Chapter Two

Derek rose from the chair in the sitting room and poured a brandy. An alluring scent of jasmine lingered in the air, growing fainter with every passing moment. He reflected on the lissome woman that had graced the room moments ago. She wasn't an illusion of beauty, she embodied it. Her alabaster skin, delicate features, and a much too kissable mouth lingered in his mind. Almond-shaped eyes—the color of pine needles—had studied him. Tall for a woman and reed-thin, with a line of feminine curves in all the right places, Raine Brinsley exuded sensuality. Mahogany hair had glistened beneath a splash of sunlight pouring through the window. He imagined if she freed the ribbon at her nape, the long tresses would fall to her waist.

A proud aura enveloped her, despite the recent events that had reduced her to servitude. Admirable qualities. Although in command of her tongue, his intense gaze brought a rush of color to her cheeks. An enormous amount of sadness over the death of her parents resided in her eyes, yet something told him she wouldn't collapse under her pain and grief.

His carnal thoughts during the interview unsettled him. He pictured her in his bed, all soft skin and long limbs. Commissioned by his blasted solicitor to offer her employment, he thought of other things he'd like to offer. Not one chivalrous or decent.

In any event, the girl wasn't a servant, had never been. Through a tragic turn of events had she become one? He couldn't believe he'd offered her a serving position in the manor. Although she seemed grateful, she deserved far better.

He sipped his brandy and settled into the chair again with a sigh. Like the orphan who left moments ago, the strain from the last several months, or should he say, last several years had worn him to a frazzle. He had his own issues to deal with, couldn't afford to take on the troubles of a stranger with his entire future on the line. Life might have dealt her a harsh blow, but she would have to come to terms with it.

He loathed the thought of getting involved with a woman again in a committed sense. Pity, that, but at the young age of twenty-six, he had reached his tolerance limit for wedded bliss. In spite of his father's dogmatic bidding on matrimony, the man would not control this area of his life ever again.

Derek finished his brandy, left the house and headed for the barn. The horses and mules were huddled together near the door awaiting their fodder. He would saddle the russet mare and take a brisk ride through the countryside before the noontime meal. Perhaps it would help release the pent-up tension he'd felt for weeks. Hell, maybe a long ride would dispel the throbbing ache in his groin too.

* * *

The following morning, Raine dragged herself from bed when the first ray of sunlight streamed through her window. An icy-chill had settled over the room, or perhaps had been there throughout the night. In any event, she had promised Crete she would be in the kitchen by seven and she couldn't afford to start on the wrong foot.

She donned the gray shift and white apron Crete issued last night and then wrinkled her nose at the white lacy cap on her nightstand. She had to accept her new station in life, but she didn't have to call attention to it with the ridiculous head covering. The light woolen stockings went on, and next, the one pair of shoes she owned.

With a glance in the mirror, she deemed herself presentable and then turned to scan the bedchamber under full light. Her room sat down the hall from Derek Stafford's bedchamber. She imagined he insisted on the location to appease his guilt over the accident. Servants never occupied the same floor as the lord of the manor, but she wouldn't argue the point. She didn't plan to be here long, had more important issues to deal with.

She liked the room. A four-poster bed and a colorful patchwork quilt anchored the small space. To the left of the bed, a sturdy armoire rested against the wall, to the right a night table. A lone slat chair sat beneath the lone window in the room, a match to a nearby desk. A braided rug covered most of the floor and a large stone hearth overpowered the other furnishings. She walked to the fireplace. Free of ashes and soot, the room hadn't been occupied in eons. Although not as spacious as her bedchamber at home, it would suit her needs.

As she walked to the door, an arctic draft settled over the room, scattering her breath. The window remained closed, the draperies still. The hairs at the nape of her neck rose. Someone had entered the room. She felt a presence, whether friendly or hostile she didn't know.

Grandfather had told her about spirits, nebulous apparitions caught between this world and the next, but she'd never sensed the nearness of one. Until now. As fast as it had entered, the chill evaporated. Whatever had occupied the room had fled. A shiver ran down her spine. With a hand on the doorknob, she made a mental note to ask Crete this morning about prior occupants. Something or someone had announced their presence, and it would do her little good to ignore the message.

Moments later, Raine entered the kitchen, joined Henry and Crete at the table, and nodded her thanks for the hot coffee awaiting her.

"After breakfast, we'll go over a list of duties for the day," Crete said with a smile.

Raine added a heavy dollop of cream to her coffee. "Mister Stafford asked me to remove the black crepe around the doorways, inside and out."

"It's about time." Crete rolled her eyes. "He also wants you to remove all of Mistress Lucinda's clothes from the master bedchamber."

"Me?" she asked with raised brow.

