Chapter Sixteen
Angele fell in love with Richmond at first sight.
The cobblestone streets were bordered by tall, shading oak trees.
Sweeping front porches of whitewashed houses were draped in fragrant honeysuckle vines.
Ladies in pastel-colored dresses twirled parasols over their heads as they strolled along the boardwalks.
And men lifted their top hats politely as the stage wagon rolled by.
She also found the downtown area delightful. The buildings were made of bright red brick. Painted letters on the big glass windows proclaimed Dry Goods and Hardware stores, banks, undertakers, printers, feed stores, and apothecaries.
The stage driver reined in the horses in front of a livery stable.
At the last rest station, Ryan had selected a pink taffeta dress from one of Angele’s trunks and asked her to wear it for the final leg of the journey. It had a high collar, pouffed sleeves, and a huge skirt that required starched, stiff petticoats beneath. It was terribly hot and uncomfortable, and she also didn’t like the ruffled bonnet that complemented the dress. But, as he helped her down from the wagon, she glanced about to see that her outfit was similar to what other women were wearing. Actually, it was the only one Ryan, himself, had chosen, and the French stylist had wrinkled her nose and said it was outdated. But he had liked it and bought it.
She tugged at the lace-edged collar, which was scratching her neck. Ryan was busy talking with someone on the street, and Corbett, standing beside her, whispered, “Stop fidgeting, Angele. Ladies don’t do that.”
“They do when they itch,” she said, then walked away. Since leaving New York, he had taken it upon himself to tell her what she should and should not do. It had become quite annoying, especially since Ryan allowed him to do it.
She walked about, looking in store windows. Sometimes people murmured a “Good afternoon” in passing, and she was careful to respond in French. More and more lately she found herself wishing she could have found a way to let Ryan know she spoke his language, but she had been so hell-bent to hide the fact she was anything except pure French. Still, had she given it more thought, she might have come up with a believable explanation. Now she couldn’t communicate with anyone, and that would be a problem until she pretended to learn English.
The web of deceit in which she found herself entrapped reminded her of words of Sir Walter Scott she’d had to memorize in school: “O, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” She had tangled herself up, all right, and only hoped she could continue to maintain her ruse. She had come too far to ruin everything now.
She saw Ryan coming toward her and felt a tiny little rush and chided herself. It didn’t matter that their lovemaking had become more and more passionate and enjoyable. That was only instinct—lust—and had nothing to do with caring anything about each other. Ryan was also a careful, considerate lover, and he constantly took her to pyramids of joy that left her breathless and shaken with wonder. Still, she had to keep reminding herself of Corbett’s warning—that she was nothing more than chattel.
“What do you think of Richmond so far?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful, and the people are friendly. I just wish I could talk to them,” she was careful to add.
“You’ll learn. And don’t worry about telling the servants what you want. Clarice speaks French fluently, and she can translate for you when I’m not around.”
“What about your father? Does he speak English?”
He laughed. “Only when he has to.”
He took her arm, and they began walking toward the carriage he had hired to take them the rest of the way.
“I just hope he’ll like me,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. Corbett has promised not to even tell Clarice the truth about how we met. Everyone will believe you come from a wealthy, prominent family.”
Resentment flared, and she fought against it, managing to keep her voice even. “Is that so important? I thought your father’s only requirement was that your wife be French.”
“True. But he would naturally hope I’d marry someone from a good background.”
“That sounds terribly snobbish.”
“Maybe, but it’s only logical in our family. The Tremaynes have always been proud, and marriages have usually been arranged, but my father knew I’d never allow him to hand-pick my bride. He settled instead for his ultimatum of her being French, and I had no choice but to go along with that.”
“I think even that is dictatorial and unfair.”
“By your way of thinking, maybe so.”
“But what if you had fallen in love with someone who wasn’t French?” she persisted. “What then? Would you have walked away because of what your father wanted?”
“I can’t say, because it didn’t happen.”
“But if it had—”
He cut her off. “It didn’t, so there’s no point in discussing it.”
But she was still bothered, because even though she was fighting it, there was no denying she was attracted to him. That made her think about what might have happened had they met under different circumstances. Would he have been drawn to her even though she was a poor runaway? And if he had fallen in love with her, would he have defied his father and married her?
She would probably never know but would always wonder.
Angele was awed by the breathtaking scenery they passed. “And I thought the countryside of France was the most beautiful in all the world. Everything is so fresh and green, and the lakes are crystal clear. I can even smell perfume in the air.”
“Honeysuckle, wild roses, and gardenias,” Ryan said, obviously pleased she was so impressed. “Maybe one day I’ll take you on a trip to the Shenandoah Valley, and then you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven.”
“I feel like I’m already there.”
He smiled and patted her arm.
Corbett had lapsed into a moody silence and sat with his head flopped back against the seat and his eyes closed.
Angele wondered if he was angry with her but decided she didn’t care even if he was. She certainly intended to do her best to get along with everyone, but there was a limit to how much nagging she could endure from him or anyone else.
