Rebecca (14 page)

The maid laughed. “My lady, let me warn you not to make comments like that in the presence of other ladies. They won't understand why Lady Foxbridge would be working in the fields of her family farm.”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of! It's honest labor, and I helped my brother keep our farm from folding while he was in the army.”

“I know that, my lady. There's nothing shameful about manual labor. I know that. You know that, but many of the people with whom you will be associating socially would be aghast at the thought of dirtying their hands at something as menial as work.”

Rebecca understood that Collette meant to help her. “I will remember that,” she said with a smile of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Now, which dress do you want?”

“Which do you suggest?”

Unerringly, Collette chose the blue silk dress. The other with its homespun material and plain design would never do. “It must be this one, my lady.”

Rebecca reached out to caress the soft material which had been the realization of all her hopes. The dress Collette had selected was the one she had worn so briefly as Keith's bride. She was going to tell the maid to put it away, but hesitated. That wedding had been ruined. The next one she had would be far different. “All right, Collette. If you could give me any suggestions on how to get through this meal with my in-laws, I would appreciate it. You have helped me already.”

The maid laughed her bright laugh once more. She knew she was going to like working for this Lady Foxbridge. Without the snobby airs of many of the aristocracy, she was treating her maid like a person. “Well, my lady, the first thing you should do is …”

It was an hour later when Rebecca descended the stairs. At the base of the stairs was the man she recognized as the butler who had admitted them. Remembering his name from the list Collette had given her, she said pleasantly, “Good evening, Brody.”

He bowed respectfully. Although he was not young, he moved with the ease of a man half his age. “Good evening to you, Lady Foxbridge. I trust you are settling in comfortably at Foxbridge Cloister.”

Her smile was impish. “Brody, I can find my way from my rooms to the stairs. Beyond that, I know nothing. I would appreciate if you could point me in the direction of the dining room.”

“I would be glad to give you a tour tomorrow at your leisure and introduce you to the staff.” He smiled, appearing very different from the stiff martinet of seconds ago.

Graciously she thanked him. She was warmed to know that already she had two allies in this strange household. Collette had taken the opportunity while she dressed Rebecca's hair to give her many hints on how to handle the Wythes. Now Brody was set to help her learn what she must to take her place in Foxbridge Cloister.

When he volunteered to take her to the dining room, she listened as he told her about the various pieces of furniture and how each was meant to be used. He spent most of the time while they walked to the dining room situated beyond the solarium telling her of how ladies called upon one another. Because of the rank she had acquired upon marrying Nicholas, the others would be responsible for calling on her first, but she had to follow the traditions of returning those calls.

She soon was laughing over his very droll impressions of the errors that the lesser ladies or the gentry had made when they had tried to call at Foxbridge Cloister during his long tenure. He left her at the doorway, and she thanked him once again for his assistance. She added that she would be ready for the tour whenever it was convenient for him.

Her smile faded as she stepped into the dining room and saw the disapproving expression on Lady Margaret's face. She did not need to be told that to speak to a servant as an equal was not proper. Anger swelled through her. She had not asked to be brought to this house with its well-established system of protocol. Nor did she intend to stay, so it did not matter whom she offended.

“Ah, here you are, Rebecca!” came a deep voice from behind her. “I went upstairs to look for you, but Collette said you had come down already.”

Remembering her promise to act as his loving wife, she turned to greet Nicholas. “Hello, darling,” she said, astounded how easily she spoke the endearment. “I found my way with Brody's help.” She held up her cheek. When he paused as he was about to kiss her and stared at her in surprise, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied in a taut voice. “I'm just astonished to see how lovely you look in that dress tonight.”

Her eyes went to his confused face. She had become so involved in the conversation with Brody that she had forgotten what she wore. Did he think she had worn this to hurt him by reminding him what he had done to her? She was afraid the answer was yes. If they were to be believable in the game they were playing, they must learn to trust one another even this slightly.

