Lost Lady (James River Book 2)

REGAN LAY BACK AGAINST THE CUSHIONS ON THE NARROW bunkbed, weak and trembling, while Travis pressed a cold cloth to her forehead. Looking up at him in gratitude, she smiled as best she could. “What a time to get seasick,” she murmured.

Travis said nothing as he picked up the chamber pot containing the contents of Regan’s stomach and went out on deck to empty it.

Regan was quiet, too weak to move as she lay there in the bed. Personally, she felt that this new sickness had something to do with what was going on in her mind. Of course she couldn’t mention it to Travis, but she was quite scared of arriving in America, of being on her own in a strange country with people whose language she sometimes had to strain to understand.

It had been nearly a month since the storm, and since then she’d done little except help Sarah sew on her new clothes. There were no more flirtations with David Wainwright, no more attempts to make Travis jealous. Instead she’d spent her time with Travis, eating with him, making love with him, and talking to him. She found he was a wonderful storyteller, entertaining her with long narratives about his friends in Virginia. There were Clay and Nicole Armstrong, of whom Travis told an extraordinary story of how Clay had been married to one woman, a French aristocrat, and engaged to another woman. The way Travis told the story made Regan laugh until she cried, especially at the antics of Clay’s niece and nephew.

He told her about his little brother, Wesley, and it took Regan days to figure out that Wes was a young man and not a child. Silently, she offered a prayer of support for any person who had to live under Travis’s thumb. Then there were the Backes and all the other people up and down the river.

Regan listened with interest, adding to his stories with her imagination. Picturing these people, she conjured small, crude houses; the women in their simple calico gowns, even smoking corncob pipes; the men plain farmers hard at work in the fields. Smiling confidently, she hoped the people would not treat her as royalty merely because of the beautiful, expensive clothes she wore.

All of Travis’s stories, and her own fantasies added to them, had made the long journey fly past, and it wasn’t until this week that she’d begun to worry. She didn’t know if the worry caused her vomiting or the other way around. All she knew was that suddenly she’d become very ill and weak, lying on the bunk, idly watching the ceiling, her stomach rolling.

Travis had been wonderful since she’d become ill, watching her quietly, holding her head over the pot, washing her face, and seeing that she rested. He’d even stopped working with the crew, not leaving her alone for more than a few minutes.

And Regan knew that all his attention was a way of saying goodbye to her. The pretty clothes and the last-minute attention were his final reward for the pleasure she’d given him on the voyage to America. Now he could be free of her, go back to his family and friends, and never have to see her again. No more would he have to put up with her flirting with other men, or her uselessness.

Tears began to trickle down her face. Why couldn’t he have left her in England where at least she knew the customs of the people? Why did he have to force her to come to this strange place and then abandon her like so much rubbish?

She planned to tell him what she thought of him, but as soon as Travis returned to the cabin her stomach started heaving again, and her anger was abandoned.

“We’ve just sighted land,” Travis said, holding her in his arms, her head cradled against his warm, comforting chest. “By this time tomorrow we should be docked in Virginia Harbor.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Perhaps I won’t be seasick once we’re on land.”

This statement seemed to amuse Travis, who hugged her quickly and stroked her hair. “I think your seasickness will be over very soon.”

The next few hours were a frenzy of activity. Sarah put the last of Regan’s new clothes in the trunk, and Travis paid her and the other women who’d helped with the sewing. There were tears shed as Sarah and Regan said goodbye. Sarah planned to stay on the ship and travel north to New York to be with her family. All of the many women whose heads Regan had held got together and presented her with a gift of a child-sized quilt done in the Rose of Sharon pattern.

“We figured you’d need it soon,” one woman said, her eyes teasing and glancing up at Travis.

“Thank you so much,” Regan said, pleased more than the women could know, there being no way of telling them that they were her first friends.

That night she lay awake in Travis’s arms, looking at him in the moonlight. She wished he hadn’t come to mean so much to her, that she could hate him as she had once done or even find him contemptible, but now all she felt was an overwhelming loneliness that she was losing so much—this big, overpowering man whom she’d come to depend on, as well as other women who considered her a friend, who didn’t think she was useless.

By the next morning she was deathly quiet. Doing her best to smile, she stood on the quarterdeck and waved goodbye to her friends, all of them glad to be off the ship, excited about coming home or entering a new land.

Travis had left her alone while he ordered the unloading of goods. When she’d awakened this morning, after sleeping very late, she’d found the ship already docked and some people already disembarked. After a quick kiss, Travis said he’d be busy until afternoon, explaining that the storm had blown them closer to America, and since they were several days earlier than expected no one was there to meet them.

Them! Regan thought with disgust as she watched Travis ordering some sailors in the stacking of crates.

“Mrs. Stanford?”

