The Willows (31 page)

Slapping her hand away, Jude glared at
her with surprising dignity. Gwen, who refused to be daunted told
the boy to take off his clothes, so they could wash them,
too.

Jude ignored her, rising to stand
proudly, shaking his head, tears running silently down reddened
cheeks. It made Gwen on easy, seeing this proud boy cry, until her
gaze drifted downward, to the wet cotton shirt hugging his
chest.

“
I hate you,” Jude yelled
out, stumbling out of the tub to run off into the swamp.

“
Good heavens,” Gwen gasped,
staring after the fleeing figure. What a fine way to discover that
Jude was a girl.

***

Pacing back and forth across his
father’s library, Lance felt like a caged animal. He hated Bella
Oaks, hated what it written represented. What good did it do to be
born and be branded a planter, when all he’d inherited were a
series of broken down levees, overgrown fields there were more
marshland than soil, in a house so long neglected, that the
property pervaded its mildew walls, the vegetation surrounding had
become so thick, it was only a matter of time before the bayou
reclaimed their home. Many nights Lance had nightmares of the vines
swallowing the house whole, with him and his family still
inside.

Another son might curse his father for
landing him such’s drays, but Lance chose instead to follow the
man’s example. Taking to a drinking–and other gentlemanly
entertainments–was the one sure way to escape the reality of his
situation. Hard work would not make a difference, he knew. Lance
could break both back and heart, and still never compete with their
neighbor. As mother continued carped, Bella Oaks was too small, too
poorly situated, to ever be as grand as the Willows.

It had been with mother’s encouragement
that Lance spent many a childhood hour there, but she cannot
know–and he did not dare tell her–that he’d far rather be part of
Gwen’s family than his own.

No man had been more forceful than
John, no female lovelier than Amanda. Back then, they had it all,
and they’d graciously shared it. Whenever he visited their home,
Lance had been made feel he was one of them.

Until the day Gwen made it clear that
she wanted him there on a permanent basis.

Like a slap to the face, her parents
rejecting his suit, an insult from which Lance had yet to recover.
Oh, they’d been polite about it, as was their ways, but nothing
could mask the sudden coldness. Lance might be good enough for
escorting their precious daughter to the important engagements, but
they demanded someone of greater means and far higher social
standings to be her husband.

While Lance had been planning their
wedding, trusting her dotting parents to come around in time,
Amanda had died, and Gwen had been whisked off to Boston. It took
five long years to be invited back for a visit, and this time, he’d
come close to realizing his dream of living there forever. He’d
been one thrust of a jousting spear away, only to watch the Willows
slip from his grasp once more.

He kicked the rotten wood of the
baseboard. Only this morning, John had called him into his study.
Nothing had been directly said, yet the man made it clear that he’d
overstayed his welcome. Ever polite, from one gentleman to another,
John suggested that perhaps it was time Lance went home to see his
mother.

As if anyone had to take care of his
mother.

Lance loved her like any good son
should, but the woman could badger a brick wall, and she delighted
in pointing out his flaws. It was his fault Gwen had run off, he
maintained; Lance must have scared her off with his base passions.
Didn’t he have the good sense to find a quadroon, like his father
and grandfather before him?

Little did mother know that Lance had
found someone. Indeed, it was his affair with Edith that had most
likely precipitated his dismissal. The little busybody, Homer, had
them in the stable. Lance should have known by his disapproving
frown that the servant would soon be saying something to his
master.

Lance kicked the baseboard again. As
part of it came away on his foot, suffered a wave of self-pity. He
was in a sorry fix, indeed. He had neither fiancée nor mistress,
nor even his share of the competition profits. Jervis had kept it
all, claiming Lance had used his share on his expenses of his horse
which did not win. All protests about Michael’s cheating had fallen
on deaf ears; the double dealing Jervis was happy to seize any
excuse to hold onto every last penny.

Forced to retreat to Bella Oaks and
mother, Lance had to bite his time, waiting for Gwen’s return.
Jervis might have been a steppingstone, Edith an exciting bed
partner, but Gwen alone could still give him the
Willows.

If only he knew where she was. He
refused to believe that Gwen had gone off with Michael by choice.
The man must have kidnapped her. Smiling, Lance pictured himself
dashing to the rescue, when she needed him most. How grateful her
she would be, how eager to repay him, if he were the one to bring
her safely home to her father and uncle. Seeing her whole, and so
happy with her Lancelot, even they were not deny her plea to marry
her hero.

I’m easily remembering his last
interviews with both men, Lance conceded they might prove
resistance to romance. But not scandal. Brightening, he reasoned
that that they would be so relieved to have the rumors stalled,
they’d probably announce the banns the very next
morning.

With a quick glance about his decaying
mausoleum, Lance knew that announcement could not come soon enough.
He cannot wait for word from Gwen; must find where Michael was
hiding her.

Rumor had it that the man was living in
the bayou, since his ill-fated duel. Deep in the swamp, where
mysteries and legends abounded, Lance would be out of his elements,
but where was his choice? If he wanted the Willows, he had to find
and marry Gwen – and the sooner the better.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would go into
town and hire himself a guide.

Chapter 14

Michael pulled toward the right fork,
already dreading what might await him at the cabin. He’d tried to
get home earlier, hoping to forestall whatever danger might be
brewing, but one problem after another had required his attention,
until it was midday before he could get away.

Gliding through the water, he listened
for shouts, or screaming, or any other indication of a problem in
the cabin I had. Utter silence greeted him. Rubbing the back of his
neck with his hand, he told himself to relax, to stop into the
anticipating calamity – but he couldn’t help think it’s seem to
quite. He could smell trouble as if it was in the air.

