Fire's Lady Read online

  Ignore me all you wish, Mr. McKenna. I shall continue to speak regardless!

  He motioned toward a stack of letters on the bench between them. "There is one for you."

  "Gabrielle!" she exclaimed, sifting through the pile. "Who would have imagined the post worked so swiftly?"

  But it wasn't from Gabrielle at all. She knew that the moment the scent of jasmine and musk reached her nostrils and felt the expensive vellum notepaper in her hands.

  "Aren't you going to read it?" Matthew asked as she placed it atop her bag of treasures from the apothecary shop.

  "Later," she said, swiveling in her seat to catch a better glimpse of Hook Pond as they rode by.

  He glanced at her. "It isn't everyday a letter from France comes through the post office. Mrs. Ames was beside herself with curiosity."

  She pointed toward two men who were wading in the pond. They were wearing cotton shirts, much like Matthew's, with the sleeves rolled up over heavily muscled forearms and were working the bed with what seemed to be long pointed sticks. "What on earth are they doing?"

  "Clamming," said Matthew. "It's the town sport."

  "Clamming," she repeated, remembering the thick red broth with the succulent pieces of shellfish Cook made on a regular basis. "Do you go clamming?"

  "I went last night," he said, urging the chestnut on. "On the beach at low tide."

  She conjured up a vision of him knee deep in the ocean, his white shirt open and the sleeves rolled up. Surreptitiously she cast a look at his forearms as he held the reins.

  A gust of wind ruffled her hair and caused Marisa's scent to float toward her from the bag on her lap.

  Why on earth would her mother be writing to her so soon? Alexandra had posted her duty letter to Marisa but one week earlier and in the best of times her mother had never been one to indulge in lengthy correspondence.

  Only something very important would cause Marisa to post a letter so quickly.

  Had this all been a dreadful mistake and Marisa was now writing to tell her to come home? Was it possible that this letter contained a voucher for a berth on the next steamer out of New York?

  "It's from my mother," she said by way of explanation.

  He turned to her and his look was sharp. "I thought your mother was dead."

  She tried to explain the tangle of her life with a minimum of words. "Would you mind terribly if I—"

  "Go ahead," he said gruffly. "And don't worry: I can't read French."

  "Why must you always say things like that?" she said, opening the envelope with her fingernail. "That thought never occurred to me."

  "Maybe it should have."

  Her hands shook as she unfolded the sheet of perfumed vellum and saw her mother's childish scrawl slanting across the page. How she had longed for her mother's infrequent letters when she was at the Aynsley School. Now the sight of Marisa's hand brought equal amounts of hope and dread.

  Alexandra: I trust you are settled in your new home and that your accommodations are adequate. This is to tell you I am leaving Paris for Switzerland for an indefinite time. I will send you my new address when I am settled.

  Your Mother

  No words of affection and encouragement. No inquiry about her health or happiness or anything else that might be dear to Alexandra's heart.

  And, most telling of all, no reprieve.

  "Bad news?" McKenna asked as they approached Old Beach Lane and Sea View rose up in the distance.

  "No," she said. "Nothing I hadn't expected." She tore the letter into tiny pieces and scattered them to the ocean breeze but not before she caught the look of compassion in his beautiful blue-green eyes.

  #

  "Hell, no!" Matthew paced the length of Andrew's studio to which he'd been summoned upon his return from town. "That's a goddamn dirty trick, Andrew, and it's not going to work."

  Andrew tapped the two tickets to the Silver Lake Quartette's musicale on the edge of his easel. "Are you finished haranguing me?"

  Matthew glared at the older man. "I haven't gotten started. If you have become such a music lover, you go."

  Across the room, Dayla opened her mouth to speak but Andrew motioned her silent.

  "I have sorely neglected my social responsibilities to this town."

  Matthew arched a brow. "And sending me to a musicale at Clinton Hall will remedy that, of course."

  "It will be a start."

  "Start some other time," Matthew retorted. "Have Stephen delay his trip." But Andrew was not to be bested. "Stephen has his duties, you have yours."

