The silver head of the walking stick the other man carried came up, pressing against Heath’s breastbone. “You’re half an hour late. What the devil kept you?”
“Your nephew, that’s what!” Heath shot angrily back. “You’d best do somethin’ about him, Navarre!”
The walking stick arced up, catching Heath in the soft underside of his chin. Navarre heard the taller man’s teeth clack noisily together and smiled. “Just a friendly warning. If I ever hear my name pass your lips again, in any capacity, I shall take great joy in prying out your tongue and feeding it to the crows. I trust you take my meaning?” Heath bobbed his head, and Navarre lowered the walking stick. “Very good. Now, what is this nonsense about Jackson?”
Heath dabbed at his lower lip, then wiped it on his sleeve, glaring at Navarre. “Thought you might want to know that he’s been pokin’ his nose where it don’t belong, askin’ a lot of questions about a certain night last April.”
“My nephew is no fool, and though I did not share his sentiment, he loved his brother. I fully expected that he would seek answers about Clayton’s death. It’s only natural. After a time he will grow bored with it—”
“Somehow I ain’t convinced. The man I faced off with this evenin’ down at the Painted Lady didn’t show no signs of givin’ up. In fact, he damn near ran me to ground just now.”
“Faced off,” Navarre said, tensing. “You confronted him?”
Heath drew himself up to his full height. “It was the other way around. I stopped by for a drink on my way here, and—”
“I thought we agreed at our last meeting that you preferred a warmer climate.” Navarre said softly. “You were to take your wife and children on the next packet out of here.”
“I got to thinkin’. Fifty dollars ain’t gonna last long, and it ain’t much pay for all this trouble.”
“It is more than you’ve had in all of your miserable life, and considerably more than you are worth,” Navarre replied.
“To you, maybe.”
Navarre had turned half away; now he turned back, his grip hard upon the silver-headed cane. “Was that a threat?”
Heath thrust his chin out and assumed a belligerent stance. “You can take it however you damn well please. I say fifty dollars ain’t enough for me to keep a lid on all I know. If you won’t pay what it’s worth, then maybe there’s another Broussard who will. Could be he’d like to know everything I saw and heard that night, includin’ his brother’s last words.”
Navarre smiled at that. “Perhaps after all you do have a point. How much will it take for you to keep that particular information to yourself?”
“Five thousand dollars seems a good place to start. Bring it here tomorrow night, and all of your worries will be over... at least for the time bein’.”
“Tomorrow night, then,” Navarre said pleasantly. “Oh, and Malcolm? Precisely what have you told my nephew about Clayton’s death?”
“Nothing—yet. It’s our little secret... Navarre.”
Heath was smiling as he turned away. Navarre could see it plainly as he stepped swiftly up behind him, bringing the walking stick up and up, then swiftly bringing it down. The other man’s skull cracked like an egg, yet Navarre gave him another blow for good measure; then, pausing to examine his work, he wiped the head of his cane on the fallen man’s clothing. Strangely, Malcolm Heath’s smile remained fixed, a ghastly mirror image of Navarre’s own.
Navarre was just about to turn away when a large and shadowy form separated from the side of a nearby building, stepping up neatly to block his path. The smell of sweat and bear grease seemed to hover around the intruder like a noxious cloud. “Well, well,” the newcomer rumbled, “if it ain’t my old friend and former employer, Navarre Broussard.” Nudging the still form of Malcolm Heath with the toe of one huge moccasin, Abe McFarland flashed a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Looks like your friend here’s had a little accident, and you’ve got yourself a whole passel of trouble.”
Chapter Eleven
Jackson’s chair was empty when Reagan swept into the morning room. It was, however, clear that he’d been there, for his cup had been overturned in its saucer, and there was a large coffee stain on the otherwise pristine table linen. Raised voices, one approaching a bellow that she instantly recognized as belonging to Jackson, drew her to the kitchen. “Quit! You can’t quit!”
