Passion's Joy (41 page)

Hiding his increasingly favorable impression of his ladyship behind his stoic demeanor, Mr.

Cutler gave her a moment to take in the spacious high ceiling room in its entirety before proceeding. She looked magnificent and regal both, so markedly different from yesterday. He had

been so alarmed yesterday. Of course, he never expected Lord Barrington's new wife to be conventional, but the young lady riding barefoot and disheveled, making a game of his receiving line, far surpassed his gracious allowances for the fact she was a commoner and very nearly an American. Yet he was ever generous. He had to admit her shenanigans yesterday had won her the collective favor of the entire household, and this he knew to be important.

Today she looked stunning, and her manner was... well, subdued somewhat. She wore a pale yellow, silk day dress, low cut and with short sleeves, yet covered by a white saffron overdress, this trimmed in lace and dotted with tiny silk daisies. Her hair was dressed properly, too, piled high on her head with thin yellow ribbons woven into it. True, the lady was in need of polishing—her manners were alarmingly provincial—yet he could not dismiss her graciousness and considering her background, her inexplicable bearing that seemed almost regal.

She might do very well after all.

"This room is of particular importance," he said.

"Mr. Cutler," Joy sighed, forcing a smile by sheer will. "That's what you've said about each room, all fifty-three that I've seen today."

They had seen fifty-three rooms, and they still had this whole wing left. This wing had not been opened for eleven years, except for the traditional summer tours of gaping Londoners. Each room was an exercise of elegant and exquisite taste, and it seemed to her a terrible waste that the only people to walk the floors were maids with dust rags in hand.

"Each room is important, my lady."

The only distinguishing mark of this room was that it was the last room she could bear seeing, but before Mr. Cutler could proceed, Sean, every bit as bored as his mother, wiggled impatiently in his mother's arms and with a happy scream, socked her hard in the face, then waited expectantly for her reaction. "Oh darling!" She lifted him high in the air. “We don't hit people! We especially don't hit mothers who love you so much!"

Sean laughed at this and received her kiss as she swung him back down, then laid him on the luxurious maroon carpet, one matching the paler silk of the sofa and chairs. Mr. Cutler provided the little master with the largest key ring in the world, and seeing her son for the moment distracted, Joy fell onto the sofa. "So, what is important about this room?"

"This is the first room of the portrait gallery."

"There are two portrait galleries; I've seen one. What is special about these pictures?'

Mr. Cutler straightened formally. "These, my lady, are Lord Barrington's parents and his maternal grandparents."

Joy's gaze flew to a portrait, and she slowly came to her feet. "This—" "Is Lady Alisha Barrington, Lord Barrington's mother."

The portrait showed a lady, pretty and delicate, yet regal and possessed. A lace cap, such as they used to wear, covered thick and dark curls, ringlets framed an angular, thin face. A tiny gold cross adorned her neck. Ram inherited his mother's wide forehead, one that spoke of intelligence, and the shape of her sensual mouth. Intelligence also showed in the lady's lovely pale gray eyes, eyes that matched the silver-blue silk of her dress.

Yet a sadness played there, too, she saw.

Joy stared too long. The reason was simple; she was afraid to turn away. She was afraid to see a portrait of a dark, sinister and mad man who would be Ram's father.

"Here is the Lord Barrington the second," Mr. Cutler insisted with a lift of his hand.

Reluctantly, she turned to the portrait indicated. With drawn brows, she stared long and hard at the handsome and distinguished looking gentleman, looking in vain for something that simply was not there. This was not the monster of her imagination!

She approached slowly, staring still, stopping just in front of the mantle over which the picture hung. Lord Barrington the second had light brown, almost blond hair, a slightly round face. A faint smile played on his small mouth. Like Ram, his nose was rather large and prominent, but that was the only resemblance. Bushy eyebrows darted over the features that attracted and captured her gaze: his magnificent eyes, remarkable for the color of aquamarine stones, a color reminding her of the crystal-blue depths of the lagoon on Little Sean's island.

If madness played there, the artist failed to render it.

Joy stared so long that even Mr. Cutler's enormous well of patience was taxed somewhat.

