by Mia Easton
She smiled sweetly. "Yes, I did."
"Been to many?" he asked, enjoying himself.
"I would say that is enough fun," Maggie rejoined. "We'd like to dine, if you don't mind."
John Paul bowed his head. "Of course, my dear. We already did, as you suggested." He watched his wife lead Elizabeth to the sideboard and then moved closer to Wes. "So, that's her," he commented.
Wes nodded distractedly and continued watching Elizabeth as if enchanted. John Paul frowned because Elizabeth Gordon had somehow bewitched him. He had never seen Wes affected by any woman, no matter how beautiful and clever she was. He glanced over as two housemaids entered the room with wine and a fresh pot of tea. "I'll take more wine," he said. He glanced at Wes. "Never had such a thirst this time of day."
Eunice, holding the pot of tea, noticed the way the major was watching a lady she'd never seen before. It instantly vexed her. She walked straight to him. "Coffee, sir?"
"Set it on the sideboard, Eunice," Maggie said, frowning in consternation that the girl had gotten entirely too close to Wesley, and now she lingered, staring up at him in a most inappropriate manner.
It took Wes a moment to come to his senses. "No, thank you," he said coolly, glancing at Eunice, who had not moved at Maggie's behest. Stupid girl. She'd get herself sacked over such reckless behavior. He didn't feel anything for her, but it was possible she harbored illusions toward him that he had encouraged by allowing her surprise visit. Now, he wished that he had turned her away, but he hadn't. For that reason, he'd give her the benefit of the doubt and a strong word of warning if and when the opportunity availed itself.
Eunice felt his rebuff. She turned and went to the long, Cherrywood sideboard, where she set the pot down too roughly to Maggie's way of thinking. She was considering mentioning the episode to Tidwell when she noticed the housekeeper standing in the back doorway, glaring at her charge. As if they'd had silent communication, Mrs. Tidwell looked at her and gave a terse nod as if to say, I'll take care of that. And she would, too. Tidwell ran the house in an effective manner. Questionable behavior never occurred twice from the same source.
Liz paced her eating with Maggie, although it took restraint. She was famished and the food was scrumptious. What she really wanted to do was to dig in with both hands and shovel it in. Wes was sitting across from her, drinking tea. He had changed clothes. Now, his shirt was gray with a distinctly purple cast. It had a wide collar and a V-neck and more embellishment than she would have guessed men wore. His hair had been combed and pulled back in a tail, which emphasized the shape of his face, although she was trying not to stare.
"I'll show you around later, if you're up to it," he said.
"I'd like that," Liz replied. Then she wondered how she should have phrased it. Maggie spoke so perfectly and her British accent seemed to add to the impression of perfection. Wes smiled and gave a perfunctory nod, and it did something aerobic to her heart. Who needed Pilates? She just had to look at the man and her heartrate soared. He seemed more pleased and relaxed than before. Did he approve of how she looked in this clothing? He was probably relieved that his friends were being so gracious.
"December first is a Saturday," Maggie said to her husband. She'd noticed him looking at Wes oddly and she wanted to draw his attention back to her before Elizabeth noticed it.
"Yes, and?"
"I'm thinking of a date for the ball, dearest. What do you think? Mother will have just arrived, so—"
That did it. She had her husband's full attention now. He looked at her and groaned.
"I'm thinking she won't yet be in her full element," Maggie continued. "Do you see the brilliance of my plan? We could have everything arranged. In fact, I may have even mentioned a different date to her." Maggie looked at Elizabeth. "My mother can be quite overbearing, and she insists on everything being done just so."
"Indeed," John Paul agreed. "When will she arrive?"
"The twenty-eighth or ninth," Maggie replied. Then she smiled sweetly.
This time, she got a grateful smile in return. "December first should be perfect," her husband said.
Wes smiled a cockeyed smile. "I seem to recall Lady Eldridge claiming she was never coming back."
"She did," John Paul said.
"What was it she said? If King George isn't good enough for the likes of you colonists—'"
John Paul made a disgusted sound. "Oh, she'll always come once a year to torture me."
Maggie looked at Elizabeth with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I'm afraid I came with a hefty price attached."
"I'd face ten Lady Eldridges for you," John Paul declared. "Perhaps even a dozen."
Maggie laughed. "Praise, indeed, my love." She paused. "I'm suddenly picturing it."
He grimaced. "So am I. Let's forget I said that. It's enough to give a man nightmares."
Chapter 9
Wes led Elizabeth around the grounds slowly because she was unaccustomed to walking in a gown and Maggie's shoes. He didn't know what was so different about Maggie's shoes, but that's what she'd said.
"I'll never get used to this," she told him.
There was a curious sense of shared intimacy with her that he'd never experienced before. It was thrilling, but it also made him feel off-balance.
"Do you think I could slip off these shoes for a while?"
He glanced around. "I think we can risk it."
She stopped and took the shoes off with a sigh, then held them up to study them. She nodded in confirmation of what she had suspected. There was absolutely no difference between the right and left shoes. They were exactly alike, perfectly straight.
"What are you looking at?"
"Let's just say, shoes have improved in the last few hundred years." He looked away and she knew she'd done it again. She'd said something wrong.
