Counterfeit Lady Page 7

  Facing the garden was a drawing room and the morning room. The library and dining room faced away from the river, toward the north.

  Making a quick survey of each of the rooms, she decided that whoever had decorated them was a person of taste. They were simple, quiet rooms, each piece of furniture an example of the cabinetmaker’s art. The library was obviously a man’s room, the dark walnut shelves filled with leather-bound books, an enormous walnut desk filling a large part of the room. Two red leather wing chairs sat before the fireplace.

  The dining room was done in the Chinese chippendale style, the walls covered in hand-painted textured paper, a delicate design of greenery and gently tinted birds. All the furniture was mahogany.

  The drawing room was exquisite. The south windows made the room bright and cheerful. The drapes were dusty rose velvet with the seats of three chairs upholstered in the same fabric. A couch sat perpendicular to the marble fireplace, its fabric of green and rose striped sateen. The walls were covered with paper of the palest rose, a border of darker rose at the top, and a little rosewood desk sat in one corner.

  But the morning room was Nicole’s favorite. It was yellow and white. The curtains were of heavy white cotton sprigged with tiny embroidered yellow rosebuds. The walls were painted white. A couch and three chairs were covered in gold and white striped cotton, and against one wall stood a thin-legged cherry spinet, a music stand beside it. A mirror and two gilt candle holders hung above the spinet.

  But everything was dirty! The beautiful rooms looked as if no one had entered them in years. The polished surfaces of the wood were dull and dusty, the spinet badly out of tune. The curtains and rugs were choked with dust. It was a shame to see such beauty hidden and neglected.

  Standing in the hallway and glancing up the stairs, she meant to explore the whole house but right now couldn’t bear to see more rooms covered in dust and dirt.

  With a glance down at the muslin of her dress, she turned toward the narrow hall leading to the kitchen. Perhaps Maggie would have an apron she could borrow and the wash house would have cleaning supplies. She remembered Janie saying Clay didn’t care what he ate. In the milk house she’d seen something that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, or maybe never—an ice cream freezer. Maybe Maggie could spare her some cream and eggs and a child who could turn the crank.

  It was quite late when Nicole began to dress for dinner. She slipped on a dress of sapphire blue silk with long, tight sleeves, the bodice cut very low—almost too low, she thought as she looked in the mirror. With one more hopeless attempt to pull the fabric up, she smiled. At least Mr. Armstrong would see her in something that wasn’t torn and dirty.

  At a knock on the door, she jumped. A male voice, unmistakably Clay’s, spoke through the closed door. “Could I see you in the library, please?” Instantly, she heard his boots on the hardwood floors, then muffled as he went down the stairs.

  Nicole felt strangely nervous at what would be their first real meeting. Straightening her shoulders, remembering her mother’s words that a woman must always stand upright and look whatever fears she had in the face, that courage is as important to a woman as it is to a man, she went downstairs.

  The library door was open, the room faintly lighted by the setting sun. Clayton stood behind the desk, a book open in front of him. He was silent, but there was no doubt of his presence.

  “Good evening, sir,” Nicole said quietly.

  He studied her for a long while before he set the book on the desk. “Please have a seat. I thought we should have a talk about this…situation. Could I offer you something to drink before supper? Dry sherry, maybe?”

  “No, thank you. I’m afraid I have very little head for alcohol of any sort,” Nicole said as she took one of the red leather seats across from the desk. For some reason, one of Clay’s eyebrows raised slightly at her words. In the light, she could see him more clearly. He was a solemn man, his mouth drawn too tightly into a straight line, a furrow between his brows making his dark brown eyes look almost unhappy.

  Clay poured himself some sherry. “You speak with very little accent.”

  “Thank you. I admit, I must sometimes work hard at it. Too often, I still think in French and translate into English.”

  “And sometimes you forget to do this?”

  She was startled. “Yes, that’s true. When I’m very tired or…angry, I do revert to my native tongue.”

