Lost Lady (James River Book 2)

REGAN’S LANGUOROUS, CATLIKE MOOD DISAPPEARED ASTOUNDINGLY quickly the next morning when Travis roughly pulled her out of bed and then dashed a handful of cold water in her face. Gasping for air, she finally managed to open her sleepy eyes just in time to see a towel flying at her.

“Get dressed,” Travis tossed over his shoulder as he jammed clothes, hers included, into the too-full trunk.

Seeing her torn velvet dress further mutilated as he wadded it into a tight little ball, Regan flung herself at him. “Stop that! I will not have you treat my beautiful dress like that,” she said, taking it from him and smoothing it lovingly.

Pulling back, Travis eyed her with interest. “It’s torn anyway. What good is it except for a dust rag?”

“It can be patched,” she said, folding the dress carefully. “I’m very good at mending my own clothes, and, besides, the nap of the velvet will hide the repair work.”

“Since when have rich young English ladies had to patch their own clothes?”

She whirled on him. “I never said I was rich,” she smiled smugly.

“There must be money involved somewhere, or you wouldn’t have been thrown out on your ear.” Eyes twinkling, he caressed her bare buttock. “Or should I say thrown out on your pretty little rear?” Before she could give him the scathing reply he deserved, he smacked her smartly. “Now get dressed before we end up back in bed and the ship leaves without us.”

Thoughtfully, she began to dress; then on impulse she turned back to him. “Do you think I really could tempt you to…to do something?”

Travis had no idea what she was talking about, but the sight of her, half-dressed, the silk making her eyes brilliantly blue, her skin still glowing from last night’s lovemaking and his head still dazzled by it, he felt that she could persuade him to do anything. “Stop tempting me and get dressed. You’ll have months on board ship to play the seductress, but for now there’s work to do.”

Blushing because he’d misunderstood her, Regan concentrated on dressing. Perhaps, she thought dreamily, perhaps this American could be…. Glancing at Travis, tossing boots into the trunk on top of clean white shirts, she smiled. Maybe he could never be a gentleman, but he did have possibilities. Her eyes widened as he locked the trunk, bent, grabbed the leather handle, and rose with it hanging down his back.

“Ready?” he asked, seeming not to notice his enormous burden.

She nodded and preceded him out of the door.

Downstairs, a breakfast the size of which she’d never seen before was hot and waiting for them. “You’ve made me miss more meals than I ever have before in my life,” Travis informed her.

She coolly glanced up at his great height, then pointedly at the thickness of his chest. “Perhaps you could stand to miss a few meals.”

Travis laughed, but a few minutes later she saw him glancing at a mirror as if he were inspecting himself. His reaction made her smile, feeling a touch triumphant.

The food was delicious, and Regan was ravenous. She was pleased to see that Travis’s table manners were quite good, perhaps without the delicacy of Farrell or another gentleman of his quality, but he would pass in decent society.

“Have I grown horns?” Travis asked, teasing.

Ignoring him, she looked back down at her food and wondered at her own lack of spirit. Perhaps it was yesterday’s terrible experience on the docks and Travis’s rescuing of her, but, truthfully, she was beginning to feel some excitement about the idea of going to America. People said that, since the people of America were free, you could get rich there. Maybe she could make her fortune in the primitive country and return to England—and Farrell—in triumph.

Travis’s hand under her chin brought her out of her dream. “Were you leaving me again?” he asked quietly. “Or perhaps planning to murder me in my sleep?”

“Neither. I wouldn’t waste my time.”

Chuckling, Travis stood, offered her his hand, and helped her up. “I think you’re going to do quite well in America. We need more women with your spirit.”

“I thought you considered all American women the epitome of grace and courage.”

“There’s always room for improvement,” he laughed, taking her arm. “Now, stay close to me and you’ll be all right,” he said seriously, his eyes warning her.

She didn’t need a second warning, and as soon as they left the inn she found herself clinging to Travis’s arm. The fishy smell and the noises peculiar to the waterfront hit her hard, and for a moment she was transported back to the time when the men’s hands had clawed at her.

Travis was watching her thoughtfully, aware of the fear in her eyes. He threw the heavy trunk onto the waiting wagon and told the driver which ship to take it to. When it was gone, he turned back to Regan. “There’s only one way to lick a fear, and that is to face it straight on. If you fall off a horse, you have to get right back on immediately.”

Regan barely listened to this confusing bit of advice but instead moved even closer to Travis, her fingers digging into his arm. “Will the carriage be here soon?” she whispered.

