Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Marelda’s eyes took on a feral gleam as a whole series of thoughts enraptured her. Her love of money had not been satiated by the small fortune her sire had bequeathed to her, but here was a resource she had not considered before and one well worth tapping. The Titch family had money enough to balance out the faults of the little man, and Horace did seem incredibly pliant to her wishes. Hardly like that devil, Ashton, who had always been difficult to manage. She was so taken with the prospect of gaining greater wealth, it seemed only a few brief moments before the door of the tavern opened again and the short man teetered out, his arms filled with a large cloth sack. His rapid gait brought him to her carriage without delay, and after swinging the door open, he deposited the offering at her feet.

  “Enough for a fortnight or more, Miss Rousse.” He spread the top of the bag to display four bottles. “Your…uh…uncle should not go wanting during his visit.”

  “Why, Mr. Titch, I do declare. I believe you have put me in your debt and richly so. Would you like to ride with me? Perhaps I can drop you somewhere.”

  “The ride itself would be my pleasure, Miss Rousse, and anywhere you choose to drop me would be fine.” He gestured down the street to a black man who sat atop a waiting conveyance. “My carriage will follow.” Hoisting himself aboard, Horace settled into the seat facing her, rather awed at being in her company.

  Marelda waved her handkerchief to indicate the group of men he had left. “I hope I’m not taking you away from some important discussion with your friends.”

  “Important enough to rouse fear in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Natchez if they knew the truth. What we need now is some sort of action.”

  “My goodness, it sounds frightfully important.” She fluttered her lashes to convey her bemusement. “What truth do you speak of, Mr. Titch?”

  “Why, the truth about those half-wits escaping from the madhouse!”

  Marelda was genuinely surprised. “Someone escaped from the asylum?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Horace was impressed with his own ability to enlighten her. “The madhouse burned, and several inmates walked away. At this very moment they’re roaming completely free around the countryside, and there’s no telling what sort of danger we might be in.”

  “But when did all this happen?”

  “The same night we were all at Belle Chêne awaiting Ashton Wingate’s return.”

  Marelda leaned back in her seat and stared at him while her mind worked in a slowly turning cycle. Ashton had said Lierin might have escaped from a burning house, and here was news that the madhouse had gone up in flames. Was it a coincidence? Or a stroke of luck for her? She almost laughed as she mentally rubbed her hands in glee. Perhaps she had found a safe way to have her revenge after all.

  Marelda assumed an expression of worry and concern as she focused her regard on the stubby little man. “Do you suppose that girl Ashton brought home might have come from the madhouse?”

  Horace’s bushy brows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t even considered the wench. “Why, I suppose she could have….”

  “Ashton says that she’s his long-dead wife come back alive, but how can anyone believe that?” Marelda could almost see the man’s mind gulping down the tidbits she fed him. “How can she be his wife when everyone knows Lierin Wingate died three years ago?”

  “Why…why would Ashton say that she’s his wife when she’s really not?”

  Marelda managed a concerned frown before she shrugged. “I would hate to be the one who said it, but you know how Ashton is about a pretty face. With him knowing she might be from the asylum and the girl saying she can’t remember, he’s probably giving that excuse to make things convenient for him.”

  Horace stroked his chin thoughtfully. What the lady said might very well be true, but he would never dare confront Ashton and accuse him of lying. “I guess that’s one of ’em who’s found a safe nest.”

  Marelda was aghast that he did not jump at the opportunity she was presenting him. “What do you mean?”

  “No one’s going to interfere with Ashton,” he said simply.

  “But the girl might have escaped from the madhouse!” Dissatisfied by his lack of zeal, she threw his words back at him. “We could all be in danger!”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until she does something before we can take her from Belle Chêne.”

  “Does what?” Marelda had to curb her mounting irritation with the man. “You mean kill someone?”

  “Or hurt somebody.” It would take something drastic to prompt him to move against the man, and he could imagine there were others who felt the same way.

