Lost Lady (16 page)

Within a month the women had settled in to the new routine of running the boarding house and caring for the baby. When spring arrived, so did hundreds of new settlers. One man, whose wife had died on the journey to Scarlet Springs, decided to remain with his two young children in the sparse little settlement and began building a large, comfortable house.

“This town's going to grow,” Regan murmured, her baby on her arm. Looking back at the drafty old farmhouse, she began to see it with a fresh coat of paint, and, as her imagination took over, she saw an addition on the front, something with long porches.

“That's a funny look,” Brandy said from behind her friend. “Mind sharing what's causing it?”

Not yet, Regan thought. She'd had too many dreams in her life, and all of them had fallen through. From now on she was going to concentrate on one goal, and she was going to work hard at achieving it.

Weeks later, when Regan did finally, tentatively, talk to Brandy about her ideas for remodeling and enlarging the farmhouse into a full-size hotel, Brandy was somewhat shocked.

“It…sounds like a wonderful idea,” Brandy hesitated. “But do you think we—I mean, us two women—can do something like that? What do we know about a hotel?”

“Nothing,” Regan said in all seriousness. “And don't let me consider what I can do versus what I want to do, or I'll never even try it.”

Laughing, Brandy didn't know how to address that statement. “I'm with you,” she said. “You lead; I'll follow.”

That was another statement Regan didn't want to consider. In fact, she wanted to keep so busy that she had no time to think. Two days later she had found a wet nurse for Jennifer, unearthed the jewels from their hiding place, and boarded a stage heading north. She went to three towns before she found someone willing to pay a decent price for the bracelet and earrings. And everywhere she went she visited the local inns. She found that an inn was not only a place for wayfarers but a social and political gathering place as well. She drew sketches and asked questions, and her earnestness and youth gained her many hours of discussion and answers to her probings.

When she returned home, tired but exhilarated and more than eager to see her daughter and her friend, she had a fat leather case filled with notes, drawings, and recipes for Brandy. And sewed inside her clothes were bank drafts for the jewelry. From that moment on there was never any doubt about who was the leader in this partnership.

F
ARRELL
B
ATSFORD STEPPED OFF THE STAGE IN THE BUSY
little town of Scarlet Springs, Pennsylvania, on a cool March morning in 1802. Dusting himself off, smoothing the rich blue velvet of his coat, he tugged at the lace at his cuff.

“This where you stoppin', Mister?” the stage driver asked from behind the slim, tailored man.

Farrell didn't bother to look at the driver but merely gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. Seconds later, he twirled about as the first of his two large, heavy trunks were tossed to the ground from the top of the stage. With a wide smile, the driver blinked at Farrell angelically.

“You want me to take those to the inn for you?” a burly young man asked.

Again Farrell only nodded curtly, ignoring as best he could the entire American race. As the stage pulled away, Farrell got his first glimpse of the Silver Dolphin Inn. It was three and a half stories high, with double porches across the front and tall white columns reaching to the steep roof. After tossing the young man a quarter, Farrell decided to walk about the town.

There's money here somewhere, he thought as he viewed the clean, neat buildings. Across from the inn were a print-shop, a doctor's office, a lawyer, a druggist. Close by were a blacksmith shop, a large mercantile shop, a school, and at the other end of town a tall, well-kept church. Everything was prosperous, fat-looking.

Turning his attention back to the inn, it was easy to see that the manicured building was the dominant one in the town. In the back was an additional wing, a well-tended older part of the building. Every window was sparkling clean, all the shutters newly painted, and even as Farrell watched many people came and went into the obviously thriving establishment.

Once again he took a worn newspaper article from his pocket. The article stated that a Mrs. Regan Stanford and Brandy Dutton, a spinster, practically owned an entire town in Pennsylvania. At first Farrell had thought it couldn't possibly be the Regan he'd been looking for for so many years, but a man he had sent to the town came back with a description that just could be the Regan he once knew.

Again, he thought of that night nearly five years ago when Jonathan Northland had thrown his niece from her own house. Poor, simple Regan had never realized that Weston Manor was hers, and, instead of her living on her uncle's income as Jonathan said that night, it was Northland who was living on the interest off Regan's fortune. Smiling, Farrell wondered if Northland ever realized who had alerted the executors of Regan's estate to what her uncle had done. It was a small but not adequate revenge for the things Northland had said about Farrell that night when the executors tossed Jonathan out of Weston Manor without so much as a penny. Six months later, Jonathan Northland was found stabbed to death in a wharfside gin shop, and finally Farrell's revenge was complete.