“We’re not getting a carriage,” Travis said heartily. “You and I are going to walk to the ship. By the time we get there, you won’t be so afraid. I don’t want you cowering every time we get near a wharf or you smell rotten fish.”

It took several moments for his words to reach her brain. Pulling away from him, she looked up in astonishment. “Is this some sort of American logic? I do not want to walk through this…this place. I demand you get me a carriage.”

“Demand, is it?” Travis smiled. “From what I’ve learned in life, people shouldn’t make demands unless they can carry them through. Are you prepared to walk to the ship by yourself?”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” she whispered.

“No, love,” he said quietly, grasping her hand. “I won’t even leave you in this country alone, much less in this slimy place. Now, come on and smile at me. We’ll walk to the ship, and you’ll see how safe you are with me.”

In spite of her misgivings, Regan soon began to enjoy the walk. Travis pointed to buildings, warehouses, and taverns, and told her a humorous story about a fight he’d seen in one tavern. Before long, she was laughing and had stopped clutching so desperately at his arm. Several sailors lounged against a brick wall and made remarks about her that she couldn’t quite hear but certainly understood the essence of. Calmly, Travis excused himself and went to say a few words to the men. Within seconds they doffed their caps and came to murmur good mornings to Regan and to wish her a pleasant trip.

Bewildered, then as pleased as a cat with cream, she looked up at Travis as she took his arm again.

His eyes bright, he bent and kissed her nose. “Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and we’ll never make it to the ship. We’ll have to stop at one of these inns.”

She looked away from him, but her shoulders went back, her chin up, and she walked as if her feet could hardly touch the ground. And best of all, her fear left her. Her fingertips never left Travis’s arm, but now she knew that even this slight touch was enough to keep her safe. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad being with this great American and having these men, as low as they were, nodding their heads respectfully at her.

Sooner than she wanted to be, they were at the ship, and Regan was awed by the size of it. Weston Manor could have been set on the open deck.

“How do you feel?” Travis asked. “Not scared, are you?”

“No,” she answered honestly, taking a deep breath of the cleansing sea air.

“I didn’t think you would be,” Travis said proudly as he led her up the gangplank.

She didn’t have a chance to see much before he pulled her toward the pointed front end of the ship. There were tangles of rope as big around as her leg, and overhead was a spider web of cables. “Rigging,” Travis murmured as he maneuvered her between sailors and boxes of supplies.

Quickly, he pulled her down narrow, steep stairs and into a little cabin that was neat and tidy. The walls were raised, arched panels, painted in two shades of blue. Against one wall was a large bed, a table was anchored to the middle of the floor, and two chests were on the opposite wall. A skylight and a window gave the room ample light.

“Nothing to say?” Travis asked quietly.

She was surprised at the almost wistful quality in his voice. “It’s very pretty,” she smiled, sitting down on the seat in front of the window. “Is your room as nice?”

Travis grinned. “I’d say it’s exactly as pretty as this one. Now, I want you to stay here while I see to the loading of my supplies.” Pausing at the door, he turned back. “And I’ll go through the passengers and find that seamstress I hired and send her to you. You might want to look through those trunks and decide what you want to make first.” His eyes twinkled. “And I told her to forget the nightgowns, that I had my own way of keeping you warm.”

With that he was gone, and Regan was left to gape in puzzlement at the closed door. Passengers! He’d told the passengers she was to be sleeping with him? Were these passengers American friends of his, people she hoped would someday respect her?

Before she could even contemplate the horror of this new situation, the door opened, and a tall, thin woman entered.

“I knocked, but no one answered,” she said, eyeing Regan with interest. “If you’d rather, I could come back later. It’s just that Travis said there was so much sewing to do, it would take the whole voyage. There’s another woman on the boat—oh, no, Travis said it was a ship. Anyway, I think I can get her to help out. I don’t know if she can do fancy work or not, but she can probably at least do the straight seams.”

The woman was quiet for a moment as she seemed to be contemplating Regan. “Are you all right, Mrs. Stanford? Are you getting seasick, or maybe you’re homesick already?”

“What?” Regan asked blankly. “What did you call me?”

The woman laughed as she moved to sit by Regan. She had lovely eyes, a full, pretty mouth, but in between was a sharp, long nose. “Neither you nor Travis seems used to being married yet. When I asked him if you’d been married long, he looked at me like he didn’t think I was talkin’ to him. That’s a man for you! It takes them ten years before they admit they’ve given up their freedom.” Glancing about the room, she didn’t stop talking. “But if you ask me, marriage was made for men; they just get another slave when they get a wife. Now!” she said abruptly. “Where are your new clothes? I reckon we’d best get started.”

