Lost Lady (13 page)

 

“Get up!” Travis commanded, slapping her firm, lovely buttocks. “If we don't get started, we'll never make it to Clay's house, and if you think I'm going to spend a night on that little sloop with you, you're wrong.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, she didn't make a comment but pushed her hair out of her eyes and pulled a tulip petal from where it was stuck to her cheek. “Why wouldn't you spend the night on a ship with me?” she asked idly, sitting up, feeling dazed and drained—but happy.

“It's not a ship,” he answered, “but a tiny little boat, and we'd probably sink it with your acrobatics.”

“My—?” she began, trying to look haughty, but sitting naked in the midst of the large pile of crushed flowers, her cheeks pink, her eyes liquid and lazy, she couldn't look like more than a tempting little wood-sprite.

Travis, his cheeks covered with shaving soap, looked at her in the mirror, and his glance made her smile and start to lean back on the bed. “Oh, no you don't,” he cautioned, immediately changing his look to a threatening one. “If you don't get out of that bed this minute, I'll see that we have separate bedrooms at my house.”

That absurd threat made her laugh, but just the same she got up and began to wash. She felt so good that she couldn't seem to do anything in a hurry, yet Travis wouldn't help her get dressed but stood to one side impatiently waiting for her.

When at last she was ready to leave, he half-pushed her down the stairs and to a chair where an enormous American meal awaited her. Travis set to the food like a starving man, grumbling that he never got regular meals anymore and that she was wearing him out in the prime of life, but his eyes danced with merriment.

In very short order their trunks were stowed on the little boat, they were heading up the James River toward Travis's home, and Regan began bombarding him with questions. Before, she had fought so hard against going to America that she hadn't thought much about where Travis lived.

“Is your farm very large? Do you plow the fields yourself, or do you have employees? Is your house as nice as where the Judge and Martha live?”

Looking at her in bewilderment for a moment, Travis began to smile. “My…ah…farm is a good size, and I do have a few employees, but I sometimes plow my own fields. And I believe my house is rather nice, but then maybe that's because it's mine.”

“And you built it with your own hands,” she said dreamily, trailing her hand in the water. Perhaps in a simple country like this, her lack of experience in household management wouldn't be so devastating. Farrell had said he knew she couldn't manage his estate, and she was sure he was right. But with a little place like Travis's, maybe a one-or two-room house, she could manage.

The increasing warmth of the sun and the pleasant thoughts soon made her drop off to sleep.

Quite a while later, she woke with a start as a shot rang out over her head. Practically falling into the water, she jumped and saw Travis holding a smoking pistol pointed toward the sky.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

From the excitement on his face, she knew something was about to happen and didn't answer his silly question. Stretching her cramped body, she looked around as Travis reloaded the pistol, but all she saw was the river and the lush greenery on each side.

“We're near Clay's place,” he said as he fired into the air again.

After a glance at the dense trees around them, she wondered how anyone could build a house there, but even as she thought it she saw the trees abruptly stop just ahead on the left.

Protruding into the water was a large wooden wharf with two boats, both bigger than the one they rode in, and as they sailed closer many buildings came into view. There were large and small houses, gardens, fields neatly plowed, workers everywhere, horses, wagons, and in general a great deal of activity.

“Is your house in this town also?” she asked as Travis maneuvered them toward the wharf.

A low chuckle she didn't understand came from Travis. “This isn't a town. It's Clay's plantation.”

To her knowledge, she'd never heard the word before. As she opened her mouth to start asking questions, she was interrupted as a squeal of children's laughter took Travis's attention. Quickly, he leaped from the boat and hauled Regan onto the wharf after him, just in time to catch two of the prettiest children she'd ever seen.

“Uncle Travis!” they laughed as he twirled them about. “Did you bring us anything? Uncle Clay was getting worried about you. What's England like? Mama had two babies instead of one, and we have a new litter of puppies.”

“Mama, is it?” Travis laughed.

The boy gave his sister a disdainful look. “She means Nicole. Sometimes it's hard to remember that she's not our mother.”

Close behind the children came a man, tall and slim, with dark hair and eyes, sharp cheekbones, a look of great happiness on his face. “Where the hell have you been?” the man demanded, holding out his hand to Travis and then hugging him exuberantly.

