A Cry at Midnight Page 8

  He was insane. Taunting her, taunting himself. He didn't want to want her. He should be repulsed by her behavior, her short hair, her lies. But for some reason he had yet to understand, he was pulled toward her with a force he'd never felt before.

  His boot heels clicked across the stone walkway, then he opened the door with enough force to rattle the windowpanes. Cautioning himself to be quiet for Rose's sake, he didn't slam the door. Instead, he inwardly raged as he took the stairs two at a time, heading for his solitary bedroom and a change of clothes. He would get out of the house, visit his neighbors, and take out some of his frustration through sound, logical arguments.

  If that failed, he'd put his fist through a wall.

  "Too long without a woman," he mumbled as he jerked off his rumpled shirt. That was the only explanation for his irrational, overly emotional behavior. He should have a mistress, someone compliant and sweet, with flowing dark hair and adoring eyes. Not some hot-tempered, short-haired young woman with a huge imagination and little experience to perpetuate her fraud.

  Unfortunately for him, he'd never believed in taking one of his slaves for a mistress. Nearly ever other planter he'd met had indulged in the practice, but Jackson had seen the fear and loathing on the faces of some of the women. He couldn't lose himself in a body that shrank away from his touch, with a woman who could barely tolerate his physical needs.

  No, he needed someone willing and sweet. Hell, he needed a new wife. In just four months, he'd be free to marry. As soon as Lebeau solved the mystery of Miss Galloway, Jackson vowed he'd start a search for a suitable young woman. Someone who didn't kiss like an angel and rake him with eyes that sparked of the devil.

  #

  Randi waited until the totally infuriating "master" slammed into the house. She didn't want to risk running into him anywhere near a bedroom. He'd probably assume that she wanted a little more of his interrogation. The jerk. At first, he'd kissed her like he meant it, then he'd decided to see how far he could push her. She knew the minute his kisses had turned from genuine to a controlled seduction.

  She recognized the move from Cleve's lovemaking repertoire. Too late, she'd realized that he could change from charmingly genuine to genuinely slimy in a blink of his disarmingly innocent blue eyes. Whenever he'd acted that way, she knew he wanted something. A little loan until he got a new job. An introduction to a family friend who needed to buy something Cleve was selling, or give him a job when he wasn't.

  Randi's family might be poor, but they were honest. She hadn't recognized Cleve's get-rich-quick schemes and unethical behavior until they were well into their relationship. Until it was too late . . .

  She'd been such a fool. But, she thought, rising from the bench and picking up her plate, she'd already beat herself up enough over her big mistake. Live and learn, that's what her mother always said.

  Randi looked down the alley formed by the blooming trees and sighed. "Mom, I wish you were here. I need you. I need all of you."

  There was no answer, of course. A gust of wind shook the limbs, making a few white blooms fall to the ground like snowflakes.

  Would she ever see her family again? Sit down for Sunday dinner at the Early American breakfast table they'd owned for as long as she could remember? Play with her nieces and nephew, see the new ones born? Or get to realize her own dreams, with her family seated proudly in the audience?

  She blamed the moisture in her eyes on the gusty wind, but she knew that wasn't true. With a heavy heart, she returned the plate to the kitchen, hoping none of the servants had witnessed the embarrassing exchange between herself and "the master" in the garden, or commented on her watery eyes. What would they think of her if they knew she'd kissed him back like a love-starved idiot? Assume she was some weak-willed bimbo, or sympathize with her over his planned seduction?

  My God, did he do this often? Randi remembered stories and movies about the omnipotent slave masters who took any female on his plantation to bed, whether she was willing or not. Would Jackson Durant do that? She shuddered at the thought. Surely he couldn't . . . not when he'd pulled away from her when she'd insisted.

  But then, she wasn't a slave. Heck, she wasn't even technically a servant. He'd never said she could be Rose's governess. He hadn't kicked her off the plantation either, but he might now, since he knew she wasn't about to fall into bed.

