Wild Star (33 page)

“Will we be here that long?”

She watched him shrug. “We’ve traveled a long way. I, for one, want to feel firm earth beneath my feet for a while.”

“New Orleans was the most unusual city I’ve ever seen,” Byrony said.

“Wait until I give you a tour of Natchez.”

“It will have to be an improvement over Panama.”

“True enough. Perhaps on our return trip the railroad will be completed.”

“None of the slaves wear shoes,” she said abruptly.

“At least they’re clean, and dressed well enough. That’s Laurel’s doing, of course. As a boy, I remember nothing but filth. At the dining table, we’d be served by footmen who had the dirtiest fingernails you’ve ever seen. Made one lose one’s appetite.”

“Apparently you didn’t lose all your appetites.”

“Thank the Lord, no,” Brent said, grinning at her. Byrony lathered her hair a second time as she watched Brent shrug out of his coat. He said over his shoulder, “It would appear that Laurel has softened a bit.”

“She’s very lovely,” Byrony said, willing to be fair, at least for the moment.

“Oh yes, she is indeed,” Brent agreed. He tossed his shirt on the floor and sat down in an ugly wing chair to pull off his boots. He paused a moment. “Drew has become a man. It’s disconcerting.”

“Makes you feel old, does it?”

Brent grinned at her and rose, his fingers on the buttons of his trousers. “You want to see how old this old man really is?”

“Brent, stop that. You’re getting water all over everything.”

 

Opulent, Byrony thought. The dining room could accommodate eighteen people. The walls were painted a soft green, and draperies were drawn back from the long windows with gold cords. The furnishings were obviously French, even to Byrony’s untutored eye. The dining table was covered with a pristine white linen cloth and white china edged in gold. “What is that?” she asked Brent in a near-whisper, pointing to a large hand-carved wooden bell-shaped adornment hanging down from the ceiling over the table.

“It’s a punkah—”

“A fan is a fan, Brent,” Drew said. “You’ll be grateful for it within the month, I promise you, Byrony. During the meal, a house slave pulls the fan back and forth with a long cord. It cools the face and the vegetables. In the South we’re all very proper. No sweating on the table.”

“That will be the day,” Brent said. “I can remember sweating like a pig here during the summer months. Byrony, you’ll feel as though you’ve been wrung out to dry, only you don’t—dry, that is.”

“How is the weather in San Francisco?” Drew asked.

“Blessedly cool,” Brent said. He slanted a look at Byrony and added, “Except at certain times, of course.”

Drew laughed. “He’s always been outrageous, Byrony—ignore him—even when he was no larger than a mite.”

“Tell me about Paris, Drew,” Brent said. “Did you keep yourself out of trouble and your gentlemanly dignity intact?”

“Most of the time. It’s as different as night is from day, Brent. Everything is so very old and established, despite all the political upheavals, and there is so much to experience, and to paint, naturally.”

“You miss it,” Byrony said, seeing the faraway look in Drew’s eyes.

“Yes, but—”

He paused at the sound of swishing skirts. The men and Byrony turned to see Laurel glide into the dining room, looking as delicious as any dessert, Byrony thought, in a gown of light pink silk that bared her white shoulders and the tops of her breasts. One would have imagined that pink with auburn hair would have been dreadful, but it wasn’t. Byrony suddenly felt complete dowdy, her own gown of dark blue silk—the color of Brent’s eyes, she’d told him—purchased in New Orleans, seeming like a schoolgirl’s next to Laurel’s.

And her hair was still damp. She felt like a scraggly dog in comparison to the vision smiling so sweetly at the assembled company.

Laurel never let her smile falter. Indeed, it grew wider as her gaze flitted dismissively over Byrony. However had Brent gotten himself trapped by
that
? As for Brent, she felt herself responding to the man as she had to the boy. He was so handsome, she thought, his black hair thick and shiny, his face so strong and chiseled, even the scar on his cheek romantic and dashing. She met his eyes, still so compelling and fathomless, but they were unreadable as they rested on her face.

“Frank won’t be joining us this evening—our overseer, Frank Paxton,” Laurel added. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Certainly,” Brent said. “Byrony, my dear,” he continued, a half-smile on his lips, “you will sit at the foot of the table. You are now, after all, the mistress of Wakehurst.”

