“But all that sewing, Tante! You must have been working every spare minute.”
Tante thrust out her jaw but her voice had a muffled quality that stung Rachel into self-reproach. “I pleasured in doing it, child, thinking how nice you’d look, how happy you’d be. Besides, the grannies of those children you’re teaching wanted to help with the stitching. I didn’t do much.”
Completely undone, Rachel knelt and threw her arms around the older woman. “Oh, Tante, you can’t imagine how beautiful the dresses are to me, both of them! I never dreamed of having anything so lovely. But I didn’t see how I could be more expense to Mr. Harry.”
“Well, there wasn’t a copper out of his pocket. Go try a gown, honey, and let’s see how I guessed your fit.” Tante grinned. “There’s still all that material to make up.”
The dresses fitted exactly, for Tante had an uncanny eye for measurements, and within two weeks, with Rachel helping and her pupils’ grandmothers making seams and hems, three more gowns hung in the rosewood armoire, a silvery green muslin, a blue stripe set off by white ruffles and a crisp brown gingham The sheer voile and lace for the party dress was filmy ecru and this Tante would not allow anyone but herself to touch.
“No hurry on it,” she said. “But when it’s time for a party I mean for you to have the most scrumptious gown there.”
The end of July came, and with it the humidity and the overpowering richness of summer blooms. Rachel had been over six weeks at Gloryoak, and though she missed the lake and deep woodlands, though this was not the life she would have chosen, she felt safe and often happy with Harry and Tante Estelle, and teaching the children was a constant revelation and challenge She knew she should prod Harry to find her a school or position but shrank from the prospect of beginning a new life among total strangers.
Though Harry had kept his word and hadn’t spoken directly of love, his gaze sometimes rested on her with such longing that Rachel felt herself weakening. But apart from her own fear of marriage, she couldn’t give him what he expected and deserved. She would have to leave. Only not yet.
Then Tom. the youngest Bourne, came home, riding up to Gloryoak one twilight with his servant who took the horses on to the stables. Spraddling like someone who’d ridden a long way, the blond young man came up the steps to the veranda, stopping by one of the great cypress pillars to cock his head at Harry and Rachel.
“Behold the prodigal, elder brother!” He peered at Rachel. Even in the dim light, his eyes showed blue as untroubled summer sky. “Why, Harry, you sly dog! Can it be you’ve married this enchanting lady while I was too far away to give you competition?”
“Rachel, may I present my brother Thomas?” said Harry. His manner carried reproof. “Tom, Miss Delys is our very honored guest. You will remember her father, your tutor, who passed away several months ago.”
The young man’s rather stocky well-built frame seemed to stiffen before he came over to Rachel. Bowing very low, he took her hand and kissed it.
“Indeed, Gloryoak is honored by such beauty.”
Rachel scarcely heard the veiled mockery in his tone, sat frozen, mind whirling while Tom called for a drink and the brothers exchanged news. The moment Tom touched her, she had known, her flesh had crept at the remembered brutality of those fingers.
He had been the leader of the masked men. He had raped her and killed Etienne. She should scream it out.
And thus repay Harry?
But it was intolerable, unbearable, that the devil should live, swagger past Etienne’s grave. She must avenge her love. But how? She knew some poisons but rejected that method along with tampering with his saddle cinch and similar underhanded tricks.
If she were a man, she could duel with him. If? Why not anyway?
Harry wouldn’t allow it if he knew. There must be no way for Tom to evade or refuse. If some confused sense of honor prevented his shooting at a woman though he’d had no qualms about rape, that was his bad luck.
Tante, alerted by Selah, who had brought Tom’s drink, flurried out now to embrace and pet the youngest Bourne. Another good person who mustn’t know of what he was capable. Rachel steeled herself against the pain Harry and Tante Estelle would feel if she succeeded in killing Tom, leaving the body to be discovered, dead by an unknown hand. Such a tragedy could be mourned and endured, but if Harry knew what his brother had done, he might kill him himself, or suffer deep shame.
