In His Eyes(57)

Ella stepped into her room and closed the door behind her, reminding herself how grateful she was for Sibby’s help.

Ella pulled the widow’s silks from the armoire, donned her dry underpinnings, and fastened her hair into a sensible bun. She regarded herself in the mirror, her trembling fingers trailing over the fabric that felt too coarse, her watering eyes sliding over colors that were far too drab.

She clutched the fabric at her chest. Seek, he had said, find the truth. The truth about what made her special. Ella looked at dark circles that gathered under her eyes. Special. She wanted to spit the word. Why had her mind conjured such a thing? What cruel jest did it play upon her, tempting her to look for something beautiful where nothing existed?

Ella pressed her lips into a line. She would have to forget that dream, else she would too deeply ache to return to it. She arranged her features so that the woman returning her stare appeared calm and in control.

Then she gathered her defenses and strode from the room.





Westley rapped the head of his cane on the neighbor’s door and stepped back. Dew clung to the grass and made diamonds drip from green spears. To his right, a bird called to its mate in the early moments of a new day. Hopefully, the dowager wouldn’t be too furious with him for tapping upon her door at this inappropriate hour.

The Martins’ home, Riverbend, sat in the curve of the Mississippi and was, therefore, aptly named. Many men, Westley’s father among them, had told Mr. Martin he’d built his mansion much too near to the river, but the man didn’t listen to reason. Westley wondered how long it would be before the mighty Mississippi overflowed her banks again and Riverbend washed away.

Westley stepped forward to knock again when the heavy oak door creaked open and a Negro woman with a plump middle and gray hair peered out at him. Her eyes darted behind him as though she expected someone to accompany him.

“I am Major Remington, here to ask an important neighborly favor of Mrs. Martin, if you please.”

Her eyes widened with recognition and she bobbed her head. “Come on in whilst I go gets the missus. She just done got up.”

Westley entered the house and didn’t bother removing his hat. He wouldn’t be staying long. The woman scurried away and left him alone in the entry. Westley frowned. It seemed Miss Martin had not been exaggerating. No paintings hung on the walls, no rug donned the floor, and, from where he stood, Westley couldn’t see a single stick of furniture.

If he didn’t know better, he might assume the house had been abandoned. The click of heels turned his attention to the stairs. Mrs. Martin, wearing what he thought to be the same deep navy blue dress he’d seen her in last time, descended the stairs with a look of surprise.

“Mr. Remington. What brings you to Riverbend? And at this hour?”

He dipped at the waist. “My apologies for arriving unannounced, and so early in the morning.”

“Indeed. We haven’t even taken our breakfast yet.” She offered her hand.

He bowed over it and gave the slightest whisper of his lips over her papery knuckles. “My sincerest apologies.” She opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her a chance to pepper him with a lesson on manners. “And, I must also apologize for my behavior when last we saw one another. I fear it was rather barbaric of me not to bid you a proper goodbye. I do hope you will forgive my indecency and not let it come between long-standing neighbors.”

She regarded him flatly. “Very well. You are forgiven. One can let such things go, I assume, given the circumstances you found yourself in.” Mrs. Martin looked behind him. “Has your wife joined you? Opal has been asking after her. We don’t have all that much, but I suppose you could join us at the meal.”

Westley shook his head. “I’m afraid not, on both accounts.”

Something sparked in her eyes and she appeared relieved. Were things so dire at Riverbend that they could not afford to invite neighbors to dine with them? If the furnishings were any indication, it appeared that may very well be the case.

Westley cleared his throat. “And the reason she is not at my side,” he said, carefully avoiding both using her true name or calling her his wife, “is the very reason why I have come to call so early.”

“Oh?”

“The baby has fallen quite ill, and it is imperative I go to find the doctor. I’ve come to beg the use of your carriage so that I do not have to walk all the way to town.”

Mrs. Martin fingered the fabric at her throat. “Oh, my. That is just terrible.” She seemed sincere, the concern in her eyes replacing notes of suspicion. “Of course you may use our carriage. I’ll send for Freddie to ready it for you.”

Westley gave a slight bow. “I am in your debt.”

A quarter hour later, after a promise that when the baby was healthy Ella would come to call on Miss Martin, Westley snapped the reins and turned the pair of ragged geldings toward town.

The steady plod of the horses’ hooves reminded him of the ticking of a clock. Time that slipped away from him—his time at Belmont, his time away from the army, the time the child might have left if he did not find the doctor soon enough.

He tapped the reins and brought the horses to a trot, the rough gait jostling their harnesses and vibrating Westley in the seat. They didn’t carry on that way for long, however, until they eased back into a lumbering walk. Poor beasts. They looked as though they’d had a tough winter. If he’d thought himself up to the task, he would have only asked for one to ride into town rather than tiring both with the carriage just for himself. Perhaps he could repay them with a sack of oats for the creatures. He would need to find his own horse. He would not want to lean on the Martins’ thin resources again.