“You’re going to hear this, Bran,” Cody insisted. “That money enabled Jake to buy a prime piece of land on the Rappahannock and start his stud. Daniel and Steven pooled their resources and bought shares in a shipping firm in Boston. None of them cared about the folly the way you do. They never pretended the slightest interest in farming. They would still be here, forced to make a living in a manner they despised, if you hadn’t given them a way out. It was more than any of them expected.”
“But nothing less than they deserved.”
“Parker would disagree with you,” Cody said pointedly. “And that brings me back to my original question. Why don’t you send Rory packing back to Parker?”
“I doubt if Parker’s at Belletraine,” he answered, sidestepping the question. “He must have taken her to Europe. How else could she have arrived on theCentury?”
“I thought you spoke with Rory. I thought that was reason for your foul mood.”
“I did speak with her,” Brandon said heavily. “That’s just it. I spoke with her. She had no chance to speak for herself. Her illness affected her voice.”
“Do you still love her’?” Cody asked baldly.
“No!” He nearly shouted, then more quietly, “No. I used to think there would be but one woman in my life. You know, a sort of grand passion that would carry me from youth to old age.” He laughed, mocking himself. “I thought I found it with Rory, but I was wrong. Still, there is something—oh, I don’t know—something that draws me to her. I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t felt that way about her for years, and even then it was a fleeting thing.”
“Then let us hope it is just as fleeting this time.” He excused himself from the table, then before his courage failed him, he added, “I’ll throttle her myself before I’ll allow her to destroy you and hand the folly to Parker.” Without waiting for a reply, he left.
Far from being angry, Brandon felt his lips twitch at Cody’s youthful vehemence. Pushing away from the table, he decided it was time to make peace with his daughter.
Brandon found Clara in the nursery, sitting in her rocking chair and hugging one of her dolls to her chest. She did not look up when he entered, and he took it as a sign that she intended him to suffer a bit. She had turned the chair toward the fireplace, and Brandon moved to sit in front of her on the cold marble apron. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, poppet. You didn’t deserve it.” Since Clara already seemed to know that, it was not a reasonable thing to say. He looked around the room to find a topic that might interest her. His eyes alighted on the kite. “It’s been a long time since we sent your kite up. There are a few hours of light left. What say we give it a try?”
“Cody and I flew it yesterday.”
“You did?” He was disappointed. How had he not known that? “Would you like to send it up again?”
“There’s not enough wind,” she said, then added for good measure, “Cody says.”
The implication was clear. She had already asked her uncle because her father had no time for her. He glanced out the window and saw the tops of the oak trees that edged the property were unmoving. Cody was right. There wasn’t enough wind. “That’s Charlotte, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes resting on the porcelain doll in her hands.
“Why are you sad all the time, Papa?” Clara blurted suddenly. “Aren’t you happy Mama is home? I thought you’d be happy. Didn’t you want Mama to come back?”
Brandon was stricken by Clara’s rapidly fired questions. “What makes you think I’m not happy, poppet?” he asked carefully.
Unable to express what she saw day after day as her father drifted more deeply into his own affairs and further away from her, Clara relied on an eloquent shrug. When Brandon’s arms reached for her, she toppled into them readily.
He pulled her onto his lap. “I’m happy when I’m with you, Clara. I love you, don’t you know? It’s planting season now and I can’t be with you as much as I’d like.” That was true as far as it went. “That’s why I’ve been looking for a governess for you.”
“Don’t want a guvness.”
Brandon did not want to argue, so he ignored her sullen objection. Something else she said was troubling him. “Clara?” he said slowly, making a question of her name. “You said that you thought your mama being here would make me happy. Is that why you wanted to search for her?” When Clara’s head bobbed affirmatively, Brandon felt as if he’d been gutted. Was it true? Had he been an ass for so long that his daughter had taken matters into her own hands? How could he explain to a child that it was not Rory’s leaving that set his temper off, but the blow to his pride? He and Rory had not been happy for years, and he should have been overjoyed to see her go, yet he chafed at her final betrayal. Long ago he had been able to reconcile himself to her affair with Parker. They sought their separate pleasures, and it was an agreeable, if not satisfying, arrangement. As long as Rory took the same pains as he to be discreet, he could bear it. When she fled with Parker, announcing her intentions drunkenly at the harvest celebration, she had violated their unspoken contract and subjected him to pitying glances and whispered comments every time he showed his face at a gathering. Her action scraped the scabs off the old wounds she had inflicted and left him raw and bleeding.