  "Are you ordering me to go, Andrew?"

  "If it comes to that."

  "How do you know I won't put a blot on your social reputation?"

  "I know you, boy. I trust you."

  "You're a damn fool then."

  "Yes," said Andrew, "I probably am."

  Matthew raised his whiskey glass to his lips then thought better of it. "What time does this damn thing start?"

  "Seven-thirty." Andrew's voice was impassive but his lion's eyes twinkled. "There's one more thing you need to know."

  Matthew leaned against the doorjamb. "I should have known there was more to this."

  "You seem to forget there are two tickets, Matthew."

  Matthew's eyes sought Dayla's. "I didn't think you would leave Andrew."

  Dayla's laugh was amused. "I would not," she said, "not even for so nice a night."

  Suddenly Matthew remembered Evangeline Ames. "You're not going to ask me to escort Cook, are you?" If Emmy Dwyer smiled once each full moon that was saying much.

  "Cook is a kindly woman," Andrew said evenly. "Does she not deserve a night out?"

  Let it never be said Matthew McKenna was a man who let opportunity slip by. "She certainly does. In fact, I would be pleased to make the supreme sacrifice and send Cook with her beloved husband Johnny. I would even ready the coach for them to go into town."

  "A wonderful attempt, Matthew, but I'm afraid your theatre partner has already been chosen."

  An odd feeling crept up his spine. "Alexandra?" he asked.

  Andrew smiled. "Alexandra."

  Strawbridge and his letters; Madolyn and her stunts; even, for one split second, the memory of his son all receded and joy, plain and simple, filled his heart.

  #

  Stephen had been waiting for Alexandra on the back porch when she returned home from her trip to town and she hadn't missed the look of displeasure on his face when he saw Matthew grasp her by the waist and lift her from the trap. Unceremoniously Stephen had led her into the library where he presented her with the key to the medicine chest that held Andrew's pills and powders. He gave her a handwritten list of instructions and made her read each one aloud twice until he was satisfied she understood what was expected of her. His patronizing attitude set her teeth on edge and for the first time she understood how Matthew must feel.

  How odd, she thought, turning from the window as the coach bearing Stephen to the railroad depot disappeared around the curve of the driveway. Twenty-four hours ago she would have been awash in tears that Stephen should be going to Paris while she remained in a strange country, far from everything she knew and loved, but now she was able to wave goodbye to him and feel only the slightest twinge of pain.

  Now her thoughts were with Matthew, traveling down pathways fraught with dangers she didn't understand. Thank goodness the demanding Andrew Lowell kept her too busy to brood over the impossible.

  She worked in the carriage house through her normal lunchtime making lists of watercolor landscapes in a ledger she'd purchased at Osborne & Hand and it wasn't until her stomach rumbled alarmingly that she realized the afternoon was nearly over. Perhaps she would go back to the main house and fix herself a platter of last night's roasted chicken and a glass of lemonade to bring back up to the attic.

  Hundred year old oaks and red cedar cast long shadows across the backyard as she made her way back toward the house. Here and there a random patch of cord grass popped up to ma
r the emerald perfection of the lawn while in the distance the mournful cry of gulls mingled with the sweet sound of chickadees.

  Suddenly the slam of the back door pierced the air, followed closely the sound of Janine's voice shattering the pastoral scene.

  "Off with you, you worthless beggar! How dare you be comin' around to the door after the trouble you caused this town!"

  Alexandra heard a man's voice raised in protest but he was no match for Janine.

  She caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man and woman disappearing through the azalea bushes planted along the back and side of the house.

  "Whatever was that all about?" she asked Janine, who stood, hands planted on her narrow hips, on the back porch. "You sounded as if Satan himself had shown up on the doorstep."

  "And he might as well have," Janine said, her cheeks flushed with anger. "Bold as brass they were, tapping on the door and looking to see what we have so they could fill their sacks with ill-gotten gain!"