It was so strange to sit on the veranda beneath the great glory oak and plan to ride after the young man opposite one day soon, invite him into the woods—he’d come, she was sure of that—and then tell him to fight or be shot. There were two sets of handsome dueling pistols in the library, kept in velvet-lined caskets. It shouldn’t be difficult to take a pistol, use, clean and put it back before it was missed. And she must do it soon, before fury at Tom’s cool assurance, his hypocritical gallantry, drove her into some outburst.
“Lovely ladies shouldn’t have thoughts dismal enough to make them frown,” Tom was chiding. “Penny for them, Miss Delys?”
“Why, sir,” she said, managing a smile though her teeth hurt her lips. “They’re worth your life.”
“Too high,” he laughed. “I must rest content with my drink.”
And I with two aims, Rachel thought. To kill you, handsome young man, as you killed Etienne. And to protect these good people from knowing why you died.
Though he was overtly flattering at breakfast and luncheon the next day, Tom ripped the veil of pretense that afternoon when he found Rachel alone in the library, where she had gone to examine the pistols. As the door creaked, she moved quickly away from the walnut cabinet where they were kept and was studying the dictionary when Tom came over to her.
“So here you are snug at Gloryoak,” he said. “And when you’re suitably consoled for the loss of your Cajun sweetheart, no doubt you’ll make a very good thing of my noble brother’s mooning.”
His eyes were so innocently bland she could scarcely credit what he’d said. Burning with hatred, she forged her words slowly. “You aren’t pretending, then, that you didn’t break in, kill Etienne and—”
“Pursue fair game?” he supplied. “And you’re still fair game Rachel, for you took care not to tell Harry everything that happened. He’s besotted, but not to the point of overlooking your rollicks with that Cajun.”
“I’ve refused to marry your brother.”
“Extremely clever of you, my dear. You’ve whetted him to fever pitch. When you at last succumb to his ardor. he’ll feel he’s won a prize.”
“You filthy cur!”
“Perhaps, but I can sniff a hot bitch when I find her. We can deal well together, my pretty, if you’ll be obliging. In return, I won’t tell Harry about you.” Tom laughed uproariously. “Sober old Harry, head over heels and set on marrying you, as he told me at boring length last night. Think of him dazzled by a hussy out of the swamps when he’s been chased by every belle in three counties!”
“Tell Harry what you please. I’ll not marry him.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to gull me,” he said coarsely, rounding the table, catching her wrist. “You need some lessons, but with them you’ll prove, I’m bound, the juiciest trollop between here and New Orleans.”
Dragging her close, he drove his body against her, savaged her mouth with his, probed with his tongue till she choked with revulsion. Her arms were clamped against his chest and her useless struggles to wrest free only made him laugh and thrust his hand into her bodice, roughly stroking her breasts.
Panic drowned her consciousness; she didn’t know what was happening till suddenly she was free, thrown off balance by Tom’s being hurtled to one side. He fell under Harry’s sledging blow, crouched there, moving his head dazedly.
“Are you mad?” Harry panted.
Tom lunged up, putting the table between them. Blood trickled from his mouth, and he spat out a piece of tooth on the Aubusson carpet. “Not as mad as you, dear brother. I’ve the wit to know a w
hore.”
Harry flushed crimson, then went white. “I’d kill you for that,” he said, “if I hadn’t been your guardian since Father died and must therefore hold myself somewhat accountable for your behavior. You’ll apologize to Miss Delys, pack immediately, and stay away from Gloryoak till amended behavior shows you fit company for decent people.”
“Decent!” Tom jeered. “God, she’s fooled you! If you’d seen her with that Cajun—”
Harry recoiled. Tom broke off, realizing too late the admission in his words.
“You were one of the masked men,” charged Harry. “You—you helped kill that young man, our own blood nephew!”
“If you claim kin to all Old Matthew’s whoring offshoots, we’d be kin to half the high yellows around here,” drawled Tom. At the disbelieving anger in his brother’s face, he added hastily, “I didn’t mean to kill the fellow, Harry! But he attacked me. I had to defend myself!”