She gracefully put her hand on his arm. “I know it is wrinkled from the trip, but it is the best dress I own. I did so want to look fine for our homecoming. I wanted you to be as proud of me as I am of you.”

He saw the sincerity on her face. Rebecca had sensed his unease with seeing her dressed in her wedding gown. He knew she was beginning to care for him far more than she wanted. A flush of warmth started to undo the threads of cynicism around his hardened heart. That she could come to care for him when he had hurt her so horribly was a testament to the sweetness of this woman who could be as unbending as granite and as pliant as a spring blade of grass teased by the wind.

Forgetting dinner, forgetting his family, remembering only the touch of her body, he put his hands on her cheeks and tilted her mouth under his. When he felt her arms go around his shoulders, he feared their charade was not the one they had planned to play out for the denizens of Foxbridge Cloister. Instead of pretending for others that they were in love with each other, they were making believe for themselves that they still hated one another. The caress of her fingers against the worsted of his coat belied her heated words when they had arrived at the Cloister.

He lifted his lips from hers to gaze into her passion-softened face. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “I'm glad you are here for this most special homecoming.” When he bent to kiss her again, a voice invaded the gentle haze of their ecstasy.

“Nicholas, I don't know if you recall it after your years away, but we try to eat before midnight.” Displeasure was vivid in Lady Margaret's voice.

Laughing, he offered his arm to Rebecca. As he walked with her into the formal room, he asked, “Do you have no romance left in your soul? A man has been a prisoner for many years and comes home to find his lady fair waiting. Sounds like a tale out of Childe Rowland or Blondel, don't you think?” His teasing faded as he saw the stranger standing next to his sister. His keen eyes noticed that behind the fullness of Eliza's skirt, their fingers were entwined. If Lady Margaret had no romance in her heart tonight, she was the only one. It appeared his sister had found a beau in his absence.

Critically, he viewed this man. He was nearly as tall as Nicholas, but his hair was a sandy blond which contrasted sharply with Eliza's dusky curls. The sharp line of his clothes and the full lace of his sleeves, which were nearly as ornate as Eliza's, announced that he was a London dandy. Yet his clear brown eyes were filled with an intelligence that Nicholas did not usually associate with that breed of parasite which attached their meager fortunes to someone of greater social standing in an effort to advance themselves.

“Sir, I don't believe we have met,” he said graciously. The manners which once had been so natural had been nearly forgotten in his years of rough living. “I'm Nicholas Wythe, and this is my wife Rebecca.”

The man replied in a pleasant voice, “I am honored to meet you, my lord, my lady.” He bowed his head to his host before picking up Rebecca's slender fingers and raising them politely to his lips. His smile focused on her as he added, “My name is Curtis Langston. I hope you can forgive me for intruding on your homecoming this evening.”

Eliza seconded quickly, “I had—I mean, Mother and I had invited him before we knew you would be home tonight, Nicholas.”

“Don't act as if it is such an imposition,” he said with a laugh. “It's always a pleasure to have guests at our table.” He was sincere. Having Langston join them, although he was obviously no stranger to Foxbridge Cloister, would silence his mother's cruel comments to her new daughter-in-law.

Curtis continued, “Forgive me for staring, Lady Foxbridge—”

“Rebecca,” she corrected. She tried to keep her voice calm as she wondered why she could not halt the quivers racing through her when Nicholas was near. Her fickle heart was determined to prove that she cared for him. Speaking to the light-haired man, she hid her feelings from herself. “As Eliza's friend, it would be far easier for you to call me by my given name.”

Again he took her fingers, but simply bowed over them. His eyes narrowed as he noticed that her left hand wore no wedding band. That was most unusual. He would have thought that the Lord Foxbridge he had heard so much about would have wanted everyone to know that this vision in light blue was his alone. Remembering his place, he said, “I am honored, Rebecca. As I was saying, I beg your forgiveness for staring, but you remind me of someone. Eliza was saying the same thing. Neither of us can guess who it is.”

