Read Forever My Love (Historical Romance) Online
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
Tags: #18th Century, #American Revolution, #Historical, #Romance, #Fiction, #Adult, #Adventure, #Action, #FOREVER MY LOVE, #Revolutionary War, #Finishing School, #England, #Savannah, #Georgia, #Guardian, #British Nobleman, #Conspiracy, #Courage, #Destiny, #Fiery Winds, #Cherish, #Georgia Plantation, #Wanton Ward
Forever My Love (Historical Romance)
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Copyrigh
t©
1991 Constance O'Banyon
. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
To my new editor, Karen Solem, thanks for believing in me.
And to Linda Henderson, who worked tirelessly with me on this one while I burned the midnight oil.
The grass has grown over the bare spot where you once played kick ball with your friends. Boxes of discarded action figures and comic books now line the walls of the garage. Somehow you caught me unaware when you abandoned childish mementoes for basketball and girls. I look at you in awe because the manners that were instilled in you have magically taken hold. Way to go, Jason, my son!
Bathe with me in the fiery flood
And mingle kisses, tears and sighs
Life of the life within my blood,
Light of the light within mine eyes.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"You have a son, my husband," she said with pride.
Royal Bradford sat at her father's massive oak desk, gazing across the street at Wright Square. She slowly became aware of the darkening sky, and she watched while a gust of wind twisted the branches of her father's prized mulberry tree, making it sway and bow from the fierce onslaught. Rain had begun to fall, and it pelted forcefully against the window.
Royal leaned back and reached for the black leather-bound journal her father had given her three months earlier on the occasion of her fourteenth birthday. Blinded by tears, she opened the journal to the first page, took up her pen, and began to write.
Dearest Papa,
When you first presented me with this journal and admonished me to keep a daily account of my life, I could not imagine anything to write about. How sad it is that I make my first entry on the day you were buried. Sweet, kind adviser, beloved father, I find it difficult to comprehend that you are no longer with me. I am fearful that if I do not keep your memory alive, it will be as if you never existed; therefore, I have decided that each entry in this journal will be addressed to you. You were my father and my friend, and I will strive to grow into the kind of woman you would want me to be.
Royal's childish scrawling spilled across the page, and her tears smudged the written words. She glanced at the portrait of her father's sister, Arabella, which hung over the fireplace. The flames from the fire flickered across her aunt's lovely image, and Royal felt an ache deep inside.
"Where are you, Aunt Arabella?" she whispered. "Why haven't you come? Didn't you get my letter? Don't you know that Papa needed you—that I need you?"
Laying her head on the desk, Royal allowed her tears to flow freely. Deep sobs shook her body, and she lost herself in grief.
She was not aware of how long she had been sitting at her father's desk, but her tears had dried, and the candle flickered low, leaving the far corners of the library in shadows.
She glanced about the room where her father had conducted most of his business. The familiar aroma of leather mingled with the musty smell of the well-worn books that lined the mahogany bookshelves. Closing her eyes, Royal could almost feel her father's presence. The sound of a log falling against the fireplace grate brought her back to reality.
There were rumors of war between the Colonies and England, and the future appeared empty and frightening to Royal, who was all alone.
"Please hurry, Aunt Arabella," she cried. "You loved Papa, too, and we will need to comfort each other."
With a feeling of finality, she laid the journal aside.
Dearest Papa,
A week has passed since my last entry in this journal. I have not yet heard from Aunt Arabella. I know she will come, but when? I am so lonely, Papa, and I miss you dreadfully. I have been informed by Mr. Greenburg's office that the reading of your will takes place next Friday. Perhaps at that time I shall know your plans for my future.
John Bartholomew's footsteps were noiseless as he moved off the fine Turkish carpet and onto the polished floor. In his meticulous manner, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked it against the hall clock to make certain they were synchronized—they were, as always.
Pausing before the heavy mahogany door of the library, the fastidious little man straightened his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He did not relish the task that faced him.
On entering the library, he was astonished to find the room empty. Mr. Routhland was always punctual, so John wondered what could be keeping his employer from their appointed meeting. The spry little man had been employed by the Routhland family for twenty years, as secretary first for the father and now for the son. There had been a time when he'd considered becoming a schoolmaster, but he had never regretted his decision to work for Swanhouse Plantation.
With a perplexed expression, John glanced at the letter that had come in the morning post. It was from Oliver Greenburg, a prominent Savannah attorney, and the secretary dreaded calling the letter to Damon Routhland's attention. No, Mr. Routhland was not going to be pleased with the inconvenience this letter would cause. John had no time to speculate further on the dilemma because the door opened, and the master of Swanhouse Plantation entered.
