The last was a reference to Lorna herself, who had come to live with her aunt and uncle some ten years before. She, with her mother and father, had traveled from Georgia to Louisiana at her Uncle Sylvester's, her father's brother's, invitation. The plan had been for the two men to go into partnership in a new plantation of some three thousand acres that Sylvester Forrester had already bought. Their method of transportation had been by ship to New Orleans, where they had intended to put their household furnishings on a steamboat going upriver. But, as they were in the city, the largest in the South, they decided to spend a few days shopping and attending the theater. It was then that Lorna's parents had succumbed to cholera in one of those sudden deadly epidemics that sweep through seaport towns. In the confusion of that terrible time, with the hospitals, houses, and even the streets filled with the dead and dying, their money, the gold brought for investment, had disappeared. Whether it had been taken by the servants at their lodgings, the men who loaded the bodies onto the wagons for the trip to the cemetery, or merely by some of the scum who risked the ravaging disease to rob the stricken, was never discovered.
Instead of fresh capital to put his plantation on its feet, Uncle Sylvester had acquired funeral expenses and another mouth to feed, Lorna. The accusation of being an added burden had, from repetition, lost its power to wound, however. The most disturbing thing that had come from the conversation with her aunt had been the recognition that she must bear Franklin Bacon's children, that, indeed, an heir for Beau Repose was one of the most important reasons for a bride's being found for him. Unfit as he was to manage the large estate Nate Bacon had built, he could still sire a son to do the job. There was no other choice; Franklin was without brothers or sisters. His mother, Nate's wife, had been in ill health since he was born. Prostrated by the incident in her son's childhood when he had been kicked in the side of the head by his pony as he sought to beat it into submission, the accident that resulted in the loss of his mental powers, she had taken to her bed and not left it since.
Even knowing, as Lorna did, that Franklin's lack of intelligence was not an inherited condition, she could not conquer her revulsion at the thought of carrying his child inside her body. If the mere idea made her feel unwell, what would the reality be like?
"Mis'Lorna! Could you slow down, Mis' Lorna? I got to stop a minute!"
She reined in, looking back as her horse sidled, and drew up. to where the Beau Repose groom had dismounted and was running his hand along the foreleg of his mount. The roan gelding whinnied, throwing up his head, his mane, and tail streaming in the rising wind.
"What is it?" she called.
"Fool horse shied at a rabbit just now, kicked a log on the side of the trail. I think he's gone and hurt himself."
Though not one of the family mounts, the horse was a good riding hack kept for guests and was stablemate to the mare Lorna rode. There could be no chances taken with his welfare.
"Is he limping?"
"Yes ma'am, just a bit," the elderly groom admitted, shaking his grizzled head.
Lorna hesitated, her brows, which were like dark brown wings, much darker than the pale gold of her hair, drawing together over her eyes. "You must return with the horse, I know, but I believe I will go on."
"I couldn't leave you, Mis' Lorna; it would be as much as my hide's worth, if I did. 'Sides, it's goin' to storm soon."
"I don't mind a little rain. And surely Mr. Bacon would not blame you if I go on alone?" The wind caught her words, flattening their sound.
"You don't know that man. He's not like the old master, M'sieur Cazenave. Masts' Bacon, he don't laugh. He's a hard man, mighty hard."
With a sigh, Lorna nodded. She could do nothing that would bring punishment down on the groom. That concern, allied to the convention that said she must not ride alone, was too much to combat. Still, she sat her horse with the trailing length of her riding skirt lifting and fluttering in the wind and her eyes narrowed against its growing force. The groom turned and began to lead the limping gelding back the way they had come. She looked beyond, down the bridle path that led back to Beau Repose, then swung to stare at the winding trail that lay ahead. As she glanced back, the groom paused, waiting.
"You go on," she called. "I'll ride just a little farther before I catch up to you."
"Don't go far, will you, Mis' Lorna? I tell you, it's goin' to rain!"
