Brandon’s steps slowed in front of his wife’s bedchamber, and then regretting his brief weakness, he hurried along to check on his daughter. The nursery was at the end of the hallway, a corner room that caught sunlight from two angles during the day. He had had it decorated to suit his idea of what a child might fancy. The wallpaper was pale yellow, dotted with tiny white flowers, and the drapes were apple green. A child’s rocker sat in front of the fireplace. Beside it rested a small oval table with two chairs, perfect for serving high tea to the collection of dolls that cluttered the room. A hoop lay idle against a gaily painted rocking horse, and at the foot of Clara’s high tester bed was a kite whose rag tail was wound around one of the posts like a serpent.
Because of the moonlight, Brandon saw it all in a glance. What he did not see was his daughter. His stomach lurched sickeningly as he realized where she was. He left the room quickly, his long stride carrying him purposefully to Rory’s room. He threw open the door and stalked into the chamber.
Martha started, nearly leaping from her chair as Brandon’s powerful figure was framed darkly in the doorway. When she saw it was the master, she laid a hand over her generous bosom to still the flutter in her heart. Her eyes gleamed whitely in her black face. “Don’t give me such a fright, young pup. I ain’t so old that I can’t take a switch to your behind.”
At another time Brandon would have laughed at Martha’s tart threat. He held a well of affection for the woman who had nursed him as a babe, tended his scraped knees in childhood, and fretted over his loss of appetite during his first youthful love affair. She was a mother to him in a way his own mother never was. While Celia Fleming kept to her room with migraines and vapors, bemoaning the heat, the flies, and her husband’s infidelities, it was Martha Minge who lent her considerable strength and wisdom to managing the household.
“Not now, Martha,” Brandon said shortly, giving her the cutting edge of his temper. That she was hurt by his curtness only registered in a tired part of his brain. “I thought my orders were clear. You were to stay with Rory, and she was not to be disturbed.”
Martha rose stiffly to her full height, a good eighteen inches below the crown of Brandon’s head, and lifted both her chins stubbornly. “If spirits hadn’t already blurred your vision, you’d see the missus ain’t been bothered.” She raised the tallow candle on the bedside table so its yellow light flickered over the sleeping figures in the bed. “Miz Clara slipped in here while I was visitin’ the necessary. Curled up ’side her mother and was sound asleep when I got back. Miss Rory ain’t moved a hair. No harm’s been done.”
“No harm!” he whispered incredulously. “I don’t want Clara here!”
Martha bore no tender feelings for Rory Fleming, but she loved Clara dearly. It was a simple matter of whose needs were greater, and right now Clara needed to be near her mother. “Nothin’s going to happen this night. Miz Rory don’ know the child’s here.”
“If she did, she’d push her out.”
“Probably so.” Martha replaced the candle. “Let her stay. I’m watchin’. You get some sleep. That head of yours will be drummin’ in the mornin’.”
Brandon cast another glance at the bed, where the two figures lay side by side. Clara’s bright hair rested softly against Rory’s breast. The modest neckline of Rory’s nightgown bared only the gentle pulse at the base of her throat. In contrast to the lilac gown, her complexion was china-white. The fine bones of her face stood out in sharp relief. Whatever she had suffered on board theCenturyhad shaped her face with character that he found intriguing. There were violet shadows beneath the sweep of her jet lashes, and tiny white lines at the corners of her mouth. Exhaustion held her securely, and Brandon wondered if it was the severe fatigue or the child who slept innocently in her arms that made her appear vulnerable. He never had cause to apply that particular adjective to Rory before, and it bothered him that he should think of it now. Brandon felt the familiar tug of her beauty while she slept, and to keep from making a fool of himself in front of Martha, he turned sharply on his heel and hurried from the room.
When he was gone Martha plucked at her apron pocket and withdrew a gold locket. She opened it again and studied the miniature portrait in the pale light. Her brow furrowed in thought and she clucked her tongue in an expression of bewilderment and awe. “Imagine, Miss Rory havin’ somethin’ like this. Must have cared more for the babe than we knew. It don’ figure. It just don’ figure.”
