Ashes in the Wind

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Xanthia’s eyes were fastened on the door when Alaina finally stepped into view, her cheeks slightly flushed from hurrying which made the gray eyes seem all the brighter and clearer. The sight of her momentarily scattered the older woman’s defenses, for Alaina was exactly what Xanthia feared most. This was no graceless gosling of Rebel’s descriptions, but one with a young exuberance, a joie de vivre about her that was unmistakably intriguing. Though Xanthia had expected her to be wearing much richer garb, the plum muslin with its high neckband, long fitted sleeves, and narrow bodice was pert and pleasing. With this first glimpse of Alaina Latimer, Xanthia wholly understood Cole’s infatuation, and it frightened her more than she had imagined anything could.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss—ah—” Alaina smiled expectantly.

  “Mrs., really.” It was best to set the matter straight right from the beginning. “Mrs. Xanthia Morgan.” She moved her handbag and the package she bore to the settee beside her for the present moment. “There have been so many rumors flying about town, Alaina, I had to come and meet you face to face.”

  Not unaware of the woman’s exacting perusal, Alaina asked quietly, “And do I meet with your approval, Mrs. Morgan?”

  Xanthia nodded concedingly. “You’re really quite beautiful.”

  “Might I return the compliment, Mrs. Morgan?”

  Xanthia was a bit at odds as to how best to proceed. “I suppose you are curious about me.”

  Alaina nodded. “Are you a friend of my husband’s?”

  Xanthia’s mind groped like some creature caught on a bed of quicksand. The question blunted the force of her intended attack, and her reply seemed somehow trite. “I own a shop in St. Cloud. Cole purchased it for me.”

  Xanthia paused as the butler brought in the tea service, and if she had hoped to see a flicker of emotion pass across the girl’s face, she was disappointed.

  “My husband is a man of many occupations, many of which I have yet to learn about, Mrs. Morgan,” Alaina answered softly. “You must forgive me for being unaware of your particular establishment. He speaks so rarely of his business affairs.”

  Xanthia pointedly waited until Miles had taken his reluctant leave. Declining both sugar and cream, Xanthia accepted the cup of tea Alaina handed her. “I’ve been acquainted with Cole for some time now. Seven years at least.”

  Alaina lowered her gaze from the woman’s curious stare and sipped her own tea. Of a sudden she wished she had worn one of the gowns Cole had purchased for her and paid more attention to her hair instead of quickly sweeping it from her face and leaving the mass to curl in carefree abandon around her shoulders. The auburn hair of the other was exquisitely coiffed, and she was gowned in costly good taste, a rich brown silk gown with hat and muff of plush sable. Desperately, Alaina tried to crush the apprehension that had stirred restlessly at her first sight of the woman.

  “Mrs. Morgan—” she began in a questioning tone.

  “Xanthia, please. I haven’t been called Mrs. Morgan since I left the graveside of my late husband. And I assure you, I have few worthwhile memories left of him.”

  Alaina’s raised eyebrow betrayed some amazement, but out of good manners she didn’t dare question one of such brief acquaintance.

  “Oh, it’s no secret,” Xanthia assured her, shrugging. Her voice bore a soft, husky quality within it as she continued. “Everyone in town knows about my marriage to Patrick Morgan. He was a drunk, a gambler, a no-good man about town.” She idly traced the rim of her cup handle with a long fingernail. “I was from a good family, you understand, and I had never met anyone else quite like Patrick Morgan. I fell hopelessly in love with him, married against my parents’ wishes, and followed him out here. Oh, I would have followed him anywhere the first month of our marriage.” She released a long sigh as she mentally recounted the times in their brief marriage that Patrick had beaten her and left her sobbing and heartbroken. “I conceived within the first few months of our marriage, but my husband didn’t want any responsibilities like that.” She waited until she could control the slight quaver in her voice. “When I began to show my condition, he started running around with other women. After a particularly wild night in town, he became violent, and as a result I lost the baby. I would have died had it not been for a friend taking me to a fine, young doctor.” A long pause ensued before she murmured. “That was when I met Cole. Some hours later they dragged my husband from the river. Witnesses said he swam out with his horse to catch the ferry which had already started for the other side, but he had been drinking far too much and couldn’t save himself in the swift current.”