When Nicholas laughed, Rebecca blushed. She was not pleased to call to mind their most controversial female ancestor. Putting his arm around his wife, he said, “Think of the portrait in the drawing room, Eliza.”

“Sybill?” Her eyes narrowed. “That's who it is! You look so much like her, Rebecca.”

“Let's hope she doesn't resemble her in other ways,” interjected Lady Margaret tartly. “Shall we sit down before the soup is cold?”

The hot feeling of her blush became ice cold as Rebecca heard the cruel words. She bit her lip to keep in her retort. Anything she said would make Lady Margaret only hate her more. She had saved her son's life, but it seemed that was not enough to atone for the crime of marrying Nicholas. When she felt Nicholas' hand take hers, she numbly let him lead her to a chair and seat her. Then he moved to push in his mother's chair. The soup bowl in front of her on the mahogany table blurred as tears of frustration filled her eyes. She did not look up.

She heard the others pick up their spoons to begin to eat, but she paused. Except for the time when they had been on the ship, she had never sat down for a meal without saying grace. Folding her hands in her lap, she silently began to say the prayer which had started every supper in her home.

Unaware of what she was doing, Nicholas asked, “Rebecca, what's wrong?”

In the middle of a word, she paused. Meeting his eyes, she flushed and answered, “Nothing, Nicholas. It's just—just—” The four at the table were regarding her with curiosity. Suddenly, she vowed that they would not make her ashamed of her past life or the parts of it she wanted to bring with her into this one. Clearly, she continued, “I was saying my thanks to the Lord for this fine meal.”

“Will you share it with us?” he asked gently as he took her folded hands between his.

“With you?”

“Please, Rebecca. It's a habit I'm afraid the Wythes have forgotten. We certainly have enough to be thankful for tonight. We are together at last.”

With a smile, she lowered her head over her folded hands. From the beginning, she said the Lord's Prayer that Aunt Dena always had favored. More than once, her aunt had told them she could think of no better way to start a meal than on the tail of those words. “Amen,” she finished fervently.

“Amen,” echoed her husband.

She raised her face to see shock on the other three faces. Glancing at Nicholas, she saw he was smiling darkly. He knew the reason for the astounded expressions, although he made no effort to explain to her. Calmly, he began to chat with Curtis about the trip from London. Rebecca hesitated, then began to eat her soup, which was incredibly delicious.

Abruptly, Eliza gasped, “You are a Calvinist, Rebecca?”

It took her a moment to realize what her sister-in-law was asking. Then she nodded. “I was baptized in the Congregationalist church, if that is what you mean.”

Lady Margaret rose and flung her napkin on the table. “Tell Deborah I will take the rest of my meal in my room. I have accepted about as much today as I can. I do not think I want to hear the next thing this woman will be telling us. Good night!”

Eliza glared at the baffled woman with her spoon halfway between her bowl and her mouth before following her mother out of the dining room without a word. As Rebecca stared at the two men, Curtis rose with a rueful smile.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Perhaps I can soothe them. I'm sure I will see you again in more pleasant circumstances.”

Rebecca shoved her own soup bowl away and lowered her face into her hands as her elbows rested on the table-top. When Nicholas put out a hand to comfort her, he saw her shoulders were shaking. Only when she looked at him as he touched her did he see she was not crying. She was laughing. “Rebecca?” he asked uncertainly.

Rising, she sashayed away from the table. “I guess I do not have to worry about impressing your mother. No matter what I say or do it is the wrong thing, isn't it?” She dipped in a curtsy to an imaginary Lady Margaret. “Oh, yes,” she said in a mockery of herself, “that is right, dear mother-in-law, I admit it. I'm a patriot, not a member of the Church of England, and perhaps worst of all, I have had to work during my life. See, these hands are not the lily white of a lady born with a household full of servants to answer her call.”

“Enough, Rebecca!” Nicholas stood and grasped her shoulders. Twisting her to him, he held her when she struggled to get away.

“Let me go!”