by Henke, Shirl
“It won't be the first by-blow claimed by a peer of the realm. Don't try to blackmail me, your ladyship. It ill becomes you. Go to Weymouth.”
”I don't want Weymouth!”
“Then find another your brother will approve. This only tears at us both, and to no end.” He swung up on Firebrand, feeling her hands struggling for purchase on his jacket. She held the wide crimson cuff of its sleeve as the big bay danced, sensing the tension between the two humans.
”I love you, Devon Blackthorne.”
“Good-bye, your ladyship.”
Madelyne could not hear their words from the house where she stood frozen, but she understood their anguish as Devon rode away and Barbara slowly crumpled to the ground, holding back her tears until he was out of sight. Madelyne walked quietly from the back door and knelt beside her friend, enfolding her in her arms.
“It hurts so much. I know...I know,” Madelyne whispered as Barbara began to weep.
Mrs. Ogilve was habitually an early riser, especially since the hateful new mistress had begun to supervise and question her about the running of the household. After a hearty breakfast, she set out to order the lazy upstairs maids to thoroughly clean and scrub the guest room Madelyne had insisted that half-caste savage be given. As soon as the kitchen staff told her he had departed at dawn, she decided to waste no time removing all traces of his presence at Blackthorne Hill. Once Master Robert was back on his feet, he would appreciate that, she was certain.
Officiously she strode down the long, wide hall to the last room on the northeast corner. She opened the door and sniffed in disgust. The savage had left the bed as rumpled as if he'd disported with a dozen serving wenches in it! Perhaps he had taken one of the slaves or indentureds. She would give the girl a good caning if she found out who it was. Such evidence would also serve to shame the mistress for allowing the likes of Devon Blackthorne into this house over Master Robert's protests. As she began to snoop, she thought of her wayward niece, Phoebe.
“Served the nasty chit right. Whoring in Savannah. She deserved to get her throat cut on the wharfs.”
Just as the housekeeper was about to abandon her search for evidence, she stepped on something. Sniffing in disgust at the musky sheet, she placed her hand on the bed and knelt. Agnes was stunned in disbelief at her good fortune. She knew that the elegant blue-silk slippers under the bed belonged to Lady Barbara Caruthers.
“That Caruthers bitch. She can be handled just as her aunt was.” She looked at the tangled bedclothes once more and imagined that bronzed savage entwined with the pale blond Englishwoman. “Disgusting,” she sniffed, well pleased nonetheless. Clutching the slippers, she left the room, all thoughts of having it cleaned now dismissed from her mind.
She headed toward the master's room, then debated about wakening him so early. He was still quite ill, although he would be happy to know the Indian was gone from under his roof. Now the Caruthers woman soon would be as well.
Madelyne left Barbara resting fretfully. Her friend had told her all about her relationship with Devon Blackthorne, beginning with the shipwreck last year. No wonder she had taken such an instant dislike to Andrew, being in love with his brother, whom the whole Blackthorne family ostracized because of his Indian blood. She mulled over how she could bring the unlikely lovers back together as she headed toward the stairs.
Then she noticed Mrs. Ogilve standing outside Robert's door, clutching something in her hand. She turned from the stair rail and walked resolutely toward the older woman. When she saw Barbara's slippers in the housekeeper's hands, she guessed at once where she had found them. The smug look on the old crone's face only confirmed her suspicion.
“I'll take those,” she said, quickly snatching the slippers from the housekeeper.
“Give them back!” Agnes hissed. ”I found them—”
“I know where you found them and it signifies nothing. If you attempt to spread your spiteful gossip about my friend, whose brother in Savannah is a personal favorite of General Prevost”—she paused to give that idea emphasis—“I shall not only see you dismissed from Blackthorne Hill, but I'll be certain you never hold another position anywhere in the colony!”
Agnes Ogilve's eyes narrowed to two pewter slits. “You wouldn't dare. I'll tell Master Robert—”
“Master Robert is still asleep—an ill old man whose heart is so poor he can sustain no further shocks. You wouldn't want to be responsible for his death, now would you, Mistress Ogilve?”