Damon Routhland was of a towering height. His dark brown hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck and had streaks of sun gold that matched the unusual gold of his eyes. He was a handsome rogue, as many a young lady could attest. Since Damon had inherited the largest, most prosperous plantation in Chatham County, he was much sought after by the young marriageable ladies of quality and their ambitious mothers; thus far he had managed to evade all matrimonial traps.
"Good morning, John. I have some correspondence that needs to be answered. Let's get started straight away, because I am riding into Savannah this afternoon." He nodded at the official-looking document that John held in his hand. "Does that require my attention?"
John coughed to clear his throat. "I fear this will be rather a nuisance to you, Mr. Routhland. It seems that a Mr. Douglas Bradford has died and named you guardian of his fourteen-year-old daughter."
Damon arched a dark brow sardonically. "Surely you jest? No one would leave a young girl in my charge."
They both knew without saying that because of Damon's reputation with women, it was unthinkable that any father who cared about his daughter would consider him a suitable guardian.
"I believe if you read for yourself," the secretary offered, thrusting the letter forward, "you will better understand the predicament."
Damon took the letter and scanned the page, his brow furrowed in a frown.
Dear Mr. Routhland,
It is with profound sadness that I inform you of the passing of Douglas Bradford...
Damon glanced up at his secretary. "I was aware Douglas Bradford had been ill for some time, but I don't understand how his death could possibly involve me. He was a friend of my father's, but I didn't know him at all well."
"If you would just read on, Mr. Routhland," John urged, "I believe it will be made clear to you."
Damon nodded and continued reading:
You should know that Mr. Bradford's will appoints Damon Routhland as the guardian of his fourteen-year-old daughter, Royal. It was originally his intention that your father should take guardianship of Miss Bradford in the event of his death. Although I had advised Mr. Bradford on numerous occasions to change his will after the death of your father, he neglected to do so.
Knowing this was his desire, and knowing you have the same name as your father, you should for legal reasons be present at the reading of Mr. Bradford's will. It will be a mere formality to clear up any misunderstanding...
Damon's head snapped up, and he frowned at John. "My God, this is preposterous! Bradford's illness must have muddled his brain."
It was with astonishment that Damon returned to the letter.
I am certain when you know that Royal Bradford is not without family to care for her, you need not feel duty bound to accept guardianship of her.
She has an aunt, Arabella Bradford, who resides in France, and I have been contacted by Victor Bradford, a cousin on her father's side, who has evidenced a desire to raise Royal Bradford with his own children.
If you find it convenient, I respectfully request that you attend the reading of the will on Friday next at four o'clock in the afternoon at the Bradford home.
Until such time, I remain,
Respectfully yours,
Oliver Greenburg
Attorney-at-Law
Damon's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he reread the part about Arabella Bradford. Old memories stirred to life within him—memories he had thought were dead—painful memories. So Arabella had been in France all these years, and she would now be returning to Savannah to assume the guardianship of her young niece.
Damon was unaware that he had crumpled the attorney's letter in his fist. After all this time, would he see Arabella again? Had she changed? he wondered. Surely her dissolute life as a stage actress would be reflected on her face. He pictured her once flawless skin with wrinkles, and her flaming red hair laced with gray. After all, eight years was a long time, especially to a woman of her age. She must be in her mid-thirties by now, he speculated.
As a headstrong youth, it had not mattered to him that Arabella had been ten years his senior. How young and foolish he had been at seventeen, he thought scornfully. How easily he had lost his heart to the beautiful but ruthless actress, and how mercilessly she had teased and tormented him when he had professed that love.
Damon glanced up at John, who had been watching him expectantly. "Yes, I shall definitely attend the reading of the will. Make a notation of the date and time and see that I don't forget."
Not that he would forget—how could he? Arabella had once filled his every thought. He still remembered vividly the night he had proposed marriage to her, only to have her laugh at him. Soon he would face her again, but this time he was not young or inexperienced—now he would face her as a man!
All concern for Royal Bradford had been pushed to the back of Damon's mind, for his thoughts were only of Arabella.
***
While tucking a strand of white hair beneath her stiff white cap, Alba Beemish turned to her husband with a disapproving expression.
"What's going to happen to Miss Royal?" the housekeeper demanded. "It's for certain she doesn't belong with Miss Arabella." Horror came into the woman's eyes. "An actress, of all things! It isn't suitable that she should have the raising of the young mistress."
Tobias avoided his wife's gaze. "Miss Arabella's not so bad, and she does love the girl," he answered in a soft voice that was characteristic of his easy manner. "Little Miss Royal's been through enough tragedy this past month, and she needs the comfort of her aunt.
"Humph." Alba snorted. "You are just like all men when it comes to a pretty face. Surely you don't think Arabella Bradford is a good example for Miss Royal? Goodness only knows what depravities the child would be exposed to in the company of that... that actress!"
