Come Love a Stranger

Ashton made his way into the kitchen just as the boy came running in from the stables. Between gasps the lad announced that the doctor would not be coming until morning, but it was for a much different reason than they had supposed.

  “De madhouse burnt, Massa Ashton,” the youth explained. “Right down to ashes an’ cinders, all ’ceptin’ de cookhouse. Ah seen it all mahse’f when Ah tracked down de doctah dere.”

  “The madhouse!” Amanda gasped in horror, having entered a moment earlier with her sister. “Oh, how dreadful!”

  “De doctah say he gotta tend de ones what’s hurt, and dat’s why he cain’t come,” Latham explained. “Dere’s some been burned, but mostly dey got out alive.”

  “Mostly?” Ashton made the singular word a question.

  Latham shrugged. “Some o’ dem madfolk, dey either ’scaped or dey died in de fire. Dey ain’t all been counted fo’ yet, Massa Ashton.”

  “Did you make it known to Dr. Page that we will need his services as soon as possible?” Ashton pressed.

  “Yassuh!” the young black readily affirmed.

  Ashton drew the cook’s attention from the hearth as he asked, “Do you think you can find this boy something to eat, Bertha?”

  The old woman chortled and swept her hand to indicate the food-laden table. “Dere’s plenty fo’ dat chil’, massa.”

  “You heard her, Latham.” Ashton inclined his head toward the feast. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank yo, suh!” Latham responded with enthusiasm. Eager to sample his reward, he found it difficult to restrain himself as he fetched a plate and went around the table selecting from the vast assortment of delectables.

  Ashton went to stand near the hearth and frowned into the flickering flames. He was troubled by the news the boy had reported and equally confused by Lierin’s meager attire. The location of the madhouse was a good jaunt from town and yet only a short distance beyond the woods where she had emerged. If she had not escaped from the house and had been on her way out to Belle Chêne instead, why would she have come dressed in such a manner and riding so recklessly?

  “Those poor, confused souls,” Aunt Jennifer lamented, shaking her head sadly.

  “We must take a wagonload of food and blankets over tomorrow,” Amanda proposed. “Perhaps some of the guests will want to help, too. I’m sure there’ll be a need for lots of clothing and quilts….”

  Aunt Jennifer frowned suddenly in thought. “Ashton, do you suppose the injured girl could have been from the madhouse?”

  His head snapped up in surprise, and as he stared at his great-aunt, he could find no reply to give her. It was his grandmother who came to his aid.

  “What would make you think such a thing, Jennifer?”

  “Because there was some speculation about her escaping from a burning house, and now we hear the asylum has burned down.”

  “Probably only a coincidence,” Amanda suggested, “and nothing to fret about. I’m sure the child will be able to explain it all when she wakes.”

  Ashton savored the word coincidence. The two events could not really be related, he told himself, nor could he give serious credence to the idea of Lierin being in such a place. It seemed foolish to muse on the possibility and to let his imagination race far ahead of his logic.

  He returned to the guest bedroom and, pushing open the door, paused on the threshold for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the meager light. A low fire burned in the hearth, softly illumining the room, while a chimneyed candle on the bedside commode cast a yellow glow across the tall, tester bed and its occupant. The fragile features remained still and undisturbed, and for a moment his heart halted in sudden trepidation; then he detected the slight rise and fall of her chest, and he was able to breathe again.

  Across the room Willabelle pushed herself from a rocking chair, making him aware of her presence. “Ah been ’spectin’ yo back.”

  “How is she?” he asked, approaching the bed.

  The black woman joined him there. “She ain’t woke up yet, Massa Ashton, but it seems like she be restin’ easier now. She sho’ been bruised, an’ she gots a funny welt on her back dat Ah cain’t quite figger out, almost like somebody done hit her.” Willabelle rubbed the slender hand lying on top of the covers. “Luella May he’ped me wash her hair, an’ we dried it, den Ah give her a bath an’ put a fresh gown on her. Jes’ bein’ warm an’ clean might he’p.”

  “I’d like to be alone with her for a while,” Ashton murmured.

