Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition)

Home > Literature > Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition) > Page 29
Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition) Page 29

by Jo Goodman


  “Come here, Kenna,” Rhys said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Kenna hesitated until one of his dark brows raised, issuing a challenge she could not ignore. She walked toward him. The sunlight at her back filtered through her blue muslin day dress, outlining the length of her long legs and the slenderness of her waist.

  “Closer.” Rhys pointed to a spot directly in front of him, directly between his splayed legs. “Right here.” Kenna took the final two steps a shade defiantly and Rhys closed his legs, trapping her. “All right. Let’s address these issues. First, your height. Even on tiptoe you are still shorter than I am. Therefore, to me, you’re small. And airy? Kenna, if you saw the way you looked coming toward me, light and ethereal, you would not doubt me on this point.” He reached for her wrists and raised them in front of him. “That brings us to delicate. These are delicate.” He dropped them and spanned her waist with his hands. “This is delicate.” He drew her down on one knee and brushed her lips with the tips of his fingers. “Not delicate. Exquisite.”

  “Rhys,” Kenna sighed. “You present a lovely argument. But I don’t think you understand the problem.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s this: when you call me sprite I feel like your sister, or worse, the wretched little girl who dogged your every step at Dunnelly. More importantly, I wonder if that is how you see me. Is it, Rhys? I want to be your wife, your lover, your friend. Am I still a child in your eyes?”

  “Child? No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I haven’t thought of you as a child since your seventeenth birthday.”

  Kenna could not hide her surprise. “You were on the Peninsula then. You hadn’t seen me for nearly three years.”

  “I was on the Peninsula, yes, but Nick sent me a miniature of you. He commissioned a portrait of you for your birthday and asked the artist to duplicate the painting in miniature.”

  “I never knew.”

  “Nick knew better than to tell you. You wouldn’t have sat for the portrait.”

  “God, I could be cruel!”

  “You thought you had reason enough to hate me,” he reminded her. “When I saw the painting I saw a woman, Kenna, not a child. Your face was so solemn, so grave, that I wept for the loss of your childhood and wondered if you had even noted its passing. There was a frailty in your expression, a certain vulnerability in your eyes, and I mourned the absence of your spirit. It was not the wistful face of a child the artist had captured on canvas; it was the haunting face of a young woman who was completely unaware of her own beauty.

  “I had a locket made for the miniature and I carried it everywhere. It was my good luck piece. To this day I don’t know what happened to it. I was preparing for a battle and reached in my pocket to get it, just to hold it for a moment, and it wasn’t there. I shall never forget how scared I was to face the enemy that day.”

  “You didn’t need it.” A lump in her throat made it difficult to get out the words.

  “You’ll never convince me of that,” he said in self-mockery. “That was the day two of my finest animals were shot out from under me and a pistol ball creased my hairline.” He caught her horror. “I was unconscious for a while, that’s all. It was not much more than a scratch.”

  “Oh, Rhys,” she said miserably.

  “Don’t think on it, Kenna. I don’t. Think on this: when I call you sprite it is because you’ve triggered a chord that responds to your spirit. Don’t ask me to ignore it. I don’t think I can. I loved you as a brother when you were a child. Not any longer. I thought you understood. I love you as a man can only love a woman. There has been nothing less in my heart for years.”

  “You never said…I thought everything you did for me was toward protecting me. I thought you were sacrificing your life for mine.”

  “I am not a sacrificing man,” he said. “I’m a selfish one. Very, very selfish. You are as necessary to me as air itself. I would guard you as jealously as a thirsty man would guard his last few drops of water. That is the sort of protection I’ve always offered you.”

  “I love you,” she said. Kenna leaned her head against his shoulder. “Dear God, how I love you!”

  Chapter 8

  “Do you feel as if you’re coming home?” Kenna asked curiously. She was standing in front of Rhys at the taffrail. His arms were resting lightly on her shoulders and over the top of her head his eyes were watchful. Boston was becoming more than a point on a map as Carasea sailed closer to the harbor.

  “Yes. Frankly, it surprises me. I hadn’t thought I’d feel this way.”

  Kenna reached back and put her hand on one of his. “Is any of it familiar to you?”

  He nodded. “See the building there, the one at the end of Long Wharf? That’s the State House. The Declaration of Independence was announced to Bostonians from its balcony.”

  “Stirring, but treasonous, literature,” chided Kenna.

  “Indeed it was.”

  “What is that building there?” She pointed to the second cupola rising to the left of the State House.

  “That’s Faneuil Hall. At least I think it is. I was nine when I left Boston. I’m afraid my memory may not serve. It has market stalls and in one of the upper meeting rooms Sam Adams planned the tea party.”

  “Why would one have a tea social above a market place?”

  Rhys laughed outright at her question. “What did your tutor teach you in the schoolroom? I was talking about the famous, or infamous, Boston Tea Party.”

  “Hmm. I never heard of it,” she said tartly. “Pardon me for pricking this newfound American pride of yours, but I had hundreds of years of English history to study. Your little rebellion was a mere hiccup in time.”

