Lost Lady (14 page)

“Travis,” said a man smoking a pipe. “Something's got to be done about that smallest sloop. Either it has to be repaired or scrapped.”

Suddenly, Travis stopped and held up his hands. “All of you stop right here. Tomorrow I'll answer all your questions. No!” he said, his eyes lighting and reaching for Regan's hand. “I have a wife, and tomorrow she'll take over the women's duties. Carolyn, you ask her about the looms, and Susan, you ask my wife about chickens. I'm sure she knows more about them than I do.”

Regan was glad Travis was holding her hand, because otherwise she might have turned and run away. What did she know about looms and chickens?

“Now,” Travis continued. “I plan to show my bride my house, and if I get asked one more question today I will call off the holiday,” he said in mock fierceness.

If Regan hadn't been so depressed, she would have laughed at the speed with which the people left them, all except for one old man standing quietly in the background.

“This is Elias,” Travis said with pride. “He's the best gardener in Virginia.”

“I brought something for your new missus,” Elias replied, and held out a flower such as Regan had never seen before. It was a shade of purple that was at once bright and soft. The center was a sort of frilled horn with large tear-shaped petals behind it.

Putting out her hand, she was almost afraid to touch it.

“It's an orchid, ma'am,” said Elias. “The first Mrs. Stanford had them brought to her whenever the captains went to the South Seas. Maybe you would like to see the glasshouses when you have time.”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering if this place of Travis's did without anything. After thanking him, she followed Travis as he kept walking away from the river, and for the first time she noticed the tall, sprawling brick house rising before them. Even from this distance it looked as if you could put Weston Manor and Clay's Arundel Hall in one wing.

Travis was proudly bragging about the house he obviously loved, telling her how his grandfather had built it and how all the Stanfords loved it. But with each step Regan's fear grew. Nicole's responsibilities had seemed overwhelming, but now she was wishing she was going to be living in a small place like that. How was she going to manage this monstrous house, let alone the other duties Travis seemed to expect of her?

The house, when they reached it, was larger than it seemed. A massive square center section of brick, four and a half stories high, towered over her, with two L-shaped wings radiating to each side. Travis led her up wide stone stairs to the first floor and once inside began the hurried tour of his extensive house.

He took her through a blue room, a green room, a red room, and a white room and showed her the schoolroom and housekeeper's room. Storage rooms were as large as her bedroom at Weston Manor.

With each room—each exquisitely furnished, beautiful room—Regan's fear climbed higher in her throat. How could she possibly manage a place the size of this?

Just when she thought she'd seen every room a house could contain, Travis half-dragged her up the east stairs. The rooms on this second, main floor put the ones below to shame. There was a dining room with an attached parlor for ladies' teas, another parlor for the family, a library for the men, two more sitting rooms for whatever anyone wanted them for, and an enormous bedroom with an attached nursery.

“Ours,” Travis said, before pulling her into the ballroom.

Here, Regan was stunned. She'd said very little since they'd entered the house, but now she felt her legs give way under her. Collapsing onto a sofa in the corner, she stared in awed silence.

If nothing else, the sheer size of the room would have been overwhelming. Seventeen-foot-high ceilings made one feel small, insignificant. The walls were paneled, painted the palest blue, and the oak floors were polished to a gleam. There seemed to be a great many pieces of furniture—six couches covered in rose-brocaded satin, innumerable chairs with seats upholstered to match, a harp, a pianoforte, and numerous tables—but they were all set about the border, leaving the floor open, covered in a long rug from the Orient.

“Of course we roll up the rug when we have parties,” Travis said proudly. “Maybe you'd like to give a party. We could invite a couple of hundred people to spend the night, and you and Malvina—she's the cook—could plan all the food. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

It was all much too much. Tears in her eyes, her stomach aching, Regan ran through the ballroom toward the opposite door. She had no idea how to even get out of the house as she ran down a long passageway, finally opened a door, and fled into a lovely, small, blue and white room. She couldn't even remember all the names of the rooms, much less where they were.

Flinging herself to the floor, her head in her arms on the seat of a blue and white couch, she began to cry. How could he do this to her? How could he not have told her?

Within seconds Travis was beside her, pulling her into his arms as he sat on the couch. “Why are you crying?” he asked in a voice of such longing and hurt that she began to cry harder.

