Leslie LaFoy (21 page)

She didn't say anything, but cast him another quick look as they moved down the hall in the direction of his mother's and Elsbeth's rooms. He heard their excited chatter long before they reached the door, and was able to pick out a sufficient number of words to realize they were plotting his political rise to the governorship of Virginia. Steeling himself, he dropped back to allow Claire to procede him through the open doorway. She paused, however, to knock and—presumably—politely announce their presence. He could have told her that was a mistake. Elsbeth looked up and instantly seized the initiative.

“Good, you're back,” the woman declared, scooping
up an armload of gowns draped over the back of a chair and advancing toward Claire with them. “We've been waiting for you.” She pushed them at her, saying, “These need to be washed and pressed,” and leaving Claire with a choice between taking them or letting them fall to the floor. “And tell Mary Margaret that we'll be served luncheon here in our rooms,” Elsbeth added as she walked away. “We're entirely too busy to come down today.”

Claire stood there, holding the dresses and considering his mother and her companion for several long moments. Devon watched her, judging by the set of her jaw that a confrontation was brewing. He waited, inexplicably excited by the prospect. Finally, her voice cool and firm, she said, “Luncheon, today and tomorrow, will be cold and served in the dining room as always. If you're hungry and wish to partake, you may help yourself. Meg is going to be far too busy to wait on you hand and foot.

“As for your washing…” She dumped the clothing on the floor and gave the two shocked women a small smile. “It will get done when it gets done. And since there exists a distinct possibility that it won't, you might want to choose something to wear for the Lee brothers that's already clean.”

“I don't like the tone of your voice,” Elsbeth snapped, her arms akimbo and her gaze raking Claire from hair to hem. “And I care even less for your attitude. Clearly you have no understanding of the requirements of hospitality.”

Claire remained unruffled. “I would presume that guests would expect clean sheets, comfortable rooms, and decent food, that they'd appreciate being able to see out of the windowpanes and to take a deep breath without choking to death on the dust raised in their passing from one room to another.”

Elsbeth shrugged. “Those are the concerns of the house staff.”

“In the event that it's escaped your notice,” Claire countered, the tiniest bit of sarcasm gilding her words, “we don't have a house staff.”

His mother looked perplexed and then suddenly brightened. “Have Mary Margaret attend to the cleaning.”

To her everlasting credit, Claire answered kindly, “I'm afraid that far too much has been neglected for far too long for any one person to prepare this house for entertaining. We'll all have to roll up our sleeves and apply ourselves if the Lee brothers are to be properly hosted.”

Elsbeth sputtered, “Surely you don't mean to suggest—”

“She's not suggesting, Aunt Elsbeth,” Devon interrupted, seeing the end of civility looming large. “She's telling you that you and Mother are both going to help get this house ready for guests.”

“Well, I never!”

“Yes, I know,” he replied with a sardonic smile. “But that's going to change. Claire is going to assign you a task, and you're going to do it well and without complaining. Is that clear?”

His mother stood there blinking at him as though she were trying to translate his words from Greek. Her sister stiffened her back and glowered at him.

“You'll either help in getting the work done,” he said tightly, forestalling his aunt, “or your contribution can be to pack your bags and leave. I'm on my way into town to see if Mrs. Vobe will lend us Hannah for the next couple of days. If your decision is to leave, I'll be quite happy to escort you into Williamsburg.”

“Hannah?” his mother gasped, pressing her hand to the base of her throat. “You'd risk poisoning the Lee brothers? Have you lost your mind?”

“Mother,” he began with all the patience he could summon, “Hannah is a good and honorable woman. Thoughts of poisoning us have never once crossed her
mind. If Mrs. Vobe is agreeable, Hannah will return here and serve us just as ably as she always did. And you will eat what she prepares without complaint. Is that understood?”

His mother blinked some more. Elsbeth huffed and looked down her nose at him to snap, “You're making a mistake that could well cost us not only our reputations but our lives.”

“Leave it be, Aunt Elsbeth,” he warned, “or I'll poison you myself. No jury would convict me.”

Elsbeth gasped and took a half step back. His mother looked stricken and pale. A tension swelled in the room and he wasn't the least inclined to do anything to dissipate it. Claire apparently felt otherwise.

“The issue of who's going to prepare the food aside, Mother Rivard,” she said gently, breaking the taut silence, “there are other tasks that must be done. If Hannah can be brought back to take care of the kitchen, I'll assign Meg the task of preparing the guest rooms. She has experience at this. Which leaves the main floor. Ephram can take down the draperies and haul the rugs out for beating. I'll take care of the washing, general dusting, and waxing the floors. That leaves the windows to be cleaned and the brass and silver to be polished. Which would you prefer to do?”

Devon had to admire the way she phrased it all, how she seemed to give his mother and Elsbeth a choice but, in actuality, didn't.

His mother, having been given no room to escape the situation, hesitantly replied, “I suppose that I could wipe a bit of glass. Elsbeth can polish the brass and copper.”