Byrony had the sudden awful memory of the dinner party when Irene had taken her seat at the table. She wondered if Brent remembered too, and thus had ensured that it wouldn’t happen here. She smiled up at her husband as he pulled out her chair.

Laurel made no demur, motioning Drew to seat her. She said brightly, “Glasgow, you may serve now.”

Glasgow? Byrony stared at the tall black man who was wearing a livery of sorts, black wool trousers and a yellow shirt, and a ragged jest of a white wig on his head.

“Yes, missis,” he said, and clapped his hands.

Two other black men—boys, actually, Byrony realized—trooped into the dining room, each bearing a silver tray. They were wearing the same black wool trousers that ended well above their ankles, no shirts, and wool jackets. Byrony could practically feel their flesh itching.

“The usual fare in the South,” Brent said to her as he dipped creamed corn from a bowl held by one of the boys. “Chicken, black-eyed peas, corn, and our own special kind of bread, made from corn.”

“It all looks delicious,” Byrony said. Actually everything looked very heavy. However did Laurel remain so slender? “You were talking about your work,” Byrony said to Drew.

“Yes,” he said, “and I should very much like to paint you, if my big brother doesn’t mind, of course.”

“We must find a more appropriate hairstyle, I think,” Laurel said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t think it possible.

“My fault,” Brent said.

His words hung in the air, and Byrony blurted out, “He wouldn’t let me out of the tub.”

Drew very carefully placed his fork beside his plate, then threw back his head and laughed.

Byrony ducked her head. She heard Brent chuckling with his brother. No, she thought, he most certainly hadn’t let her out of the tub. In fact he’d joined her, his large naked body snaking around hers, sending floods of water onto the bedroom floor. She felt herself grow even warmer at the image of lying against her husband’s chest, her legs between his, his hands in her wet hair, his mouth caressing her throat.

“Now, if you were a mermaid,” he’d said, “I wouldn’t have to worry about those two gorgeous legs of yours—just your lovely tail.”

Byrony was brought from her pleasurable memories back to the present by Laurel’s acid voice. “Please, Drew, Brent.” Lord, she wished she could pull out every one of Byrony’s damp hairs by the root. “Enough, I don’t want the slaves to hear such talk.”

“I suppose things do change occasionally,” Brent said, drawling out his words so that Byrony stared at him. His lilting accent was thick as honey. “Don’t worry, Laurel, when Drew paints Byrony, I’ll see to it that she’s completely presentable.”

Byrony had the awful feeling at that moment that Brent had made love to her only in order to throw it up to Laurel. The black-eyed peas were suddenly hard and cold in her mouth. No, she thought, she was being ridiculous. She could still hear his groans, feel his arms holding her tightly.

Drew said, “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I could attempt another Venus emerging from the sea.”

“I must show you the portrait Drew painted of me,” Laurel said. “It’s hanging in the drawing room, of course. Visitors believe it to be one of his best efforts. How long have you been married?”

“Three months,” Byrony said automatically. “The journey here took a very long time.”

“How did you two meet?” Laurel asked. Three months. Hardly any time at all. Brent would be bored with the girl soon enough.

Byrony’s eyes flew to her husband’s face. Her confusion was not lost on Laurel.

“In San Diego actually,” Brent said easily, sipping his wine.

“Where is that? I’ve never heard of that place.”

“It’s in the southern part of California. You have heard of California, I trust?”

“You’re so instructive, Brent. I thank you. But how interesting. I thought perhaps you were one of the females in Brent’s saloon.”

My, what sharp fingernails, Byrony thought.

“Oh no,” Brent said, grinning. “My wife has none of the skills or attributes of a saloon girl, thank God.”

No, Byrony thought, she probably didn’t. She felt him looking at her at that moment, and raised her face. His beautiful midnight-blue eyes were filled with wicked amusement.

“But there are so very few ladies in San Francisco, is that not true?” Laurel said.

“More ladies than gentlemen, I’d wager,” Drew said.

“That’s right, Drew. Men dare to soil their hands in California, But you know you’re alive there. There’s no stagnation, no carrying on of meaningless traditions as there is, for example, here in the South.”

