“WHO ELSE LIVES HERE?” REGAN ASKED NICOLE.
“Quite a few people, really. There are field workers, weavers, the dairy people, gardeners—all the people needed to run a plantation.”
“Plantation.” Regan whispered the strange word. They were entering a long row of box hedges, and her view of the buildings around them was obscured. “Travis said you were going to have a baby, and the children said something about two babies.”
A lovely smile crossed Nicole’s face. “Twins seem to run in Clay’s family, and four months ago I had two boys. Come inside, and I’ll gladly show them to you.”
Looming above them was a large brick house, about the same size as Weston Manor. Regan hoped shock wasn’t showing on her face. Of course there were wealthy people in America too, and of course some of them would have mansions. It was just that in England people spoke of America as being so young that there hadn’t been time to really build much of anything.
Inside the house, the rooms were startlingly lovely, large, spacious, the furniture upholstered in silk, the wallpaper hand-painted, portraits on the walls. Fresh-cut flowers graced tables and desks.
“Shall we go into the drawing room? I’ll bring the children down.”
Left alone in this room, Regan was further amazed at the elegance of it. A Sheraton desk with delicate inlay was against one wall, a gold-framed mirror above it. Facing it was a tall cabinet of leather-bound books.
She’d only known Weston Manor, and by comparison the English house was shabby and poor. Here everything sparkled with cleanliness and care. There was no chipped woodwork, worn upholstery, or scuffed surfaces.
Her attention left the room’s furnishings when Nicole returned, a baby in each arm. At first Regan was afraid to hold either one of the children, but Nicole persuaded her she could do it. Within moments Regan had the little boy smiling and cooing back at her, hardly noticing when Travis entered and sat beside her on the sofa. They were alone in the room.
“Think we could make two at a time?” he asked quietly, taking the baby’s hand and letting him grip his finger.
The expression on Travis’s face as he watched the baby was one of joy. “You really want a child, don’t you?” she asked.
“For a long time,” he said seriously, then added with his usual bluntness, “I never much wanted a wife, but I could surround myself with children.”
Frowning, Regan wanted to ask him why he’d saddled himself with a wife now, but she knew the answer. He wanted the child she carried. Later she would show him that she was of more use than for breeding stock. Together they’d work and build up his farm. Perhaps it would never be as nice as the Armstrong plantation, but someday it could be very comfortable.
“What do you think, Travis?” Clay asked from the doorway, his chest expanded several inches in pride, Mandy by his side, Alex behind him, and the second baby in the crook of his arm. Regan thought he looked as happy as anyone alive.
“Clay,” Travis began. “How did those new cows work out? And did you have any mold on last year’s hay?”
As the two men seemed to want to talk business and both of them were happy with the babies, Regan handed Travis the baby she held and stood up. Travis showed no qualms about taking the child, unlike Regan who’d been afraid she’d drop him. “I think I’ll find Nicole,” she said, and Clay gave her directions to the kitchen. Outside the room she heard Clay say, “She’s prettier than I ever thought you could get,” to which Travis only snorted.
Her head held high, she went through the flower-bedecked hallway and out the back door, turned left, and headed for the kitchen, which was in a separate building. Inside the big room everyone was bustling about, and Nicole, her arms covered in flour, was directing all of it. When a young girl accidentally dropped a basket of eggs, shells and all, into a bowl of batter, it didn’t upset Nicole at all. Two children, dressed plainly but cleanly, ran through the building, and Nicole just caught a pail of milk before it overturned. Even as she righted it, she looked up, saw Regan, and smiled warmly.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she came forward. “I’m sorry I had to leave you, but I wanted to see that a nice supper was prepared for you.”
“Is it always like this?” Regan asked, half in horror.
“Most of the time. There are an awful lot of people to feed.” She started to untie her apron. “I need to cut some herbs, and maybe you’d like a little tour before supper. If you’re not too tired.”
“I slept most of the way here,” Regan smiled. “And I’d love to see the…the plantation.”
