A Cry at Midnight Page 9

  She should sketch this room, she thought suddenly. Besides helping her remember the details for when she returned to 1998, the activity would give her something to do while Rose napped, or after she went to bed at night. That is, if Jackson Durant gave her the job.

  "Pardon me for being late," he said from the doorway.

  She jumped at the sound of his deep, disturbing voice, but tried to hide her reaction by turning toward him and smiling. "I've only been here a minute."

  "I see dinner is ready," he said, striding toward the long table. "Would you like to be seated?"

  Randi picked up her skirts, hoping she didn't trip as she walked to the chair he stood behind. As she allowed him to seat her at the table, she felt very much a part of this time, like pampered princess.

  But, she reminded herself, she was no princess . . . and she was only playing dress-up in a make-believe land. Sooner or later, she'd go back to her own time, where she was much closer in social class to the people serving the food to the master of the house, who took a seat at the head of a table that cost more than her dad made in six months.

  "Tell me, Miss Galloway," Jackson Durant said from his throne-like chair, interrupting her thoughts, "since you want to become Rose's governess, what is your philosophy of child-rearing?"

  Chapter Seven

  "My philosophy?"

  "Yes. What are your views on the care and raising of children?"

  She seemed surprised by the question, but he wasn't about to let her off the hook. Especially since he'd learned from his valet that Lebeau hadn't yet returned from is fact-finding mission . . . and she was pressing for an answer to her request to become Rose's governess.

  "I think babies need lots of attention and stimulation."

  "What type of stimulation?"

  "Light, color, sound. They need to hear people talking, and not just baby talk. They need to be spoken to just like older children. That helps them talk when they get a little older."

  Her explanation was interrupted by the arrival of their plates, loaded with medallions of beef, onions baked in a puff pastry, and a colorful relish. Jackson appreciated the efforts of his cook. While other planters had sent away for French chefs, he'd seen that expense as unnecessary. Instead, he'd sent his cook to New Orleans for training with one of the best in the city. His efforts had been rewarded in much improved meals.

  A rich red wine was poured, then he motioned the servants away. He watched Miss Galloway look askance at her forks, finally choosing one. She blushed when she realized he'd been observing her. Taking pity on her, he turned his attention to his own meal. After two delicious bites, he directed their conversation back to the topic.

  "Very well. I suppose our views on infants are similar."

  "Good. I'm glad you're more . . . open minded."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  She looked up from her plate. "You know . . . progressive. I know that a lot of people in your . . . position might not spend much time with their children. They let them be raised by servants, don't they? I noticed that first night that you aren't like that."

  "I believe that children should know their parents. After all, the child will inherit your estate, so they should know your values."

  "That's an interesting way of looking at it," she said, a furrow on her brow. She frowned at her meal. He supposed her viewpoint was directed at him and not the tender fare.

  "So you have had dealings with the planter class," he stated.

  "Some," she said faintly. He decided not to pursue that remark, lest she start accusing him of inviting her to dinner so her could interrogate her again. She had unusual views on what was appropriate for him, in his position, and what was equitable for her. She continued to interest him because of her unique ability to turn around the most conventional and usual situations into points of contention.

  Sometimes, she even made sense--a disconcerting notion.

  "Are you enjoying the meal?" he asked, deciding that was neutral ground.

  "Yes, it's very good. I could use some salt, though."

  "The salt cellar is just to your left, Miss Galloway."

  She looked around, obviously not seeing the object. Jackson motioned to one of the servants, who lifted the porcelain lid and provided a sprinkling of salt to her plate.

  "Thank you," she said with a smile to the cook's son.

  She was extraordinarily polite and sensitive to the servants. He wanted to know why. Had she been in such a situation, and was therefore empathetic to the staff? Another mystery he intended to solve, once Lebeau returned.

  They ate in silence for several minutes, finishing the first course with the polite clink of silver on china, the occasional sip of wine.

