“I’m right here.”
Angele’s gaze snapped to the stairway, along with Ryan’s. Willard, she noted, went down the back hallway as fast as his rheumatism would allow.
Clarice Tremayne’s frosty blue eyes were squinched at the corners, and her forehead was knit in a frown. She was dressed elegantly in a soft pink taffeta dress, the bodice edged in lace and the sleeves tapering to points at her wrists. Pearls and matching earbobs complemented the dress, and her hair was sleekly drawn from her face and held by a snood.
“Welcome home, Ryan,” she said in perfectly enunciated French, all the while her gaze locked on Angele. “And who is your guest?”
“She’s not a guest,” Ryan said quietly. “She’s my wife.” Clarice’s hand lifted slightly from the gleaming mahogany banister, as though about to clutch her throat in horror. Instead, she managed to maintain her composure, and, cocking her head to one side, asked, “What did you say?”
Ryan clasped Angele’s hand to pull her forward. “I want you to meet my wife, Angele Benet Tremayne. We met in Paris, and it didn’t take long to realize we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, so we were married on board the ship when we sailed from Le Havre.”
Clarice stood perfectly still.
Ryan led Angele back across the foyer to wait for her to come down.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Clarice,” Angele offered.
For a moment, she thought Clarice was going to turn around and go back up the stairs without a word. It was hard to tell what she was thinking by the stunned look on her face.
“I know it has to be a big shock for you and everybody else,” Ryan said when the silence became awkward, “but Angele is going to make a fine wife, and I know the two of you will be good friends.”
Angele cringed inside as Clarice suddenly continued on down the stairs.
“Yes,” Clarice said with cool demeanor, mouth barely curved in a smile. “I’m sure we will.” She placed her fingertips on Angele’s shoulders in a stiff caress. “Welcome to our family, dear.”
When she kissed her cheek, it was all Angele could do to keep from shivering, for her lips were as cold as her eyes.
Ryan looked pleased.
“You are French?” Clarice asked tonelessly.
Ryan answered for her. “Yes, she is. She comes from a wonderful family. Very prominent. Very wealthy. Good blood. Our children will carry the Tremayne lineage proudly.”
Angele gritted her teeth to think how he sounded like he was talking about a brood mare.
He steered them into the parlor as he continued talking to Clarice. “I’m going to depend on you to teach her what she needs to know about plantation life, living in America…everything. I’m going to hire a tutor to teach her to speak English, but you can help with that, as well—”
Clarice froze. “You mean she can’t speak English? But all well-bred European girls these days speak fluent English.”
“Not all of them,” Ryan defended.
Angele was having a very hard time listening to them talk about her as though she weren’t even there, but, afraid she might say the wrong thing, kept out of it.
Clarice swept Angele with doubtful eyes. “And you say she comes from a prominent, wealthy family?”
Ryan slipped his arm around Angele’s waist, and in a voice laced with tension, declared, “She satisfies everything I ever wanted in a wife.”
Clarice gave a curt nod. “Very well. And you can rest assured I’ll do everything I can to help her adjust to her new life.”
Clarice went to a long, tasseled rope and gave it a yank. Within seconds, a round-faced and smiling Negro woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a plain gray muslin dress and had a bandanna tied around her head. As she stood expectantly with her hands folded across her round tummy, Angele smiled to think how she looked like a fat, happy apple.
“This is Mammy Lou,” Ryan told Angele, then explained to Mammy Lou that Angele was his new wife.
For an instant, Angele thought she was going to run across the room and hug her like Willard had Ryan. Instead, her smile spread to a grin that displayed the whitest teeth Angele had ever seen.
She began talking to her, saying how glad she was to meet her and how she hoped she would be happy, but Clarice crisply informed her that Angele didn’t understand what she was saying. “Now, bring us some lemonade. Ryan and his bride are probably thirsty after their ride.”
Angele seized on the opportunity to add to the conversation. “Actually, it wasn’t so long. I enjoyed it. The scenery was beautiful.”
Clarice settled on a lavender divan and fluffed her skirt about her. “Tell me about yourself,” she said bluntly.
Angele and Ryan took chains side by side. “There’s really nothing to tell,” she began. “I was an only child. My parents doted on me and kept me home to be with them. I had tutors, but there wasn’t one who knew English, and—”
Ryan cut in, “That doesn’t matter. We’re going to take care of that.”
Clarice persisted with the inquisition that Angele had anticipated and dreaded. “And your father? Tell me about him. Where was his estate? Who were some of your people? I might have heard of them. I was in Paris a few years ago.”
She hesitated, unsure of what to say, and couldn’t help stealing another glance at Ryan, who once more came to her rescue.
“Angele is an orphan. She still grieves for her parents and doesn’t like to talk about them.”
“I see.” Clarice pursed her lips.
Angele told herself it was only natural that Clarice would ask questions. Besides, it was good preparation for the encounter yet to come with Roussel Tremayne. Still, her first impression of Clarice was that she was not all pleased with the situation.
She was grateful when Ryan changed the subject. “I’ll be glad when Father wakes up. I’m anxious for him to meet Angele.”