Turning toward the timid voice, she saw David Wainwright behind her. He looked thinner than she remembered, and his eyes darted to gaze at a space somewhere to the left of her head.

“I want to wish you and your husband the best of everything,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she said. His face showed all of the fear she felt, and she only hoped hers didn’t look the same. “I hope we both like America more than we thought we would.”

He wouldn’t take her hint at the conversations they’d once shared; his embarrassment was too deep. “Tell your husband….” He didn’t seem able to finish but grabbed her hand, placed a hard kiss on it, met her eyes for a moment, gasped “Goodbye,” and then was gone, hurrying down the gangplank.

Warmed by David’s sentiments, she leaned over the rail and saw Travis frowning up at her. Raising her hand, she waved gaily at him and thought for the first time that perhaps she could make it alone in this new country. After all, she’d made friends on board ship. Perhaps….

Travis gave her no more time to think, because minutes later he was telling her to hurry up and eat, to wear something sturdy, to finish putting her clothes in the trunk—in general, running her life.

He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, she thought, obeying him but with a slowness Travis found maddening.

“Either you finish that in two minutes or I carry you out of here,” he warned. “I have a wagon waiting for us, and I’d like to get there before sundown.”

Her curiosity won out over her resentment. “Where are we going? Did…did you find me employment?”

Pausing, the trunk across his back, Travis grinned at her. “I found you a great job! One you’re especially good at. Now, come on, let’s go.”

Using all her strength, Regan tried not to let his words upset her but followed him down the gangplank, her head held high.

He tossed the trunk into the ugliest, most dilapidated vehicle she’d ever seen.

“Sorry,” he laughed at her obvious disgust. “I told you we were early, and this was all I could get. We’re driving to a friend of mine’s tonight, and tomorrow I’ll borrow a sloop.”

Nothing Travis said made sense to Regan. She knew a sloop was some sort of ship but didn’t have any idea why Travis would want to borrow one. Grabbing her waist and plunking her down on the half-rotten wagon seat with as much ceremony as he’d used with the trunk, he climbed up beside her and clucked for the two tired-looking horses to go.

The country they traveled through looked wilder, more forbidding than England, and the road was atrocious, really little more than a rutted path. As her jarring teeth attested, Travis hit all of the ruts.

Chuckling, he watched her. “Now you see why we travel mostly by water. Tomorrow we’ll be in a smooth little sloop, with no holes to fall into.”

She had no idea where she’d be tomorrow as Travis seemed to want to keep her employer a secret—and she wasn’t about to ask him for details, not when she knew her questions would earn that infuriating look of his.

The sun was just setting when they stopped at the first house they saw—a neat, clean, whitewashed little clapboard. Early spring flowers graced the front path, a warm breeze gently bending the colorful petals. It was a plain house but certainly of a higher caliber than Regan had expected in America.

Travis’s knock was answered by a plump, gray-haired woman wearing a calico apron over her muslin dress. “Travis,” she said. “We thought something was wrong. The man you sent said you’d be here hours earlier.”

“Hello, Martha,” he said, kissing her cheek. “It just took us longer than I thought. The Judge here?”

Martha laughed. “You’re as impatient as ever. I take it this is the young lady.”

Possessively, Travis put his arm around Regan. “This is Regan, and this is Martha.”

Gulping once at Travis’s crude manners, Regan held out her hand. “I am happy to meet you, Mrs.—?”

“Just Martha,” she smiled. “You’re in America now. Come into the parlor. The Judge is waiting for you.”

Swept forward by Travis’s arm around her, Regan was propelled into a pleasant room with clean, well-worn furniture covered in a soft green, the windows draped in a fabric of the same color. Before she could say any more, she was introduced to the Judge, a tall, nearly bald man who seemed to have no name besides Judge.

One moment Regan was shaking hands, and the next she heard the words, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of our Lord….” Bewildered, thinking her hearing was faulty, she looked at the people around her. Martha was smiling angelically at her husband, who had a book open in front of him and was reading a marriage ceremony. Travis, holding her hand, had an astonishingly solemn look on his face.

It took Regan several minutes to realize what was going on. Without having been asked if she agreed, she was being married to Travis Stanford! She was standing in front of these strangers, wearing a dark green traveling dress of heavy linen, her face dirty, tired, her brow creased with worry about her future—and she was going through a marriage ceremony! Glancing up at Travis’s solemn profile, she thought that for once he’d gone too far. When she got married, she was going to be asked, and she was going to wear her prettiest dress.

She realized that everyone was watching her. The Judge smiled and said, “Regan, wilt thou take this man for your husband?”

Looking up at Travis with the sweetest, most lovesick smile she could muster, she whispered, “No.”