“Ain’t I a free woman since your daddy give me my manumission papers ten years back?” Bessie demanded indignantly. ‘‘And don’t them papers give me the right to say where I work, and where I don’t work?”
“She’s got you there, Broussard,” Reagan put in from the doorway.
He shot Reagan a smoldering sidelong glance that sent shivers up her shinbones and made her weak in the knees. It was the same intensely passionate, burning look he’d given her that night on the gallery. “You stay out of this!” he warned, then turned his attention back to Bessie, who was slowly gathering her things into a willow basket. “Bessie, for Christ’s sake, be reasonable!”
“I ain’t the one bein’ unreasonable,” the old woman shot back. “And while I’m at it, I ain’t the one planning some fancy dress ball with less than a handful of folks to do all the work in too short a time! What were you thinkin’, boy?”
Reagan stifled a giggle. “Seems to me he wasn’t thinkin’. You got yourself a staff of four, which ain’t enough to run a house this size in a normal capacity. Looks like you’ll just have to call off this party after all.”
Her comments earned Reagan a thunderous look from the young master of Belle Riviere and a scowl from Bessie. “Now, Miz Reagan, you keep outta this. I don’t need no help from no quarters, and especially not from someone with as hefty an ax to grind as the one you’re totin’.”
“If it’s the staff that concerns you,” Jackson said, “then I’ll hire a score of servants.”
Bessie raised her brows. “A full-time staff of twenty? Now you’re talkin’. But you got to do it today. No dillydallying’ or delayin’. It’s gonna take time to whip this house into proper order.”
“Consider it done,” Jackson said. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”
“For the time bein’,” the old woman said slyly.
Jackson had succeeded, yet as he shouted for Antoine Garrett, he looked far from pleased. Reagan seized the opportunity, plucking a biscuit from a tray and trying to slip away, but Jackson pinned her with an unforgiving glance. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
“I spied the garden from my window and thought I might breakfast outside. Looks like it’s about to get real busy around here, and I sure don’t want to be in the way.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be worried about the consequences of your little insurrection, now, would you?”
“Afraid of you?” Reagan snorted. But her bluff rang false as his fingers entwined with hers, and a slow, sadistic smile spread across his mouth.
“Then you’ll stay. I’m not through with you yet.”
Reagan would have replied if Antoine Garrett had not chosen that moment to enter the room. Garbed in his shirtsleeves, his cravat hastily tied and his dignity askew, he hardly resembled his haughty and meticulous self. “M’sieur, it is your father again. He has refused his breakfast, and when I attempted to shave him, he flung the basin across the room.”
The scarred corner of Jackson’s mouth turned down in an odd half frown. “Feeling more himself, is he? Then he can spare your services for the afternoon.’ ’
“Sir?” Antoine Garrett said, obviously confused.
“Find a staff large enough to accommodate Belle Riviere. I don’t care how or where you obtain them, but I want this house to run like a well-oiled machine, just like the old days, and it must be done immediately. Do you take my meaning?”
“Oui, m’sieur, but what shall we do about M’sieur Emil? He cannot be left unattended, and there is no one to sit with him in my absence!”
All eyes turned to Jackson, while Jackson looked
down into the upturned face of his recalcitrant ward. “I can think of but one person obstinate enough, besides myself, to weather Papa’s tempers.”
“You can’t mean—” Reagan said.
“Oh, but I do. I am in need of someone to sit with that old man upstairs, and you are in desperate need of something to do, something that will give you a purpose, and I think I may have found the perfect solution.”
Moment by moment, hour by hour, Reagan was being drawn further and further into Jackson’s world. It was like being cast adrift on a tiny raft, at the whim of a vast and turbulent ocean, and at moments like this one, she felt sure she would drown. Trudging up the long and winding stairs, accompanied by Annette, who carried an ornate silver tray with a pot of cafe noir, a plateful of plump, raisin-filled pastries, and cream and sugar for the old master’s breakfast, Reagan paused just long enough before the door to Emil’s room to exchange nervous glances with the maid.