  Alaina folded her hands sedately in her lap. “Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Morgan?”

  Xanthia set her cup down on the saucer and let her words fall like a dead weight upon the girl. “I have known Cole about as well as any woman can.”

  “Oh?” Placing her own cup and saucer on the table before her, Alaina asked in feigned surprise. “Were you married to him?”

  Reluctantly Xanthia replied in the negative.

  Alaina’s inquiry came shyly, hesitantly. “You knew him before Roberta?”

  Xanthia braced herself. “Yes.”

  Without meeting the woman’s eyes, Alaina examined the back of her hand and fidgeted with the large stoned ring on her finger. “He’s married two women since he’s known you?”

  Xanthia could find no answer for the question. At least, not one she wished to entertain. “I’m in love with Cole.”

  Alaina fought the conflict raging with her, and with a soft, wistful smile, she picked up her cup of tea again. After a moment her eyes raised until she met the other’s apprehensive gaze. “Then I think we are not so different, Mrs. Morgan, for I love him, too.”

  “How can you? You barely know him!” Xanthia demanded in a desperate rush.

  The younger woman shrugged indolently. “I have known him as well as you have, Mrs. Morgan. Perhaps not as long, but surely just as well.”

  Xanthia felt her heart sink to the very depths of despair. She chided herself for not being more calm and deliberate in this matter, but she was fighting for something as vital to her happiness as anything she could imagine. Purposefully she opened her handbag and drew out a roll of bills. “If it’s a matter of money, I will meet your needs. Whatever your—arrangement is with Cole, I’ll make it worth your while if you will leave here and go someplace else.”

  “Put away your money, Mrs. Morgan,” Alaina murmured softly. “I do not plan to give up my husband because of another woman’s infatuation. I’ve been through that before, and I shall fight with every ounce of my being to keep it from happening again.”

  Xanthia thrust the roll back into her handbag with a vigor that seemed unwarranted. This was going to be more difficult than she had imagined. “Cole told me you saved his life. Obviously he feels indebted to you.”

  “For saving his life?” Alaina sipped her tea, hardly tasting it. “I should hope it’s for something far more personal and intimate.”

  Xanthia betrayed her exasperation. “You’d hold a man by playing upon his indebtedness to you?”

  Alaina met the trembling rage of the other with well-feigned assurance. “He’s my husband to have and to hold, is he not?”

  Xanthia felt her cheeks grow hot with the sting of defeat. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and advanced to her next ploy. “You’re an intelligent girl, Alaina, and I sense that you have a great deal of pride. People around here resent Cole marrying a Southern girl. They won’t accept him, and they won’t accept you.”

  “Then I guess I’ve met a lot of nobodies who like Cole despite his marriages,” Alaina answered softly. “And they seemed so gracious, too.”

  Xanthia rose, her back rigid, and picked up the package. “Will you give this to Cole? I discovered it after he left yesterday.” She tore back the paper to display one of his white silk shirts. “I washed and ironed it just the way he likes.”

  “My husband has always been so
careless about his clothes.” Alaina managed with a gay laugh. “Why, he even lost a whole uniform once—and while he was wearing it, too! There he was in his skivvies, and I had to sneak him into my uncle’s house without being caught. But I will warn him to be more careful. A thing like that can compromise your reputation. It nearly did mine.”

  White-lipped, Xanthia put on her gloves and walked stiffly toward the door.

  “Will we be seeing you again, Mrs. Morgan?” Alaina questioned politely.

  “I doubt it,” Xanthia replied in a muted voice. “Goodbye, Alaina.”