It wasmidday when Shannon woke with a violent start, shaken to her core by the dream that had plagued her. She had been on board theCenturyagain, and not only had there been no whore to protect her, but it was her stepfather’s face that hovered over hers. Before she could take in her surroundings, her stomach gave a terrible lurch and she moaned, knowing she was going to be sick. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, tipped her toward the edge of the bed, and thrust a basin beneath her head. Too ill to be humiliated, Shannon wretched, coughing up seawater and the bit of broth she had been forced to take.
Martha looked over her shoulder while touching the back of her hand to her patient’s forehead. Brandon was standing at the foot of the bed, his face impassive as he watched Martha’s ministrations. “Miz Rory has a fever,” she said. “She’s hot as a griddle.”
“I suppose it was inevitable,” he said without emotion. “I will speak to Clara. She must not spend another night in here. Let me know when Rory is well enough for conversation. There are matters to discuss.”
Martha made no reply until Brandon was gone. “I almost feel sorry for you, Miz Rory,” she muttered under her breath.
Shannon slept fitfully for days.Her memories were like beads on a loosely strung necklace, points of knowing separated by a thread of unreality. She recalled hands touching her, gentle hands, black hands. They wiped her brow, changed her linens, and fed her. Other hands, very small, dimpled at the knuckles, brushed her cheek with a tentative stroke until they were chased away. There were voices all around her, but no one spoke directly to her. Singsong drawls tickled her memory with their lazy rhythm.
Much against her will, Shannon was coaxed, prodded, and scolded into wellness.
“Addie, fetch Master Brandon!” Martha’s tone was rife with authority and urgency. “Her fever’s broken!”
Addie’s normal slim-hipped sway vanished as she ran to find the master and tell him the news.
Brandon was in the fields checking the progress of the planting of his sweet tobacco fields. An eighth of the folly’s half million acres was given over to raising tobacco, and from his saddle, as far as his eye could see, workers were bent over the seedlings, placing them carefully in the fertile Tidewater soil. Elsewhere on the plantation were acres of corn, beans, and squash. Thousands of acres lay fallow while nature replenished the ground.
Brandon did not concern himself overmuch with acreage set aside for the sturdy crops. Not when there was so much to do with the main source of income at the folly. Tobacco demanded a great deal of tending and a long growing season, beginning in January when the seeds were sown in special beds. Now the seedlings were being transplanted, and next month would come the weeding and the constant attention to picking off the worms.
He thought of his argument in the customs office a week ago. He had shocked the officials when he promised to cut back production if they did not meet his price. No doubt they would send someone to investigate how much he planted and still try to offer him a lower market price in September after the crop was packed. He swore he would burn the damn hogsheads before he would let them go for any less than the agreed-upon price. What bothered him most about his alternative plan was the incredible waste. Tobacco drained the fertile soil in a matter of years, which is why Brandon rotated his crops. If he did not sell his entire yield, then he had damaged the soil for nothing.
He grinned to himself, turning his horse toward the house. Not for nothing, he thought. For a principle. Damned if that didn’t somehow make up for it.
Addie found him as he was approaching the stable. She was breathless from running, and it took Brandon several minutes to make sense of her message. At first he thought something had happened to Clara. When he realized she was speaking of Rory, the curl of tension in his gut relaxed and he nodded shortly, dismissing her. When Addie was gone, he dismounted slowly, gave his horse a slap on the rump to send him off to the stable, and began walking slowly toward the house.
Martha was hovering nervously at the bedside when Brandon entered the room. “Addie said you sent for me,” he said calmly as he approached the bed. “Her fever’s broken.”
“She’s still weak, though you can see she insisted on sitting up. Have a pity on her, Brandon. She can’t speak a word.”
Brandon’s dark brows knitted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean her throat’s raw. The cold settled there. She’s no match for you now.”
Brandon snorted derisively. “On the contrary, Martha, at last we are on equal terms. Leave us. I want to speak to my wife in private.”
