Sweet Release (19 page)

“I said my favorite bitch has dropped another litter of pups. I was wondering if Jamie might want one.”

“How very kind of you, Geoffrey. I’m sure he’d love a puppy.”

“It’s settled then. They should be weaned by my birthday celebration.

You can pick one and take it home with you.”

Shouting poured from the cookhouse.

“I know it’s here, woman. I can smell it!” The sheriff stood nose to nose with Nan—or rather belly to belly—arms akimbo in the center of the kitchen.

“It’s tarts ye smell, old man.”

“The only tart around here is standing in front of me! Where’s the bread?”

“Grow yer own wheat, and I’ll happily teach yer cook to bake it herself!”

“Come, Nan.” Cassie put the butter crock and a pot of honey on the table in hopes of getting the sheriff and Geoffrey on their way as fast as possible. “We’ve more than enough to share. Please, Sheriff, Geoffrey, sit and refresh yourselves. Nan, fetch some of Rebecca’s cheese, please, and some cool cider. I’ll go get a loaf of fresh-baked bread, piping hot from the ovens.”

Nan’s mouth dropped open, but she said nothing.

“Perhaps you can take your work outside, Elly,” Cassie said. The bondsmaid sat at the table, sewing a button on one of Jamie’s shirts. “But it’s going to rain any minute,” Elly complained, obviously pleased to be in the same room as Geoffrey. She’d made a fool of herself every time he had stopped by since Christmas. Though Cassie had meant to discuss Elly’s behavior with her, she had yet to do so. Perhaps now would be a good time.

“Is it rainin’ now, child?” Nan asked grumpily, obviously not happy at having to share her bread.

“Nay,” Elly grumbled, rising and stomping out the door.

“Let me help you.” Cassie took the sewing basket from Elly, eliciting another surprised look from the cook. She waited for Elly to take her place on the bench that sat in the shade behind the brick kitchen. “You really must stop making eyes at Master Geoffrey, Elly,” she whispered. “It’s most unbecoming. You’re acting like a lovesick nanny goat!” She plopped the sewing basket on the bench next to the speechless bondsmaid and walked toward the ovens.

By the time she returned to the cookhouse with a warm, crusty, brown loaf wrapped in her apron, the sheriff and Geoffrey were deep in conversation, the question of Cole Braden long since forgotten.

“Three have already died on the Walker plantation, all children, and none of them seasoned to life in the colony. They say business in Jamestown has nearly come to a halt,” said the sheriff. “Aye, ‘tis the dyin’ time,” Nan said gloomily.

Cassie set the bread on a wooden slab on the table. “The ague?”

She knew the answer.

“The ague.” Sheriff Hollingsworth took the knife Cassie offered and cut himself a generous slice of warm bread. The yeasty aroma filled the small space.

Cassie’s stomach sank. Each summer hundreds died from the devastating fever.

“Have the Walkers no quinquina?”

“Aye, of course they do. But who wants to use medicine on bondsfolk when you might be needin’ it yourself soon?” answered the sheriff with a callousness that made her stiffen.

“I’m sure the mothers of those three children feel comforted knowing their children died so their masters might sleep better,” she said curtly.

“Govern your tongue, young miss. What would your father say if he heard you speak like that to one of his guests?” the sheriff asked sharply.

“He’d likely agree with her or say something even more absurd.” Geoffrey gave Cassie a dimpled smile. “You know what a radical he is.”

In his own way, Geoffrey believed he was protecting her by defusing the sheriff’s ire. Still, Cassie could not force herself to smile back. He actually agreed with the sheriff on this matter, and that infuriated her. Medicine ought to be available to all who were ill, just as the gifts of the earth were for all to share. So Takotah had taught her, and so she believed.

“Aye, he’s a strange one,” agreed the sheriff, his mouth full. “Abraham has always been full of womanish ideas and a fondness for the wretched of this colony.”

Outraged, Cassie held her tongue. If she had been a man, her father’s heir, she might have spoken her mind. As a daughter she could do nothing but see to her guests’ comfort. Oh, how she wished they would hurry up and go away.