How she longed to defy Jackson’s edict, to avoid the old tyrant moldering away behind the mahogany panel. It would be so much easier to play the coward, to retreat to the comfort and familiarity of her room. Yet Jackson was counting on her, and it was just for an hour or two. Besides, she’d dealt with Luther Garrett and her brothers, Luck and Lafe, when all three had come down with the measles at once. One genteel old man with a stubborn streak could hardly begin to compare.
Taking a deep breath, Reagan raised her hand and knocked firmly on the panel.
A brooding silence greeted her bid for admittance. Thinking of Jackson and all that he was trying to do for her, no matter how unwelcome or misguided the end result happened to be, Reagan turned the knob and boldly entered the lion’s den, followed closely by Annette.
Annette hurried to place the tray on a nearby table, then sank into a deep curtsy, addressing the room’s occupant in her soft and lilting tones. “M’sieur.”
The gruff old man fixed the maid with his hard black stare and said in a growl, “Begonnne wi’ you.”
Annette looked at Reagan, her eyes round with trepidation. “M’sieur?” she said hesitantly.
“Oowwtt!” He thrust one imperious finger at the door, glowering at Reagan and Annette each in turn, and making himself understood despite his garbled speech. Annette bobbed a quick curtsy and, with an apologetic glance in Reagan’s direction, hurried from the room.
Reagan stood her ground, giving the old man glare for heated glare. “It sure is easy to see where Jackson gets his amiable personality from,” she said quietly; then, girding herself for battle, she faced him squarely. “You might as well know right off that your black looks and grumblin’s don’t scare me one whit. I’m a Dawes through and through, and I’ve dealt with far worse in my lifetime than anything one sickly old gentleman can dish out.”
Emil emitted a perfectly executed snort and turned his face away. “Enfannn,” he muttered disdainfully.
“Malcontent,” Reagan retorted; then, determined to try again, she softened her tone. “You know, just because you’re feeling poorly doesn’t give you call to go ’round abusin’ folks and bein’ so all-fired mean.”
Emil raised a silver brow at her, but said nothing.
“I know it can’t be easy for you, havin’ a stranger take you to task, you bein’ so proud an’ all, so I’ll apologize if you will, and maybe we can start again My name is Reagan Winifred Dawes, of the Kentucky Daweses, and I’m greatly pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Reagan offered her hand, and as she watched, the proud old gentleman shifted slightly in his chair; then slowly, almost grudgingly, he reached out with his left hand and grasped her fingertips; his right arm hung useless at his side. There was something of the gallant in the gesture, despite his infirmity, and Reagan noticed that when he glanced her way again, some of the brittleness had left his dark eyes.
“I confess, I haven’t eaten, and this coffee smells delicious. Can I pour you a cup?”
He looked down at his shoes for a moment as his scowl wavered; then slowly, carefully, he composed his features and inclined his head. Reagan smiled to herself as she turned away.
It was a beginning.
By the time Antoine Garrett returned to his duties, the pastries had been eaten, the coffeepot was empty, and Reagan and Emil had enjoyed a long, if somewhat one-sided discourse on the Dawes family history. The dainty ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour of two as she rose to go. “Monsieur,” Reagan said, “I am glad to have made your acquaintance. You are not the villain I supposed you to be.”
The old gentleman’s mouth worked in an effort at speech, but he only grew frustrated. He breathed hard through his nose, and his black eyes flashed fire.
Reagan laid a compassionate hand on his paralyzed arm. “Take a deep breath and try again, only more slowly this time. Try not to force it; just let the words come as they will.”
His anger seemed to swell up inside him. His jaw worked, and he shook like a leaf with the force of his fury. Then, as if with a will, he closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and said softly, quite clearly, “Demoiselle... c-come again.”
Reagan just smiled.
By late afternoon the house was a veritable hive of activity. The potential workers recruited by Antoine Garrett had trickled through the kitchen, each to be interviewed by Bessie, who had been elevated to the position of housekeeper with a substantial raise in pay.
