Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “Well, mum, I s’pose he’s goin’ to be questionin’ the lot o’ us an’ then yer Mr. Wingate an’ his crew. Mary an’ the coachman were sweet on each other, so Henry might be the one to really catch it. He seems like such a nice man, though.”

  Lenore’s knees turned to jelly as invading impressions sought to push their horror upon her. The vision of the man being beaten by a poker was now familiar to her, but in a momentary glimpse she saw the darkly cloaked form of the murderer begin to whirl upon her with the iron still clasped in his hand. A cold sweat made her skin clammy as the illusion faded, but it was a full moment before she could clear her mind of the haunting fear and return her thoughts to the present moment. She took several deep breaths to slow her racing heart and made a belated observation: “The murderer doesn’t have to be any of the men around here, Meghan. If Mary was working in Biloxi before she came here, she could have attracted someone from town.”

  Meghan wiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “Mary didn’t know too much about this area, mum, so if she was here before the master hired her, it wasn’t for very long. Seems like she was born around Natchez or one of the neighboring towns there.”

  “Natchez?” Lenore’s attention perked up. “That’s where Mr. Wingate is from. Perhaps he might have known her.”

  “Ye can bet the sheriff will be askin’ him that, mum, an’ I s’pose we’ll just have to wait to see what he finds out.” The maid gave a nod toward the men who were now approaching the house. “They’re comin’ to begin their inquiries.”

  Suddenly reminded of her dishabille, Lenore drew the collar of her dressing gown close about her neck. “I’d better make myself presentable.”

  “I’ll fetch some water for ye,” Meghan said with a wavering sigh. “It’ll do me good to be about me duties an’ get me mind off Mary.”

  A half hour’s progress in the toilette saw Lenore gowned in a pale blue gown and the maid smoothing the auburn tresses into a sedate chignon. Lenore had been expecting Malcolm to bring her news of the girl’s demise, and she was not surprised when a light rapping sounded on her door. Admitted by the maid, he strolled across the room to the dressing table and casually leaned a shoulder against the wall where he reflected on the beauty of the one who sat before the silvered glass. She seemed cool and serene, like the snow queen he had come to think of her as. There were times when he was tempted to break through that thin barrier of ice and have his will with her, but the uncertainty of how she would react made him subdue those lustful urgings. One day in the near future he fully expected to reap the rewards of his caution and patience.

  “I guess Meghan has told you about Mary.” He posed the statement with a brow raised in question and waited for the affirmative nod before he continued. “The incident has us all in shock. First, it was your kidnapping and now this has happened. I don’t really think the two are related, but for the sake of caution, it would be best if you didn’t venture out alone. Especially while that steamer is out there.”

  “Malcolm…” Lenore braced her hands on the edge of the dressing table as she prepared herself for delivering the truth. “I know you’re going to be angry, but I went out to the River Witch during the night….”

  “You what!” Malcolm barked, startling Meghan, who dropped the brush. “You went out there behind my back! To that debaucher! To your sister’s murderer! You gave yourself to him, when there’s no telling what he might have done to Mary?”

  Lenore came to her feet with green sparks of rage flashing in her eyes. Before she released the full tide of her anger, she glanced toward Meghan, who was wringing her hands in consternation and gestured her from the room. “Leave us, Meghan. I have something to discuss with”—she formed the words with reluctance—“my husband.”

  Meghan hesitated out of concern for her mistress, but the slender hand waved again, giving her no choice in the matter. Stepping from the room, the maid closed the door behind her, and though she was not one to eavesdrop, she stayed near, just in case there should be a need. Though she had never married, she knew how men could be about their wives, especially with one so beautiful, and Meghan was fearful that the clash between the two would prove harmful to the lady.

  “How dare you say those things to me in front of a servant!” Lenore stormed. “For your information I did not give myself to Ashton. I only went out there to ask him to leave.” Hot and seething, she turned and flounced across the room as she poured out her fury. “Since I have been in this house, I have heard his name defamed at every turn, and neither you nor my father knows anything about him.”

