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An hour later he was still brooding over the situation. Damned if he weren’t foundering before he’d even left port. Give him a ship and a crew of good men, set him down in the middle of any sea in the world with neither sextant nor compass, and eventually, he would find his way to the nearest port.
Set him down in a household of females, and he was dead in the water.
Chapter Seventeen
Maulsie and Big Simon were here. But oh, Jericho—! In a messy muddle of ragged emotions, Sara cried herself senseless while Maulsie bustled around in her noisy silk taffeta gown, inspecting her new domain. She poked in drawers and wardrobes, pulled back draperies, sniffed every medicine bottle and salve jar and loudly pronounced her disapproval while Sara gulped and sniffled, hoping her tears would be taken for tears of joy. “Don’t mind the mess, I can’t seem to finish unpacking,” she said, hoping to distract a woman who knew her far too well.
“Dat man makin’ you mis’able, ain’t he?”
Sara nodded, dried her eyes, and then changed the subject. Maulsie had demanded to know right off how she could set out for Norfolk and wind up way down in Pasquotank County, married to the wrong man. “I’m just being silly. Now tell me again how you managed to get away. Did Noreen have a tantrum? Is she crushed over Titus’s death?”
“Dat boy dead? My, my! Reck’n dat’s why de missus done lit out in such a hurry. Made me pack up her trunk and den she left out in a big black carriage. Nex’ t’ing, dat nice boy fum de livery come fer us, so Simon and me locked de do’, turned out de mule, an’ come away. We put up in Eliz’buff City wit’ a fine family while dat lawyer man looked at our papers, and den I bought me dis here dress, and Simon, he bought hisself a pair o’ carpet slippers, and here we is.”
And truly, there they were. Simon had taken one look around and got to work mending the garden fence, which drew Hester’s approval right off. Maulsie had been less easily satisfied at Sara’s sudden change of plans. She had demanded to know every last detail, and Sara, held close in the old woman’s arms, had laughed and cried and told her every speck of it. Once satisfied that in no way was Jericho responsible for Sara’s present condition, she had settled down to fuss over the woman she had raised from an infant.
And for a little while, Sara had allowed herself to be fussed over. Had even settled briefly into a harmless fantasy in which both her mother and her father were somewhere nearby, and everything was safe and lovely again, just the way it used to be.
Unfortunately, she lacked the temperament to be a successful invalid. As her bruises faded and her strength began to return, her sensible side took over and she began fretting over all the responsibilities she was neglecting. What had seemed so simple when she had boarded the packet boat had somehow become so complicated she no longer knew what was expected of her.
Jericho had a bee in his bonnet, and she hadn’t the least notion of what it was all about. She did know he wanted to bed her. He had mentioned once that he was the last of the Wildes.
Well, she wanted to bed him, too, and it had nothing to do with getting him an heir and everything to do with the fact that she thought about him most all the time, knew the very minute he set foot in the house. Every time he touched her, her heart started fluttering in her chest like a mulberry tree full of mockingbirds.
Oh, she wanted him, all right, but first she had to clear the air between them. finless she could do that, she would have to leave. Now that she was a woman of independent means, she refused to live in a house where she was barely tolerated. No woman with a grain of sense would choose misery over freedom.
But, oh, Jericho, why couldn’t you learn to love me just a little bit?
*
Thanks largely to Maulsie’s fierce guardianship, Sara saw almost nothing of her husband over the next few days. Every time she heard him moving about in the room next door, her breathing would go haywire and her heart would kick up a fuss, but the connecting door remained shut. She told herself she was glad he was staying away until her face healed. Being plain was one thing; being downright ugly was something else entirely. She did, after all, have her pride.
But sooner or later, they were going to have to set things straight between them if she intended to stay on at Wilde Oaks.
