Authors: Cat Lindler
Then it struck him. What was Richard doing at Willowbend? Had he come too late? Had Willa married Richard Richardson? Why he was naught more than a pup. What could she possibly see in him? And had she not trusted him to come back for her? After what they shared?
He settled his lace-covered, bejeweled hands on his hips as his satin-encased body shook. And what was all that noise he heard? Was Willa entertaining? The notion that she could merrily carry on without him soured his disposition even more.
“You have a visitor,” Richard said when he came across Willa in the kitchen. She and Jwana had cornered Lancelot and were wiping his hands and face with a wet cloth while he screamed his indignation and squirmed like a trapped raccoon.
Willa lifted her face. “Inform them I am indisposed, Richard. ‘Tis the twins’ birthday, and I have my hands full, as you can plainly see.”
Richard cleared his throat, drawing a curious glance from her. “'Tis rather important, Willa,” he said as he schooled his features. “Here, I shall corral Lancelot while you tend to business.” He reached out a hand.
She passed the child to him. “Better you than me,” she said and flipped her hair back over one shoulder. The pins had vanished hours ago. Tangled tresses now streamed down her back in a chestnut brown waterfall. “Lancelot is being extremely difficult today.”
“Am not!” Lancelot’s square face screwed up into a pout.
Willa squatted down to meet his stormy gray eyes. “You are, young man,” she said. “And your sister is nearly as naughty as you.”
“Gwenny!” he chortled at the mention of his sister. Delight transformed his features. He broke away from Richard and zoomed out of the kitchen.
Richard shrugged, and Willa expelled a heavy sigh. She wiped her hands on the cloth dangling from Jwana’s hand and tried to smooth down her hair, but it was a hopeless mess. A streak of pink frosting arched across her cheek to end in a blob on her nose. When Jwana reached for it with the cloth, Willa had already turned to walk out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“For pity’s sake, this had better be important,” she mumbled as she made her way to the door. “I cannot be bothered today with every peddler or estate child with a skinned knee.” She took one last tug at her skirt, frowning at the cake and punch stains, and flung open the door.
“Please forg—” Willa stilled like a rabbit under a hunter’s gun.
By the time Willa opened the door, Ford’s scowl was dark enough to blot out the hot autumn sun.
Then time slowed to the pace of a tortoise.
Ford’s frown faded, chased away by wonder. In front of him stood a Willa he’d never seen before. The boyish figure had ripened into womanly curves. Her hair, wild and curling past her shoulders, was a riot of autumn leaves. Color heightened the features of her face, and a new maturity firmed her mouth and sharpened her cheekbones.
Ford swallowed, hard, as his body reacted with a familiar tightening. Willa continued to stand there, stock-still. For a moment he feared she would swoon. He should have warned her, sent around his card first. Not likely. Then she might have refused to see him. Occupying her doorstep, he could, at the very least, shove a high-heeled foot in the door should she attempt to close it in his face as Richard had done.
Ford mentally shook himself and swept off his hat in a bow. Still Willa remained as silent and motionless as the old lightning-blasted sweet gum.
“Miss Bellingham,” he began, speaking through his nose in the affected tone he had adopted as the foppish Lord Montford. “I have come to settle some unfinished business.” He arched his brows, extracted his monocle from his waistcoat pocket, and peered through it. She remained unaffected.
He cleared his throat. “Well, as to that business …” Removing a sheet of parchment from his pocket, he made a production of unfolding it and holding it up for her inspection. She shifted her eyes to it. That small movement lent him courage. “As you can evidently see, I hold here a contract of betrothal, duly signed and dated by Gerald Sinclair, Baron Montford, and George Bellingham, the Earl of Westchester.” He flipped the paper around and began to read from it: “Inasmuch as the parties have conceded to the betrothal of—”
“Cease!”
Ford looked up with raised brows as Willa came out of her coma, and fury infused her face. He waved his hand in a languid motion. “No need to shout, my dear. Please forgive me for presuming you’d not read the document. Of course you have. And I come to honor the contract. We must set a date. The banns can be called—”
“What in bloody hell are you talking about?” He donned an expression of innocent affront. “I beg your pardon? Did you not wish to honor this contract and marry Baron Montford?”