She felt a physical discomfort, one she could hardly explain—as though there was something wrong about the picture, and if only she kept looking, she'd find it. She supposed the feeling owed to having expected a monster and finding instead this mild looking gentleman. Mild looking indeed, he looked absolutely harmless—

Susan and Pansie, playing with little Sean, suddenly laughed and clapped. "Oh, my lady, look at him!" Pansie cried.

Joy turned to see Sean had pulled himself up to stand, smiling triumphantly. She laughed, and with a pretty rush of skirts, she lifted him up into her arms and forgot the disturbing portraits, forgot the tour and Mr. Cutler, forgot everything but little Sean and the sole reason she picked the pretty yellow dress. "Let's go show your father!"

Ram's study was set between an enormous library and a large hall. The hall was used to receive guests and associates, but as it was used more than any other room by Ram, his favorite pictures adorned the walls. All of these were seascapes, dark and stormy, metaphorically depicting the unrest of the soul. Three of these enormous seascapes hung on the wall opposite three huge picture windows, draped in a light blue velvet that matched the carpets and the damask covered furnishings. Two large desks were used by his secretaries, Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Linton.

Joy swept into the large room to find Ram doing pull-ups on an overhanging bar in the doorway between his study and the hall, as he dictated a letter to Mr. Mitchell. She had not seen him since arriving. He had not joined her at supper, dinner or breakfast. Sean had joined her, only to tease her about being the mistress of Barrington Hall and to say goodbye, claiming Ram was hospitable only to a point, and since Ram wouldn't allow him access to the maids, Sean thought to find happier hunting grounds elsewhere.

Ram's gaze found them, and he swung down from the bar.

Joy felt suddenly shy and awkward, remembering for the hundredth time her dream upon waking, and she blushed, trembling. "I fear I interrupted ..."

"No, nothing important," he lied, and watching his son jump up and down with excitement upon seeing him, gurgling wildly, he chuckled and took the boy into his arms. The next minutes passed with Ram twirling, singing, tickling and teasing his son, amusing everyone until little Sean's wild peals of laughter mixed with the entire room. Finally, he rested little Sean in his arms and turned back to his mother.

Joy felt the intensity of his gaze through every fiber of her being, and when she saw his disapproval, she felt a quick certain death. He turned abruptly away. "Finish the letter yourself," he said to Mr. Mitchell. "I'll carry it to London tonight."

Joy missed Mr. Mitchell's surprise, the glance he gave to Mr. Linton, as she missed the nervous glances of Pansie and Susan. His tone said everything. All Joy saw were the tips of her pale yellow slippers as she interrupted Ram's banter with little Sean to ask, "You're leaving... so soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When will you be back?'

"Not for some time," he replied, indifferent to her trouble, turning instead to his son, telling the little fellow how much he would be missed. As he spun little Sean in Mr. Mitchell's turn chair, he said, “I’ll send for you in a couple of weeks, and besides the social obligations we've discussed, you're a free lady till then."

When he looked up, it was only to see that she was gone, her maids following, leaving him with a soft curse, relieved that there would be real distance between them, if only for a short time.

Joy finished her correspondence: three carefully worded letters to leading members of the United Christian Anti-Slavery League in England, each with an introductory letter obtained from the Reverend Archibald Cox and Ram's uncle, Retired Admiral Byron. She carefully poured wax into a seal that depicted a rose beneath the north star, a gift sent by her family. It was her seal, not the Barrington seal. The other letter on her desk was to her family, at least the twentieth since embarking on the long journey to this new life, and it would go in one of the three trunks Bart promised to be on the next ship sailing to America. In her attempt to share her fortune with those she loved, each trunk held treasures: books and clothes and even jewels.

She leaned back in her chair, watching as the red wax dried. She picked up her diary, but felt suddenly exhausted. It was late. Tomorrow she would be traveling to London. The thought filled with a montage of conflicting emotions, none of them pleasant, all of them apprehensive. She needed to sort her feelings out, as only her diary allowed her to do, at least enough to find the composure she desperately sought for her next meeting with Ram.

She wanted to impress him. When she imagined his mistress, she saw a beautiful woman.