As the months and years passed, Farrell began to think more and more about Regan's millions, just lying in a bank, growing daily through the careful, wise investing of her executors. He began looking for a bride, someone with money enough to support him and his estate in a gentlemanly manner, but all the young women fell short of having the money Regan Weston possessed. Any women of her wealth wanted nothing to do with a penniless, titleless gentleman of dubious habits.

After two years of fruitless searching, Farrell persuaded himself that Regan had jilted him and had ruined his reputation with women. Therefore, the honorable thing to do was to find the child, marry her, and let her money mend his damaged reputation.

It had taken a while to trace Regan's old maid, Matta, to Scotland where she was living with relatives. The old woman suffered permanently from the pain of a misaligned jaw bone, a bone Jonathan Northland had broken for her when she tried to answer an American's questions about a young girl he'd found.

Drooling, slurring her words, drinking constantly to dull the pain, Matta disgusted Farrell until he could hardly bear being near her. Her memory was cloudy, and it took hours to get what he wanted from her, but he left with some idea of where to look.

Following one answer to another, he soon realized that Regan had sailed for America. It wasn't easy to make the decision to go after her, but he was fully aware that after years in that uncivilized country she'd probably be dying to return home.

America was larger than he'd imagined, and there were a few isolated points of civilization, but the people were disgusting, never aware of their station in life, each man believing he was a member of the peerage.

He was almost ready to return to England when he saw the small article in the newspaper. When the man he had hired to go to Scarlet Springs returned, he described a woman very like Regan in looks, but she did not seem to be the simpleton he remembered.

Now he walked across the green lawn that made a lush oval between the two main streets and entered the inn.

A large reception hall lined with white-painted paneling greeted him. Several well-dressed men and women were just entering a room to his right, and he followed them to an even larger room furnished with comfortable chairs and sofas and, along one wall, a deep, wide stone fireplace. All the furniture was newly upholstered in dusty rose and pale green striped satin. A taproom—rustic, he thought, with its oak chairs and tables, but obviously doing a brisk trade—adjoined the common room.

An enormous public dining room was across from the common room, two private dining rooms next to it. Finally, returning to the front of the inn, not touring into the old part of the building, he looked into a cozy library that smelled of leather and tobacco. Across the hall was the reception room, where a clerk politely assigned him a private bedroom upstairs.

“How many bedrooms do you have?”

“An even dozen,” the clerk replied. “Plus two with sitting rooms and, of course, the owners' private apartments.”

“Of course. I take it you refer to the young ladies.”

“Oh, yes, sir, Regan and Brandy. Regan lives downstairs at the end of the old part, and Brandy is upstairs, just over her.”

“And these are the ladies who supposedly own most of the town?” Farrell asked.

The clerk chuckled. “The preacher says that the only building they don't own is the church, but everyone knows they paid for it. They do hold the mortgages on all the other buildings. If a lawyer came through, Regan would give him the money to build a place and he'd stay here, then a doctor, and pretty soon this place became a town.”

“Where might I find Mrs. Stanford?” Farrell asked, not liking the man's use of Regan's first name.

“Anywhere,” he said quickly as a couple came in to register. “She's everywhere at once.”

Not wanting to cause a scene, Farrell allowed the insolent man's abrupt dismissal of him. Later he'd have to speak to the manager, whoever she was.

Upstairs he found his room clean and well furnished, with warm sunlight sparkling through the window. A small fireplace was along one wall. After changing his dusty clothes, he went downstairs to the dining room. It galled him to eat in the public room, but he knew he'd be more likely to see Regan there. The menu was extensive, serving seven meats, three fish, plus cold dishes, relishes, vegetables, game, and a formidable list of pastries and puddings. Arriving quickly, the food was hot, well prepared, and delicious.

While he was sampling something called Moravian sugar cake, a woman entered the room, and every eye, male and female, glanced up at her. It was not just her extraordinary beauty that made them look, but her presence, her sense of self. This woman—small, wearing an exquisite gown of forest green muslin—knew who she was. She walked with confidence, easily speaking to first one person and then another. She looked to be a gracious lady welcoming people to her home. At one table she stopped, looked at a dish, and sent it back to the kitchen. At another table two women rose and hugged her briefly, and for a few moments she sat with them, laughing happily.