As if to add emphasis to his warning, there came a distant rumble of thunder. "Yes, yes," she cried over her shoulder as she set her heel to her mount's side. "I know!"
It was a useless impulse, of course. What could be gained by a few brief moments without supervision, without companions, without the somber knowledge of what awaited her? Regardless, pleasure in this solitude-broken only by the shrill call of a bird blown by the increasing wind, by the thrashing of branches overhead, and the echoing thuds of her own mount's hoof beats-ran with exhilaration in her veins. The wind whipped color into her cheeks and tossed the curling feather that lay along the brim of her hat. The gathering darkness had no power to alarm her; nor did the momentary flicker of lightning overhead. She wanted to ride on and on, to leave both her past and ugly, uncertain future behind and never return. Never, never, never.
Cold raindrops striking her face jerked her back to reality from that brief exultation. She drew rein, and her mare's effortless canter dropped to a walk. In a lull in the oncoming storm, she could hear the spatter of scattered rain against the crown of her hat and its quiet clatter among the leaves of the arching trees. She was not sure how far she had come, how long it had been since she had left the groom. She should be turning back. She would, definitely, in just a moment.
Lightning flashed, a silver stitching across the sky. Hard upon it came the shattering concussion of thunder almost directly above her. The wind rose in a keening surge. Her mount tried to rear, neighing in fright. As she fought for control, she heard the ominous splintering of wood; then, behind her there came the gathering crackle, the rattling, whistling roar of a falling tree.
It hit the ground with a mighty crash only yards away. The wafted air of its fall was filled with bits of bark that stung as they struck, and the smell of scorched leaves caught in her throat. Her horse bolted, surging forward along the path. Jerked backward, she was nearly unseated. Her riding crop flew from her hand as she grabbed for the saddle horn. Leaning forward against the wind of their swift passage, she gathered up the reins once more, but the mare did not respond. She had the bit in her teeth, and was running as if she would outdistance her terror, carrying Lorna farther away from Beau Repose.
It was only a few seconds before she was able to control the mare, but in that short span of time the bridle path came to an end, emerging onto a wagon track that, in turn, joined the river road. Mat great, winding stretch of water, swollen to near-flood level, lay before her as she pulled the mare in at last. Screened by the willows and the great oaks that overhung the road, the river was a gray and forbidding expanse in the gloom.
Then, as she scanned the open sky above the surging, rain-speckled flow, she saw it, the dragging curtain of the storm, sweeping toward her. It pounded the surface of the water to froth, set the trees to swaying wildly with its slashing onslaught, and took the last light from the sky. With a cold rush, the storm caught up with her, a wind-driven, icy torrent that carried the tiny, sharp blows of falling hail. The balls of ice peppered down, bouncing on the road, growing larger as they tore through the leaves of the branches around Lorna and pummeled her shoulders.
She had to find shelter. Her mount, already nervous, would not stand such punishment for long; nor could she. The trees that lined the road were little protection, but if she could push her way among them, deeper into the woods, they might serve.
It was then that she saw the house. It sat back from the road at the end of a drive lined with dark, thrashing sentinels of live oaks from which hung swaying tatters of Spanish moss. A gray ghost of a house, it showed no light, but sat four-square and solid,
a mansion in what was called the West Indies style, two stories in height with a wide-hipped roof covering deep galleries that were supported by square brick columns on the lower floor, and white, turned colonettes on the upper. The design of the building was that favored by the Creole aristocracy along the river, those Louisiana descendants of French and Spanish colonists. Comfortable, built to make the best of a hot and damp climate, it was in sharp contrast to the Greek Revival splendor of such houses as Beau Repose, built by members of the English-speaking community. The Creoles were known for their hospitality; and, though it did not appear that the family was home, they would not mind, perhaps, if their servants took her in for a short time, until the storm passed.
