Ryan's Bride (25 page)

Corbett shook his head. “I need to talk to Roscoe some more. You go on ahead. I’ll walk.”

“As you wish.” Ryan signaled to the driver.

“Why didn’t he come with us?” Angele asked as soon as the driver popped the whip and they were rolling down the road once again. “Is he afraid to be there when you introduce me?”

“No. He just wants to talk to Roscoe some more.”

He had told her Corbett oversaw the fields, while he looked after the horses and livestock. It was their arrangement, and she supposed it was only logical Corbett would want to talk to his overseer at length after having been away for so long. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if he feared an ugly scene.

She worried, too, about the slaves running away, as Roscoe had revealed. She wondered why, and also where they went when they did. Even though she’d been warned to stay out of anything to do with them, she couldn’t help thinking about it.

After they passed the fields, they rounded a curve where split rail fencing began that bordered lush green lawns on each side of the road. Then the house came into view, and she gasped, “My God…”

Ryan beamed with pride. “It was built by my grandfather and passed on to my father, because he was oldest son, and one day I’ll pass it along to mine.”

“It…it’s like something out of a fairy tale. And I thought the estates in England were extraordinary.”

The instant the words were out of her mouth she felt a wave of panic.

“England? You lived in England?”

“No,” she managed to say calmly. “But I visited there once.”

“When…”

“Please,” she urged, squeezing his arm. “Tell me about the house.”
Anything to get him to stop asking questions.

The mansion stood four stories high and had a chimney at each corner. Made of gray fieldstone, the windows were long, narrow, and arched at the tops and composed of many small panes of glass. There was a low wall around the edge of the roof, and Ryan told her it was a walkway that circled the whole house.

“There are six separate gardens,” he pointed out as they drew closer. “And they’re all laid out in different patterns.”

Regal oaks and maples stretched to the sky and bordered the sculptured areas as far as she could see.

Finally, the carriage turned into the long, circular driveway.

A winding terrace joined the house to a narrow stairway made of pink marble that rose from the cobblestone driveway. Neatly trimmed shrubs hugged the base of the house and were interspersed with thick rosebushes.

There were two front doors, large and arched like the windows, and as Ryan helped her alight from the carriage, one of them opened.

An old Negro man stepped out on the porch, his hair the color of the cotton Angele had seen in the fields. His whole face lit up with his smile as he carefully came down the steps, his body slightly bent to one side by rheumatism.

“Praise the Lord, Mastah Ryan. You’re home safe and sound. We’ve missed you so much.”

He held his arms open wide, and Ryan stepped into them, returning his hug with gusto. “Willard, I missed you.” He quickly told Angele, in French, of course, “I’ve known Willard my whole life. He’s our butler, but he’s also a good friend.”

Willard blinked, confused over who she was and why she was there.

Ryan didn’t keep him wondering for long. “This is my wife, Willard. Her name is Angele, and she’s from France and doesn’t speak English yet, but she’ll learn quick. Till then, Clarice or I will interpret for her.”

“Yes, sir.” Willard’s head bobbed up and down. “Tell her I said ‘Welcome to BelleRose.’”

Ryan translated, and Angele nodded and smiled. Willard seemed like such a nice man. She longed to be able to tell him she hoped they would become friends and regretted, once again, the extent of her charade.

Ryan motioned Angele up the stairs as he asked Willard, “How is my father? Mr. Fordham said he was doing fine.”

“Well, Doctor Pardee seems to think he’s gettin’ along all right, but he still won’t leave his room. He sho has missed you. Every day he tells me to be sure and let him know if I see you comin’ down the road, but you surprised me. I was in the back, polishin’ silver, and one of the young’uns came runnin’ from the yard to tell me.”

“Polishing silver, eh? Has Clarice had a party while we were away?”

“No, but she’s been plannin’ to have one as soon as you get back. Now she’ll have a big reason—to introduce your new bride to everybody.”

Angele groaned inwardly at the thought. The last thing she wanted was a party before she pretended to quickly learn how to speak English. Otherwise, there would be more awkward moments than she cared to think about.

But her worries instantly faded as she began to turn around and around in the huge, circular foyer to look at the velvet-draped portraits of Tremayne ancestors. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling high above, and a curving stairway wrapped about the wall, which was covered in brilliant gold satin.

There was a parlor on one side, filled with furniture in brocade and cherrywood and mahogany. On the other, there was a huge ballroom. “You must really entertain a lot,” she remarked.

“Yes, we enjoy it, and we have a lot of friends.”

She already felt lost in the spaciousness of the house and asked how many rooms there were.

“As best I can recall without walking around counting, there are two dining rooms—one large for formal dinners, and then a small one for the family. Besides the ballroom, there are three parlors. This one”—he gestured to the one beside them—“and one that belonged to my mother, and one intended for any other Tremayne wife in the house—such as you.”

Angele knew that meant Clarice had taken over his mother’s parlor, but she didn’t care. She didn’t intend to spend her time sitting around in parlors, anyway.

“There’s also a library, sewing room, sun porch, and a couple of rooms where food is put after it’s brought in from the kitchen, which is outside. The family quarters are at each end of the second floor, and the third floor is for guests. Sometimes they travel a long way and spend the night after a party, and sometimes we invite people to stay the weekend, or longer.

“The fourth floor,” he continued, “is where Willard and Mammy Lou and some of the household servants sleep so they’ll be close by if they’re needed during the night.”

He walked toward the curving stairway and beckoned her to follow. “Now I’ll take you up to meet my father.”

“He’s asleep, Mastah Ryan,” Willard interjected. “I looked in on him a little while ago. He had a bad night, so I thought it’d be good for him to take a longer nap, but if you want me to, I’ll go wake him up.”