She would be intelligent, sophisticated and socially gracious and adept. She wanted to be the same, to manage her introduction to society with grace and charm, two things she felt certain she didn't have. She wanted him to see she accepted their loveless match with calm and composure and dignity, all things in direct opposition to the pain in her heart.

Yet she was tired. It was after one in the morning, and no doubt Sean would be up by the crack of dawn. She blew out the candles and rose to turn out the lantern. Despite the closets full of dresses and gowns, drawers and drawers stuffed with the sheerest silk undergarments and night- clothes, she wore a plain white, cotton night dress, her old worn shawl. Pansie and Susan were

shocked; they begged and pleaded but to no avail. She would not wear the trappings of Lady Barrington except when absolutely necessary. Not after seeing his reaction that day he left.

She stood in front of her vanity and picked up her brush to smooth and tie her hair before retiring. The brush had not yet touched her hair when she saw it. Lying innocently upon the smooth polished wood grain was a delicate gold chain with a small gold cross. She picked it up, staring and recognized it instantly as Lady Barrington's.

Who sent it? Ram was not home. Would he have thought to send a note asking that his mother's cross be given to her? No. Holding the small treasure, she tried to puzzle through these questions. Upon arriving in London, she had been given three boxes of Barrington family jewels, but as they had been given impersonally, the stunning antique collection of gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies and more than a dozen emerald pins, matching necklaces and earrings, meant nothing to her. In fact it hurt when she had asked Ram about them.

"What jewels?" He had been heading out the door with Sean on one of the endless nights he had left her alone in London.

"The family jewels, they're beautiful... I hardly—" "Oh, those jewels. They're yours, love."

Sean had been putting on his boots at the doorway and suddenly laughed. "God, don't say that. Whatever you do, my lord, don't tell her that! The jewels will end up in a swap shop and the money in some abolitionist fund."

Ram's hand was on the door, and he stopped for but a moment, amused. "You weren't planning on selling them, were you?”

She had wanted only to thank him for the gift she couldn't believe, and his disinterest, the present amusement, hurt so much she couldn't speak. She shook her head.

He chuckled. "That would be just like you. I don't give a damn what you do with them, but I've an idea of their worth these days. If you do sell, be sure to get a good price." Still laughing, they had left.

They meant nothing to him; she meant nothing to him. So, she had selected the best pieces and sent them to Cory for keepsakes, trying to find some small sliver of pleasure by imagining the wonder on Cory's face when she opened the package.

The family jewels meant nothing to her, nothing compared to the small gold cross in her hand, which she held in her hand as she slept. A small gold cross that caused a strange dream to visit her sleep that night.

She stood in a familiar room, yet she could not see it to know what room it was. Joshua stood near her, pointing urgently, excited and agitated. "Joy Claret, it is right there before you! Look girl, look!" She felt his urgency, and she looked and looked, straining to see through the darkness. Then suddenly Lady Barrington was there, saying too, "Don't you see? Don't you see?" All Joy could see was the gold cross on her neck. She reached for it, but suddenly only the darkness remained.

The darkness vanished upon waking but the queer feeling remained. She felt a nodding, a tickle in her brain as though something important lay hidden just beneath her perception. She stared at the small gold cross in her hand, wondering who sent it. It was a mystery, yet she had no time to ponder it now.

For today she was going to London.

* * * * *

Joy could not believe this was happening. She felt the dark impenetrable eyes on her back. A chill raced up her spine and she bit her lip, feeling nervous, so nervous. Where, oh God where, were Admiral Byron and Roberta, his dear wife? Where were the four lads following them? She was alone with him in the spacious, dimly lit room, and he-

Dear God, what was he thinking?

Nervously, her eyes shifted to the small crystal candelabra in the doorway, not fifteen paces away. It held five tiny gas lamps ingeniously shaped like candles, all of which emitted such a dim light she had not a shadow to lean on, let alone enough light to view the El Greco masterpiece before her. With sick horror she heard her breath come in quick pants, louder than the music drifting from the ballroom downstairs, and she swallowed, focusing again on the painting. She desperately searched for something to say about it, but all she could see in this light was grotesquely stretched flesh against the dark background, a hand reaching for the salvation of the