by Jill Barnett
Just outside of town she watched the familiar road unfold before her. She saw with new appreciation the trees she had passed so many times, the curves in the road where the willows grew, and the neighboring estates that grew larger and more elegant the farther out they drove.
In the distance the water was blue and the gulls screamed overhead and circled above them. She could hear the sounds of the sea. For some strange reason it sounded different here than it had on the island. There was a peacefulness to it. Perhaps because she was almost home.
They rounded the sharp bend in the road that was nearest the Bayard gates. Her hands were knotted in her lap and she waited anxiously to see the welcome sight of that large B scrolled into the iron grates of the walled fence and the small Bayard clock set in the gate post.
She could hardly believe it. She was almost home.
Eachann pulled the wagon to a halt and she swung down off the seat before the wagon had rolled to a stop.
The gates were threaded with a thick metal chain and a huge steel lock. There was a paper notice with ends that were beginning to curl stuck on to the gate. It read:
BANK FORECLOSURE
For information regarding
estate sale of all possessions
and date of auction contact:
Merchants Bank
Boston, Mass.
NO TRESPASSING
Trespassers will be prosecuted.
Like a cipher she walked to the gate. She grabbed the iron bars so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She rattled the gates hard and pulled and yanked on them again and again.
Her stomach rose and felt as if it were stuck in her throat. Her breaths were sharp because she couldn’t seem to get any air. She kept shaking the gates and shaking them, over and over, as if by doing so she could somehow shake off the terror she was beginning to feel.
Sweat dripped down her temples and beaded on her upper lip. She couldn’t let go of the gates. She couldn’t will her hands to work. She leaned her head against the cool bars for a moment, then felt his big hands on her shoulders.
“George?”
“Leave me alone!” She shook off his hands and twisted away from him, running around the walls to the side and back gates, rattling them one after another, half-hoping even one of them would be open.
Every single one of them was locked with big thick chains and heavy locks. She stood there for eternal minutes, staring through grates at the leaf-strewn gardens at the back of the house. She felt as if she were in jail, looking out on the world she wanted to be a part of.
With her fists clenched tightly in frustration, she spun around and stomped back toward the wagon.
“What the hell happened? How could someone foreclose? You weren’t gone that long.”
“My brother lost everything before he died. I knew I didn’t have much time. I had to marry someone rich and marry him quickly.” The MacOaf stood there looking as if he was feeling sorry for her.
“Don’t you dare,” she said through her teeth.
“What?”
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me or, so help me God, I’ll hit you harder than Calum did. I can take your belligerence. I can take your smart mouth and goading. I can even take your manhandling, but I can’t take your pity. And I won’t, Eachann MacLachlan. Do you understand?”
His look changed immediately. He gave her a quick and perfectly serious nod.
“Good. Now come with me.” She grabbed his hammy hand and pulled him along with her while she hurried back along the wall. “Might as well put all that brawn of yours to a good use.”
She stopped at the back side of the estate. “Give me a foot up.”
“You’re going to go inside? The sign said No Trespassing.”
She slowly turned and faced him, scowling. “You’re worried about trespassing? This from a man who kidnapped me?”
He had the good sense to look chagrined. It was a first.
“Yes, I’m going to go inside my house and change into my clothes.”
“Look, George—”
“Shut up, MacOaf, and give me a boost.”
He shrugged, locked his fingers together, and held them out so she could stand in his cupped hands. A moment later she was sitting on top of the wall.
Before she could jump down he had pulled himself up and was sitting alongside of her.
She gave him a dirty look. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
He acted like she hadn’t spoken and jumped down from the top of the wall as easily as he’d gotten up there, which annoyed her to no end. It was a long way down.
He held out his arms. “Jump, George.”
She jumped and he caught her, using his chest to break her fall. He held her a second or two longer than necessary, their bodies pressed intimately together, their faces inches apart, her feet dangling in midair.
She pressed her knuckles into his shoulders and he set her down without a word. Then she was running across the gardens, down the flagstone paths and on toward the house.
He was right behind her when she stopped at one of the back doors. She tried the knob, but the door was locked. He followed her as she tried every door and window. They were all locked tighter than a safe.
“I’ll break a window if you want me to.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to yet. There’s one more place I need to check.” She moved to the north side of the house where the rhododendron bushes were thick as a forest and tangled with thorny wisteria that climbed up one side of the house.
She got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the bushes. The wisteria thorns were scraping her arms and snagging her hair, but she didn’t care. Because she could hear the MacOaf behind her swearing and cursing and muttering. “Ouch!”
She found the small cellar window and shoved up on the sash. It opened with a loud squeak.
A minute later they were inside the dark basement. She looked around for a lamp, feeling her way across the room. A second later a flame illuminated the MacOaf’s face and he lit a small oil lamp that was near the tin washtub.
“One would think this was your home instead of mine.”