"I'm sure many things have," he said as he started walking again.
She caught up, which was far easier without shoes. The temperature had risen into the fifties, and she was comfortably warm in a velvet cape of Maggie's. It was a cloudy but beautiful day. "I have to stop doing that, don't I?"
"What? Comparing this with…where you came from?"
She nodded.
He stopped and turned to her. "How can you?" he asked soberly. "I've been trying to imagine stepping back two hundred years in time." He shook his head and then shrugged. "I can't."
She bit on her bottom lip, because what could she say? He couldn't possibly imagine the changes of the centuries to come. "Should I call you Mr. Hale?" she asked, changing the subject. "Or Major Hale? In front of others, I mean."
He thought about it. "John Paul and I grew up together. Meaning, he lived in the village outside the estate. So, if you're his cousin, we should know one another. Given names are perfectly acceptable to use."
"Ah."
"You look very nice in that," he said, glancing over her gown. "In case I didn't say so."
He looked uncomfortable and…shy? It made her feel shy, too. "Thank you."
"Would you like to see the carriage house?"
She nodded. "I'd love to." They walked on, but she halted when she caught sight of a field in the distance where slaves were working. Picking cotton. Just like the song.
"What's wrong?"
She knew tears had sprung to her eyes. "I've never seen it before," she said in a hushed voice.
He looked toward the field and then back at her. "What?"
"Slaves."
He considered her in silence for several seconds. "It's been abolished, then?"
"Oh, yes."
"When?"
She thought about it. "It was eighteen sixty-five, I think."
He mulled over the information. "That is a long time from now, but I can imagine how strange it is for you."
"They're still picking cotton this late in the year?"
"For another few weeks yet."
"How many are there?"
"Men, women and children? It must be fifty or more. There are b
oth slaves and indentured servants, inherited with the rest of the estate. None have been purchased since Lord Eldridge died and that was…eleven or twelve years ago."
Liz looked at him.
"The man died quite unexpectedly."
"Oh?"
Wes nodded. "Then Lady Eldridge declared that she'd always hated the God-forbidden colonies and that the family would return to England. At that point, she had a mutiny on her hands because Maggie and her brother Wilbur refused to leave. After six or eight years here, this was their home. Wilbur was eighteen, at the time, I believe, and Maggie was, oh, twelve or thirteen."
"What happened?"
"Lady Eldridge left and the younger Eldridges stayed."
Liz's face flushed from a private pain. "I can't imagine leaving your children like that."
"Nor can I."
"But shouldn't the estate have gone to Wilbur?"
"It did, but he was killed in seventy-six. Unmarried. No son to inherit."
"Killed in battle?"
Wes nodded. "He was a patriot. Maggie was only seventeen at the time, but she ran this place by herself for more than a year before she and John Paul were married."
Liz tried to picture a seventeen-year-old Maggie running a plantation while a war was going on. "That must have been hard."
"She made it look easy." He glanced back to the field. "I can tell you this. They are fiercely loyal to her, and she is to them."
The statement made Liz feel unaccountably emotional.
"She and John Paul won't acquire more, because they have convictions against it, but the population is always growing since they marry and have children."
Liz looked back at the field. "I don't see any children."
"They don't work the fields. You won't see them unless we visit. Are you ready?" He gestured onward and they walked the carriage house.
"I would like to see it," she admitted. "The quad. Isn't that what you called it?"
"Yes, they call it the quad." He paused. "As to seeing it, we'll need to ask Maggie."
She nodded. "Why is it called the quad?"
"Because John Paul had it all redesigned and rebuilt so that the houses are in a square around a greensward."
"Ah."
"Look at him," John Paul said as he stared out the library window at Wes and Elizabeth on the grounds.
"Come away from there," Maggie chided.
"I've never seen him act like this. It's as if he's bewitched."
"I've never seen him like this either, but—"
"I've known him longer," he interrupted.
"You should be happy for him."
"I don't trust her," John Paul blurted. "All right? No one comes from the future, Maggie. You know that. I will admit she's charming and, in her presence, I don't exactly feel the deception I expected, but—"
Out of patience, she went to him, took hold of his hand and began pulling. "Come with me," she insisted.
"Where?"
"I have to show you something."
The carriage house housed eight vehicles, wagons, carriages and sleighs. Liz moved toward one to get a closer look.
He watched her curiously. "Have you never seen one?"
"Not up close. I've seen them in mov—" she cut herself off. When would she learn when not to speak? "Never mind."
"This is his most recent acquisition," Wes said as he walked to a sleek, silver 4-wheeled carriage. "It's called a chaise."
Liz walked over and peeked inside. The interior had black leather seats and lush, burgundy velvet sides. "It's so pretty."
Wes watched her from the window on the opposite side. "Yes."
She moved on to a flashier carriage. It was black and emerald green with a top that could be pulled up or left down. It had larger wheels in back than in front. "What's this one?"
"It's a Phaeton," Wes replied as he followed. "John Paul grew up without the benefit of wealth, so he does occasionally splurge on his passions, although he is good at business. He's made a good deal more than he's spent."