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "Gypsies, miss, that's what. They came right onto the property and knocked on the door, they did. Why, they even—"

  Alexandra didn't wait to hear the rest of the sentence. Instead, she lifted her skirts, flew down the porch steps and headed after the man and woman she'd seen fleeing Janine's tirade.

  They'd headed in the direction of the Talmadge estate. More than likely, their camp was set up on the crest of the dune behind the house. An angry bee buzzed around her head and she brushed the air absently as she ran. She had just cleared a tiny stream meandering through the Talmadge property when a hand caught her ankle and she sprawled headlong on the grass then looked up into the dark brown eyes of a girl no older than she.

  "We do nothing," the girl said, her teeth brilliant white against her deeply tanned skin. "We not steal anything. Why you chase us?"

  Alexandra's eye was caught and held by the enormous gold earrings dangling from her ears. "I want to talk," she said, gasping for breath. "I mean you no harm."

  The girl still glared suspiciously at Alexandra as if she found it hard to believe a white woman could possibly tell the truth.

  "You chase us," the girl said. "For what reason?"

  "My mother was Rom," Alexandra said. "I was pleased to know you're here."

  "You?" The girl's lip curled in a sneer. "I do not believe."

  "You and your man are tinkers, are you not?"

  "You have heard talk. You know this already."

  Alexandra tapped into a deep well of memory for the words. "Si khohaimo may patshivato sar o tshatshimo." There are lies more believable than truth.

  She laughed as the girl's mouth dropped open in surprise.

  "Now do you believe me?" she asked, and then hummed a gypsy tune she'd learned on Esme's knee.

  "Who goes there?" sounded a voice from the back porch of the Talmadge house. "I shall send the dogs out if you do not leave the property this instant!"

  "I must go," the girl whispered urgently. "We break camp tonight and we need no more trouble."

  "Please, no!" Alexandra cried, anxious to be among ways she found familiar. "I have so many questions, so much I'd like to know."

  The girl hesitated a moment then moved closer to Alexandra. "Then I tell you something you should know, lady. The man is evil. He means you harm."

  Alexandra shivered despite the warm spring breeze. "Who means me harm?" Matthew. Please don't say it is Matthew. "Is it one of your people?"

  "He lives in the house on the hill," the girl said, motioning back toward Sea View. "He plans great evil."

  "Please tell me who," Alexandra said, grabbing the girl's forearm. "Please!"

  The backdoor slammed and they heard heavy footsteps clattering down the porch stairs.

  The girl pulled away from Alexandra. "Yellow hair," she said as she turned to run. "The yellow-haired man."

  She disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

  It took Alexandra a second to gather her wits about her and the moment she did she fled back to Sea View as quickly as her feet would carry her.

  The yellow-haired man. How utterly ridiculous.

  As if Stephen Lowell would be sneaking around plotting mishaps and mayhem. With his spotless kid gloves and impeccably tailored suits it was hard to imagine him doing anything more taxing than taking the reins of the trap on a trip in from town.

  She leapt the narrow stream and headed through the yard once more on her way to the porch. The girl had been skittish as a colt, anxious to escape Alexandra who, to her eyes, represented the enemy.

  How far she'd traveled since leaving Provence.

  Matthew had said no good would come of approaching the gypsies in their camp.

  Sadly, she understood now exactly how right he was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Janine gasped when she saw the huge grass stains crisscrossing the front of Alexandra's dress. "Throw you down to the ground, they did, the monsters!"

  "I tripped," Alexandra said, brushing uselessly at the dirt with the heel of her hand. "They weren't here to steal anything from us, Janine. They're tinkers."

  Janine harrumphed. "Sure, and as if I'd be handin' over the carving knives to the likes of them."

  Dayla appeared at the back door. "Is anything wrong, please?"

  How did she manage to always look so composed, so lovely? In comparison Alexandra felt like the lowliest guttersnipe in her stained and torn frock.

  "I tripped jumping over the stream," she said, smoothing a lock of hair off her face.