“I'm weeks early, and you damn well know it!” Travis answered. “No one was there to meet me, and I had to store my goods and borrow this sorry excuse for a boat.”

Gesturing offhandedly toward the boat, Travis caused Clay to notice Regan, who was standing quietly on the edge of the wharf. But before the man could ask any questions, Travis gave a long sigh.

“Here's who I wanted to see.” Hurrying forward, he caught a deliciously pretty young woman in his arms, kissing her heartily on the mouth. Instantly, the other man's attention left Regan and went to the two of them. He seemed to be working at controlling some inner emotion.

Within moments Travis was leading the woman toward the wharf. “I have someone I want you to meet,” he was saying.

At close range the woman was even prettier than from a distance, with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and a sensual mouth. After a quick assessment, Regan saw she was wearing a dress of deep purple muslin, with tiny green ribbons under the high waist. So much for wanting to show the Americans the new fashions! This woman's gown could be worn at court.

“This is my wife Regan,” Travis said gently, looking at Regan with pride. “And this is Clayton Armstrong and his wife Nicole. And these scamps,” he grinned, “are Clay's niece and nephew, Alex and Mandy.”

“How do you do?” Regan said quietly, still puzzled by these people. They were far from her idea of what Americans were like.

“Won't you come to the house?” Nicole said. “You must be tired, and I doubt if Travis has let you rest much.”

To that, Travis snorted and Regan held her breath, hoping he wouldn't say something crude.

When Regan merely followed Nicole docilely, Nicole smiled. “It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?”

Regan was looking about her, trying to understand just what sort of place she was in.

A big, broad, blonde woman came running toward them, her skirts lifted high above her ankles. “Was that Travis what just come in?” she shouted before she even reached them.

“Yes, and this is his wife Regan. Regan, this is Janie Langston.”

“Wife?” Janie asked, surprised. “He did do it! That Travis is a wonder. He said he was going to England and bring back a wife. Honey,” she said, putting her hand on Regan's arm. “You got your work cut out for you being Mrs. Travis Stanford. I hope you got courage enough to stand up to him.”

With that, she started running toward the wharf.

“W
HO ELSE LIVES HERE?”
R
EGAN ASKED
N
ICOLE.

“Quite a few people, really. There are field workers, weavers, the dairy people, gardeners—all the people needed to run a plantation.”

“Plantation.” Regan whispered the strange word. They were entering a long row of box hedges, and her view of the buildings around them was obscured. “Travis said you were going to have a baby, and the children said something about two babies.”

A lovely smile crossed Nicole's face. “Twins seem to run in Clay's family, and four months ago I had two boys. Come inside, and I'll gladly show them to you.”

Looming above them was a large brick house, about the same size as Weston Manor. Regan hoped shock wasn't showing on her face. Of course there were wealthy people in America too, and of course some of them would have mansions. It was just that in England people spoke of America as being so young that there hadn't been time to really build much of anything.

Inside the house, the rooms were startlingly lovely, large, spacious, the furniture upholstered in silk, the wallpaper hand-painted, portraits on the walls. Fresh-cut flowers graced tables and desks.

“Shall we go into the drawing room? I'll bring the children down.”

Left alone in this room, Regan was further amazed at the elegance of it. A Sheraton desk with delicate inlay was against one wall, a gold-framed mirror above it. Facing it was a tall cabinet of leather-bound books.

She'd only known Weston Manor, and by comparison the English house was shabby and poor. Here everything sparkled with cleanliness and care. There was no chipped woodwork, worn upholstery, or scuffed surfaces.

Her attention left the room's furnishings when Nicole returned, a baby in each arm. At first Regan was afraid to hold either one of the children, but Nicole persuaded her she could do it. Within moments Regan had the little boy smiling and cooing back at her, hardly noticing when Travis entered and sat beside her on the sofa. They were alone in the room.

“Think we could make two at a time?” he asked quietly, taking the baby's hand and letting him grip his finger.

The expression on Travis's face as he watched the baby was one of joy. “You really want a child, don't you?” she asked.

“For a long time,” he said seriously, then added with his usual bluntness, “I never much wanted a wife, but I could surround myself with children.”

Frowning, Regan wanted to ask him why he'd saddled himself with a wife now, but she knew the answer. He wanted the child she carried. Later she would show him that she was of more use than for breeding stock. Together they'd work and build up his farm. Perhaps it would never be as nice as the Armstrong plantation, but someday it could be very comfortable.