  “I shall not be able to sleep a wink!” she declared, but those who knew her were cognizant of the fact that after a few toddies, the mighty Mississippi could change its course and sweep her house away without her being aware of it. “I could be murdered in my bed by that woman, and there’d be no one to rush to my defense!”

  “I’d gladly lend you my protection, Miss Rousse,” Horace offered magnanimously. “In fact, if it would make you feel better, I can come by ’most every day…or…ah…evening and…ah…make sure that you are safe.”

  “Oh, would you, Horace?” Smiling warmly, she reached over and placed her gloved hand upon his. “You are a true friend indeed.”

  Now that it had received some nourishment, Mumford Horace Titch’s infatuation with Marelda burgeoned well out of proportion. With the excuse he had provided for himself, he came to visit her as soon as he was assured that he would not intrude upon her uncle’s visit, reluctantly letting a week go past before he approached her door. The maid let him in and looked him over with some skepticism before she showed him into the parlor, there bidding him wait until she had informed her mistress of his presence. Though the mantel clock showed less than two hours before midday, Horace, in his diligence to his newly acquired duties, had failed to consider that the lady was a late riser. A silver coffee service was brought to help him while away the time, and he drummed his fingers nervously on the porcelain cup as the clock ticked away the minutes. He was on his second cup of the dark bitter brew when Marelda finally came into the parlor, but the wait proved worthwhile, at least on his part. Her robe seemed hastily donned, and the thin gown worn beneath it displayed enough of her bosom to make the strong coffee go to his head.

  “My most humble apologies, dear lady!” Horace stammered and came to his feet, nearly spilling the cup of steaming liquid into his lap. “I did not mean to disturb your sleep.”

  Marelda leisurely crossed the room and, pouring herself a draft, sweetened it with several spoonfuls of sugar and lightened the color with a liberal dribble of cream before noting that her guest’s face was a reddish hue. His eyes seemed to bulge as they remained locked on her carefully arranged décolletage. Since his breaking point appeared imminent, she casually presented her back as she sipped from her cup.

  “You mustn’t give it another thought, Mr. Titch. It’s just that I hadn’t expected anyone at this…um…hour.” She gazed lazily at the mantel clock, favoring him with a full view of her left profile, which she considered her best. “Had I any clue whatsoever that you’d really be coming to attend to my welfare, I would have prepared myself better.” This was hardly the truth, but she ignored the inaccuracy and enjoyed the effect her state of dishabille was provoking in the short, pudgy man.

  “Please,” she murmured graciously, waving a hand to the settee from which he had risen, “make yourself comfortable.” As he obeyed, she took a seat in a chair directly opposite him, letting him have a glimpse of an ankle before pulling her robe together.

  Horace’s head was still filled with swelling bosom, sleepy dark eyes, and ruby lips when this latest blast brought a light beading of perspiration upon his upper lip. He stretched his neck and twitched it to ease the sudden tightness of his cravat.

  “I…that is…I mean, if we are going to be friends now, uh…“mister” sounds so…um…formal. Maybe…” He couldn’t quite pu
t such a bold proposal into words, and was relieved when the lady seemed to understand.

  “Of course.” She sipped from her cup and eyed him over its edge. “You may call me Marelda, and I”—she leaned forward and smiled seductively—“shall call you…Mumford.”

  It took a decidedly strong effort on his part to tear his eyes from her gaping gown and meet her gaze. It was terribly difficult to suggest that this beautiful creature could displease him in any way. “I…uh…” Openly sweating now, he ran a finger beneath his collar, feeling in dire need for a breath of cool, fresh air. “My…um…middle name is Horace, and I…”

  “But, dahling,” she pouted prettily, “I rather like Mumford, or even…”

  Horace almost cringed as he sensed it coming.

  “…Mummy!”

  “I…er…Horace is my favorite.” His voice grew very small as he dared disagree with this delectable demoiselle. “My mother and Sissy always called me Mummy, and the other boys…” The memory of some of their taunts was simply too painful to express. He sat erect on the edge of the divan and stared at the buckles of his shoes while he fumbled with his cup and struggled to find a way to change the subject.

