Ryder stopped him with a look and a simple, "I'm helping her. Come here and hold her hand."
Jeremy clutched Sophie's hand until finally Ryder was satisfied that he'd done all he could. He lifted her feet out of the alcohol and swung them back onto the bed. "Now, we're not going to do anything for the moment, just keep them on top of this clean towel. No walking or I'll thrash you and I daresay Jeremy will help me."
"Yes, Sophie, don't you move. How could you? Coco took care of your feet last night. What did you do?"
"I'm your sister," she said, her voice so raw and hoarse that she was barely understandable. Jeremy didn't understand but Ryder did, and he did sympathize. He was no relation whatsoever to Jeremy, yet Jeremy was perfectly willing and ready to obey him, not her. He leaned down and patted her white cheek. "Jeremy will visit with you for a while. Keep an eye on her, my boy, and don't let her move except to relieve herself. You're in charge, Jeremy. Don't let me down."
"Oh no, sir."
Ryder gave her a small salute. He gave Jeremy a wink, and left.
CHAPTER
9
HE SHOOK HIS head and shook it again. He simply couldn't get over her feet. She'd obviously walked somewhere—certainly a farther distance than to the chamber pot—and it had been only a short time before, for the blood on the bandages was quite fresh.
Then he knew, of course. She'd seen or heard Sherman Cole arrive and she'd been terrified. She'd come down and doubtless listened at the door.
His jaw tightened when he remembered his words about her to Sherman Cole and the man's words about her. Ryder's had been the more damning because she'd come to trust him, at least with Jeremy. He'd given her a clout that was both unexpected and beyond cruel. Ryder realized he was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, simply standing there, doing nothing, looking at nothing in particular when James said, "Suh, you need something?"
"No, James. Was Miss Stanton-Greville downstairs a few moments ago?"
"Yes, suh, she was. In old Mr. Grayson's nightshirt, her hair all wild, that ancient nightshirt flapping around her poor bandaged feet."
"Thank you, James."
"Yes, suh. Ah, suh, will dat Thomas get his neck stretched out?"
"I hope so, I surely do."
Ryder walked out onto the veranda. He saw Emile riding up and waved him down.
"Camille Hall is running as smoothly as I can make it at the moment," Emile said as he dismounted his horse. "The inside smells revolting still but the slaves are working hard scrubbing away the soot and grime. I left Clayton, one of our bookkeepers, over there to meet with the Camille Hall bookkeepers and the head drivers. He's a sharp fellow and a good organizer. He will keep everyone working. I will return this afternoon to see what they've accomplished."
"No sign of Thomas?"
"Nary a shadow. I directed the grizzly job of getting Burgess buried. His body had simply been overlooked, if you can believe that. Jesus, Ryder, it was a mess. At least it's done and over with. How are Jeremy and Sophie?"
"They're fine. Keep an eye out, Emile."
"Certainly. Where are you going?"
"To Camille Hall. Sophie and Jeremy need clothes."
Emile frowned after him.
Clayton was a vigorous, harshly tanned, wiry little man who seemed to be moving even when he was standing still. He met Ryder at the door and began talking nonstop.
Ryder listened carefully to the man as he studied the great house, mentally noting what would have to be done, then dismissed Clayton and made his way upstairs. A giggling young girl with her hair wrapped in a colorful scarf showed him to Sophie's bedchamber. Her name, she pertly informed him with a sloe-eyed smile, was Dorsey. Sophie's bedchamber adjoined her uncle's. He looked over at that adjoining door and imagined it opening and Theo walking in, a whip in his hand.
He opened the armoire doors and saw at least half a dozen of the most garish gowns he'd ever beheld. All silks and satins, the colors too brilliant, all gowns much too old for her, gowns shrieking that she was a woman who knew men and would make a man scream with pleasure. There was nothing else hanging in the armoire save those utterly repulsive gowns.
In the drawers beneath, however, he found gowns that he could well imagine her wearing—soft pastels, light muslins. There were also her underthings—all well sewn and beautifully embroidered, but not what a whore would wear, all lawn, cotton, and linen, no silk, no satin. He shook out a nightgown and held it up. It was batiste, white, and looked as if it would be worn by a little girl.
He made a pile of clothing he would take back to Kimberly. He did the same thing in Jeremy's room.
All the clothes would be delivered in the early afternoon.