As she dismounted before the front entrance, she saw what she would have recognized sooner in better light. The family would not be returning; the house was empty. The fan-lighted front door of the main living quarters, on the second floor, stood open. Shutters hung ajar at the windows, and the whitewashed plaster that covered the soft, handmade bricks was falling away in great mossy patches. Weeds and vines grew right up to the brick floor of the lower gallery, sprouting in the cracks, winding around the balusters of the outside stairs that mounted at an angle from under the gallery up to the second floor. The first floor, used as a raised basement for servants' quarters and the safekeeping of foodstuffs, had been taken over as a storage area for baled cotton.
There was no time for a closer inspection. Leading her mount, she stepped onto the dirty brick floor of the lower gallery. The rotted upper gallery would at least provide some protection from the driving hail, and there was little damage the animal could do that had not already been done. Looking around her, she saw a rusty iron loop set into the wall, once the support for a torch to light the entryway. It would serve admirably as a hitching ring.
When she had secured the mare's reins, Lorna stood quietly rubbing the horse's soft muzzle, watching the hail and rain. She thought of the groom somewhere back on the bridle path, and hoped that he had not been caught in the open. Soon, she would have to start back; she certainly did not want to get the man in trouble. But, perhaps he would wait for her if he were truly as frightened of Nate Bacon as he seemed.
What had the man meant when he spoke of the old master, M'sieur Cazenave? It had been a casual reference, as if he thought she should understand. Maybe she would have, if hers had been a normal betrothal, though it seemed unlikely a couple happy in their coming nuptials would spend their time speaking of the past owner of an elderly groom.
The hail slackened, stopped, but the rain still fell, splashing down from the leaden sky, falling in streams from the high roof, and spattering onto the floor of the lower gallery. It was wetting the hem of her habit, and the gusting wind made her shiver in the dampness. She glanced around in search of more shelter.
She pushed wider the door to the lower rooms of the house, peering inside, stepping gingerly over the threshold. Cotton bales, compressed cotton wrapped in gunny sacking, greeted her gaze. There was cotton everywhere, stacked to the low ceiling, bulwarks of white and brown that formed tunnel-like walkways leading into other rooms where, more cotton was packed bale upon bale, with a passage to a window left here and there for light. There was also an open space around a narrow closet door that concealed the sneak stair leading to the main floor.
What was it about an empty house that invited exploring? Was it the sense of the lingering imprint of other lives, the opportunity of satisfying the eternal human curiosity about the places where other people have lived and died, or merely the possibility of discarded treasure? Lorna did not know, but she could not resist the urge to climb the stairs. Though she placed her weight on each tread with care, they seemed sound enough.
The upper rooms were large and well-proportioned. Perhaps because of the time and effort it must have taken to bring any load up the outside stairway, they were only partially filled with cotton. There were plaster medallions of exquisite workmanship on the ceilings, and carved frieze work and moldings around the walls. Delicately colored wall hangings were still in place, faded, but serviceable. Though the rooms were empty of furniture, draperies heavy with dust hung at the windows, and on one door, there remained an unbroken china knob painted with faded roses and violets, as perfectly executed as any piece of art.
Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flickered beyond the windows. Absorbed in the examination of her surroundings, Lorna scarcely noticed. She discovered a few spots of mildew, great swags of spider webs, the hard mud nests of dirtdobbers, and the yellow-brown circles of damp where the roof was leaking in the rain, and yet there seemed to be nothing particularly wrong with the house. Why, then, had it been deserted? Who would use such a fine home for the storing of cotton, when any barn or shed would have done just as well? It didn't make sense. Unless, perhaps, there had been a tragedy. It could happen sometimes, the death of whole families from some disease or malignant fever. With no heirs, no tenants, the vacant houses fell victims to decay and the relentless encroachment of nature, the ferns and weeds that grew on the wood-shingled roofs, the vines that strangled the galleries, the birds that found their way inside to build their nests in the elaborate ceiling medallions, or the raccoons and opossums who had their young behind the doors.
She was standing in what must have once been the ladies parlor, judging from its plaster work of roses and ferns set in flowing scrolls, when she heard the sound of the guitar. The piece being played was unfamiliar, something softly melodic with a hint of passionate melancholy in its slow, complicated phrasing. The music seemed to blend with the drumming of the rain overhead, forming a counterpoint to it. Also, mingling with these was the quiet crackle of a fire, a contained noise, not the rush of a conflagration.