Outside the cookhouse on the bench, Elly stabbed at linen with a needle and fought the urge to throw the cloth on the ground and stomp on it. If anyone was acting like a lovesick nanny goat, it was Miss High-and-Mighty Blakewell herself. Elly couldn’t have been the only one to notice how flustered and rosy-cheeked Miss Cassie was anytime the convict was nearby. She might be a gentlewoman, but Elly was willing to bet her dinner that Miss Cassie had feelings for Cole Braden. The same kind of feelings she herself had for Zach.

Elly jumped as the needle pricked her finger. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted blood. The rasp of the pit saw in the distance told her Zach was hard at work. He’d be covered with sawdust and sweat already. Zach was kind and sweet. And when he kissed her…there was nothing better than that. But he was a bondsman, a sawyer, and he’d never be much more than one meal away from a hungry stomach. She hadn’t come all the way to Virginia to go hungry. It really didn’t matter what she felt for Zach, or what he felt for her. No matter how many times he told her he loved her, he could never give her the kind of life she wanted her children to have.

She took her finger from her mouth and pulled out the note she’d hidden in her corset.

“Why haven’t you responded to my letters?” Geoffrey had asked her earlier.

“It’s not proper for a lady to write notes to a gentleman, sir.” She’d been afraid to tell him she could not read and had no idea what was in the three messages he’d sent her.

“You’re absolutely right, Eleanor. And, please, do call me Geoffrey. I think I should like to call you by the Italian—Eleanora. Or perhaps the Greek—Helena. Have you ever heard of Helen of Troy?”

She had shaken her head.

“It is said she was so beautiful her husband sent a thousand ships to retrieve her when she was taken from him. It is a fitting name for you, my love.”

She’d felt her face flush and had not known what to say.

“Please, Eleanor—Helen—come and sit. Share the tarts with me. It’s shameful the way you are made to work. One as delicate and beautiful as you should have your own house, slaves and servants to care for you.”

“No, sir, I don’t think—“

“Come.” He patted the settee beside him. “I’ll not take no for an answer. There is no one here to see.”

That wasn’t true. The old woman he’d brought with him sulked in the corner, and Nettie lurked in the hallway, her disapproving gaze following Geoffrey’s every move. Still, Elly had been unable to resist Geoffrey’s dimpled smile or the tarts that sat on the table before him, so she’d sat. She had sat next to him that way for quite a long time before the others had arrived. They had talked, mostly about Blakewell’s Neck and the convict. He’d asked a lot of questions.

She’d told him that she was afraid of Cole Braden—it wasn’t true, but she knew he didn’t like the man—and he’d assured her he’d do all he could to keep her safe. Then he’d asked her to meet him in the forest. Surprised, she had shaken her head without thinking. Geoffrey had immediately begged for her forgiveness for asking her to do something so improper and asked her to come with Miss Cassie to his birthday party. Then the sheriff had arrived. Miss Cassie could believe whatever she wanted to believe, but Master Geoffrey fancied her. Elly resumed her sewing and went back to her daydream of banquets, beautiful gowns, and idle afternoons. Someday it wouldn’t be just a dream. Then Miss Cassie and Nan and everyone else on Blakewell’s Neck who thought of her as nothing but a bondsmaid and a silly child would be forced to treat her with respect.

“Eleanora,” she said with a smile.

Cassie sat in the formal dining room picking at her food. Three candelabras filled the room with a cheerful light that contrasted sharply with her mood. Though the sheriff had left once the bread was eaten, Geoffrey had lingered until she’d been forced to ask him to stay for dinner. He’d insisted on taking the meal in the great house, not the cookhouse, and Cassie, loath to anger him, had given in.

“More wine, my dear?”

“No, thank you.”

Nettie entered the room, which was rarely used these days, and placed a warm apple pie on the table before them. The scent of cinnamon tickled the air. Dessert.

“Thank you, Nettie. We can serve ourselves.”

