Pride's Folly Page 2

  Before we went into supper I managed to take Aunt Jane aside. “I want to sit next to the Englishman.”

  “But dear, I have him paired with Agnes Harrison.”

  “Agnes!”

  Spoiled and spiteful, sly in a foxy way, Agnes had a pointed nose, thin colorless lips, and eyes that crossed in moments of distress. In spite of her unattractiveness, however, she had no end of suitors, for her father’s wealth drew the bachelors like bees to a honey pot.

  “Couldn’t you reshuffle the seating arrangement, Aunt Jane? I’d be ever so grateful. Mr. Montgomery is the most interesting man I’ve met in years.”

  “Agnes will be furious,” Aunt Jane said. “Besides, I’ve asked Aaron Sadler to partner you.”

  “Give him to Agnes. Oh, please, Aunt Jane, please?”

  She surrendered with a sigh. “Very well.”

  I threw my arms about her in a quick, thankful hug.

  Talk at the table was mostly about Jefferson Davis’s upcoming trial. President of the Confederacy during the war, he had been summoned to Richmond to be tried for treason by the United States government.

  “He was never popular here in Richmond, or anywhere else in Virginia, for that matter,” Alex Harkness was saying.

  “And I fear his lack of popularity was deserved. But one can’t help siding with him now in his hour of need. I’m sure others feel the same. I saw him when he arrived at the Spots wood Hotel this afternoon. He was greeted by a host of well-wishers bringing flowers and words of support, offerings he rarely received during his presidency.”

  “Do you think he’ll be found guilty?” Morton Bainbridge asked.

  “I rather doubt it.”

  There was a lull in the conversation and the clink of cutlery as the guests addressed themselves to Aunt Jane’s Brunswick stew.

  I turned to Ian Montgomery. “You are making a tour of our country?”

  “Yes. My father thought my education would be considerably broadened if I visited the Colonies.”

  “Colonies?”

  “Many pardons, Mrs. Morse.” He gave me a contrite smile. “Of course I meant the States—and especially the South, which I find enchanting. Its lovely women in particular. Are you a native of Richmond?”

  “I was born at Wildoak some forty miles from here.”

  “A Virginian then. And your family, I suppose, are planters?”

  “Yes, Falconers have been at Wildoak since 1660,” I said, not without some pride.

  “Indeed.” The voice was courteous, but I caught a hidden smile behind it.

  “I suppose to you British,” I said dryly, “that does not seem such a long time ago. I daresay you can trace your ancestry to an earlier date?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “A most ambiguous answer, sir.”

  “I might be accused of boasting.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Very well, my people have owned Penhames in Wiltshire since before the Third Crusade; and Invernean in Scotland I believe dates back to Roman times.”

  Penhames and Invernean. Castles or manors? And two of them! My interest sharpened, but he forestalled further questioning by asking, “And your husband, Mrs. Morse, is he from these parts also?”

  “He was. He died four-and-a-half years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. A war casualty?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  The lie was necessary. I couldn’t very well tell him it was I who had fatally shot Beasley Morse.

  I hadn’t meant to kill him; it was an accident. We had been quarreling, an exchange of bitter words during which he’d called me a whore and my child a bastard. I bore his insults and the subsequent blows from his cane with bared teeth, yet remarkable restraint. However, when he raised that same stick to my small son my control went up in a fierce, consuming flame. Wheeling about, I grabbed the nearest thing, an ancient musket kept over the fireplace. It had been placed there long before I became Mrs. Morse, hung on wall brackets when my husband returned from service in the Mexican War. In my rage I did not consider that it might be loaded.

  It was.

  The detonation knocked me back against the hearth, and Beasley died before his body reached the floor. His death was a shock, but I would be less than candid if I said I felt stricken with remorse.

  Beasley Morse was an odious man. Forty-seven years my senior (I was only sixteen when he died), ugly, beetle-browed, with a snuff-stained gray goatee and a game leg, he was also stingy, cantankerous, and vindictive. He never let me forget that he had consented to marry me under pressure from my Aunt Carmella, and then only out of the goodness of his heart. “To save your father from disgrace and to give that bastard of yours a name.” But I knew better. Beasley Morse never made an altruistic move in his entire life. He married me because I was the eldest of three, all girls, and in line to inherit Wildoak should Papa, then off fighting in the war, fail to return. It was greed, sheer greed, that sent him quite willingly to the altar, the old hypocrite!