  “Ah, but you do,” Malcolm flung back at her, equally incensed. He had no idea what there was about the other man that so intrigued her, but she had loved him once. He was sure of it, or she would never have married him. “You rebuke us, but all the while you’re wanting him. Tell me it isn’t so!”

  Lenore bit back the retort that would have confirmed his accusation. She wanted to admit her love, but she also knew the folly of doing so. “I came to respect Ashton while I was at Belle Chêne….”

  Malcolm slammed his fist down on the dressing table as he shouted, “I say it’s more than respect you feel!”

  Her chin lifted in a lofty manner. “I resent the fact that you’re trying to put words in my mouth, words that I have no intention of saying,” she declared. “Since the accident with Ashton’s carriage, my memory has been closed up in a dark box within my head, and I have no way to open it. I remembered nothing about you, but Ashton was kind to me, and while I was at Belle Chêne, I truly believed I was his wife. It seemed natural….”

  “But it’s not natural for you to think of me as your husband,” he interjected accusingly. “Isn’t that what you’re trying to say?”

  “You keep jumping ahead of me and reconstructing my statements without hearing me out,” she protested. “I wasn’t going to say that at all.”

  “You’ve said it before,” he retorted. “Maybe not in the same exact way, but the words all mean the same.”

  Lenore closed her eyes and rubbed her temples where a dull ache had begun to throb. Her tension was mounting, and confusing visions began to assail her. Through a long, dark tunnel she saw Ashton leaning against the railing of his steamer, and then gnarled hands stretching forth to seize her and snatching her by her long hair. Laughing faces pressed down upon her, while thick fingers tore at her clothing. She could almost taste the threat of rape, and in her mind she screamed. Then, quite clearly, she saw Malcolm above her, tossing the men aside. Almost gently he reached down to lift her in his arms.

  A light frown touched her brow as she peered at him in bewilderment. Was it a memory of him she had glimpsed, or something she had conjured in her imagination? He had never spoken of a time when he had rescued her.

  “Listen to me, Lenore. Hear me out,” he demanded. “Whether you remember me or not, I’m still your husband, and I will not tolerate you sneaking out to see that man again!”

  “With all your threats of killing, what was I to do?” she cried. “Stay in my room and watch you murder him? Never!”

  “Lower your voice,” Malcolm cautioned curtly. “The sheriff is still in the house, and you might give him ideas.”

  “Good!” She was becoming reckless, but she was too fired up to care. Her eyes glittered with ill-suppressed ire as they met his challenging glower. “Perhaps he’ll decide to lend Ashton some protection after hearing how you’ve threatened him.”

  “Shush, woman. We’ll talk about this later.” He cut the conversation short with an angry slash of his hand.

  Outside the door Meghan scampered quickly away as she heard footsteps approach the portal, and for the first time that morning a smile touched her face. She had been fearful that her mistress could not hold her own against Mr. Sinclair’s sometimes overbearing nature and, now being of a different mind, admired the spunk of the young woman.

  After the argument with Malcolm, Lenore found the sheriff’s interrogation much like a pleasant s
troll through a park. He was polite, if somewhat direct. After introducing himself as James Coty, he asked what was her association with the owner of the River Witch and if she thought any of the crew were capable of the murder.

  “Mr. Sinclair has no doubt explained my loss of memory to you.” With his verifying nod she continued: “Ashton Wingate believed that I was Lierin, my twin sister, whom he married three years ago. For a time I was also convinced of that. As for the men on the steamer, I have traveled with them, and while I did, they treated me with the utmost respect. I can’t believe they’d abuse a woman in such a manner, but even if they had, they’d have had little time to do so, because I took the dinghy out to the River Witch myself and didn’t return until after four in the morning.” She met his surprised gaze squarely and without shame. “I went out to the steamer with the hope of persuading Mr. Wingate to leave before trouble started between him and my husband. If my word is not enough to convince you, ask the man who had the watch on board the steamer. He might have noticed someone else leaving the craft after we did.”

  “You say you didn’t return until after four?” he asked and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “That only makes me wonder when the crime was actually committed. Obviously Mary was killed somewhere else and then dumped into the boat.”

  Lenore overcame her reluctance and plucked up her courage to ask, “Can you tell me in what manner Mary was murdered?”

