“We’ve had some lemonade cooling in the well, mum,” Meghan stated. “Would ye be wantin’ me to bring ye some, with maybe a few teacakes to nibble?”
Lenore smiled. “That sounds very tempting.”
“Ye rest yerself in the parlor, mum,” Meghan encouraged. “I’ll be back shortly.”
In the ensuing silence Robert Somerton peered at his daughter and finally came to stand beside her. “Well, girl, do you find anything that seems familiar to you?”
Without committing herself to an answer, Lenore entered the parlor and approached the french doors that offered a panoramic view of the shore. Aware that her father watched her closely from the hallway, she opened one, allowing the tangy salt smell of the sea to waft in on a fresh breeze.
“The servants haven’t been here long, have they?” she stated matter-of-factly.
His wispy brows shot up as his gray eyes fixed her with a questioning stare. “How come you to arrive at that conclusion, my dear?”
“Meghan introduced herself to me.” She shrugged casually. “If she had been here all along, she would have known me.”
“The old servants were let go when you were kidnapped. Malcolm had to hire new ones in their stead.”
She turned to him in bemusement. “Were there none who returned? No favored one who came back to work?”
“Ah, no…I think they had all found employment elsewhere.” Robert wiped the back of a shaky hand across his mouth, while his eyes searched about the room. He spied a set of crystal decanters on the sideboard, and for a moment it seemed as if he battled a strong urge as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Nervously smoothing his coat, he yielded to the impulse and hurried across the room to pour himself a liberal glass of whiskey. “I don’t really know the detail of it. I came here only a short time ago myself.” He tossed down a goodly draft before he faced her again. “After you…and Lierin…left the nest for your respective homes, I did some traveling. Then I decided to visit here and see how you and Malcolm were getting along. I guess it’s lucky I did.”
“Lucky?” Lenore whispered the word distantly and gave him a wan smile. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
Robert looked at her closely. “Whatever can you mean?”
Thoughtfully Lenore drew off her gloves and doffed her bonnet, laying them both aside before strolling leisurely about the room. She inspected the appointments, hoping some minor object would encourage a deeper recall. She eyed her father in much the same manner, wanting to know with unmistakable conviction that he was blood kin. “It’s only that Malcolm will take some getting used to. I had begun to believe that I was Ashton’s wife, and it was a considerable shock to learn that it might have been a mistake.”
Her father stared at her in consternation. “Are you saying, young lady, that you actually…shared a bed with the man?”
Lenore felt an insidious warmth creeping into her cheeks. How could she tell him of all the nights she had spent in Ashton’s arms? How could she allow those moments, which were still precious to her, to be aired and sullied by him and Malcolm Sinclair? She had given herself to Ashton, believing she was his wife, and she would not reveal that knowledge just to appease their curiosity.
“I’ve been here before,” she acknowledged, ignoring his question. “I know that. Everything seems familiar.” She inclined her head toward the sea and, for a brief moment, watched the surf lap lazily at the pale shore. “I’ve felt the waves rush across my bare feet as I walked along this lonely stretch of land.” She swept her hand about the room in an encompassing gesture. “I accept the idea that this is my home…but…” She came around and stared at him with eerie effect as the setting sun, shining in through the crystal panes, stripped away the deep green hue of her eyes and imbued them with a shining light until they seemed like two crystals glowing between jet lashes. “But…I still don’t remember you.”
Staring into those bright orbs, Robert Somerton felt the hackles prickle on the back of his neck. A chill seemed to penetrate to his inner soul, and he had to shake himself from the spell of it. He gulped down another hearty portion of whiskey and straightened his back indignantly as he turned from her. “It’s a terrible thing when a daughter forgets her own flesh and blood.” He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose and sniffed as if he fought a sudden battle with tears. “I must say, Lenore, it grieves me deeply that you’ve thrust me from your mind.”
“I don’t remember Malcolm Sinclair, either,” she murmured in a small dejected voice. She discounted the carriage ride in New Orleans that had stirred a recall of a man with a mustache, for the memory had been too vague and general. There were a goodly number of men who could fit that description.
“And that’s another thing. Forgetting your own husband.” Somerton swung around and stared at his daughter, as if astounded that such words had come from her lips. He sipped from the glass and, rocking back on his heels, shook his head in sorrowful lament. “I don’t know what’s taken hold of your senses, girl. The men who’ve held you most dear you’ve pushed from your memory as if we meant nothing to you…as if we were no more than a speck of froth on yonder sea.” He drained his glass in a single gulp, then sucked in a deep breath as the liquor traced a fiery path down his throat. “In the same course, you’ve taken to your heart a man who led your sister astray, then discarded her as worthless trash when he had had his will with her. Ashton Wingate might not have murdered Lierin himself, but if he didn’t, he’s at least responsible for her death. If he hadn’t taken her off, she’d still be with us today.” He plumbed the depth of her clouded gaze as if trying to find some hint of agreement. “Don’t you remember how we mourned her loss? Don’t you recall your vows of revenge?”
In roweling distress Lenore shook her head, rejecting his arguments. “Ashton loved Lierin. I know he did! And I will not accept your claims that he deliberately murdered her or is responsible for her death.”
Robert Somerton went to his daughter and, in a conciliatory manner, reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but with a small cry, Lenore shrank away from his touch. A weary sigh slipped from him as he returned to the sideboard. He refilled his glass and, savoring the spirits, began to pace the room in pensive concentration.
“My dearest Lenore.” He assumed the lecturing tone of a disturbed father, speaking slowly and carefully so that each word would carry its full impact. “I do not wish to distress you unduly. Heaven knows your mental state is delicate enough. I only wish to point out several facts that you must already know. The man is an accomplished roué, and I can understand why a helpless and confused young girl could be easily swayed by his intense persuasion, but, my dear child,” he chuckled lightly, “I cannot accept the idea that such a man believes in ghosts. ’Tis more reasonable for me to believe that he knew who you were all the time.” He took a deep draft and smiled in what could only be satisfaction with his own logic. “Can you not see room for some error in your conclusions?”
A wearying perplexity nagged at the edge of Lenore’s mind. Her father made it seem so simple, but she could not and would not doubt Ashton’s passion for his Lierin, and she was far too tired to explain her reasons to her father. Her hands became white-knuckled fists as she clenched them in her lap. Slowly she shook her head from side to side. “I will hear no more of this.” A trace of anger crept into her voice. “You will refrain from degrading Ashton Wingate in my presence ever again. He is a man of honor, and despite what you say, he is a gentleman!”