Ryan's Bride (36 page)

Diamond-and-ruby earbobs and necklace matched her hair comb.

She stepped into red velvet slippers, then turned in front of the mirror again, pleased with the final results.

Hesitantly, Selma murmured, “I just ain’t never seen a skirt torn like that… Are you sure you want to wear it?”

Angele laughed. “The only reason the other ladies won’t be wearing one just like it is because they haven’t got here from Paris yet. And the skirt isn’t torn, Selma. It’s called a slit, it’s very fashionable, and, yes, I am sure I want to wear it.”

She had eaten the toast, drunk two cups of tea, and her stomach finally seemed to be settling. She was ready for the evening, and it was a good thing, because Ryan knocked on the door and told her everyone was waiting for her.

Responding that she would be right down, her pulses were racing.

She was about to meet Richmond society…
and
the woman everyone thought Ryan would marry.

Ryan was waiting for her in the parlor. When she came out of her room, his mouth fell open. “My God…” he breathed hoarsely. “My God—” he repeated. “Angele, you are gorgeous.”

Demurely, she countered by complimenting, “And you’re quite handsome, yourself.” He wore a simple dark blue frock coat, cut away in front, with tails. A madras cravat adorned his white shirt, and his well-fitting trousers were a few shades lighter than his coat.

He couldn’t help himself. Slipping his arm about her waist, he pulled her against him as his mouth came to hers. He held tight, deepening the kiss amidst hunger and heat, passion and desire.

She clung to him, wanting more, wishing there were no party to go to, wishing there were no guests to meet…that they could answer the hunger that was surging like a mountain stream run wild.

Forcing himself to release her, he stood back, shaken. “We’d better join the others. Roussel is anxious to introduce you to everyone.”

As he continued to ravish her with his eyes, she took his arm and they made their way to the top of the grand spiral staircase. The banister had been draped in white satin ribbons and adorned with yellow roses.

Everyone had crowded into the foyer and clustered in the doorways to the parlor and the ballroom. When Angele came into view, a murmur rippled through the air like a cresting wave.

“They think you’re beautiful, too,” Ryan whispered.

At the bottom of the stairs, Roussel came forward to offer his arm to Angele. Graciously she took it, and the crowd parted as he escorted her into the center of the ballroom.

At his signal, the musicians ceased to play. He then cleared his throat and declared with flourish, “I present to you the new mistress of BelleRose, my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Ryan Tremayne.”

The applause was nearly deafening.

Angele glanced about shyly, appreciatively—and that was when her gaze fell on Clarice. She was standing not too far away, lovely in a demure gown of brown taffeta. Her mouth was frozen in a smile that could only be forced.

But it was the woman beside her that made little pinpricks of alarm dance up and down her spine.

It had to be Denise.

Her hair was the color of silver, swept up high and caught with a garnet-encrusted band. She wore huge diamond earrings that sparkled to compete with the glitter of the dazzling crystal chandeliers overhead. Her gown was the color of bright, spring grass, the low-cut bodice crusted in shimmering garnets.

Angele could easily see why Ryan had wanted to marry her. Not only was she lovely, but she stood poised like royalty.

And no one but Angele noticed how the corners of her lips twitched in the hint of an arrogant, confident smirk.

“My son, the proud groom,” Roussel was saying, waving to Ryan to join them, then putting his arm about his shoulders.

“Now everyone in Richmond knows how I feel about my heritage, and—” he went on to boast.

“You mean everyone in the whole state of Virginia,” someone shouted.

Laughter erupted.

Roussel grinned, continuing. “And I’m happy to know my grandchildren will also be French and confident they will treasure their lineage like their ancestors.”

There was more applause, and then a receiving line formed as everyone pushed forward to personally be introduced to Angele. By the time the crush ended, the musicians had begun to play once more and Ryan had been swallowed by the crowd.

Clarice suddenly appeared at Angele’s side. “I know you’re hungry, dear,” she said, drawing her away and through the archway into the formal dining room.

Angele saw the tables offering cakes, berry cobblers, fruit pies, and creamy puddings. She felt another roll of queasiness and could not bear the thought of eating anything rich and sweet. Then she saw a tray of bread and moved toward that.

Clarice stayed right beside her, and as soon as no one else was around, hissed in her ear, “You look like a whore in that dress. How dare you shame the family this way?”

Angele nearly choked on the piece of bread she had just put in her mouth and stammered, “I…I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Of course you do. That awful slit gown you wore to tea was bad enough, but this”—she gestured, nose wrinkled in disgust—“this is abominable.”

Angele was swept with indignity. “Ryan and his father didn’t seem to think so.”

“They’re too gentlemanly to say so. They don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“But you don’t seem to mind doing it.”

“Someone has to tell you that you are an embarrassment to this family.”

Before Angele could respond, Clarice turned on her heel and swept from the room.

Angele was no longer hungry. What she wanted,
needed
was to find Ryan and see in his gaze once more that he found her pretty appealing…and not at all what Clarice accused her of being.

Wandering about, she could not find him anywhere. Passing Roussel, he asked if she was enjoying herself.

“Oh, yes,” she managed to sound sincere. “I was just wondering where Ryan was. I’d like him to dance with me.”

“Sorry, but I haven’t seen him, dear.” He turned back to the man he had been talking to.

Another man standing nearby leaned toward her. “I saw him go out on the terrace a little while ago,” he said.