His drawl had disappeared, Byrony noticed, and his voice was clear and crisp. “We create our values and our modes of life as we go along. A man’s brains make him important, not accidents of birth that place him willy-nilly in a privileged position.”

“I can’t imagine what your father would say to such sentiments,” Laurel said.

“He’d probably kick my butt out—again,” Brent said. His eyes met Laurel’s and he grinned. He raised his wineglass in a mocking toast.

Byrony took another bite of fried chicken. It hit her stomach like a rock. She began to envision their life here as a series of skirmishes between Brent and Laurel.

Drew looked from Brent to Laurel, but said nothing. He doesn’t know, Byrony thought. She wondered if Brent would ever tell him. She’d hated the trek across Panama, the heat, the butchering insects. She wished at this moment that she and Brent were back there again, this time headed west.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Byrony paused a moment, her hand tightening on her riding crop at the cold anger in Brent’s voice. “I’ve been riding, with Drew,” she said. “Why?”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You could have asked Laurel. She knew.”

“Laurel’s taking a bath. It wouldn’t be precisely appropriate for me to join her, now, would it? Where is Drew?”

“He’s still at the stable. His horse lost a shoe. One of the sla—servants is helping him.”

Brent, whose arms were folded across his chest, his legs spread, studied his wife, his eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go riding?”

Byrony flicked the riding crop against her leg. Why was he acting the outraged husband? “I didn’t know where you were,” she said. “You didn’t come to bed last night, nor were you anywhere to be found this morning.”

It seemed to Brent that she was a bit furious herself. Jealousy? It pleased him. Perversely, he said in a deep drawl, “No, I wasn’t, was I?”

With a measuring look, she said, “Then why are you so concerned where I was? When we were sailing on the
Connecticut
you had no choice but to stay near me.” She gave him a marvelously indifferent shrug. “On dry land, you seem to want to rove again. So why shouldn’t I do just as I please?”

“Because you are my wife, and you—” He broke off, seeing her insolent expression. “Enough. You will always tell me if you wish to do anything, and you won’t go off with other men.”

Byrony held her temper. She wanted to thrash him; she wanted to make him howl with pain, the kind of pain she’d felt through the night. Instead she said abruptly, “The slaves’ compound I saw is in terrible shape. And I met your overseer, Mr. Paxton. He was very pleasant—to me.”

“You’ve been here scarcely twenty-four hours and you’re already finding fault,” Brent said as he strode down the veranda steps.

“What I saw was deplorable,” Byrony said in a steady voice. “And this was the compound for the house slaves. I understand from Drew that the field slaves live like animals.”

“I want you to change into something more presentable,” he said, ignoring her words. “We’re going into Natchez to have dinner with the Forresters.”

Only he had the ability to provoke her so thoroughly. She raised her chin and demanded, “Where were you last night, Brent?”

“That, my dear, is none of your business. Just as Celeste was none of your business, or, may I add, this plantation. Go change your clothes. Mammy Bath has assigned Lizzie to you. And, Byrony, watch what you do with that riding crop.”

She said nothing, merely raised her chin higher and walked into the house. Brent stood quietly watching her. How dare she leave with Drew? Of course he’d seen Laurel, but she hadn’t said a word, merely observed that Drew seemed much taken with Byrony. And why, you fool, didn’t you simply tell her that you spent most of the night talking with Josh, a childhood friend whom you came back specifically to free? Brent shook his head at himself. He’d learned more from Josh about the condition of Wakehurst during the course of one night than he would have from Frank Paxton, a vicious man, according to Josh. But, in reality, no worse than any other overseer. Shit, what was he going to do?

About what, you fool? Byrony or Wakehurst? Brent sighed, running his long fingers through his hair. At least he’d done one good thing. Josh had told him that Frank Paxton was sniffing around Lizzie, and Brent had assigned her to Byrony. She would be safe with Byrony in the big house.

He saw Frank Paxton, dressed in severe black, walking up the drive toward him. He’d been at Wakehurst for nearly twelve years, and had been trusted completely by Brent’s father. At least he had been before Brent had left nine years before. Brent remembered Josh telling him that Paxton had bought slaves from Brent’s father during his illness, and sold them at a huge profit in New Orleans. A natty dresser was Frank Paxton, Brent thought, watching the overseer wave to him.