When the Splendor Falls (78 page)

“You do not smile,
ma petite
. So, what is wrong? I can tell there is something. But it is too soon for there to be trouble between you and Neil, and how can that be when there is so much love between you?” Solange said, going to stand before the canvas, her hands placed on her slender hips as she stared at it.

“I was wondering,” Leigh began slowly, “if you could draw a sketch of a face if I described it to you.”

Solange glanced over her shoulder curiously. “What is this? I do not understand. This is a face that belongs to whom?”

“I’m not certain who he is,” Leigh said with a thoughtful expression.

“He? You dream of this man? It is good Neil returns to Royal Rivers, then.”

Leigh shook her head. “No, no, it is not that at all!” she said quickly, the savage’s face was still too real to her. Unconsciously, she put her hand to her breast, remembering the sound of her blouse being ripped apart and the rough touch of the man’s hand against her breast. “No, it is a face I have seen, but I hope never to see it again.”

Solange stared at Leigh as if she had become crazed. “You wish that I draw a face that you never want to see again?”

“Yes,” Leigh answered, not meeting Solange’s direct look.

Solange shrugged. “As you wish,
ma petite
. So, we shall see. You tell me about this face,” she said, bending down to grab a wooden board with a large piece of thick vellum paper pinned to it. From the pocket of her duster, she produced a short stub of charcoal, the burnt sienna shade beginning to appear on the sheet of paper as Leigh began to describe the Comanche brave.

More than once Solange glanced up, her eyes wide as she listened, for lost in remembering, Leigh wasn’t aware of how much she was revealing about the incident until she heard Solange suck in her breath.

“
So
, that is what happened. That is why you and Gil almost did not return to Royal Rivers.
Mon Dieu
,” she whispered, thinking of the tragedy that had almost befallen them. Then she thought of her sister, and sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, for Camilla had already lost one of her beloved sons.

Solange glanced down at the face she had created with her charcoal on the page. “So beautiful,” she murmured, “but so arrogant, and so savage,” she added, looking up at Leigh, the pale sunlight bathing her in such a pure light she could have graced any Renaissance painting, and Solange realized how close they had come to losing her to that heathen devil.

“Will you paint the eyes blue?” Leigh suddenly asked. “And the same blue as the sky, Solange.”

“Blue?
Mon Dieu!
Blue? A savage does not have blue eyes,” she argued, but it also went against her artistic conscience to ruin her lovely earth-toned sketch by painting the eyes blue.

“This one did,” Leigh said in such a strange tone that Solange frowned, but she found several shades of blue, holding each up for Leigh’s opinion, but only after the fourth did she nod her acceptance, and Solange delicately shaded in the eyes—and even she had to admit the effect was quite startling.

“
Voila!
” she exclaimed, holding the sketch up to the light.

Leigh couldn’t control her shudder of both repulsion and fascination as she stared at the bronzed face of the Comanche brave with the sky blue eyes.

“Thank you, Solange. And, Solange?”

“Hmmm, yes,” she said, already busy mixing paints as she stared at the canvas on the easel with a critical eye.

“Please say nothing of this. I promised Gil, and now that Neil is home, I—”

“Do not worry. You and Gil returned safely, so—” she said with a Gallic shrug. “What is there to say, and certainly not for me to decide. It will be up to you if you wish to speak of this with Neil.”

“Perhaps someday, Solange,” Leigh said, knowing she could never speak of her suspicions to anyone.

Leigh glanced back at Solange, but she was already dabbing paint on the canvas, a paintbrush sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she stared at her work, and Leigh knew she needn’t fear an indiscreet remark from Solange.

On her way back to the house, Leigh stopped when she heard a familiar bleating cry. Following the sound, she was led to one of the corrals, but by the time she reached it, the frightened crying had ceased. Peering over the railing, Leigh was amazed to see her orphaned lamb. It looked twice as big, but that was because it had been wrapped in the skin of another newborn that hadn’t survived, the scent of the dead lamb clinging to its skin and fooling the ewe into believing that this one was hers, allowing it to nurse—and it was suckling contentedly, drawing all of the nourishment it needed to survive.

Leigh rested her arms on the top rail, frowning slightly as she watched the pair. She found herself thinking of a motherless eight-year-old boy and what he’d had to do to survive—and how, eventually, he’d come to accept the people who had kidnapped him as his family. And what of that boy’s sister? What had she done to survive? And, had she, like the young boy, come to accept the people as her family?