It was Elsbeth's turn to blink. She slowly turned her head to stare at his mother in stunned disbelief.

“Thank you, Mother Rivard,” Claire went on, smiling and ignoring Elsbeth's reaction. “I'll see you both downstairs shortly. I'll see that you have aprons to protect
your gowns.” With that, she dropped them a brief curtsy, turned and walked past him.

He shot his mother and Aunt Elsbeth a quick glance meant to assure them that if they didn't come down, he'd see that they regretted it, and then left them. Joining Claire as she marched down the hall, he felt compelled to observe, “They're not going to be of much help, you know.”

“I suspect you're right. But thank you for wading in on my behalf. And for foreseeing the necessity of it.”

Devon shrugged as they made their way down to the main level of the house. “I know how beleaguered they can make a person feel. Other than Hannah, is there anything you'd like for me to bring back from Williamsburg?”

A letter from her uncle, a letter saying that Wyndom's debt had been forgiven and that he'd gladly sign over the title to Crossbridge Manor. But it was an unreasonable request and she knew it. George Seaton-Smythe hadn't yet received their papers. It would be at least a month before he did and another month after that before she could realistically hope to hear anything in reply. Until then, she was trapped here, trapped in a world where newly discovered passions were at constant war with her common sense and pride.

“No,” she replied. “I can't think of anything. But it was kind of you to offer.”

He gestured toward the hallway leading off the other side of the foyer and into the eastern wing of the house, saying, “My study is this way.”

She went, dropping back to allow Devon to precede her. It was, after all, his domain and one in which she had never been. He stopped in front of an open doorway and, while saying, “Ephram, I hope you're bored senseless with accounting and correspondence,” blindly reached back to draw her to his side.

“I've been anticipating a call to other duties,”
Ephram replied, smiling and rising from his seat while he nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. He came around the large mahogany desk and toward them, adding, “I've taken care of the most important matters. What remains to be done here can wait.”

“I seem to have acquired a wife with the ability to seize command,” Devon explained. “I'm being dispatched to Williamsburg to see if I can retrieve your mother for a few days. While I'm gone, I'd appreciate it if you'd see to the more arduous tasks Claire needs done.” Ephram had barely nodded his assent when Devon added with a sly smile, “I'll make it up to you. We'll go fishing tomorrow morning. You know your mother will want fish.”

“An acceptable bargain, sir,” the slave replied, his smile an uncanny mirror of his owner's. He turned to face her and added, “I'm at your disposal, Lady Claire. What task would you have me attend first?”

She started. His eyes were the same deep emerald green as Devon's. Claire gathered her distracted wits and summoned a smile. “Thank you, Ephram. All the rugs need to be taken out and beaten. Choose any room in which you'd like to start.”

He bowed and as Devon moved aside, stepped past her. The two men fell in together and walked down the hall, conversing amiably. She followed slowly after them, watching them in stunned silence, noting the striking similarities in their heights and builds, in the way they moved and carried themselves. From the back, Ephram more resembled Devon than Wyndom did. Claire's steps faltered as other startling realizations swept over her. Henrietta was Devon's mother, Hannah Ephram's. But their father was undoubtedly the same man. Which meant that Ephram was not only a slave, he was also Devon's half brother.

What a very strange world this was. And to think that she'd always considered her relationship with the
Seaton-Smythes to be horribly sticky and convoluted. The difficulties in those relationships paled in comparison to the complicated and tangled web that bound together the lives of those at Rosewind. She could see why Henrietta so rarely focused her attention on the realities of her life. To know that your husband was fathering children with other women, with his female slaves …

Yes, she could understand how painful it must have been for Henrietta to see what was going on around her, to acknowledge the betrayal of fidelity and trust. So she'd turned away from it and studiously refused to see anything beyond the smooth facade of gentility and perfection. It was the only way she could avoid being consumed by indignity and despair.

Claire paused in the foyer to look upstairs. She felt deeply sorry for Devon's mother. She was just as deeply grateful that she wasn't going to have to confront the same choices in her own life. Henrietta had had no way to escape; she did.

LAIRE STOPPED JUST INSIDE
and looked around the rather poorly appointed guest room. It was stifling, but they didn't dare open the windows to let in the cool breeze. Not until they'd wiped the dust from the few wooden surfaces there were, hauled out the bedding and the curtains, and shoveled the heap of ash from the hearth. Meg wordlessly left her side, put the basket of cleaning supplies on the bureau, moved to the bed, and then competently set about stripping it.

There was a single wooden chair in the room, and Claire picked it up and carried it to one of the windows. Considering the bracket on which the curtain pole was suspended, she absently lifted her skirts and stepped up onto the seat. Attempting to stand upright and reach, she pitched forward, realizing too late that she'd caught her hem between her foot and the chair seat. Desperately catching the windowsill, she managed to prevent a wholly ungraceful fall to the floor, but not before the front edge of the maple chair had scraped along
the entire length of her shin. Pain shimmered through her, bringing tears to her eyes.