Tonelessly, Clarice said, “Well, it’s best to let him get his rest. I like him to stay as quiet as possible. I just hope this isn’t too big a shock for him.”
“He has to know,” Ryan said with a shrug.
Mammy Lou brought the lemonade, but just then Willard came to say that Master Roussel was awake.
“I haven’t told him about your bride, sir, but I did tell him you’re home. He said for you to come right up. I’ve got him dressed and in his chair.”
Ryan stood, grabbed Angele’s hand, and pulled her with him. “Let’s go. I’ve got to hurry so I can get to the stables. After you meet him, Clarice can show you to your room.”
They were almost out the door when Clairce called, “And where would that be, Ryan? Do you want Corbett and me to move out of the north wing?”
He looked apologetic. “Actually, I think that would only be proper. The north wing is meant for the next heir to BelleRose, and I only gave it over to you and Corbett after Danny was born so you’d have more room. Do you mind?”
She said she didn’t, but Angele sensed that she actually did and quickly protested, “No, don’t ask them to move, Ryan. Anywhere is fine with me. I don’t need a whole wing.”
Ryan squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s tradition, and Clarice knows that as well as anybody. Now, let’s go.”
She looked over her shoulder, wanting to somehow convey to Clarice how truly sorry she was, but she had busied herself pouring lemonade.
Angele saw that her hands were trembling.
Roussel Tremayne sat in his favorite chair by the window. From there he could see the south lawns with their intricate patterns made by different shades of grass. He also had a view of the road leading up to the house, and he sat there as majestically as any king had ever surveyed a kingdom.
He barked out a command to enter when Ryan knocked on the door. His lips parted in greeting, but then his eyes fell on Angele.
Ryan didn’t give him a chance to ask who she was. He led her straight to him. “This is my wife. Her name is Angele.”
Roussel stared her up and down.
<
br /> His expression was impassive. Angele couldn’t tell if he was shocked or angry, but she refused to glance away when his eyes boldly met hers as though in challenge. She even lifted her chin ever so slightly in the hope he could tell she was not afraid of him or anyone else…even though she felt as if she had swallowed butterflies and they were fluttering about in her stomach.
She wished Ryan would say something else, but he was obviously waiting for his father to make the next move. It was not long in coming.
“You’re beautiful,” Roussel said matter-of-factly. “I can see why my son married you. Are you French?”
“I was born in Paris,” she lied.
“Are you educated?”
At last, Ryan interceded. “Not as much as I would like. Her parents loved her so much they wouldn’t let her go away to school. But she’s intelligent. She’ll learn fast. And she has the necessary social graces.”
Angele bit back a chuckle. Ryan was probably patting himself on the back for that, because he had coached her all the way across the Atlantic. Actually, it had been harder for her to pretend ignorance than learning had ever been.
Roussel leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the arms as he continued to rake her with almost insolent eyes. Angele still didn’t glance away, for she was doing some perusing of her own. He had a stern face, and though his eyes were piercing, alert, there was a kindness in their rheumy blue depths. His hair was white but still thick. No baldness among the Tremayne men. He had wide shoulders like Ryan, though they were stooped with age. She could tell he had probably been quite handsome once, and even now he was appealing in a mature sort of way.
But she couldn’t yet determine whether she would come to like Roussel Tremayne, for something told her he was a man who would not be easy to know.
“How did you meet?” he asked curtly, coldly.
Ryan started to speak, but Roussel waved him to silence. “Let her speak, goddamn it.”
Without thinking of the consequences, Angele cried, “Sir, there is no need to be profane.”
She heard Ryan’s soft groan and saw how the old man’s eyes narrowed. But she faced him, undaunted.
Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud, then looked Ryan straight in the eye and said, “I like her. Hell, yes, I like her. She’s got pepper in her blood, like Tremayne women are supposed to have. By damn”—he slapped his knee—“you can keep her…with my blessings.”
And in that moment, as Angele saw the twinkle in his eye and basked in his genuine grin of welcome, her reservations faded and she knew that she would come to like this man a lot.
“Why do you even care if he got married?” Roscoe asked Corbett. “You knew he would sooner or later.”
“Yes, you idiot,” Corbett snapped, “but I’d planned for him to marry Clarice’s cousin, remember? Then I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”
“What makes you think you have to now? Ryan isn’t going to let her take over and run you off once the old man is gone.”
“Don’t be so sure. She might get rid of you, too.”
Roscoe’s brows snapped together. “I sure as hell hope not. I make more money here than I could anywhere else. Besides that, I like my job.”
“If it’s up to me, you’ll keep it, but the new Mrs. Tremayne might have other ideas. It just so happens that she’s against slavery. If she had her way, they’d all be paid for their work and come and go as they please.”
Roscoe stared at him incredulously. “You don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it. I’ve already had to warn her to keep her mouth shut.”
Roscoe’s frown deepened. “That could lead to trouble, but I don’t know what you can do about it. After all, he loved her enough to marry her. All we can do is hope for the best. Maybe if you try to get along with her—”
“Don’t be a ninny. Of course I get along with her. But as for Ryan loving her, that’s a laugh.”
Roscoe was looking even more perplexed. “I just don’t understand any of this.”
