Now and Forever (76 page)

Sure it is,
Dakota thought.
Gossip transcends religion.

"Let the dead rest in peace, I always say."

"Dead?" Dakota's voice rose in surprise.

"Well, sure she's dead, missus, otherwise you wouldn't be here, now, would you?" Cook asked with a bawdy laugh.

Of course the wife was dead. Divorce had yet to become the national pastime it was in the latter part of the twentieth century. She'd have to remember that.

Cook flung open the wardrobe doors. "She left her things behind. Now I couldn't be squeezing myself into any of her gowns but you're a slip of a thing. You'll do fine."

God bless you and your poor eyesight,
Dakota thought as she gaped at the array of outfits. She'd been called many things in her life, but a "slip of a thing" wasn't one of them.

The gowns were utterly magnificent. Dakota had been around many reproductions of eighteenth-century garb but even the fine work done by the Princeton Historical Society left her unprepared her for the splendor of the real thing. The late Mrs. Devane might have had questionable taste in men but her fashion sense was beyond reproach. Gowns of vivid scarlet, sky blue, lemon yellow the color of sunshine on an April morning--the beauty stole Dakota's breath away.

"Six ballgowns," she said, turning toward the older woman. "Did she do anything besides dance?"

Cook's round face crinkled with laughter. "One other thing," she said, eyes twinkling, "but I'd be too much the lady to tell you what it was."

To her surprise, Dakota felt a twinge of sympathy for Devane but Cook's next words dispelled that emotion.

"You can't be leavin' a young and beautiful girl alone like that," the woman said as she supplied Dakota with a pitcher of water, a basin, and soft cloths. "Flowers need tending, plain and simple, or else they find someplace else to bloom."

Which was as good a rationalization for infidelity as Dakota had ever heard. Still, whatever had happened between Devane and his wife, it must have been volcanic because no woman in her right mind would leave these treasures behind.

Cook excused herself and went back downstairs to tend to supper, leaving Dakota alone with six gowns, eight day dresses and the slim hope that one of them might actually fit.

She rummaged behind two exceptionally gorgeous satin numbers with bodices cut down to there and settled on a flower-sprigged muslin in shades of butter yellow and antique gold that would probably look like hell on her but was too spectacular to ignore.

She kicked off her Nikes, unzipped her jeans, then pulled her Jurassic Park t-shirt over her head. Clad in cotton bra and panties, she stared at herself in the cheval glass then sighed. She doubted there were enough whalebone stays in the world to cinch in her waist tightly enough to fit into Mrs. Devane's clothing but she'd give it her best shot.

"Easier said than done," she muttered a few minutes later. The full skirt did hide a multitude of sins but the bodice revealed her lack of assets. She ended up ripping the sleeves off her t-shirt and using them to provide what nature had forgotten.

The waistline was too snug for comfort but as long as she didn't breathe too deeply she'd survive. Besides, what was one popped button when there were four hundred more where that came from? As far as she could tell, the average woman must get up three hours early just to get dressed in time for breakfast.

She peered into the mirror and decided maybe it was worth it. The bodice laced up the front and did a spectacular job of making very little look like a lot.

"So who needs a WonderBra?" She vamped a little, enjoying the illusion of cleavage, when she noticed Abigail standing in the doorway.

"How long have you been there?" she asked in what she hoped was a pleasant tone of voice.

Abigail pointed toward Dakota's shoulder "What's that?"

Crap! The tattoo. "You don't like the dress?" When your back was against the wall, always play dumb.

Abigail shook her head. She stepped into the room, a tiny commando on a search-and-destroy mission. "I saw a picture on your shoulder."

"You must mean my birthmark."

"It looked like a heart."

"It's a family trait."

Abigail looked at her with those sad grey eyes but she didn't pursue the issue. Still Dakota felt as if the child had her dead to rights.

"Papa wants to see you in the library. Cook said to tell you because she's only one woman and can't do everything." The last was delivered with Cook's intonations, right down to the vaguely Irish lilt to the voice.

"Thank you." Dakota wished the kid would stop looking at her like she expected Dakota to sprout fangs and breathe fire. "I'll be down shortly."

"Papa doesn't like to be kept waiting."

And I don't like being ordered around.
"I won't keep him waiting long."

Abigail wandered into the room and sat down on the foot of the bed. "I know how you came here."

Dakota's spine stiffened. "Sure you do," she said easily. "We shared a saddle on your papa's horse."

"No," said Abigail, fixing her with a look. "It was that big red ball in the sky."

Double crap. "I--I don't know what you're talking about."

"That big red ball floating over the trees. I saw it."

"And you think that's how I came here?" Her heart was beating so hard that her ribs hurt.

Abigail nodded her head. "When I saw it, I wanted to fly away in it."

"What a funny idea." She hated herself for lying to the child but there was no alternative.

"It was not funny," Abigail said, eyes narrowing. "It was real."