Of twenty-five workers, four had immediately declined the offered positions upon discovering that they were to serve the black sheep, instead of the patriarch, of the Broussard family. The twenty-one workers who chose to remain were Irish immigrants, poor as proverbial church mice, and would have worked for Satan himself had he offered gainful employment.
With Bessie in a managerial position, a fresh-faced Limerick lass called Lucy O’Hara assumed the kitchen duties.
Annette’s position in the household was elevated as well, to that of lady’s maid. She had strict orders from Jackson himself that she was to serve Reagan, and Reagan alone, a fact with which she seemed inordinately pleased.
Reagan, on the other hand, was not taken with the idea. She had never had a maid to help her bathe and dress, and it seemed an affront to her competency that Jackson thought she needed one.
Once she recovered from her initial pique, however, Reagan came to realize that there were certain areas where Annette’s help and advice would be most welcome.
One matter in particular had tugged incessantly at her thoughts from the moment Annette had first broached the subject the previous day, hinting broadly that she was privy to secrets that could aid Reagan in catching the jaded eye of a certain gentleman. It was Reagan’s most sincere wish, however, to capture more than his eye, a risky venture at best. And she was well aware that if she were to succeed, she would need all the help she could get.
She found Annette in the garden, cutting sprigs of lavender and placing them gently in a large wicker basket. The girl looked up from her task, and smiled. “Bonjour, mam’selle.”
“Afternoon,” Reagan replied. “Nice day, ain’t it?”
“Oui, mam’selle. Very nice indeed.” The girl waited, but Reagan said nothing. Finally she prompted, “Is there something you require, mam’selle?”
Reagan bit her lip. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout what you said yesterday, and though it pains me to ask, I sure could use some help. It’s about Jackson.”
Annette’s smile broadened. “I was hoping that you would come to your senses. When shall we begin?”
Reagan’s metamorphosis began that very day. She soon discovered that beneath Annette’s gentle demeanor lurked an iron will. She proved a hard taskmaster, and the lessons were anything but easy. At times they were frustrating and painful.
A lady is never outspoken. She is demure, willing to please, but not too willing.
Above all, a lady never loses her temper.
It was a great deal to digest, but Reagan did her best. Conquering the impulse to speak her mind at will and holding her temp
er in check were her greatest challenges.
The last week of September arrived, marking her tenth day in Saint Louis, and bringing with it a change in the weather. Mornings were cool and foggy; the nights bore a chill sharp enough to tip the leaves with shades of red, gold, and russet. The bright, cloudless afternoons found Reagan in the garden, in the company of Annette, who seemed pleased enough with Reagan’s progress to suggest that they advance to the next level.
“You must learn to speak in a genteel fashion,” Annette was saying. “A lady would never use the word ain’t, not even upon pain of death. It simply is not done.”
“Where I come from it’s done all the time,” Reagan insisted. But she listened, and eagerly implemented Annette’s expert advice, remembering how her slovenly speech patterns had annoyed and rankled Jackson when first they’d met. If she was to realize her goal, and capture Jackson’s heart, then she must first capture his admiration, and that meant exceeding all of his expectations.
She and Annette were closeted for most of that afternoon, and by the time their session was concluded, Reagan had begun to question everything she’d ever learned. She must learn to walk with her head held high, her shoulders back, placing one foot precisely in front of the other in order to achieve a gentle, seductive sway of her skirts. Men, Annette insisted, found the gentle swish of a woman’s skirts hypnotic.
“Every gesture, every word, every step must be carefully thought out beforehand as to the effect it will have upon the gentlemen present in the room.”
“But I don’t give a hang about those other gents.”
“Ah, ah,” Annette said, wagging a chastising finger at Reagan.
Reagan made a face, then with a will gave Annette what she wanted. “I do not care one whit for the opinion of other gentlemen,” she said in a honeyed drawl, surprising even herself. “It’s Jackson I want. I’m just not so sure he wants me.”
“Oh, but he does, mam’selle,” Annette assured her. “He just has not realized it yet. It is your job to make him see that he cannot live without you.”
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 18