Counterfeit Lady Page 9

  “Yes, but—”

  “You aren’t allowed to say no, so it’s better to be quiet.”

  He didn’t release her hand as they walked across the plantation to the stables, where Clay put a soft leather side-saddle on a palomino mare for her, lifted her into the saddle, and headed for the kitchen. Maggie smiled broadly as she handed Clay the bulging saddlebags.

  They rode for an hour, leaving the higher ground where the house and dependencies were, and went to the lower fields. The flat, rich bottomland followed the river in an arch that half encircled the higher ground of fields planted with cotton, tobacco, flax, wheat, and barley. To the east of the house were pastures where cattle and sheep grazed separately, and everywhere there seemed to be barns and tool sheds. They stopped once to feed apples to a pair of enormous draft horses. As Clay talked to her about the quality of cotton, the ways of curing tobacco, she watched him, saw the pride of ownership in his eyes, how he cared for his land and the people who worked for him.

  The sun was high in the sky when Nicole looked across the river and saw something that was very familiar to her—a water wheel. Staring through the trees at the stone and brick structure, she was flooded with memories. She and her grandfather had always lived in luxury, their every need had been satisfied before they had thought to want it, but when the Revolution had sent them into hiding they’d learned to survive. They had dressed as the miller and his wife did, and they had worked as they did. Nicole had scrubbed the kitchen twice a week, and she had learned to run the mill when the men went away to deliver grain.

  Smiling, she pointed across the river. “Is that a grain mill?”

  “Yes,” Clay answered without much interest.

  “Whose is it? Why isn’t it running? Could we see it?”

  Clay looked at her in astonishment. “Which one should I answer first? It belongs to me, and it isn’t running because I’ve never hired anyone to run it and because the Backes mill my grain. And, yes, we can go see it. There’s a house farther up the hill. You can just see it through the trees. Would you like to go across?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  There was a little rowboat moored at the edge of the river, and Clay threw the saddlebags in, helped Nicole inside, and rowed them across. Standing back, he watched as she tramped across the overgrown path and started walking around the mill.

  “It looks to be in good condition. Could I see the stones inside?”

  Clay took the key for the big lock on the double doors from its hiding place, watching as Nicole inspected the grooves in the stones and muttered things about bolting cloth and a good millstone dresser. When she finished her inspection, she started asking more questions, until Clay held up his hand in protest.

  “Maybe it would be quicker if I explained,” he said. “When my brother was alive, we could run a bigger place, but now, with just me, I decided the mill was too much. When the miller died last year, I didn’t look for another one.”

  “But what about your grain? You said the Backes have a mill.”

  “A small one. It’s just easier to send it over there than to worry about running this place.”

  “What about the other farmers? Surely people like Janie’s father need a mill. Or do they go to the Backes’ too? Isn’t it far away?”

  Clay took her hand and led her outside. “Let’s eat lunch, and I’ll answer all your questions. There’s a pretty place on the top of that rise.”

  When the lunch of cold baked ham, pickled oysters, and apricot tarts was spread on a cloth, Clay was the one who asked questions. He wanted to know why Nicole was so interested in the mill.

  Nicole was very aware of him, close to her, that they were alone together in the quiet, secluded woods. “My grandfather and I worked at a mill for a while. I learned a great deal about them then.”

  “Your grandfather,” he said as he stretched out, his head on his hands. “We’ve been living in the same house for some time, yet I know so little about you. Did you always live with your grandfather?”

  Looking down at her hands, she was silent. She didn’t want to talk about her family. “Not long,” she said quickly, and looked back at the mill. “Did you ever consider selling the mill?”

  “No, never. What about your parents? Were they millers, too?”

  It took Nicole a moment to understand what he meant, and the idea of her elegant mother—her hair elaborately dressed and powdered, three tiny star-shaped patches at the corner of her eye, in a gown of heavy brocaded satin—working in a mill made her want to laugh. Her mother believed bread originated in the kitchens.

  “What’s making you laugh?”

  “The idea of my mother working in a mill. Didn’t you say there was a house here? Could we see it?”

  Quickly, they gathered the lunch things, and Clay showed her the house, which was completely boarded. It was a simple one-room house with an attic, old-fashioned but strong and sturdy.

  “Let’s go back across the river. There’s something I want to talk to you about and a place I want to show you.”

  Clay did not row them straight across the river but went upstream, past the planted fields, stopping at a point in the bank that looked to be impassable. The shore was thickly covered with shrubs, and willow trees dripped into the water.

  Clay stepped out of the boat and tied it to a stake hidden by the bushes. He offered Nicole his hand and helped her to stand on the approximately one foot of sand at the edge of the river. He grabbed an enormous myrtle bush and pulled it aside, revealing a fairly wide path. “After you,” Clay said, following her. The myrtle bush slipped back into place, once again hiding the path.

  The path opened into a grassy clearing that was completely surrounded by trees and shrubs, and it was like entering a large, roofless room. Along two sides were flowers, a riot of them. Nicole recognized some of the perennials. Though heavily choked by weeds now, they were surviving and producing.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, twirling about, the sweet grass about her ankles. “Someone made this. Surely it didn’t grow naturally.”