But then, maybe what he smelled was the
debris floating in the bayou, looking down as he beached his boat,
he noticed the dishes piled on the river bottom. He didn’t need to
lift want up to recognize the flowered pattern-his mother had
ordered that China from France. The question was, what were his
dish is doing in the water?

Puzzled, he marched to the porch. Boys,
he called out, receiving no answer. Nor did he find any sign of
them inside. It was lunch time; it wasn’t like them to miss a
meal.

More concerned by the moments, he
hurried down the porch steps and headed out back. He was rounding
the side of the cabin, muttering, “Where the devil is everyone?”
When he collided with Gwen.

With a faint gasp, she jumped back away
from him, as if he found contact between them intolerable. Not that
he could blame, after all the way he brought in laughter here, but
still, the thought stuck.

She was trembling, which annoyed him
further, as did her slow building flush. Did he offend her feminine
instabilities, demonstrate from the fields in his work clothes? Who
was she to talk, with her hair dangled about her shoulders, and the
blueish-gray gown in a soaked mess? Didn’t she know how the
material clung to her skin, to her–“

“
What the blazes happen to
you?” He blurted out, stopping that train of thought before it
could go any further.

She stuck out her chin. “Don’t you dare
call me a drowned rat!”

Surprise, he realized she must have
been hurt by the remark. He’d thought her impervious to anything he
might say.

Odd, but he found he liked her better
when she wasn’t so conscious of being a lady. All ruffled and
flustered, she seemed more appealing, and certainly more
approachable.

Remind himself that he had more
important things to deal with, he forced himself to look away from
that clinging dress. “Where are the children?” He asked more
sharply than he’d intended. “And why are the dishes in the
water?”

“
Dishes?” Her expression
clouded for a moment, then suddenly cleared. “Oh, I put them in
there.” No doubt seeing his frown, she went on to explain. “They
were dirty, and the boys refuse to wash them, so this morning I
decided enough was enough. I saw no reason for that mess to clutter
the kitchen.”

“
And never occurred to you
that you could just wash them?”

She gave him a funny look, as if the
suggestion startled her. “I would not know where to
start.”

No, of course, she wouldn’t, anyone and
that she’d see any reason to learn. The impervious Miss Gwen would
consider such menial tasks beneath her. More and more, Michael was
regretting the impulse that had brought this pampered female to his
cabin.

“
Honestly, Michael, there is
no need to scout. I can’t imagine why you must make such a fuss
about it.”

“
Those dishes were loaded
with food – old food – smell which is liable to draw scavengers,
which in turn will bring alligators swimming, since I have spent
many a tedious hour waiting for a rifle, trying to convince the
beasts that this is one place they don’t want to visit, pardon me
if I find myself a bit upset.”

“
Alligators?” She looked
over her shoulder, face going pale. “Here?”

“
This is the
bayou.”

“
Oh my. I didn’t think.” She
seemed terrified of the beasts, but then, maybe she shivered
because of the damp clothing, clinging to her every
curve.

“
That is the problem, my
lady,” Michael snapped at her, annoyed anew by his response to her
body. “You never think. You see what you want, and are blind to
everything else.”

“
That is not fair. The
children –“

“
where are the boys,
anyway?”

Her outrage visibly faded. “They ran
into the swamp. We had a miss understanding.”

“
Is this about that locket
again?”

“
No, it is not, it’s about
how they woke me this morning.”

Her indignation irritated him further.
“Now what did you do? Toss a fit over not having a breakfast served
in bed?”

“
They-“She stopped what
she’d been about to say, though clearly not happy to be doing so.
“Let’s just say they were not nice to me.”

Having had a long, trying morning,
after a night of little sleep, Michael reads that and of his
patients. “Those boys haven’t slept past sunup in their lives, so I
imagine they find it hard to understand why anyone would need to
sleep past noon. Or why anyone would throw a tantrum with my
dishes.”

“
Noon?” She muttered.
“Tantrum?”

“
This isn’t Camelot, lady,
and you were no longer queen of the manor. No one gets waited on
hand and foot. We all pitch in and do our fair share.”

“
I-“

“
Can’t you be civil? Must
you drive me or children from their home?”

“
Of all the air against…”
She took a deep breath. “Who do you think you are, saying this to
me? You know less than I what goes on here.” Step up to poke a
finger in his chest. “Your children think you are evil, did you
know that?”

He stopped, as stunned as if she had
bitten him. “Evil?”

“
They told me their mother
named them after the Saints to protect them. They are so afraid of
you, they don’t tell you half of what happens, and no wonder, the
way you treat them.”

“
I have never raised a hand
to those boys.”

Her blue eyes flashed with fire. “Abuse
takes many forms. How about neglect? You should be ashamed of
yourself, leaving them here to cook and clean and fend for
themselves, while you go off gallivanting in the bayou.”

“
Gallivanting?”

“
Yes, and while you are
often immersed in your own concerns, Jude runs wild. Some father
you are, to not even know your own son is a girl.”

He grabbed her arm. “What in blazes are
you talking about?

“
She did not want anybody to
know. I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t decided it was time for the
children to have a bath.”

Speechless, Michael tried to take it
all in. Jude, their Jude, a girl? Yet the more he thought about it,
the more he knew the proof had been in front of his eyes. Always
managing everything, mothering the younger ones, all her rapid mood
changes – Jude was every inch the female.

Yet why hadn’t Jeanette-or even Jude
herself-told him the truth?