Cachet (28 page)

"What a comfort to know I need never worry about forgetfulness in my old age, with you to continually refresh my memory of how you never wanted me. On the voyage, or as your husband."

* * *

Lorella was waiting when they returned to the house. "This came while you were out, sir." She held out an envelope. Morgan took it and went to the study, where he poured himself a drink and began to read.

Lorella asked Richelle if she might have the evening off to go to supper with a local drummer who'd come to the door selling spices and herbs. Richelle encouraged the girl to go, hoping the prospect of an evening alone with her in the house would improve Morgan's dour mood.

But she entered the study to find Morgan looking paler than she'd ever seen him except while he'd been ill aboard the vessel. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He crumpled the letter in one fist. "It's from Boyd. I wired him this address before I went to Washington. We have to go home right away. I don't understand it, but he says we've suffered financial reversals. It's bad. We could lose the holding company if the freight service collapses. I'll have to work something out once I get back," he mumbled, more to himself than her, Richelle suspected. "Maybe I can renegotiate with the squire."

Richelle knew Boyd better than that. He must have indicated some reason as the cause of the problems. "Why would your delivery service be near financial ruin? You were doing well enough just a few months ago."

"One of our shipments was stolen. Highwaymen, apparently. We also lost a driver in the incident. He quit right afterward. There was no insurance on the shipment, so Boyd had to pay for the lost goods. Some of the other customers heard the tale and canceled pending deliveries. Damn it, I never should have left England!" He took a long swallow of his drink and rubbed at one temple.

Richelle reached for his hand. "You remember Boyd and I met with Squire Martin the day before I left town, the day in the square?" Morgan asked. She nodded. "Boyd's had to guarantee repayment of the funds the squire invested. I signed a power of attorney long ago so Boyd has autonomy to act in my stead. It seemed a reasonable precaution, as I'm away so often."

He closed stormy gray eyes. "He gave a promissory note against the inn. I've got to get home, develop some new prospects and generate more business.
I'm
the Bargainer, not Boyd. Without me there isn't likely to be new activity. Just mounting of debt and no way to make the payments. I could lose the inn."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "No, Morgan. I'd never let that happen. You heard what the attorney said. Papa left money in bank accounts, and I've already found a buyer for the factory. We'll wire funds to Boyd."

He pushed her away and frowned. "I'm not begging for alms by telling you this. I can manage my own affairs, but I must be in England. You know I was anxious to return even before I got this news."

"It's not charity. I want to help you because we're man and wife. What harms you harms me."

He answered in an odd, flat voice. "I understand you mean to show me a kindness, but I cannot take any part of your inheritance. You must let me deal with this in my own way. You see, I led Cameron to believe I was of his ilk—a man who would deliberately prey upon women, beguiling them into parting with their coin. Were I to accept money from you now, an ugly element of truth would come from my lie."

Richelle sighed heavily. Why had she convinced herself he was any less impossible than when they'd first met? "Where would you be without your damned pride, Englishman?"

"On a farm outside Crowshaven, stacking hay. Where I may yet end up. Advise the harlot we'll be packing and closing up the house. I've got to see about passage for us and send a reply to Boyd."

"The 'harlot' isn't one any longer, and you know it," Richelle informed him. "Her name is Lorella, and she's gone out for the evening. We can deal with packing and what to do about the house tomorrow."

His jawline tensed. "I realize this forces a decision, but it cannot be helped. We must sail home on the first available vessel. I've devoted all the time and effort I could to your life. It's time to get back to living mine."

Morgan reached the riverdocks and put deposits on two cabins aboard
Rigadoon
, a passenger ship leaving for France in early June. Next he went to a telegraph office and wired Boyd to expect them by mid-July. He stopped at a drinking establishment and spent an hour improving his outlook. He went back to Hardwick House to find Richelle sitting in their bedchamber in the dark. He told her about the travel arrangements. She said nothing. When they got into bed and he reached for her, she pulled away from him. Morgan knew he'd wounded her feelings.

"You know I can't sleep unless I'm curled around you," he whispered. "Can we please suspend our differences until the morning?" She didn't answer, but moved to press against him. He slid his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Though she was silent, Morgan sensed she'd forgiven him. "Good night, Madam Tremayne."

But his verbal cue was false this night. His mind continued churning out bleak thoughts. He had an idea what Jeremiah's estate must be worth. Was Richelle clinging to this mansion out of sentiment, or was it something else? Could she honestly forsake this grand home and wealthy social circles for a reluctant stone hearth and faded lace curtains? Did they have a future together as man and wife?

Morgan had no answers for those dark questions. And he was secretly afraid to find them.

Chapter 24

Morgan and Richelle testified against Cameron Nash. Richelle had been exonerated of the murder charges once the agents had Cameron's confession. But she was questioned for several hours about the events in Carson City, her past knowledge of the Nash brothers, and all she knew of the ironworks' past and present operations.

"Can I go home now?" she finally requested. "I've already told you what I know, given you Mr. Nelson's deposition, and answered all your questions twice. I'm feeling a little tired."

Morgan got to his feet. "My wife's been terribly distressed by all of this following on the heels of her father's death. I'll answer whatever remaining questions you have, but let me put her in a cab."

The agent nodded and Morgan escorted her outside "You are a little pale," he noted. "You haven't slept well recently. Have Lorella fix you something to eat , then put yourself to bed. I'll be back when we're finished here."

Richelle's attorney called the next afternoon with documents for Morgan's signature on the sale of the factory. Carstairs had acted as intermediary and brokered the deal for a fee.

