by Jane Toombs
She watched in fear as Micah stripped, his gaze never leaving her long enough to give her a chance to escape over the footboard. Naked, he advanced on her, still wary, a wounded animal returning to the attack. An animal certain of victory. She realized she couldn't stop him from ravishing her—he was too big, too strong. Yet she would never give in.
I'll fight him. Bite him. Scratch him. Kick him. I'll scar and hurt him, tear at his bloody wound with my fingers. By God, no man will have me against my will. Not as long as there's a breath of life left in me.
Micah knelt on the edge of the bed, looming over her as she crouched against the wall. She felt the heat of him and sensed his rage, his blind fury, his hate.
Someone knocked at the door.
Micah jerked and his head cocked, listening. He turned to stare across the room. Breeze billowed the window curtains, causing the candle flame to flicker.
The knocking came again.
"Mary! Mary Vere!"
As she screamed, she thought she recognized the man's voice, but was unable to identify its owner. Micah leaped at her, his large hand clamping down on her mouth. She tried to bite his flesh, but he held her jaws apart so she couldn't. His naked body, hot and sweating, pushing down on her. She cringed away.
No further sound came from the hallway. The night outside her room was quiet. The house creaked, the candle on the table glowed with a steady flame.
Had her last chance for rescue had passed her by?
Micah chuckled.
Then a thud came from the hallway, changing his chuckle into a curse. Whoever had called her name had slammed his shoulder against the door. After a pause came another thud and a wrenching as the bolt tore partially free. Again a pause, then another assault on the door. The bolt ripped from the wood of the frame, the door flew open and Philippe Manigault burst into the room, stumbling and almost falling.
He recovered and stared at the naked couple on the bed, his eyes blinking, his silver hair in disarray. He wore a gray topcoat and gray gloves.
"Let her go,” he said to Micah.
"Get out,” Micah blustered. “This here's none of your concern."
Philippe's hand slid inside his coat, reappearing with a derringer. He pointed the small gun at Micah. “Retrieve your clothing and go. Now!"
Micah released his grip on Mary, pushed himself from the bed and slowly picked up his shirt and pants from the floor, with Philippe watching his every move. Hearing a sound from the hall, Mary, her hands crossed over her breasts, looked past Philippe. Esau stood in the doorway.
"Philippe,” she cried, “behind you!"
Philippe swung around. Seeing his chance, Micah sprang at him, seizing his wrist and twisting. The derringer dropped to the floor, and Micah kicked it toward the door. Esau knelt and recovered the gun. As he was straightening, he paused and, still in a crouch, edged a few feet to his right, where he picked up the knife in his other hand.
Micah pushed Philippe away from him. Esau tossed his brother the knife. Micah caught it by the handle and, holding the knife in his right hand, he took the candle in his left and advanced on Philippe.
"What do you intend?” Esau asked his brother.
"I aim to find out if that pretty beard of his'll burn.” Micah raised the knife until the tip touched Philippe's throat. “Now you just hold still while I conduct my little experiment,” he told him.
Philippe's eyes widened in terror, his sallow face glistening with sweat.
Mary eased from the bed, raced across the room and leaped on Micah's back, hooking an arm around his neck. He tried to shrug her off, but she clung to him, her bare flesh slipping and sliding on his, while her knees dug into his sides. She felt the warm wetness of blood from his wound along one of her legs. Micah grunted in pain.
A hand grasped Mary's hair and pulled her head cruelly back until she released her hold on Micah. She fell to the floor and Esau, one hand still gripping her hair, pulled her away from his brother. He held the gun ready in his other hand.
"Go ahead,” he told Micah, nodding toward Philippe, who was crouched against the wall.
"I might've known you'd stir up a hornet's nest one way or another."
Mary, like the twins, stared at the doorway where Jeremy Johnston stood, looking across the room at Philippe.
She gasped. Philippe straightened and began brushing off his coat. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” he said.
Esau released Mary's hair, swung about and backed to the sidewall, where he stood with the gun trained on Jeremy's chest. The naked Micah, knife in hand, stepped away from Philippe, set the candle back on the table and faced the door.