  “Tell me about Wildoak,” Ian Montgomery was saying.

  “Wildoak . . .”I paused, taking a deep breath, pulling my thoughts back from the past. “To begin with, it’s a plantation of about four thousand acres, fanning inland from the Pamunkey River. Beautiful rolling fields, with a stream running through them. Before the war, Wildoak was all in tobacco. Now we grow what are called ‘diversified’ crops. The house, like so many, was vandalized during the war—we spent the last months of it here in Richmond—but it has been fully restored since.”

  “And the farm pays for itself?”

  “Oh, yes, and then some.”

  It was a gross exaggeration. We were operating at a loss and the “we” so casually employed when speaking of Wildoak was a euphemism. As I mentioned, Uncle Miles (my dead father’s younger brother) owned the estate lock, stock, and barrel, having bought it in its bankrupt condition from my mother, who had been anxious to unload it and return to her kinfolk in South Carolina. She had taken my two younger sisters with her, but I had chosen to remain at Wildoak. Someday Page would own it; he had Falconer blood. Wildoak through me was his heritage, and I meant him to have it.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting a plantation as yet,” Ian Montgomery said, helping himself to more stew.

  “Then you must come to Wildoak.”

  I felt comfortable in urging him to do so, for Uncle Miles had spared no expense in making the house a showplace.

  “An older couple is staying with me,” I said, feeling there was no need to mention Uncle Miles or that he and Aunt Carmella had departed for San Francisco six months earlier. “A Mr. and Mrs. Gan.” Uncle Miles had installed them as companions-cum-chaperones. The farm itself was run by a manager. “I shall have them issue you a formal invitation.”

  “I’ll be happy to accept. But in the meanwhile perhaps you—and Mrs. Bainbridge, of course—would consider showing me a little of Richmond?”

  “We shall be delighted.”

  I was wondering how many Richmond belles had already shown him the city when Agnes Harrison, seated across the table and apparently following our conversation, suddenly said, “But Mr. Montgomery, I do believe we saw just about everything the other day.”

  She was angry. I could tell by the high flush on her cheeks and the steel behind the honeyed words. Her fury was directed at me, the usurper, the spoiler who had not only snatched a table partner from her but had taken possession of a beau as well.

  Ian Montgomery, with admirable poise, replied, “So we did. But Miss Harrison, I find it instructive to see the same sights from another point of view. Don’t you agree?”

  She did, but not without flashing me an acid look before lowering her lashes.

  “Where shall we go?” Ian Montgomery asked.

  “That depends on what you would like to see.” I paused before adding, “Again.”

  He smiled.

  We were driving in a borrowed chaise with the calash down, a gesture to the fine May weather. Aunt Jane havin
g begged off at the last moment, there were only the two of us.

  “Poe’s boyhood home, perhaps?” I suggested.

  Though I had decorously gathered my voluminous skirts around me, several folds and ruffles overflowed onto Ian Montgomery’s trousered leg. His nearness made me conscious of him in a way I had not been before; it was almost as if our sitting side by side in the chaise, though open to the world, gave us the intimacy of a closed room.

  “Who?”

  “Edgar Allan Poe—the poet and writer.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen Poe’s house; the Swan Tavern, which he frequented; Shockoe Creek, where he swam; and the site of the Southern Literary Messenger, where he got his start in journalism.”

  “And it bored you.”

  “Not at all.”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “Suppose you turn here and cross Broad Street. There are some pretty homes and gardens beyond it.”

  When we reached the corner we had to pause, to allow a contingent of Yankee troops to file by. Rank upon rank, keeping perfect step, bayoneted rifles gleaming, their blue forage caps set at a smart military angle, they stepped forward to fife and drum.

  “Does it gall you to see them?” Ian Montgomery asked.