“It's your bringing that savage under our roof that put the master in this state.”
“Dr. Witherspoon would strongly disagree, since he's been treating my father-in-law's fever for months already. And, more to the point, until Robert is recovered, I am in charge of Blackthorne Hill. Do I make myself very clear, Mistress Ogilve?”
“Very,” the housekeeper said between gritted teeth. Without another word, she turned and stormed down the hall to the stairs.
Madelyne felt her knees trembling now that the confrontation was over. Not that it had been her first face-off with Agnes Ogilve since returning to the Hill, but never had so much been at stake. If the housekeeper had succeeded in besmirching Barbara's reputation... Madelyne headed to the room Devon had slept in to make certain no other evidence had been left behind after the lovers' tumultuous parting.
* * * *
July 1781, Biggins Church, South Carolina
Quintin stood in the small, sunlit room, staring at the letter. After reading its contents, he was relieved that his hand did not shake. Again he reread it.
Marion, sitting at a scarred oak table in Mistress Smather's kitchen, sipped from his glass of vinegar water and studied his captain. He knew the letter had come from Quintin's estranged wife. He hoped it meant the breach between them would be mended, for he knew Quintin was in love with the girl, even if the bitter young man did not realize it himself. “What news, Quint? Is aught amiss at Blackthorne Hill? Your father's health—”
“Robert still hangs on to life tenaciously as a bulldog. No, it regards Madelyne. It seems she has borne a son, whom she named James Quintin Blackthorne.”
His expression was difficult to read, certainly not the joy most men would reveal upon hearing such news. Guardedly, Marion asked, “And you are not pleased?”
Quint's eyes flashed with a spark of anguish that he quickly transformed into anger. “At least I'll wager it's well and truly a Blackthorne, as much time as my cousin Andrew has spent with her in my absence.”
Marion's normally olive dark complexion drained of color. ”I do not believe it. I know that girl's family. Quint, even though you parted in anger from her—”
“We parted nine months before young James was born. Rather a close count, wouldn't you say? Especially considering how she rid herself of me.”
“There is but one solution. Of course you shall go to her.”
“We've driven off Fraser and his Carolina Rangers, but I'm not sure it's a good idea—”
“Nonsense!” Marion interrupted. “Georgetown and Augusta are under American control. General Cornwallis is being kept quite occupied in Virginia. Your Mr. Franklin has even sent word that Admiral de Grasse will be on the Chesapeake within a month to unite with General Washington. I think you'll be better able to join in our final push for victory this fall if you settle matters with your wife now.” With that, he began to scribble the pass Captain Blackthorne would need to move through American lines.
For all Marion's optimism, Quintin was little reassured as he rode south toward BlackthorneHill. The British still controlled Williamsburg, Charles Town, and Savannah, all key seaports. The rebel partisans had gnawed away at their inland forts and decimated their supply lines, but the cost to both sides had been dear. Loyalist partisans had raided the length and breadth of South Carolina and Georgia. Each side burned the crops and homes of the other. He observed blackened fields once green with corn and the charred skeletons of what had once been sturdy cabins and even large river plantation mansio
ns.
“What a criminal waste,” he muttered to Domino.
When would it end? The fighting had begun in Massachusetts back in 1775.Seventeen eighty-one was more than half over, with no end in sight, unless French naval support for General Washington turned the tide. “Let us hope this de Grasse is a far more skilled fighter than that fool d'Estaing.”
By the time he reached Blackthorne Hill on the fourth day of his journey, it was early evening, the dinner hour. He could imagine Robert sitting at the head of that long table with Madelyne at the opposite end, engaged in an ongoing battle of vitriolic words and brittle silences. Robert would, of course, attempt to bring down the British authorities on him and have him arrested, but he knew the people from the Hill. No one would betray him—except his wife.
Why had she written him about the child? He turned the matter over and over in his mind. As Marion had said, there was but one way to find out. He had taken the precaution of bringing half a dozen seasoned men with him. On his signal, they dispersed to prearranged sites around the plantation house to await any possible trouble.