  Clay sat down on the grass and leaned against a rock that looked as if it had been chosen for its comfort. “We made it as kids. It took a long time, but we spent every moment we had on it. We wanted a private place.”

  “It certainly is that. You could walk within a foot of it and not see it. The brush is too thick.”

  Clay’s eyes had a faraway look. “My mother thought the dogs were carrying her seedlings away. She’d visit someone and leave with five cuttings. When she got home, there’d only be four. I often wondered if she suspected us.”

  “By us do you mean you and your brother?”

  “Yes,” he answered quietly.

  Nicole’s eyes twinkled. “Surely the two of you didn’t plant the flowers. I can’t imagine two boys risking punishment to steal iris bulbs. Could there have been a young girl involved?”

  Clay’s face hardened, and he didn’t speak for a moment. “Elizabeth planted the flowers.”

  The way he said it made Nicole know that this Elizabeth had meant a lot to him, but she couldn’t tell if he loved her or hated her. “James and Beth,” she said quietly, sitting beside him. “Is their death the cause of your sadness, the reason you rarely smile?”

  He turned to her with a face full of anger. “Until you are prepared to confide in me, don’t ask for confidences from me.”

  Nicole was stunned. She thought she’d cleverly avoided answering his questions about her family, but he had been sensitive enough to realize that she was hiding something. Just as her past was still too painful to speak of, so must his be. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something,” Nicole said.

  Clay stretched out and let his mind change from his dead brother and sister-in-law to a more pleasant subject. “I’ve been thinking about Bianca,” he said, his eyes turning dark. “When I planned the
kidnapping, I also sent a letter to be delivered to her father after the packet had been out to sea for a week. I didn’t want him to worry about her, but at the same time I didn’t want him to think he could prevent our marriage. That’s why I arranged the proxy marriage, which of course didn’t go as I planned.”

  Nicole was only half listening to him. She wouldn’t have believed his words could hurt so much, and to cover the pain she let her mind wander to the mill. She could run that mill. Maybe she could find work in America, or maybe she could live and work in the mill—and be near Clay.

  “Remember the frigate that came in just before your ship?” Clay was saying. “I sent a letter to Bianca on that ship. I explained everything to her. I told her that by mistake I’d been married to someone else but that the marriage would be annulled immediately. Of course that was before I had the letter from the judge.”

  “Of course,” Nicole said flatly.

  “I also sent her passage money to America. I told her that I still wanted her and asked her to please forgive me and come to America.” He stood and began to walk around the open area. “Damn! I don’t know why all this had to happen. I couldn’t return to England, not when I’m the only one running the plantation. I wrote her several letters and begged her to come to me, but she always had excuses. First her father was very ill then she was afraid to leave him. I could see that she was afraid to leave England. Sometimes the English have odd ideas about Americans.” He looked at Nicole as if he expected her to answer but she didn’t.

  He went on. “It will be some time before she receives my letter, then months before I know if she accepts me or not. “That’s where you come in.” He looked at Nicole with hope in his eyes but still she didn’t speak.

  “I don’t know what you feel about me. At first I thought you liked my company, but lately…You see how little I know about you. In the past weeks I’ve come to…respect you a great deal. My house is pleasant again, the twins love you, the servants obey you. Your manners are excellent and I believe you could manage a few social functions. It would be nice to have people visit again.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  He took a deep breath. “If Bianca refuses me, I’d like to remain married to you.”

  Her eyes turned from brown to black. “A marriage that would produce children, I assume.”

  Clay’s eyes crinkled, and he smiled slightly. “Of course. I must admit that I find you quite attractive.”

  Nicole didn’t think she’d ever been so angry in her life. She could feel the anger from her toes to her hairline. She stood up slowly, and it was a strain to speak. “No, I don’t think that would do at all.”

  He grabbed her arm as she turned away. “Why not?” he demanded. “Isn’t Arundel Hall big enough for you? With your looks, maybe you could get something bigger.”

  The hard slap she planted on his cheek echoed through the woods.

  He stood there, his cheek turning red, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I would like the courtesy of an explanation,” he said coldly.

  She jerked away from him. “Cochon! You ignorant, vain man! How dare you make such a proposition to me!”

  “Proposition! I just proposed marriage to you, and I think I’ve shown a damned lot of respect for you in the last few weeks. After all, you are legally my wife.”

  “Respect! You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. True, you’ve given me a separate bedroom, but why? Because you respect me, or so you could tell your beloved Bianca that you hadn’t touched me?”

  The expression on his face answered her. “Look at me,” she fairly shouted, her accent thick. “I am Nicole Courtalain. I am a human being with feelings and emotions. I am more than a case of mistaken identity. I am more than the fact that I am not ‘your’ Bianca. You say you propose marriage to me, but look at what you offer. Now I am mistress of the plantation, called Mrs. Armstrong by everyone. But my whole future hangs by a thread. If Bianca accepts you, then I’m to be cast aside. If she refuses you, then you will make do with second choice. No! Not even second choice. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no choice.”

