The Light in the Darkness (25 page)

“I don’t hate you.”

“You should. After what I said to you the last time we met—”

“Quite frankly,” Jennifer interrupted dryly, “I don’t care if you’re making love to Grey every afternoon, and twice on Sundays. If you want him, have him and welcome. I have struggled to make friends with the man, to get behind that cold facade of his, and I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that it isn’t worth the effort. Tonight was the last straw. Nothing could be worth that much trouble.”

“I don’t believe there is anything beneath that facade,” Melissa said tightly, swallowing hard as fresh tears fell. “No emotions of any kind. Just stone.”

“No, there is something there,” Jennifer said, thinking of the letters she had read and reread so many times. “But it’s buried so deeply it might as well not exist. And I’m tired of trying to find it. At times I just despise him.”

Melissa wiped at her eyes again. “So do I,” she admitted in a harsh whisper. “You don’t know how much I’ve regretted becoming his mistress. I only became involved with
him because my husband had bedded—” She hesitated, looking straight into Jennifer’s eyes, then glancing guiltily away. “Had bedded so many other women, and I wanted to make him jealous. But it never worked. I kept hoping Christopher would notice and become angry, but he never has. He simply doesn’t care. And now … it’s been so many years, I suppose I’m simply used to Grey. But I would so much rather have my husband.…”

“Is it too late to make amends with your husband?” Jennifer inquired gently. She did feel sorry for the other woman, trapped in relationships with two cold and indifferent men, but sympathy aside, she saw a chance to part Grey from his mistress. And with true feminine instinct, she struck.

“The whole county knows I’m Grey’s mistress,” Melissa said bitterly. “It’s too late.”

“What if we could convince them you weren’t?” Jennifer was suddenly struck by an inspiration. Her eyes lit up with a mischievous glow totally foreign to her solemn features. “And revenge ourselves on Grey at the same time?”

She had never sought revenge before in all her life, always accepting whatever happened to her as inevitable. But she was tired of taking mistreatment meekly. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was not willing to take abuse anymore. She was infuriated. Grey had intentionally and coldly humiliated both of the women in his life, just to amuse himself.

Jennifer was not amused.

Quickly, she outlined her plan to Melissa. Giggling, the two women walked back toward the house.

Every eye turned in their direction when Jennifer and Melissa walked together into the ballroom, smiling like the best of friends. A wave of whispered speculation surged through the chamber as they drifted through the crowd, parting to speak briefly with friends and guests, then meeting again at the enormous silver punch bowl.

Jennifer noted with some relief that Grey was not in the room. Probably he had gone to get something stronger than punch, she decided. The minuets had ended, and slaves were now playing the fiddle and banjar as accompaniment for the more cheerful Virginia reel. She suspected that Grey, with his hatred of gaiety, must certainly despise the reel. Therefore, he had probably beaten a hasty retreat.

Most couples in the room were joining in the dance that had just begun. Some older people, however, stood around the edges of the room watching the merriment. Near the punch bowl sat old Mistress Gordon, whom Melissa had told Jennifer was the worst old gossip in the county. Despite her advanced years, Mistress Gordon had the sharpest ears in the area—not to mention the sharpest tongue. Melissa had assured Jennifer that whatever words she uttered in Mistress Gordon’s presence would be spread all over the county in a matter of days.

Jennifer intended to give her a great deal to gossip about.

The two young ladies, drinking glasses of punch, chattered inanities for a few moments while Mistress Gordon appeared to snooze in her chair. Then Melissa said brightly, on cue, “My dear girl, you do look well, indeed. But when are you going to present your husband with a son?”

Jennifer regarded the other woman with a look of sham surprise. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know!” she exclaimed in a stage whisper she was certain would be audible to the old lady, whose eyes had snapped open.

“Know what?” Melissa inquired innocently.

“My dear, my husband is incapable of siring a child. More than that,” she added in a dire tone, stifling her laughter at the avid expression on the shocked old gossip’s face, “he is incapable of performing his, er, marital duties, due to a riding accident some years ago. Why, I should have thought everyone knew.”