“When you had broken into the Delyses’ home?”
“We just stopped for a drink and a bite of dinner.”
“In masks?” Harry shook his head. “It won’t serve, Tom. You’ll have to stand trial.”
“Damned if I will!” cried Tom. “It was an accident! And if that slut hadn’t been hugging her Cajun with her tits spilling out—”
Harry sprang around the table, knocked Tom across the room Tom scrambled up, and as Harry followed, Tom snatched a marble bookend from a stand and crashed it against his brother’s head. Harry went down with a groan. Engulfed in what seemed like a nightmare repetition of Etienne’s murder, Rachel screamed and ran forward, raising Harry’s limp form.
“Tante!” she wailed. “Selah!”
Tom had already vanished.
When Selah heard what had happened, his face grew terrible, and he ran from the room without any orders Rachel held Harry while Tante brought wet towels to hold against the swelling blood-edged weal above Harry’s temple.
“My God, my God,” the brothers’ nurse moaned. “Now, why’d the boy do a thing like this? Mr. Harry! Mr. Harry, honey, can’t you say something?”
One of the maids ran in with a glass of brandy. Propping Harry up, Tante and Rachel got a small swallow down him. “Tell one of the men to ride hard for the doctor,” Tante commanded the gaping maid. “’Case Selah hasn’t.”
Rachel was sure Harry’s devoted body servant had gone after Tom but didn’t say so. Whether Tom escaped or not seemed unimportant beside Harry’s well-being. His heart was beating, wasn’t it? But she could hardly breathe herself until his eyelids flickered.
He stared at her and Tante in a baffled way for an instant. Then his jaw snapped shut and he tried to jump up, wavered and let the women support him for a moment before he gritted his teeth and demanded, “Where is he?”
“Run off,” keened Tante, weeping. “Plumb run off! Mr. Harry, what in the world was you two arguin’ about to get in such a passion? You never hit either of your brothers your whole life long, though Lord knows they sometimes both of ’em deserved it! What got into you?”
Through this mournful plaint, Harry had been visibly pulling himself together. Now he freed himself of both women, though even in his stunned outrage he looked compassionately at Tante.
“Tom’s killed a man, Tante. I’ve got to try to find him.”
“Lord have mercy!” Tante caught at Harry but he slipped through her clutching fingers and hurried out. In a moment the alarm bell began to toll from the veranda. Tante turned blindly to Rachel.
“What happened, child?”
Rachel explained as briefly as she could. Tante sat down with her face in her hands. “Tom was always getting into scrapes,” she grieved, “but I always prayed he’d never do anything really bad. So he’s killed your poor young man! And his brother’s after him like hounds ’cause Mr. Harry’s a stern one for the law.” Tante lifted stricken eyes to Rachel. “Tom and the others broke in on you and Mr. Etienne, but what’d they do after—after Tom knocked him down? Honey, you tell me! What’d they do?”
Rachel stood moving her head back and forth. She couldn’t say it. But Tante knew. With a moan she gathered Rachel in her arms and held her like a baby.
Harry and the searching force he had organized had not returned. Tante sent one of the boys to tell Dr. Martin that his patient was presumably all right and then she’d insisted on Rachel’s drinking mint tea and bundled her into bed. Rachel submitted because she meant to steal away from Gloryoak before Harry returned. She had brought misfortune and shame to the man she most admired and valued. It was impossible to accept his protection any longer. As soon as Tante was well out of the room, Rachel slipped out of bed and began to put her few belongings in a shawl, resolutely ignoring the pretty new dresses.
It took less than half an hour to leave the room looking as if she’d never been there except for the dresses in the armoire and the notes she’d written for Harry and Tante, thanking them for being so good to her, telling them not to worry, that she was going to relations. That was a lie, of course, which they probably wouldn’t credit since she’d told them she had no close kindred, but they might believe she had some remote great-aunt in reserve.