  She took a deep breath. “No doubt, you thought I’d remain and be the twins’ governess if Bianca did come to America.”

  “And what would be wrong with that?”

  She was so angry she couldn’t speak. She pulled back her foot and kicked him. Her toe hurt more than his shin through his heavy boots, but she didn’t care. She spat several French curses at him, then turned toward the path.

  He grabbed her arm again. He was angry, too. “I don’t understand you. I could have any of half the women in the county if Bianca refuses me, but I’ve asked you. What’s so horrible about that?”

  “Should I be honored? Honored that you will allow poor little me to stay with you? Do you think I want to be an object of charity all my life? It may surprise you, Mr. Armstrong, that I want a little love in my life. I want a man who loves me, as you do Bianca. I don’t want a marriage of convenience but one of love. Does that answer your question? I’d rather starve with a man I love than live regally in your fine house with you when I’d know every day how you were pining for your lost love.”

  He looked at her so strangely that she had no idea what he was thinking. It was almost as if for the first time he was thinking of her as being something besides a mistake.

  “Whatever you think,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean to insult you. You are an admirable woman. You have made an intolerable situation into one that is a pleasure for those around you, if not for yourself. All of us, myself most of all, have used you thoroughly. I wish you’d told me earlier of your unhappiness here.”

  “I’m not unhappy—” she began, but she had to stop because tears clogged her throat. Another moment and she would throw her arms around him and say she’d stay with him on any terms whatsoever.

  “Let’s return, shall we? Let me think about it a while, and maybe I can arrange a more suitable situation for you.”

  She followed him down the path numbly.

  Chapter 7

  CLAYTON LEFT HER AT THE STABLES. NICOLE COULDN’T understand how she managed to walk back to the house. She tried to keep her head up, and she focused on one thing—the house.

  She had barely shut the door to her bedroom before the tears came. The year of hiding had taught her the art of crying without making a sound. She flung herself on the bed, and the sobs tore through her.

  Everything she’d said had been wrong. He hadn’t meant the marriage proposal as she took it. And now he spoke of a “suitable situation.” How much longer would she have before he sent her away? If Bianca came, could she bear to see Clay touch her, kiss her? Would she cry herself to sleep every night when she saw them shut the door to the bedroom they shared?

  Both Maggie and Janie tapped on her door and asked if she were all right. Nicole managed to answer that she’d caught a cold and didn’t want to spread it. Her swollen sinuses did make her sound as if she were ill. Later in the day, she heard the twins whispering outside her door, but they didn’t disturb her. Nicole stood up and decided she’d felt sorry for herself long enough. She washed her face and removed her dress. Clay’s footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Nicole stopped, holding her breath. She could not possibly face him yet. She knew that her heart would be in her eyes. During dinner, she’d probably beg him to allow her to stay near him—as his shoe polisher if that was all that was available.

  She removed her chemise and slipped into a nightgown, the lace and silk one Clay had admired. She didn’t know what time it was, but she was very tired and meant to go to bed. A summer storm was gathering outside. At the first distant rumblings of thunder, she closed her eyes very tightly. She couldn’t remember her grandfather now, she couldn’t!

  She was reliving that whole dreadful night. The rain slashed against the windows of the mill, and the lightning made the outdoors as bright as day. It was the lightning that showed her her grandfather.


  She sat up screaming, her hands over her ears. She didn’t hear the door open or Clay cross to her bed.

  “Quiet. You’re safe now. Be still. No one can harm you,” he said as he pulled her into his arms.

  He held her like a child, and she buried her face in his bare shoulder. He rocked her against him and stroked her hair. “Tell me about it. What was your dream about?”

  She shook her head and clutched desperately at his arms. Awake, she knew that her dream had been real. She knew she would never awaken from the nightmare. A flash of lightning lit up the room, and Nicole jumped, trying to pull Clay closer.

  “I think it’s time we talked,” he said as he lifted her in his arms, keeping a quilt twisted about her.

  Nicole shook her head mutely.

  He carried her into his bedroom and set her in a chair as he poured her a glassful of sweet sherry. He knew she hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he knew the alcohol would go straight to her head.

  It did.

  When he saw her begin to relax, he took her empty glass from her, refilled it, and set it on the table by the chair. He poured another glass for himself. Then he lifted her and sat back in the chair, holding Nicole close to him, the quilt across them both. The storm outside made them seem especially isolated in the dark room.

  “Why did you leave France? What happened at the miller’s house?”

  She hid her face in his shoulder and shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “All right, then, tell me about a good day. Did you always live with your grandfather?”

  The sherry made her feel warm and languid. She smiled in a lopsided way. “It was a beautiful house. It belonged to my grandfather, but someday it was to be my father’s. It didn’t matter; there was room for all of us. It was pink outside. My bedroom had cherubs painted on it. They were falling off a cloud. Sometimes I’d wake up and open my arms to catch them.”