“A hoarded trump to cast upon thy queen of hearts,” she ground out through snarling lips. “What foolishness do poets thus impart!” She made another circuit of the room again as she fretted. “I placed too much store in the simperings of love-lost swains. Now I am forced to see reality for the cold and bitter vetch it is.” Her face became a harsh mask of hatred. “That little trollop has played her helpless scene so well she’s beguiled my Ashton into believing that she is his wife! If only I could design a scheme that brilliantly so he would see me as his one and only love.”
She paused and glared into the hissing fire that licked lazily at the remains of the oaken logs. The dwindling flames seemed to portray her hopes, once bright and burning strong, now failing and unnourished.
“Damn!” She resumed her agitated pacing. “That tart will have it all her way…unless…unless I can make them see the fallacy of her claim. How could the little snippet befuddle Ashton’s senses so quickly and so cleverly? Did she know Lierin and plan this from the moment of her death?”
Chewing her lip, she stared thoughtfully at the door of her room. It was just down the hall from the guest room where the other woman rested.
“Perhaps if I confronted her outright…” Her dark eyes harbored a gleam as the idea took deeper root. “It certainly can do no harm. I have nothing to lose, and it may be my only chance.”
Marelda eased the door open and listened for a moment. The house was quiet except for the distant sounds coming from the kitchen. She slipped from her room and hurried down the hall toward the far door. It stood slightly ajar, and when she pushed it open, Luella May rose from a chair near the window.
“What are you doing here?” Marelda demanded.
The girl was confused by the woman’s angry tone, and blinked several times before she found her voice. “Ah…Massa Ashton told me jes’ ’fore he left to come stay wid Miz Lierin whilst he was gone…jes’ in case she got scared or somepin.”
“I’ll watch for a while.” Marelda jerked her head sharply toward the door. “Go get something to drink. I’ll ring the bell if I need you.” The young servant nodded warily and crossed the room as the woman further bade her, “And close the door behind you.”
Marelda made herself comfortable in a chair across from the one Luella May had vacated and, propping her chin upon her knuckles, considered her adversary. Snidely she wondered if the other wove her schemes in her sleep, for the girl looked quite innocent amid the lace-edged pillows and satin quilt. A distant thought pushed to the fore of Marelda’s mind, and before she brushed it off as entirely insane she savored the idea of taking one of those fine pillows and smothering the life from the little fraud. No one would know, and even if it was really Lierin slumbering there, Marelda enjoyed the idea of being free of her forevermore.
“Forevermore…” she breathed in delicious revelry.
The soft chimes of the mantel clock intruded into Lierin’s dreams and reminded her that she had not yet found her niche in life. She raised a hand to her aching head and gingerly explored the sore and swollen lump on her brow, wondering if another cooling compress would ease the pain. The pitcher had been left on the bedside table, and struggling up against the pillows, she reached for the cloth that lay beside it.
“Well, it’s about time you roused.” Marelda’s voice cut through the silence, startling a gasp from the other. “It’s obvious you’re not used to any kind of regulated life.”
Lierin raised up on an elbow, but had to close her eyes as the room lurched, and a crushing pressure came against her temples. After a moment the throbbing diminished slightly, and she cautiously lifted her eyelids to look at the woman. “You have me at a loss, madam.”
Marelda sneered derisively. “I doubt that.”
Lierin was bemused by the other’s sarcasm. She had no recollection of ever having known her and certainly could not remember a cause for her animosity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Who are you, and what do you want of me?”
“I am Marelda Rousse, and I want you to tell everyone who you are and why you really came here.”
Lierin pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as she attempted to absorb the other’s words. “Madam, I fear I don’t know what my name should be, and even if it meant my life, I could not tell you why I’m here.”
Marelda laughed coldly and when she spoke, her tone was honed to a knife-edge sharpness. “My dear…whatever your name is…your little act has already convinced an anguished man that you are his wife…when in actuality Lierin Wingate has been dead and gone these past three years.”
