Leslie LaFoy (12 page)

“I am assuming,” Elsbeth said, intruding on his thoughts, “that since your uncle had two thousand pounds to loan Wyndom, you must be accustomed to living in great style, Mistress Curran. Our simple fare must be a considerable disappointment to you.”

“Not at all,” he heard Claire reply from his side. As he blinked and struggled to bring his awareness back to the reality of the dining room, she added, “Food is food and I'm always grateful to have some put in front of me, Mistress…”

“Whittington,” Elsbeth regally supplied.

The tone of her voice sparked Devon's anger and freed him from the tangle of his thoughts. “Everyone addresses her as Elsbeth,” he said, gesturing for Claire to precede him to the table. “You may do the same.”

“With all due respect, Devon,” his aunt shot back, “the choice of how I wish to be addressed by Mistress Curran is mine to make.”

He carefully placed the plate before a chair, then stepped behind it to help seat Claire. She shot him a quick look as she smoothed her skirts and settled herself. She was clearly aware of his tension and just as clearly apprehensive about her role in causing it; he
could see the regret dulling the light of her eyes. Damn Elsbeth. Her one true talent was a gift for creating difficulties.

He was easing Claire close to the table when he had sufficient control of his anger to calmly reply, “With all due respect, Aunt Elsbeth, I am the master of this household. Claire is my wife. You are my mother's sister.” He stepped back to the buffet to pick up a plate for himself as he continued, “You are not Claire's social equal and she will not be expected to address you as such. You, on the other hand, will address her as Madam Rivard until she gives you leave to do otherwise.”

“Which brings up a rather pressing concern I've been considering since this afternoon,” Wyndom interjected in the breezy way he always used when trying to ease a taut exchange. “Might I inquire as to how we're going to manage conversations having two Madam Rivards under one roof? It could easily become a very sticky web, you know. Having two Mr. Rivards is already complicated enough.”

He watched his brother cross to the table and set his plate down in the place beside Claire. “And we certainly wouldn't want to tax your brain any more than necessary,” Devon muttered darkly.

“If I might make a suggestion?” Claire asked, turning in her chair to meet his gaze. She offered him a smile to go with the plea shimmering in her eyes. “As Wyndom has pointed out, there's already a Madam Rivard in residence. And since I'm to be here for only a short while, perhaps everyone could address me—and refer to me—simply as Claire.”

“Perhaps we could call you Lady Claire,” Wyndom offered, his face alight as he plopped unceremoniously onto the chair. “I like that. It has a certain elegance to it, don't you think?”

Claire turned to face the younger man, and while Devon couldn't see her face from his vantage point, he
could hear an apologetic smile framing her words as she answered, “Unfortunately, the title isn't appropriate.”

“Clearly,” Elsbeth muttered under her breath as she helped herself to the green beans. Devon glared at her and considered planting a boot on her hem so that with her next step she ended up on the floor with her face in her food. God, she brought out the worst in him. She always had.

“I was known as Lady Claire as a child, but baronial titles aren't hereditary and it was forfeited at my father's passing.”

“Your father was a baron?” his mother asked, crossing to the table with her food. She set her plate down and then stood there, looking pointedly at Wyndom, her brow arched.

Devon scooped up a mass of congealing potatoes and blindly plopped them on his plate as he watched Claire subtly nudge his brother in the ribs while saying, “Yes, madam. The title was granted for meritorious service in His Majesty's Army.”

Wyndom vaulted to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair and then careening into the corner of the table in his haste to belatedly exercise good manners. Their mother pretended not to notice his bumbling and turned her full attention to Claire. “He was a hero, then,” she said as she sat on the chair Wyndom had pulled out for her. “How exciting. Can you tell us something of his daring feats?”

“I know little of my father's exploits beyond the fact that, in pushing a fellow officer out of harm's way during battle, he suffered the injuries that left him without his right arm and leg and unable to speak.”

Oh, Jesus. He'd rather be dead than maimed so badly. Life wouldn't be worth living if it had to be endured with only half a body. Claire's father had been a far stronger man, far braver man than he would ever be.

“So he was a cripple,” Elsbeth summarized, pausing
behind her own chair and waiting for Wyndom to seat her.