“Heavens, how dreadful for you!” Melissa exclaimed, keeping a straight face only with the greatest difficulty.

“On the contrary, I find it to be a relief. So many women die in childbirth, I was delighted to find myself wed to a man who is unable to get me with child. And it is pleasant to think I will not have to lose my figure,” she added, glancing smugly down at her slender waist. “No doubt,” she added, “Grey’s first wife knew of it too. I understand she had many suitors, but Grey was the one she chose to marry. I imagine she chose him for his, well, inability to become amorous.”

Having cast these aspersions on Grey’s manhood, the two ladies allowed their conversation to drift to other topics. And when Mistress Gordon hobbled away from her chair and began whispering into ears with a scandalized look on her face, they parted, smiling.

A half hour later, Grey returned to the ballroom, but he did not seek Jennifer out or even glance in her direction. Jennifer drank another glass of punch hastily. It had belatedly occurred to her exactly what Grey was likely to do to her once he discovered the rumor she had spread, assuming he connected the rumor with her—and she was wretchedly certain he would. This time, she realized with a tremor of fear, he would not stop at public humiliation.

Rather abruptly, she decided she needed a breath of fresh air. Leaving the hostess duties to Catherine for the moment, she fled out the door to the garden for the second time that evening.

As she walked down the path between the neatly trimmed boxwoods, she felt her heart, which had inexplicably been pounding, slow to a more normal speed. If only she could stay out here forever, away from Grey and away from the people who scorned her because of her origins.…

“Good evening.”

Jennifer yelped in a very unladylike fashion and spun about to see Christopher Lightfoot standing just behind her. At the sound of his deep voice, her guilty conscience had imagined Grey had come after her. She gulped a few
breaths of the cold air, trying to calm herself. “Good evening,” she said politely when her voice was steady.

Christopher Lightfoot looked at her contemplatively. He was dressed elegantly, in a light green striped satin coat, trimmed with large quantities of gold point d’Espagne, and a heavily embroidered waistcoat. He wore a mountainous gray-powdered wig, and on his feet were the light, low-heeled shoes known as pumps. It was evident that he was something of a dandy.

His dark blue eyes narrowed slightly as he remarked idly, “You’ve certainly been spending a good deal of time in the garden this evening. Can it be that you don’t care for the rout?”

“Not at all,” Jennifer said. “I simply needed … some fresh air. I am enjoying myself immensely.”

“Indeed,” Christopher said in a voice that indicated he was not fooled. “And yet so few people in that ballroom seem willing to speak to you. So few people … except my wife.”

Jennifer stared at him in sudden apprehension as he went on, “I must applaud your ingenuity, my dear.”

“Ingenuity?” she repeated faintly.

“Absolutely. In one master stroke you revenged yourself on your husband for his unforgivably crass actions and got rid of his mistress. You are a remarkable young woman, just as I suspected when we first met.”

“Mistress?”

“Come now,” Christopher said with impatience. “You are perfectly capable of speaking in sentences longer than one word. Yes, your husband’s mistress. My wife.”

Jennifer looked up into his blue eyes and decided that honesty was called for in this situation. “We talked for quite some time,” she told him. “She loves you very much.”

“She has a peculiar way of showing it,” Christopher said dryly.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” Jennifer persisted. “I believe—” She hesitated, for what she wanted to say was unforgivably personal, then went on in a rush, “I believe she has merely
been trying to get your attention. She feels that you do not love her.”

“Small wonder. I do not.” At her look of surprise, he said cruelly, “Oh, come now, Mistress Greyson. Are you so naive as to believe that most of us marry for love? On the contrary, most planter marriages are made for land and money. After all, do you love your husband?”

Jennifer paused, intending to give a glib, light reply, but the expression on her face gave her away. “I see that you do fancy yourself in love with him,” Christopher went on. “Take my advice. Don’t fall in love with him. He is not worthy of your admiration.”

“What do you know about my husband?” Jennifer snapped haughtily, in the best imitation of Catherine she could manage.

“A great deal. He and I were once the closest of friends. In fact, we grew up together.”