They traveled south of Richmond, then along the James River. Ryan explained the river eventually reached the Atlantic Ocean.
“So why didn’t we just sail in?” she asked innocently.
Corbett gave an amused snort but didn’t open his eyes.
Patiently, Ryan said there was not a seaport for big ships. “We could have gone into Philadelphia, which would have been closer, but the Black Ball Line didn’t go there.”
“Is BelleRose close to the water?”
“BelleRose isn’t close to anything,” Corbett said dryly.
Ryan threw him an annoyed glance that he didn’t see because he still had his eyes closed. To Angele, he said, “We own a lot of land and much of it does front the river, but the house was built back a ways. I think my ancestors were afraid of flooding.”
They left the river and turned up a winding road. Then they reached open fields on either side, and she could see Negroes working their way through long rows of some kind of green plant covered in what looked like popcorn. They dragged big sacks behind them.
“Cotton,” Ryan said, knowing she had no idea about any of the crops.
A white man on horseback and carrying a rifle appeared to be standing guard over the workers. When he saw the carriage approaching, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped toward them. He let go of the reins to hang on to the rifle and still have a free hand to yank off his hat and wave it frantically over his head. “Sakes alive,” he yelled. “Welcome home…”
“Who is that?” Angele asked, wondering if it could be Roussel Tremayne, though this man looked much too young and agile.
“Roscoe Fordham. He’s my overseer,” Ryan explained, then told the carriage driver
to stop, and as soon as he did, he and Corbett quickly got out.
Roscoe reined in and leaped to the ground with a hand outstretched to Ryan. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you. How was the trip…” His voice trailed as he saw Angele.
Ryan responded, “Wonderful, Roscoe, wonderful. And just wait till you see the Anglo-Arabs I was able to buy. Good blood. I’ve got the makings of the finest herd in all of Virginia now.”
Roscoe continued to stare at Angele.
Ryan noticed and casually said, “This is the new Mrs. Tremayne.”
Roscoe had put his hat back on but immediately swept it from his head. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
Angele nodded.
“She doesn’t speak English.”
“Well, tell her welcome for me.”
Ryan didn’t take the time. He was too anxious to ask what had gone on during his absence.
Roscoe said there had been little rain and the cotton was drying out in the field so he had ordered picking to start earlier than usual. Tobacco plants were being suckered, which meant the flowering tops were being broken off the leaves. Corn was coming along nicely, as well as all the other crops.
Angele listened but pretended not to when Roscoe’s face turned mean as he told about how three slaves had run away from a neighboring plantation. “Dogs got one of ’em, but the other two got away. So all the planters up and down the river are worrying here’s some kind of underground railroad goin’ on, so they’re taking turns sending men out to patrol the riverbanks at night to keep an eye on things. Last night was our turn, so I took some boys and went.”
Angele was amazed at how quick Ryan flashed with anger.
“Damn it, that’s the last time you or anybody else goes from BelleRose,” he all but shouted.
Roscoe looked from Ryan to Corbett, who was standing behind Ryan. Angele noticed how Corbett rolled his eyes. Then Roscoe argued, “How come? This is a problem we’ve all got. If some nosy Yankee is comin’ down here and helpin’ slaves run away up North, we need to know it so we can hang the bastard.”
Ryan didn’t mince words. “Slaves don’t run away from BelleRose, because they’re treated well. We don’t have any problems, so there’s no need to get involved in those of other people. That’s final, Roscoe. We mind our own business.”
“Well, yes, boss, whatever you say.” Roscoe had put away his gun and was rolling his hat around in his hands.
Angele looked Roscoe Fordham up and down. He was a huge man, with wide, hulking shoulders. His shirt was unbuttoned, displaying a barreled chest and a stomach that hung over his belt. He had beefy arms and big hands and hairy knuckles. His skin was the color and texture of leather.
“We’d best get on up to the house,” Ryan said finally. He turned toward the carriage, but Corbett hung back, and he prodded, “Come on. The horses will be here soon, and I want to alert the stablehands.”
Corbett shook his head. “I need to talk to Roscoe some more. You go on ahead. I’ll walk.”
“As you wish.” Ryan signaled to the driver.
“Why didn’t he come with us?” Angele asked as soon as the driver popped the whip and they were rolling down the road once again. “Is he afraid to be there when you introduce me?”
“No. He just wants to talk to Roscoe some more.”
He had told her Corbett oversaw the fields, while he looked after the horses and livestock. It was their arrangement, and she supposed it was only logical Corbett would want to talk to his overseer at length after having been away for so long. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if he feared an ugly scene.
She worried, too, about the slaves running away, as Roscoe had revealed. She wondered why, and also where they went when they did. Even though she’d been warned to stay out of anything to do with them, she couldn’t help thinking about it.
After they passed the fields, they rounded a curve where split rail fencing began that bordered lush green lawns on each side of the road. Then the house came into view, and she gasped, “My God…”
Ryan beamed with pride. “It was built by my grandfather and passed on to my father, because he was oldest son, and one day I’ll pass it along to mine.”
“It…it’s like something out of a fairy tale. And I thought the estates in England were extraordinary.”