She panted, her face as red as his wig. “Were he the last live man in Carolina, I would not marry Baron Montford.”
His lips canted into a smile, which froze on his face, and he suddenly went as still as Willa had been a few moments ago. A small boy had crept up behind her and peeked around her skirt. A devilish grin sat on the boy’s mouth and lit his gray eyes. Ford remained motionless, his gaze riveted on the boy, and his smile curved downward to form a frown. He crossed his arms over his chest.
A small hand tugged on Willa’s skirt. When she glanced to the side, her face grew pale. She made a grab for the boy, but he eluded her grasp. Strutting up to Ford, he braced his short legs apart, in imitation of his father, and folded his small arms over his stocky chest.
The boy’s eyes, a deeper shade than Ford’s, impertinently moved up and down the tall figure. He giggled and turned his dark head toward Willa. “Funny man,” he said.
“To be sure, Sir Lancelot,” she answered very quietly. “He is quite the funny man, is he not?” She looked up, and Ford melted at the tenderness in the chocolate depths of her eyes.
Ford tore his gaze from his beloved’s face and squatted down on his heels. Sweeping the ridiculous hat from his head, he handed it to his son, whom he now knew as Lancelot. “Here,” he said softly. “Now you can be as funny as me.”
Lancelot plopped it on his head and laughed when it drooped down over his eyes. “Funny!” He spun about on a heel. “Gwenny, come look!” he yelled. “Lance funny now!”
Willa groaned, and Ford lifted a quizzical brow at her.
A small girl, her face and brunette braids smeared with cake and frosting, burst from the parlor like a whirlwind. She had Ford’s nose and mouth and pewter-gray eyes. Running up to Lancelot, she laughed and tugged down on the hat until the boy reeled around blind, bumping into Ford and Willa and the furniture in the foyer. When a vase of flowers rocked and nearly fell to the floor, Willa snatched off the hat and held it up in the air. Both children whined.
Emma Richardson rushed out from the parlor and slid to a stop. Her mouth dropped opened when she saw Ford. “Beg pardon,” she whispered with a gulp and grabbed the children’s hands, leading them off as they struggled, and back into the parlor.
Ford slowly stood and stretched to his full height. “Lancelot and Guinevere?” he said with a list of his head.
Willa held out the hat and raised her chin. Her eyes simmered with hurt.
Pain as heavy as a cannonball settled on his chest. “I didn’t know, Willa,” he said. “I’m sorry. I swear to God, I did not know.”
She stared at him, the wounded expression on her face bleeding into his soul. Reaching out, she began to close the door.
He stopped its progress with a stiff arm. “Had I known, I would have come immediately and camped on your doorstep until you consented to see me.” Would she say nothing to him? By God, she had borne his children.
His children!
His heart blazed with the radiance of the sun.
At last she spoke. “You came too late, Baron Montford.” Brittle ice coated her words. “We no longer have need of your services. I must tell you to leave the premises, and do not return.”
He extended a hand. With his fingertips beneath her chin, he tipped up her face. His heart melted like butter on a stove as he looked at the woman he loved more than anything in the world. He smiled at the mulish expression on her face. “Be that as it may, wildcat, I have no intention of leaving this doorstep.” His voice grew thick with unexpected tears. “I daresay you may hold me accountable for all your troubles,” he inclined his head toward the children, who peered into the foyer from around the corner of the parlor door, “including those two, and my tardiness, but I
will not
leave. You are the woman I shall marry, willing or nay.”
She seemed taken aback by his resistance. Had she truly believed he would simply trot off to Virginia without her and his children? He perused her face and convinced himself he detected a softening.
He blew out a sigh. “It appears I must resort to more desperate measures.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
He sailed the frivolous hat into the shell drive, withdrew a lacy handkerchief to scrub the paint from his face, and kicked off his high heels, leaving himself in stocking feet. They both watched the white velvet shoes tumble down the stone steps. Then he faced her once again. “If you refuse to marry Baron Montford, what do you say to a plain, ordinary commoner?” He opened up his arms. “Would you consider marrying Mister Brendan Ford? He lives on no rambling estate in England, nor does he allow others to address him by a lofty title. And seldom does he swathe his body in silks and satins. He is an American, not the King’s subject, prefers panther’s breath to brandy, and wild turkey to mutton. His heart beats faster only for a woman with an essence of swamp mud, not rosewater scent.” Hope trickled in when she grew pensive. “For our children’s sake, if not for mine?” he added. “Please? I love you, Willa.”
