by Andrea Kane
By the time the coach bounced into the curving drive of Greenhills, they were wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the deep, consuming kisses that manifested all that was left unsaid between them. Feeling the carriage slow, they broke apart, Jacqui hastily smoothing her skirts and fixing her hair and Dane readjusting his shirt and coat.
“What is your mother going to think?” Jacqui demanded, her breath still coming in uneven little pants.
Dane studied Jacqui’s softly flushed cheeks and moist, sensual mouth, knowing his love for her would be his undoing. Aloud he said, “My mother will think that I have the most exquisite taste in women and that I cannot keep my hands off my beautiful wife-to-be.” He raised Jacqui’s chin and ran his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “She’ll be right.”
What Lenore Westbrooke thought was that Jacqueline Holt represented the challenge of a lifetime … the ideal mate for her strong, commanding son.
“Jacqueline … I am delighted to meet you at last.” Lenore met them as they walked up the path leading through the gardens. She kissed Dane’s cheek, then took Jacqui’s hands in hers and squeezed them, her expression open and welcoming.
Taken aback by the unexpected show of affection, Jacqui returned Lenore’s smile a trifle uncertainly, thinking that Dane’s tall, raven-haired mother was the perfect feminine counterpart of her son … right down to his breathtaking smile. The only exception was their eyes, not only the color, but the intensity. Rather than the piercing silver-gray of Dane’s, Lenore’s eyes were a keen, warm shade of hazel, as gently insightful as Dane’s were penetrating and capable of delving into one’s very soul.
Jacqui took a deep breath. “I’m pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Westbrooke.” She hesitated, then plunged on with her customary directness. “I’m sorry, but I’m not certain how to address you. Would you prefer ‘my lady’?”
Lenore laughed, not only at the absurdity of the thought, but at the undisguised look of distaste on Jacqui’s face. Definitely a woman after her own heart. “Absolutely not! I haven’t used my title in over a decade, Jacqueline, not since Dane and I came to America.” Her eyes danced. “However, ‘Mrs. Westbrooke’ poses a bit of a problem as well, does it not? After all, in but a few short weeks you too shall be ‘Mrs. Westbrooke’!” She made a wide sweep with her hand, carefully planting the first tentative seeds of friendship, intuitively discerning that Jacqueline’s friendship was not easily won. “Why don’t we settle on ‘Lenore’?”
Jacqui looked startled before a genuine smile curved her lips. “Very well … Lenore.”
“Good.” Lenore released only one of Jacqui’s hands, using the other to lead her toward the house. “Now that we’ve settled the formalities, we can discuss the important issues. I’ll take you through the house and you can decide which room would be best for a reception.”
“Pardon me?” Jacqui was totally at sea. She glanced over at Dane, who was walking beside her, but he only shrugged, as lost as she.
“Oh dear, I haven’t asked, have I?” Lenore came to a screeching halt and bestowed upon Dane and Jacqui another of her melting smiles. “I would be honored if you would consider holding the wedding at Greenhills. We have so much room here. The gardens are exquisite; we could hold the ceremony amid them, if you’d like. Afterwards there are a half dozen parlors large enough to hold hundreds of guests … and another half dozen small enough, should you prefer a more intimate reception.” She paused, studying Jacqui’s surprised expression. “Forgive me, Jacqueline, it is not my intention to coerce you or make you feel obligated. I am certain you’ve begun making plans, and I have no idea if Greenhills would fit into them. Alter nothing on my account; this wedding is yours and it should be exactly as you wish it to be.”
A hint of sadness touched Jacqui’s face, then was gone. “Actually, I am having a very difficult time with the staggering number of details that must be attended to,” she replied evenly. “As I’ve never before planned a wedding, I find the whole thing quite overwhelming.”
Lenore heard the same wistfulness in Jacqui’s tone that Dane had heard earlier. But, being a woman and a mother, she understood its cause … and, hopefully, its cure. “Jacqueline,” she said softly, “I have but one child … Dane. I will never have the joy of planning my own daughter’s wedding. Please, won’t you give me the supreme pleasure of helping you with yours?”