Jennifer’s mouth fell open. Friends? Grey had been dallying with the wife of a man who had once counted him as a close friend? “Indeed,” she said at last, her brain whirling madly. “Did he—I mean, did—”

“No,” Christopher interrupted. He appeared amused by her consternation. “He did not bed my wife while he considered himself my friend. On the contrary, I broke off my friendship with him eight or nine years ago. I—”

He broke off and looked helplessly embarrassed. “Go on,” Jennifer prodded. “Why did you stop considering him a friend?”

“I caught him in what I considered to be a cruelty,” Christopher confessed. “He was forcing one of the house slaves to, well—”

“I don’t believe you!” Jennifer burst out before he could finish. It was all too evident from his hesitation and from his embarrassed expression what he was suggesting. “I have known Grey for most of a year, and I do not believe that he would do such a thing. It is impossible!”

“Grey is capable of a great many things,” Christopher continued implacably. The embarrassment that had tinged
his features seemed to be gone now. “I think I should warn you that many people believe he murdered—”

“I have heard the rumors” Jennifer interrupted sharply. She remembered Grey’s grief-stricken expression as he described how he had found Diana’s body. Regardless of what others thought, it was more than obvious to her that Grey was no murderer. “I do not believe them. And if you intend to continue slandering my husband, then I will bid you good night.” She turned her back on him and stalked back into the ballroom.

Christopher Lightfoot watched her go, an admiring light in his eyes. “She doesn’t believe it,” he said to the empty garden. “She doesn’t believe it—but she will.”

When Jennifer returned to the ballroom, she noticed immediately that the people who had previously snubbed her now seemed more willing to talk to her. Some even waved her over with friendly gestures. From the avid questions they plied her with, she quickly realized that the story of Grey’s “infirmity” was sweeping the ballroom and that his neighbors were eager to obtain additional information.

Jennifer was more than happy to help. She cheerfully elaborated on the story, spinning more involved explanations, and suppressing her amusement with an effort.

To her surprise two or three men asked her for the next dance. Choosing a short, portly gentleman for her partner, she made her way easily through the elaborate steps of the quadrille, mentally thanking Catherine for hiring an excellent tutor who had managed to teach her the steps to all the common dances in a short month. At the thought of Catherine she glanced around to see how her sister-in-law was faring, nearly missing a step when she spotted Catherine in the midst of a knot of young men. She wondered if they were interested in her friend or if they were merely seeking more gossip. For Catherine’s sake, she hoped it was the former.

When the dance was over and her partner had brought
her a silver cup laden to the brim with punch, Jennifer courteously declined a dance from another man and stood briefly by herself, watching the festivities. She was discovering that her high-heeled silk slippers hurt her feet when she danced.

To her surprise, Melissa Lightfoot approached her, smiling almost shyly. “I believe it is going well,” she remarked. “Virtually everyone in the room seems to be whispering and looking askance at Grey.”

“Good,” Jennifer said briefly. Perhaps Grey would discover what humiliation felt like.

Melissa looked across the room. A more stately minuet was beginning to the strains of the harpsichord. “You have a very fine harpsichord.”

Jennifer’s head snapped around at the note of envy in the other’s voice. “Do you play the harpsichord?”

“I love to play.”

“So do I,” Jennifer admitted, surprised to find that she and Melissa had something in common. Perhaps, she mused, they were not as different as she had believed. “In fact,” she confessed, “it is the only ladylike accomplishment I have mastered.”

“Do you not care for watercolors?”

Jennifer sighed. Watercolors were definitely not one of her accomplishments. “The paints always run together. All my paintings look, well, muddled.”

To her surprise, Melissa smiled. “Don’t tell anyone … but so do mine.”

Before long, they were embroiled in an enthusiastic discussion about the relative merits of Handel and Corelli. After a few minutes they were approached by several other young women, who joined the discussion. The conversation was interrupted by the approach of a thin, long-limbed young man, who asked Jennifer to dance.

She accepted, smiling. The evening had turned out quite well after all.

•  •  •

Jennifer was seated at the twilight, brushing her long amber hair, when the door to her chamber suddenly burst open. Startled, she turned to see Grey stalking into the chamber.