Leigh closed her eyes tight, but the image on the rolled-up sheet of vellum could not be erased from her mind. Turning away from the corral, her lamb now safe, Leigh hurried back to the house, hoping she wouldn’t see anyone. She had something she had to do: she had to prove to herself it couldn’t be true.

Leigh let out her breath when she found the great hall empty, and running quickly across the room, she entered the corridor, pausing by the first door she came to. Knocking lightly, she waited, hoping no one would respond. When only silence answered her summons, she glanced around, assuring herself no one lingered nearby, then let herself into Nathaniel’s study.

The room was as quiet as before.

Leigh walked over to the fireplace, where the gold-framed portrait of Fionnuala Darcy Braedon and her young daughter, Shannon Malveen, hung above the mantel. Slowly, Leigh unrolled the sketch Solange had drawn of the Comanche brave.

Holding it up to the portrait, Leigh stared at the three faces, comparing them, her breath becoming ragged as she saw the stunning resemblance.

How can it be? she wondered, glancing between the brilliant sky blue eyes in Solange’s sketch of the Comanche brave and the identical blue eyes of mother and daughter in the portrait, the chins, all indented so perfectly.

It couldn’t be true, she thought. Shannon died when she was only fourteen. Neil told his father Shannon had died. As Leigh stood there staring up at the portrait, she heard again the conversation of the night before, remembering the shock and bitterness of a woman who’d thought her husband had died, leaving her and her children to grieve, to live an empty life without him—but he had not died. He had chosen another life instead. And they had never been able to forgive him for that betrayal of their love.

“My God,” Leigh murmured, then her heart missed a beat when she heard a step behind her, then an apologetic cough.

Spinning around, Leigh found herself staring at a stranger. The man, who was in his mid- to late thirties, was of medium height, and rather slight of build, although there was a wiriness about him, a tightly coiled quality that was evident in the light-footed way he moved, and Leigh remembered Guy saying little men were sometimes the toughest to beat when in a fight—and harder to catch and quicker to fight dirty, he’d laughed.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” the man said, removing his hat, a weathered gray slouch hat, his hair thick and a sandy brown shade. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I was told I’d find the master up at the big house. A little Mexican girl let me in. I was waiting in the hall, when a couple of white-haired ladies told me to come back here. They seemed rather offended that I was waiting in the hall while they were trying to sew. I’m looking for work,” the man explained.

Leigh stared at the man in surprise. “You’re Southern?”

The man’s mouth thinned slightly. “Does that matter, ma’am? The war is over,” he told her. “Or are only Yankees being hired?”

Leigh flushed slightly, her fingers fumbling as she rerolled the sketch. “You’ll have to speak with Nathaniel Braedon about that. He owns Royal Rivers. But I don’t think you need concern yourself about your former allegiance to the Confederacy. Nathaniel Braedon lost one of his sons, and a couple of nephews in the war, and they all wore gray.”

“My pardon, ma’am,” the man said contritely.

“I believe you will find Nathaniel Braedon in the north pasture. It’s spring, and shearing time. Although we’re expecting a number of shearers up from Mexico this year, you may be able to find work, ah, Mr.—?”

“Sebastian. Michael Sebastian,” the man introduced himself.

“Yes, I believe Nathaniel might be able to find you work. You’ve missed the lambing by a couple of days, but after the shearing, we still have the dipping to take care of, then the docking, that is, cutting off lambs’ tails, and then the wethering. And you’ll forgive me for not explaining in more detail about that. Do you think you might be interested, Mr. Sebastian?” Leigh asked doubtfully, for she had taken a strange dislike to Michael Sebastian.

A slight smile flickered across Michael Sebastian’s hard face as he felt her antagonism. “I think I might be able to handle that. I look at everything as having a purpose in life. Castrating lambs, distasteful as it may be to all concerned, improves the herd for better breeding and tastier mutton,” he said, his brown eyes humorless. “Often, we have to take harsh measures to reach a sought-after goal.”

Leigh stared at Michael Sebastian uneasily, sensing this would be a man who would be relentless in achieving a goal he had set for himself. “If you will come with me, I’ll show you to the pasture.”

“Thank you, Miss—ah?”

“Mrs. Braedon. Mrs. Neil Braedon,” she said, glancing down at the roll of paper and not seeing the start of surprise that crossed his face as he heard her name. “Follow me, please,” she requested in a cool voice.