For some inexplicable reason, he expected none. Madelyne wanted to see him—wanted him to see the child she hoped to pass off as his. Perhaps it was...but he very much doubted it. Recalling Marion's cautions to him about how to treat with his wife, he smiled grimly and rode through the walnut trees until he reached a tall field of corn. He dismounted. From here he could walk undetected to the smith's barn, from thence to the stables, then to the rear entrance of the house...and Madelyne.
Inside the house, Madelyne and Robert had indeed just finished their hostile meal. Since June, the old man had rallied enough to be up and about, but his health was still precarious. After an argument last week, he had railed at Noble Witherspoon and forbidden the physician to return to the Hill.
Madelyne simply bided her time, letting him make his caustic remarks and wander through the house like some ghostly wraith. As long as he did not abuse the servants, she let him vent his spleen on her at meals and ignored him. His favorite topic for weeks had been the new heir to Blackthorne Hill. He had taunted her repeatedly about the legitimacy of James until she silenced him by threatening to reveal his own lifetime pretense about Quintin's legitimacy. He had paled, studied her with those unnerving slate-blue eyes, and decided she was not bluffing. Thereafter, he abandoned the topic.
As she entered the nursery that night, Madelyne gazed fondly at her son. Quintin's son. Every day he grew more and more like his sire. “Soon his eyes will be green,” she murmured as Amy handed her the babe. Gulliver was at his assigned place beside the crib.
As was her wont, she dismissed the girl for the evening and prepared to enjoy some time with James. She unlaced her bodice and placed him at one milk-engorged breast, then leaned back in a comfortable Chippendale armchair as he feasted noisily. Why would any woman be so foolish as to use a wet nurse when she could enjoy this pleasure herself?
Quintin stood in the shadow of the door, his eyes sweeping the room. Madelyne's big hound awakened and watched him warily, but made no sound, only cocked his head quizzically, waiting to see what Quint would do.
He turned his attention from the dog to his wife and her son. A deep, nameless ache gnawed at his vitals. Had Anne loved him thus? Her bastard son? Or had she consigned him to a wet nurse and forgotten him?
Of course he had no memories and no one ever spoke of her, so he did not know. He watched as Madelyne kissed the child's black curly head. Her breasts were heavy with milk, pale compared to the sun-darkened skin above the line of her bodice. As he watched that tiny mouth pull on her rose nipple, he felt an old familiar heat begin to flood his senses and pool in his groin. He cursed her beauty as her long mahogany hair fell like a curtain across one shoulder, gleaming in the candlelight.
“Such a touching tableau, dear wife,” he said softly, and was rewarded with Madelyne's sharp intake of breath as she looked up.
Chapter Twenty
Madelyne felt the color rise in her cheeks as his gaze moved from her face to her bared breasts. James had finished nursing and lay contentedly in her arms. She hurriedly covered herself, awkwardly lacing up her bodice with one hand, all the while studying his calculating expression. He did not seem pleased with his son.
Guardedly she said, “You received my letter. Does your heir meet with your approval?” The young mother stood and held the sleeping infant so his father could inspect him.
“He was born in mid-June. I left Georgia in mid-September. That rather casts my paternity in doubt, doesn't it?” He looked at the babe, whose infant face bore no resemblance to anyone as yet.
Madelyne felt the room go black before her eyes. This could not be—but, of course, with Quint's innate suspicions it could. It was. “You came to visit me that night before you fled—September twentieth, as I recall. Tis ample time, Quint,” she replied softly. “Can't you lay aside politics and just love your son?” If not me.
“If he is my son,” he said in a brittle voice.
“Would you hold him?” she offered, struggling to overcome the red rage welling up inside her. “Look at his hair, Quint—tis as black as your own.”
”A baby's hair often changes color, as do its eyes.” He turned away, refusing to hold the boy. Galling pain welled up inside him. To be subjected to the same cruel fate as old Robert—what irony in it!
“Will you beat and shame this innocent child as Robert did you?” She knelt and placed James in his cradle, then looked up at him, waiting.