“You're rich!” she blurted, tears closing her throat.

“You're crying because I'm rich?” he asked in astonishment.

Even as she tried to explain, she was sure he'd never, never understand. Travis was so sure he did everything right; it had never occurred to him to doubt that he could accomplish anything. He didn't know what it was like to be useless. Now he expected her to manage the house, the dependencies, servants, and, by the by, give a party for a couple of hundred friends.

“I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong,” Travis said, handing her his handkerchief. “You surely can't be angry because I'm not some poor farmer.”

“How…,” she sobbed. “How can I…? I've never even seen a loom!”

It took Travis a moment to piece that together. “You don't have to do the weaving; just tell someone else to do it. The women will bring their problems to you, and you'll fix them,” he said. “It's all very simple.”

She would never make him understand! Jumping out of his arms and off his lap, she ran from the room, down the passage, back into the ballroom, through it, and into another passage, until at last she found their bedroom and collapsed on the bed in a flurry of muslin dress and petticoats.

Even over her sobs she could hear Travis's slow, heavy footsteps as he approached. Pausing at the doorway, he seemed to study her for a moment before deciding that she needed to be left alone. As his steps retreated she began to cry harder.

Hours later, a maid, softly knocking on the door, asked her what she would like for supper. When she nearly replied “Yorkshire pudding,” Regan realized she didn't even know what foods were available in America. Finally, she told the girl she didn't feel like eating and to please go away. Perhaps she could stay forever in this room and never have to face the outside world.

N
O MATTER WHAT
R
EGAN'S FIRST IMPRESSION WAS OF HOW
difficult it was to run a plantation, she was far from the reality of it. Travis left their bed before the sun rose, and within minutes there were women in her room asking her questions. When she had no idea what answers to give them, she could see the way their eyes slid to one side. Once she overheard a maid mutter something about how a man like Travis could marry a nothing like her.

And everywhere she heard the name Margo.

A weaver showed her patterns Margo had given her. A gardener set bulbs from Miss Margo. In the blue room she found dresses that she was told belonged to Miss Margo, because she stayed here so often.

In the evenings at dinner, she asked Travis about this woman, but Travis only shrugged and said she was a neighbor. After having been away from his plantation so long, he was buried in work. Even during meals he went over papers with his two clerks, computing figures of goods received and goods exported. Regan didn't have the heart to add to his burdens by telling him her problems.

And then one day Regan's world came to a screeching halt. Travis had just returned to a quick dinner, talking to her with his mouth full about the arrival of a new ship from England, when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the brick drive outside made him start. The crack of a whip was followed by the shrill scream of a horse, and Travis was at the window instantly.

“Margo!” he bellowed down. “You strike that horse again, and I'll use that whip on you.”

A deep, seductive laugh seemed to fill the dining room. “Better men than you have tried, Travis, my love,” a woman's voice purred, followed by another crack and another scream from a horse.

The entire house shook as Travis tore downstairs.

Regan, her eyes wide, put her napkin on the table and went to the window. Below her was a ravishingly beautiful red-haired woman wearing a tight emerald-green habit over an awesome figure. Her large, jutting breasts, small waist, and round hips made Regan glance down at her own slight curves.

But in seconds her attention was again on the woman atop her black stallion as it pranced angrily in the courtyard. The woman seemed to be easily in control of the monster of an animal, her eyes on the front of the house, and when Travis appeared she gave that low laugh again and raised her whip.

Within seconds Travis made a leap, grabbing at the whip in the woman's upraised hand. He caught it, but she dug her heels into the horse, sending it rearing, and Travis, clutching the pommel, held on. She never seemed to lose balance or confidence as the horse's front hoofs flailed at the air, and when the animal came down she started to give it another kick.

But Travis was too fast for her. He grabbed her arm with one hand and the reins with the other. For a moment there was a tug of war, the woman's laugh filling the air, sounding like moonlight during the day. She was a large, strong woman, and with the added strength of the horse beneath her she gave Travis an excellent fight.

When at last he pulled her from the horse, she slid down him liquidly, running her breasts across his face and down his chest, and when she was in range she opened her mouth and pressed it to his in a kiss that even from Regan's position, high above, looked as if it might devour him.

She wouldn't have guessed she could fly downstairs as quickly as she did, and when she reached the front stairs the kiss was only just ending.