They were walking along the corridor when Guy stepped into the hall from the gardens. Leigh glanced over at Michael Sebastian, for she could have sworn he cursed beneath his breath. Unfriendly man, she thought, moving slightly away from him.

“You’re up early, Guy,” Leigh said, thinking he looked pale.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d find Lys Helene. Have you seen her? She’s not in the garden.”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen her. Oh, Guy, this is Michael Sebastian, Mr. Sebastian, my brother, Guy Travers,” Leigh made the introductions, startled to see a strange expression, almost one of anger, crossing Michael Sebastian’s thin face as he stepped forward, ready to shake hands with Guy.

Guy turned at the sound of a heel scraping the floor, seeing a hazy shape moving toward him. “Mr. Sebastian, an honor, sir,” he said courteously, holding out his hand.

Michael Sebastian looked shocked, for until that moment, he hadn’t realized Guy Travers was blind. He reached out quickly and grasped Guy’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Mr. Travers, a pleasure, sir,” he murmured.

“Indeed it is, sir, for unless I’m mistaken, you’re a Virginian,” Guy commented, smiling. “My family and I are from Virginia. Travers Hill, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Leigh was still watching Michael Sebastian and she would have sworn he suddenly seemed incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken, I’m not a Virginian. I’m from North Carolina, although I am familiar, sir, with the name of Travers. Some of the finest Thoroughbreds came from your stables.”

“Thank you, sir, that is certainly very kind of you.”

“If you will excuse us, Guy, I’m taking Mr. Sebastian to the north pasture.”

“Well, good luck. Hope you find what you’re looking for,” Guy said, holding out his hand again.

“Thank you, Mr. Travers, I hope so too,” Michael Sebastian said, taking Guy’s hand.

Guy stood for a moment listening to their footsteps fading along the corridor, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “Damn!” he muttered, straining to focus his eyes and put a face, perhaps a familiar face, to that voice—because he would have sworn the man was a Virginian. And he couldn’t help but wonder why the man had lied about it.

Twenty-three

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,

To the low last edge of the long lone land.

If a step should sound or a word be spoken,

Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand?

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Michael Sebastian pulled a pipe from his pocket as they walked along the corridor, politely holding the door open for Leigh to precede him, then following her as they entered the kitchens.

“This is the quickest way through to the grounds,” Leigh explained almost apologetically, for despite the unflattering opinion she had of him, she didn’t want the man to feel he was being shown out of the house through the back door.

A shadow of a smile touched Leigh’s lips, for she never stepped into the kitchens without thinking of Travers Hill. It wasn’t that the two kitchens were remarkably similar in appearance—for they were not—but the heart of a house was the kitchen, and this one beat with the same joyous intensity as had the kitchens at Travers Hill. The air was warm and redolent with steam rising from a dozen pots bubbling importantly over the coals in the big hearth. Lupe was busy scolding, her long black braid swinging as she scurried back and forth with unsolicited opinions concerning how thick to roll a
tortilla
, this chicken was too scrawny for the
patrón
’s table, there wasn’t enough parsley in the tomato sauce, and someone hadn’t ground the
canela
fine enough. The sound of knife blades chopping, dicing, and mincing, wooden spoons beating against the sides of bowls, the sizzling of deep-frying fats, and good-natured gossip was a constant, companionable hum in the room.

Beneath a long table of planked pine pushed against one of the walls,
chayote
, and various other squashes and pumpkins were piled high, along with sacks of rice and flour. On top of the table were neatly grouped
tomatillos
, avocados, pineapples, melons, mangos, lemons and limes, colorful fruits from the
rancho
orchards, freshly picked cilantro, mint, and oregano, and peppers and chiles in so many shades that Leigh began to lose count, from large dark green chiles, to small light green jalapeño peppers, to fiery tiny red chiles to brick-red ones with wrinkled skins. Big jars of dried beans, nuts and seeds, pieces of candied pumpkin and sweet potato, and
pozole
, hominy, were grouped together at one end. A couple of woven trays layered with straw and packed with rows of fresh eggs, and a variety of cheeses, a
queso fresco
made on the
rancho
, several dark yellow cheddars, and a white cheese from Chihuahua were crowded together at the other end. Hanging from the overhead beams were strings of onions and garlic, culinary herbs and flowery
manzanilla
, drying for a fine blend of tea, and a brace of turkeys waiting for the stew pot, where the meat would be poached until tender.