A rush of relief swept through Jacqui, and she met the older woman’s warm gaze gratefully. “Thank you … Lenore,” she said, her heart suddenly lighter than it had been in ages. “I would very much appreciate your help.” She looked around at the manicured gardens, alive with pink, red, and white peonies, and suddenly she could visualize herself becoming Dane’s wife here, among flowers as lush and vibrant as the union they’d herald. “And I agree,” she said, smiling up at Dane’s mother. “A wedding at Greenhills would be perfect.”
Lenore’s whole face lit up. “Wonderful! We’ll begin planning at once!” She tilted her head quizzically at Dane. “Can you amuse yourself for an hour or so, dear? Jacqueline and I have a lot to discuss.”
Dane shot his mother a quick, appreciative look, fully aware of what she hoped to accomplish. And, watching Jacqueline thaw beneath Lenore’s sincere yet carefully measured doses of affection, Dane knew that his mother was on her way to success.
“An hour, Mother? I think I can manage to take care of myself for that brief a time. In fact,” Dane glanced in the direction of the stables, “I believe I shall have Shadow saddled for a ride. No doubt he misses our wild jaunts together, racing with the wind, galloping across Greenhills at a breakneck pace.”
“Worry not,” Lenore fired back instantly, hands on hips. “Shadow is well exercised, and as I am equally adept on horseback as you, yet much lighter in the saddle, Shadow has missed you not at all.”
Dane chuckled, his amused gaze sliding to Jacqui, who was watching the exchange between mother and son with great interest. He couldn’t help but notice how her eyes sparkled victoriously at Lenore’s response. “You see, chaton?” He sighed with mock regret. “As I said, you and my mother have much in common. Enjoy getting acquainted.” He gave Jacqui a slow, tender wink before strolling off.
Lenore took in the play of emotions on Jacqui’s face as she stared after him.
“You’re in love with my son.” The words were out before Lenore could censor them and she cursed herself for the blunder. The mistake cost her, as she knew it would. Jacqui’s eyes grew shuttered and Lenore could feel the coldness of her withdrawal.
“Jacqueline, forgive me,” she said hastily, before the breach could widen further. “Every once in a while the mother in me rears her head. I want Dane to be happy.” She smiled. “I think you will do an excellent job of making him so. Actually, I believe the two of you will make each other very happy.”
The shutters lifted, Jacqui’s wintry stare supplanted by a flicker of doubt. “I hope you’re right,” she replied, knowing, even as she spoke, that Lenore’s wish was a virtual impossibility. She and Dane could never be truly happy … not with the wall of deception that towered between them. They could wed, stoke the flames of their passion … and destroy each other in the process.
“Come,” Lenore was continuing, “let’s have some tea and discuss your ideas for the wedding.”
The olive branch had been extended.
Jacqui took it.
“That sounds wonderful, Lenore.” Somehow the name was getting easier to utter.
Greenhills was every bit the lavish English country house, Jacqui noted, strolling through its pillared halls. Lenore had not been exaggerating about the number or size of its rooms, each one decorated with a warmth and flair that Jacqui suspected belonged to its mistress. The whole first level was marble with delicate oval windows and a magnificent winding staircase that rose to a breathtaking skylight at its peak. Grand and thoroughly modern in design, Greenhills still managed to retain its classic lines, and Jacqui couldn’t help but fall in love with its gracious
splendor. The house was much like Lenore herself, Jacqui mused, smiling as she seated herself on the lime settee in the manor’s sitting room: uniquely beautiful, yet tasteful and elegant.
“Tell me,” Lenore began, settling herself beside Jacqui, “have you planned a large wedding? Do you have much family in Philadelphia?”
“No, unfortunately not. It is only my father and myself. And, of course, Greta, our housekeeper, who is like family. She has been with me most of my life, a combination governess, cook, and disciplinarian.”
“I see.” Indeed, Lenore did see, noting that Jacqui avoided referring to Greta in any type of parental role … such as mother. “Well, then, have you, your father, and Greta made traditional plans for your wedding?”
Jacqui’s eyes sparkled. “You will soon find, I’m afraid, that there is very little that is traditional about me.”