“Still planning to use a whip on me?” Margo said huskily but loudly enough for Regan to hear. “Or could I persuade you to use something a little smaller—a very little bit smaller, if I remember correctly,” she added, rubbing her hips meaningfully against his.

Travis took her arms and set her away from him. “Margo, before you make a complete fool of yourself, I think you should meet someone.” He turned around, seemingly aware of Regan's exact whereabouts. “This is my wife.”

Many expressions went across Margo's classically beautiful face. The arched eyebrows drew together, and the green-gold eyes caught fire. Patrician nostrils flared, and the sensual lips curled. She seemed to start to say something, but no words came out. With one look at Travis she gave him a slap that echoed against the towering house. In another second she was on her horse, jerking savagely at its mouth and already whipping it viciously as she headed east.

Travis watched her for a moment, muttered something about “No right to treat animals that way,” flexed his injured jaw, and turned back to his wife. “That was Margo Jenkins, our closest neighbor.” With that calm statement he seemed to dismiss the whole episode.

Regan, stock-still, her body rigid, could see the vivid print of Margo's hand on his cheek as he bent to kiss her.

“I'll see you tonight, and why don't you take a nap? You look a little pale. We want a healthy baby, remember?” With that, he nodded for his clerk, standing behind Regan, to follow him, and he went toward the west wing of the house where his office was located.

It took Regan what seemed like an hour before she recovered enough to return to the house. The vision of the haughty, splendidly lovely Margo haunted her all day. Twice she paused before a mirror and looked at her own reflection, at her wide-set eyes, her slim figure, and her overall look of sweetness. There was nothing sweet-looking about Margo Jenkins. Sucking in her cheeks, Regan tried to imagine herself more sophisticated, a superior beauty, but with a giant sigh she gave it up.

For the next few days she began to listen when Margo's name was mentioned and found out that it had been understood for years that Travis would marry her. When Travis and Wesley were both away, Margo managed their enormous plantation as well as her own.

With every word she heard, Regan became a little less sure of herself. Had she broken up this love match when she ran into Travis on the London docks? Why had Travis married her, except because she was going to have a baby? When she tried to ask Travis these questions he just laughed. He was too busy with spring planting to be able to spend much time talking, and when they were alone together his hands on her body made her forget everything else.

A week after Margo's visit, Regan was in the East Passage, dreading her journey to the kitchen. It was time to look at the menus for next week—and time to face Malvina, the cook. The old woman had taken an instant dislike to Regan, muttering under her breath constantly. One of the maids mentioned that Malvina was a cousin to the Jenkins family, and of course she had expected, as everyone had, that Travis would marry Margo. Gathering her courage, Regan went through the long passage to the kitchen.

“I ain't got time to do nothin' else now,” Malvina said before Regan could speak. “A shipload of men just come in, and I have to feed 'em.”

Regan refused to back down. “That's perfectly all right, I'll just have a cup of tea, and we can discuss menus some other time.”

“Ain't nobody got time to make tea,” the cook snapped, giving warning looks to her three young helpers.

Straightening her shoulders, Regan walked toward the smelly, smoke-emitting cast-iron stove set along one wall. “I can certainly make my own tea,” she said in what she hoped was a scathing voice, and did not reveal that she had no idea how to make a cup of tea. Turning just slightly to give the cook a lofty look, a deprecating smile on her lips, Regan picked up the tea kettle.

The smile left instantly as she gave a little scream, dropped the scalding-hot kettle, and then had to jump backward as boiling water splashed to the floor. Behind her, the cook's malicious chuckle rang out, and all Regan could do was stare helplessly at her burned palm.

“Here,” said one of the kitchen maids with kindness as she pressed cool butter into Regan's injured hand. “Leave this on it, and go sit down. I'll bring you your tea.” This last she said with a whisper, one eye glancing toward the cook.

Silently, her head down, Regan left the kitchen, with her fingers extended and the butter melting against the throbbing surface. She wanted to go straight to her bedroom, but a young man informed her that a guest waited for her in the parlor. Regan was just wondering how she could escape when Margo appeared at the head of the stairs, looking radiant in a blue satin dress.

“Whatever have you done to yourself, child?” she asked, sweeping down the stairs. “Charles, bring bandages to the parlor, and have Malvina send us tea. With sherry! And tell her I want some of her fruitcake.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the young man, who hurried away.