Later, Regan didn’t believe anything could have prepared her for what Nicole showed her. A man hitched a two-wheel wagon for them, and Nicole drove them about the plantation, pointing out each of the dependencies. Regan had been right in her first estimation. The plantation was a village of sorts, but all owned by one man. Nearly everything needed for living was made, grown, or caught on the plantation. Nicole pointed out the dairy, dovecote, loom house, stables, tannery, and carpenter shop, and around the kitchen was a smokehouse, malt house, and wash house. Nicole showed her the acres and acres of fields planted with cotton, flax, wheat, and tobacco. And across the river was a mill where their grain was ground. Cattle, sheep, and horses grazed in separate areas.
“And you manage all of this?” Regan asked in wonder.
“Clay helps some, too,” Nicole laughed, “but, yes, it takes a lot of work. We don’t get away much, but then we don’t have to since everything we could ever want is right here.”
“You’re very happy, aren’t you?”
“I am now,” Nicole answered. “But it hasn’t always been easy.” Her eyes went to the mill across the river. “Clay and Travis have been friends since they were boys, and I hope we’ll be friends too.”
“I have never had a girlfriend,” Regan said, looking at this woman who was the same small size she was. They had no idea what a striking pair they made, Nicole with her black hair, and Regan’s dark brown with its red-gold highlights.
“Neither have I,” Nicole said. “Not a real girlfriend I could talk to and confide in.” With a smile she flicked the reins, and the horse started to move. “Someday, when we have a lot of time, I’ll tell you how I met Clay.”
Blushing, Regan thought that she could never, never tell anyone how she met Travis. For one thing, no one would believe her story.
“I’m hungry. How about you?” Nicole asked. “And I can feel that those babies of mine are about to starve.”
“And without a doubt Travis is hungry,” Regan laughed.
“Is she as young as she looks?” Clay asked, jostling his son on his arm and looking through the window at Nicole and Regan pulling away from the house in the buggy.
“Would you believe I don’t know how old she is? And that is one question I’m afraid to ask. It’d be my luck that she’d turn out to be sixteen.”
“Travis, what on earth are you talking about? How did you meet her? Couldn’t you have found out from her parents how old she was?”
Travis had no intention of telling the story to anyone. Years ago, when Clay’s older brother James was alive, he might have confided in him, but now he couldn’t bring himself to tell of kidnapping his wife.
Clay seemed to understand, for there were things he didn’t want to tell about himself—and what had gone on between him and Nicole. “Is she always so quiet? I don’t mean to pry, but the two of you seem an incongruous pair.”
“She can hold her own,” Travis smiled, eyes twinkling. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what she’s like. She seems to change every minute. One moment she’s a little girl with dreams of romance, and the next she’s….” His voice trailed off as he remembered early this morning, her lips moving up his inner thigh. “Whatever she is, I find her fascinating.”
“And what about Margo? I don’t believe she’s going to be too happy to welcome your little wife.”
“I can handle Margo,” Travis said in dismissal.
Old memories, only half-healed, clouded Clay’s eyes. “Watch her with your wife. A woman like Margo eats sweet little things like Regan for breakfast. I know,” he added softly.
“Margo can’t do a damned thing, and I’ll let her know it. I’ll be around to protect my wife, and Regan ought to know what I feel about her. I married her, didn’t I?”
Clay didn’t say any more. There was a time when people had given him advice, but he hadn’t listened, and he knew how easily marriage vows could be made—and just as easily broken.
That night, as Regan slipped into the canopied bed beside her husband, she told him some of her impressions of the day. “I never knew anything like this existed. It’s as if Clay and Nicole were the sole owners of an entire town.”
He pulled her close to him. “Then you like our plantation system?” he murmured, relaxing into sleep.
“Of course, but I am glad there aren’t many of them. I don’t see how Nicole can run a place this size. Thank heavens you are just a poor farmer.”
When she received no reply, she looked over at Travis and saw that he was asleep. Smiling, she snuggled closer to him and drifted into a quiet, gentle sleep.
The next morning parting was surprisingly difficult as they all stood on the wharf and said goodbye. Nicole promised to visit Regan very soon and to give her any help she could. Clay and Travis exchanged comments about this year’s crops, and then all too soon they were climbing into the little boat and heading upriver.
Regan found she was very excited about seeing the place where Travis lived and wondered if it could possibly be as big and wild and crude as he was. She hoped she could refine his home as she wanted to refine him.