She eyed him, and he prayed she could read the truth on his face. “More than you love Francis Marion?” she finally asked.
“More than I love freedom,” he said without hesitation.
She was weakening, and he could not suppress the smile pulling at his lips. Her shoulders relaxed. Her lashes swept down to veil her marvelous brown eyes. A little sigh whispered from her parted lips. He ran a finger through the pink frosting on her face and sucked the sweet from the pad of his fingertip. “Ummm, cherry,” he murmured, “my favorite.”
Willa raised her lashes and gave him an impish smile that made his head spin on its axis. “I shall
think
about it. But only if you kiss me, right now, with a great deal of tongue, and put your heart into it.”
Ford grinned and pulled her into his arms. She reached up, tugged the wig from his head, and tossed it over her shoulder. Dipping her over his arm, he bent over her. “You had only to ask, wildcat. I am at your command.”
The Journal of Wilhelmina Bellingham Sinclair, Lady Montford 12 May 1791
Soft Virginia breezes and amber summer sun caress the meadows of Ford’s Folly, putting the joy of life into the foals as they kick up their heels in knee-high clover. Cherokee hangs his head over the rail fence, well beyond the antics of the youngsters. He gazes at me with soulful eyes. I know that look. He begs for an apple from the new orchard, but I have none to hand.
Butterflies spin over the garden in graceful swoops, flitting from red to blue and yellow, sipping at summer’s bounty of nectar. Quinn and Jwana stroll among the paths with baskets over their arms, picking vegetables for dinner and cutting flowers for the vases in the front hall.
‘Twas no surprise when Jwana and Plato married soon after Brendan and I. Their boy, Aristotle, though only seven, is as much a devil as our own children. Plato remained behind at Willowbend for a time to help Richard rebuild the ruined Gray Oaks. Once the plantation was habitable, Richard took over its stewardship and Plato made his way to Ford’s Folly. Mary, Emma, and Rebecca are doing an exceptional job in taking up the mantle of caring for Willowbend and holding it in trust for Guinevere. From Emma’s frequent letters, I comprehend all is well. She is keeping company with a young Continental officer, a solicitor in the new government. I pray he is her heart’s desire.
Earlier I watched as Lancelot, Guinevere, and Aristotle towed Brendan toward the pond. They had such earnest expressions on their little faces, and Brendan wore his “patience with animals and children is a virtue” look. I know full well he had a busy schedule of work facing him today, but he always manages to take time for the children. I long to join them in their excursion, but the prospect of leaving my chair in my current condition, with a belly as big as a beehive, is daunting.
And I dare not leave Tristan and Isolde without supervision. I see them playing hide and seek with Sweetie among the roses. From the state of Tristan’s attire, Isolde appears to have pushed him into the thorny bushes more than once. Our second set of twins has proved to be as much a handful as the first. Though I love them all dearly, I vow, should this pregnancy yield twins once again, I shall drive Brendan off with a loaded musket.
“Dey done had ‘nough sun, I be thinkin',” Jwana said, interrupting Willa’s writing. “You, too, missy,” she added. Jwana rescued the roses and the elderly dog and came up with one smaller hand clutched in each of hers.
“You, too!” Tristan and Isolde parroted and played peekaboo around Jwana’s wide skirt.
“I expect you are right; my nose is blistering,” Willa said, replying to the trio’s receding backs. “I shall come inside as soon as Brendan and the other children return.”
She went back to her journal.
Frogs croak from the pond in chorus with the quacking of ducks on the river. Robins call from the young apple trees, their sweet song of
cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up, cheer-up
causing my soul to fly. ‘Tis a perfect day, and—
“Shut up,” Ford snapped at the birds, setting them to wing as he stalked over the hill toward his wife.
Willa looked up from her journal and smiled. He was soaking wet and as mad as a hornet, judging from the scowl on his face. From the distance came the children’s tittering laughter.
He stopped two steps from her chair and braced his fists on his hips. When he glared down at her, his gray eyes cut into her as sharply as sabers. “I
insist
you do something about your children, Willa.”