He shrugged and she turned and led the way across the room, then up the steep wooden steps. She prayed the door wouldn’t be locked.
Again she thought perhaps luck was in her favor. But she felt her luck die the moment he followed her into the house. The place looked as if it had been ransacked.
She heard him swear viciously as he raised the lamp and light spilled across the room.
She walked from room to room, each one worse than the last. The furniture was there, but most of it was draped or overturned. In the butler’s pantry by the crystal, china and silver serving pieces and flatware were all gone.
There were broken pieces of priceless porcelain scattered all across the floors and rugs. She ran into the clock room and sagged in relief against the door.
The clocks were all still on the walls. Apparently whoever did this didn’t care about the Bayard clocks.
She hurried past Eachann and ran up the stairs to her room. Perhaps the upstairs would be untouched.
She opened her bedroom door and stood there too dismayed to move. The room was a disaster. She looked around and suddenly remembered the last time she’d been in there. She had been upset about the yellowed wallpaper. Now the yellowed wallpaper actually looked good compared to the rest of the room.
Drawers were overturned, their contents broken and scattered across the carpet. She could hear crunching glass from porcelains and broken mirrors as she walked toward the bed. She just sat there, trying to understand what she was seeing and why. Why did this happen?
Eachann filled the doorway. After a moment of utter silence he said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No!” she said more sharply then she’d meant to. “I can’t. Not yet.” She stood up abruptly. “I came here for a reason.
I’m not leaving yet.” She crossed to a wardrobe where the doors were open and her belongings were tossed about or ruined.
She spent the next hour going through the wardrobes, the drawers, the dressers, everything from which she might salvage something worthwhile. She spent another hour in the wall closet. She poked her head out once and saw that Eachann was on her bed. His arms were behind his head and his boots were crossed at the ankles. He looked like he was sound asleep.
She wasn’t likely to be fooled. It didn’t take long to pack up the few things she could salvage. She wondered who had done this and why. When she was finished, she changed into a silk moiré suit with a shirtwaist that wasn’t exactly the right match, but it would do.
She found an old hat under the bed that was the same deep color blue as the suit. She dressed with care, knowing her only hope left was John. She had to explain and hope if she looked good enough he’d be willing to forget her disappearance and the bankruptcy. By now people would know the truth.
She packed two valises and dragged them out of the closet. She walked over to the bed, where the MacOaf was sleeping. She poked him in the arm with a finger. He didn’t stir and his breathing was even and quiet.
She walked over and picked up one of the valises, walked back to the bed, and dropped it on his stomach.
“Goddammit to hell!” He jackknifed upright and shoved the valise off of him. “What did you do that for?”
She was dragging the other valise across the room. She looked up. “Stop lounging around. Let’s go.”
Then she dragged it a little farther. He got up and took the valise from her and lifted the other one from the bed with annoying ease.
Within a half of an hour they were back by the wagon, her valises loaded in the back and her hand holding her hat on her head. Someone had taken every last one of her hatpins.
The MacOaf looked at her and bowed. “Your pumpkin awaits, Cinderella.”
“My bumpkin? Yes, you are, aren’t you.” She lifted her skirts and pulled herself up onto the wagon seat.
He laughed. “Good one, George.”
“Stop your crowing, MacOaf, and just drive this thing back to town.”
“Ah, he said knowingly. “To Jim Karat’s house.”
She looked at him and shook her head. She would let him have his fun.
“So what are you going to do? Lie?”
“Probably. I know one thing. I hope there are velvet knee pillows. I think after all this I might have to genuflect.”
He snapped the reins and gave the team their heads. “You? On your knees before a man?” he crowed with cynical laughter. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”
She slapped her hand on her hat when they hit a rut. “You think that’s funny?”
“The image is enough to keep me awake at night.”
She knew she was a proud woman, but certainly the idea of her begging wasn’t all that funny. She stiffened her spine and chose to ignore him. Every so often she could feel his gaze on her, but she was silent.
She watched him steer the wagon right toward a rock in the road, and when he hit it, she almost flew off the seat. She turned and gave him a frosty glare.
He was wearing that wicked grin.
“You can stop aiming for those ruts and rocks. I’m starting to find you most annoying.”
“Sorry, George. I can’t concentrate. I keep imagining you on your knees in front of me.”
“Imagine all you like, MacOaf.”
He laughed harder.
“I would never beg you for anything.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“You don’t think I could make you beg me for anything?”
“I know you couldn’t.”
“Want to make a wager?”
“You are so arrogant. I ought to do it, just to teach you a lesson. But . . . ” She waved a hand through the air. “I don’t have to make any wagers with you, because after you drop me off at the Cabot house I won’t ever have to see you again.” She threaded her hands together and straightened her spine.
He just kept laughing.
“Oh, be quiet and turn right.”