  She walked as quietly as possible up the stairs, praying she didn't run into him because she wasn't up to another confrontation. Her mind still swirled from all the unanswered questions that couldn't be resolved . . . not yet, anyway. She'd have to find out soon. Within a month, the plantation would be under water, their lives threatened.

  Randi climbed up to the third floor nursery, but found Rose still sleeping. Suzette was on a pallet, also napping. She looked too young to be a mother herself. In sleep, especially, she looked like she should be taking driver's ed, planning on a dress for the Junior/Senior Prom, or begging her parents for a ticket to some popular rap artist.

  The uncertainty of life in the 1800's, of her status here at Black Willow Grove, and of her ability to return to her own time pushed Randi downstairs to the solitude of the bedroom she now called her own. But for how long? A sob escaped her as she stumbled down the steps, tripping over her long skirts. She picked them up high and ran into the room, shutting the door, turning the key to lock out the world.

  She couldn't lock out her thoughts, however. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she sank to the feather mattress, skirts billowing around her. She fumbled to the table beside the bed, but couldn't find the box of tissue that should be there.

  Only in the twentieth century, she realized. That was the last straw. She gave into the frustration and fear, and cried until her chest ached and her throat felt raw. Ignoring the knocks on her door, she curled into a ball, hugged one of the soft, full pillows, and fell into a fitful sleep.

  #

  Jackson's temper cooled before he left the house to visit his neighbors. After he'd gained control of his body and calmed his mind, he realized how his houseguest might have mistaken his intentions. After all, he'd given no indication earlier that he'd wanted to kiss her, or found her attractive. He'd gotten the impression that she was slightly afraid of him--after she'd pushed him beyond his limit.

  He'd reluctantly decided that he should apologize for his actions. He shouldn't have treated her as though she was a woman of easy virtue, even if her clothing and every other indication screamed that she was no shy, innocent miss.

  So he stood outside her room, ready to offer a formal apology for his inappropriate actions. From inside he heard the sound of muffled sobs. Dammit, the girl was crying. He hated a women's tears. Pansy had cried quietly, with no great emotional display. Jackson assumed she'd merely wanted attention, or a new bauble.

  This woman cried like a child. Unrestrained. Messy, no doubt. He knocked several times to no avail. He tried the knob, but found the door locked. With a firm set of his lips, his jaw clenched, he descended the stairs.

  Let her cry. He'd tried to offer his apology. Tears hadn't been necessary to force him to take action.

  His black gelding's reins were held by a stable boy just outside the front door. With a quick vault into the saddle, Jackson put his heels to the horse, galloping away from Black Willow Grove and the sound of crying that echoed in his mind.

  Five hours later, still angry and frustrated, he cantered up to the stable. He'd wasted the afternoon on small talk and gentlemen's pursuits. His neighbors hadn't wanted to listen to his theories on the river. They'd wanted to know which of his horses he'd race at their annual event in May. Thomas Crowder had insisted that Rose have a woman's influence, hinting that Jackson's household wasn't entirely appropriate to raise a daughter.

  Jackson had promised him that a proper governess was on the way. He'd also hinted that he'd search for a suitable mother for his daughter after their crops were in and his period of mourning was over. That declaration had produced a chilling look and
thin-lipped glare from Pansy's mourning father.

  The rest of his neighbors had wanted to share a cigar, a glass of bourbon, and talk politics. Anxiety over Europe's "Year of Revolution" had spread to the upper class, mostly-Protestant minority of European extraction, who ruled a land inhabited by everything from black slaves to wild savages to the destitute poor. Needless to say, the planters didn't feel entirely secure in their holdings, though they talked as though nothing could threaten their lives.

  He let out a snort of disgust at these men who worried more about the turbulent political situations of far-distant countries than they did about a river that had flowed through this land for thousands of years, long before man had claimed the rich soil for his own. As far as Jackson was concerned, if events didn't affect the price of cotton, they might be interesting, but came very low on his list of priorities.

