The wails began anew, and he turned his head to bend a gloomy regard on the housekeeper.
“What is it now?”
“Nothin’, ’ceptin’ Miz Lierin done gone off widout her clothes,” Willabelle choked out. “All dem purty gowns you bought, she left dem all behind. She left jes’ like some ghost, needin’ nothin’ an’ takin’ nothin’ wid her.”
Chapter Nine
LENORE or Lierin. Which was it to be? The woman who was presented the choice debated the matter from the moment she left Belle Chêne. It was a cruel quandary she found herself in. She could hardly accept Lierin as her name without closing her mind to the presence of her father and the proof he had presented. If she selected the appellation of Lenore, she was denying all hopes of a future with Ashton. It was a war between emotions and reality, and no matter how she wanted it to be otherwise, the facts seemed to be tilting the scales heavily toward Malcolm Sinclair. The naked truths of life had a way of ignoring the longings of one’s heart. Ashton had thought his wife had drowned, and so had many other people. He had never found her, and in the three years following the accident, she had not been seen or heard from again. Surely, if Lierin had loved him and she were alive, she would have braved the fires of hell or the frigid climes of the North to come back to him. It was what she, the woman with one name too many, would have done.
Enter Malcolm Sinclair. Even before they had met the man, they had heard about his search for his wife. The innkeeper, having seen her, had thought she was the one. The portraits suggested that she looked more like Lenore than Lierin. Her father had also insisted that Malcolm was telling the truth. What more proof did she need?
The journey from Natchez to Biloxi gave her plenty of time to mull over the problem in her mind. It also gave her cause to lament that she had not brought a change of clothes. Had they traveled from Natchez to New Orleans by steamboat and then by ship to Biloxi, they would have greatly reduced their time en route, but Robert Somerton had brought a fine carriage to the city on the bluff, and by this mode he would return. They stopped two nights along the way, the first one finding whatever rest they could alongside the road, and the second acquiring questionable accommodations at an inn, the question being whether or not it was an improvement over the previous night.
The way was hot and dusty, but her father seemed immune to the discomforts. His nose and cheeks grew red with the aging day, but it had little to do with the heat, rather with whatever was in the silver flask he frequently tipped. At the Pearl River he sought to gain a free crossing by challenging the ferryman to a drinking contest, which would likely have seen them both under the table in a drunken stupor. His daughter strenuously objected and frowned her displeasure until he relented and doled out the necessary coin.
It seemed part of the routine that by midafternoon he was feeling high of spirit. She was amazed at the endless repertoire from which he was able to draw, for he recited long and varied verses with a silver-tongued flair that softened his crisp English accent. Well into his cups, he was very garrulous and would start to relate stories that seemed foreign to his life as a merchant; then with a chortle he would slash his hand back and forth before him as if to erase the tale and explain, “That was before I met your mother, my dear.”
Occasionally he napped, and his loud snores filled the confines of the well-appointed conveyance until his daughter was tempted to nudge him to awareness again. She wished she could have found that same depth of slumber for herself, but whenever she closed her eyes, Ashton was there waiting. He haunted her through every waking hour, and when she fled in exhausted relief to the arms of slumber, her dreams took up the chase. Perhaps it was because she had no prior memories of her life that she cherished these recent ones with Ashton so much. Whatever the case, she was frustrated by failure when she sought to direct her mind to other things that might have been less disturbing.
By the third day she was nearly spent, and her frayed nerves could no longer deal with the constant conflict within her. She deliberately set herself the task of accepting this man who rode with her as her father, striving diligently to cast aside any doubt that he could be mistaken, while at the same time making a concerted effort to regard herself as Lenore. After all, if anyone knew who she was, surely it would be her father. Still, when she considered his constant tippling, she wondered if he really had enough presence of mind to tell who she was.
It was by dint of will that she took on the name Lenore, though the conflict of her identity still raged within her. The application of her resolve further sapped her energies, and by the time they reached the large house on the shore and the carriage swept up the curving drive, she was totally drained, both mentally and physically.
Robert Somerton stepped nimbly down to aid in her descent as a maid hurried across the porch. Lenore accepted his helping hand but avoided meeting his gaze, and without pausing she moved up the path toward the wide steps, letting her eyes sweep over the graceful facade of the two-story house. Dark green shutters trimmed the french doors and windows that were positioned in symmetrical order along the porches on both levels. Wood railing closed the area between square-columned supports and swept up the curving stairway that led to the upper veranda. Though it did not come close to the beauty of Belle Chêne, the house was not without appeal, and she felt a strange kinship with it, as if it had once offered comfort and security.
The cheery-faced maid dipped into a quick curtsey as Lenore mounted the steps to the porch. She guessed the woman’s age to be at least ten years older than her own, but her manner was sprightly and energetic, as if she held the secret of eternal youth within her grasp. Her blue eyes twinkled kindly above a bright smile.
“Me name’s Meghan, mum,” the maid announced. “I be hired by Mr. Sinclair to see to the needs of the household, if ye be havin’ no objection, mum.”
“Mr. Sinclair?” A delicate brow arched in question. “I was not aware that Mr. Sinclair was lending his authority to the management of this house.”
Meghan appeared momentarily confused by her comment. “Well, seein’s as it be yer house, mum, isn’t it right fer yer husband to attend to such matters in yer absence?”
Lenore half turned to regard her father with open suspicion. She had been assured that only the two of them would be living in the house with the servants.
Clearing his throat, Robert hastened to speak in a hushed tone to his daughter: “Malcolm said he would move out, Lenore, so there’s no reason to get upset.”
“I hope not.” Her tone was perhaps somewhat less than gracious, but she was leery of being pushed into a situation she was not ready to accept. “As I’ve tried to explain before, I will need time to adjust.” She reiterated her stance while wondering how many times she had done so thus far. On the trip her father had been effusively complimentary about the younger man, as if trying to sway her toward an early acceptance of their marital state. At the moment, she had no desire to become intimate with Malcolm, for her heart was still much entangled with Ashton, and that is where she feared it would remain for some time to come.
“Come into the house, mum,” Meghan gently urged. “Ye’ve had a long journey, an’ I know ye must be tuckered clear to the bone.”
Lenore entered the hall as the maid held the door and halted just inside to let her eyes adapt to the darker interior. Despair congealed in the pit of her stomach when her vision adjusted, for what she saw made her sure that she had been in the house before. She could name neither the day nor the year, but she had the distinct recollection of having been in this same hall many times before. The narrow corridor ran the full length of the structure, with a staircase laid against one wall and then curving to the other for its ascent to the upper level. The decor was tasteful and uncluttered, with cool, serene colors providing a sense of space and airiness. Rugs of varying sizes adorned the wooden floors in the hall and the adjoining rooms. The largest of these nearly filled the spacious parlor on her right and lay beneath a grouping of several chairs, small tables, and a settee. Across the hall and in the opposite direction, a pale-hued Persian carpet was spread beneath the dining room table and chairs.