Meanwhile, Sara tried to convince herself she had all any woman could want. Certainly she had far more than she had ever expected to have when she had run away from home to many Archibald Ricketts. For the time being, she had a lovely home. Maulsie and Big Simon were safe. And her dresser set had magically reappeared. It had been missing for a little while, but at the time that had been the least of her worries.
By now her face was healing rapidly, her bruises fading, the swelling nearly gone from her forehead. The patch of fine scabs had peeled off her cheek, leaving it shiny and bright pink. She had Rafe and Hester for companionship, and Louisa’s dog, Brig. Much to Maulsie’s disgust, she had let him into her room once or twice for a little while—not that he was all that much company. All he did was sniff her fingers, then flop and curl up on the floor beside the bed.
Truly, she had everything. So why wasn’t it enough?
Part of the trouble was that she was tired of being an invalid. It gave her entirely too much time to brood. She brooded some about the house—about how she could put her own stamp on a place that was already perfect. A few pressed flowers framed and hung on the wall would not be enough. She seemed to have developed a territorial streak, and suspected it had something to do with her lack of security.
Which brought her to another of the things that needed brooding about: that woman.
Ivadelle Moyer. She had been here when Sara arrived. She was still here. No one seemed to know why, unless Jericho knew something he wasn’t sharing. Hester swore the woman had set her cap to catch herself a husband, but Sara found that hard to believe in light of the fact that Jericho was the only man around, and he was already married. Not that Ivadelle could have known it when she moved in.
Why not set her cap for Rafe? The few times Sara had seen them together, Rafe had looked at her with those laughing, knowing eyes of his, and Ivadelle turned all huffy, but at least Rafe had the advantage of being unmarried. Jericho was already taken.
Sara spent hours brooding about it. Was Jericho already regretting their marriage? It had been such a spur-of-the-moment affair. Now—with Ivadelle and her blue eyes, her yellow hair and her tall, willowy figure, making herself available—perhaps he was having second thoughts. What was that old adage? Marry in haste, repent at leisure?
Jericho had married in haste, all right. He’d been in such an almighty hurry he had snatched the words right out of the joiner’s mouth, told the man she did, pronounced them man and wife, and then practically tossed her aboard the packet boat.
Well, what could not be changed must be endured. Another old adage. Perhaps she should take up needlework and cross-stitch it on a sampler as a reminder.
Never having been sick a day in her life, Sara quickly discovered that she lacked the patience to lie in bed and allow other people to wait on her. One day of coddling was about all she could take, and she’d had five. Maulsie had told her right off that she wasn’t to set foot on those stairs without permission.
So while Maulsie was busy downstairs in the kitchen, Sara gave herself permission. Rising from the chair by the window, where she’d been plotting a diagram of how she wanted the kitchen garden laid out next year, she tossed aside her wrapper and started unbraiding her hair.
Ten minutes later she was fastening up her yellow gown, which clashed horribly with her fading bruises but even so was more flattering than the brown. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t been in such a rush to get here that she’d passed up the chance to shop for material and a good dressmaker.
But then, at the time she had thought she would soon be needing maternity wear and hadn’t been at all excited over the prospect.
She did wish, though, that she had taken time to buy yarn to crochet herself a pair of bed slippers. Her yellow shoes were too tight, and her foot was still tender. The doctor had told her that bones in the feet took forever to mend. She struggled to pull on her black high-tops, took two limping steps, and pulled them off again. “Oh, drat!” If Maulsie caught her limping, she would chase her back to bed with a broom.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, Sara tugged at the waist of her gown, removed her black stockings, and gave a satisfied nod. What Maulsie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Who ever looked at feet, anyhow?
Before she even reached the head of the stairs, she heard a familiar voice and nearly changed her mind. Ivadelle was on another rampage. She was always on a rampage of some sort, unless Jericho happened to be nearby, in which case she turned all sticky sweet, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of molasses.
“One of these days,” Sara vowed quietly, “I’m going to step on that pesky female and then sweep her right out the door like a big fat spider!”