She turned to face him and walked backward a few steps. "What about your past?"
"The army is all I've known these last years. It was just disbanded, you know."
"Disbanded?"
He nodded. "There's no need for a federal army anymore. I hope there never will be again. A small force will be kept on at West Point and a few other places to guard military supplies and so forth, but I have no interest in being part of that."
Yet something else she'd never known. "What did you do before the war?"
"Do? I was tutored and I helped work the farm. I was seventeen." He watched her reaction. "Why does that surprise you? The rebellion went on for nine years. Surely, you know that."
"Um—"
"It's our history," he said, and there was a definite note of irritation in his voice. "It was our rebellion that turned into a war that won our independence."
"I know that. But it's different up close and personal. To think of you at only seventeen—"
"Ah." He walked past her closely enough that the tail of his jacket brushed her skirt. He went toward a royal-blue sleigh and she followed. "I remember the day I left so well. Painfully well. I wish I could forget it."
"Why?"
"My brother and I fought. Again. Worse than usual. Things were said and then I left. I was going to enlist straight off, but I went to John Paul's house first. He wanted to enlist, as well. But, first, we got drunk."
"For the sake of celebration or liquid courage?"
He turned back to her. "Neither. Going was duty to this country. To what it could be."
She nodded in understanding.
"It had been a ruthless bout with my brother. Terrible things were said and then it got physical. I went a bit mad because he'd pushed me too far. What he told me was bad enough that I left without saying goodbye to anyone. Not Arthur and Inez, our caretakers, not even my father, and he was not well."
She realized she was holding her breath because of his intensity.
"I felt like hell the next day. Deservedly. I was still going to enlist, but I went to back to tell my father. I knew he would ask me to stay. He'd say I was too young. Say that I was needed there."
His expression was haunted and she almost dreaded the question. "Did he?"
He shook his head before replying. "He was dead."
She exhaled in a rush. "I'm so sorry."
"I think I killed my father."
"Oh," she breathed. "No," she said with a fervent shake of her head.
"It's doesn't matter now. I suppose it didn't matter then. It was done."
She searched for something to say.
"No one had even seen me return. I'd gone straight to his study and, when he wasn't there, I went to his room. He was laid out. Ready to be put into his coffin." He shook his head. "He looked so different. All life was…gone. It was just gone. He looked smaller. His skin looked waxy."
She could picture it and it was heart wrenching. "You must have been so devastated," she said quietly.
"I was." He paused as he looked toward the ceiling. He sniffed, reining in his emotions. "Yes, I was."
"What did you do?"
He looked at her again. "I left. For good. I've never been back."
"You never made up with your brother?"
His expression closed off. "No." He forced a smile. "Sorry. That got entirely too morose. Let's go to the garden. It's not as pretty as in spring or summer, but there are shaped hedges and some flowering bushes left, I think."
He started walking and she fell into step beside him, utterly self-conscious. "I'm glad you told me," she said as they walked into sunshine. "I'm sorry that it happened."
"A long time ago," he murmured dismissively. "And not something I talk about. Not sure why I did," he added with a frown.
The garden was gated and full of tall, elaborately shaped hedges, decorative trees and fall foliage. There were benches and a three-tier fountain. "It's so pretty."
"We'll ge
t a dressmaker here as soon as possible," he said. "I'm sure it will help when you have your own things."
"I don't know how I'll ever pay you back." He stopped so abruptly that she had to turn back to face him.
"You won't pay me back, Elizabeth. To suggest it is insulting."
Well, fuck me, she thought with a flush of anger. She couldn't win for losing. "If you'll remember, I come from a different time and a different way of thinking. So, excuse the hell out of me, Major McPerfect."
His jaw dropped and then he shut it and looked away. He huffed and shook his head and then looked back at her.
Criminy! These people were so proper and restrained, while she was blundering, big-mouthed and ignorant. She needed to think and consider and only then speak—if it's something an eighteenth-century lady would have said. It didn't sound so hard, but apparently, it was. "Don't you get it? My whole framework of thinking and experience is working against me here. Obviously, I don't mean to be insulting."
"Major McPerfect," he repeated.
Was he trying to keep from smiling? Yes, he was, which was a relief. "You don't have to work so hard not to laugh at me. Go right ahead."
"Oh, I think we'd better learn to laugh. Both of us. Frequently and heartily."
"Yeah, well, some things are easier to laugh at than others. These shoes, for example. Or they would be funny if they didn't inflict actual pain." She grew serious. "But, insulting you or embarrassing you, I don't mean to do that. I will never mean to do that. Ever."
"You are not an embarrassment," he replied emphatically. "You are out of your element. That's all. It is fixable. I know you're trying."
"Thank you," she said sheepishly.
"Wes has had too much pain and betrayal in his life," John Paul said as they walked down the upstairs hall.
"I know that." Maggie stopped outside the door to Elizabeth's room and then opened it and pulled him in.
"What are you doing?" he asked. The intrusion was inappropriate and utterly unlike Maggie. His wife was the perfect hostess, proper to her core, but she was ignoring him. She shut the door and then went to the wardrobe, opened it and squatted down to get something. "Maggie! What are you doing?"