  The plates were cleared and a compote of dried fruit in brandy sauce was served.

  "I think you're trying to get me drunk," Miss Galloway observed after taking a bite of the rich dessert.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "All this wine, and this sauce. What's in it, brandy?"

  "That's correct. Do you like it?"

  "Yes, but I may be tripping up the stairs in this long skirt."

  He frowned, not knowing what she meant by that remark. He'd seen his wife's dresses on the itinerant young woman, and they didn't seem too long at all. In fact, he was surprised by the fit. Pansy had seemed much more ethereal, her fine blond hair pulled back from a delicate face in a becoming, modest style that wouldn't suit Miss Galloway at all. She filled out the bodice more than his wife, also, but seemed oblivious to the swell of her rounded breasts beneath the concealing clothing.

  He was not unaware of her charms, however. Jackson shifted in his chair and broke his eyes from the silhouette of his houseguest. He couldn't wait four months to start looking for a new bride; he realized he had to find some outlet for his passionate nature. A suitable mistress, perhaps. Even a good courtesan would see him through a short courtship with a proper second wife. Since Miss Galloway's arrival, his celibate status had been proven his Achilles' heal.

  Despite her remarks about "getting her drunk," he noticed she finished every bite of her dessert. She'd used the incorrect spoon, but he wasn't about to point that out. Hopefully, she'd be long gone before Rose had need of such instruction on the proper usage of flatware.

  Or you could just get Lebeau to instruct Miss Galloway, a little voice whispered in his ear. The idea shocked Jackson; he wondered where, in his convoluted mind, that thought had come from. He didn't actually want her around. Certainly, he didn't think of her as an appropriate governess for his precious daughter.

  Did he?

  Disgusted, he whipped his napkin off his lap and threw it beside his plate. "If you're finished," he said in a measured tone, hiding his wayward thinking, "would you care to join me in the study?"

  "Well, okay," she said tentatively. "Is something wrong?"

  Apparently he hadn't concealed his aggravation as well as he'd thought. "Nothing for you to be concerned about, Miss Galloway."

  He motioned to one of the servants. "Have Suzette bring my daughter down now."

  The young woman nodded and hurried away.

  Jackson rose from his chair, then walked to behind Miss Galloway's seat. He looked down at her short, short hair, noticing again how the various colors blended together to form a light shade of blond. He'd never seen hair that looked like this.

  "Mr. Durant?"

  "Yes, Miss Galloway," he said, pulling out her chair so she could rise from the table. As she'd predicted, she did seem unsteady. Perhaps she wasn't accustomed to the potent wine he preferred.

  He took a risk to his libido by guiding her from the dining room with a hand beneath her elbow. She seemed surprised at first, then smiled at him in a shy way he found captivating.

  He would get a mistress as soon as possible, he vowed as they walked to the study.

  "Is it necessary to call me 'Miss Galloway?'" she asked, her brow wrinkling as she took a seat on the settee beneath the window.

 
"What would you have me call you?" he asked, walking to the brandy decanter. He had need of a bit more reinforcement than the glass of wine he'd consumed at dinner.

  "Could you call me Randi, at least when we're alone? I understand how you'd want to keep up appearances for others. The staff, neighbors, and so forth."

  "That's very understanding of you," he said, amused at her request, turning to face her across the room.

  "And I want to call you Jackson, not Mr. Durant," she added.

  He froze, the snifter suspended in mid-air. "That's very forward of you."

  "How can you say that after . . . And besides, it's only fair. Why would you call me by my first name when I have to be more formal?"

  "Why, indeed? Are you totally unfamiliar with my position as your... benefactor?"

  "No, but we do things a little differently where I come from."

  "And where would that be, Miss Galloway?"

  "Randi, remember? Why is so important to you?"

  "The question is, why is it so important that you keep me from knowing where you family lives, where you went to school, or who was your last employer?"

  "I . . . I suppose I want you to trust me for who I am, not where I come from."