  He took a seat behind the desk, opened a leather folder, and removed some papers. “I think we should clear up some business matters. As soon as Janie told me the truth of what happened, I sent a messenger to a family friend—a judge—telling him of the unusual circumstances and asking for his advice.”

  Nicole nodded. He hadn’t even waited until he had returned home to start annulment proceedings.

  “Today the reply came from the judge. Before I tell you what he said, I’d like to ask you some questions. During the ceremony itself, how many people were present?”

  “The captain who performed the ceremony, the first mate who was your stand-in, and the doctor who acted as a witness. Three.”

  “What about the second witness? There was another signature besides the doctor’s for a witness.”

  “There were only the four of us in the room.”

  Clay nodded. No doubt, the name was forged or added later. It was another in a long list of illegalities about this marriage.

  He continued. “And this man, Frank, who threatened you. Did he do it in front of the doctor?”

  Nicole wondered how he knew the first mate’s name and that he was the one who had threatened her. “Yes, it all happened inside the captain’s cabin in a matter of minutes.”

  Clay rose and walked across the room, taking the seat opposite her. He still wore his work clothes, heavy dark trousers, tall boots, a white linen shirt open at the throat. When he’d stretched his long legs out toward her, he spoke. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Holding the glass of sherry up to the light, turning it in his hand, his eyes came back to hers, flickering briefly over the low neckline where her firm breasts rose above the blue silk.

  Nicole reminded herself not to act like a child and cover herself with her hand.

  “The judge sent me a book on English marriage laws, which I’m afraid hold true in America also. There are several grounds for annulment, such as insanity or failure to be able to bear children. I assume you are healthy in mind as well as body?” Again his eyes flickered.

  Nicole smiled slightly. “I believe so.”

  “Then the only other reason that would suffice is to prove that you were forced into the marriage.” He wouldn’t let Nicole interrupt. “The key word is prove. We must produce a witness to the marriage who can testify that you were forced.”

  “My word isn’t good enough? Or yours? Surely the fact that I am not Bianca Maleson would carry some weight.”

  “If you had used Bianca’s name instead of your own, then that would be grounds. But I have seen the marriage certificate and it is in the name of Nicole Courtalain. Is that true?”

  She thought of her moment of defiance in the captain’s cabin. “What about the doctor? He was kind to me. Couldn’t he be a witness?”

  “I hope he can. The problem is that he is already on a ship back to England, on the frigate that was being loaded when your packet arrived. I’ve sent a man to England after him, but it will take months, at the least. Until there is a witness, the courts will not annul the marriage. They call it ‘putting the marriage aside lightly.’ ” He finished the last of the sherry and set the glass on the edge of the desk, and as he’d said all he wanted, he was silent, watching her.

  Bending her head, she studied her hands. “So, you are locked into this marriage for some time to come.”

  “We are locked into it. Janie told me how you wanted to become partners in a dress shop, how you worked nights to save the money. I know an apology is little to offer, but I can only ask you to accept it.”

  She
stood, her hand on the back of the chair. “Of course I accept it. But I would like to ask something of you.” Looking at him, she saw his eyes were shaded, guarded.

  “Anything.”

  “Since I’m going to be in America for some time, I will need employment. I know no one here. Could you help me find a job? I am educated, I speak four languages, and I believe I would make an acceptable governess.”

  Clay stood suddenly and walked away from her. “Out of the question,” he said flatly. “No matter what the circumstances of the marriage, legally you are my wife, and I will not allow you to hire out like an indentured servant to wipe snotty noses. No! You will remain here until the doctor can be located. After that, we will talk of future plans.”

  Astonishment registered in her voice and looks. “Are you trying to plan my life for me?”

  There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I assume I am, since you are in my care.”

  She held her chin up. “It is not by choice that I am in your care. I would like for you to help me find employment. I have many bills to repay.”

