Ryan's Bride (27 page)

She took down ajar of chopped pigeon berry leaves and put them in the teapot. In the past, Dr. Pardee had prescribed a special pigeon berry brew for Roussel to drink when he was constipated, emphasizing the exact amount to be used so as not to cause severe diarrhea.

She used three times that amount.

To keep the berries from being tasted, Clarice also added a bit of honey to sweeten the brew.

After a few moments, she scooped out the leaves. Then, hearing someone coming up the back porch steps, she slipped out of the tea kitchen, unseen.

Angele carried the tray to Uncle Roussel’s room.

He had told her to just call him Roussel, but she didn’t think that was proper. Worse would be to call him
Father
—something she resisted out of respect for the memory of her own. So he had finally told her to just address him as Uncle, like Corbett and Clarice did, and that suited her fine.

He was sitting in his favorite place by the window, and she put the tray on the table beside him. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I’m afraid they’re having trouble with the oven. Something about not enough firewood because all the men are picking cotton.”

He grunted. “When I was able, we got the damn cotton picked and kept plenty of firewood, to boot. The trouble is, Corbett doesn’t know what he’s doing. He leaves everything to Roscoe, and Roscoe’s interested in one thing—the crops. It doesn’t make a tinker’s damn to him if there’s firewood for the kitchen stove or not.

“And I can’t depend on Ryan,” he raged on as he took the cup of tea Angele handed him, “because all he cares about are his horses. It’s even worse since he brought back those Anglo-Arabs.”

Silently, sadly, she agreed with him. Ryan hadn’t even come in to supper the night before, and it was so late when he finally came to bed he hadn’t reached for her—the first time since they were married. And that bothered her, because if he ceased to want her, and she didn’t get pregnant, there was no telling what might happen. He might ask her to leave, and in just the short time she had been at BelleRose she had come to love it and wanted to stay.

And she had also stopped fighting the reality that she was, helplessly, falling in love with her husband. She found herself living for the moments when he kissed her and only wished she could return his bold caresses. But she held back, afraid to touch him in the way she longed to.

“One of these days,” Roussel said around a cookie, “I’m going to get out of this goddamn room and go out in the yard, and—”

Angele had sat in a chair nearby but leaped to her feet. There were times when she used curse words herself but never, ever, was she profane. Her father had always said that was the epitome of blasphemy. “Uncle Roussel, I’ve told you I won’t stand for that kind of talk in my presence, so if you’ll excuse me—”

He waved the cookie in the air, showering the floor with crumbs. “No, I won’t excuse you, but you excuse me. All right? I forget sometimes how it offends you.”

She sat back down. “And I will continue to remind you.”

The tea was warm, and Roussel had been thirsty and had gulped down a whole cup at once. He held it out for a refill before Angele had a chance to pour her own. “I hate these damn tiny cups Clarice insists on using. They aren’t for men. They’re for little old ladies with bony fingers. I’ve got my own cups somewhere in this infernal house. Mammy Lou will know where they are. I’d appreciate it if you’d get me one so you can pour me more than a swallow.

“It’s good tea, too,” he complimented. “Real sweet, just like I like it. Much better than what Clarice makes.”

Angele was glad to oblige, but before she had even left the room, he was already pouring more tea into his tiny cup.

She liked the peppery old man and had decided the reason he cursed was to sound tough and in control of his dominion. But despite that, she enjoyed being around him. He didn’t ask questions about her past. He accepted the fact she was French and contented himself with proudly telling her about his ancestors. He was a good storyteller, too, animated and interesting. She much preferred to be with him than Clarice, and with Ryan not around all day, she escaped to Uncle Roussel’s room whenever she could.

“So you’re the one who’s been meddling in my tea kitchen.”

Clarice was standing by the door, hands on her hips, face pinched with anger.

Angele wondered why she was so upset. “I’m sorry, but Uncle Roussel asked me to make his tea. I thought it would be all right.”

