. Of course, he had to find her before he could decide just how badly he wanted to impose his will and social conventions. Deciding that he'd start
with her room on the off chance that she might be doing the right thing all on her own, he strode down the hall and stopped in front of her closed door.

With a deep breath to sustain him, he rapped his knuckles against the panel and called, “Claire? Are you in there?” There was a faint sound from the other side. His heart racing, he turned the knob on the door and slowly pushed it open, saying softly as he did, “Claire?”

The sound came again and this time he plainly heard it. Claire stood at the foot of her bed, wearing only a transparent rail and a loose set of stays. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “What's wrong?” he demanded, pushing the door wide and moving toward her. “Are you hurt?”

“I can't get my laces tied,” she sobbed, trying to reach around her back and grasp the ribbons. “Meg's busy. I've tried and tried and…” She choked on another sob and his heart melted.

“Turn around,” he instructed, gently taking her by the shoulders and helping her comply. She was too exhausted to resist, too tired to do anything more than stand in front of him, cry, and let him draw her laces.

“The house looks beautiful, Claire,” he said softly. “Neither Ephram nor I can remember when we've ever seen it so clean, so perfectly appointed. You've done a magnificent job.”

She scrubbed away her tears with the palms of her hands. Her control was still uneven when she replied, “The thanks go to Hannah and Ephram and Meg. And to you, too. I've worked all of you to death.”

“You haven't asked anything of anyone that you haven't been willing to do yourself,” he countered, tying off the laces. Gently, he turned her around to face him. Looking down into tear-rimmed eyes, he fought the urge to gather her into his arms. “Why are you doing all this for me, Claire?”

She sniffled, but her smile was soft and gentle and certain. “Because I can.”

And because no one else in his world would. His heart swelled. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked, his voice a whisper.