Margo took Regan's wrist and led her up the stairs. “What were you doing to burn your hand so badly?” she said sympathetically.

With her pride hurt as well as her hand, Regan was glad for the sympathy. “I picked up the tea kettle,” she said meekly, embarrassed.

Margo didn't blink an eye as she led Regan to a couch. Within seconds a maid Regan was sure she'd never seen before appeared with bandages and clean cloths. “And where have you been, Sally?” Margo asked sternly. “Have you been up to your old tricks and getting out of work?”

“Oh no, ma'am. I help the mistress every morning, don't I, ma'am?” she asked, boldly looking at Regan.

Regan didn't say a word. She'd met so many people in the last few weeks.

Margo grabbed the bandages. “Get out of here, you little slut! And be careful I don't have Travis turn your indenture papers over to me.”

After one wild look of fear, the maid left the room.

Margo sat down beside Regan on the couch. “Now let me see your hand. This is really a bad burn. You must have held that kettle quite some time. I do hope you tell Travis about the house servants. He lets them do as they please, and as a result they think they own the place. And Wes is certainly no better. That's why Travis has been planning for so long to get a wife. He needs someone strong who can take care of the duties of a plantation this size.”

All the time she was talking, she was tenderly bandaging Regan's hand. When she was finished, the man, Charles, entered the room bearing a tray large enough to hold a pony. On it was an exquisite Georgian silver tea service, a crystal decanter of sherry with two glasses, and an astonishing array of tiny cakes and sandwiches.

“Not Malvina's best,” Margo said, looking down her nose at the tray. “Perhaps she doesn't consider me a guest any longer. Tell her,” she said, glancing at Charles, “that I'll speak to her before I leave.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Charles bobbed before he left the room.

“Now,” Margo said, smiling at Regan. “I shall, of course, pour since you have that dreadful hand.”

With the greatest of ease, Margo poured tea, added a good dose of sherry, and chose a cake for Regan.

“I really came to apologize,” Margo began as she poured herself sherry, forgetting the tea. “I can't imagine what you must have thought of my unforgivable rudeness last week. I was really too embarrassed to return and ask you to receive me after what happened.”

Regan was pleased at this regal woman's humility. “I…you should have come,” she said quietly.

Margo looked away and continued, “You see, Travis and I have been sweethearts since we were children, and everyone assumed we would someday marry. So, of course, it was a shock when he introduced someone else as his wife.” She looked back at Regan, her eyes soft and pleading. “You do understand, don't you?”

“Of course,” Regan whispered. How alike Margo and Travis were, so sure of themselves, so confident. They were the rulers of the world.

“My father died two years ago,” Margo said, and there was such pain in her voice that Regan winced. “And since then I've run my plantation alone. Of course, it is nowhere near the size of Travis's place, but it is adequate.”

Regan felt that here was a woman who could run an entire plantation alone, while she couldn't even prepare a cup of tea. At least there was one thing she could do correctly. Lowering her head and smiling, she said, “Travis hopes our children will help him work the plantation. Of course, that will take time, but this one has a good start already.”

When Margo was silent, Regan looked up and saw fire in the larger woman's eyes.

“So that's why Travis married you!” she said in a voice that came from deep inside her.

A wave of shock ran through Regan.

“Forgive me again!” Margo said, putting her hand on Regan's wrist. “I never seem to say the right thing. It's just that I had wondered why, since we were practically engaged. Travis is so honorable that, of course, he'd feel he had to marry a woman who was carrying his child. You know,” she laughed, “I should have thought of that. Perhaps if I'd, well, you know, and gotten myself pregnant, he would have married me.

“Oh my!” Margo said. “I seem to be doing it again. I wasn't by any means insinuating that you were
enceinte
before Travis married you. Of course you weren't.”

She rose, and Regan stood beside her. “I really must go,” Margo said. “I can't seem to say anything right today.” She patted Regan's hand. “I'm sure Travis fell in love with you, and that's why he chose you. This isn't the Middle Ages. Men marry women of their own choosing and not because they're going to have babies. Of course, Travis always said he'd like to have children but without a bossy wife to put up with. Of course, you, dear sweet child, could never be bossy. Now I really must go. I hope we will become the closest of friends. Perhaps I can help you with learning about Travis's likes and dislikes. After all, we've been very close all our lives.”