  Rhys laughed again, giving her a tiny shake. “I hope you don’t intend to make your view common knowledge. Americans like to think the English still smart a bit at losing their colonies.”

  “I doubt the subject will come up, and if it does, well, I shall try not to embarrass you.”

  “You couldn’t embarrass me.” He kissed the top of her head. “Have you ever heard of Paul Revere?”

  “No. Is he someone you shall be doing business with?”

  Behind her Rhys rolled his eyes heavenward and found himself giving Kenna an impromptu American history lesson as he pointed out the Old North Church. He told her what he remembered of the early colonists, the transplanted city dwellers who had aspirations of becoming gentleman farmers but had little knowledge of the soil. He explained how the natural resources of the untamed land led the colonists to seek sustenance from the sea. It began with codfish, the lifesaving food of the settlers, then ship building followed, to export the fish to other settlements. As New England learned to sail, Boston became the center of the coastal trade.

  Kenna hung on every word, eager to learn all she could about her new home. By the time Carasea docked at the wharf she admitted to some newly found American pride herself.

  Captain Johnson came to stand beside them as their trunks were loaded on a carriage. “I’d be happy to escort you to your home personally,” he offered.

  “No,” said Rhys. “I know you have matters here that require your attention. It was kind of you to arrange for our transport and give us two men to help with our things.”

  Johnson had to smile at that. “Hardly gave them to you. After all, you employ them.”

  Rhys grinned then. “That will take some getting used to.”

  “Thank you for all your patient assistance, Captain,” Kenna said sincerely. “You made the voyage a delight. As soon as we’re settled I want you to be our first guest at dinner.”

  “Happily, ma’am. Most happily.” The easy smile faded from his face. He looked beyond Kenna and Rhys and tugged at his chin thoughtfully.

  Kenna and Rhys turned simultaneously to see what had captured Johnson’s attention. A three-masted schooner was swiftly approaching the harbor. It was an elegant vessel, flawless in design, bearing red and white markings of another line.
<
br />   “She’s yare!” breathed Kenna. “How I wish she were one of ours! Look how she flies!”

  “That’s your competition, Mrs. Canning,” Johnson said gruffly, though he could not quite keep the admiration for the sleek vessel out of his voice. “She’s a Garnet schooner and they don’t come any finer. If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Mr. Canning, your father didn’t have much good to say about the Garnet Line. Says they’re no better than pirates. There’s no love lost between the families.”

  “My husband is not his father,” Kenna said, unknowingly echoing Rhys’s earlier sentiments. “The Garnets will have ample opportunity to discover that for themselves.”

  Johnson coughed to cover his astonishment at Kenna’s spirited defense of her husband. “There are no Garnets any longer, ma’am. The family name’s been gone more than eighty years though it’s still a family enterprise. Tanner Cloud runs the business now. Has since the end of the war. His wife, his sister, and her husband all have an interest in it. In fact, his wife comes from a Caribbean shipping family. Ever heard of Quinton Lines?”

  “I have,” said Rhys. “It was mentioned in my father’s notes.”

  “Quinton Shipping is Mrs. Cloud. Tanner did all right by himself. That marriage to Alexis Quinton is what kept Garnet afloat when things turned bad during the war.”

  Later, as they were passing Boston Common, Kenna asked Rhys something that had been in her thoughts long before Captain Johnson spoke of Alexis Quinton Cloud. “Do you mind that I didn’t bring anything to our marriage?”

  “So that’s why you’ve been so quiet,” he said. “You were working yourself up to ask that ridiculous question.”

  It was true that she had hardly heard Rhys as he pointed out the various Boston sites. She hadn’t been able to appreciate the fragrant spring air or the greening of the common. Still, that didn’t make her thoughts ridiculous and she told him so. “If things had been different I could have brought my inheritance into this marriage. As it stands I can’t even offer you a rowboat.”

  “I don’t want a rowboat, or even a schooner that can chase the wind. I thought I was quite clear. I want you.”

  That mollified her a little. She stared out the carriage window. “Still,” she said, softly, looking at a row of yellow daffodils that brightened the side of the road, “you should have held out for my little pond trawler.”

  Rhys smiled and leaned back in his seat, shading his eyes with the brim of his hat as Kenna moved back and forth across the opposite seat, trying to see Boston from both sides of the carriage.

  The carriage stopped in front of a large wooden-framed house which sat on several acres of woodland property outside of Boston proper. Black shutters on every window of the three story home relieved the pristine whiteness of the building and gave it a stately air. Twin chimneys rose above the mansard roof and an iron railing, also painted white, formed a boundary around the roofs less steep first slope. The entire third floor of the house was formed by the slate roof’s second slope and a series of white dormers that were built three to a side. Four white columns rose in front of the main entrance and supported a balcony on the second floor.

  Rhys liked the house, had always had a fondness for it, but he said nothing as he waited for Kenna’s reaction. She, after all, had grown up in a veritable castle.

  “Oh, Rhys! It’s lovely. Why didn’t you tell me?” She tugged at the sleeve of his greatcoat, urging him up the cobbled walk.

  “It’s not Dunnelly.”

