Now and Forever (75 page)

"Yes'm."

"Maybe you should go look for your father. We don't want Abigail to get sick, do we?"

"No'm."

"So why don't you go get him?" she asked sweetly.

"Can't. The mister said he would do it."

"Mr. Devane will understand. I'll explain it to him."

"Papa will be real mad if you do that, William," Abigail piped up.

Score another one for the kid. William maintained his tight grip on the reins while Dakota struggled to keep a tight grip on her sanity. More than anything, she wanted to kick William, then the horse, and gallop off into the storm.

But even Dakota knew better than that. You didn't run away from hot food, warm clothing, and shelter on a cold winter's night. She must have been crazy to even think about it.

#

Patrick flung open the front door then strode into the main hallway. "Mrs. O'Gorman! Damnation, where are you, woman?"

Cook bustled into the room, face flushed as always from the hearth fire. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you let Mrs. O'Gorman go this afternoon. Right after the wee one disappeared."

He'd put it from his mind in the uproar surrounding the child. "And Rosie?"

"She'd be gone too. Said she wouldn't be working with a child what bites. I been expectin' my niece Molly to lend a hand, but what with the storm blowin' in, I don't think—""

"Then it falls to you." He had no time for domestic intrigues.

Cook eyed him with some suspicion. "Begging your pardon, but a lot be falling to me of late. I'm not as young as I used to be and getting older every day."

"As are we all. A guest will be staying with us overnight. You'll see to it that the rear bedroom is ready."

"The rear bedroom? Nobody's been in that bedroom since--" She looked away.

They both knew what she had been about to say.
Since the missus ran off with the soldier.
Susannah's paramour had stayed in that room.

"She is outside," he said, striding toward the library with the housekeeper hard on his heels. "Her ankle is sprained. Send Joseph to assist her."

Cook was a good, hardworking woman. As a rule she did as told with little by way of complaint or question. This time she stood her ground. "And who will fetch wood for the bedroom fire? A body can do just so much, sir."

"William is a strong young man."

"Yes, sir." Her round features clearly expressed her displeasure.

The rum on the sideboard beckoned to him. "Is there anything else, Cook?" He doubted there was enough rum in the Colony of New Jersey to slake his thirst.

"Your visitor," she said, aquiver with curiosity. "Would this be the next Mrs. Devane?"

His pithy response sent the poor woman scurrying for the safety of her kitchen.

There would never be another Mrs. Devane, of that he was certain. He poured himself some rum then filled his belly with the potent liquid. One attempt at matrimony had forever rid him of the desire to take a woman to wife. There was more honor among thieves than had existed between himself and Susannah. And, he was sure, a great deal more respect.

At least there was no danger of matrimony with Mistress Wylie. No, he thought as he poured himself another rum, he could not imagine a more unlikely prospect. Her manner of dress was most peculiar: she wore leggings like a man, a printed undergarment over her breasts, and shoes the likes of which he had never imagined. They were constructed of heavy white cloth with soles thick as a feather pillow. He wondered if her feet were outsized or in some way malformed for certainly no woman would choose to wear such enormous footwear.

And then there was the matter of her hair. Cut short and close to her head, the dark curls were uncommonly shiny and lustrous and, in their own way, quite suitable to her face. He found that last fact most disconcerting. A luxurious mane of hair was a woman's most visible asset, yet Mistress Wylie did not seem to require such bounty. Susannah had prided herself on her spill of golden waves. He remembered the way she'd sit before the glass each night, drawing her brush through the silky mass over and over again until she'd accomplished one hundred strokes. In their bed, he had--

He swallowed the last of the rum, eager to burn the image from his brain.

Yes, there was no denying the powerful beauty of a woman's hair. No woman would willingly sacrifice so wondrous an asset unless she had good reason. He'd heard tales of wives who, driven by the need to be with their husbands, had disguised themselves as men in order to fight the enemy at their beloved's side.

He paced the library, his boots leaving wet stains on the dark rose-and-green rug. Such a thing would explain her mannish attire, as well as her combative demeanor. It took a most unusual woman to garb herself as a man and take up arms against the enemy, all in the name of love.

Of course there also was the possibility that she had been afflicted with head lice and had to shear off her tresses in the name of cleanliness.

"Damnation," he muttered, wishing he had more rum. Her attire and haircomb were of no consequence. There was something most peculiar about the woman, something that went beyond the way she looked. Spies abounded in the Colony of New Jersey and he had best look sharp unless he found himself dangling from the hangman's noose in the town square.

#

"Can't we go in the front door?" Dakota asked as a man named Joseph led her around the side of the mansion. The throbbing pain in her ankle had subsided, replaced by a dull ache.

 
"Begging your pardon, mistress, but those wouldn't be the clothes most of our guests be wearing when they come calling."

"So where are you taking me?"

"Servants' entrance, right near to the kitchen."

A round-faced woman with a sweet smile and a mobcap on her head waited in the open door. "Have a care, Joseph," she chided the man. "The poor thing looks half-frozen."

Dakota leaned on Joseph as he helped her up the three stone steps and into the kitchen.