  “Strangled,” the sheriff replied bluntly. “The man choked her so hard he broke her neck.”

  Recoiling in shuddering revulsion, Lenore sank into a nearby chair and clasped a shaking hand over her brow. Feeling faint and queasy, she could give no more than a nominal reply to the lawman, who assured her that he would not rest until the man was caught. Sheriff Coty took his leave, and listlessly she dragged herself to her bed where she remained for most of the day, too sick to lift her head from the pillow.

  The cemetery was small, and even with the green touch of summer, it seemed drab and somehow forlorn. Gowned in black, Lenore felt as if she blended in with her surroundings. Her cheeks were pale, and dark circles made her eyes look that much larger. She waited in the landau with her father until the minister arrived, not willing to subject herself to any unnecessary movement when it was so stifling hot. A few light whiffs of the smelling salts seemed to clear her head and settle her queasiness, enough at least to allow her to leave the safety of the carriage. Solicitously her father escorted her to the graveside where Malcolm was waiting. Carefully avoiding the dark hole where the coffin had been placed, she lifted her gaze to the large knot of mourners who had gathered on the far side and, except for the sheriff and his deputy, found no familiar face among them. Since word had spread swiftly throughout the area, she judged many of these were curiosity seekers and nothing more. Behind the family and somewhat to their right Meghan stood with the coachman, and both added a sorrowful note with their muffled weeping. Lenore glanced back in sympathy to see how the grieving woman was faring and was startled when her gaze swept beyond them and found a short, dark-haired man with liquid eyes.

  “Mr. Titch!” She barely breathed his name, but she drew Malcolm’s inquiring regard.

  “Did you say something, my dear?” he asked and leaned his head down to receive her reply.

  Her nod surreptitiously marked the short man. “I was just a little surprised to see that man over there, that’s all.”

  Malcolm turned his head to look over his shoulder and raised a brow in amused condescension. “Ahh, Mr. Titch.”

  “Do you know him?” she queried in surprise, unable to remember a time when she had mentioned Mr. Titch or the trouble he had caused.

  “Gossips are as abundant in Natchez as in Biloxi or anywhere else, madam. I’ve heard of him, and if Horace has wandered through any of the taverns where your father has been, I’m sure he knows as much about us as anyone here. If you aren’t aware of it, my dear, we’ve become quite the topic around here. Especially with that high-and-mighty Mr. Wingate sitting on our front door….” He paused as his gaze lifted above her head, and the dark eyes hardened and became cold and piercing. “Speak of the devil.”

  Lenore glanced around, wondering who had darkened his day so abruptly; then her heart began to race as she saw the one who brightened hers. Ashton! The name filled her mind with sudden pleasure and somehow strengthened her for the task ahead.

  A slight twist of those firm lips produced a vague smile, and with gentlemanly manner Ashton tipped his beaver hat to them before his eyes met hers with warm communication. The unspoken words of devotion were there, waiting for her to seize and take close to her heart. She did not let them go to waste, but thoroughly savored them.

  Now that he had been discovered by the couple, and he could not peruse them unaware, Ashton strolled to a spot near the end of the grave where he hoped his presence would rub like a burr against the other’s composure. There, he could also watch Lierin…or, as she would have it, Lenore. If he should choose to use that name, it was by no means indicative of any concession he was making, merely a temporary compromise until the truth of her identity could be cleared up. In his heart she was still Lierin, and if the investigation proved him wrong, he would be hard-pressed to bow out gracefully. Whether Lierin or Lenore, he knew he loved the woman herself, for the memories of the past were being overshadowed by the more recent ones they had made together.

  Although unobtrusively, Lenore regarded him in return, admiring the fine figure he presented in his coal-gray coat, coal-and-pale-gray-striped cravat, and muted striped trousers of a slightly lighter shade of gray. As always, his shirt was crisp and white, and the boots, showing beneath the long, narrow-fitting trousers, were polished to a glossy black sheen. The summer had darkened his skin until the hazel eyes seemed to sparkle with a light of their own behind their sooty lashes. They put a shine in her own when once again their gaze merged and held.