  The clock struck three some moments after Xanthia Morgan left. Shortly after it struck four, Mindy looked into the parlor, but decided not to disturb Alaina, for she seemed deeply occupied in thought. Alaina had not stirred when the small chimes of the clock tinkled through the half-hour mark, nor even a few moments later when the buggy drew up in front of the house. Or when Cole’s voice called out to Peter as the latter took the buggy back to the barn. Or when Cole slammed the door and asked Miles of his wife’s whereabouts. It was only when he came limping into the parlor that she came out of her chair. In the same moment her hand swept the package from the table. She took a step toward him and, as he came near, flung the half-wrapped shirt into his face, smothering his smile and the greeting he had formed on his lips.

  “Your mistress left this for you,” she snarled through the red glory of her rage. Another step forward, and her small, doubled fist slammed into his hard belly just above the lowest button of his vest. Caught by surprise, Cole had his breath driven from him. “But that’s from me, Yankee!”

  She was by him in a flash, snatching up a shawl and running past an astounded Miles. She flung open the door and ran onto the porch.

  “Alaina!” Cole regained his voice with the realization she was leaving the house. “Alaina, come back!”

  Blindly she stumbled down the stairs and hurried across the drive. As soon as she left the bulk of the structure, a cold north wind, mingled with icy sleet, struck her full force. She caught her breath against its numbing blow. Something at the bottom of her mind warned her that she was making a mistake, that she was not dressed for this weather. But rage overshadowed reason, and she would not go back. Anywhere, but not back!

  She saw Peter’s head disappear beneath the brow of the hill. It was as good a direction as any to take. She raced after him as fast as her feet could fly across the frigid turf.

  A dull pain grew in her side, and she slowed her headlong pace to a more sedate walk. Far ahead Peter turned into the lane to the barn and disappeared from sight. The slope of the hill had steepened, and Alaina hastened her step. From behind her came the urgent ringing of the bell. Once! Twice! Her feet flew faster. The double peal rang again, quicker and with a note of impatience about it. From ahead, she heard Peter’s whistle as he urged the horse into a gallop. A sense of fear seized her. She must not be seen! Cole would be after her in a flash. She stepped from the lane and slipped into a clump of bushes, crouching low to hide her slightest shadow. The buggy careened back into sight and rushed past her with Peter leaning far forward and swinging the ends of the reins against the rump of the racing mare.

  As soon as he was past, Alaina was on the road again. Then her gaze caught on a dark shadow in the trees. The cottage! It offered a haven from the cold, if not from eventual discovery. She was chilled through and shivering uncontrollably, and though she found a small bit of protection from the wind behind the shrubs, she longed now to find some meager warmth well away from the frigid air.

  Trying the door and finding it unlocked, she slipped within and closed the heavy portal behind her. The hall was dark and eerily shadowed with doorways leading to other rooms. At the end of the corridor that ran the full depth of the house, a large window outlined the stark, barren balustrade of a stairway. The silence was tomblike, and only the mournful wail of the rising wind and her own harsh breathing intruded upon the stillness. She tried several doors, but in each room was presented with a forbidding sight of pale, ghostly shapes of furniture spread with dustcovers. They promised no hint of the warmth she sought. She returned to a wider passage of double folding panels just to the left of the entryway and, flipping open the latch with trembling cold fingers, pushed the doors wide. A brighter scene greeted her, one still wanly lit by the failing winter light, but her first impression was that the room had been struck by some inhuman destructive force. Chairs were tumbled over, papers were scattered helter-skelter, leather-bound volumes raked from their shelves. Through the maze of debris, a huge, stone fireplace beckoned to her sense of comfort. It was firm in her mind that she must find warmth soon or beat an ignominious retreat to the house on the hill. Her pride preferred the first choice.

  Firewood and kindling filled the woodbox, and with cold, numbed hands, Alaina fumbled along the mantel, searching for matches or anything she might start a fire with. Her fingertips brushed an icy object, and she brought a small metal box into sight. Fighting a shuddering clumsiness, she pushed open the sliding lid and sighed in relief. It was a tinderbox.

  Soon brightly flickering yellow and orange flames licked with hungry abandon at the dry wood she heaped over the blazing kindling. Alaina stretched out her hands before its warmth and grimaced as the fleeing cold left her fingers prickling with a pain like a thousand tiny needles. The winter night was settling rapidly over the land, and only the glow of the fire threatened the deep shadows in the house. Alaina ventured to light a lamp to chase the darkness to the far corners of the room, fairly confident that the dense brush and evergreens growing close about the house would mask the windows from casual view.

