Chapter Fourteen
IT was a quiet afternoon, and Lenore was restless. Although she knew Ashton was somewhere within calling distance, she felt very much alone. She wanted him near, and she was sure he would have come to her had she yielded to her desire and beckoned him. Thoughts of the baby nestling within her womb were coming more and more to mind, and she wanted to talk at length and to share the secrets of her musings with someone who cared and who would love them both, but to summon him would be disastrous with the two guards ever-watchful of his approach, although she was beginning to think Ashton could handle anything that came his way.
Robert had journeyed to New Orleans on business and had planned to remain there for a couple of days. Malcolm had stayed in the Biloxi area, but was on another one of his trips to town and, as usual, had left no word as to when he would be back. Though of late he was inclined to leave and return without word of warning, his manner with her seemed almost careful, as if he had taken a deep interst in her well-being or, more likely, feared losing her to the other man.
The invitation to the gaming night on the River Witch had been sent out, and to her amazement Malcolm had accepted it with enthusiasm. He even suggested that she have a new gown made for the affair, so he might show her off in style and impress the other guests, who purportedly were some of the most affluent in Mississippi and neighboring states. There was of course no need for her to venture into Biloxi; he would send out a dressmaker to perform the service. It was destined to be an unusual affair, and Malcolm did not want to be found wanting by the other guests, even if they were friends with that dreadful Ashton Wingate.
Lenore roamed aimlessly through the lower rooms of the house, dearly longing for some activity that she could engage in, or at least occupy her mind. Malcolm had suggested that she find a needle and thread and then busy herself with woman’s work. The idea of stitching a sampler in the parlor did not fit her mood, yet it was in that room where she settled to read. She had found a book of plays her father had left in the dining room only that morning and, seeing the binding worn and well used, opened it with care. Puzzling at the illegible writing scrawled across the title page, she studied the scrolls and embellishes closely until she realized it was nothing more than a signature, but the name seemed of no importance to her. She had never heard of Edward Gaitling before. Still, there were many names that had been erased from her memory and perhaps this was one of them, or simply the name of an actor who had autographed the tome for the Shakespearean enthusiast.
Reading made her drowsy, and she let the volume rest in her lap as she sipped the tea Meghan had brought her. As she did so, her eyes lifted above the rim of the cup and settled on the landscape painting above the fireplace. A tiny frown troubled her brow as she again puzzled at its presence. It still seemed out of place.
Growing inquisitive, she rose and went to examine the oil more closely. Although large in size, it definitely would not have drawn a high price in an art salon.
Lenore pressed her fingers against her temple for a moment, puzzling at her thoughts. How would she know that? And just how many art salons had she visited that she could be aware of the value of a painting?
Her mind drifted back to the sketch her father had shown her at Belle Chêne. He had said she had created that bit of art. Therefore, she must know something about different works by other artists and had some knowledge of their worth.
The possibility that she was an artist sent her flying to the parlor’s writing desk in search of pen and ink. The long, narrow drawer in the middle held a supply of parchment, and when she explored further, she found that a side compartment contained something that looked like a collection of unfinished sketches, which were neatly bound with a ribbon, as if someone had cherished them enough to keep them. Taking care, she untied the bow and began to peruse each one slowly, desperately hoping the drawings would reveal something about her and who she was. She found more sketches like the one her father had shown her of the manor house, and there were landscapes that meant nothing to her, but which were all quite good, she concluded, wondering if she complimented herself with that judgment.
Her interest swiftly advanced when she came to an intricate drawing of a woman dressed in a riding habit. The pose was slightly rakish, with booted feet braced apart under a cocked hem. A plumed cap sat at a jaunty slant over a smooth coiffure, and a crop was clasped at a horizontal angle in front of the skirt, with the ends clasped in gloved hands. It was not the form that intrigued her so much as the face, for it appeared to be a likeness of herself…or Lierin. In hopes of determining which of them it might be, she examined the drawing with meticulous care and discovered, half hidden in the flowing lines of the skirt, the name that claimed the art: “Lenore”! It seemed unlikely that she would have created such a careful image of herself; therefore she had to conclude the sketch was of Lierin and several years old.
She propped the piece against the oil lamp where she could view it as she worked and, dipping the quill in ink, began to follow the example set before her. Working diligently, she sought to re-create the fluid lines of the old drawing on the new parchment, then frowned in dissatisfaction when the quill refused to flow with her desires. It left splotches of ink to mar the strokes and, with its unwieldiness, seemed to thwart her attempts. In frustration she grabbed up the sheet and, wadding it into a ball, tossed it aside. Again she tried, and again the quill failed her. The difference between the old sketch and the new made her decide that she would have to find a better implement with which to apply the ink, for her talent was being badly hampered by what she had.
Neatening up the desk, she rose and put all thoughts of art behind her as she made her way upstairs. In the hallway outside her door she paused, not really wanting to while away the afternoon with a volume of plays, nor was she interested in a nap. Ashton had appeased her woman’s curiosity and, in doing so, had made it hard for her to forget. In bed her mind was wont to bring back detailed memories of a broad chest, muscular ribs, and flat, hard belly. And that was only the beginning of her torment!
She glanced up and down the hall in desperation, seeking some diversion; then a point of interest caught her questing eye. All the other doors in the corridor were set in pairs, but at the opposite end of the hall from her bedroom and across from an unused chamber, there were three in a row. Relieved to have a puzzle to occupy her for a time, she made her way to the center portal, curious to know where it led. She was disappointed to find it locked and without a key in evidence, but it was hardly a secret of houses that some of their keys could be used interchangeably. Fetching the one to her own bedroom door, she applied it to the lock and was rewarded when the latch clicked free. She laid a cautious hand upon the knob, and when she pushed it, the door moved inward with a ponderous grating of hinges. A long, narrow cubicle lay beyond the portal, and on one wall a steep stairway led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. A rope dangled beside the door by which she had entered, and when she tugged on it, the trap door lifted, opening a crack as a heavy counterweight slid down the wall beside the stairs. She had sudden visions of a dark, bat-infested attic, which would fill a foolhardy woman with many trepidations, but a thin silver of light shone from above, and the sight buttressed her courage. She began to tug at the rope again, this time twining it around the cleat that was secured into the wall, and the trapdoor slowly rose to welcome her advance.