They were standing in the foyer between the staircase and the front door, the three of them. Jericho, tall and unsmiling, was wearing his usual black. Rafe looked splendid in royal blue with a paisley waistcoat. As for Ivadelle, her face was the most colorful thing about her. It was red.
Well, mercy, things must be in a sad state indeed if that one was showing her true colors before two of the handsomest gentlemen in creation. Sara found the notion delightful.
Arranging a cheerful smile on her face, she swept gracefully down the stairway, her bare feet silent on the carpeted treads. Pausing halfway, she took the time to enjoy the novelty of looking down on the world rather than up at it for a change. Then, taking a deep breath, she said brightly, “Good morning, all.”
Tongues fell still. Three pairs of eyes looked upward. Ivadelle’s were all squinched up, as if she’d just seen something distinctly unpleasant. Sara didn’t need to guess what that something was.
Rafe was in his usual devilish mood. The man did like to tease. It was part of his rakish charm.
Not until her gaze moved on to Jericho did her smile falter. He looked grim. But then, lately, he always looked grim.
Except for a few unforgettable exceptions.
Sara nearly lost her courage as she met those impenetrable black eyes. There was simply no understanding the man. Lying in bed, with nothing to do but think, she had come to the conclusion that he was far deeper and more complex than he appeared at first glance. Nor was he one to share himself. Underneath that stern, handsome facade she had at various times sensed pain and sadness, and even insecurity and loneliness.
And she knew as well as she knew her own name that he would deny until his dying day that he possessed any such qualities.
Only he would call them weaknesses.
From the way he was looking at her now, she also knew he was still angry with her. Her smile faltered again, but she held it firmly in place. Remember the last time we were together, she wanted to cry—you came to my room when I was bathing and for a little while you forgot to be angry, and I actually dared to hope . . .
Well.
Deliberately ignoring Ivadelle’s pinched look and Jericho’s scowl, Sara assumed her best mistress-of-the-manor expression and swept down the few remaining stairs, her hand extended in a gracious welcome. “Rafe! How nice to see you again. Did you know your roses lasted nearly a week? Hester clipped the stems every morning so they could drink, and now that Maulsie’s here, she collects every petal the minute it falls for her potpourri.”
It was obvious what had been happening. Rafe was teasing Ivadelle, which was nothing new. He did it to get a rise out of her, and she rose beautifully.
But what about Jericho? He wasn’t one to tease, nor to enjoy another’s discomfort. Looking back sometime later on the brief encounter, she could almost convince herself he’d been jealous.
Of Ivadelle? Of Rafe?
Surely not of her.
It had happened when Rafe turned to Sara to ask her advice about planning a Thanksgiving party. Jericho looked ready to do battle. At first she thought he was only concerned lest she overdo on her first day downstairs.
“Mercy, I’ve never planned a party in my life,” she said with a breathless laugh. “My mother did, but that was so long ago—and my stepmother was never one to entertain.”
Not if it would cost her a penny, she added silently, but refrained from voicing the thought aloud. After all, the poor woman had only recently lost her only son.
“Sara has all she can say grace over right here, Turbyfill. This is her first day out of bed.”
Afraid Rafe would be offended by Jericho’s abruptness, Sara hurried to smooth things over, which only made it worse.
“Oh, but I don’t mind at all. Honestly, I’ve been so bored.”
“Then I suggest, madam, that you concern yourself with putting your own house in order. Those two in the kitchen are squabbling up a storm.”
“Maulsie and Hester? Oh, but—”
“Never mind, dear, I’ll take care of it.” Ivadelle laid a possessive hand on Jericho’s black serge sleeve. “Rico, this poor child looks dreadful. If I were you I’d send her back up to bed and see that she stayed there until she’s fit to be seen downstairs. Honestly, if it weren’t for that awful place on her cheek and those bruises, she wouldn’t have a speck of color.”
Sara’s temper, severely strained from a week’s enforced idleness, sprung forth full blown. She opened her mouth to let fly with a few home truths just as Ivadelle reached up to tug at a loosened button on the front of Jericho’s shirt.