Rather than appearing nonplussed, Lenore gave Jacqui an approving smile. “In other words, you are a woman of both depth and dimension who is not afraid to speak her mind and who is very much her own person! Excellent!”
Jacqui couldn’t help but grin at Lenore’s enthusiastic definition. “You might not feel that way when you hear some of my opinions on things,” she felt compelled to warn.
“Really? Such as?”
Why did Lenore’s words, her daring expression, make Jacqui feel challenged in a suspiciously similar manner to the way she felt whenever Dane engaged her in one of their frequent battles of the wits?
Lenore was about to be shocked right off her velvet cushion.
“Planning her own wedding is every woman’s dream,” Jacqui began.
“But not yours?”
Jacqui chewed her lip pensively, determined to answer Lenore’s question with total candor. “I am but one person in a very complex world. Even as we speak, hundreds are dying in France, struggling to establish a government that is sympathetic toward all its people, not only the wealthy and titled. Our own country is torn between honor and pragmatism, hovering on the brink of war with England, unable to look away from the English atrocities.” Jacqui stared down at her folded hands. “Given these volatile conditions, the ugliness and the bloodshed, how can I concentrate solely on my own wedding day?”
“I can now add compassion to your list of attributes,” Lenore declared. “But sympathy for others and devotion for your country does not preclude joy at a milestone such as your forthcoming marriage.”
A stout servant with a plump, red-apple face chose that minute to scurry into the room, bringing a pot of tea and a plate of warm scones and honey. She placed them on the table, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” she asked Lenore.
“No, thank you, Dora. This is lovely.”
The maid beamed her thanks and scurried out as quickly as she had come.
“Continue with your shocking opinions, Jacqueline.” Lenore gracefully poured two cups of tea. “Surely you will reveal qualities that are far more scandalous than intelligence and patriotism?”
Caught up in the fervor of the conversation, Jacqui rose to Lenore’s challenge. “Apparently you employ quite a few servants at Greenhills,” she blurted out. She waited for Lenore’s affirmative nod, then went on. “Well, I do not believe in a class structure. As far as I am concerned, servants should not be treated as chattel, any more than wives should. Wives are partners and servants are workers, hired to do a reasonable job for a reasonable wage.”
“Wives?” Lenore inquired politely, handing Jacqui a cup of tea. “Or only servants?”
“Pardon me?”
“I was wondering if your beliefs about payment were restricted to servants or if you felt wives should be paid wages as well.”
Jacqui’s mouth fell open. “No, of course not. What I meant was—”
“Why not?” Lenore continued calmly, sipping her own tea. “If you consider all a wife does … running a home, hiring, firing, and training a staff, bearing and rearing children, sharing her husband’s bed …” Lenore broke off, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Let me see, that’s a steward, an overseer, a housekeeper, a hostess, a governess, a companion, and a mistress. Seven positions—therefore, by your theory, seven times the wages.” She frowned. “Well, perhaps not seven. I really don’t believe a woman should be paid for making love with her husband. First, it cheapens her to the role of a mere prostitute, and second, as lovemaking is a mutually enjoyable task, it cannot be considered a job. So,” she brightened, “six times the wages one would pay to a trusted servant would suffice.” She gave an approving nod, placing her cup delicately back in its saucer. “I rather like that concept, Jacqueline. We’ll have to share it with Dane.”
After a stunned silence, Jacqui began to laugh. “For once, Lenore, I believe that Dane is right: You and I are going to get on famously.” She leaned forward with mock concern. “I shudder to think how our staunchly traditional leaders would react to the views we’ve just expressed.”
Lenore gave a casual shrug. “Our leaders are merely men and must, therefore, be excused for their inferior thinking.”
“I believe I have just been cruelly maligned.”
Both women started as Dane strolled into the sitting room, his tone rich with disbelieving humor. He cast a speculative look at Jacqui and Lenore. “I am delighted to learn that, in the opinion of both my betrothed and my mother, women are superior to men in their ability to think.” Bypassing the tea, Dane helped himself to a glass of brandy.
“Not in ability, dear, but in extent,” Lenore qualified. “Women devote more time to perceiving things as a whole, whereas men simply skim the surface.” Lenore gave Jacqui a conspiratorial wink. “It is a plight we women must learn to endure.”