It was a moment before anyone reacted. Martha gave out a giggle that showed she knew Travis’s domineering ways well, while the Judge hurriedly looked at his book. His face aflame with anger, Travis grabbed Regan’s upper arm and half dragged her into the entrance hall, closing the parlor door behind him.

“Just what the hell was that little display supposed to mean?” he growled, his face very near hers.

Involuntarily taking a step backward, Regan tried to keep her courage up. She was in the right, and she had that on her side. “You never even asked me if I wanted to marry you. You didn’t ask if I wanted to come to America either. I’m tired of your making all my decisions for me.”

“Decisions!” he gasped. “There are no decisions to be made by either one of us. Fate has made them for us.”

At her look of consternation, he groaned. “I’d try to shake some sense into you, but I’m afraid it’d hurt the baby.”

“Baby?” she whispered.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Travis seemed to be praying for strength. “You can’t be so damned starry-eyed that you didn’t realize that what we do in bed creates babies.” At her silence, he continued in a quieter tone. “You didn’t really think you’d been seasick these last few weeks, did you?”

Gently, he caressed her cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re carrying my baby, and I make it a rule always to marry the mother of my children.”

Stunned, Regan could form no coherent thoughts. “But employment,” she whispered. “And I can’t get married in this dress, and I have no flowers, and…and…oh Travis! A baby!”

Gathering her in his arms, he held her tightly. “I thought you knew. I thought you were just trying to keep it from me. I wouldn’t have known either, except my friend Clay’s wife threw up right in front of me one day. She told me a lot of women did that the first few months. Now, love,” he said, lifting her chin. “Will you marry me?”

When she hesitated, he continued. “You can do all the work you want at my place,” he smiled, “so you can satisfy any need you have to earn your keep. And as for your dress, I like you better wearing nothing, so whatever dress you wear is fine, and, besides, it’s only Martha and the Judge here. For flowers I could pick some from Martha’s garden.”

“No,” she whispered, blinking back tears. His words were so logical. Of course she was going to have a baby, and of course she’d marry him; there wasn’t much else she could do because she knew she couldn’t escape Travis when she had something he owned. As for her clothes, what did they matter? If she could get married without love, she could certainly do so without a pretty dress.

“I’m ready,” she said grimly.

“It’s not an execution,” he chuckled. “Maybe tonight I can make up for today.”

As she walked ahead of him into the parlor, she knew he’d never understand. A wedding was supposed to be a woman’s greatest moment, a time when she felt everyone loved her and wished her great happiness. For the rest of her life she’d remember this secretive, dreary little ceremony, surrounded by strangers, the marriage taking place not because of herself but because of what she carried in her stomach. Mechanically, at the proper time, she said she would take Travis for her husband and ignored the searching look he gave her. When it came time for him to place a ring on her finger, Martha offered her own, but Regan shrugged and said politely that a ring didn’t matter.

By the end of the ceremony no one was smiling, and when Travis turned to kiss her, Regan offered him her cheek. She barely tasted the wine the Judge offered and made no comment when Travis said they must leave.

Trying her best to smile, Regan bid them farewell and thanked them as Travis helped her back onto the wagon seat. The tension of the day, the wedding—if it could be called such—had exhausted her, and as she slumped in the seat Travis pulled her close to him.

“It wasn’t much of a wedding, was it?” he asked heavily. “Not something a girl can tell her grandchildren about.”

“No,” she said simply, not daring to say any more or she’d start crying. All she wanted now was to go to sleep, and perhaps tomorrow she could think happy thoughts about her baby and about being Travis’s wife.

By the time the wagon stopped, she was almost asleep, barely waking when Travis lifted her down and carried her up some stairs.

“Are we home?” she murmured.

“Not yet.” His voice was serious, without its usual hint of laughter. “We’re at an inn. In the morning we’ll start home.”

She merely nodded and snuggled against him. At least this was her wedding night. If Travis didn’t know how a wedding should be conducted, at least he knew how to make the night the best a woman could imagine.

Lying on the bed where he’d left her, she listened as he carried their trunks up the stairs. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad being married to Travis; at least now she didn’t have to worry about being abandoned.

Smiling, she felt his warm lips on her cheek. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he murmured, sending little shivers down her spine. “You rest, because you’re going to need it.”

As the door closed behind him, she stretched, put her hands behind her head, and looked up at the ceiling, but she didn’t really see it. Tonight was her wedding night. Last year one of the kitchen maids had gotten married, and the next day everyone teased her mercilessly, but the girl had been so radiant that nothing anyone said bothered her. Now Regan understood why.

Suddenly, she sat up. She may be expecting his baby and far from being a virgin, but tonight she certainly felt like one. With one adoring look directed toward the closed door, she thought how kind it was of Travis to give her this time alone to prepare herself. Hot water waited for her on the old dresser at the corner of the small room, and she guessed he must have sent someone ahead to prepare for them. He’d even left the keys to the trunks on the dresser.