  “Bills? What do you want that isn’t here? I can send to Boston for anything imported.” Looking at her as she fingered the silk of the dress, he lifted a piece of paper from the desk. It was the letter she’d written him before she left the ship. “I believe you mean the clothes. I am sorry I accused you of theft.” Again he seemed amused about something. “The clothes are a gift to you. Accept them with my apologies.”

  “But I cannot do that. They are worth a fortune.”

  “And isn’t your time and inconvenience worth something? I’ve taken you from your home, transported you to a strange land, and behaved abominably toward you. I was very angry the first night I met you, and I’m afraid my temper overshadowed my reasoning. A few dresses are a small price to pay for the…hurt I’ve caused you. Besides, what the hell would I do with them anyway? They look a damned sight better on you than hanging in some wardrobe.”

  Smiling at him, her eyes twinkling, she gave him a full curtsy. “Merci beaucoup, M’sieur.”

  He stood over her, watching her, and when she started to rise he held out his hand for her. His palm was warm and callused as it swallowed Nicole’s. “I see your leg’s healed all right.”

  Nicole looked at him, puzzled. The cut was high on her thigh, and she wondered how he knew of it. “Last night, did I say or do anything unusual? I believe I was very tired.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Only that you chased the dogs away and put me on your horse. From then until this morning is a blank.”

  He studied her for a long while, his eyes staying on her mouth so long that Nicole could feel herself begin to blush. “You were charming,” he finally said. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” Still holding her hand and seeming to have no intention of releasing it, he pressed it to his arm. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a beautiful woman at my table for dinner.”

  Chapter 5

  WHILE NICOLE WAS DRESSING FOR DINNER, MAGGIE had filled the big mahogany dining table with food. There was crab bisque, roast squab stuffed with rice, deviled crab in scarlet shells, poached sturgeon, cider, and French wine. The sheer abundance was amazing to Nicole, but Clay seemed to consider it ordinary. Nearly all the food had been grown or caught on the plantation.

  They had barely sat down when the garden door banged open and some loud, excited voices shouted, “Uncle Clay! Uncle Clay!”

  Clay threw his napkin onto the table and took two loping strides toward the dining room door.

  Nicole watched in amazement. Clay’s face, usually so solemn, had changed instantly at the sound of the voices. He didn’t exactly smile; Nicole had never seen him smile, but neither had she seen such a look of joy. As she watched, he knelt on one knee and opened his arms to two children who fairly flew into them, wrapped their arms around Clay’s neck, and buried their faces against him.

  Nicole, smiling at the scene, walked quietly behind them.

  Standing and holding the children close to him, he questioned them. “Did you behave yourselves? Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes, Uncle Clay,” the little girl said as she looked adoringly at him. “Miss Ellen let me ride her very own horse. When am I going to get my own horse?”

  “When your legs are long enough to reach the stirrups.” He turned to the boy. “And what about you, Alex? Did Miss Ellen let you ride her horse?”

  Alex shrugged as if the horse didn’t matter. “Roger showed me how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

  “Did he? Maybe we can make you one for your own. What about you, Mandy? Do you want a bow and arrow too?”

  But Mandy wasn’t listening to her uncle. She was staring over his shoulder at Nicole as she leaned forward and said in a juicy, loud whisper that could have been heard in the dairy barn, “Who’s she?”

  Clay turned with the children, and Nicole got her first good look at them. They were obviously twins and she guessed about seven years old, with identical dark blond curls and wide-set blue eyes.

  “This is Miss Nicole,” Clay said as the children stared at her curiously.

  “She’s pretty,” Mandy said, and Alex solemnly nodded agreement.

  Smiling, Nicole held her skirt as she curtsied. “Thank you very much, M’sieur, Mademoiselle.”

  Clay set the twins down, and Alex came to stand in front of Nicole. “I am Alexander Clayton Armstrong,” he said quietly, putting one hand behind him and one in front, and he bowed, blinking at her several times. “I would offer my hand, but it is…what is the word?”