Jeremy, one hand extended, said, “Give me the derringer,” to Esau, walking casually toward him,
"Stay where you are,” Esau warned. “It'll be self-defense if I have to shoot you."
Jeremy kept moving, paying no heed. Esau's hand tensed. His finger tightened on the trigger and the gun's hammer clicked home. Mary screamed, only belatedly realizing there'd been no shot.
"The gun's not loaded,” Jeremy said. His fist lashed out, the blow striking Esau's chin and snapping the blond man's head back and to one side. Esau crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor, eyes closed.
Jeremy turned and advanced on Micah. He's a knight, brave and strong and unafraid, Mary thought as she pulled the quilt from the bed to cover herself.
"Why don't you hand me the knife, sir?” Philippe asked the naked twin. “Before my friend deals with you as he did your brother."
Backing away, one hand to his wounded side, Micah glanced from Philippe to Jeremy, then took the knife's blade between his thumb and forefinger and proffered it to Philippe.
"Careful,” Philippe said, taking the bloody knife and holding it well away from his body. “I had this coat cleaned only last week."
"Take your brother and clear out,” Jeremy told Micah.
Micah picked up his pants and started to put them on.
"The pants can wait,” Jeremy said. “I can't. Get out."
Holding his pants and shirt in one hand, Micah grasped Esau beneath the shoulders and started dragging him to the door. Jeremy crossed the room, picked Esau up in his arms and deposited him across his brother's shoulders. Micah staggered out of the room, and a few moments later Mary heard him making his way down the narrow stairs.
"I hope they both fall and break their necks,” she muttered.
"Precisely my sentiments,” Philippe agreed as he picked up Micah's shoes. Holding them gingerly, he went into the hall and tossed them down the stairs.
"We left the carriage farther down the road so as not to arouse suspicion,” Jeremy said.
"But how did you know—” she began.
"We didn't."
Though confused at what he'd said, she said, “I can never thank you enough."
"Don't thank me. It was Philippe's idea to come here for you, not mine."
Grateful as she was they had come, Mary felt a rush of disappointment that it hadn't been his idea. “Come for me?” she echoed. “I don't understand."
"Didn't I tell you she was a beauty?” Philippe asked, reentering the room. “Even undressed she retains a certain fresh piquancy and maidenly charm. But garb her in silks and satins ... ah, then she'll be the belle of the ball, the mistress of all she surveys. The young gentlemen of Montgomery will compete to pay her homage.” He turned to Mary. “If you'll get dressed and come along with us, I guarantee you'll take Montgomery by storm."
She looked from Philippe to Jeremy, clutching the quilt closer about herself. “I still don't understand."
"You're to travel with us,” Philippe told her. “It's my intent to instruct you in the social graces, so I can present you as a lady of fashion at the Gentleman's Friendly Society's Annual Ball."
She could hardly believe Philippe wanted her to go with him. This, after she'd planned to hide in the boot of their carriage.
"What if I don't choose to go?” she asked.
<
br /> "Then I'll lose my wager with Jeremy, who maintains that a transformation from rural rustic to gentlewoman in two weeks time is impossible. Which, of course, might be the truth if someone in your early years hadn't taught you how to speak properly. More importantly, if you refuse, you'll lose the opportunity of a lifetime. Afterwards, if it is your desire, you'll be able to return here and resume your duties. Yet, for as long as you live, you'll savor the knowledge you were once the belle of the ball in Montgomery. How many young ladies, servants or otherwise, will be able to say that? Well, don't stand there gaping at me. Are you coming with us or not?"
"Yes, yes, I'll come. If you'll only let me get dressed."
"Of course.” Philippe bowed and he and Jeremy left the room.
Mary sponged the blood from her leg and hands as quickly as she could, dressed, and put on her only pair of shoes. She packed her bag, hiding her small cache of coins at the bottom. Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her hair, staring at herself in bemusement. She, Mary Vere, was going to Montgomery! And after that? After the ball? Well, the future would just have to take care of itself until she found her father.
"Ready?” Philippe asked from the hall.