Hurriedly, because she knew Travis would be an impatient bridegroom and wouldn’t stay away very long, she opened her trunk and began to rummage through the beautiful clothes she and Sarah had sewed. Toward the bottom was a gown of gossamer silk with a bit of silver sheen to the surface. It was translucent, allowing just a hint of her hand beneath it to show through, revealing yet secretive. She’d been saving this lovely bit of moonlit silk for just such a time as this.

Quickly, she unbuttoned her linen dress, not dwelling on the fact that this traveling dress had been her wedding gown. At least she’d be able to wear something elegant for her wedding night. Naked, she began to wash, laughing all the while. Then she slipped into the gown, shivering in delight as the silk touched her skin. The feel of it was heavenly, soft, caressing, clinging to her curves in just the right places. Moving to the mirror, she was a bit startled to see the way her breasts impudently lifted the lovely fabric, the rosy crests barely visible yet somehow emphasized. Oh yes, she thought. Travis would love this gown.

Out of the trunk came the silver-backed hairbrush Travis had given her, and she pulled the pins from her hair, allowing it to cascade down her back, wispy curls about her face. She was glad she’d never cut her hair short as so many women had since the revolution in France. After only a few quick strokes of the brush, she hurried to the bed, knowing she’d taken long enough, feeling just as impatient as Travis must be.

Once in bed, she arranged herself in what she hoped was a seductive pose, half-reclining against the pillows, one arm extended, the other with fingertips grazing her shoulder. With what she hoped was a sophisticated look, she gazed languidly toward the door.

It was late and the inn was quiet, yet every time a board so much as creaked, she found herself smiling, imagining the look Travis would have when he came through the door. Each time she thought of him she arched her back a little more, thrusting her chest forward. She kept remembering how Farrell had said he dreaded the wedding night with her, that she’d probably cry and pout like a two-year-old. Tonight, although of course Farrell would never know about it, she’d prove him wrong. Tonight she’d be a temptress, a seductress, a woman who knew what she wanted—and got it. Travis would be on his knees, trembling like a bit of calves’-foot jelly, and she’d be his master.

Perhaps it was the awkward position of her back arched so far forward that first caused her pain; then she realized her arms ached and one side of her hip was asleep. Moving a bit, lowering her arm to her lap, she began to return from her dream world. She was a master at being able to escape from reality for long periods of time, and now she wondered how long she’d been in this position.

Glancing about the room, she saw there was no clock, and neither was there any moon outside the window—and the candle by the bed, which had been new, was inches shorter.

Where was Travis? she wondered, throwing back the covers and going to the window. Surely he couldn’t believe she needed this much time to get ready for him. A bolt of lightning flashed and for an instant illuminated the empty courtyard below. Within minutes a soft rain began to fall, and Regan shivered as cold air came in through the poorly fitting window.

Getting back into the warmth of the bed, she looked about her, idly thinking that this room was very much like the one where Travis had held her prisoner in England. Then she’d been his slave, and now she was his wife. Of course, she had no ring, and the paper the Judge had signed was with Travis, but, she thought smiling, she had Travis’s child and he’d certainly come back for that.

The thought that he might not come back made her frown. Why had she even let such an absurd idea cross her mind? Travis was an honorable man, and he’d married her.

Honorable, she murmured. Did honorable men kidnap women and take them to America against their will? He’d given her reasons for his forcing her to accompany him, but maybe all he’d really wanted was someone to warm his bed on the long voyage across the sea. And she’d certainly done that! They’d nearly set the bed on fire, and now she carried the product of that fire with her.

The rain started falling more heavily, lashing against the dark window, and with it Regan’s despair began.

Travis had never wanted her. He’d said so himself a hundred times. Even once they were on board the ship, he’d still been trying to find out who she was so he could rid himself of her. He was the same as Farrell and her Uncle Jonathan—they’d never wanted her either.

The tears began to fall down her cheeks on a par with the turbulent rain outside. Why did he marry her? Had Travis somehow found out about her inheritance? He’d taken her to America, married her immediately, and now that he had that piece of paper and could claim her money he wanted nothing more to do with her. He’d abandoned her in a strange country with no money, no help, and maybe a baby to care for.

She began to cry furiously, fists beating into the pillow, sobs tearing through her. When her first passion was gone, the tears became slower, flowing out of her quietly as her anger turned to hopelessness as she asked herself why she was so unworthy of love.

The rain outside turned to a hard, steady downpour, and, after hours, her grief began to be lulled by the sound as she fell into a deep, deathlike sleep. When the first heavy steps sounded on the stairs she did not hear them, and it was only the pounding on the door that was finally able to wake her.