  “Presumptuous,” Clayton supplied.

  “Yes,” Alex continued. “A gentleman should wait for a lady to offer her hand first.”

  “I am honored,” Nicole said, and held out her hand to shake Alex’s.

  Mandy edged beside her brother. “I am Amanda Elizabeth Armstrong,” she said, and curtsied.

  “Well, I see you two made it. You could have at least waited until I was ready so you could show me the way.”

  The four of them turned to look at the tall, dark-haired woman, in her forties, a stunning, large breasted woman with dancing black eyes.

  “Clay, I hadn’t heard that you had company. I’m Ellen Backes,” she said, extending her hand. “My husband Horace and I and our three boys live next door to Clay, about five miles down the river. The twins were staying with us for a few days.”

  “I am Nicole Courtalain—” She hesitated, and looked over her shoulder toward Clay.

  “Armstrong,” he said. “Nicole is my wife.”

  Ellen stood still for a moment, holding Nicole’s hand. Then she dropped it and exuberantly hugged Nicole. “His wife! I am so very, very happy for you. You couldn’t find a better man unless you married mine.” She released Nicole and hugged Clay. “Why didn’t you tell us? This whole county could have used a wedding! And this house especially. There hasn’t been any company since James and Beth died.”

  Nicole was very sensitive to Clay’s reaction to Ellen’s words. Visibly, he didn’t move, but she felt a current pass through him.

  In the distance, a deep horn sounded.

  “That’s Horace,” Ellen said as she turned back to Nicole. “We have to get together. I have so many things to tell you. Clay has a long list of bad habits, one of which is being too antisocial. Now I know all that’ll change.” She glanced about the wide hallway. “Beth would be so glad to see this house come alive again. Now you twins come and give me a hug.”

  As Ellen hugged the children, the horn sounded again, and she ran out the door and down the path to the sloop at the wharf where her husband waited for her.

  When she was gone, it seemed suddenly quiet in the hall. Nicole looked at the three who looked at the open door where their friend had just left, and she burst out laughing. “Come on,” she laughed, and held out her hands to the twins. “I may not be Ellen, but I think I can put some sunshine back into this day. Do either of you know what ice cre
am is?”

  The children timidly took her hands and followed her into the dining room. Nicole hurried to the ice house and back. When she returned, she carried pewter bowls that were so cold she had to use potholders. As the twins put the first bite of ice cream into their mouths, they looked at her with love.

  “I think you’ve won them,” Clay said as the twins dug into the creamy stuff. For herself and Clay, she topped the ice cream with brandied fruit.

  Hours later, when the twins were in bed, she remembered that neither she nor Clay had eaten much supper. As she went down the stairs, Clay stood there, a tray in his hand.

  “Personally, I’d like a little more for supper. Join me?”

  They went to the library, and Nicole enjoyed the hastily contrived meal even if it was a little odd. Clay had made sandwiches out of thick slices of bread and smoked oysters, slathering both in hot mustard from Dijon.

  “Who are they?” Nicole asked between bites.

  “I guess you mean the twins.” He sat in one of the red leather chairs, his long legs propped on the edge of the desk. “They’re my brother’s children.”

  “Is that the James and Beth Mrs. Backes spoke of?”

  “Yes.” His answer was almost hard in its brevity.

  “Would you tell me about them?”

  “They’re seven years old. You know their names, and—”

  “No, I mean your brother and sister-in-law. I remember Bianca mentioning that they died while you were in England.”

  He took a very long drink of beer, and Nicole got the feeling he was struggling with something inside himself. When he spoke, his voice seemed far away. “My brother’s sloop capsized. They drowned together.”

  Nicole understood what it was to lose part of your family. “I think I understand,” she said quietly.

  Clay stood suddenly, nearly knocking the chair over. “You can’t understand. No one could.” He left the room.