“What do you think, Travis?” Clay asked from the doorway, his chest expanded several inches in pride, Mandy by his side, Alex behind him, and the second baby in the crook of his arm. Regan thought he looked as happy as anyone alive.

“Clay,” Travis began. “How did those new cows work out? And did you have any mold on last year's hay?”

As the two men seemed to want to talk business and both of them were happy with the babies, Regan handed Travis the baby she held and stood up. Travis showed no qualms about taking the child, unlike Regan who'd been afraid she'd drop him. “I think I'll find Nicole,” she said, and Clay gave her directions to the kitchen. Outside the room she heard Clay say, “She's prettier than I ever thought you could get,” to which Travis only snorted.

Her head held high, she went through the flower-bedecked hallway and out the back door, turned left, and headed for the kitchen, which was in a separate building. Inside the big room everyone was bustling about, and Nicole, her arms covered in flour, was directing all of it. When a young girl accidentally dropped a basket of eggs, shells and all, into a bowl of batter, it didn't upset Nicole at all. Two children, dressed plainly but cleanly, ran through the building, and Nicole just caught a pail of milk before it overturned. Even as she righted it, she looked up, saw Regan, and smiled warmly.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she came forward. “I'm sorry I had to leave you, but I wanted to see that a nice supper was prepared for you.”

“Is it always like this?” Regan asked, half in horror.

“Most of the time. There are an awful lot of people to feed.” She started to untie her apron. “I need to cut some herbs, and maybe you'd like a little tour before supper. If you're not too tired.”

“I slept most of the way here,” Regan smiled. “And I'd love to see the…the plantation.”

Later, Regan didn't believe anything could have prepared her for what Nicole showed her. A man hitched a two-wheel wagon for them, and Nicole drove them about the plantation, pointing out each of the dependencies. Regan had been right in her first estimation. The plantation was a village of sorts, but all owned by one man. Nearly everything needed for living was made, grown, or caught on the plantation. Nicole pointed out the dairy, dovecote, loom house, stables, tannery, and carpenter shop, and around the kitchen was a smokehouse, malt house, and wash house. Nicole showed her the acres and acres of fields planted with cotton, flax, wheat, and tobacco. And across the river was a mill where their grain was ground. Cattle, sheep, and horses grazed in separate areas.

“And you manage all of this?” Regan asked in wonder.

“Clay helps some, too,” Nicole laughed, “but, yes, it takes a lot of work. We don't get away much, but then we don't have to since everything we could ever want is right here.”

“You're very happy, aren't you?”

“I am now,” Nicole answered. “But it hasn't always been easy.” Her eyes went to the mill across the river. “Clay and Travis have been friends since they were boys, and I hope we'll be friends too.”

“I have never had a girlfriend,” Regan said, looking at this woman who was the same small size she was. They had no idea what a striking pair they made, Nicole with her black hair, and Regan's dark brown with its red-gold highlights.

“Neither have I,” Nicole said. “Not a real girlfriend I could talk to and confide in.” With a smile she flicked the reins, and the horse started to move. “Someday, when we have a lot of time, I'll tell you how I met Clay.”

Blushing, Regan thought that she could never, never tell anyone how she met Travis. For one thing, no one would believe her story.

“I'm hungry. How about you?” Nicole asked. “And I can feel that those babies of mine are about to starve.”

“And without a doubt Travis is hungry,” Regan laughed.

 

“Is she as young as she looks?” Clay asked, jostling his son on his arm and looking through the window at Nicole and Regan pulling away from the house in the buggy.

“Would you believe I don't know how old she is? And that is one question I'm afraid to ask. It'd be my luck that she'd turn out to be sixteen.”

“Travis, what on earth are you talking about? How did you meet her? Couldn't you have found out from her parents how old she was?”

Travis had no intention of telling the story to anyone. Years ago, when Clay's older brother James was alive, he might have confided in him, but now he couldn't bring himself to tell of kidnapping his wife.

Clay seemed to understand, for there were things he didn't want to tell about himself—and what had gone on between him and Nicole. “Is she always so quiet? I don't mean to pry, but the two of you seem an incongruous pair.”