Corbett put an arm around his shoulders. “You will, my friend, after you hear what I have to tell you about Ryan’s bride.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I can’t stand her, I tell you. How could you have let this happen?”
Corbett watched Clarice stomp about the room. Two weeks had passed since he and Ryan had returned from France, and she was still ranting about Angele. “You were there. You could have stopped him. Do you realize what this means? When your uncle dies, we’ll be homeless. That little tart will see to it Ryan kicks us out. Just you wait and see.”
He scowled at the thought. “I’ve told you a hundred times, we’re going to find a way to get rid of her. Ryan didn’t marry her because he loved her, for heaven’s sake, so it won’t take much to make him see he made a mistake.”
“Don’t count on it. Have you seen how she fawns over him? It’s sickening.”
“She’s just buttering him up because now that she’s seen BelleRose, she’s going to do everything she can to hang on to him.”
Clarice whirled about and threw herself in a chair. She hated the rooms on the third floor. She was not a guest. She was matriarch of BelleRose and would fight tooth and nail to remain so. “I still can’t believe he’d marry a common thief. There’s no telling what she’s capable of doing. I’m afraid to leave my good jewelry lying around, or anything else that might be valuable. She’s liable to steal all she can and then run away.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be that lucky. But maybe I’ll soon hear from that man I told you about—the one I hired in Paris to see what he could find out about her. Maybe he’ll have something that will make Ryan want to run her off.”
“I doubt that if taking her out of prison didn’t make any difference, nothing will.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” he snapped. “And stop nagging about it and try to get along with her.”
“That”—she pointed a finger at him, cheeks blazing—“will never happen. I am not going to patronize her. And aren’t you forgetting about Denise? She’s my cousin, Corbett, and her heart is breaking because you weren’t smart enough to stop your cousin from marrying a strumpet.”
He gave a sarcastic snort. “The only thing that could ever bother Denise would be not finding a man to take to bed whenever she feels like it. And from what I hear, that hasn’t been a problem so far.”
Clarice was aghast. “How dare you say such a thing?”
“It’s true, and you know it. I’m surprised Ryan never found out.”
“We have to get them back together.”
“I know, but we’ve also got to be careful if he gets suspicious, he won’t believe anything we say against Angele.”
“I still say you shouldn’t have let him marry her in the first place.”
“When have you ever known him to listen to me?” Corbett challenged. “The only reason I get along with him, anyway, is because I’m always buttering him up, and I’m tired of that, too. I’m also sick of having to ask for money when I want something. Hell, the artisans are treated better than I am. They do get paid a little for their work, but that’s only one step above slavery.”
Clarice laughed. “Now who’s being dramatic?”
Ignoring her, he mused out loud, “I wonder how it would be if we both tried to get along with her? If she wound up liking us, she’d let us stay when the old man is gone.”
Clarice was quick to nip that notion in the bud. “Don’t you dare start thinking that way, Corbett. There’s only one woman who’s going to run this house, and that’s me. Denise agreed with it, too. She said she had no interest in taking over my duties, but I thrive on them, and you know it.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He waved a hand in front of his face, wishing he could wave her out of his sight He was worn out from her constant harangue over Angele. “But I think we should concentrate on figuring out a solution to the problem instead of whining about it, and—”
There was a k
nock on the door, and a soft, hesitant voice called, “Miz Clarice? It’s me—Mammy Lou. I have something to tell you.”
Clarice walked to the door and yanked it open. “Well, what is it? You know I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m resting.”
Lou bowed her head contritely. “Yes’m. I know that. But you also told me to let you know if Miss Angele got to messin’ around in your tea kitchen.”
Clarice frowned. The tea kitchen was where light refreshments were prepared for her drop-in guests or when Uncle Roussel wanted an afternoon snack. Special fine china had been imported from England, crystal from Ireland, and a silver coffee service from Spain. Everything was kept polished and gleaming. Even the linens were rare, brought from Belgium and starched and pressed to perfection. It was not a room where she wanted someone of questionable background to be.
“So? What is she doing there?” Clarice asked waspishly.
“She said Mastah Roussel invited her to have tea with him this afternoon, and she wanted to fix it herself.
“They sure are gettin’ along good.” Mammy Lou smiled, but the smile instantly faded when she saw the look on her mistress’s face.
Clarice didn’t like how Roussel had taken a fancy to Angele. He even wanted a ball held in her honor as soon as the arrangements could be made.
“She’s been spending a lot of time with him, hasn’t she?” Corbett remarked.
Clarice ignored him, because a plan was starting to take shape. Tapping her chin with her forefinger, she walked to the window to stare out at nothing in particular as she asked her, “Has she already finished?”
“No, ma’am. She got the tea to brewin’ and went to the kitchen out back to wait for the cookies I was makin’ to get done. They’re takin’ a long time, though. I can’t get the oven hot enough ’cause there ain’t no firewood. All the men folk have been called to the fields ’cause the cotton is ripenin’ so early. There ain’t nobody to chop wood.”
Corbett bounded to his feet as he said to Clarice, “I’ll go tell Roscoe to see that it’s taken care of.”
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