After a while of slow, easy sailing, they came to another break in the trees. An enormous wharf with more ships could be seen in the distance.
“This isn’t another plantation, is it?” she asked, moving to stand beside Travis. This looked many times larger than Clay’s place, so surely this was a town.
“It certainly is!” Travis said with a big smile.
“Do you know the owners of this place?” As they sailed nearer she could see that this plantation looked like a blown-up version of Clay’s. By the wharf was a building as large as Clay’s house. “What is that?” she pointed.
“It’s the ship’s store and the warehouse. The captains can replace sails and damaged gear at the store, and goods waiting transport are stored in the warehouse. The assessor’s house is that smaller building.”
There were three small craft tied at the wharf, two barges, and four shallops as Travis called them. To her bewilderment Travis steered the little boat to this wharf.
“I thought we were going home,” she said in consternation. “Do you want to see friends here?”
Travis leaped onto the wharf and pulled her up before she could say another word. Taking her chin in his warm hand, he lifted her face to meet his. “This,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers, “is my plantation.”
For a moment she was too stunned to speak. “All…all of it?” she whispered.
“Every blade of grass. Now come on and let me show you your new home.”
Those were the last words they were allowed each other before a mob of people descended on them. Shouts of “Travis!” and “Mr. Stanford!” echoed from one building to another. Travis never released Regan’s hand as he shook hands with what seemed like hundreds of people who came running from every corner of the plantation. And he introduced her to every person, saying this man was head carpenter, this one the second assistant gardener, this woman third upstairs maid. On and on the list went, and all Regan could do was to stand and nod at them while her mind kept repeating, They are all employees. They all work for Travis—and for me.
Somewhere during all the introducing, Travis declared the day a holiday, and before long the field hands were coming to greet Travis too. Great, thick, muscle-bound men came laughing and smiling, teasing Travis that he’d probably gotten soft while he was away. A swift wave of pride shot through Regan as she saw that none of the men was any more muscular than her husband.
As they started walking away from the river, greeting people along the way, some of the employees began asking questions. It seemed that half the plantation was falling apart.
“Where’s Wes?” Travis demanded, walking so fast Regan was nearly running.
“Your Uncle Thomas died in Boston, and Wes had to go to straighten out his affairs,” said a man who was an overseer.
“And what about Margo?” Travis frowned. “She could have handled some of these problems.”
“About twenty of her cows are down with some sort of disease,” the man answered.
“Travis,” said a sturdy, red-haired woman. “Three of the looms are down, and every time I tell a man to fix them he says it’s not his job.”
“And Travis,” another woman said. “The Backes have some new chickens from the East. Could you authorize some money to buy some?”
“Travis,” said a man smoking a pipe. “Something’s got to be done about that smallest sloop. Either it has to be repaired or scrapped.”
Suddenly, Travis stopped and held up his hands. “All of you stop right here. Tomorrow I’ll answer all your questions. No!” he said, his eyes lighting and reaching for Regan’s hand. “I have a wife, and tomorrow she’ll take over the women’s duties. Carolyn, you ask her about the looms, and Susan, you ask my wife about chickens. I’m sure she knows more about them than I do.”
Regan was glad Travis was holding her hand, because otherwise she might have turned and run away. What did she know about looms and chickens?
“Now,” Travis continued. “I plan to show my bride my house, and if I get asked one more question today I will call off the holiday,” he said in mock fierceness.
If Regan hadn’t been so depressed, she would have laughed at the speed with which the people left them, all except for one old man standing quietly in the background.
“This is Elias,” Travis said with pride. “He’s the best gardener in Virginia.”
“I brought something for your new missus,” Elias replied, and held out a flower such as Regan had never seen before. It was a shade of purple that was at once bright and soft. The center was a sort of frilled horn with large tear-shaped petals behind it.
Putting out her hand, she was almost afraid to touch it.
“It’s an orchid, ma’am,” said Elias. “The first Mrs. Stanford had them brought to her whenever the captains went to the South Seas. Maybe you would like to see the glasshouses when you have time.”
“Yes,” she answered, wondering if this place of Travis’s did without anything. After thanking him, she followed Travis as he kept walking away from the river, and for the first time she noticed the tall, sprawling brick house rising before them. Even from this distance it looked as if you could put Weston Manor and Clay’s Arundel Hall in one wing.
