The expression on his face answered her. “Look at me,” she fairly shouted, her accent thick. “I am Nicole Courtalain. I am a human being with feelings and emotions. I am more than a case of mistaken identity. I am more than the fact that I am not ‘your’ Bianca. You say you propose marriage to me, but look at what you offer. Now I am mistress of the plantation, called Mrs. Armstrong by everyone. But my whole future hangs by a thread. If Bianca accepts you, then I’m to be cast aside. If she refuses you, then you will make do with second choice. No! Not even second choice. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no choice.”
She took a deep breath. “No doubt, you thought I’d remain and be the twins’ governess if Bianca did come to America.”
“And what would be wrong with that?”
She was so angry she couldn’t speak. She pulled back her foot and kicked him. Her toe hurt more than his shin through his heavy boots, but she didn’t care. She spat several French curses at him, then turned toward the path.
He grabbed her arm again. He was angry, too. “I don’t understand you. I could have any of half the women in the county if Bianca refuses me, but I’ve asked you. What’s so horrible about that?”
“Should I be honored? Honored that you will allow poor little me to stay with you? Do you think I want to be an object of charity all my life? It may surprise you, Mr. Armstrong, that I want a little love in my life. I want a man who loves me, as you do Bianca. I don’t want a marriage of convenience but one of love. Does that answer your question? I’d rather starve with a man I love than live regally in your fine house with you when I’d know every day how you were pining for your lost love.”
He looked at her so strangely that she had no idea what he was thinking. It was almost as if for the first time he was thinking of her as being something besides a mistake.
“Whatever you think,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean to insult you. You are an admirable woman. You have made an intolerable situation into one that is a pleasure for those around you, if not for yourself. All of us, myself most of all, have used you thoroughly. I wish you’d told me earlier of your unhappiness here.”
“I’m not unhappy—” she began, but she had to stop because tears clogged her throat. Another moment and she would throw her arms around him and say she’d stay with him on any terms whatsoever.
“Let’s return, shall we? Let me think about it a while, and maybe I can arrange a more suitable situation for you.”
She followed him down the path numbly.
Chapter 7
CLAYTON LEFT HER AT THE STABLES. NICOLE COULDN’T understand how she managed to walk back to the house. She tried to keep her head up, and she focused on one thing—the house.
She had barely shut the door to her bedroom before the tears came. The year of hiding had taught her the art of crying without making a sound. She flung herself on the bed, and the sobs tore through her.
Everything she’d said had been wrong. He hadn’t meant the marriage proposal as she took it. And now he spoke of a “suitable situation.” How much longer would she have before he sent her away? If Bianca came, could she bear to see Clay touch her, kiss her? Would she cry herself to sleep every night when she saw them shut the door to the bedroom they shared?
Both Maggie and Janie tapped on her door and asked if she were all right. Nicole managed to answer that she’d caught a cold and didn’t want to spread it. Her swollen sinuses did make her sound as if she were ill. Later in the day, she heard the twins whispering outside her door, but they didn’t disturb her. Nicole stood up and decided she’d felt sorry for herself long enough. She washed her face and removed her dress. Clay’s footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Nicole stopped, holding her breath. She could not possibly face him yet. She knew that her heart would be in her eyes. During dinner, she’d probably beg him to allow her to stay near him—as his shoe polisher if that was all that was available.
She removed her chemise and slipped into a nightgown, the lace and silk one Clay had admired. She didn’t know what time it was, but she was very tired and meant to go to bed. A summer storm was gathering outside. At the first distant rumblings of thunder, she closed her eyes very tightly. She couldn’t remember her grandfather now, she couldn’t!
She was reliving that whole dreadful night. The rain slashed against the windows of the mill, and the lightning made the outdoors as bright as day. It was the lightning that showed her her grandfather.
She sat up screaming, her hands over her ears. She didn’t hear the door open or Clay cross to her bed.
“Quiet. You’re safe now. Be still. No one can harm you,” he said as he pulled her into his arms.
He held her like a child, and she buried her face in his bare shoulder. He rocked her against him and stroked her hair. “Tell me about it. What was your dream about?”
She shook her head and clutched desperately at his arms. Awake, she knew that her dream had been real. She knew she would never awaken from the nightmare. A flash of lightning lit up the room, and Nicole jumped, trying to pull Clay closer.
“I think it’s time we talked,” he said as he lifted her in his arms, keeping a quilt twisted about her.
Nicole shook her head mutely.
He carried her into his bedroom and set her in a chair as he poured her a glassful of sweet sherry. He knew she hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he knew the alcohol would go straight to her head.
It did.
When he saw her begin to relax, he took her empty glass from her, refilled it, and set it on the table by the chair. He poured another glass for himself. Then he lifted her and sat back in the chair, holding Nicole close to him, the quilt across them both. The storm outside made them seem especially isolated in the dark room.
“Why did you leave France? What happened at the miller’s house?”
She hid her face in his shoulder and shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“All right, then, tell me about a good day. Did you always live with your grandfather?”