Winnie’s clothes lay in a crumpled pile on top.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. He simply gazed at her, and she got this awful feeling that he could see right through her skin.
“Is this the kind of human being you want to be?”
She felt small and ugly. She bit off the urge to tell him how her father loved Winnie and not her, how she’d tried to be pretty enough, sweet enough, special enough, to make him notice her, but nothing had worked.
“Please inform your mother that I’ll stop by to see her this evening.”
Relief swept through Sugar Beth. Diddie would chop him into little pieces. She wanted to laugh in his face, but she couldn’t find a laugh anyplace inside her.
By the time he arrived at Frenchman’s Bride that night, Sugar Beth had done her work, not accusing him of attacking her—it would be another few weeks before she thought of that—just complaining about him to Diddie. How he put her down in class, embarrassed her in front of her friends. How his attitude had upset her so much that she’d done something really stupid. Something involving Winnie Davis.
Diddie wasn’t predisposed to feel sympathetic toward her husband’s illegitimate child, and as she met Colin Byrne, steely politeness undercut her gossamer blond beauty. “I don’t see the need to make such a fuss about a silly prank. I’m sure Sugar Beth meant no harm.”
Since Byrne wasn’t Southern, he didn’t understand how much power a softly spoken woman could wield, and unlike so many other people, he wasn’t rattled by Diddie. “She did mean harm, though. She’s been systematically persecuting Winnie Davis all year.”
His bluntness set Diddie’s teeth on edge, not to mention the fact that he had long hair, something she’d disapproved of from the beginning. “You’re an educator. I expect you to understand that the roots of this difficult situation lie not with Sugar Beth but with my husband’s lamentable bohemian lifestyle. My daughter is every bit as much a victim as . . . that girl.”
“What happened today was cruel.”
“Cruel?” Icicles dripped from the magnolia petals. “The lateness of the hour must have fatigued you, Mr. Byrne. I can think of no other reason a teacher would say something so unprofessional about one of the finest young women to ever attend Parrish High.”
“Perhaps it’s a cultural barrier, Mrs. Carey, but in England fine young women don’t subject others to humiliation.”
“I’ll see you out.”
In the end, Sugar Beth received nothing more than a mild reprimand from the principal, a man who owed his position to her mother’s influence. Winnie, in the meantime, let her hair grow longer and ducked to stay behind it.
Gordon raised his head from the bottom of the bed. Sugar Beth got up and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. Winnie had done well for herself. The best part of Sugar Beth—the part that believed in cheering on anyone who fought the odds and came out a winner—tried to feel good for her. But the old ghosts loomed too large, and she couldn’t manage it. One more item to add to the long list of things she still needed to do penance for.
She headed back to the bedroom, hoping for sleep. Tomorrow stood a chance of being one of the most miserable days of her life, and she needed to be ready.
“No doubt you thought I was sadly lacking in manners. You may sit down. At my feet.”
G
EORGETTE
H
EYER
,
These Old Shades
CHAPTER SIX
Sugar Beth didn’t like the butterfly rumpus going on in her stomach as she crossed the damp lawn toward Frenchman’s Bride. Unfortunately, she was already an hour late. After her uncomfortable trip down memory lane last night, she’d slept so badly that she’d turned off her alarm without thinking. Byrne wouldn’t be happy. Tough. Neither was she.
Gordon stopped to sniff a patch of grass, and a mockingbird called out. She had no intention of slinking in the back door, regardless of what he’d said, and she climbed the front steps, but when she got to the top, she saw a note stuck to the knocker. Door locked. Come in the back.
Bastard. The latch didn’t budge, and she turned her wrath on her nearest target. “Now what do you think about your choice of friends, huh? I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Gordon gave her a snotty look, but he stayed with her as she stomped down the stairs, not out of loyalty, but because she hadn’t yet fed him. She followed the flagstone path around the side of the house, then came to a dead stop.
A sleek new addition, invisible from either the street or the carriage house, rose from the space that had once held the unused patio. The addition encompassed a spacious screened-in porch and a sunroom with long, high windows. One more desecration.
She entered through the porch into what had once been the cozy kitchen where Ellie Myers, Diddie’s cook and housekeeper, had reigned supreme. But nothing was the same. Walls had been knocked out, ceilings raised, skylights added, all of it coming together in a state-of-the-art kitchen. She took in the bird’s-eye maple cabinets and stainless steel appliances. A thick, tempered glass eating counter hung suspended over a section of the natural slate countertop. One end curved in a sculptured peninsula that separated it from the sunroom, which was decorated with an Asian flair—light walls and lacquered, oxblood furniture, along with some European pieces. An Adams sofa covered in burnished gold upholstery with brass nail-head trim sat near a decorative Victorian wooden birdcage. A few lacquered bamboo jars and earthenware ceramic pieces held a lush display of houseplants. The muted pagoda print on the chair and ottoman blended with a neighboring chinoiserie chest, which held a pile of books and an abandoned laptop computer.
The house of her childhood was gone, and it took her a moment to work up the energy to slip off her jacket. As she did, she noticed a neatly typed list propped on the slate countertop. She stopped at the first item:
Breakfast in my office: fresh orange juice, blueberry pancakes, sausage, grilled tomatoes, more coffee.
No way did Byrne eat like this every morning, not with that lean body. She knew a test when she saw it, and she gazed down at Gordon. “He thinks I’m not up to the challenge.”
Gordon’s expression indicated he had his doubts, too.
She set to work. It took a while to find the dog food, which she poured into an exquisite Waterford bowl and set on the floor near the porch doors. “Only the best for you, right, champ?”
His mouth was already full, so he didn’t reply.
She was gazing in disgust at the old-fashioned glass juicer when she heard footsteps. She didn’t like the way her stomach plunged. She was accustomed to making men nervous, not the other way around.
Byrne entered the kitchen through a newly constructed archway. As his eyes skimmed over her, she gave herself high marks for her choice of work clothes. Housekeepers were supposed to wear black, weren’t they? And didn’t she just live to please?
Her stretchy black lace crisscross blouse had a plunging V neck, and her ancient black slacks still had enough life in them to hug her hips. He eyed the small turquoise butterfly that dangled from a silver chain in her cleavage. She wished she had a really spectacular rack to shove under his nose. Still, with the right bra anything was possible, and judging from the length of time it took him to move his eyes back to her face, she was doing just fine. Uniform, my ass.
In contrast to her semihooker’s attire, he wore dark slacks, a long-sleeved burgundy silk shirt, and an elegant pair of suspenders. What kind of man dressed like that to work at home? As he looked down his imperious nose at her, she knew for sure he’d been trapped in the wrong century.
“Fresh from your morning trot in Hyde Park, m’lord?” She managed a slight curtsy, although it lost some of its effectiveness, since she was behind the counter, and he couldn’t see her knees bend.
He regarded her cuttingly. “Would it be possible to have my breakfast now, or is that too much of an inconvenience?”