"Now out with you, Joseph," said the woman called Cook. "Fetch some wood for the bedroom while I see to our visitor." She turned her attentions to Dakota. "Don't you worry. I promise you'll be all warm and toasty in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Dakota had been dying to see the front parlor of the house but comfort beat out curiosity and she followed the woman up three stone steps and into the house.

"It's so warm in here!" Dakota exclaimed as soon as the door closed behind Joseph.

"That it is," said Cook, hanging her cloak on the wooden peg by the door. "We tend the fires day and night."

Dakota stood before the hearth and rubbed her hands together. The blast of warmth from the fire was almost painful against her skin. The kitchen was all stone and heavy wood saved from depressing darkness by the blaze of fire and candles everywhere. The ceiling was constructed of exposed dark pine beams with bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung at random intervals. The air was fragrant with wood smoke, roasting meat and the pungent smells of rosemary and thyme.

"Hot cider if you'd be of a mind," Cook said.

Dakota offered the woman a shivery smile. "I'd be of a mind, thank you."

"And some clothes, missy. Makes a body cold just to be lookin' at you."

Dakota waited, fully expecting a question or two about her strange attire but there was none. Cook plucked a ladle from the rack hanging above the massive stone hearth. Bending forward, the older woman dipped the ladle into a metal pot that rested on the ledge then poured the contents into a pewter tankard.

"Drink up and warm your bones."

"My bones could use it, I assure you." Dakota accepted the tankard gratefully. "I can't remember the last time I had hot cider."

Cook's eyebrows disappeared up into her mobcap. "Like mother's milk to me."
And to everyone else in the world,
her look all but screamed.

Details
, Dakota reminded herself. Wasn't it always the tiny details that tripped a person up? She cast around for a safer subject. "It's so quiet in here. How many people work for De--Mr. Devane?"

"Not half enough," said Cook, "not that he'd be asking me my opinion."

"This is an enormous house. I would think you'd have considerable staff."

"Getting and keeping are two different things, missy."

Dakota nodded. "He must be a difficult man to work for." She'd known him less than an hour and she would've bet the farm on that fact.

"Oh, he is that," Cook agreed, "but it's the wee one what's driving them away."

"Abigail?"

"Four housekeepers in as many months. Mrs. O'Gorman packed her bags and left this very day with Rosie right behind her."

"All because of
Abigail
?"

The woman nodded. "Now me, I have a soft spot for the poor little thing, but not all have my way with the children." Cook lowered her voice and leaned toward Dakota. "Needs a mother's touch, that's what I say."

A mother's touch.
A wave of sadness broke over Dakota, surprising her with its force.
Oh, Ma,
she thought.
You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?
Her mother's ESP had zeroed in on her daughter's future, the same way it had zeroed in on her weight problem and lack of male companionship. Dakota and her mother had spent the better part of Dakota's life getting on each other's nerves, and lately it had escalated into a particularly annoying battle of wills.

For the past few weeks, Ginny had taken to popping up unannounced at the library, making bizarre pronouncements about Dakota's future. She'd all but told her daughter to pack her bags and say goodbye. Dakota had been ready to declare herself an orphan.

Strange how it took a little thing like a two-hundred-year separation to make a daughter realize that it had all been part and parcel of the mother-daughter bond. The criticizing. The bitching. The endless search for approval. All of it tangled up with love Dakota had never found time to express.

Cook placed a hand on her forearm. "Look at me, talking like an old fool, and you standing here all cold and wet. Come with me, missy, and we'll find you some warm clothes."

Dakota was so pathetically grateful that her eyes filled with tears. There had to be a catch somewhere but damned if she could find it. If the woman had questions about Dakota's appearance, she was keeping them to herself.

Which was more than Patrick Devane was likely to do.

#

Cook showed Dakota to a bedroom on the second floor. It was a small room by late twentieth century suburban standards, but quite pleasant. The bed dominated the room with its thick feather mattress and canopy, complete with bed hangings to ward off the cold.

"Joseph will be up directly to light the fire," Cook said, smoothing a hand over the heavily embroidered spread. A tree of life, worked in shades of earth and berry and moss, spread its branches from one side to the other. "Won't take but a few minutes to take the chill out. Himself is many things but he sees to it we're warm."

"Does he have guests often?"

Cook's laugh held the bite of sarcasm. "No, he's a solitary one since the missus--" Her words stopped abruptly and she busied herself picking imaginary pieces of fluff from the spread.

"Since the missus what?"

Cook glanced toward the door. "Begging your pardon, missy, but it ain't like me to speak out of turn. I've already said more than I should."

Dakota feigned interest in the dark pine armoire in the corner. "Abigail mentioned that her mother lives in Philadelphia."
Perfect.
The statement was so casual that Cook would never suspect that she was bursting with curiosity.

There was no mistaking the look of disgust on the woman's face. "A fine how-do-you-do that was. Sneaking out in the dead of night like a thief and all the time they'd been carrying on in this very room while her husband slept--"

Cook stopped abruptly. Dakota nearly wept with disappointment.

Don't stop now,
she thought
. This is better than Entertainment Tonight.

"'Tain't Christian to speak ill of people," Cook said.