Hastily cramming on a bonnet, she picked up her bag, then set it down again. Rowena. She knelt to peer under the bed and coaxed the cat out, placed her in the cat basket, snuffed the candle and, carrying bag and basket, joined the two men in the hallway. Jeremy, she saw, now carried a lantern. As she looked down the twisty staircase, she thought of the twins.
"Will they come back?” she asked.
Obviously aware of who she meant, Jeremy said, “I doubt it. If they do, we're ready for them. I had Philippe load his gun."
Philippe removed his coat and draped it around Mary's shoulders, saying. “Your cloak, my lady. I see you already have your fur.” He nodded toward the cat. Reaching into his pocket he brought forth a magnolia blossom. “And this is your crown, my lady.” He tucked it into her bonnet.
Jeremy, lantern in hand, started down the stairs. Mary stood as tall as she could, but still Philippe's coat swept across the floor as she started to follow Jeremy. She paused at the top of the steps and turned to Philippe with tears in her eyes.
"Thank you for saving me. And for taking me with you."
He held up his hand. “No need to thank me. It's fate.” He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a gold watch. Opening the cover, he smiled at her. “Look."
Both of the watch's hands pointed straight up.
"Midnight,” Philippe said dramatically. With a sweep of his arm he motioned her to precede him. “My princess,” he said, “my Cinderella, your coach awaits you."
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER 3
"Now,” Philippe said, “try it once more. Not so low this time, if you please."
"I'm so tired, Philippe,” Mary said.
"I'm as exhausted as you, God knows, but you must do it right or we're lost before we begin. Go ahead. I'm waiting."
She held her skirts and curtsied, head up and smiling brightly, as he'd taught her. Her face felt stiff from smiling when she had naught to smile about.
"That's better,” Philippe told her. “Now the fan."
Mary fluttered her fan. “No, no, no. You're not brushing away flies. Turn your wrist gracefully when you use your fan.” He demonstrated.
"Didn't you tell me a lady expresses herself with her fan? That when I was bored I should fan myself slowly and when I was impatient I should do it like this?” She fanned herself with short, swift strokes. “Well, I am impatient. I'll never get it right. Your scheme to make a lady of me is hopeless. The ball is tomorrow night, and I'm not at all ready. I'll be found out the minute I enter the ballroom—if not before."
"Nonsense. Are you saying that I, Philippe Manigault, was wrong? That I possess no gift of discernment? That I can't tell a purse from a sow's ear? Perhaps I've been too hard on you, too much in a hurry. If only we'd had a few months in which to prepare you rather than a few days. But, c'est la vie. Come, I will permit you to take your ease for a short time."
He offered her his arm and escorted her to a small table near the pergola's railing. They were alone, though the upper stories of Montgomery's Addison House were visible through the trees surrounding the small, open-sided building and, when the soft spring breeze blew from the right direction, they heard the rise and fall of voices coming from the hotel's verandah.
"I'm so awkward,” Mary said after a swallow of her lemonade. “I feel as though my hands and feet were twice their normal size."
"Sip the lemonade, don't gulp it,” Philippe told her.
"You see,” she said, setting down the glass. “I've made another mistake. I should've taken off my glove."
"Not so. That's up to you, my dear, to do or not as you choose. But at supper you must always remember to remove one of your gloves."
"Remember one glove at supper,” Mary repeated. “Don't despair, I'll remember. I'll do it right. I have to. I've always told myself I can do anything I set my mind to, and I can. I'll show them all. I'll prove I'm as good as they are. I'm tired of these women at the hotel with all their superior airs."
"I have every confidence in you, Mary. You'll be the belle of the ball. All you have to do is believe in Philippe Manigault. Trust him. If you have difficulties, he'll be there to help you."
"I do believe in you. You and Jeremy. He'll be at the ball, too, won't he?"
"Jeremy, always Jeremy. Wherever our conversation begins, it ends with Jeremy. Yes, I expect he will."
"I've seen little of him since we've been in Montgomery. He seems so busy, always meeting with this merchant or that banker."
Philippe took her gloved hand in his. “You like Jeremy a great deal, don't you?” he asked softly.