  The small, somber group waited in solemn silence as the minister sprinkled a handful of dirt over the casket and droned the words “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…”

  Lenore reached up a hand to brush away the tears that streamed down her cheeks and swallowed against the sorrow welling up in her chest. A smothered sob came from Meghan before the maid turned to console the coachman, who dissolved into harsh weeping. Robert Somerton reached inside his coat and, pulling out a flask, tipped it to his mouth with quick, short jerks. Malcolm was inattentive to the proceedings, for his stoical regard was centered on Ashton and was only broken when the latter brushed past and moved behind them again. A quick glance over the shoulder assured Malcolm that the other was moving toward Mr. Titch, and if he showed any sign of relaxing, it was in the slight drooping of his heavy shoulders as his tension eased.

  “’Morning, Mr. Titch.” Ashton greeted the man with a meager nod; then leaning his head back, he cast an eye toward the gloomy gray heavens as he casually remarked, “An appropriate day for a funeral, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Horace mumbled, directing a clandestine glance toward the taller man. “A bit hot for my taste, though. Maybe a rain would cool things off.”

  “Either that or make it more humid,” Ashton replied pleasantly, noticing the sweat trickling down the other’s round face. He wondered if that was due entirely to the heat, or if something else was stirring up Mr. Titch’s lather. “I was quite surprised to see you here, Horace. Are you visiting relatives?”

  “Yes…” Horace bit his lip as the lie slipped out. He would have told it gladly, but he was afraid that Ashton would carry the tale back to the sheriff, and it would start a whole avalanche of investigations. He dusted off his sleeve, striving to appear as nonchalant as his adversary, but for some reason he always missed reaching that goal when the other was around. “Actually, Marelda wanted to come to Biloxi…to see the ocean…or something.”

  Ashton reflected on the man’s answer, remembering when he had told Marelda about Leirin owning property here. Knowing the woman as well as he did, he could no
t believe that it was only chance and coincidence that had brought the couple here. Marelda could be a woman of positive action sometimes, and he was most curious as to what had compelled her to come. Ashton watched the other closely as he asked, “Did you perhaps know the young woman who was murdered?”

  Horace sniffed pompously. “Have you now taken on duties as sheriff, Ashton, that you think you can question me?”

  “Not at all.” Ashton observed the stilted anger of the squat man. “Sheriff Coty showed me the girl’s body, and at the time I remarked that she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place just where I had seen her before. Then when I saw you here today, it began to come back to me.” He caught the nervous tick at the corner of the man’s eyelids and watched the stubby hands mop at the heavily sweating brow. “Am I wrong in thinking that Mary worked for your sister for a while?”

  The eyelids lowered over those dark, liquid pools as Horace silently cursed himself for coming. That had been so long ago, he had thought no one would remember. Reining in his panic, he put on a show of bravado and glared up at the other. “What if she did? You’re not going to lay this murder on me.”

  “Horace, I believe you protest too much. The thought never entered my mind. The girl was raped, if you haven’t heard, and I just couldn’t imagine you doing such a thing.”

  Horace found cause to take offense at his statement. “Are you suggesting that I’m not a man?” His voice increased in volume: “I’ll have you know…”

  Realizing he had gained the attention of the other mourners, Horace slowly closed his mouth. As the recipient of their stares, he stretched his short neck out of his collar, raised up on his toes, and then settled back to a flat-footed stance, just like a little rooster ready to crow…or burst, which might have better described his present disposition. If he bragged about his prowess, which might have been viewed as questionable by other men, he would have invited the sheriff’s suspicion. The other alternative of letting Ashton Wingate believe him incapable was just as bad. He could not tell them that Corissa had let Mary go for the girl’s own good after he had dragged her down to the woodshed. He vividly remembered the resulting squabble he had gotten into with his sister about treating the servants and slaves in a more worthy manner. After all, there were other planters who used their slaves for their own convenience, he had argued, and he felt he had a right to be like other men. To be considered a man was the thing he most desired. There was no need to prove his manhood with the very young, and until Marelda had deigned to bestow some attention upon him, it had always been the innocent child-girls he had gone after. And Mary had been very young once…and very inexperienced.