Dane put his glass down with a thud. “I am ready for dinner.” He strode over and seized Jacqui’s hand, tugging her to her feet. “And a change in subject as well. Shall we?”
Both Jacqui and Lenore laughed at Dane’s response, and, taking his less-than-subtle hint, rose to accompany him. Yet each of the women was aware that, through the respect and understanding that had been forged between the two of them this day, a new and fragile relationship had begun.
Hours later, it was a much more relaxed, happier Jacqui who bid Lenore goodbye on the front steps of Greenhills.
“We are going to be great friends, Jacqueline.” Lenore took Jacqui’s hand in hers, speaking the words that Jacqui could not yet verbalize.
Dane studied Jacqui’s radiant face as she descended to the walkway. Then he turned and kissed his mother’s smooth cheek. “Thank you, Mother,” he said simply.
Lenore didn’t pretend to misunderstand his message. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For giving me a daughter.”
Dane squeezed her shoulders affectionately and walked after Jacqui.
“I’ll come into town at the end of the week,” Lenore called after them. She gazed warmly at Jacqui. “That way I can be there for the final fittings of your gown and, at the same time, we can send out the invitations.”
“Wonderful,” Jacqui agreed.
“The wedding is but several weeks away …” Lenore broke off as a sudden thought occurred to her. “Will you be going on a wedding trip?” she asked.
Jacqui looked at Dane questioningly. “I don’t know. We haven’t discussed it.”
Lenore hesitated briefly, then plunged on, giving voice to the hope that refused to be quieted. “England has a great deal to offer at this time of year,” she said quietly.
Dane stiffened. “This is not a good time for me to be away … for many reasons.” He stared straight ahead, his face averted, his expression hidden. “There is growing unrest in western Pennsylvania,” he said at last. “Many of the distillers are blatantly refusing to pay the excise tax on their whiskey. The fervor is spreading, making the whole situation highly volatile. I might be needed.”
“You fear violence?” Despite Dane’s casual delivery, Jacqui was instantly alert.
/> A warning bell sounded in Dane’s head, a reminder of the distrust that existed between Jacqueline and himself. “I don’t know,” he replied tersely. “But any traveling on our part will have to be delayed for a time. And Mother,” he added pointedly, his back still toward her, “when Jacqueline and I do make our plans, we shall decide where our wedding trip will best be spent.”
Lenore nodded, saying nothing. But Jacqui saw the determined light in her eyes and knew that Lenore’s suggestion that they visit England had little to do with that country’s climate or scenic views.
Jacqui’s curious gaze returned to Dane, who suddenly appeared most eager to be gone, and found herself wondering what had caused his abrupt foul humor. Was it Lenore’s subtle reference to the past or was it Jacqui’s interest in the rebel farmers?
“Come, Jacqueline, I want to get you home before dark.” Dane clamped his hand around Jacqui’s arm, dragging her forward, his brows drawn together in a black scowl.
With a quick, puzzled glance at Lenore, Jacqui followed Dane’s lead.
“We’ll see you at week’s end, Mother?” Dane called over his shoulder, without turning.
Lenore smiled, unbothered by her son’s brooding tone. “Yes, Dane. I’ll see both you and Jacqueline then.”
She returned to the house light of heart. Unhindered by Dane’s anger or Jacqueline’s youth, Lenore could foresee far more than either of them was able. What she saw convinced her, now more than ever, that all would be well.
CHAPTER
13
ELEVEN O’CLOCK. THE WEDDING was but a quarter hour away.
In Greenhills’ pale pink bedchamber, the bride donned her gown, readying herself for the ceremony. Behind the manor, amid the sun-drenched gardens, the groom paced back and forth, willing away the minutes that separated him from his bride. In the parlor, Lenore surveyed her handiwork and, content with what she saw, hastened toward the stairway with the intent of assisting the bride in dressing. Instead, she nearly tripped over George Holt, who stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs, anxiously awaiting the entrance of his precious child. Stomping by them both, Greta bellowed out orders to passing servants and, adjusting her own dark muslin gown, trod up to her anxious mistress.