“She can hold her own,” Travis smiled, eyes twinkling. “To tell you the truth, I don't know what she's like. She seems to change every minute. One moment she's a little girl with dreams of romance, and the next she's….” His voice trailed off as he remembered early this morning, her lips moving up his inner thigh. “Whatever she is, I find her fascinating.”

“And what about Margo? I don't believe she's going to be too happy to welcome your little wife.”

“I can handle Margo,” Travis said in dismissal.

Old memories, only half-healed, clouded Clay's eyes. “Watch her with your wife. A woman like Margo eats sweet little things like Regan for breakfast. I know,” he added softly.

“Margo can't do a damned thing, and I'll let her know it. I'll be around to protect my wife, and Regan ought to know what I feel about her. I married her, didn't I?”

Clay didn't say any more. There was a time when people had given him advice, but he hadn't listened, and he knew how easily marriage vows could be made—and just as easily broken.

 

That night, as Regan slipped into the canopied bed beside her husband, she told him some of her impressions of the day. “I never knew anything like this existed. It's as if Clay and Nicole were the sole owners of an entire town.”

He pulled her close to him. “Then you like our plantation system?” he murmured, relaxing into sleep.

“Of course, but I am glad there aren't many of them. I don't see how Nicole can run a place this size. Thank heavens you are just a poor farmer.”

When she received no reply, she looked over at Travis and saw that he was asleep. Smiling, she snuggled closer to him and drifted into a quiet, gentle sleep.

The next morning parting was surprisingly difficult as they all stood on the wharf and said goodbye. Nicole promised to visit Regan very soon and to give her any help she could. Clay and Travis exchanged comments about this year's crops, and then all too soon they were climbing into the little boat and heading upriver.

Regan found she was very excited about seeing the place where Travis lived and wondered if it could possibly be as big and wild and crude as he was. She hoped she could refine his home as she wanted to refine him.

After a while of slow, easy sailing, they came to another break in the trees. An enormous wharf with more ships could be seen in the distance.

“This isn't another plantation, is it?” she asked, moving to stand beside Travis. This looked many times larger than Clay's place, so surely this was a town.

“It certainly is!” Travis said with a big smile.

“Do you know the owners of this place?” As they sailed nearer she could see that this plantation looked like a blown-up version of Clay's. By the wharf was a building as large as Clay's house. “What is that?” she pointed.

“It's the ship's store and the warehouse. The captains can replace sails and damaged gear at the store, and goods waiting transport are stored in the warehouse. The assessor's house is that smaller building.”

There were three small craft tied at the wharf, two barges, and four shallops as Travis called them. To her bewilderment Travis steered the little boat to this wharf.

“I thought we were going home,” she said in consternation. “Do you want to see friends here?”

Travis leaped onto the wharf and pulled her up before she could say another word. Taking her chin in his warm hand, he lifted her face to meet his. “This,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers, “is my plantation.”

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. “All…all of it?” she whispered.

“Every blade of grass. Now come on and let me show you your new home.”

Those were the last words they were allowed each other before a mob of people descended on them. Shouts of “Travis!” and “Mr. Stanford!” echoed from one building to another. Travis never released Regan's hand as he shook hands with what seemed like hundreds of people who came running from every corner of the plantation. And he introduced her to every person, saying this man was head carpenter, this one the second assistant gardener, this woman third upstairs maid. On and on the list went, and all Regan could do was to stand and nod at them while her mind kept repeating, They are all employees. They all work for Travis—and for me.

Somewhere during all the introducing, Travis declared the day a holiday, and before long the field hands were coming to greet Travis too. Great, thick, muscle-bound men came laughing and smiling, teasing Travis that he'd probably gotten soft while he was away. A swift wave of pride shot through Regan as she saw that none of the men was any more muscular than her husband.

As they started walking away from the river, greeting people along the way, some of the employees began asking questions. It seemed that half the plantation was falling apart.

“Where's Wes?” Travis demanded, walking so fast Regan was nearly running.

“Your Uncle Thomas died in Boston, and Wes had to go to straighten out his affairs,” said a man who was an overseer.

“And what about Margo?” Travis frowned. “She could have handled some of these problems.”

“About twenty of her cows are down with some sort of disease,” the man answered.

“Travis,” said a sturdy, red-haired woman. “Three of the looms are down, and every time I tell a man to fix them he says it's not his job.”

“And Travis,” another woman said. “The Backes have some new chickens from the East. Could you authorize some money to buy some?”