  Right now, top on his list was to find out what Miss Randi Galloway really was--governess or thief, innocent young lady or scheming woman of ill repute, he reminded himself as he entered the house to clean up before dinner. He hoped Lebeau had discovered some pertinent information during his trips to Randolph and Sugar Creek. He'd set aside time for his butler's report after dinner.

  Of course, he also needed to spend his regular evening visit with Rose. He knew regularity was important in the life of a child, so his foul mood should not interrupt their interval together before bedtime.

  The colors of sunset gilded the stairway in oranges and golds as he climbed to his bedroom. Hopefully, his valet would have warm water waiting. Even if he were eating alone again tonight, he would dress for dinner, as was expected of gentlemen of his social standing. A small price to pay for all he'd gained in the last fifteen years.

  Lost in his thoughts, he turned the corner off the landing and strode down the hallway--and ran into the object of his frustration.

  "Mr. Durant!" she cried out, grasping his arm for support. She'd obviously been upstairs in the third floor nursery. A spot he identified as baby drool marred the bodice of her pale green daydress.

  He gently held her upper arms, resisting the inappropriate urge to pull her close. "I'm sorry, Miss Galloway," he said, striving for a formal tone even as his heart began to pound and his body tightened from the feel of her warm, womanly body so very close. The fact that she was dressed demurely in a high-necked dress that showed very little flesh made no difference. "I wasn't paying attention."

  "Apparently I wasn't either," she said breathlessly, her gaze locked with his. "I didn't hear you coming."

  He searched her face in the fading light of the hall, looking for signs of her earlier tears. He saw none. As a matter of fact, she looked remarkable composed. Her lips appeared rosy, her lashes unusually dark. Did she use cosmetics? If so, that was more evidence she was no innocent miss.

  "I wanted to talk to you," she said, interrupting his examination.

  With a sigh of resignation, he released her arms. She took a step back.

  He wished he'd met with Lebeau first. Jackson didn't want to face any recriminations or questions without knowing more about her outrageous story. And yet he felt he owed some explanation for his earlier behavior. He'd rather wait until he felt in control of both his erratic heart rate and his position as master of Black Willow Grove. Alone in this half-darkened hallway wasn't the best place to mention their kiss in the garden. Still, as a gentleman, he owed her.

  "I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. I should never have pressed my . . . needs upon you as I did."

  "Your needs," she said, her brow furrowing.

  "Certainly you know what I mean."

  "Yes, I think I do. You mentioned needs rather than anything more complimentary to me. But that's okay. I understand."

  "You understand what?"

  "That you don't feel anything special for me. Any port in a storm. Isn't that right?"

  "That's not what I said," he said, feeling his frustration level rise.

  "That's what I heard you say."

  "I don't wish to discuss my motives any further, Miss Galloway. I hope you accept my apology."

  She seemed to consider his request, her head slightly tilted and her brow somewhat furrowed. "I accept. I shouldn't have kissed you back. I'm not sure what came over me."

  "We'll put that behind us, then."

  "Okay. But I still wanted to talk to you."

  "I was preparing for dinner."

  "Oh." She wrinkled her nose, confirming his suspicions that his afternoon with the other planters had left a mark on his person. "You smell like a bar."

  "A bar?"

  "I mean," she said quickly, "that you smell like cigar smoke and liquor."

  "I've been visiting. That's what men of my position do, Miss Galloway, along with running their plantations." He wondered why she didn't know about the customs of the wealthy. Had she never been employed in an upper class family? She apparently hadn't been raised in one, since she was searching for employment with no references. If her family had fallen upon hard times, they would have at least known others who would have offered a position as governess or companion.

  "Well, I've been thinking. That's what I do."

  Her saucy retort caused a smile, but he quickly tamped down the urge. "And what have you been thinking about?"

  "My status here at Black Willow Grove. I need to know whether you're going to let me stay on as Rose's governess. I can't just keep living here without some sort of job."

  "Are you accustomed to working, Miss Galloway?"

  "Yes, I am. And I work hard. I'm good with babies and children. I've already told you that."

  "I'll consider your request. At the moment, I need to change for the evening." He started to walk away, then realized he was being rude for not considering how she would take his abrupt dismissal.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. "Would you care to join me for dinner?"