Quintin stiffened. “Who could have told you about what passed between me and Robert?”
“It takes no great genius to imagine how a man of his temperament would react to being saddled with another man's child. But let me warn you, Quint. Whether or not you believe you are James's father, I am his mother and I will kill anyone who lays a hand on him—even you.”
Her voice had a steely edge to it, a ring of authority that he had not heard before. He scowled. ”I would never do to a living soul what Robert did to me. You can rest easy on that account.”
“But you still persist in believing he is not your son.”
He turned from her accusing eyes, unwilling to let her see the torment etched on his face. ”I don't know, Madelyne. Perhaps as he grows older...now, I don't know what to believe.”
“Certainly not your wife.” Her voice was hollow with bitterness.
“My wife who spent every spare minute she could with my cousin Andrew.”
“Your wife who found you in a heated embrace with Serena Fallowfield! Have you ever seen Andrew take such improprieties with me?”
His shoulders fell in weary defeat. “All the more reason for your jealous spite, Madelyne. You see, neither of us can trust the other.”
He looked so tired and haggard, his face unshaven, his rifle shirt and buckskin pants greasy and ragged. “You've ridden far. Let me summon Toby. Hell fetch you a bath and clean clothes.” Without waiting for his assent, she walked briskly to the doorway and called down the stairs for Quintin's valet.
“You've assumed full authority in my absence. I find it difficult to believe that Robert has become so accommodating, or does the prospect of an heir for his domain please him so well? I warrant he'd be doubly pleased if it was not mine.”
Madelyne felt a stab of pain as she recalled Robert's exact words on the subject when she had told him of the child. “Robert is ailing. Since last fall, Dr. Witherspoon has feared for his life. The cinchona bark keeps his fever at bay, but his heart is failing.”
Quintin snorted humorlessly. “Small wonder, given its size.”
Toby entered then, overjoyed to see his master safely returned home. The gray-haired man's wizened face crinkled in a wide smile of welcome as he thumped Quintin on the back with the familiarity of an old protector who had watched his charge grow into a man.
“I'll fetch two boys to haul water and I'll see to fresh clothes myself, Mastah Quintin. Won't Delphine be pleased! Bake her finest peach pie
, yessir, she will.” He looked at the baby, now fussing in the cradle. “Got you a fine boy there. Sturdy as a live oak and tough as a Georgia pine.”
“Thank you, Toby,” he said quietly. After the old man left the room, Quintin turned and watched as Madelyne took the baby to a small table, where she began to change his napkin.
Gulliver's keen eyes never left James. ”I see the child has a fierce protector,” Quint said as he watched her fuss with James.
Madelyne did not turn around, but continued her task. “Gulliver guards him every night.”
Quint walked closer to her and looked over her shoulder, curious in spite of himself. She performed the task deftly, as if used to doing it. “Don't you have a nurse for him?”
“Amy. She's a dear, but whenever I can, I prefer to care for him myself.”
“Even to nurse him when we must have a dozen wet nurses on the Hill?”
She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. “James will know love from at least one of his parents!” She turned back to the infant and carried him to his cradle.
Just then Quintin heard the sounds of warm water being poured into the big wooden tub in his dressing room. His body ached and he was filthy. He had endured days of dusty travel with only muddy creeks in which to sluice off. He headed toward the call of the clean, warm water, leaving behind the deeply disturbing presence of his wife and the child.
While Quintin soaked, Madelyne went downstairs to Delphine's kitchen, where the old cook was busily engaged in carving thick wedges of sweet smoked ham. A half loaf of crusty bread and a wedge of cheddar cheese were already sliced. A bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table alongside a pitcher of cream.
“I'll be bakin' a peach pie. Have it for Mastah Quintin for breakfast. Lordy, so good to have him home, ain't it?” She beamed at Madelyne.
Returning the smile, although with less enthusiasm, Madelyne began to help dish up a feast for her husband. “This time you're right—he does look too thin and you can fatten him up. Oh, Delphine, the stories I've heard about the privations of the soldiers in the back country.” She shuddered.