  Her words echoed in his head, reminding him of things he's said before. His own thoughts, long buried under layers of wealth and respectability. His needs, forever denied by an unforgiving society. Yes, he understood her request--far more than he would ever admit to her or anyone else.

  "I'll call you Randi when we're alone," he acquiesced. "And as of today, you are truly my employee."

  "I am? As Rose's governess?"

  At his nod, her face glowed with delight. Impulsively, she sprang up from the settee, flew across the room, then threw her arms around his neck. Giving him a quick hug, she exclaimed, "Thank you! You won't regret this."

  Very carefully, he stepped back from his exuberant new staff. "I hope you're right, Miss . . . Randi," he said, striving to control his reaction to both her display of affection and the feel of her breasts against his chest. She was only expressing her gratitude, he told himself, not soliciting a passionate response.

  At that moment, Suzette walked into the room with Rose, who gave a squeal and reached for the two of them.

  Jackson's face turned hot with a blush as rare--and as inappropriate--as Randi Galloway's actions.

  #

  Once Randi began her duties, she felt much more settled into her life in 1849. Having a job took her mind off some of her troubles, giving her focus. Although she still hadn't solved any of her other problems--like finding out why she was here and figuring out how to convince Jackson to move out of the house before the flood came, she felt more confident that she could accomplish her task.

  Already she could tell that he wouldn't put his daughter in danger. He loved that baby just like the best Twentieth Century father. His love for Rose was the first thing Randi had admired about Jackson, but the more she was around him, the more she decided he wasn't the cruel slave master, the insensitive chauvinist, or the social-status-seeking elitist that she'd once assumed he would be.

  Not to mention the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, and more appealing now that she'd gotten to know him better.

  Whatever was going on in her brain--and with her hormones--she could now look back on their kiss in the garden and remember the first few moments of wonder and passion before her suspicion had kicked in. She'd accepted his apology, and she now believed he wasn't trying to get more information from her by kissing her senseless. He'd been caught up in the moment too, and if he'd changed in some subtle way, he'd simply tried to get control of his passion.

  Jackson Durant was definitely a man who liked to be in control.

  Something was bothering him today, she could tell. He'd been restless at breakfast, and when she'd asked if anything was wrong, he'd said nothing serious. Lebeau had gone off on some business, he'd said, and he was awaiting his return. Jackson had looked at her closely when he'd revealed why he'd been such a bear. Randi didn't know why, but she was thankful he'd at least told her a little of his reasons for feeling tense and temperamental.

  She wasn't afraid of him . . . at least, not usually. She didn't think that he was going to whip her, shake her, or do anything else that was possible behavior for a man who could become quite angry. His anger seemed to be directed at situations rather than individuals.

  Rose's cooing brought her back to the present. She'd taken the baby to the garden, spreading an oiled cloth, given to her by Suzette to protect them from moisture, and a thick quilt on the ground beside some low shrubs. The baby pushed herself up and crawled around awkwardly on the colorful quilt, chasing rays of filtered sunlight and errant, floating petals from the flowering trees behind them.

  "No, you can't eat that," Randi told the baby, who'd grabbed a handful of blossoms and was in the process of moving them toward her mouth. "Are you hungry? I think you need some more solid food," she told the baby, who protested the confiscation of her "snack" with a high-pitched squeal.

  She wished she could phone her mother for advice, or call her sister Tanya or her sister-in-law Darla to ask when their children had started on cereal. How much solid food should Rose eat, and what would be comparable to modern baby food? Could anything hurt her gums when she was teething? Lots of questions that hadn't come up before because Randi hadn't been totally responsible for her nieces and nephews. She was a great baby-sitter, but having full care of Rose was more like being a mother than an aunt.

  The thought of herself as a mother caused a sharp pang of longing. For however long she had with Rose, she'd enjoy the baby's sweetness and revel in the sense of wonder each infant expressed about the world.

