“There’s Clay.” Janie pointed to a man in a large straw hat astride a big black horse. “He was out there before sunup this morning.” She gave Nicole a sidelong look, obviously hinting she wanted to know more of what happened last night.
Nicole could give her no information since she remembered so little. “What’s your job in this place?”
“I take care of the loom house mostly. Maggie oversees the kitchen buildings, and I take care of the dye pots, the weavers, and the spinners. It takes a lot of cloth to run a place like this. We have to make saddle blankets, cheesecloth, and canvas, as well as the workers’ clothes and blankets.”
Nicole turned back to look at the house. The beauty of the house was in its simplicity and classic proportions. It wasn’t large, only about sixty feet long, but the brickwork and the pediments over the windows and doors were what gave the house elegance. It was two stories high, with a pitched roof with several dormer windows. The simplicity was broken only by the lovely little octagonal porch.
“Are you ready to see some more?” Janie asked.
“I’d like to see the house. I really only saw one room this morning. Is the rest of it as lovely as that bedroom?”
“Clay’s mother had all the furniture made for the house. That was before the war, of course.” She started walking through the tall hedges to the house. “I’d better warn you, though, that Clay’s let the house go in the last year. He keeps the outside in perfect shape, but he says he can’t spare the help to look after the house. He’s a man who doesn’t care what he eats or where he sleeps. Half the time he’ll sleep under a tree out in the fields rather than ride back to the house.”
Once inside the house, Janie excused herself, saying she had to get back to the loom house since she was very far behind in her work.
Nicole was glad to take her time studying the house. The bottom floor consisted of four large rooms and two hallways. The center hall contained the wide, carpeted staircase and served as a reception area. A narrow hallway ran between the dining room and the morning room, the outside doorway leading a path to the separate kitchen.
Facing the garden was a drawing room and the morning room. The library and dining room faced away from the river, toward the north.
Making a quick survey of each of the rooms, she decided that whoever had decorated them was a person of taste. They were simple, quiet rooms, each piece of furniture an example of the cabinetmaker’s art. The library was obviously a man’s room, the dark walnut shelves filled with leather-bound books, an enormous walnut desk filling a large part of the room. Two red leather wing chairs sat before the fireplace.
The dining room was done in the Chinese chippendale style, the walls covered in hand-painted textured paper, a delicate design of greenery and gently tinted birds. All the furniture was mahogany.
The drawing room was exquisite. The south windows made the room bright and cheerful. The drapes were dusty rose velvet with the seats of three chairs upholstered in the same fabric. A couch sat perpendicular to the marble fireplace, its fabric of green and rose striped sateen. The walls were covered with paper of the palest rose, a border of darker rose at the top, and a little rosewood desk sat in one corner.
But the morning room was Nicole’s favorite. It was yellow and white. The curtains were of heavy white cotton sprigged with tiny embroidered yellow rosebuds. The walls were painted white. A couch and three chairs were covered in gold and white striped cotton, and against one wall stood a thin-legged cherry spinet, a music stand beside it. A mirror and two gilt candle holders hung above the spinet.
But everything was dirty! The beautiful rooms looked as if no one had entered them in years. The polished surfaces of the wood were dull and dusty, the spinet badly out of tune. The curtains and rugs were choked with dust. It was a shame to see such beauty hidden and neglected.
Standing in the hallway and glancing up the stairs, she meant to explore the whole house but right now couldn’t bear to see more rooms covered in dust and dirt.
With a glance down at the muslin of her dress, she turned toward the narrow hall leading to the kitchen. Perhaps Maggie would have an apron she could borrow and the wash house would have cleaning supplies. She remembered Janie saying Clay didn’t care what he ate. In the milk house she’d seen something that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, or maybe never—an ice cream freezer. Maybe Maggie could spare her some cream and eggs and a child who could turn the crank.
It was quite late when Nicole began to dress for dinner. She slipped on a dress of sapphire blue silk with long, tight sleeves, the bodice cut very low—almost too low, she thought as she looked in the mirror. With one more hopeless attempt to pull the fabric up, she smiled. At least Mr. Armstrong would see her in something that wasn’t torn and dirty.
At a knock on the door, she jumped. A male voice, unmistakably Clay’s, spoke through the closed door. “Could I see you in the library, please?” Instantly, she heard his boots on the hardwood floors, then muffled as he went down the stairs.
Nicole felt strangely nervous at what would be their first real meeting. Straightening her shoulders, remembering her mother’s words that a woman must always stand upright and look whatever fears she had in the face, that courage is as important to a woman as it is to a man, she went downstairs.
The library door was open, the room faintly lighted by the setting sun. Clayton stood behind the desk, a book open in front of him. He was silent, but there was no doubt of his presence.
“Good evening, sir,” Nicole said quietly.
He studied her for a long while before he set the book on the desk. “Please have a seat. I thought we should have a talk about this…situation. Could I offer you something to drink before supper? Dry sherry, maybe?”
“No, thank you. I’m afraid I have very little head for alcohol of any sort,” Nicole said as she took one of the red leather seats across from the desk. For some reason, one of Clay’s eyebrows raised slightly at her words. In the light, she could see him more clearly. He was a solemn man, his mouth drawn too tightly into a straight line, a furrow between his brows making his dark brown eyes look almost unhappy.
Clay poured himself some sherry. “You speak with very little accent.”
“Thank you. I admit, I must sometimes work hard at it. Too often, I still think in French and translate into English.”
“And sometimes you forget to do this?”
She was startled. “Yes, that’s true. When I’m very tired or…angry, I do revert to my native tongue.”
He took a seat behind the desk, opened a leather folder, and removed some papers. “I think we should clear up some business matters. As soon as Janie told me the truth of what happened, I sent a messenger to a family friend—a judge—telling him of the unusual circumstances and asking for his advice.”
Nicole nodded. He hadn’t even waited until he had returned home to start annulment proceedings.