“We must take a wagonload of food and blankets over tomorrow,” Amanda proposed. “Perhaps some of the guests will want to help, too. I’m sure there’ll be a need for lots of clothing and quilts….”
Aunt Jennifer frowned suddenly in thought. “Ashton, do you suppose the injured girl could have been from the madhouse?”
His head snapped up in surprise, and as he stared at his great-aunt, he could find no reply to give her. It was his grandmother who came to his aid.
“What would make you think such a thing, Jennifer?”
“Because there was some speculation about her escaping from a burning house, and now we hear the asylum has burned down.”
“Probably only a coincidence,” Amanda suggested, “and nothing to fret about. I’m sure the child will be able to explain it all when she wakes.”
Ashton savored the word coincidence. The two events could not really be related, he told himself, nor could he give serious credence to the idea of Lierin being in such a place. It seemed foolish to muse on the possibility and to let his imagination race far ahead of his logic.
He returned to the guest bedroom and, pushing open the door, paused on the threshold for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the meager light. A low fire burned in the hearth, softly illumining the room, while a chimneyed candle on the bedside commode cast a yellow glow across the tall, tester bed and its occupant. The fragile features remained still and undisturbed, and for a moment his heart halted in sudden trepidation; then he detected the slight rise and fall of her chest, and he was able to breathe again.
Across the room Willabelle pushed herself from a rocking chair, making him aware of her presence. “Ah been ’spectin’ yo back.”
“How is she?” he asked, approaching the bed.
The black woman joined him there. “She ain’t woke up yet, Massa Ashton, but it seems like she be restin’ easier now. She sho’ been bruised, an’ she gots a funny welt on her back dat Ah cain’t quite figger out, almost like somebody done hit her.” Willabelle rubbed the slender hand lying on top of the covers. “Luella May he’ped me wash her hair, an’ we dried it, den Ah give her a bath an’ put a fresh gown on her. Jes’ bein’ warm an’ clean might he’p.”
“I’d like to be alone with her for a while,” Ashton murmured.
Willabelle looked up at him in surprise. His distant expression did not invite inquiry, but she delayed a moment out of her concern for him. He had grieved so deeply after the loss of his wife, she could not help but worry what effect this accident was having on him. “Miz Amanda was up here a li’l while ago, an’ she’d reckon it mighty strange yo bein’ up here alone wid a stranger.”
“I’ll have to talk to her.”
His laconic reply prevented any glimpse of his inner emotions, and she made no further attempt to draw him out. She went to the door with a comment. “Ah reckon yo be wantin’ to know: Miz Marelda, she done made plans to spend de night again.”
Ashton sighed heavily, accepting the news with disappointment. One night could be dealt with, but Marelda was wont to extend her visits until it served her purpose to leave.
“Call if yo needs me, massa,” Willabelle murmured gently and closed the door behind her.
As the sounds of the woman’s footsteps faded in the hall, Ashton turned to the bed. He could feel the ache of loneliness building in his chest as his eyes slowly traced the softly curving form. She lay on her back with her long, red hair tumbling over the pillow. He reached out to touch her hand and found the skin soft and smooth beneath his fingers. The nails were long and carefully tended just as Lierin had always kept hers. They brought to mind a night aboard the River Witch when she had leaned over his shoulder as he worked at his ledgers and playfully raked her fingernails across his bare chest. Continuing to tease him, she had nibbled at his ear and rubbed her lightly clad bosom against his shirtless back. After such sweet temptations, recording figures in a stodgy accounting book had seemed far less important.
His mind flowed easily into the natural channel of remembering Lierin, and he relaxed his tightly held restraint, allowing his thoughts to wander where they would. He lowered his weight to the edge of the bed, recalling an afternoon in a hotel room when the sunlight had filtered in through louvered shutters and, with its radiance, had set the sheer white hangings of the bed aglow, wherein he and his young wife had lain entwined. Her jasmine fragrance had drifted with heady effect through his senses while he reveled in their shared intimacy. The pale-hued breasts, sleek limbs, and creamy-skin nakedness had whet his appetite until he had been driven to touch, taste, and possess, and in their brief time together they had savored their newly wedded bliss full measure. If it were possible to enrich such a deep and consuming love, then they had done just that. The intimate moments they had shared had made him marvel, for though he had experienced similar ventures with other light-o’-loves, he had never taken hold of the real treasures of true love until Lierin.
The shadow of the door, elongated by the well-lighted hall, moved across the ceiling, jarring Ashton back to reality. He looked around as Marelda cautiously entered the room.
“Ashton? Ashton…are you here?” she called softly, then glanced toward the bed as he rose to his feet. “Oh, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right room. I saw no one….” She paused and looked about as her words dawned with full realization; then she stared with hardening eyes at the woman in the bed before lifting a rather skeptical gaze to him. “I thought at least there’d be someone else in the room, Ashton. This is hardly proper.”
“No need to fear, Marelda,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “I haven’t ravished the girl in her helpless state.”
Marelda was nettled by his mockery. “Really, Ashton, you know how the gossips are. Your character would be lambasted from here to Vicksburg if this were known.”
“If what were known?” A mildly tolerant smile lifted a corner of his lips. “That I was here alone with an unconscious woman who is my-” He bit off the word that would have staked his claim to the girl. How could he issue such a statement when there were so many questions yet to be answered? Still, too much had already been said, and he knew that Marelda would not give him rest until he finished with what he had started.
“Your what?” Marelda barked out. “What is that little trollop to you?” She grew more enraged by his coolly tolerant stare. “Dammit, Ashton, I want to know!”
Crossing to the door, he pushed it closed to prevent her voice from carrying through the house, then faced her with a suggestion. “I think you’d better sit down, Marelda,” he said calmly. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Tell me!” she cried.
“I believe the lady is”-he smiled apologetically-“my wife.”
For the second time that evening Marelda was thrust into a state of near panic. “Your wife?” She seemed to reel from the blow of his revelation and had to grasp hold of a nearby chair for support. She continued in a less volatile tone, though her voice was ragged with emotion: “I thought you said you hadn’t taken another wife.”
“I haven’t.”
She frowned at him, totally confused. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Casually he indicated the one in the bed. “I’m saying that I believe this woman is my first wife, Lierin.”
“But…but I thought you said she had drowned,” Marelda stammered in bewilderment.
“And that was what I also believed until I saw this woman’s face.”
Marelda considered him a long moment in deepening suspicion; then, setting her jaw, she went to the bed, lifted the candle, and held it close to the pillow where she could have a better look at the one lying there. Her eyes flared as she viewed the fairness of her rival, then narrowed with jealous hatred. Had she been alone, she might have added a few more bruises to that pale visage, for this was the woman who had already caused her so much pain and anguish. Or was she?