There were about a hundred thoughts whirling together in Regan’s head, all of them confusing. In the turmoil of the last few days she’d completely forgotten about the clothes.

The woman patted Regan’s hand sympathetically. “I guess with you being a new bride with a husband like Travis and all, and going to a new country, it’s just too much for you. Maybe I should come back later.”

New bride, Regan thought. She was a bride in a way. At least it was pleasant to imagine that she was a bride rather than facing up to the reality of the situation.

The woman was already at the door before Regan recovered herself. “Wait! Don’t leave. I don’t know where the clothes are. No, Travis said they were in the trunks.”

Grinning broadly, the woman held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Trumbull, and I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Stanford.”

“Oh yes!” Regan sighed, liking this woman very much in spite of her extraordinary manipulation of the English language.

Sarah was on her knees in seconds as she threw open the lid to the first trunk. Perhaps the best indication of her admiration was her complete silence as she gazed down at the riot of colors and soft, silken, finely woven fabrics. “These must have set Travis back a bit of gold,” she finally managed to whisper.

A sharp wave of guilt passed over Regan as she remembered how she’d purposely chosen many more clothes than she needed just to embarrass Travis when he found he could not pay the bill. Yet, obviously, he had paid the bill, and she wondered how much it had cost him—mortgages perhaps, selling what he owned?

“You’re looking a little green again. Are you sure the ship’s rolling isn’t bothering you?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“Good,” Sarah said, looking back at the trunk. “Travis wasn’t exaggerating when he said this was going to take months. You think that other trunk is as full as this one?”

Swallowing hard, Regan glanced at the closed lid. “I’m afraid so.”

“Afraid!” Sarah laughed, pulling a leather portfolio from the trunk. “Look at this!” she said, emptying it onto her lap. Several pieces of heavy paper fell out, and on each one were four delicate watercolors of women’s gowns. “These the dresses you picked out?”

Taking them, Regan smiled. They were beautiful dresses, and the sketches themselves were works of art. As Sarah and Regan began exploring, they found that each dress and coat had been carefully cut, and the trims for the particular garments were wrapped inside.

“It looks like I have my work cut out for me,” Sarah said, then laughed at her own pun. Gathering drawings and fabrics, she said she’d like to get started, and as abruptly as she had appeared she left the cabin.

For a few moments, Regan sat alone on the window seat, looking at the cabin and wondering what adventures were ahead of her. She thought of Farrell and wished he knew she was on a ship bound for America and that a wardrobe fit for a princess was being sewn for her.

She had no idea how long she sat immobile on the seat, but gradually she became aware of the sounds outside her door. For all of her life she’d been forced to stay in a very small area, and the only living she could do was inside her head. Now she realized that she was free to see and do things, that the door to her cabin was not locked, and all she had to do was walk up some stairs and she’d be on the deck of an actual ship.

Taking a deep breath, feeling like a bird let out of a cage, she left the cabin, standing for a moment at the bottom of the dark stairwell. When a door next to her opened, she jumped in surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” came a polite male voice. “I had no idea anyone was here.” When Regan didn’t answer, he continued, “Perhaps I should introduce myself since it looks as though we’re to be neighbors. Or am I being too presumptuous? Maybe the captain could do the honors.”

The young man’s formal manners were a welcome relief after the last few days’ complete suspension of anything resembling courtesy. “We will be neighbors,” she smiled, “so perhaps just this once we can suspend formalities.”

“Then allow me to present myself. I am David Wainwright.”

“And I am Regan Alena…Stanford,” she said as an afterthought, not wanting to reveal her true identity or let this man know the truth about her relationship with Travis.

Gently, he shook her hand, then asked if she’d accompany him up to the upper deck. “I believe they’re still loading. It may afford us some amusement to see these Americans among themselves, though I confess I sometimes have difficulty understanding their dialect.”