The instant the words were out of her mouth she felt a wave of panic.
“England? You lived in England?”
“No,” she managed to say calmly. “But I visited there once.”
“When…”
“Please,” she urged, squeezing his arm. “Tell me about the house.” Anything to get him to stop asking questions.
The mansion stood four stories high and had a chimney at each corner. Made of gray fieldstone, the windows were long, narrow, and arched at the tops and composed of many small panes of glass. There was a low wall around the edge of the roof, and Ryan told her it was a walkway that circled the whole house.
“There are six separate gardens,” he pointed out as they drew closer. “And they’re all laid out in different patterns.”
Regal oaks and maples stretched to the sky and bordered the sculptured areas as far as she could see.
Finally, the carriage turned into the long, circular driveway.
A winding terrace joined the house to a narrow stairway made of pink marble that rose from the cobblestone driveway. Neatly trimmed shrubs hugged the base of the house and were interspersed with thick rosebushes.
There were two front doors, large and arched like the windows, and as Ryan helped her alight from the carriage, one of them opened.
An old Negro man stepped out on the porch, his hair the color of the cotton Angele had seen in the fields. His whole face lit up with his smile as he carefully came down the steps, his body slightly bent to one side by rheumatism.
“Praise the Lord, Mastah Ryan. You’re home safe and sound. We’ve missed you so much.”
He held his arms open wide, and Ryan stepped into them, returning his hug with gusto. “Willard, I missed you.” He quickly told Angele, in French, of course, “I’ve known Willard my whole life. He’s our butler, but he’s also a good friend.”
Willard blinked, confused over who she was and why she was there.
Ryan didn’t keep him wondering for long. “This is my wife, Willard. Her name is Angele, and she’s from France and doesn’t speak English yet, but she’ll learn quick. Till then, Clarice or I will interpret for her.”
“Yes, sir.” Willard’s head bobbed up and down. “Tell her I said ‘Welcome to BelleRose.’”
Ryan translated, and Angele nodded and smiled. Willard seemed like such a nice man. She longed to be able to tell him she hoped they would become friends and regretted, once again, the extent of her charade.
Ryan motioned Angele up the stairs as he asked Willard, “How is my father? Mr. Fordham said he was doing fine.”
“Well, Doctor Pardee seems to think he’s gettin’ along all right, but he still won’t leave his room. He sho has missed you. Every day he tells me to be sure and let him know if I see you comin’ down the road, but you surprised me. I was in the back, polishin’ silver, and one of the young’uns came runnin’ from the yard to tell me.”
“Polishing silver, eh? Has Clarice had a party while we were away?”
“No, but she’s been plannin’ to have one as soon as you get back. Now she’ll have a big reason—to introduce your new bride to everybody.”
Angele groaned inwardly at the thought. The last thing she wanted was a party before she pretended to quickly learn how to speak English. Otherwise, there would be more awkward moments than she cared to think about.
But her worries instantly faded as she began to turn around and around in the huge, circular foyer to look at the velvet-draped portraits of Tremayne ancestors. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling high above, and a curving stairway wrapped about the wall, which was covered in brilliant gold satin.
There was a parlor on one side, f
illed with furniture in brocade and cherrywood and mahogany. On the other, there was a huge ballroom. “You must really entertain a lot,” she remarked.
“Yes, we enjoy it, and we have a lot of friends.”
She already felt lost in the spaciousness of the house and asked how many rooms there were.
“As best I can recall without walking around counting, there are two dining rooms—one large for formal dinners, and then a small one for the family. Besides the ballroom, there are three parlors. This one”—he gestured to the one beside them—“and one that belonged to my mother, and one intended for any other Tremayne wife in the house—such as you.”
Angele knew that meant Clarice had taken over his mother’s parlor, but she didn’t care. She didn’t intend to spend her time sitting around in parlors, anyway.
“There’s also a library, sewing room, sun porch, and a couple of rooms where food is put after it’s brought in from the kitchen, which is outside. The family quarters are at each end of the second floor, and the third floor is for guests. Sometimes they travel a long way and spend the night after a party, and sometimes we invite people to stay the weekend, or longer.
“The fourth floor,” he continued, “is where Willard and Mammy Lou and some of the household servants sleep so they’ll be close by if they’re needed during the night.”
He walked toward the curving stairway and beckoned her to follow. “Now I’ll take you up to meet my father.”
“He’s asleep, Mastah Ryan,” Willard interjected. “I looked in on him a little while ago. He had a bad night, so I thought it’d be good for him to take a longer nap, but if you want me to, I’ll go wake him up.”
“No, no,” Ryan said quickly. “Let him sleep, and when he rings for you, let me know. Meanwhile, I’ll show Mrs. Tremayne around before I go out to meet the horses.”
“You found the horses you went to fetch,” Willard said. “I’m so glad.”
“And they’re beauties.”
Angele continued to look from one to the other, pretending not to understand.
Ryan held out his hand to her, started into the ballroom, but paused to ask Willard, “Where is Clarice, by the way?”
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