“Oh, my, you do need someone to look after you, don’t you? It’s a good thing I’m handy with a needle and thread. I doubt if our little Sara’s ever set a single stitch, have you, dear?”
Sara opened her mouth to say that she had set a million stitches, and all of them perfect, which was a big, fat lie, but then she saw Jericho staring down at the dangling button, and it came to her all at once just how that particular button had come to be loose. She clamped- her mouth shut again for fear she would tell the other woman just what she could do with her handy needle and thread.
Instead, she turned to Rafe and said with a clenched little smile, “Make me a list of the particulars—how many guests you’re inviting, their ages and genders, whether or not you want to have entertainment, and how many servants you have available. I’m sure we can put our heads together and come up with something.”
And then, head held high, she turned and fled before she embarrassed herself—or hurt somebody. Evidently, her recovery wasn’t quite as far along as she had thought.
Both men stared after her as she marched regally toward the back of the house. Jericho’s face was, as usual, expressionless. Rafe’s held a look that on another man might have been called wistful. Ivadelle stood her ground until Jericho curtly dismissed her, and then, reluctantly, she left.
“What was that you were saying about building a room onto the overseer’s house? If I was you, friend, I’d not put it off much longer.”
She was barefooted, Jericho noticed. The pesky little minx was swaddled right up to her chin in that dowdy-looking frock, with her hair heaped on top of her head like a bloody tiara, and she had no shoes on!
Minutes later, still fuming, Jericho saw Rafe off and then battened himself into his study, the one room in the house that was supposed to be off-limits to meddlesome females. Sara could wait. He fully intended to settle with her later, but at the moment he had more pressing things to consider.
The carpenter hired on to see to repairs to the roof and chimneys had come by earlier that morning at his request to talk about adding a room onto the overseer’s house. When he’d told Ivadelle about it, thinking she’d be pleased, she’d been mad as a scalded cat. What the devil did the woman want, a bloody mansion all to herself? And then Rafe had stopped by and added his half cent, which had made things worse.
As if all that weren’t enough, just this morning he’d had a letter from an acquaintance who owned shares in five merchant ships in the West Indies trade, offering him a captaincy. The seagoing profession being a fairly close-knit community, Jericho happened to know that particular bunch of shareholders was too tightfisted to lay out blunt to see their fleet in good repair. As for their crews, for the most part they were little but jail sweepings, shanghaied from the lowest waterfront dives.
But God, it was tempting. To have nothing more to deal with than a surly, inexperienced crew, a wallowing old tub, and a flock of greedy shareholders. Throw in a wild Caribbean storm and a few hard nor’easters for good measure . . .
Lord a’mighty, it was tempting.
Moving to one of the two tall windows in the walnut-paneled room, he stared out over the acres that generations of Wildes had reclaimed from the swamp. What did he know about farming? All he knew was the sea.
Yet, could he honestly deny that he was beginning to feel the pull of this rich, fertile land? Land that without careful stewardship would swiftly revert to its primeval state? Besides, these acres, at least for the time being, bore his name.
Unfortunately, the land wasn’t all that bore his name.
There was Sara. His wife, taken in haste for reasons that now seemed flimsy as a muslin mainsail. And the damnedest part of it was that he was finding it all but impossible to apply the same cold logic to his marriage that he applied to every other aspect of his life.
For one thing, he had yet to confront her with the trick she had played on him. If that Maulsie creature had anything to do with it, he never would. The woman hovered over Sara like a broody hen with one chick.
Five days ago he had set out to confront her, only to stray so far off course he had come damned close to foundering. He’d been lucky to escape with his clothes, much less his dignity.
Since then he had come to certain conclusions, the first of which was that if Sara had lied because she was frightened of the future—and given her circumstances, if all else she had told him was true, he could understand that—why, then, he might find it in his heart to forgive her.