  "She went off chasing after gypsies," Janine said, shaking her head in dismay. "I told her no good could come of that."

  "Well, you were right, Janine." Alexandra turned her attention back to Dayla. "You were looking for me?"

  "If you please, miss, he wishes to speak with you."

  Dayla somehow managed to add an emphasis to the word "he" that left no doubt in Alexandra's mind. "Andrew Lowell?"

  Dayla nodded. "This same moment, if you will."

  "Not like this!" Alexandra exclaimed. "I must wash and change and comb my hair and—"

  Dayla gently touched her forearm. "Now," she said softly.

  "He hates disorder."

  "He will not mind this once."

  The Andrew Lowell she had been posing for minded disorder a great deal and Alexandra said so.

  "He is most anxious to speak with you," Dayla urged. "Delay would cause him much nerves."

  Alexandra mumbled all the way up the winding staircase to the second floor but Dayla simply smiled her serene smile and said no more. What an odd combination McKenna and this exotic creature were. He was so volatile, so complicated, while she seemed as tranquil and calm as Georgica Pond. Did he find solace within her quietude? Did she make him laugh when they were alone or hold his head close to her breast and soothe him with a woman's gentle touch?

  Whatever, it was none of Alexandra's business and she was going to redouble her efforts at putting such unnerving thoughts from her mind once and for all.

  They paused in front of the double doors to Andrew's suite of rooms and Alexandra took a deep breath.

  If anything could put those thoughts from her mind, it was the prospect of an unexpected audience with Andrew with her in her scullery-maid best.

  #

  Andrew Lowell had always enjoyed playing God.

  Great wealth had given him the ability and genius had given him the right, and through the years he had used those gifts to his best advantage, others be damned. He'd mellowed some since Dayla came into his life, although if he were honest, he would have to admit that illness played a large part in this transformation. He saw few people save his woman, and those he did see remained at the periphery of his existence.

  With the exception of Matthew.

  From the very first that boy had reached inside Andrew's soul and tugged at emotions he would have sworn he didn't possess. Fatherhood had never piqued his interest. While other men spun dreams about the sons who would carry on t
heir names, Andrew spilled his life force onto canvases that would take his name into the next century and beyond.

  But when the fifteen year old twig with the big dreams had barreled his way into the Lowell library that day and told Andrew he intended to become rich as Croesus and twice as powerful, something in Andrew had flickered to life. Memory—dark and unpleasant—threatened to overpower him and he pushed it aside and listened to the dreams of Katie McKenna's seventh son. Matthew was smart and he was strong and he wasn't afraid of life. How little it had taken for Andrew to open a few doors for him. How quickly Matthew was able to fling open the rest.

  He was the son he'd never had, the son he'd never even realized he wanted. Andrew Lowell had done precious few kindnesses in his life but, good God, the benefits he'd reaped from that one were limitless.

  He'd watched helplessly these past months as Matthew systematically worked to drink himself to death. The loss of his son had devastated Matthew and he'd accepted Madolyn's hatred as just punishment.

  But now there was Alexandra. The beautiful girl with that black mane of gentle waves and those eyes of molten gold. She was all fire and honey, a combination designed by the gods to bring men to their knees. Each morning as Andrew painted she talked, weaving stories of her life in Provence until he felt he would recognize Paul and Esme, Gabrielle and Luc and the baby. He also recognized the loneliness inside her lovely heart. A loneliness not unlike Matthew's.

  He'd seen the way Matthew came to life in her presence, felt the sweet tension flowing between them, caught the scent of possibility in the air. He also knew that sometimes even love needed a guiding light to make it through the darkness.

  Matthew had balked about the musicale tonight but ultimately he acquiesced to Andrew's wishes.

  He had no doubt Alexandra would, as well.

  #

  Janine had worked an absolute miracle; in two hours the maid had not only combed and curled and styled Alexandra's thick mane of hair into a most becoming upsweep, but Janine had taken her russet gown and affixed a chou, or large cabbage rosette, of lace and ribbons to her right shoulder.