Even for Clara he could not pretend an emotion for Rory that he didn’t feel. Happy? Hardly. But he could be more civil to his servants, and certainly, kinder to his daughter. “Papa loves you, dear heart,” he whispered against her soft, curling hair, his own eyes bright with tears. “Papa loves you.”
Chapter 4
Shannon’s throat healed steadily over the next several days. She knew she could talk if she chose to. She did not choose to. There was only one person with whom she wanted to speak, and he had not visited her bedchamber since her fever had broken. It did not make sense to explain her identity to anyone else. Like Brandon, those who cared for her called her by another name. She was Aurora, Miz Rory, the missus, and occasionally, Mama. There were times when Shannon thought she would give in to the tide and let herself be swept up in the alter identity. There were moments of self-doubt when she wondered if mayhap she had retreated so far into herself that she had been reborn as someone else. The idea fascinated and frightened her. From caterpillar to butterfly. From Shannon to Aurora. She was not certain she was pleased with this odd metamorphosis, but it remained an intriguing thought.
Shannon swung her legs over the side of the bed and fingered the silk dressing gown Addie had laid out for her. She had never touched material of this quality; to actually wear it made her uneasy. Instead of putting on the robe, Shannon carried it over her arm to the large walnut wardrobe and replaced it, carefully smoothing the filmy material. She found a simpler cotton dressing gown at the back of the wardrobe, which was more suited to her practical nature.
The short walk across the room had tired her more than she thought possible, but it seemed important to build her strength. She did not think she would be a guest much longer in this house, not once the truth of her identity and her crime were known. She made several slow tours of the chamber, examining the room’s contents but not touching anything. She could not help but feel the intruder among the exquisitely crafted furnishings. A chiffonier of wild cherry stood opposite the wardrobe, and a small writing desk sat by the window so it could catch the light. Everything was highly polished, including the hardwood floor, which felt warm beneath her bare feet. Two armchairs covered in peach and gold brocade rested in front of the marble fireplace. The walls were papered in the same shade of peach as the chairs, and the woodwork had been painted white, giving the chamber a sense of light and airiness even when the drapes were drawn.
Shannon moved to the window, pulled back the drapes, and sat at the desk. Her body was framed in sunshine and she stared at her folded hands, aching with the knowledge that in the midst of all this splendor, she was the thing out of place. She dared not explore the contents of drawers, make use of the hairbrush on the nightstand, or pour herself a cup of tea from the silver service that rested on a table between the armchairs. None of it was hers. None of it was truly meant for her.
Lost in her own thoughts, Shannon did not know her privacy had been breeched until the door was closed by hands too small and clumsy to shut it quietly. She looked up and was startled once again by the real-life image of the painting in her locket. Feeling in desperate need of an anchor, Shannon’s hands immediately searched her throat for the necklace. They fell away slowly, finding nothing, and against her will, tears gathered in her eyes.
From her place by the door, Clara bit her lip and watched Shannon warily. “Are you crying?” At Shannon’s tiny negative shake, which was clearly for show, Clara’s bottom lip quivered sympathetically. Abandoning caution, she flew across the room and flung her arms about Shannon’s knees.
The sudden display of comfort and affection took Shannon by surprise. Tentatively she placed her hand on the cap of fiery curls, and when this overture was not shaken off, Shannon stroked Clara’s hair lightly. “Poor baby,” she crooned softly. “Don’t cry for me.” She lifted Clara onto her lap and hugged her. The hug was reciprocated immediately as Clara’s arms fastened themselves about Shannon’s neck. The generous, unconditional warmth of the response tugged at Shannon’s heart. Rocking gently, she teased a wet smile from Clara and wiped the child’s tears with the hem of her gown. “All better?”