"I ken help ya, Missy," Henry said. "I tote the trunks upstairs and then to the attic when ya done."

"I can't do it," Crete interjected. Too many sad memories."

"I understand. Of course I'll take care of it."

How she wanted to ask Crete about prior residents of the bedchamber, but the sorrowful look in the woman's eyes crushed the words on her tongue. Perhaps later the right occasion would arrive.

After breakfast, Raine headed for the stairwell leading to the second level of the manor. Midway, she passed Derek as he bounded his way down the massive stairs. "Good morning," she said, trying to keep her eyes averted. An impossible task.

This morning, dark brown riding pants hugged his muscular legs. The open-necked, white cotton shirt contrasted with his tanned skin. Her heart fluttered, like it had yesterday when the ocean-blue eyes raked her over in the sitting room. The man oozed virility, pure male masculinity. Silly, silly girl. Keep your mind on the task awaiting you and your eyes straight ahead.

"Morning, Raine." With a scant glance in her direction, he seemed preoccupied as he continued about his merry way.

Raine entered the master bedchamber, her thoughts still on Derek. She'd encountered many handsome men in Camden. Not one measured up to the owner of Stafford House.

She walked to the bed and pulled the sheets from the mattress, tossing them into a heap near her feet. Curiosity compelled her to take in the elegant room. Like the sitting room on the main floor, a feminine hand had been at work here. Crystal vases, stuffed with wisteria and angelica were scattered throughout the room. Porcelain figurines graced a curio in one corner. An impressive grandfather clock leaned against one wall, centered between a pair of oak chiffoniers, sans mirrors. One must have been Lucinda's, the other Derek's. A tapestry settee and a pair of overstuffed chairs with a short oak table rested before the hearth.

She opened the door to the first armoire, men's clothing. The second held an assortment of dresses—black print silks, embroidered creams, various floral prints trimmed in fancy lace, a black moiré taffeta and a forest green, silk dupioni. She'd thumbed through enough catalogs to know they came from the finest millinery shops in Virginia.

She ran her fingers down the length of the silk dupioni and a powerful current coursed through her veins. She withdrew her hand with a gasp and recognized the same chill snaking down her spine. An overpowering sensation of a woman's presence enveloped her.

"Lucinda," she whispered.

Derek's wife might have passed on, but her spirit lurked in every nook and cranny of Stafford House.

* * *

The bottom drawer of the chest held a Bible, an exact replica of the one on the nightstand. Raine flipped through the pages and discovered numerous passages marked by small check marks. She didn't think the Bibles belonged to Derek, but couldn't pack them away without his permission.

Turning her attention to the bureau again, she removed the fancy dresses and stacked them on the bed. The top drawer held an assortment of lace gloves, hatpins, linen handkerchiefs, and ...another Bible. Her curiosity piqued, she opened the book to Psalms and read aloud the marked passage. "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart."

Raine jumped at the sound of Henry's voice. "You gonna find more. We gots more Bibles at Stafford House than bed bugs."

"Did they belong to Mistress Stafford?"

Henry nodded. "They done soothe her troubled mind." He placed a large trunk on the floor near the bed. "You can start with this one, and I bring another soon."

"Very well, thank you, Henry."

She wanted to ask him about the troubled mind reference but he scurried from the room before she had a chance. A calculated maneuver on his part she thought. She didn't blame the man. Servants had been schooled for decades to work diligently, and do so with their eyes closed, their mouths shut.

Raine walked to the window and soaked up the warmth of the sun. From this vantage point, the view of the property stole her breath. White, pink and purple crepe myrtles dotted the landscape, perfect companions to the profuse blossoms in the massive flower garden. A short time from now, the blooms would drop from their wilted stems, and the leaves on the Virginia willows and myrtles would blanket the ground.

The murky river bordering the rear yard didn't compare to the beauty of the ocean in Maine, but the overall effect was stunning. Raine closed her eyes and attempted to commit the tranquil scene to memory. If she could bottle the peace it exuded, she might make it through the sorrow and loneliness in the days ahead.

A chair creaked in the room, jolting her from her morose thoughts. The rocker to her left had launched into a gentle rhythm. The room grew cold. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Where did the muslin doll on the seat come from?

With trembling hand, she picked up the toy and studied it. Crafted by someone with a keen eye for detail and a skillful hand, a long white gown and christening cap adorned the doll's body. Various shades of thread defined her sweet face—black for the eyebrows and lashes, pink for lips and brown dots for a nose.

"I see you found Baby?"

Lost in concentration, she didn't hear Derek enter. "Yes, if the doll is named Baby. I intended to ask Crete if she should join the dresses in the trunk."

He nodded. "I'll save you a trip downstairs. Every feminine object in the room should be relegated to the trunk."