  “Not really. It’s been two years since Appomattox, you know. Time enough to accept defeat.” A wheeled cannon rumbled by and I waited before going on. “I suppose my detachment seems like heresy. I ought to nourish seeds of hatred and revenge, like so many of my friends, but honestly I don’t. If Aunt Jane knew I was talking this way, she would be shocked. As it is, she refuses to believe how many of our good citizens here in Richmond are profiting from the Union Army’s presence.”

  “Perhaps it’s not so much profit as necessity,” Ian Montgomery suggested, cocking an eyebrow. “A man who has a wife and children or, say, a family home that he does not want to lose might be forced to employ less than honorable means to protect his loved ones or secure his ancestral birthplace. ’ ’

  “I agree. If Wildoak were in any way threatened, I would be the first to stand hat in hand begging for Yankee dollars.”

  His blue eyes swept over me. “Ah, Mrs. Morse, I can see where we are both of the same mind.”

  We watched as a corps of cavalry led by an officer on a coal-black stallion approached. Some hitch ahead caused them to stop, the officer pulling in his horse a few yards from us. He looked vaguely familiar, the broad shoulders straining at a heavy, gilt-buttoned tunic, the rigid spine, the gloved hands grasping leather reins with practiced authority. As if conscious of my scrutiny, he turned a shadowed face and met my gaze. A flicker of recognition lighted his yellow-brown eyes and he raised a brief finger to his hat brim before turning away.

  “Do you know that man?” Ian Montgomery asked.

  “Major Gamble,” I said. “He and his men took over Wildoak before we left for Richmond. For a time we were his prisoners. I shan’t ever forget him.”

  Nor I daresay would my Aunt Carmella, who had managed to obtain our release. Gamble was a cold, harsh martinet who never smiled. And yet, I must admit, he was also a devilishly attractive man.

  The passage of Yankee soldiery started again, and as we waited a landau drew up beside us. In it were Judah Harrison and his daughter, Agnes.

  “Why, I declare!” Judah lifted his hat and smiled. “Miss Deirdre and Sir Montgomery.”

  “Not Sir," Ian corrected patiently, as though he had done it many times before. “The title is not mine while my father lives. But thank you for the compliment. And good afternoon to you, Miss Harrison.”

  Agnes beamed at Ian Montgomery and ignored me. “Lovely day, isn’t it? Why don’t you have tea with us this afternoon, Mr. Montgomery?”

  “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged, but thank you all the same.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?” Agnes persisted.

  “I shall be honored.”

  Having had her little triumph, Agnes threw me a catty smile, which I pretended not to see.

  The Union troops had finally passed and we moved on, clattering down Franklin Street under the cathedral-arched branches of tall, leafy elms. Houses set well back from the street raised gabled windows and red-brick chimneys above oak and cedar. Through iron-picket fences and privet hedges we could catch glimpses of smooth green lawns and neat beds of blooming purple iris, yellow jonquils, and sweet-smelling China lilies.

  “How do you come to know the Harrisons?” I asked.

  “I was introduced by the Stantons. Mrs. Stanton claims to be a longtime friend of the family, though I must say she seemed rather cool to Mr. Harrison.”

  “There’s a reason for her coolness. Judah was a speculator during the war. He made a great deal of money on the sale of blockaded goods.”

  “Oh? That being the case, I should think he would be shunned by society.”

  “A Harrison is never shunned by society. Harrisons are old family, old Richmond.”

  “I see. So he’s rather like a black sheep.”

  “Well ...” I hesitated, picturing the balding, round, ruddy-cheeked Judah, who hardly fit the dashing image associated with black sheep. “Not exactly.”

  At the corner of Clay Street I said, “Have you seen Wickham House?”

  “I don’t believe I—”

  Suddenly a large dog ran out, crossing the horse’s path, narrowly missing its hooves. Taking fright, the horse reared in the shafts and bolted before Ian Montgomery could control him.

  Ian sprang up, legs braced, pulling at the reins and shouting, “Whoaaa! Whoa!” But a flock of pigeons rising in a whir of wings past his head fueled the horse’s blind terror and he sped on.

