Ryan's Bride (24 page)

“Corbett, that’s enough,” Ryan snapped.

“I’m only joking.”

“You’re scaring her.”

“No, he’s not,” Angele protested.

“Well, I’m tired of his nonsense,” Ryan grumbled.

“Then maybe I’ll sit out there so I won’t bother you.” Corbett slouched down in his seat, pulled his hat over his face, and lapsed into an angry silence.

Angele found it upsetting that Ryan and Corbett were so often at odds with each other. And while Ryan seemed to dismiss each incident, she could tell that Corbett held on to it for a while, pouting and brooding. It was not a good sign and did nothing to dissuade her from worrying that he might be as jealous of Ryan as her uncle had been of her father.

They stopped for the night at inns along the way, where there was always a hot meal waiting and a place to sleep.

As Corbett had predicted, they did take on other passengers, and soon the stage wagon was filled to capacity. Still pretending only to speak French, she was spared having to make conversation and was grateful, because even Ryan found the three men and four women annoying. The women talked incessantly, and the men seemed to compete to see who could speak the loudest to be heard over the women. Corbett gladly sat outside with the driver and took the weather as it came, while Ryan pretended to sleep all the time.

The top half of the body of the coach was open framework, covered by thin leather curtains that buttoned down to solid panels below. It gave everyone a good, albeit dusty, view of the passing landscape. But when it rained and blew in, the curtains had to be closed, which made it unbearably warm, as well as dark.

Angele had grown used to feeling as though she were being playfully tossed about in a sheet, thrown to the ceiling to flatten her bonnet, then slammed back down to the seat. The other women, however, screamed and carried on, crying they were hurt—which only made Ryan pretend to sleep all the more.

Several times, when they approached a steep hill, the driver asked the men to get out and walk in order to lighten the load for the horses. When Angele hopped down, anxious to breathe truly fresh air, Ryan made her get back inside, chastising her for wanting to do something so unladylike.

Wearily, she mused again over how much he had to learn about her and her ways.

But only when the time was right, which would not be until she had dug her heels in good and deep…and couldn’t be pried loose.

Chapter Sixteen

Angele fell in love with Richmond at first sight.

The cobblestone streets were bordered by tall, shading oak trees.

Sweeping front porches of whitewashed houses were draped in fragrant honeysuckle vines.

Ladies in pastel-colored dresses twirled parasols over their heads as they strolled along the boardwalks.

And men lifted their top hats politely as the stage wagon rolled by.

She also found the downtown area delightful. The buildings were made of bright red brick. Painted letters on the big glass windows proclaimed
Dry Goods and Hardware
stores, banks, undertakers, printers, feed stores, and apothecaries.

The stage driver reined in the horses in front of a livery stable.

At the last rest station, Ryan had selected a pink taffeta dress from one of Angele’s trunks and asked her to wear it for the final leg of the journey. It had a high collar, pouffed sleeves, and a huge skirt that required starched, stiff petticoats beneath. It was terribly hot and uncomfortable, and she also didn’t like the ruffled bonnet that complemented the dress. But, as he helped her down from the wagon, she glanced about to see that her outfit was similar to what other women were wearing. Actually, it was the only one Ryan, himself, had chosen, and the French stylist had wrinkled her nose and said it was outdated. But he had liked it and bought it.

She tugged at the lace-edged collar, which was scratching her neck. Ryan was busy talking with someone on the street, and Corbett, standing beside her, whispered, “Stop fidgeting, Angele. Ladies don’t do that.”

“They do when they itch,” she said, then walked away. Since leaving New York, he had taken it upon himself to tell her what she should and should not do. It had become quite annoying, especially since Ryan allowed him to do it.

She walked about, looking in store windows. Sometimes people murmured a “Good afternoon” in passing, and she was careful to respond in French. More and more lately she found herself wishing she could have found a way to let Ryan know she spoke his language, but she had been so hell-bent to hide the fact she was anything except pure French. Still, had she given it more thought, she might have come up with a believable explanation. Now she couldn’t communicate with anyone, and that would be a problem until she pretended to learn English.

The web of deceit in which she found herself entrapped reminded her of words of Sir Walter Scott she’d had to memorize in school:
“O, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
She had tangled herself up, all right, and only hoped she could continue to maintain her ruse. She had come too far to ruin everything now.

She saw Ryan coming toward her and felt a tiny little rush and chided herself. It didn’t matter that their lovemaking had become more and more passionate and enjoyable. That was only instinct—lust—and had nothing to do with caring anything about each other. Ryan was also a careful, considerate lover, and he constantly took her to pyramids of joy that left her breathless and shaken with wonder. Still, she had to keep reminding herself of Corbett’s warning—that she was nothing more than chattel.

“What do you think of Richmond so far?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful, and the people are friendly. I just wish I could talk to them,” she was careful to add.

“You’ll learn. And don’t worry about telling the servants what you want. Clarice speaks French fluently, and she can translate for you when I’m not around.”

“What about your father? Does he speak English?”

He laughed. “Only when he has to.”

He took her arm, and they began walking toward the carriage he had hired to take them the rest of the way.

“I just hope he’ll like me,” she said.

“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. Corbett has promised not to even tell Clarice the truth about how we met. Everyone will believe you come from a wealthy, prominent family.”

Resentment flared, and she fought against it, managing to keep her voice even. “Is that so important? I thought your father’s only requirement was that your wife be French.”

“True. But he would naturally hope I’d marry someone from a good background.”

“That sounds terribly snobbish.”