  Willabelle looked up at him in surprise. His distant expression did not invite inquiry, but she delayed a moment out of her concern for him. He had grieved so deeply after the loss of his wife, she could not help but worry what effect this accident was having on him. “Miz Amanda was up here a li’l while ago, an’ she’d reckon it mighty strange yo bein’ up here alone wid a stranger.”

  “I’ll have to talk to her.”

  His laconic reply prevented any glimpse of his inner emotions, and she made no further attempt to draw him out. She went to the door with a comment. “Ah reckon yo be wantin’ to know: Miz Marelda, she done made plans to spend de night again.”

  Ashton sighed heavily, accepting the news with disappointment. One night could be dealt with, but Marelda was wont to extend her visits until it served her purpose to leave.

  “Call if yo needs me, massa,” Willabelle murmured gently and closed the door behind her.

  As the sounds of the woman’s footsteps faded in the hall, Ashton turned to the bed. He could feel the ache of loneliness building in his chest as his eyes slowly traced the softly curving form. She lay on her back with her long, red hair tumbling over the pillow. He reached out to touch her hand and found the skin soft and smooth beneath his fingers. The nails were long and carefully tended just as Lierin had always kept hers. They brought to mind a night aboard the River Witch when she had leaned over his shoulder as he worked at his ledgers and playfully raked her fingernails across his bare chest. Continuing to tease him, she had nibbled at his ear and rubbed her lightly clad bosom against his shirtless back. After such sweet temptations, recording figures in a stodgy accounting book had seemed far less important.

  His mind flowed easily into the natural channel of remembering Lierin, and he relaxed his tightly held restraint, allowing his thoughts to wander where they would. He lowered his weight to the edge of the bed, recalling an afternoon in a hotel room when the sunlight had filtered in through louvered shutters and, with its radiance, had set the sheer white hangings of the bed aglow, wherein he and his young wife had lain entwined. Her jasmine fragrance had drifted with heady effect through his senses while he reveled in their shared intimacy. The pale-hued breasts, sleek limbs, and creamy-skin nakedness had whet his appetite until he had been driven to touch, taste, and possess, and in their brief time together they had savored their newly wedded bliss full measure. If it were possible to enrich such a deep and consuming love, then they had done just that. The intimate moments they had shared had made him marvel, for though he had experienced similar ventures with other light-o’-loves, he had never taken hold of the real treasures of true love until Lierin.

  The shadow of the door, elongated by the well-lighted hall, moved across the ceiling, jarring Ashton back to reality. He looked around as Marelda cautiously entered the room.

  “Ashton? Ashton…are you here?” she called softly, then glanced toward the bed as he rose to his feet. “Oh, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right room. I saw no one….” She paused and looked about as her words dawned with full realization; then she stared with hardening eyes at the woman in the bed before lifting a rather skeptical gaze to him. “I thought at least there’d be someone else in the room, Ashton. This is hardly proper.”

  “No need to fear, Marelda,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “I haven’t ravished the girl in her helpless state.”

  Marelda was nettled by his mockery. “Really, Ashton, you know how the gossips are. Your character would be lambasted from here to Vicksburg i
f this were known.”

  “If what were known?” A mildly tolerant smile lifted a corner of his lips. “That I was here alone with an unconscious woman who is my—” He bit off the word that would have staked his claim to the girl. How could he issue such a statement when there were so many questions yet to be answered? Still, too much had already been said, and he knew that Marelda would not give him rest until he finished with what he had started.

  “Your what?” Marelda barked out. “What is that little trollop to you?” She grew more enraged by his coolly tolerant stare. “Dammit, Ashton, I want to know!”

  Crossing to the door, he pushed it closed to prevent her voice from carrying through the house, then faced her with a suggestion. “I think you’d better sit down, Marelda,” he said calmly. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  “Tell me!” she cried.

  “I believe the lady is”—he smiled apologetically—“my wife.”