  With a tentative smile, Randi seated Rose on her well padded bottom and handed her a thick, dense biscuit that Suzette said all babies needed when they were teething. Sure enough, Rose stuck the hard object in her mouth and started working it with her gums. Soon, the gooey mess ran from the corners of her mouth onto her clean white embroidered dress.

  Randi dabbed away the mess with a wet cloth she'd learned to keep close by. Without constant clean-ups, Randi had discovered, she'd be swapping out dress after dress on the baby. Considering the fact that all of Rose's clothes were hand-washed and ironed, the extra work for the servants seemed unnecessary.

  One thing Randi had changed was to simplify her young charge's wardrobe. A baby didn't need long skirts and voluminous bed sacques, as Suzette had called the nightgowns babies wore much of the day. Randi had asked for several of the garments to be cut off so Rose could crawl around without getting tangled in her clothing.

  "Plenty of time for that later," she'd told the gleeful baby, "when you have to wear uncomfortable dresses like mine."

  Rose was a wonderful, intelligent, active baby. Randi knew she shouldn't be so attached to the infant, but she couldn't help herself. How could anyone not love Rose? Leaving her behind in the past was going to be unbearable, but Randi tried not to think of that. First, she had to find a way to get home. She'd gotten here by following the sound of a baby's cries into a replica of Black Willow Grove. Unfortunately for her, there were no replicas of Twentieth Century Tennessee for her to use as a time-travel device. She didn't have a clue how to create one, either, or to explain her needs to Jackson.

  She couldn't say, "Build a tiny little three bedroom ranch style house with an asphalt shingle roof, beige wood siding, and brown trim." Not only would they think she was crazy, but the materials they'd need didn't exist. Black Willow Grove had been so detailed and accurate. She couldn't imagine any replica she'd build--or supervise building--would possess such marvelous elements.

  The only way she could show them what her home looked like was through sketches. Could she reproduce a good copy of her reality and not forget many of the features? She wasn't sure if she could draw accurate detail to scale. But she could practice. Besides, she loved to draw, getting lost in whatever she was creating.

&n
bsp; Maybe if she tried to recreate her parent's house or even the museum as it existed now, she'd preserve the memories of her world. She had a horrible feeling that if she stayed too long, the images would fade in her mind. She wouldn't be able to remember . . . and then she'd be stuck here forever, waiting for a flood to claim their lives. Or she'd lose the chance to escape through Black Willow Grove since the house would be destroyed.

  Perhaps Rose and Jackson didn't really perish in the flood. Maybe they fled too, except no one knew. Maybe the historians assumed they died.

  Within a few minutes, Rose's chewing motions slowed and her eyes became heavy. Randi eased her to the quilt with a minimum amount of protest from the infant. She sang softly, humming whenever she forgot the words to Elton John's "Candle in the Wind." She kept getting the words to the Marilyn Monroe version mixed up with the newer lyrics written for Princess Diana's funeral, but both songs moved her. She especially remembered that he called Diana "England's Rose," so the song seemed very appropriate. The princess' death was tragic, but this baby deserved a chance to grow up, to love and have children of her own.

  By the time the baby was asleep, Randi had tears in her eyes.

  If she couldn't convince Jackson of their fate, she wondered if she could leave them to be victims of the flood. With a sniffle, she wiped the moisture away from beneath her eyes, patted Rose gently on her back, and continued to sing softly.

  "I seem to find you in the garden often," Jackson's deep, soft voice said from behind her.

  She pivoted, sniffling again as she looked up past his tall black boots, thigh-molding breeches, and his trademark riding crop resting in one hand against his leg. Thoughts of tragedy flew from her head as his very live, very masculine presence overwhelmed her senses. A cut-away coat emphasized his broad shoulders, and the somber, dark colors accented his blue-black hair and tanned complexion. The man looked too good to be true, so composed and handsome that she had to remind herself to breath--especially when she remembered how they'd been "discovered" by Suzette in the study last night.