Devon flung a chunk of meat on his plate, trying to tamp down his anger just long enough to find some words that would express his outrage and yet be somewhere within the bounds of bare civility. Claire spared him the effort.

“Physically,” she replied, a hardened edge of steel in her voice, “my father was unable to move about as freely as he wished. Mentally, he remained an indomitable force until he drew his last breath.”

Apparently, in the latter respect, Mr. Curran's acorn hadn't fallen far from the tree. And despite his limitations, he'd managed to raise up a daughter who wasn't going to be cowed by Elsbeth's irascibility. Huzzah for Mr. Curran.

“How on earth did your mother manage to endure such trying circumstances?” Devon's mother asked, notes of sincere sympathy ringing in every word.

“My mother—along with both my younger brothers—passed in an influenza epidemic shortly after my father was injured and retired from military service.”

As if being half a man wasn't bad enough, Claire's father had suffered through the loss of his wife and sons, too. How and why had he bothered to go on living? Even as Devon wondered, he realized the answer. He'd gone on because he'd had to, because Claire was the only one left and she had needed a father.

“Then who cared for your father over the years?” Wyndom asked, stepping behind Elsbeth's chair.

“I did.”

“In a manner of speaking, of course,” Elsbeth corrected, allowing Wyndom to settle her at the table. She reached for her linen napkin, adding, “What you meant to say was that, as a lady, you oversaw the servants who actually did the work required.”

“Actually, Elsbeth,” Claire replied with an even
harder edge to her voice this time, “we had no servants. My father had no inheritance and his military pension went to keeping the fields planted, the food on our table, and the roof over our heads. There was nothing left over with which to pay wages.”

“You worked with your hands?” Elsbeth asked, obviously appalled by the possibility.

“It was either do so or starve. Pride and pretension make for a very lean meal.”

A fact that Elsbeth would never understand, Devon realized. Neither would his mother or his brother for that matter. All three of them would sit at a table and die waiting for food to be brought to them. Not once would it even occur to them to get up and go about finding and preparing some for themselves. Claire, on the other hand…

Settling himself at the table, Devon looked at the mass of unappealing food on his plate and suddenly saw a possibility that had all the glorious promise of a new dawn. “Can you, by any chance, cook?”

“Of course I can.”

“And she can undoubtedly scrub the pots when she's done serving, too.”

Elsbeth's cutting remark ignited a spark in Claire's eyes. Devon held up his hand quickly. She hesitated for a long moment, then nodded in graceful acceptance and eased back into her chair. Satisfied, he fixed his aunt with a hard look and declared, “There's nothing sinful in an honest day's labor or in rolling up your sleeves to contribute to the smooth functioning of a household. Neither of which, I might add, you have
ever
made so much as an
attempt
to do.”

Elsbeth drew herself up with an affronted huff. “I am a gentlewoman.”

“You're a parasite,” he countered. “You take without giving and invariably complain about what you get. I've tolerated your presence in this house only because
my mother seems to find some pleasure in your company and we're bound by the ties of familial blood. But understand me very clearly, Aunt Elsbeth. For as long as Claire resides under this roof, you will treat her with the deference and respect befitting her social station as my wife. If you're unwilling to do that, you may pack your bags and Wyndom will see you safely to Williamsburg.”

Elsbeth's jaw sagged. But only for a fraction of a heartbeat. With an almost audible snap, she closed it and snatched up her knife and fork in a way that suggested she was thinking of leaping across the table and plunging them into his chest.

“I do think,” his mother said softly, “that you've taken Elsbeth's comment entirely the wrong way, Devon. I believe she meant her remark to reflect her awed appreciation for the breadth of Lady Claire's domestic skills.”

“Yes, yes,” Wyndom chimed in. “I'm sure she meant no offense.”

Not giving him time to offer proof otherwise, his mother chimed in breezily, “Going back to Devon's inquiry, Lady Claire…” She lifted a forkful of potatoes and sighed. “As you can tell, we're in desperate need of someone who can cook something that approximates palatable.”

“Lord knows that Mary Margaret tries,” Wyndom contributed, adding his own heartfelt sigh. “I was assured, when I bought her papers, that she was an exceptional cook.”