  “Of course, my dear.” Marelda set her cup aside and rose. “It shall be whatever you wish.”

  Horace scrambled to his feet as she stepped very close to him, and her sweet lavender fragrance set his brain swirling.

  “You can see that all is well here and that I am in no danger,” she stated matter-of-factly. She ran a hand down her side, smoothing the velvet robe to emphasize her words while noting how his eyes followed the gesture. “Since the hour is close to noon, I really must be getting dressed and seeing to lunch.” The cook had better be well along with the latter, she thought. She was not a breakfast person unless she was visiting the Wingate estate, and she almost shuddered when she considered the hours those people kept. “Was there something else you wanted? Have you found out any information about that woman at the Wingates’?” Marelda took him by the arm and began leading him toward the door, casually pressing her breast against him. “I’ll bet you anything she’s one of those who escaped from the madhouse. Why else would she show up in a nightgown the very same night? It’s really a shame someone doesn’t at least bring that to Ashton’s notice.” He’s taking a great chance with her living there. Suppose, if you might, that she set the fire at the madhouse, and she’s just waiting the chance to torch Belle Chêne.”

  Somehow M. Horace Titch found himself outside on the stoop with no recollection of how he had arrived there. He had a vague recall of sweet lips curved in a tantalizing smile before the door shut them from sight, but the memory of the yielding softness against his arm overshadowed all else and filled his chest with a pounding heart. The cool air cleared his mind by slow degrees, and he found a hat in his hand. Since it had all the appearance of being his, he placed it on his head and began to walk toward the center of town. A rattle of wheels beside him reminded him that he had come in a carriage, and he climbed inside to review the idea of approaching Ashton Wingate on the matter of the mysterious girl and the possible reactions of the man if it were done wrongly.

  The elements of Horace Titch’s problem ricocheted around in his head, but whenever he settled on a tactic that seemed commensurate with diplomacy, his imagination ended the scene with chilling images of Ashton Wingate committing various forms of horrendous mayhem upon his person. His thoughts were still locked on this dilemma when the carriage passed a knot of men who had gathered on a street corner. A single word caught his attention.

  “…Madhouse!”

  Promptly Horace rapped on the roof and bade his driver to halt. Keenly curious, he made his way to the edge of the crowd and turned an attentive ear to what was being said. A man holding the reins of a sweating horse was breathlessly relating the news.

  “Yeah, they found him in one of the backrooms with the charred hilt of a knife stickin’ from his back. It’s the sheriff’s guess that he was one of the keepers and that the fire was deliberately started to cover up the murder. My bet is that one of those inmates who escaped caught him unawares, grabbed his keys, and took off after setting the place on fire.”

  The men mumbled among themselves and grew angrier as conjectures about the escaped inmates became more lurid. As he listened, it became increasingly apparent to Horace that if these fellows were provided with the proper incentive, he would not have to face Ashton Wingate at all, for they would do it for him.

  He glanced about him, sizing up many in the group as a bunch of ruffians who frequented the taverns and picked up odd jobs here and there to supply them with necessary coinage. By their rough garb, it was easy to assess that these were not part of the affluent class and might be impressed by the presence of a wealthy gentleman in their midst. Having worn his newest and best for Marelda’s benefit, he was outfitted well enough to strike awe in the minds of these penniless yokels. His fine gray frock coat and trousers were imbued with light plum stripes, while the brocade vest was traced with a pattern of small plum flowers. Why, his garments, right down to the plum-and-gray-checkered silk cravat, might have even made the arrogant Ashton Wingate writhe in envy.

  Horace cleared his throat to gain the others’ notice, sensing that here was his chance to put forth his suspicions. “Men, listen to me. We’ve got to do something about those madfolk running around our community. None of us are safe, and it’s a downright shame that the womenfolk of Natchez have to venture out at the risk of their very lives.”