  Alaina’s shivering slowly abated, and her curiosity grew apace. Several tall, glass-fronted cases, the likes of which she had seen in the hospital, stood beside a long, waist-high table. One cabinet held dully gleaming instruments, while another was filled with vials and bottles, boxes and canisters, all neatly labeled in a careful hand. Still another bore stacks of bandages and other assorted wrappings. The room had all the appearances of a doctor’s study, no doubt where Cole and his father had rooted their practice.

  A portrait of a woman hung above the mantel, and the resemblance she bore to Cole was unmistakable. This was undoubtedly his mother. But what of his stepmother? Alaina glanced about with curiosity. No indication here of another woman. And there were no portraits in the hill house.

  Thoughtfully Alaina lifted a heavy chair before the fireplace and set a small table upright beside it. She set aright a all, wide-backed, well-used leather chair, and almost without thinking, slid it before the massive desk that sat before the windows. As she did, a small, twisted gilt-framed miniature lying on the desk caught her eye. It was partially hidden beneath wildly tossed papers and an overturned brass scales. She picked it up, shaking the shattered glass away from the picture, and took it closer to the light.

  The photograph had been chopped off in such a manner that the main figure was now a woman in a dark dress and wide, starched apron. A sudden suspicion began to tickle her mind. Carefully she plucked the last particles of glass from the picture and held it beneath the lamp, then gasped in surprise as she realized it was a likeness of herself. She stared at it, her mind racing. A photographer had come into the hospital during the latter days of Cole’s convalescence and had taken a picture of a small group of wounded men and had bade her to stand alongside them. Apparently Cole had witnessed it all, and somehow had managed to obtain a copy.

  A heavy crease marred the middle of the photograph as if someone had repeatedly twisted the frame trying to tear the whole of it in half. Alaina sensed the utter rage that had been vented on it and on this study, and as her eyes moved about the room again, she could only wonder if this holocaust of loathing had been directed entirely at her.

  “Little fool!” The words rang sharply in the room, and Alaina whirled with a small cry of alarm, then nearly crumpled to her knees in relief as she recognized the tall form of her husband in the shadowed doorwa
y. Struggling to control the trembling that threatened to reduce her to tears, she leaned against the desk and pressed a hand over her pounding heart.

  “Good heavens, Cole!” she railed weakly in freshening temper. “Must you always make it your habit to scare the wits from me? Couldn’t you have made your presence known in a gentler fashion?”

  “What, and have you run out on me again?” he questioned angrily. “You didn’t care that you left me fearing for your safety.”

  “I told you before. I can take care of myself.”

  Cole flung his fur cap into a chair. “This is not the soft winter of the South, my love, and you’d best learn to respect it.” He crossed the room, and Alaina noticed both his pronounced limp and the absence of his cane. He stood close in front of her and yanked off his gloves as he enlarged upon his earlier declaration. “A lesson of missing fingers or toes is harsh, Alaina, but a life can fade quickly in the freezing winds of this clime. One who ventures out in the face of an impending storm or blizzard without the slightest thought of protection can only be termed a fool.”

  Alaina’s wits had been well flayed throughout the afternoon, and no tough hide was left to absorb this verbal chastisement. “How did you find me?”

  “I saw the sparks fly from the chimney when I passed in the buggy. If you haven’t looked outside lately, a freezing rain is coming down, coating everything with ice. I was about to go back and call out the servants in an effort to find you when I happened to glance this way.”

  “I stand rebuked, milord.” Her manner bore the submissive tones one might expect of a slave. “Shall I return to the house, or await your—pleasure—here?”

  Cole ignored her overstated humility, and she did not raise her gaze to see the smile that played for the briefest moment about his lips. He grew serious as he noticed the mangled photograph she held and reached out to take it from her.

  “A keepsake I cherished from my tour in New Orleans,” he murmured distantly. “Roberta said she threw it into the river, but I guess she lied about that, too.”