Raine recognized the fleeting moment of pain in his eyes before he looked away. "Did Baby belong to your wife?"

He expelled a long breath and looked in her direction again. "Yes. She held the doll for hours and recited nursery rhymes, hoping to draw breath from its lifeless body." His grimace told her the subject was unpleasant. "The futility of convincing her otherwise became painful, and Baby brought her a small measure of serenity. We turned our cheeks, allowed her to dwell in her private world of make-believe."

"We?"

"Crete, Henry and me." His gaze roamed to the night table beside the bed. "I'll venture a guess you'll find a horde of Bibles around the manor. Lucinda took the Good Book at face value, convinced herself a heathen soul had taken up residence in my pagan body. Thus, the reason we lost the children."

"But you said children didn't reside at Stafford House."

"They don't, but not for lack of wanting them. Lucinda delivered two who died before they drew breath and lost another during her lying-in. The latter was too much for her and so she...passed on."

Sadness flickered through his eyes again and her heart went out to him. She didn't know if the sorrow stemmed from the loss of his children, his wife, or both. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking.

He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand and steered the conversation away from the children. "Lucinda often read from the book of Luke, quoted verbatim the passages on witches. My late wife felt compelled to rid the manor of spirits."

"She believed witches occupied Stafford House?"

"And ghosts."

"And you, Derek?" She braced for an answer. "Do you believe witches and ghosts reside here?"

"Of course not." He shook his head. "Lucinda's hysterical outbursts would have manifested into a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"How so?" she asked overwhelmed by the turn the conversation had taken.

"If one believes he'll die beneath the wheels of a phaeton while crossing the street, he'll place himself in its path. In Lucinda's case, she believed witches had taken up residence here, stole the babies from her. In the end, their voices led her to the river."

Disturbed by the look of defeat in his eyes, she sighed. "I'm sorry."

"I'll be sorrier if you don't pack it all away, the Bibles, the doll, whatever you can stuff into the trunks."

Before she had a chance to answer, he ducked from the room again, leaving her alone with Baby, the elegant dresses and Bibles.

Raine filled the trunk with delicate undergarments, nightgowns and gloves. The handkerchiefs, hatpins and Bibles soon accompanied them. With a final sigh, she placed the doll on top of the pile and closed the lid.

Plucking the sheets from the floor, she quit the room and headed for the kitchen. Over the noon meal, she intended to broach the subject about Lucinda's passing with Crete and Henry. The question was: Had the woman passed over or did her spirit still roam the manor?

Crete glanced to the sheets under her arm and nodded toward a back room. "Toss them in there, near the tub. I'll see to them after we eat."

"Lordy, Miss Raine, ya look like ya done seen a ghost." Henry eyed her head-to-toe.

Raine stifled a shudder and slumped into a chair. "Ghosts, no. Fancy gowns, dolls and Bibles, yes."

"Miss Lucinda insisted the Good Book be displayed in every room."

"I found the doll...Baby. Derek told me to pack it away with the other items."

"I said it before and I'll say it again, 'bout time."

"What happened to Lucinda? Derek spoke of witches, dolls and ghosts, but never mentioned how she died."

Crete arched her neck toward the ceiling. "I can tell you about the doll and the river, but there will be no talk of spirits." Her eyes widened. "They might view it as an invitation and appear."

"Come now, Crete," Raine said with a halfhearted chuckle. "You can't believe ghosts reside at Stafford House?"

The woman's features took on a serious expression. "If you heard Mistress Cinda wailing and moaning like a banshee, you'd think so too."

"Dontcha go scarin' her, Crete. Dare ain't no haunts here. Mistress Cinda lost her mind when all the chillen died. In the end, she walked inta the river. Found her clothes on the bank. Reckon she left us ta join those babies." Sympathy laced Henry's words. "Weren't Mastah Derek's fault, no sir. Lawd knows he done everything he could for Mistress Stafford. She couldn't bring a child inta the world alive."

"She drowned herself?"

"Yes, 'em, she shorely done that." He gave a firm nod. "She hearin' voices all the time. Says they was callin' ta her. Gots up in the night when Mastah was away on business. Never found the body, jess the nightclothes."

Raine placed a hand to her throat. Visions of her parents bobbing up and down in a massive sea loomed before her. "Oh, that's dreadful! The poor woman! Couldn't the doctors help her?"

"Mastah call for the doctah time n' agin, but Miss Lucinda so doped up with the bitters, it were no use. Afta the last child die, she lost what little mind she had left."

"She sat in that chair all day and rocked that doll," Crete interjected. "We could do nothing for her."