“My act?” The emerald eyes opened wide in confused wonder, then slowly closed as Lierin sank back into the pillows. “Oh, madam,” she sighed, “were this an act, I pray it be the last and the play be done. Then I would be free of this mummery. I am so addled by my plight, sleep is my sole escape.”
“And of course no one in the family would dream of interrupting your slumber to ask any pertinent questions,” Marelda replied with rancor.
The green eyes opened again, this time a darker hue beneath a sharper frown, and fixed the other with a questioning stare. “Do you honestly think I purchased these bruises, and then, as they said, foolishly charged my mount into a running team?”
“I’ve known many,” Marelda snapped, “who would do as much for what you stand to gain.” She contemplated her long, carefully tended nails. “Though you whine of your injured wits, they seem sharp enough when your lies are confronted.”
Lierin rolled her head listlessly on the pillows, and her frown deepened as she sought to find the key to this illusive puzzle. “I don’t know why you come upon me with so much hatred. Though I cannot swear to it, I would say I never saw you before this moment, and I certainly mean you no ill.”
Marelda could no longer bear the sight of the other’s bruised but classic beauty, and rose to stare out the windows. “No ill, you say?” Her voice bore an unmistakable sneer. “If you are indeed the one you say…”
Lierin was growing tired and protested weakly. “’Twas not I, but the Ashton man who put the name to me. I cannot say for sure if it’s that or anoth—”
Marelda turned angrily, slashing her hands sideways with a gesture that cut off Lierin’s words. “If you are in truth his wife…then you have already stabbed me once, twice, thrice. It was I, his intended bride, who was betrayed those years ago when he journeyed south to New Orleans and found one he fancied so much that he wed her and left me weeping on my lonely pillow. Then he returned the widower, and months passed before my hopes could rise again.” Marelda paced back and forth beyond the foot of the bed. “He was so bereaved and anguished that he could see nothing outside his memories. Though I sought to comfort him and was ever at his side, he saw me not. I was less to him than the simplest kitchen charmaid. Finally he began to be a man again, and once more my hopes took flight. Last night we gathered to welcome his return, and I yearned for his sturdy arms to hold me in fondest welcome. He came…with you where I should have been. So in your innocence…if you are truly Lierin and I say not…I have still been wronged.”
“I’m sorry,” Lierin murmured quietly.
“You’re sorry!” Marelda railed, then calmed slightly and, with curling lips, sneered, “How sweetly you mewl your apologies, but I’m not one you can cajole with your simpering innocence. Have your moment of delight, dear girl, but I will see the truth come out, and I will turn every stone to see it done. When your lies fly back into your face, I will laugh with delight. Good afternoon, my dear. Rest well…if you can.”
She swept around in a swirl of skirts and, snatching open the door, departed, leaving the room still and quiet, much like a spring day after a passing thunderstorm.
Lierin was left shaken by the woman’s venomous hatred. She had no way of discerning the truth of the matter, whether the judgment against her was fair or false, but at the present moment it was difficult to imagine herself being the cause of such furor.
Chapter Thre
e
THE Wingate carriage splashed through the water-filled ruts that pockmarked the road and turned in at the short, circular drive. Wide, rusty gates prevented further passage on the lane that circled close to the smoldering ruins of the madhouse. The porch roof hung in precarious suspension from the front of the gutted building, posing a threat to any who drew near. The smoke-blackened walls offered a similar danger. Huge sections of brickwork had been torn out when the roof collapsed, leaving a jagged silhouette against the sky and an undefinable second story. The openings of the darkly gaping windows were blurred with heat-curled strips of wooden framing and seemed to stare in bleary-eyed agony. Trees that had closely hugged the brick structure were oddly truncated and stood like giant, black-bodied mourners around a crypt. Thick trails of smoke still gathered and swirled in confused indecision, as if reluctant to make their departure from the besooted shell.