  For the second time that evening Marelda was thrust into a state of near panic. “Your wife?” She seemed to reel from the blow of his revelation and had to grasp hold of a nearby chair for support. She continued in a less volatile tone, though her voice was ragged with emotion: “I thought you said you hadn’t taken another wife.”

  “I haven’t.”

  She frowned at him, totally confused. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Casually he indicated the one in the bed. “I’m saying that I believe this woman is my first wife, Lierin.”

  “But…but I thought you said she had drowned,” Marelda stammered in bewilderment.

  “And that was what I also believed until I saw this woman’s face.”

  Marelda considered him a long moment in deepening suspicion; then, setting her jaw, she went to the bed, lifted the candle, and held it close to the pillow where she could have a better look at the one lying there. Her eyes flared as she viewed the fairness of her rival, then narrowed with jealous hatred. Had she been alone, she might have added a few more bruises to that pale visage, for this was the woman who had already caused her so much pain and anguish. Or was she?

  Realizing Ashton had spoken in an attitude of conjecture rather than fact, she faced him, taking hold of whatever uncertainty he might be harboring and using it as a battering ram against him. “Surely you’re mistaken, Ashton. Your wife has been dead for three years now. You said yourself that she fell overboard, and you were unable to save her because someone shot you. Have you considered how farfetched the coincidence would be if this woman were truly your wife? You must admit that the likelihood of Lierin arriving in Natchez and then colliding with your carriage merely by chance is much too preposterous to accept. Somehow someone planned this whole thing as a scheme to make you think Lierin is alive, so you’d be tricked into giving her everything she asked for. Why, I bet right now the little darling, whoever she is, is hearing every word I say.” Marelda gazed contemptuously at the still form. “But then, she’d have to be a very talented actress, or you’d have seen through her ploy from the beginning.”

  “Marelda,” he said flatly, “it is Lierin.”

  “No!” she railed, slashing a fist downward through the air. “She is just some slut who is trying to get your money!”

  “Marelda!” His voice had hardened. “Lierin has no need of my wealth. Her father is a rich merchant in England, and she has properties of her own in New Orleans and Biloxi, left to her by her kin.”

  “Oh, Ashton, please look at this objectively,” Marelda implored, deciding a change of tactics might influence him. She went to him and tried to slip her arms about him, but he set her from him impatiently. A small sob caught in her throat, and tears began to spill down her cheeks. “As sure as you are, Ashton, that this is Lierin, I am just as convinced that it’s not. If it were, what kept her away from you these past three years? Would you call her absence wifely devotion?”

  “There’s really no need to discuss any of this,” he stated bluntly. “The matter will be settled when she wakes.”

  “No, it won’t be settled, Ashton, for she will surely claim you are her husband, but it will be a lie, contrived by some money-hungry mind.”

  “I would know Lierin anywhere.”

  Dramatically Marelda straightened herself in the manner of one who faced the world alone. He was growing stubborn, and she needed time to think. “I’ll leave you now…with her…I shall go to my room, but I will not sleep. Remember, Ashton, how much I love you.”

  A heroic martyr going gallantly to her doom could not have held her head as high as Marelda managed to do as she glided from the room. There was a brief but significant moment of suspense as she halted beyond the threshold, allowing Ashton to brace himself. Then the door slammed with a loud crash that was undoubtedly heard throughout the whole house. Ashton envisioned her flowing gracefully down the hall to her room, and he waited for the second thunderous closing of the door in the distance. He was not to be disappointed. The event sent a wave of noise echoing through the mansion and finally receded to be replaced by the rapid clatter of heels and the confused chatter of feminine voices in the hall. Ashton glanced up as the door was thrust open and could not subdue a smile as the startled pair of ancient siblings entered, gasping for breath.

  “Good heavens, Ashton!” his grandmother exclaimed breathlessly. “What has taken hold of you? Why are you going about the house slamming all the doors?”

  “Now, Amanda, don’t be harsh with him,” Aunt Jennifer coaxed. “With Dr. Page not coming until morning and with Ashton worried about the girl, you know he must be upset.” She looked to her nephew for affirmation. “Isn’t that true, dear?”