Mary couldn't identify what she saw in his light brown eyes. Sadness? Perhaps. Despair? Surely not. Certainly not jealousy, for Philippe had paid her only the most perfunctory and gentlemanly attentions, outside of his instructing her, during their week's stay at Addison House.
"I like him well enough, I suppose,” she said, “but I don't know for certain because I hardly ever see him. He goes out of his way to avoid me."
Philippe released her hand and stood up. Walking back to the rail of the pergola, he stared into the trees, his back to her.
"Jeremy's an extraordinarily enterprising young business man,” he said without turning. “I wouldn't be surprised to see him extremely wealthy before he's thirty. That's his goal—money. A great deal of money in a very short time. He has shares in California mines, as well as interests in several mercantile establishments in San Francisco. You might say he has banking interests there as well.” She thought his voice sounded odd as he said the last several words, but without seeing his expression she couldn't be sure.
Philippe had told her earlier that the two of them had journeyed to New York to settle Jeremy's father's estate after the older man's unexpected death.
"But what is he, really?” she asked.
"A miner. Basically, he's a miner."
"You mean a prospector?"
"No, a miner. He develops what the prospector discovers."
"And you, Philippe?"
"I'm afraid I'm like the tail of a comet, a great deal of show without much substance. I'm the one who's noticed, but without Jeremy Johnston...” He left the sentence unfinished.
Mary rose, crossed to him and gently touched his arm. “That's not true,” she said. “You're every bit as good as he is."
"Ah, what do you know of it, my Cinderella? I'm a fraud, a mountebank who plays on the hopes and fantasies of the gullible. I'm worthless, a scrap of paper blown about by the wind, a leaf that was green in its youth, then gloriously tinted as it died, but one now dried up and good for nothing except to provide fuel for a bonfire."
Mary had grown accustomed to Philippe's wide swings of mood, having seen him, in the few days she'd known him, alternately exuberant and despondent. She
constantly found herself either trying to restrain his wilder fantasies or rebuking him when he questioned his own worth.
"You're kind to say I'm not a mountebank,” he told her. “Yet you'll eventually discover the truth about me, just as everyone else does. When the likes of Philippe Manigault die, there are no comets seen, though the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. One day you'll join in the chorus deriding me. Mark my words."
"I won't turn on you, Philippe. That could never happen."
He shrugged and turned to face her for the first time. “Shall we resume our seats where you can ask me any questions you may have about the role you're to play tomorrow night?"
Once they were back at the table, Rowena, who'd been prowling about the pergola, jumped into her lap and Mary lifted her to hold the soft fur against her cheek.
"Pay attention,” Philippe said.
Mary frowned and replaced Rowena in her lap. The cat promptly leaped off. “Are you sure it's best for me to pretend to be from Charleston?” she asked.
"You see, already you doubt me. Charleston is the only possible abode for a princess. My God, can you imagine the belle of the ball coming from Moncks Corner. Or from Anniston. Or Durham. No, it has to be Charleston. Besides, I've already let it be known that Mary Vere's from one of the best Carolina low-country families. At the moment there's no one in Montgomery from Charleston, so you'll be perfectly safe."
"I know so little about the city."
"You know enough. Do you recall what I told you about the rivers?"
She clasped her hands in her lap and looked sideways at him. “Charleston is on a peninsula where the Cooper and Ashley Rivers meet to form the Atlantic Ocean. Or so all proper Charlestonians believe."
"Excellent. You'll do well to remember they also believe their city to be nothing less than the center of the universe. All the men from the Palmetto State are gallant cavaliers, and all the ladies are beautiful and incredibly genteel. But don't worry about Charleston. You'll find you'll have to say little or nothing on that or any other subject."
He rose and began pacing in front of her, waving his arms. “The men you'll meet expect one thing from a woman, complete agreement, and perhaps a word or two at the proper time to let them know how clever you think they are. You don't have to talk to the men, you only have to listen to them. You may learn little in the process, but they'll come away thinking they've just met one of world's wittiest conversationalists. Just be careful to say nothing of any consequence whatsoever."