Tents had been pitched in the yard to provide temporary shelter for the outcasts, and a pair of attendants were struggling to rig up support for a large tarpaulin that was being raised in the back yard near the small cookhouse. A campfire had been built in close proximity to the remaining structure, which was barely large enough to accommodate the attendants, much less the inmates. A few demented souls displayed a fixed fascination with the flames and were discouraged from going too near by the stout, grim-faced matron who exerted her authority by means of a long, heavy switch, which she wielded with impartial fervor, sometimes catching those who had found bowls and gathered to await the distribution of food. The confusion of these innocents was closely comparable to the bewilderment of the ones who milled about in a dazed stupor, oblivious to everything around them. Others of a more violent nature had been chained to heavy stakes pounded into the ground.
The sight in the yard did not cheer Ashton’s heart, for he saw the inmates as a pitiful bunch, whose treatment apparently depended on the whims of the staff. In good conscience he could never condemn anyone he loved to such a fate. Indeed, he was already forming an aversion for the switch-wielding matron, and he wondered if he would find himself embroiled in an argument before he concluded his business here.
He descended from the carriage and stepped with Hiram to the rear boot where they began unloading baskets of food, clothing, and wares. One of the attendants called a greeting and came at a run to open the small gate as they approached with their burdens. Following belatedly at a slower, halting pace were a few childlike wards. As Ashton pushed through the gate, they clapped him on the back and welcomed him as if he were a long-lost friend. He gave them each a basket, and the caretaker directed them to take the goods to the cookhouse. They hurried off, happy to do his bidding.
“There’ll be more of the same coming in a few days,” Ashton informed the gray-haired orderly. The man wore a perpetual harried look and seemed to be unaware of the raw blisters on his forearms and hands until Ashton gestured to them. “You should see to yourself.”
The man raised his arms and stared at the burns as if seeing them for the first time, but he dismissed the sores with a shrug. “They give me no pain, sir. Most o’ these poor folk canna look after themselves.”
There was a hint of a Gaelic burr in the way he rolled his r’s. “When they’ve had a bite to eat an’ a place to sleep, I’ll see to meself.”
Ashton almost flinched as he heard the switch hit its mark again, and he could not resist a sardonic comment. “By that time, your charges will have no hide left to worry about.”
Bemused, the man followed Ashton’s directed stare and saw an example of the woman’s treatment for himself as she lashed another with her willowly whip. “Miss Gunther!” he barked sharply. “Have ye no ken what these folk might do to ye should they take a notion? An’ seein’ as how ye’ve ignored me, I’d be inclined to turn me head.”
The matron seemed taken aback by his threat and reluctantly dropped the switch. Satisfied, the gray-haired man faced Ashton again and held out a hand in introduction. “Name’s Peter Logan, sir. I’ve been workin’ here at the asylum for the last year or so, an’ now with two o’ the staff gone, I’m in charge now, much to Miss Gunther’s displeasure.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop in dismay. “Before this happened, I was thinkin’ I was doin’ a wee bit o’ good at improvin’ the plight o’ these poor wretches.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Peter Logan stuffed the tail of his overlarge wrinkled shirt into his trousers, hesitating a moment before he answered. “I canna say for sure, sir. We were all asleep save for ol’ Nick, who was makin’ the night rounds, an’ I’d guess he’s off somewhere runnin’ in the woods.”
“Were any killed?” Ashton questioned, watching the trails of smoke drifting from the blackened shell.
“After takin’ count we figured there’s a full half-dozen o’ the wards missing. We canna find a trace o’ old Nick…and another ran off this mornin’. I guess he couldna endure the lot o’ madfolk loose in the yard an’ himself fenced in with the best.” His mouth turned grim. “O’ course, we canna know for sure till we stir through the ashes just how many we should have.”
Ashton gave a wry smile of distaste. “I’d just as soon learn they escaped.”
“Ye durna share a common view, sir, an’ it warms me heart to see that there’s a kind soul or two left in this world.”
“Has someone been out here complaining?” Ashton asked.