  Amanda’s apprehensions were not to be set aside so easily. “I should have begged him not to take another trip downriver,” she fretted. “Something always happens when he goes to New Orleans. It’s almost like a bad omen.”

  “Grand-mere, please calm yourself,” Ashton cajoled gently, taking her hands and drawing her to the hearth. “I have something to tell you that’s very important.”

  She studied him with a dubious gaze. “First tell me why you were slamming the doors; then if your explanation seems reasonable, I’ll listen to the rest of what you have to say.”

  Ashton chuckled and laid his arm about her narrow shoulders in an affectionate manner. “Would you believe me if I told you that it was Marelda who slammed the doors?”

  “Marelda?” Amanda was astonished by his claim. “Whatever for, Ashton?”

  “Because I told her that the injured girl is Lierin….”

  “Lierin? Your wife Lierin?” Amanda questioned uncertainly. “But, Ashton…she’s dead.”

  “She drowned, dear.” Aunt Jennifer patted his arm consolingly, sure that he had taken leave of his senses.

  “No, she’s here. Alive! I cannot explain how she escaped from being drowned, but she’s here,” he insisted. “In this very room!”

  Both women seemed stunned as they turned and went to the bed. Aunt Jennifer took the candle from the bedside table and held it where its tiny flame shone softly on the object of their perusal.

  “She is pretty,” Aunt Jennifer observed.

  “Exquisite,” Amanda corrected worriedly. She took a firm grip on herself, knowing that she must remain calm in the face of this latest event. Ashton had held to his grief so long, he might have unwittingly mistaken another of comparable looks for the woman he had loved so dearly. How could she be sure that he was not just fantasizing about his lost Lierin?

  She glanced up as a thought struck her. There was a painting of Lierin hanging in Ashton’s chambers. Perhaps it would serve to confirm his claim or help present a denial. “Ashton, dear, I think the girl does bear a resemblance to Lierin’s portrait. Why don’t you get it and let’s make the comparison.”

  Ashton complied with his grandmother’s wishes and returned at once to the guest room with the requested portrait in hand. One glimpse of the painting had reassured him there was cause to hope the girl and Lierin w
ere one and the same.

  In his short absence the two sisters had brought several lamps together around the bed and turned up the wicks to provide an abundance of light for a close study of their subject. Aunt Jennifer propped the painting against the headboard, then stood with her sister contemplating the comparison. The girl in the portrait wore a gown of yellow and had ribbons of the same hue coiled through her light auburn locks. Even on the flat surface of the canvas, the emerald eyes appeared to sparkle with a zest for life, yet for all of the similarity it bore to the one in the bed, there was still something lacking.

  “The artist seems to have captured a certain warmth in his subject,” Amanda murmured, “but if this girl is Lierin, then the painting has failed to do her justice. The features in the portrait are not as refined and delicate.”

  Ashton gave further study to the portrait, but the flaws seemed so small that he could only lay it to the inadequacy of the artist. Aunt Jennifer seemed to second his thoughts as she stated, “We can’t expect perfection in portraits, Amanda. Most of the time the best we can hope for is to have the right color eyes and hair.”

  “You received the portrait after Lierin drowned?” Amanda made an inquiry of the statement and waited until she had received Ashton’s verifying nod before continuing her query. “But where did it come from?”

  “Her grandfather left instructions in his will for it to be delivered to me. I never saw it until after his death, but I understand it was one of a pair and that the other was a likeness of her sister, Lenore. Both of them were given to Judge Cassidy when the Somerton family came to visit him from England shortly before I met Lierin.”

  “It was really too bad you never had a chance to meet the rest of the family, Ashton,” Aunt Jennifer commented sadly.

  “I thought it was terrible that I never got to meet Lierin,” Amanda declared. “How often did I stress to him that it was his duty to beget heirs for the continuance of the family name, and for so many years it seemed that Ashton wanted his liberty more than a family. When he finally did marry, he nearly caused my heart to fail by the suddenness of it, and then…poof!” Amanda snapped her fingers in the air. “He came home, wounded and…a widower.”