"I'm sure it looked real."

"It made a funny sound." She mimicked the intermittent hiss of the propane tanks.

Dakota almost choked on her own saliva. How was she going to convince the kid she'd been hallucinating?

"Were you scared up there in the sky?" Abigail persisted.

"I'd love to talk to you, Abigail, but your papa is waiting for me downstairs and you know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"My mama had a dress like that," the child said in her serious way.

"I, uh…" Dakota's voice trailed off. This was even more dangerous territory than hot-air balloons.

"You look pretty."

Definitely a day for surprises. "You called me a monster, before, remember?"
Good going, Dakota. You can't even take a compliment from a six-year-old.

The kid's lower lip trembled. "
You
said you were a fairy godmother."

Dakota sighed, then caught herself. Another sigh could cost her five or six buttons.
I really don't want to like you, kid, but you're starting to get to me.
"So we both made mistakes," she said after a moment. "Maybe we should start all over again.

Abigail's forehead puckered in a frown. She really was the image of her father. "I do not understand."

Dakota extended her right hand in greeting. "My name is Dakota."

"M-my name is Abigail Elizabeth Devane and I'm six years old." Cautiously the child extended her hand until their fingertips touched.

"I'm happy to meet you."

Abigail removed her hand from Dakota's. "That's Mama's dress, isn't it?"

"I needed something to wear."

"Where are your shoes?"

"I took them off." Running shoes didn't make quite the fashion statement she was looking for.

"You have to wear shoes."

"I'll find something."

"Mama's shoes are still here."

"I know, but your mama has smaller feet than I do."

"Cook has shoes."

"I'll see if she has an extra pair."

Abigail nodded, as if satisfied. Dakota was about to congratulate herself on surviving questions about tattoos, shoes, and transportation, but Abigail wasn't quite finished. "When will the big red ball come back?" she asked in a matter of fact tone of voice.

"Honey," she lied, "I just don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," Abigail said sagely, "and when it does, I'm going to fly away."

Chapter Six

"You wanted to speak with me?"

Patrick turned from the window where he'd been looking out at the drifting snow. Dakota Wylie stood in the doorway, clad in one of Susannah's dresses. The skirt was too long for her, the sleeves too short, but on the whole it was a most pleasing sight. A fact that annoyed him immeasurably.

"Come in." He motioned for her to take a seat in front of the fire. "You have eaten, I assume."

"No, actually I haven't." She sat down on the chair then leaped back up to rearrange her skirts. She mumbled something under her breath but he couldn't make out the words. Then she sat down again.

"I will ask Cook to prepare a plate."

"Don't go to any trouble on my account. I'll help myself."

"That is her job. She will see to it."

"Doesn't she have enough to do? Your housekeeper's gone, half of the maids have quit--"

"Damnation, woman! You have been under my roof for one hour and you presume to tell me how to run my household?"

There was nothing deferential in the way she looked at him, nothing feminine or ladylike. Her gaze held both challenge and reproach and he found himself oddly stirred by it.

Her bosom rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath. He looked at her more closely. Odd, he thought. The right one seemed larger than the left.

She was a most unusual woman.

"All I'm saying is that Cook has enough to do without making her wait on me. I'll take care of myself."

Words he had never heard Susannah utter.

He looked down at her feet, then looked again. They were bare. Her toenails were painted a vivid shade of red. He had never seen a more astonishing sight. "Your shoes, madam?"

"I didn't want to make Mr. Blackwell's list."

He did not know who this Mr. Blackwell was but did not wish to reveal his ignorance. "You require shoes, madam."

She glanced down at her bare feet. "I'll find something."

"I will see what I can do."

It would not be an easy task. Much of George Washington's army went barefoot these days. There were those who said you could observe their progress by following the trail in the snow left by their bloody feet. Shoes for a mere woman would be difficult to find for few would condone the waste of good leather when there were valiant soldiers in need of boots.

She rose from the chair. "Well, if that's it, I think I'll see about dinner."

"Sit down."

She didn't. "I'm tired and I'm hungry," she said in an even tone of voice. "I appreciate your giving me a place to sleep and I promise that I will be gone by daybreak tomorrow."

"You are going nowhere, mistress."

Fire flashed in her dark brown eyes. She truly did have the spirit of a beauty. "I do not appreciate orders, sir."

"You are in my house. You will do as I say."

"So this is how it is? You fight British tyranny only to inflict your own form of tyranny on your household." The fire flashed brighter. "Or is it you find no problem with tyrants?"

"Angry words, madam. Watch what you say lest you find yourself cast out into the snow."

#

And you'd do it too
, Dakota thought.

One look at that stubborn jaw line and she could imagine him dragging her through the hallway then booting her butt out into the night.

She was blowing it. She needed to get a grip on her temper and think before she shot off her mouth again.

She was two hundred years away from home and smack in the middle of a revolution. This was no time to congratulate herself on her snappy comebacks.