  Kenna stopped in her tracks and looked at him suspiciously. “I can see that. For all that I loved it, Dunnelly was still a tomb. This is fresh and alive. I’ll wager there’s not a single musty corridor to be found. When was it built?”

  “About sixty years ago. I know it’s only a hiccup in time compared to Dun—”

  “I had no idea I would have cause to regret that statement so soon. I hope you aren’t going to hold it over my head forever. Did you think I might not like your home?”

  “It had occurred to me,” he admitted sheepishly. “Your family owned a minor property in Brighton that was larger than this.”

  “What has size to do with anything? I’m certain this house will accommodate us, the servants, and a half dozen children without any of us living in one another’s pockets.”

  Rhys opened his mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly. The mention of children effectively silenced him.

  Kenna laughed at his confusion. “Come along. We can talk about the exact number some other time.”

  The door was opened for them by the butler and Kenna immediately noted a certain chill in the air. Rhys had sent a messenger on ahead to give the servants notice of their arrival, but from their expressions it appeared they were much put out by the disruption to their routine.

  They had crowded in the hallway in their best dress and the first thing Kenna noted was that they were all wearing black armbands. Neither she nor Rhys observed any sort of mourning for his brother and father, a fact which could hardly go unnoticed since she was wearing the lemon yellow gown beneath her redingote. Kenna looked at Rhys for direction but he seemed unperturbed by the situation, handing the butler his greatcoat and helping Kenna out of her coat.

  Behind them two sailors from the Carasea stood patiently, waiting to be told where to deliver the trunks. Rhys told them to leave everything in the foyer while the butler was motioning them to use the house’s rear entrance. They obeyed Rhys and the trunks thudded to the parquet floor.

  The butler, a portly gentleman with red cheeks which gave him a perpetually flustered look, swallowed hard. His adam’s apple did not even break the surface of his thick neck. “Welcome home, sir,” he said stiffly. He nodded at Kenna. “Madam. I’m Alcott, head of the household staff. We would like to offer our sympathies on the passing of your father and Mr. Richard.”

  “Thank you,” said Rhys with no show of emotion.

  Alcott cleared his throat. “May I introduce you to everyone?”

  “Please.”

  It was then Kenna realized that Rhys did not know any of the people working for him and her heart went out to him. What must it be like to be welcomed home by strangers who obviously resented his presence and wished for the return of the old guard?

  “Nicholas would not have tolerated it,” she told him later when they were eating dinner. The supper room was pleasant enough, she thought. The wallpaper was pale blue and patterned with tiny white flowers. Above the round walnut table hung a crystal chandelier whose candles gave off a warming light. Gold drapes with sweeping valances hung at the tall windows and there was a door leading to the gardens which could be opened in warmer weather to let the fragrance of the outdoors sweep the room.

  “What wouldn’t have Nicholas tolerated?” Rhys asked patiently as he cut his meat.

  “Their insolence,” she whispered, looking around quickly to make certain one of the servants hadn’t suddenly walked into the room. “He would have dismissed them at once.”

  “Then he would have been without any staff. Circumstances are different here, Kenna. Domestic help is harder to find. If I let these people go, they would be snapped up before their bags were packed.”

  “How do you know these things? If I didn’t know better I would think you never left the United States.”

  “I know because I anticipated the reception I would get and I asked questions of other Americans before I left London.”

  “Do you mean we must keep them no matter how much they dislike us?”

  “For the time being I think it would be best,” he said. “And I doubt if they actually dislike us.”

  “The cook does,” Kenna said with conviction, pushing away her plate. “The meat is without texture, the potatoes are watery, and the vegetables have had the color cooked out of them. I think I would gladly put up with Monsieur Raillier’s temper if I could have his food now.”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about arsenic here,” Rhys pointed out.

  Kenn
a stared at her plate. “Pardon me if I doubt your word,” she said dryly.

  Rhys started laughing and Kenna soon joined him, tears gathering in her eyes from his infectious amusement. They sobered long enough for their half eaten repast to be exchanged for dessert by a grim-faced serving girl. As soon as they were alone they glanced at the pudding in front of them which had the consistency and color appeal of mud and simultaneously burst into laughter.

  Kenna wiped her glistening eyes with a corner of her napkin and dared Rhys to try it.

  He shook his head and backed away, scraping a leg of his chair on the polished hardwood floor. “You try it.”

  “We both will. We have to,” she insisted. “If we don’t touch it the cook will think we just weren’t hungry and she’s likely to serve this again. But if we eat a few spoonfuls—all right, just one spoonful—she’ll know we tried it and found it wanting.”

  Rhys was skeptical of her logic. “You first.”

  “Together,” she told him sternly.

  They put their spoons in the pudding at the same time, and watching each other carefully lest one of them falter, they brought the spoons to their mouths. The spoons hovered for a moment, then Kenna and Rhys cast caution aside and took a bite, swallowing quickly. Their eyes widened in mutual amazement.

  “I’ll take yours if you can’t eat it all,” Rhys said, trying to draw her crystal cup in front of him.

  Kenna grabbed it back. “There are some things I won’t do for you, Rhys. And giving up this—this—whatever it is—is one of them.”

 

‹ Prev