Old Bess and the cow had been brought in for safekeeping at Gloryoak, the mare retired to pasture, and Rachel, with her small bundle, hesitated. Should she take Bess or travel on foot? She didn’t know where to go. Harry, even Tom, might look for her at Tristesse, and Harry was sure to inquire about her from Tante Aurore with whom Rachel was disinclined to seek refuge.
Where then? With great effort, she concentrated on that. No time now to seek a teaching position, and Harry would find her if she looked for work around Jefferson.
She must go in the other direction, where, she remembered vaguely from remarks of Bradford’s, there were a few small settlements. Perhaps she could work at an inn in exchange for her lodging, or pledge Bess for later payment after she had found a place.
That hope, but even more a clinging to Bess as the one familiar living tie to her home and father, prompted Rachel to go quietly out of the house, taking the long way around to the pastures to avoid Tante’s sharp eye. She wished she could tell the children goodbye, but if they tagged her they’d be able to tell Harry which way she’d gone, cut down on the lead she needed. Bess was grazing under an apple tree at the edge of the field, switching flies and enjoying the blessings of retirement, so sleek and plump that her ridged backbone seemed less prominent.
Going into the stables, Rachel was beginning to think her old saddle had been thrown out when she found it hanging in a corner, most respectfully oiled, but also in retirement, the worn bridle looped over the horn, the ancient blanket folded neatly across a beam. Harry must have given strict orders about her gear or the stablehands’ pride would never have tolerated such dilapidation.
Collecting her things, Rachel dropped the saddle and blanket just outside the stable along with her bundle, entered the pasture with the bridle and was greeted with affection if not delight by Bess, who came to meet her and looked a bit reproachful when Rachel followed her usual petting and praise by slipping on the bridle.
“Sorry, old girl. Just get me away from here and I’ll do my best to see you don’t have to work hard.”
Bess snorted but came peaceably, and within a few minutes Rachel was mounted and making for the nearest fringe of woodland. She’d get out of sight as quickly as possible and pick up the road afterward.
Now that she was on her way she had time to wonder if Harry would catch his brother, scarcely knew what she hoped. Certainly she wanted Tom punished, would do it herself if she got a chance, but it would agonize Harry to hand Tom over to the law. Tom doubtless would get off by pleading self-defense unless she testified about the circumstances and that he’d raped her. In which case Harry would see her, and the hurts she’d already caused him would be multiplied.
Rachel sighed wearily. If they didn’t reach shelter by nightfall, she’d have to sleep in the woods. That wouldn’t have bothered her on
ce. Now she dreaded the possibility and thought mournfully how glad she’d be if Etienne were alive again and asked her to go anywhere with him. But she only felt that because he was dead because she could never again be the wild spirit whose best delight had been “to walken in the wodes wilde.”
A man appeared in front of her. For a moment she thought it was Etienne, called back by her wish, but then her startled glance saw hazel eyes, light brown hair, a bruised forehead.
“Rachel!” said Harry. “Rachel, my love.”
IV
Never in all her life had she been so glad to see anyone, but the rush of joy was followed by the sinking realization that she wasn’t what he thought; she couldn’t give him sexual love, and at the same time she wasn’t a virgin.
Holding Bess’s bridle, he closed his free hand over both of Rachel’s. “As soon as Tante makes your wedding gown, we’re going to be married.”
Rachel shook her head. “Harry, please. I’m not the kind of wife you should have.”
“You’re the only one I want.” His mouth curved whimsically. “And you can’t say I’m not old enough to know my mind.”
She had to smile at that but then repeated. “No, Harry.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Come down where we can discuss this properly,” he said.
Before she knew what he was about, he had her out of the saddle, looped Bess’s reins about a stump, and drew Rachel against him. Rigid at first, ready to battle, she gradually calmed in the comforting circle of his arms, the slow deep beat of his heart making her aware of the strength and life in him.
“Let’s see if I can guess why you refuse. You don’t love me in a romantic way? I can handle that, my sweet. It’s natural you should grieve for your first love but as our life together deepens, you’ll live in the present—live with me.”
A Woman Clothed in Sun Page 5