Chapter 35
I come from the city of Boston,
Home of the bean and the cod,
Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells
And the Lowells speak only to God.
—Samuel C. Bushnell
Georgina stood on the steps of the Cabot mansion and rapped the brass knocker three times. It was a huge home, but small compared to the family’s other residences. The entire house was red brick with windows along the front that looked out to the bay and beyond. There were white columns on the portico, and the front steps were Italian marble, the handrails cast iron with polished brass insets in an intricate Greek motif.
She knew from John that this house had twenty-five rooms. And she would enjoy every last one of them when she was mistress. She just had to give her best performance and this house and, more importantly, her own family estate would be all hers.
She stood there, her back stiff and straight as the ships’ masts out in the distant harbor. In her mind, she kept going over her speech, again and again.
Well, you see, John, it is the most ridiculous set of circumstances—
She heard sudden sharp and annoyingly familiar notes of Eachann whistling. She stepped back, leaned out, and looked down the street.
He was sprawled on the wagon seat watching her.
She gripped the iron handrail and leaned over it. In a loud whisper she said, “I told you to leave!”
He looked at her and cupped one hand to his ear and shook his head, acting like he couldn’t hear her.
Before she could move or shout, one of the front doors opened.
She spun back around, her hand on her hat.
The Cabot butler stood there. “Miss Bayard.”
“Samuel.” Georgina acknowledged him with a sharp nod and straightened her skirts by giving them a little shake. She raised her chin. “I’d like to see Mr. Cabot.”
“I’m sorry but Mr. Cabot isn’t home.”
She panicked. “He hasn’t gone back to Boston, has he?”
“No, Miss. Mr. Cabot has gone to Philadelphia.”
Good. Perhaps this was a good thing. Perhaps he didn’t know about the foreclosure yet. “When will he return?”
“I really cannot say.”
She gave him her most regal glare. “You can’t or won’t.”
“I don’t know, Miss Bayard. Neither he nor Mrs. Cabot said when they would return.”
“Oh, I see. He’s with his mother.” She laughed and raised a hand to her chest where her heart had been beating much too fast. “Well, Samuel, why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Mr. Cabot’s mother is at home in Boston. I was referring to the new Mrs. Cabot. Mrs. Phoebe Cabot. I believe her family, the Dearborns, are from Philadelphia.”
Barely a moment later, right there, on that posh marble stoop with the iron rails and those tall white columns, something truly odd happened: for the first time in her life Georgina Bayard fainted.
Chapter 36
Here’s to you and here’s to me,
And here’s to the girl with the well-shaped knee.
Here’s to the man with his hand on her garter;
He hasn’t got far, but he’s a damn good starter.
—Anonymous
Georgina awoke to someone unbuttoning her clothes. A warm hand brushed over her neck. Then she felt a few whiffs of air brush her face. She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times.
The MacOaf’s face was above her. He was fanning her with her hat. She blinked against the sudden glare of light and the sudden horror of waking up to a face that belonged in a woman’s dreams, but instead had been foolishly given to a mule.
Her sense returned and she glanced down. Her jacket was gone and her shirtwaist and her corset cover were unbuttoned and lying open, even her c
orset laces were untied. She was almost all bare skin to the waist.
Her mouth fell open. In a rush, she looked around her. Her panicked gaze flashed upward to all that brick. She was outside the Cabot home in full public view, lying in the back of the wagon half undressed.
She shot up, gripping her shirt closed with one hand and swatting his hand away. “Stop waving that stupid hat in my face!”
He stopped and looked at the hat. “You think it’s stupid? I guess the feather is ugly.”
She snatched the hat and held it over her chest. “I’m half undressed, you fool!”
MacOaf sat back on his heels and shrugged. “It didn’t bother you that night in the garden when you were meeting Jack Cabbie.”
She was furiously trying to rebutton her clothes, but with the corset undone, they wouldn’t close. She stuck a hand inside her clothing and dug around. She jerked out the long corset strings. “Here. Pull.”
He wrapped the strings around one hand again and again like you would reel in a fish.
Oh God, no . . .
He kept wrapping the strings around his hand until her face was only a few inches from his.
She glared up at him. “I said, ‘pull.’”
“Okay, George.” He grinned. “Like this?”
A second later she was flat against him, breasts against his chest, her mouth so near his she could taste him. His other hand was under her skirt and on the back of her bare thigh, holding her right where she was.
“One more move from you and I’ll scream rape so loud the whole world will hear me.”
“And sully your name in front of this house? I don’t think so, George.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I have no reputation left to sully.” She inhaled enough air to scream for at least two minutes, opened her mouth, and hollered, “Ra—”
His mouth caught the rest of her scream; he was on her so quickly they fell back and landed hard on the wagon bed. His free hand was pinned between them with the weight of his body. She wiggled against him, trying to buck him off her, but he was too heavy. She still made as much noise as she could against his mouth.