Farrell could not take his eyes off her. Superficially, she resembled the awkward girl he'd once known. The eyes were the same color, the hair the same shiny brown, but this woman, with her firm curves and her ease with people, was not at all like that simpering, terrified-of-her-own-shadow child to whom he'd once been engaged.

Leaning back in his chair, he waited calmly for her to come to him. When she saw him she smiled, but there was no recognition. A full minute later, as she was speaking to a couple across from him, her eyes lifted and met his. It was an appraising look she gave him, and Farrell gave her his most charming smile in return. He was extremely pleased when she turned and rather quickly left the room. Now he was sure there was some feeling, whether good or bad, left in her concerning him. Hate or love, he didn't care which, just so she remembered him.

 

“Regan, are you all right?” Brandy asked from the other side of the big oak kitchen table, where she was supervising three cooks.

“Of course,” Regan snapped, then drew a deep breath and smiled. “I just saw a ghost, that's all.”

The two women exchanged looks as Brandy drew Regan to a corner of the big room. “Jennifer's father?”

“No,” Regan said quietly. Sometimes there didn't seem to be a moment of her life when she didn't think of Travis. Every time she looked into Jennifer's big brown eyes, she saw him. Sometimes a heavy step on the stairs made her heart skip a beat.

“Remember the man I was engaged to years ago? Farrell Batsford?” There were no secrets between the two friends. “He's sitting in the dining room.”

“That bastard!” Brandy said with feeling. “What's he eating? I'll douse it with poison.”

Regan laughed. “I should feel the same way, I guess, but I wonder if anyone gets over their first love. Seeing him brought back such a rush of memories. I was so frightened of everything, so eager to please, and so very much in love with him. I thought he was the most handsome, elegant man I'd ever seen.”

“And now how does he look?”

“He's certainly not ugly,” Regan smiled. “I guess I should invite him to my office for a talk. It's the least I can do.”

“Regan,” Brandy warned. “Be careful. It isn't a coincidence that he's here.”

“I'm sure of that, and I have a good idea what he wants. In less than a month I'll be twenty-three, and the money my parents left me is mine.”

“Don't forget that for a moment,” Brandy called after Regan.

Regan went to her office next to the kitchen and sat down in the leather chair behind her desk. It wasn't that Farrell had affected her so much, but the sight of him brought back so many memories. Like a wave of cold water, she remembered the awful night she'd heard the truth from her uncle and her fiancé. One memory piled on top of another—Travis holding her, Travis telling her what to do, Travis making love to her, Travis bigger than life, and Regan constantly terrified. In the past four years, a hundred times she'd started to write him, to tell him about his daughter, to let him know they were both well and prospering. But she was always a coward in the end. What if Travis wrote her that he didn't care, which was surely the case since he'd never tried to find her? Over the years she'd learned to stand on her own two feet, but could she do so with Travis around? Would he bully her back into becoming the tearful, frightened girl she once was?

A knock on the door brought her back to the present. At her answer, Farrell opened the door.

“I hope I'm not intruding,” he said, smiling, his eyes showing how much he enjoyed the sight of her.

“Not at all,” she answered, rising, offering him her hand. “I was just going to send you a message asking you to join me.”

Lowering his head, he kissed her hand ardently. “Perhaps you couldn't bear to face me so soon,” he murmured lovingly. “After all, we meant so much to each other so long ago.”

It's a good thing Farrell couldn't see Regan's face at that moment. Sheer shock was the expression that immediately registered. Why, you pompous little dandy! she thought. Did he really believe she had no memory of that hideous night so long ago, that she didn't remember the reason he wanted to marry her?

By the time he'd lifted his head, Regan was smiling. She hadn't become a wealthy woman by letting her feelings show. “Yes,” she said sweetly. “It has been a long while. Won't you sit down? Could I get you something to drink?”

“Whiskey if you have it.”

She poured him a water-glass full of Irish whiskey and smiled innocently when he blinked at it. Settling herself in a chair across from him, she asked, “And how is my uncle?”

“Deceased, I'm afraid.”

Regan didn't respond to that, unsure of her own emotions. For all he had done to her, he was still her relative. “Why have you come here, Farrell?”

He took a while before answering. “Guilt,” he finally answered. “Although I had no real say in what your uncle did to you that night, I still felt somewhat responsible. In spite of what you may have thought you heard, I did care about you. I was concerned that you were so young, and I was displeased with your uncle for keeping you in such ignorance.” He laughed as if they exchanged some private joke. “You must admit you were not the most inspired of dinner companions. I've never been one for robbing from the schoolroom. Perhaps other men like that sort of thing.”