Travis was proudly bragging about the house he obviously loved, telling her how his grandfather had built it and how all the Stanfords loved it. But with each step Regan’s fear grew. Nicole’s responsibilities had seemed overwhelming, but now she was wishing she was going to be living in a small place like that. How was she going to manage this monstrous house, let alone the other duties Travis seemed to expect of her?
The house, when they reached it, was larger than it seemed. A massive square center section of brick, four and a half stories high, towered over her, with two L-shaped wings radiating to each side. Travis led her up wide stone stairs to the first floor and once inside began the hurried tour of his extensive house.
He took her through a blue room, a green room, a red room, and a white room and showed her the schoolroom and housekeeper’s room. Storage rooms were as large as her bedroom at Weston Manor.
With each room—each exquisitely furnished, beautiful room—Regan’s fear climbed higher in her throat. How could she possibly manage a place the size of this?
Just when she thought she’d seen every room a house could contain, Travis half-dragged her up the east stairs. The rooms on this second, main floor put the ones below to shame. There was a dining room with an attached parlor for ladies’ teas, another parlor for the family, a library for the men, two more sitting rooms for whatever anyone wanted them for, and an enormous bedroom with an attached nursery.
“Ours,” Travis said, before pulling her into the ballroom.
Here, Regan was stunned. She’d said very little since they’d entered the house, but now she felt her legs give way under her. Collapsing onto a sofa in the corner, she stared in awed silence.
If nothing else, the sheer size of the room would have been overwhelming. Seventeen-foot-high ceilings made one feel small, insignificant. The walls were paneled, painted the palest blue, and the oak floors were polished to a gleam. There seemed to be a great many pieces of furniture—six couches covered in rose-brocaded satin, innumerable chairs with seats upholstered to match, a harp, a pianoforte, and numerous tables—but they were all set about the border, leaving the floor open, covered in a long rug from the Orient.
“Of course we roll up the rug when we have parties,” Travis said proudly. “Maybe you’d like to give a party. We could invite a couple of hundred people to spend the night, and you and Malvina—she’s the cook—could plan all the food. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
It was all much too much. Tears in her eyes, her stomach aching, Regan ran through the ballroom toward the opposite door. She had no idea how to even get out of the house as she ran down a long passageway, finally opened a door, and fled into a lovely, small, blue and white room. She couldn’t even remember all the names of the rooms, much less where they were.
Flinging herself to the floor, her head in her arms on the seat of a blue and white couch, she began to cry. How could he do this to her? How could he not have told her?
Within seconds Travis was beside her, pulling her into his arms as he sat on the couch. “Why are you crying?” he asked in a voice of such longing and hurt that she began to cry harder.
“You’re rich!” she blurted, tears closing her throat.
“You’re crying because I’m rich?” he asked in astonishment.
Even as she tried to explain, she was sure he’d never, never understand. Travis was so sure he did everything right; it had never occurred to him to doubt that he could accomplish anything. He didn’t know what it was like to be useless. Now he expected her to manage the house, the dependencies, servants, and, by the by, give a party for a couple of hundred friends.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” Travis said, handing her his handkerchief. “You surely can’t be angry because I’m not some poor farmer.”
“How…,” she sobbed. “How can I…? I’ve never even seen a loom!”
It took Travis a moment to piece that together. “You don’t have to do the weaving; just tell someone else to do it. The women will bring their problems to you, and you’ll fix them,” he said. “It’s all very simple.”
She would never make him understand! Jumping out of his arms and off his lap, she ran from the room, down the passage, back into the ballroom, through it, and into another passage, until at last she found their bedroom and collapsed on the bed in a flurry of muslin dress and petticoats.
Even over her sobs she could hear Travis’s slow, heavy footsteps as he approached. Pausing at the doorway, he seemed to study her for a moment before deciding that she needed to be left alone. As his steps retreated she began to cry harder.
Hours later, a maid, softly knocking on the door, asked her what she would like for supper. When she nearly replied “Yorkshire pudding,” Regan realized she didn’t even know what foods were available in America. Finally, she told the girl she didn’t feel like eating and to please go away. Perhaps she could stay forever in this room and never have to face the outside world.