  “Whoaaa! Whoa!”

  The animal was now in demonic panic, its frothing muzzle turned sideways by the force of Ian’s grip, and it paid no heed. Suddenly one of the reins came loose, throwing Ian Montgomery into the seat beside me. The horse thundered on, now slamming our swaying chaise against the curb, now careening to the opposite one, as if the terrified creature had a burr under its saddle and was trying desperately to rid itself of the harness.

  I clung to Ian Montgomery’s coat, my mouth dry, my heart pounding. I had seen a woman killed in the carriage of her runaway horse when it had overturned, pinning her beneath it, dead before the wheels had stopped spinning. The memory of that face frozen in terror grew larger and larger in my mind as we hurtled along. Narrowly missing a small boy chasing a hoop, we jolted over a yawning pothole, tipping the chaise perilously, taking a corner at the same dangerous angle. The pale faces of gawking bystanders flashed by, but no one tried to catch the horse. Why didn’t anyone do something? Damn them! Finally we reached the end of the paved street. I heard a shout go up as a wheel caught a pyramid of stacked barrels, the crash and rackety rumbling following us like the bang of tympani and the roll of drums.

  “Whoaaa! Whoa!” Ian yelled, trying to work the one ineffectual rein.

  We were traveling along a country road now, dust flying under the wheels. A field streaked by, then a stand of trees, but the horse was nearing exhaustion and soon slowed his pace. Ian finally got him under control, bringing him to a stop beneath an overhanging oak. For a few moments I could hear nothing but the horse’s labored puffing and the steady beat of my pulse loud in my ears.

  I still clung to Ian, who was now looking down at me intently. His hat was gone and his hair tumbled over his forehead, giving him a wild, pagan look. His eyes held mine, and I was dimly conscious that my bonnet had fallen back and my fingers had tightened on his sleeve. We sat transfixed thus for what seemed a long time. Then he lowered his head and our lips met. The pressure of his firm mouth sent shock waves through my veins. His arm encircled my shoulders and drew me closer as his kisses became more passionate and intense. The iron strength of his chest, so decorously encased in gray flannel, came as another shock. As he kissed me with increasing hunger, I found myself returning his kisses, found reality slipping from my grasp. The sane, level-headed Deirdre so carefully nurtured these past
few years was disappearing in a turmoil of roused sensations. His tongue licked my lips, and my mouth opened, taking him in, my own tongue twining with his, exploring the hot recesses of his mouth. I felt my nipples grow achingly taut against his chest, felt my loins sharpen with desire. My hands linked tightly around his neck, drawing him closer. I wanted to melt, to lose myself completely in this man.

  Suddenly he undid my clasping embrace and let me go. A dusky flush stained his face. He swept his hair back and took up the reins. “A thousand pardons, Mrs. Morse. I don’t know what you must think of me—taking advantage of you under such circumstances.”

  The pagan was gone; the English gentleman had returned. “There’s no cause to apologize, Mr. Montgomery. I could have protested, made some sort of struggle.”

  “No. I am to blame. I am truly sorry. It shan’t happen again.”

  But his apologetic words fell on deaf ears. I wasn’t listening. I was too shaken, not by the runaway horse, but by that kiss and its startling effect on me.

  Chapter 3

  The following week I returned to Wildoak and had Mrs. Gan send Ian Montgomery a formal invitation. Everything must be done right, the correct protocol observed. Though Ian Montgomery might reveal the Viking within him during moments of stress, he had been reared to respect propriety, a certain civilized form that separated good society from the vulgar. And I wanted him to respect me, to think of me in terms of a future Lady Montgomery.

  Yes, I had marriage in mind. It seemed incredible that I had been lucky enough to find a man who was not only handsome and well-to-do, but one to whom I felt magnetically drawn. I could not yet bring myself to use the word love, for my experience with it had left me chary. To throw myself into a blind passion as I had done with Harry Page would be folly, and though I might daydream about Ian Ramsey Montgomery, about Penhames and Invernean, I cautioned myself to show good sense. Ian’s kiss might have momentarily thrown me off balance, but that was no reason to completely lose my head.