  "Yes," she said, her smile lighting up the dim hallway.

  "Then I will see you downstairs in fifteen minutes."

  Thankfully, she let him escape to his bedroom. His reactions to Randi Galloway were becoming stronger and more disturbing.

  "Please, Lebeau," he whispered as he closed his door, "have the information I need before the night is through."

  #

  Randi hurried down the stairs, holding up the skirt of the uncomfortable dress. She needed to find Melody and ask the maid what she should wear to eat dinner with the "master." Randi had heard that the wealthy "dressed for dinner," but what exactly did that mean? And was the custom the same in the previous century?

  She found the servants in the kitchen, again interrupting their meal. "I'm sorry," she explained to the young black woman, "but Mr. Durant asked me to join him for dinner, and I'm not sure if I should wear this dress. He said fifteen minutes."

  "That dress has a spot on it, Miz Galloway."

  "Please, call me Randi," she reminded the maid.

  "Yes, Miz Randi," Melody replied automatically. "I can get that spot out for you, but Miz Durant always wore a fancy dress for dinner. That's a day dress."

  "Oh," Randi said, holding out the skirts and looking at the fine detailing of lace and cording. "I don't think I have time to change. Besides, I'm not Mrs. Durant--not even close."

  "You fit her dresses just fine. I'll look through the trunk."

  "You don't have time for that, girl," Birdie said from her perch on the other side of the table. "Melody, you get that spot out. The master'll understand Miz Randi didn't have time to change. Lord knows, you don't keep a man waiting for a meal."

  Randi smiled. "That's true. They can be real bears when they're hungry."

  "The master's strong on keepin' to schedule," Birdie continued, gesturing with a spoon. "He expects everyone to be on time."

  "I see." So, he was as stern and authoritarian with them as he'd been with her. Maybe even more since they couldn't just up and leave.

  As if she could. Then how would she get back to where she belonged?r />
  With a few minutes, Melody had unhooked the back, placed a folded rag beneath the fabric of the bodice, and removed the spot. With more patting and a little heat from a small iron instrument resting on the hot stove, the dress looked fine.

  Randi smoothed the skirts of the green dress. Between the demands of the "master" and his teething daughter, she was going through clothes pretty fast. "Okay, I'm as ready as I'm going to get." She looked around the kitchen, where the cook and serving staff--including the slightly-built boy she'd noticed at breakfast--prepared to carry the meal into the main house.

  "I hope you have a good dinner, Miz Randi," Melody said shyly.

  "Thank you," she replied warmly, giving the helpful girl a squeeze on her shoulder. Apparently not all of the people in the past were suspicious of her. At least a few seemed to like her. She wondered if Jackson Durant would ever feel that way. Probably not. And she didn't have any reason to want him to be attracted to her, even though her feelings had been hurt just minutes ago when he'd referred to his "needs" rather than any real desire he might have experienced.

  She preceded the servers into the house, arriving in the dining room first. Should she be seated or standing? She wished she knew more about the customs of the time. She should have paid more attention to history in high school. If she'd known how much the events and philosophies of each period influenced the architecture, she would have studied those boring dates, revolutions, and explorations more diligently.

  This opportunity to study history first-hand was an entirely different experience. She had to admit that after getting over her initial shock, she could look at what was going on around her with a little more interest. When she got back to her own time, she was going to have some vivid memories of this bygone era.

  She watched a server carry in what looked like condiments for the table. Two others brought in silver chafing dishes. They worked quietly in the background, leaving her alone.

  She folded her arms across her chest and wandered around the well-decorated room, taking in the expensive-looking flocked wallpaper, the elaborately carved and gilded mirror over the fireplace, and the wide, detailed crown moldings at the ceiling. Not even the museum curators could have produced a more beautiful setting for the heavy cherry or mahogany furniture. Seating for twelve around the table, a long, marble-topped sideboard, and a huge china cabinet. As a matter of fact, everything in the room was on a grander scale than she could have ever imagined.