“No, no,” Ryan said quickly. “Let him sleep, and when he rings for you, let me know. Meanwhile, I’ll show Mrs. Tremayne around before I go out to meet the horses.”

“You found the horses you went to fetch,” Willard said. “I’m so glad.”

“And they’re beauties.”

Angele continued to look from one to the other, pretending not to understand.

Ryan held out his hand to her, started into the ballroom, but paused to ask Willard, “Where is Clarice, by the way?”

“I’m right here.”

Angele’s gaze snapped to the stairway, along with Ryan’s. Willard, she noted, went down the back hallway as fast as his rheumatism would allow.

Clarice Tremayne’s frosty blue eyes were squinched at the corners, and her forehead was knit in a frown. She was dressed elegantly in a soft pink taffeta dress, the bodice edged in lace and the sleeves tapering to points at her wrists. Pearls and matching earbobs complemented the dress, and her hair was sleekly drawn from her face and held by a snood.

“Welcome home, Ryan,” she said in perfectly enunciated French, all the while her gaze locked on Angele. “And who is your guest?”

“She’s not a guest,” Ryan said quietly. “She’s my wife.” Clarice’s hand lifted slightly from the gleaming mahogany banister, as though about to clutch her throat in horror. Instead, she managed to maintain her composure, and, cocking her head to one side, asked, “What did you say?”

Ryan clasped Angele’s hand to pull her forward. “I want you to meet my wife, Angele Benet Tremayne. We met in Paris, and it didn’t take long to realize we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, so we were married on board the ship when we sailed from Le Havre.”

Clarice stood perfectly still.

Ryan led Angele back across the foyer to wait for her to come down.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Clarice,” Angele offered.

For a moment, she thought Clarice was going to turn around and go back up the stairs without a word. It was hard to tell what she was thinking by the stunned look on her face.

“I know it has to be a big shock for you and everybody else,” Ryan said when the silence became awkward, “but Angele is going to make a fine wife, and I know the two of you will be good friends.”

Angele cringed inside as Clarice suddenly continued on down the stairs.

“Yes,” Clarice said with cool demeanor, mouth barely curved in a smile. “I’m sure we will.” She placed her fingertips on Angele’s shoulders in a stiff caress. “Welcome to our family, dear.”

When she kissed her cheek, it was all Angele could do to keep from shivering, for her lips were as cold as her eyes.

Ryan looked pleased.

“You are French?” Clarice asked tonelessly.

Ryan answered for her. “Yes, she is. She comes from a wonderful family. Very prominent. Very wealthy. Good blood. Our children will carry the Tremayne lineage proudly.”

Angele gritted her teeth to think how he sounded like he was talking about a brood mare.

He steered them into the parlor as he continued talking to Clarice. “I’m going to depend on you to teach her what she needs to know about plantation life, living in America…everything. I’m going to hire a tutor to teach her to speak English, but you can help with that, as well—”

Clarice froze. “You mean she can’t speak English? But all well-bred European girls these days speak fluent English.”

“Not all of them,” Ryan defended.

Angele was having a very hard time listening to them talk about her as though she weren’t even there, but, afraid she might say the wrong thing, kept out of it.

Clarice swept Angele with doubtful eyes. “And you say she comes from a prominent, wealthy family?”

Ryan slipped his arm around Angele’s waist, and in a voice laced with tension, declared, “She satisfies everything I ever wanted in a wife.”

Clarice gave a curt nod. “Very well. And you can rest assured I’ll do everything I can to help her adjust to her new life.”

Clarice went to a long, tasseled rope and gave it a yank. Within seconds, a round-faced and smiling Negro woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a plain gray muslin dress and had a bandanna tied around her head. As she stood expectantly with her hands folded across her round tummy, Angele smiled to think how she looked like a fat, happy apple.

“This is Mammy Lou,” Ryan told Angele, then explained to Mammy Lou that Angele was his new wife.

For an instant, Angele thought she was going to run across the room and hug her like Willard had Ryan. Instead, her smile spread to a grin that displayed the whitest teeth Angele had ever seen.

She began talking to her, saying how glad she was to meet her and how she hoped she would be happy, but Clarice crisply informed her that Angele didn’t understand what she was saying. “Now, bring us some lemonade. Ryan and his bride are probably thirsty after their ride.”

Angele seized on the opportunity to add to the conversation. “Actually, it wasn’t so long. I enjoyed it. The scenery was beautiful.”

Clarice settled on a lavender divan and fluffed her skirt about her. “Tell me about yourself,” she said bluntly.

Angele and Ryan took chains side by side. “There’s really nothing to tell,” she began. “I was an only child. My parents doted on me and kept me home to be with them. I had tutors, but there wasn’t one who knew English, and—”

Ryan cut in, “That doesn’t matter. We’re going to take care of that.”

Clarice persisted with the inquisition that Angele had anticipated and dreaded. “And your father? Tell me about him. Where was his estate? Who were some of your people? I might have heard of them. I was in Paris a few years ago.”

She hesitated, unsure of what to say, and couldn’t help stealing another glance at Ryan, who once more came to her rescue.

“Angele is an orphan. She still grieves for her parents and doesn’t like to talk about them.”

“I see.” Clarice pursed her lips.

Angele told herself it was only natural that Clarice would ask questions. Besides, it was good preparation for the encounter yet to come with Roussel Tremayne. Still, her first impression of Clarice was that she was not all pleased with the situation.

She was grateful when Ryan changed the subject. “I’ll be glad when Father wakes up. I’m anxious for him to meet Angele.”

Tonelessly, Clarice said, “Well, it’s best to let him get his rest. I like him to stay as quiet as possible. I just hope this isn’t too big a shock for him.”

“He has to know,” Ryan said with a shrug.