Tobias knew it would not be wise to take Arabella Bradford's part against his wife. "There's the cousin on her father's side," he offered in a conciliatory manner. "He'll be the head of the family now. Most likely he'll take care of Miss Royal."
"Have you thought that we might be put out no matter what happens? If Miss Arabella takes custody of Miss Royal, she will take her away to France. And this Victor Bradford and his family, what do we know about them? In all the years we've worked in this house, there has hardly been a mention of them. Although he never said so, I always had the feeling that Mr. Bradford didn't like his cousin in the least, and I'm sure I won't like him, either."
With practiced tolerance, Tobias patted his wife's shoulder. "Not everyone can live up to your expectations, my dear."
But Alba would not be placated. "It seems strange to me that they didn't come while Mr. Bradford was so ill, but waited until he's dead and can't object. The lawyer said they would be arriving any day." Alba sniffed. "They didn't make it to the funeral, but you can be sure they'll be here in time for the reading of the will."
Tobias turned his wife to face him. "It isn't up to us to interfere, Alba," he reminded her. "Besides, it's not likely that Mr. Bradford left his daughter without providing for her. We shall know everything when the will is read."
Alba fixed her husband with a pensive gaze, but she spoke as if she had not heard him. "Miss Royal is an extraordinary young girl," she acknowledged. "Have we not seen an example of her courage this last year while she dealt with her father's illness? Her care and devotion to Mr. Bradford made it possible for him to pass on with dignity. We have both seen her accept responsibilities with determination and understanding that went far beyond her young age. Perhaps I am worrying needlessly."
Tobias nodded. "Be at peace, wife. The young miss has a strong spirit that has brought her though trial and tribulation up to now. It isn't likely that her courage will fail her when she needs it most. That one's a fighter and will never bow down in defeat. Have pity for anyone who mistakes her gentle nature for weakness."
"Even so"—Alba sighed—"I fear for her future. What if... what if—"
Tobias poked his hands in his pockets and took a deep draw on his newly lit pipe. "Now, Alba, I thought we had this resolved. Don't go borrowing trouble. Whatever happens, it's out of our hands, and we may as well be patient until the matter is settled. We will just have to wait and see."
***
The wind tore at Royal's cape, wrapping it about her body as she stooped to gather the bright yellow chrysanthemums that had been her father's favorite flowers. With her bouquet in hand, she rushed across Bull Street, staying to the path until she turned down Oglethorpe Avenue, which led her to the cemetery, where her father and mother were buried.
It was a dismal day. Smoky gray clouds blotted out the sun, and by now the wind had lulled to a crystalline breeze that tugged at the autumn leaves, sending them showering down on the freshly dug grave.
Royal stood shivering in the cold damp air, a silent prayer on her lips. Her lightweight cape did little to protect her against the steady stream of rain that plastered her hair to her face.
She raised her head and watched miserably as a lone leaf still clung to a sturdy branch of the ancient oak tree that would shade her father's grave in the hot summer months. She somehow felt like the solitary leaf that danced about from the force of the assaulting breeze. When a sudden gust of wind tore the leaf from its haven and sent it swirling to the ground, Royal felt as though a similar whirlwind had swept through her life, sending her world careening topsy-turvy and leaving her devastated with anguish and loss.
Bending down, she carefully placed the crumpled flowers on the fresh mound of dirt, while her tears mixed with rain. Although her father had been in ill health for over a year, she had not been prepared for his death.
Royal glanced down at the white marble stone that marked her mother's grave. Since her mother had died of consumption when Royal was but two years old, she had no recollection of her. Her father had been her whole world, and now he was gone. She tried to take comfort in the fact that he had been reunited with his beloved wife, and that he, at least, was not alone.
Standing up, Royal pulled her hood about her head while the heavy hand of depression settled on her shoulders. Unmindful of her actions, she made her way over the uneven bricks. She left the cemetery and fastened the iron gate behind her, thus closing a portal on a part of her life that could never be again.
Her footsteps lagged as she made her way back to her home, which stood like an old friend beckoning to her with a promise of warmth and solace. Slowly she climbed the wide steps to find Alba waiting for her with an expression of concern on her wrinkled face. Royal went readily into the housekeeper's outstretched arms.
There was a light rebuke in the older woman's voice when she spoke to her young mistress. "You are soaked to the skin and are likely to catch your death if you don't get out of your wet clothing at once!"
Royal obediently allowed Alba to lead her upstairs, strip off her wet gown and petticoats, and pull a clean white nightgown over her head. When the housekeeper yanked back the quilt, Royal climbed into bed and sank into the downy feather mattress.
Alba then shook the excess dampness from Royal's cape and hung it over a chair near the fireplace to dry. All the while she kept a watchful eye on her young charge, wishing she had the words to comfort the child.