“Maybe, but it’s only logical in our family. The Tremaynes have always been proud, and marriages have usually been arranged, but my father knew I’d never allow him to hand-pick my bride. He settled instead for his ultimatum of her being French, and I had no choice but to go along with that.”

“I think even that is dictatorial and unfair.”

“By your way of thinking, maybe so.”

“But what if you had fallen in love with someone who wasn’t French?” she persisted. “What then? Would you have walked away because of what your father wanted?”

“I can’t say, because it didn’t happen.”

“But if it had—”

He cut her off. “It didn’t, so there’s no point in discussing it.”

But she was still bothered, because even though she was fighting it, there was no denying she was attracted to him. That made her think about what might have happened had they met under different circumstances. Would he have been drawn to her even though she was a poor runaway? And if he had fallen in love with her, would he have defied his father and married her?

She would probably never know but would always wonder.

Angele was awed by the breathtaking scenery they passed. “And I thought the countryside of France was the most beautiful in all the world. Everything is so fresh and green, and the lakes are crystal clear. I can even smell perfume in the air.”

“Honeysuckle, wild roses, and gardenias,” Ryan said, obviously pleased she was so impressed. “Maybe one day I’ll take you on a trip to the Shenandoah Valley, and then you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven.”

“I feel like I’m already there.”

He smiled and patted her arm.

Corbett had lapsed into a moody silence and sat with his head flopped back against the seat and his eyes closed.

Angele wondered if he was angry with her but decided she didn’t care even if he was. She certainly intended to do her best to get along with everyone, but there was a limit to how much nagging she could endure from him or anyone else.

They traveled south of Richmond, then along the James River. Ryan explained the river eventually reached the Atlantic Ocean.

“So why didn’t we just sail in?” she asked innocently.

Corbett gave an amused snort but didn’t open his eyes.

Patiently, Ryan said there was not a seaport for big ships. “We could have gone into Philadelphia, which would have been closer, but the Black Ball Line didn’t go there.”

“Is BelleRose close to the water?”

“BelleRose isn’t close to anything,” Corbett said dryly.

Ryan threw him an annoyed glance that he didn’t see because he still had his eyes closed. To Angele, he said, “We own a lot of land and much of it does front the river, but the house was built back a ways. I think my ancestors were afraid of flooding.”

They left the river and turned up a winding road. Then they reached open fields on either side, and she could see Negroes working their way through long rows of some kind of green plant covered in what looked like popcorn. They dragged big sacks behind them.

“Cotton,” Ryan said, knowing she had no idea about any of the crops.

A white man on horseback and carrying a rifle appeared to be standing guard over the workers. When he saw the carriage approaching, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped toward them. He let go of the reins to hang on to the rifle and still have a free hand to yank off his hat and wave it frantically over his head. “Sakes alive,” he yelled. “Welcome home…”

“Who is that?” Angele asked, wondering if it could be Roussel Tremayne, though this man looked much too young and agile.

“Roscoe Fordham. He’s my overseer,” Ryan explained, then told the carriage driver to stop, and as soon as he did, he and Corbett quickly got out.

Roscoe reined in and leaped to the ground with a hand outstretched to Ryan. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you. How was the trip…” His voice trailed as he saw Angele.

Ryan responded, “Wonderful, Roscoe, wonderful. And just wait till you see the Anglo-Arabs I was able to buy. Good blood. I’ve got the makings of the finest herd in all of Virginia now.”

Roscoe continued to stare at Angele.

Ryan noticed and casually said, “This is the new Mrs. Tremayne.”

Roscoe had put his hat back on but immediately swept it from his head. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Angele nodded.

“She doesn’t speak English.”

“Well, tell her welcome for me.”

Ryan didn’t take the time. He was too anxious to ask what had gone on during his absence.

Roscoe said there had been little rain and the cotton was drying out in the field so he had ordered picking to start earlier than usual. Tobacco plants were being suckered, which meant the flowering tops were being broken off the leaves. Corn was coming along nicely, as well as all the other crops.

Angele listened but pretended not to when Roscoe’s face turned mean as he told about how three slaves had run away from a neighboring plantation. “Dogs got one of ’em, but the other two got away. So all the planters up and down the river are worrying here’s some kind of underground railroad goin’ on, so they’re taking turns sending men out to patrol the riverbanks at night to keep an eye on things. Last night was our turn, so I took some boys and went.”

Angele was amazed at how quick Ryan flashed with anger.

“Damn it, that’s the last time you or anybody else goes from BelleRose,” he all but shouted.

Roscoe looked from Ryan to Corbett, who was standing behind Ryan. Angele noticed how Corbett rolled his eyes. Then Roscoe argued, “How come? This is a problem we’ve all got. If some nosy Yankee is comin’ down here and helpin’ slaves run away up North, we need to know it so we can hang the bastard.”

Ryan didn’t mince words. “Slaves don’t run away from BelleRose, because they’re treated well. We don’t have any problems, so there’s no need to get involved in those of other people. That’s final, Roscoe. We mind our own business.”

“Well, yes, boss, whatever you say.” Roscoe had put away his gun and was rolling his hat around in his hands.

Angele looked Roscoe Fordham up and down. He was a huge man, with wide, hulking shoulders. His shirt was unbuttoned, displaying a barreled chest and a stomach that hung over his belt. He had beefy arms and big hands and hairy knuckles. His skin was the color and texture of leather.

“We’d best get on up to the house,” Ryan said finally. He turned toward the carriage, but Corbett hung back, and he prodded, “Come on. The horses will be here soon, and I want to alert the stablehands.”