A frisson that might have been fear or excitement ran along her nerves. The impulse to retreat touched her; then, she dismissed it with a shake of her head. She was not a coward, and she would not be discovered fleeing like one. Perhaps the person in occupation was one who was due her thanks for the protection from the elements she had claimed; and if not, the presence of someone in the house might be something that should be reported when she returned to Beau Repose.
The music seemed to be coming from one of what must, at one time, have been the back bedchambers. Listening intently, beguiled against her will by the sound, she made her way in that direction.
She saw the light, a flickering orange glow, first. It danced in the dimness of the room, beckoning. It was madness to go closer, she knew; any kind of thief or murderer could have taken up residence in the vacant house. Still she could not prevent herself, did not even try.
Her first sight of him was with the blue-white play of lightning-cold, jagged fire-behind his head. He sat before the fire on a cotton bale, one of several strewn about the room. One knee was drawn up, with his ankle crossed over his other knee, while on it he rested the neck of his guitar as he played. He glanced up, alert, as she paused through the doorway, though there was something in his manner that suggested he had been aware of her presence in the house for some time. He wore a double-breasted jacket of oak-leaf twill with a brown velvet collar over trousers of fawn brown. The jacket hung open, showing his vest of silk woven with stripes of buff and white. His cravat was of cinnamon silk, contrasting pleasantly with the fine linen of his shirt: all evidence of his status as a gentleman. Imperceptibly, Lorna relaxed, allowing her gaze to touch his face.
She drew in a quick breath. This man had the intense features and dark coloring found in Louisiana in those of Creole heritage. He was possibly in his early thirties. His hair grew in rigorously brushed waves over his head, though a wayward curl fell forward onto his forehead. His face had the bronze hue of one no stranger to the sun; his nose was straight, classically Roman, with chiseled definition about the mouth and the flaring nostrils. His lips were firm, though with a sensuous fullness to the lower one; and at the corners, cutting into the planes of his face, were the curving indentations of a quick and easy good
-humor. He was not smiling now, however. His black eyes behind their barricade of thick brows and lashes were hard and predatory, narrowed in recognition.
Lorna made a small, convulsive movement, as if she would turn away.
"Don't go."
His voice was arresting, strong, deep, and warmly cordial; nothing more. He stopped playing, and the last, singing note died away. As she hesitated, he rose to his feet. "Come to the fire. You look chilled and wet."
It was annoying, the instant leap of concern for her appearance instead of the danger. And yet he made no move toward her, and so open and friendly was his gaze, so polite his manner, that her misgivings might have been caused by a trick of the firelight or of her own imagination.
"I could not intrude," she managed, retreating a step.
"There is no possibility of that."
"Oh?" she said, her interest piqued. "The house doesn't belong to you then?"
His answer was accompanied by a slight movement of the shoulders. "I lived here once."
It seemed he watched her from under his thick, dark lashes as if waiting for some reaction, some response to the knowing glint that lighted his eyes, eyes like a deep bayou in moonlight, black and opaque and still. He spoke English with ease, as if it had been his primary language for some time, though there was the faintest trace of an accent in his intonation. She swallowed, aware of the tightness in her throat. "Such a pity for a place like this to stand empty-or to be used for storage like a warehouse."
"Yes," he agreed, his dark gaze flicking over the bales of cotton around him. "The stuff has its uses, however. Here, let me pull up a seat for you."
Lorna watched as, with lithe, muscular control, he rose to set the guitar beside the mantel under which the fire burned, then leaned to grasp the gunny sacking of a cotton bale, drawing it nearer the fire. A second bale was pulled behind the first, and a third thrown with ease on top of it for a backrest. Before she could stop him, before she realized what he intended, he had stripped off his jacket and spread it over the burlap for her comfort. With a shallow bow and a graceful gesture, he indicated that she should sit.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 2