"We must put the home up for sale or long-term lease also," Morgan announced. "I believe Madam Tremayne intended to consult you about that." He glanced at her, but before she could respond, Lorella bustled in with pastries and coffee. Richelle took a tiny sip of coffee, but never touched a morsel of food. The attorney discovered he was late for another appointment and left before the subject of the house could be addressed again.

Morgan closed the front door and glared at Richelle. "Why did you say nothing about selling this place? You've been in contact with him about the factory sale, yet made no progress in this matter. Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"

Richelle sighed. "I've decided to get the advice of my father's banker first. I'm going to see him later this afternoon. And I don't need you to come with me. There must be at least one book in my father's study you haven't read yet. There's no reason for you to hover over me."

"Hover? Forgive me for taking an active interest in your health or financial well-being! You're frigging ungrateful, do you know that?"

"Don't confuse gratitude with servitude, Morgan. There's a difference."

He was out the door before she could react. He returned in a foul humor that evening. He went to the study and buried his nose in a book, not glancing up until Lorella announced the evening meal was served. They ate in silence for a time, then Morgan let his fork clatter onto his plate to get Richelle's attention. "So madam, what does the banker recommend?"

"It's stuffy in here all of a sudden," Richelle answered. "Can we go out into the yard to talk?"

She went through the kitchen and out the back door. A wave of dizziness hit her, despite the refreshing coolness of the early evening breeze. She reached for Morgan's arm to steady herself.

"Jesus, why didn't you tell me you weren't well? We' discuss this later. Right now you need to go upstairs to bed."

Morgan scooped her into his arms and carried her through the house, a peculiar tightness in his own chest. Richelle had been behaving oddly and he couldn't ignore his sense of impending doom. He was losing his grip on everything: his assets, his sanity and his marriage. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do change the tide.

* * *

"We should have a doctor examine you, Richelle," he finally announced one morning. She barely ate, fell asleep immediately after a single bout of lovemaking, seemed listless half the time in the afternoons, and looked too pale.

"I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me last night," she replied without meeting his gaze.

"Just what would that have been? You didn't touch your supper last evening." He turned to her, fists clenched. "I don't ken, Richelle. Are you trying to make yourself ill? Is it so distressing to give up this house, or is it me you plan to forsake? Perhaps you misunderstood your feelings toward me. You needed someone during the crossing, and I was there. Even in the village, you were frightened, in hiding. It's only natural you might believe you'd come to care for the man who protected you from danger."

"How can you even suggest that? I don't want to give you up. I don't want to give up this house, either. It's not only because I was raised here or that I planned to be mistress here one day all my life. When our children—that is, if we have children, I'd want them to visit here. And I hate to think what might become of the house if this war gets any worse. That's all those agents could talk about. The South may send forces towards Washington and Northern states. It sickens me to think of strangers here, especially those filthy Southerners!"

"I'm given to understand that most own huge farmsteads, with dozens of slaves in their fields. Those Southern farmers are probably cleaner by far than I was the day we met. Rich men with slaves have no need to muddy their own boots."

Richelle gaped at him. "They're filthy
because
they have slaves, you imbecile! This is Pennsylvania—one of the original thirteen Colonies, where Americans fought for freedom and independence from your King. We don't keep darkies in chains here or treat humans like animals, the way those fiends in Georgia or Mississippi do! Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Neither," he answered simply. "And I wonder at your strong bias. You're descended from English blood and wed to a Yorkshireman. For all intents and purposes, you're English yourself now. The outcome of this slavery debacle should be irrelevant to you."

"Irrelevant? How dare you? Oh, I forgot—
everything's
irrelevant except as it affects your business interests! You've never been able to see any other perspective. What's any of this to you, Morgan?
You
never lived here!" She snatched up her robe and started down the stairs, but Morgan followed.

"I'll tell you what this house is to me. A nightmare! While we're discussing perspectives, let's examine yours. Are you still a child enslaved by her childhood dreams, or a grown woman who can accept that we all must move on? No one says it's easy. Do you suppose I
liked
being an innkeeper at eighteen? Do you think I would have chosen to be alone and shouldering that kind of responsibility? Or that I'm not suffering now?"

"Suffering? So business has fallen off. You'll recover."

"Will I? From what you're doing to my insides? Initially I feared once you got your inheritance, you'd order me to build you a fancier home in Newcastle, or even demand we take up residence in London near your aunt. I wasn't certain how I'd react, but I was foolish enough to believe you might want a pampered lifestyle
in England
. Instead it seems you intend to put the Atlantic Ocean between us."

She slowly turned, brown eyes wide and haunted. But Morgan was unable to stop the torrent he'd unleashed. "Damn you, Colonial!" he choked, "If I hadn't come to your aid, I would have hated myself. Now that I have, I'm afraid I'll end up hating you."

* * *

The doctor set aside his stethoscope. "You haven't told your husband you're expecting his child?"

Richelle lay in their bed with her nightgown bunched around her hips from the doctor's examination, praying Morgan wouldn't return just yet. "No. I remarried a few months ago. He's arranged for us to sail to France next week. I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I suffered a miscarriage and a stillbirth during my first marriage. I've been worried that a pregnancy would interfere with—"

"Absolutely!" the doctor agreed. You mustn't make a voyage now. If you'd been under my care for some time and were farther along possibly, but the risks are significant. You'll have to ask your husband to postpone your trip."

Richelle took a deep breath. "He can't. He's had business problems and his partner needs him to return to England."