In His Eyes(35)

“Now, Mr. Westley, we done thought you was dead,” Sibby said again.

He cocked an eyebrow. “So you keep telling me.”

Sibby wagged her head. “We thought that with no white folks here they was gonna make us leave.”

The man frowned, and Ella wondered if he believed the claim.

“I can’t say that I didn’t think that myself. How many of you are still here?”

Sibby looked down and away. “A few.”

Mr. Remington shifted his weight to rest more heavily on the cane. Sibby noticed the action and pointed to the parlor. “Why don’t you go on in there and sit. I is going to get you somethin’ to drink. You hungry, too?”

“No. Some tea would be good, though.”

Sibby bobbed her head, and Ella watched her go. The woman seemed too eager to serve and far too submissive to be the same one who had lived with Ella these past two weeks.

She returned her gaze to the man before her. His shoulders slacked some and Ella wondered just how tired he must be. Perhaps exhaustion alone kept him from sharp words. She turned to follow Sibby to the kitchen when his voice stopped her.

“I would have you join me. There is much for us to discuss.”

Knowing she had no other choice, Ella inclined her head and stepped around him, hurrying into the parlor. Her mind awhirl, she shifted through the various hardships that would soon befall her. How foolish of her not to consider the possibility that this man might return! The letter had said he was missing, not for certain he was dead.

She crossed the patterned carpet and placed Lee down in the cradle, then took a seat beside him on the settee. Once settled, she forced herself to keep a steady gaze on the one who would determine her fate. Mr. Remington slowly made his way across the room as though each step he took pained him.

As he settled into the chair farthest from her, he regarded her with cool curiosity. “So, Miss, tell me. Who exactly are you?”

Ella placed her trembling hands in her lap. Who was she, indeed?





Westley watched the arresting creature before him as she fiddled with her black dress. Hair the color of a sunset and green eyes that sparkled like emeralds had caused him to alter his course. He’d had every intention of calling out her deception upon entering, with the added bonus of having neighbors behind him to verify the tale. He almost felt bad for leading the Martin women to believe such a woman belonged here, but that easily could be explained. He’d meant to set a trap.

When Sibby arrived first, his thoughts of a trap were derailed. With Sibby here and a part of the scheme, well, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see what kind of woman had managed to cow her.

And then he’d set eyes on the imposter….

He clenched his teeth. Intrigue, that’s what he would name it. He was intrigued by this woman who had the nerve to claim his name and who even now defied him by taking so long in answering his simple question. Did she dare to cook up another lie?

He cleared his throat and those eyes the color of a faded gem set upon him once more. “I’ll ask you again, Miss. Who are you?”

She glanced at her baby and resolve tightened her soft features. Her fidgeting stilled, replaced by a steely calm he’d often seen young soldiers try to effect when faced with something they feared. She lifted the boy from where he slept and held him against her.

She lifted her chin, further showing off the curve of her neck, which Westley instructed his eyes not to linger upon.

“My name is Eleanor Whitaker.”

Odd, the way she spoke, as though her voice carried some clue he couldn’t quite grasp. He let his eyes carry over her smooth complexion and pert little nose that turned up slightly at the end. He should send her out the door, but curiosity stilled him. A few moments more to understand her purpose would matter little.

He tapped a finger on his leg, turning his gaze from her to the parlor that appeared unchanged since last he sat here. “And what, Miss Whitaker, caused you to claim to be my wife?”

She moistened her lips. “As told, sir, I came here seeking a wet nurse. When I pretended to be a Remington once I heard Sibby say none were here, it was only because she looked distressed and…. well, I desperately needed someone to care for the babe.”

There it was again—a soft bit of lilt to certain words. Her accent gave her away as Southern, but something else tinged it. Irish, perhaps? Or Scottish? Her eyes caressed the boy in her arms, and something hard in Westley inexplicably softened.

“As I hoped, the soldiers seemed satisfied with the small deception and soon departed. Sibby agreed to care for my son, and I had thought that would be the end of it.”

The ache in his leg grew in intensity, and Westley set his jaw against it.

As though misinterpreting his discomfort for anger—which he should feel, yet strangely did not—she shifted in her chair. “I do hope you understand I did not mean to cause you any trouble.” She held his gaze, though he suspected it was difficult for her to do so.

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged on the corner of his mouth. “You can imagine my surprise when my neighbors informed me that my wife and son waited for my arrival.”

“Yes, well…” She toyed with the fabric of the dress again. “They came to tea, and by then we had decided that it would be a good idea to let the ruse stand.”

We? Why had Sibby agreed to such an outrageous claim? A question she would very soon have to answer.