The man laughed shortly and shook his head. “About anyone ye’d care to mention, sir. A Mr. Titch was out here pokin’ around this mornin’. He was wonderin’ about the possibility o’ me wards escapin’ into Natchez and neighborin’ towns, an’ what dangers the good citizens o’ the area were in.”
“I fear Horace Titch has nothing better to do than make matters worse and cause whatever trouble he can.”
The attendant gazed furtively about, then lowering his voice, leaned close and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Seein’ as yer heart’s in the right place, sir, I’ll tell ye a thing or two what will straighten yer hackles an’ maybe the sheriff’s when he comes out.” He tapped Ashton’s silk-vested chest with a hairy knuckle. “I’ve got me suspicions, all right. I found where some fuses were set over there by the part that isna completely burned. I’m thinkin’ t’weren’t no accident, sir, but a deliberate act against these poor people here. An’ another thing…I scrubbed the floor in the cookshack meself yesterday, an’ when I come in there this morn’n, there was blood on the floor in front o’ the hearth an’ marks like somethin’ had been dragged through it. The poker had fallen into the fireplace, an’ a large knife was missin’ from the table. I’d be guessin’ there was some mischief done in there, but I canna be sure, an’ ’tis only yerself, sir, that I’ve talked with about it.”
“The sheriff is a friend of mine. He’ll be interested in what you have to say. If the fire was started, then the man responsible should be caught and made to pay.”
“Aye, whoever the begger was, he should’ve set another fagot over his handiwork to destroy it. There be enough proof to show the sheriff an’ make him believe.”
Ashton’s eyes flitted over the bedraggled figures gathered around the campfire, taking note of the mixed gender. “I see you have women here, too.”
“Madness an’ misfortune are not confined to men, sir,” Peter responded laconically. “It attacks where it wills…even children.”
Ashton had promised Dr. Page he would make an inquiry, but he did so with distaste, feeling as if he were being disloyal to Lierin by allowing the question to come into his mind. “Are there any women missing?”
“As a matter o’ fact, sir, there is one. I’m thinkin’ she escaped from the house, but I canna be sure. Who’s to say? She might’ve gotten scared an’ run back in.” He paused again and thoughtfully chewed on his lip. “She was a strange one…She didn’t seem that bad off generally…then there were times when I thought she was a ravin’ lunatic. Somethin’ would set her off, an’ then I think she could’ve killed
a mon.”
An icy rivulet trickled along Ashton’s spine. He could not say what had caused Lierin to react in such a panic before he left her. He kept telling himself it could be explained with a plausible reason, but even so, he was half afraid of making further inquiries.
“The attendant who’s missin’ watched after her a bit,” Peter continued, taking the decision from him. “Every now an’ then, he’d bring her a pretty or two, maybe somethin’ to wear or a wee comb or whatnot. She wasna too hard to look at when she was in her right mind.”
“Was she young…?” Ashton awaited the man’s reply with bated breath, not knowing why he should even feel the least bit unsettled or anxious about the woman. Surely it couldn’t be Lierin they were discussing.
“Fairly young, I’d be sayin’, but this kind o’ place has a way o’ agin’ a body. Who knows her age? At least she was still young enough to have her natural hair color….”
“And that would be?”
“A reddish hue, if I recall aright.”
Ashton stared at the man as the churning of dread began anew in his stomach. By dint of will, he forced himself on to another topic, not wishing to arouse the man’s curiosity by his interest. “What will you do now?”
“I canna say, sir. There’s a place in Memphis where we can go, but I’ve no way o’ gettin’ them there.”
“I have a way,” Ashton stated after a thoughtful pause and, at the man’s look of surprise, explained: “I can arrange for a steamer to take you there. In fact, there’s one at the docks now.”
Peter was truly astounded by his generosity. “And ye’d do this for”—he waved his hand to indicate the ragged misfortunates who made up his camp—“these people?”
Come Love a Stranger Page 8