“Exceptionally bad,” Devon clarified softly and with a wince. He met Claire's gaze and added, “Mary Margaret came to us just over a month ago.”

“Well, better poor fare than poisoned fare,” Elsbeth piped up. “Before her arrival, we were living under a constant shadow of death.”

Claire furrowed her brows, glanced down at her food, and then back at him, clearly puzzled. He saw no
recourse except to lay bare the utter stupidity that had gotten them where they were.

“Aunt Elsbeth and Mother heard reports—unsubstantiated, I might add—of a family poisoned by their slave cook,” he supplied. “They took it into their heads that Hannah was spending every hour of her waking day plotting our slow and painful demise. And despite her thirty years of faithful and exemplary service to this family, the hysteria reached absurd proportions. Rather than subject Hannah to it, I sold her to Jane Vobe, the owner of the King's Arms.”

Claire flinched visibly at the word sold. Devon watched her blink and swallow, watched her struggle for words. Did she understand how complicated the web of relationships was? The pain in having them torn apart? Or was she one of those who didn't understand anything at all and opposed the institution based on simplistic principles?

“It must have been difficult for her to be uprooted in that fashion.”

Difficult? Oh, yes. It had been difficult. But he wasn't about to admit to anyone that he and Hannah had both cried at their parting, that as he'd ridden away he'd wished with all of his heart that it could have been Aunt Elsbeth who had been sold away. Hannah had been the best part of his childhood, the time spent in the kitchen with her the best part of his every day since he could remember.

“Actually, it was handled in accordance with her request,” he answered, attacking the slab of meat on his plate. “In the last few years, Hannah's been keeping Sunday company with Moses, one of Mrs. Vobe's slaves. Mrs. Vobe considered the acquisition of Hannah to be nothing short of a major coup. Everyone was happy: Mother and Aunt Elsbeth, Moses and Hannah, not to mention Mrs. Vobe and her well-fed patrons.”

No one but Hannah cared how I felt, he silently
added. Abandoning all hope of cutting the meat, Devon laid down his silverware. Reaching for his wineglass, he affected a brightness he didn't feel and concluded, “The next day Wyndom was dispatched to James City to acquire an indentured servant to take Hannah's place in the kitchen. He came back with Mary Margaret Malone.”

“No one has ever heard of an indentured servant poisoning the family food, have they?” Elsbeth inquired, sounding as though the explanation had somehow vindicated her.

“Poisoning is only a matter of degree,” he replied dryly. “Slow, god-awful degrees.”

“She's a pleasant young woman,” Wyndom offered. “And comely, too. She has the most beautiful red hair. It's almost a copper color.”

Devon took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair, resigned to drowning the gnawing in his belly. “If only those factors contributed something to the edibility of the food she prepares.”

“Perhaps,” Claire said quietly, also laying aside her silverware in apparent defeat, “it's that she's never been taught how to properly cook.” She glanced between his mother and Elsbeth and then hesitantly added, “I'd be happy to do what I can to instruct her.”

Lifting his glass in salute, Devon replied with absolute sincerity, “I would be deeply, deeply appreciative of whatever improvement you might achieve.”

A smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and a mischievous light suddenly brightened her eyes. He sensed that she saw an opportunity in his need, a chance to parlay his satisfaction to her advantage. What precisely was she thinking? He suspected it had to do with breeches and boots and—for some unfathomable reason—the idea of negotiating for them amused him.

“If you prove successful at the task,” Elsbeth said, “perhaps Wyndom can find someone at auction in

James City whom you could train to be a server. Presenting food à la buffet lacks a certain degree of gentility and grace, don't you think,
Lady Claire?
”

The light went out of Claire's eyes as she looked across the table to meet the other woman's gaze.

Ah, my lady Claire
, he thought,
if looks could kill I'd be forever in your debt
. Smiling, he studied the color of his wine and drawled, “There isn't any money to buy additional servants, whether they be slave or indentured. Which leaves you with two choices, Aunt Elsbeth. You'll either have to accept and endure the horrific conditions of life here or find someone willing to keep you in a manner more in keeping with your sense of importance.”