Cassie couldn’t eat another bite. Nan had outdone herself in an attempt to please Geoffrey, putting together the kind of feast that Blakewell’s Neck saw only on holidays. Geoffrey hadn’t seemed to notice the food or appreciate the effort made on his behalf. Her father had always said that wealth made men blind to life’s pleasures, and if Geoffrey was any example, her father had been right. Filling and refilling his plate and his glass, Geoffrey had spoken endlessly of his plans for his estate once he’d inherited it. It was almost as if he wished his father would hurry up and die.

Not that Cassie could blame him. His father was a heartless man.

Cassie had never forgotten how Master Crichton had refused to visit Geoffrey when he’d been a little boy sick with fever, how he’d seemed to loathe his son when he’d heard Geoffrey might not be able to walk again. Geoffrey had surprised them all by walking within a month, but the permanent limp he’d acquired became the butt of his father’s jokes. Geoffrey worked hard to hide it, but his father still made sport of him in front of other people. The elder Master Crichton was the crudest man Cassie knew.

“It will be wonderful.” Geoffrey took his last bite of pie. “Um, lovely.” She hadn’t heard a word. Wine had made her sleepy, and the conversation had left her feeling dull.

“I want to share it all with you, Catherine.” He lifted her hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving her face.

Cassie felt strangely unsettled. She laughed nervously, pulling her hand away. “Of course you shall share it with me, Geoffrey. We shall always be friends.”

The clock struck ten.

“It’s growing late, and I can see that you are tired, my dear.” He stood, holding out his hand.

Relieved, she took his arm and walked with him outside to his carriage.

“How is Henry working out?” he asked.

“There was a little trouble at first, but he’s come around.”

“Trouble?”

“Aye. He was behaving in a quarrelsome manner toward the slaves.”

“Ahh.” Geoffrey nodded and smiled. “Even a man of his lowly station knows there is an order to the universe, Catherine. Still, if he disobeys, send him back. He knows what awaits him at Crichton Hall should he fail you.”

Cassie swallowed a tart reply, determined now not to send Henry back.

The carriage driver, a young man, scrambled up to his seat and took the reins.

Geoffrey turned toward Cassie. “Do you know that I’ve loved you since I was a boy?”

She looked away, uncomfortable. The song of katydids filled the silence. Fireflies flitted and glowed. “We were close as children.” “I love you still, Catherine, and I intend to have you as my wife.”

“Geoffrey, I—“

“I do not mean to press you for an answer,” he interrupted. “In fact, I did not mean to bring it up. But being so near you like this, I could not help it.”

Cassie searched for the right words, eager not to hurt him but needing him to know her feelings. “Geoffrey, we cannot marry.” Even in the darkness, she could see his body grow rigid. “We think nothing alike, you and I.”

“Of course we think nothing alike.” There was a hard edge to his voice. “Since when do men and women think alike? You say the strangest things.”

She felt her irritation with him begin to swell. “I have no wish to marry.”

“That is your father’s doing. He has placed notions in your head that are not in keeping with a woman’s station.”

“I know you disagree, Catherine, but centuries of human history have shown that a woman’s place is at her husband’s side. It is the natural order. You will come to love being my wife. I will cherish you, protect you, provide for you. Our children will live like royalty.”

She fought to keep her anger under control, but the evening had worn her patience to a single thread.

“I cannot marry you, Geoffrey. I do not love you.”

The muscles of his jaw twitched. “I know more about you than you realize, my dear. When I truly ask you to marry me, you will eagerly consent, I assure you. Now wish me a good night.” Abruptly Geoffrey’s arms encircled her, and his lips pressed hungrily against hers.

Cassie was so surprised she did not fight him, her mind registering only shock and a vague sense of revulsion.

His arms pulled her close, and his tongue thrust clumsily between her lips.

She twisted her head and tried to push him away.

“Stop!” Pulling one arm free, she slapped him across the face with all her might.

His grip tightened.

“Don’t fight me, Catherine.” His breath stank of wine and onion.

“You can’t win in the end. Let me show you how much I love you.”