The sun was warm and bright on the deck, and Regan caught the feeling of excitement as people rushed around her everywhere. They emerged at the base of the quarterdeck, a partial additional deck at the fore end of the ship. Soon realizing they were in the way, she and David climbed the stairs to the top of the quarterdeck. Here they had a good, high view of the activities on the rest of the ship as well as on the wharf. And here, too, she had a view of David Wainwright. He was a small man with a plain face topped with straw-colored hair. His clothes were of good wool, his cravat perfectly white, and his slim feet were encased in soft kid slippers. He was the type of gentleman she’d always known—his hands made for the keys of a piano or to idly twirl a snifter of brandy. Looking at his long, slim fingers, she thought with disgust that an uncouth man such as Travis would probably hit two keys at once with his big fingers. Of course, she had to admit that those wide fingers sometimes hit the right chords.

As her lips curved in a secret smile, she looked away from David, who was explaining why he was going to such a heathen place as America, and searched for Travis.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to be traveling with an English lady,” David was saying. “When my father suggested I go and see to his holdings in that wilderness, I dreaded the journey. I’ve heard more than my share of stories about the place, and as if that weren’t enough, just meeting a single American can turn one against the country. Look at that!” he gasped. “That is just what I was speaking of.”

Below them, two sailors dropped the burdens they were carrying to the center of the deck, where another man carried them downstairs, and began shoving each other. Within seconds, one swung his fist at the other’s jaw and missed, but before he could strike again the second man slammed his fist into the first’s nose. Blood seemed to gush forth instantly, and the hurt, angry man began to swing wildly.

Out of nowhere, Travis appeared, grabbed the much smaller men by the backs of their shirt collars, and lifted them from the deck. There was no difficulty in hearing Travis as he told the sailors what he thought of their behavior and what he promised to do if they gave him any more trouble. Shaking them like puppies, he tossed them aside, told them to get cleaned up and return to work, as he carried both their bundles to the waiting sailor.

“That is an example of what I mean,” David said. “Those Americans have no discipline. This is an English ship with an English captain, yet that…that American lout thinks he has every right to enforce his will over the crew. And besides, the men should not have been let off so lightly. Their bad conduct should be made an example of. Every captain knows that the only way to stop insubordination is at the very outset of it.”

Regan agreed with him, of course. She’d heard her uncle say the same sort of thing many times, but the way Travis had handled the angry men seemed to her efficient and sensible. Frowning, she was puzzled by her thoughts, wondering who was actually right.

Her mind on other things, she did not at first see Travis waving at her.

“I believe that man is trying to get your attention,” David said, half in disgust, half in disbelief.

Trying to be sophisticated, Regan gave Travis a polite return wave before looking away from him. She had no desire to make a spectacle of herself as he had just done.

“I don’t think he was satisfied,” David said wonderingly. “He now seems to be coming this way. Perhaps I should get the captain.”

“No!” Regan gasped, her eyes turning to Travis and smiling in spite of herself.

“Did you miss me?” Travis laughed, sweeping her into his arms and swirling her around once.

“Let me down!” she said angrily, but her voice did not agree with the pleasure on her face. “You smell like a gardener.”

“And what would you know of the smell of a gardener?” he teased.

From behind her, David cleared his throat noisily.

Blushing, Regan managed to push Travis’s hands away from her. “Mr. Wainwright, this is Travis Stanford.” Her eyes looked up pleadingly at him. “My…husband,” she whispered.

Travis’s eyes didn’t flicker. Actually, his smile seemed to grow warmer as he thrust out his hand, enveloping David’s slim, smooth one. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Wainwright. Did you know my wife in England?”

How smoothly he said the lie! she thought. Yet how kind of him to save her honor this way. She would have thought he’d laugh at her, as he did so often.

“No, we just met,” David said quietly, looking from one to the other, seeing Travis’s possessive arm about Regan’s small shoulders, seeing a refined, elegant English lady in the grasp of a half-savage, mannerless, working-class man. He very much wanted to wipe his palm where Travis had touched him.

If Travis saw the delicate curl of the small man’s upper lip, he did not show it, and Regan was too busy trying to regain some of her dignity by pushing Travis’s hand away.

“I was hoping you’d known her before,” Travis said, and ignored Regan’s look because his words had an odd ring to them, almost as if he wasn’t telling the truth. “I have to get back to work, love,” he smiled. “You stay up here and away from the lower deck, you understand?” He didn’t wait for her to answer but turned to appraise Wainwright. “I trust I may leave her with you?” he said politely, formally, but at the same time he gave the impression that he was laughing. Regan very much wanted to kick him.

Swiftly, he turned and bounded down the stairs, leaving Regan to wonder if he were jealous. Perhaps Travis was worried that he couldn’t compete with a gentleman of Mr. Wainwright’s quality.