She thanked him and moved toward the French doors that led to one of her favorite spots. By daylight, there was an inspiring view of the carefully manicured gardens with masses of daisies, zinnias, and the spectacular rose gardens. There was also a reflecting pool and a huge fountain and even statuary.

The doors were flanked by sweeping potted palms. Angele stepped outside and glanced around. Then, in the light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom, she saw Ryan standing at the end of the terrace.

And he was not alone.

The silver-haired woman was with him.

Her first impulse was to walk right up to them. After all, he was her husband. She had every right. But another part of her urged that she draw back into the shadows. By so doing, she might discover whether Denise was actually a threat.

“I’m so looking forward to the jumping tomorrow, Ryan. I wish you’d compete. I know you’d win that saddle.”

Angele couldn’t hear Ryan’s response because his back was turned. Denise was standing sideways, facing him, her voice easily carrying.

“Remember when we used to ride together? You said I was the best woman rider you’d ever seen.”

She was gazing up at him, making her voice soft and cooing.

Angele wrinkled her nose. She reminded her of a pigeon.

“I’ll never forget that beautiful weeping willow tree by our secret pond…the way the fronds tickled our faces when we were lying on the ground under it. Those were such wonderful times.”

Angele couldn’t hear what Ryan said in response.

Then Denise gave a feathery little laugh and twirled completely around, her skirt billowing. “Ryan, I was such a fool. If I had it to do over again…”

Moving quietly, and as fast as she dared, Angele tiptoed closer, desperate to hear what Ryan might say. But just as he started to speak, another couple came up the steps from the rose garden. They all exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and, finally, Ryan said he needed to get back to his guests.

Pressing tightly against the wall, Ryan didn’t see Angele in the shadows as he passed. She didn’t, however, return to the party after the others left. Instead, she mulled Denise’s words over and over.

If I had it to do over again…

What had he been about to say—that he wished it were possible to turn back time?

She felt tears welling and blinked furiously.

When she had vowed never to cry again, she hadn’t considered the anguish unrequited love could cause.

But dear Lord, she knew it now.

Hearing more voices, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was trapped where she was but didn’t care. If she went back inside and saw Ryan with Denise again, her heart might break so loud everyone would hear it.

If not for Clarice being so against her, probably saying terrible things to Ryan about her, Angele knew she might not feel so insecure where Denise was concerned.

Then, too, she knew she had made some foolish mistakes that caused him to doubt her. And, perhaps even worse, he might decide he had made a mistake himself—by marrying her.

Two men appeared. She remembered having met them in the receiving line. Frank Borden and Larson somebody.

They went to the end of the terrace and lit cheroots.

Lost in her own misery, she wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation till one said, “That’s bad about the runaway last night, Frank. Do you think your boys will find him?”

Larson sounded very angry. “I hope so, and when they do, I’m gonna have him strung up and whipped and make every slave I own watch so they’ll think twice before they try to run.”

“I hope you get him, but I heard Joel Winstock say awhile ago that there’s stronger talk about some kind of underground railroad helping slaves make it north. And I think it makes sense. I mean, think about how few have got caught lately. They just seem to drop out of sight. Even the dogs can’t keep their scent.”

“I’ve heard that talk, too,” Larson said, “and I’m starting to think the same thing. I also believe we’ve been wrong in figuring they head straight for the James River.”

“Well, that’s where the dogs lose the scent,” Frank pointed out.

“True, but I think that’s done on purpose—to make us think that’s the way they went—to cross where the river bends below the Berkeley plantation. Actually, I believe they’re going farther north, skirting up around Hopewell and then crossing inland to the York River and then making their way down to the bay area. From there, somebody is waiting to take them on up to Philadelphia, and, damn it, once they get there, they’re safe.”

“Yes, but don’t forget the law Congress passed over twenty years ago that makes it a crime to help a runaway.”

Larson’s laugh was bitter. “You think those Northerners care about the Fugitive Slave Law? The Negroes up there are organized. They call themselves the Free African Society. I’ve even heard there’s a group called the American Colonization Society that’s started up a place in West Africa where freed slaves are being sent. You think they aren’t going to transport runaways there, too?”

Angele was practically holding her breath so they would not know she was there. Now she believed, beyond all doubt, that the young Negro she’d seen crashing out of the woods at the compound last night was Larson’s runaway. Evidently BelleRose Negroes were the first link in the underground railroad, and she needed to hear as much as possible so she could pass the information along to Selma—
if
she could get her to admit it as true.

“Anyway,” Larson went on, “as soon as my boys either catch the latest runaway or lose his trail completely, we’re going to start keeping an eye on the north roads and woods instead of the river due east. We’re going to put a stop to it, by damn.”

They tossed away their cheroots and went back inside.

Angele waited a few moments, then followed.

Entering the ballroom, she noted first that the music had become livelier. Then she saw that men and women were lined up across from each other, one couple at a time moving toward the center to join hands and then skip to the end of the line.

“It’s called the reel.”

Angele snapped her head about to see Clarice at her side.

Coolly, she said, “Watch carefully, and maybe you can learn the steps. Especially watch Ryan.” she added with a smirk. “He and Denise are considered the best dancers in Richmond.”

Angele watched as long as she could bear it, then wandered away. She wasn’t feeling well and told herself it was nerves. So much had happened, and she was a maelstrom of emotions. She wished the evening would hurry and end and that Ryan would later come to her bed or ask her to his.

And she also yearned desperately to find a way to tell Selma what she had heard the men discussing on the terrace so she could warn the others.

The night wore on. Then Roussel retired upstairs and guests not spending the night began to leave.