  A low rumble of assent accompanied the nodding of heads, and after a moment the men quieted and again gave Horace their full consideration. Warming to his topic, the squat, would-be orator puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. It was no mystery to him that several stared with jaws hanging slack, for he was sure his authoritative demeanor and costly garb affected some in that manner. If he heard, he gave no hint when one man commented to a companion:

  “Gor! Ain’t no man what dresses like that this time o’ morn’n!” The fellow scratched a heavily stubbled chin. “He musta spent the whole night swillin’ down gin. Prob’ly slept it off wid one o’ Cottonmouth Maggie’s girls down by the Trace.”

  “Look to yourselves, men!” Horace barked. “It’s not only the women who are in danger. Reliable accounts have it that mad people sometimes have the strength of five or six men! They’re likely to tear a common man apart for the pennies in his pocket!” He sought to find the magic words that would set them aflame with righteous fervor. “I say it’s time we band together and search out these escaped madfolk before they do us some harm!”

  Silence settled over the group as they realized he was actually asking them to do something. A few more curious souls had joined the gathering, and a jug was passed around and repeatedly tipped to moisten thirsty gullets.

  “Now, it’s been assumed that the escaped inmates were all men, but I’ve heard there was also a woman among them. In fact, the very same night the madhouse burned, Ashton Wingate brought home an injured girl who was wearing only a nightgown and was all muddied and bruised from trampin’ through the swamp. What’s a man to think when we all know it’s only a few miles through the woods from Belle Chêne to the madhouse?”

  He could see the responding nods and hear the growing buzz of comments.

  “There’s no tellin’ what she might do to them poor folks out there or to those old ladies who stay alone when Ashton’s away on business. Set another fire?”

  The crowd could summon no great sympathy for the ladies, especially when they thought of that big black overseer who watched over the place. Ashton Wingate had made it clear some time ago that no one fooled with any of his, be it his kin, his slaves, or his property. They remembered a time when he had called out the sheriff to carry off a bunch of boys who had gone out to his place on a ’coon hunt, and after several hours behind bars, they had ended up having to pay for that cow, which at night and from a distance had really looked like a coon. The
re were other stories about how men were hired out there and expected to work right alongside the slaves. Why, it was common knowledge that a man couldn’t earn a day’s pay at Belle Chêne without churning up a sweat and nearly working his fingers to the bone. Any excuse to trample on the Wingates’ lawn was to be taken advantage of, and this one seemed a far better excuse than most. It would feel sort of good to tweak Ashton’s nose on his own front lawn….

  Horace cried aloud as if haunted by the horror of it all. “We just can’t let this kind of thing go on! That madwoman”—the leap from suspicion to conclusion was easy—“could murder a dozen people or more if she isn’t put away!”

  This time there was a shout of assent, and when it died, Horace ranted on in his high-pitched voice.

  “We’d just be doing all of them a favor and performing our duty to make it safe for everyone to sleep at night and for womenfolk and children on the streets.”

  “You’re right!” The hue and cry was taken up. “Who knows their way around out there? We need someone to lead us out!”

  Horace grew anxious as a sudden note of confusion seemed ready to sap the will of the crowd. “I do!” he yelled and became instantly aware of his folly. “I can draw you a map.” His voice dwindled even lower as he added, “I…er…I’d go myself but I have no horse….”

  “Use mine! We need some one to show us the way!”

  Horace stared at his hand where a pair of reins had suddenly appeared, and when he looked about, the owner of the horse had gone. The rawboned nag at the other end of the leather straps gave Horace gaze for gaze. The horse appeared to have been assembled by a neophyte who had randomly jammed long gnarled bones into a sagging, mottled brown, and mostly hairy hide. The steed’s narrow eyes appeared to harbor an ill-disguised desire to wreak vengeance on any man fool enough to straddle his bony back. Horace shuddered as he recalled the pain that had accompanied his last attempt to ride a horse. That particular event had caused him to swear an oath to keep himself forevermore to the well-padded seat of a carriage.