Raine thought of the spirit hovering around her on two occasions and the sudden drop in temperature when it appeared. "Who occupied my room before me?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Why, no one, not for a long time." Crete's brow wrinkled. "Servants at one time, darkies for the most part, but that was when Mister Julian and Mistress Elne resided at Stafford House."

"Did anyone die in the room?"

Crete shuddered. "You're giving me the willies now."

"Doan take much," Henry added.

After delivering a chiding glare to Henry, Crete answered. "Never, not since I've been here and that's been longer than I can remember." Her voice softened. "Child, what are you about now? What happened?"

Taking into consideration Crete's thoughts on ghosts, Raine opted for ambiguity. "No particular reason, just curious."

"Enough talk of ghosts and witches," Crete said. "Derek's parents will arrive at six o'clock this evening."

With that, Henry rose and wandered off to the barn. Crete and Raine turned their attention to the evening meal. While discussing the routine, Derek strolled into the kitchen. "Lyman sent word his family will be joining us tonight, Crete. I hope it's no bother."

"Your kin is never a bother, Mister Derek, plenty of food to go around."

The Greek god nodded, glanced at Raine, and left the room.

The afternoon sped by. Raine learned how to spice a round of beef, stew oysters, prepare cream sauce for vegetables and assemble a cherry pie. She set the table with fine bone china and sparkling silver. Crete added the final touch—a vase of salmon teacup roses and plum asters.

"Clear the dishes from the table after each course," Crete said. "Keep the water goblets filled, and bring fresh tea and coffee when I serve the cobbler."

Raine drew a deep breath to steady her taxed nerves, and then shook like a leaf caught up in a storm when Crete delivered her final words of caution. "Stay clear of Mister Julian whenever possible. That man can be saucier than hot peppers and angrier than a cornered bull when he has a mind to be."

* * *

Derek dressed for dinner, his thoughts on Raine. Sweeping past him on the stairwell this morning, the sweet aroma of jasmine swept over him. He suspected she hadn't forgotten the unattractive head covering the others wore, but rather had ignored it. He admired backbone in a woman, a trait his late wife never displayed. On the same note, he did not admire Raine dressing as a servant and working in his manor.

The girl was well educated and carried herself with the grace of a swan. Raine didn't fit the part of a servant. Throughout his childhood, darkies had served the manor, except for Crete. When Derek's father hired a man from Charleston to oversee the field hands, his daughter, Crete, arrived with him. The woman was as much a part of Stafford House as the thick-trunked Cypress anchoring the rear lawn. Moreover, he had relied on Crete since the day he donned his first pair of britches. Come to think of it, he still counted on her.

His thoughts wandered to the Civil War. The damn Rebellion had altered every facet of his life. When Lincoln emancipated the slaves, a majority left the plantations, eager to embrace their new freedom. Some moved to northern states. The remainder purchased their own acreage or continued to work for their prior owners. They collected wages now for work they once performed for food, clothing and shelter. Derek couldn't find fault with the theory. One man should never own another, however, most of his neighbors and friends didn't share his sentiments.

Carpetbaggers were another matter. They flocked to the southern states in droves, intent on looting and plundering the defeated South. Union flags flew from every government building in Norfolk, including the docks at the shipyard. The price of cotton and tobacco skyrocketed. Derek was forced to double his production if he expected to maintain the same profit he did before war ravaged his country.

Possessed of youthful gullibility, he had enlisted. He soon realized the South would fall and the North would thrive when the horrific bloodletting came to a halt. The Confederacy lacked the financial means to produce the much-needed ammunition. Money was scarce when it came to building factories and foundries, amenities the North had prospered under for years.

In hindsight, the national anthem for the Rebs should have been Pride Goeth Before a Fall. Yet in spite of knowing the South would fail, Derek fought like a demon possessed for his Virginia. Now, five years later, his homeland was in ruins and his life would never be the same again. An exasperated sigh left his lips. He would never surrender Stafford House, would do whatever necessary to see it flourish. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Was there no end to his obsession? When it came to his ancestral home and his station in life, no telling what he might do to preserve them.

Derek dismissed sullen thoughts from his mind, left the room and descended the stairs. Upon reaching the dining room, he poured a glass of whiskey and downed it. He would need it once his father arrived. The man would launch into the same tiresome diatribe he'd heard for years. Although bone-weary over his father's ultimatums and threats, he'd hear them again tonight. Before Crete served the main course.

As if his thoughts could summon her, Crete stepped through the door. "Is everything in order, Mister Derek?"

He glanced at the table and smiled. "Perfect, as always."

She clucked her tongue against her cheek. "You're rubbing your leg again. Is it paining you?"

He massaged his temples. "Minor compared to the hammering in my head."

Crete winked. "I'll fix you a potion, shoo it away for good."

Derek nodded, poured another drink and prepared for the arrival of his father.