“All right?” Clarice swept her with a glare of contempt. “How dare you barge in here and try to take over? No one comes into my tea kitchen unless I say so. Do you understand me?”

Angele backed away. “I didn’t hurt anything.”

“That’s not the point. Now, what are you doing back? What do you want this time?”

“I was looking for Mammy Lou so she could tell me where to find Uncle Roussel’s favorite cups. He says the one he has is too small.” She hated having caused trouble, but, dear Lord, she hadn’t known. And Clarice was making too much of it, anyway, but she didn’t dare say so. The last thing she wanted was confrontation.

“Well, that’s what you get for trying to take over. Mammy Lou knows to take him the large cups and so do I.”

“But I meant no harm. I just wanted to do something nice for him.”

She watched as Clarice’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “Well, you
did
do harm. You’ve probably made him sick, because you stupidly put pigeon berry tea in the pot, and if he drinks too much, it will make him deathly ill.” She picked up the jar from the counter and shook it at her. “I found this next to the teapot. It’s what you used. Now get up there and stop him from drinking any more. I’m going to send for Doctor Pardee.”

“Dear God.” Angele turned around and ran down the hall and up the stairs, skipping steps, lifting her skirt above her ankles.

She charged into the room only to stop and gasp to see Uncle Roussel doubled over in his chair. His hands clutched his stomach as he lifted anguished eyes to her and moaned, “I’m sick…so sick. Get Willard…quick…”

Willard bounded into the room right behind her, having been summoned by Clarice. Believing Angele didn’t understand English, he grabbed her arm and steered her toward the door as he said to Roussel, “I’ll take care of you, mastah. Don’t worry. The mistress, she already sent for the doctor.”

When he turned away, Angele raced back across the room to snatch up the teapot, lift the lid, and look inside.

It was empty.

He had drunk it all.

With heavy heart, she then allowed Willard to escort her out once again.

Dr. Pardee walked into the parlor. He was carrying his worn leather bag and set it on a table just inside the door, then opened it and began rummaging inside.

Ryan had been sitting in a chair next to the marble fireplace but quickly rose. “How is he?”

“He’s going to be all right, but he’s got a bad case of diarrhea, thanks to that infernal poisoned tea.”

“I can’t believe she did something so stupid,” Clarice wailed. She was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. It was a hot, sultry evening, and a little Negro girl stood over her, solemnly waving a palm leaf fan to cool her.

Angele hung back in a far corner, embarrassed and feeling terrible.

Dr. Pardee took out a bottle containing a white liquid. “Give him two tablespoons in a big glass of water every two hours till his stomach settles down.”

Ryan was worried. “This could be serious if he doesn’t get over it right away. We all know he’s not in good health.”

Dr. Pardee patted his shoulder. “Your father is a very strong-willed man. I’ve always told him he wouldn’t die till he was ready, and, believe me, he’s not ready. And you don’t have to trust my word…” He winked. “I think Parson Barnes would agree with me.”

Angele saw the tense muscles in Ryan’s face relax. If the doctor could make jokes, then it had to mean his father really was going to be all right. She, however, was having a difficult time trying to pretend she didn’t understand a word that was being said.

Clarice half rose, then fell back against Corbett as though the effort was too great. “Doctor, I beg you not to say anything to anyone about this. It wasn’t intentional by any means. Angele didn’t try to murder Uncle Roussel, and—”

“Clarice, no one even remotely thought she did.” The words flew out of Ryan’s mouth on the crest of a horrified gasp. “There’s no need to say something like that to Doctor Pardee. He knows it was an accident. Angele didn’t know what she was doing and made a mistake, that’s all.”

Doctor Pardee agreed. “Yes, it was a mistake, and we all make them, so there’s no need to dwell on it. And you don’t have to worry. I’m not one to carry tales, and you all know it. But if I did, there’d be a lot of nervous folks around Richmond.” He rolled his eyes, evoking a smile from only Ryan, as Clarice and Corbett were grim-faced.

Angele bit down on her lip to keep from smiling, too—the first time she’d felt like it since the nightmare began.

Dr. Pardee snapped his bag shut with a sigh. “But, Ryan, you do need to tell your wife to be careful with pigeon berries. A stronger brew would likely have killed him.”

Clarice threw an angry look at Angele. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. That was the first time she used my tea kitchen, and it will be the last.”

Ryan waited until Willard had shown Dr. Pardee out before informing Clarice in no uncertain terms, “No, it won’t be the last time. You’re going to do as I asked you when we first got home—show Angele around so she won’t make mistakes. I want her to learn about the tea kitchen, and all the herbs, spices, and medicines at BelleRose.”

Clarice had gone pale, stunned that he was speaking to her so sharply.

Corbett was staring up at the ceiling with tight lips and stormy eyes.

Ryan continued in a gentler tone. “I know you’ve been in charge here for a long time, Clarice, and I’m sure if Angele understood what we were talking about, she’d agree with me when I say that she has no desire to take anything from you. But I do want her to have her rightful place as my wife, and she can’t do that till she understands how things are around here.”

Angele felt like running across the room and throwing her arms around him for taking up for her but had to continue her pretense.

She also wished she could tell him that she couldn’t have made a mistake when she brewed the tea. She knew about such things. Miss Appleton had made sure all her girls could make delicious tea and serve it with grace and charm. She was also aware of the need to sniff the leaves used for freshness. She had done so, and the aroma had been quite different from that in the pot when she had checked it after Uncle Roussel had emptied it. And she intended to say as much when the time was right, but, for the moment, she was savoring how Ryan was defending her.

But at his next words she winced…and hoped no one noticed.

“Beginning tomorrow, she’s to spend all her time with you. It’s nice that she reads to my father, but I think he’d agree it’s more important for her to learn about the workings of the household.”

He started for the door, shoulders drooped with weariness. “Now I’ve got to get back to the stable and check on the mare that’s due to foal before long. She doesn’t act right, and I’m worried about her.”

Angele seized the chance to pretend to be concerned that he was leaving and asked, in French, of course, “Aren’t you going to have supper?”

“No. I’ll eat something later. Don’t wait up for me.”

She bit back disappointment.

It would be the second night he hadn’t made love to her.

He continued walking out of the room, but Clarice’s words made him spin around.

“I thought you said you were going to hire a tutor. You can’t expect me to take time out from my responsibilities to teach your wife what she should have known when you married her. And don’t forget Uncle Roussel insists on having a party for her, and I have a lot of planning to do for that.”

“I’m going into Richmond in a couple of days,” he said. “I have some business to take care of, and I’ll try to find one while I’m there. Till then you can surely find time to help her, all right?”

Clarice said nothing more, and the moment the door closed behind Ryan she turned on Angele with a vengeance and said in French, “You’ll do as I say and not give me a moment’s worry or you’ll be sorry.”

Angele was stunned. “I don’t intend to, Clarice. I’ve told you—I’d like for us to be friends.”

“Humph,” Clarice snorted. “You think I want to be friends with a murderer?”

Corbett spoke for the first time. “Now, Clarice, there’s no need for that. It was a mistake.”

“But not one that
I
made,” Angele was quick to declare. “I know how to make tea. I didn’t put pigeon berry leaves in the pot. I don’t know how they got there, but it was not by my doing.”

Corbett put his hand on Clarice’s arm. “Maybe they were already in there,” he gently said. “Maybe the pot hadn’t been washed properly. Sometimes Mammy Lou and the other servants get lazy and don’t clean as well as they should. You need to say something to all of them about it.

“Now then…” He patted his knees, smiled, and stood. “Let’s go in and have supper, shall we? Uncle Roussel is going to be all right, so no real harm was done.”