Gifts

Book by Power JoAnn

From "Gifts"

Kent, England

April 1877

She was the one person he didn't want to see.

Not now.

Never alone.

He stared down at her as she patted her old mare on the neck, handed the reins over to his butler, and picked up her riding skirt to climb the stone steps to the front door of his house. Her ancient black dog plodded along at her heels as the monkey whom she and her cousin Cat Lyonns called Darwin slid from the rump of the horse. The macaque, in short pants, scrambled to keep up with her, chatting to himself as usual. Probably reprimanding her for her characteristic speed. That monkey was a menace.

But not as much as Jessica Curtis is to you, old man.

Rand dropped the velvet drapes of his bedroom window into place, shut his eyes, and told himself that was not true.

Jessica Curtis posed no threat to him now. Hadn't ever, really. Of course, he hadn't been able to see that three years ago. That June morning in Saint Paul's when he'd stood beside his friend Spencer Lyonns for his wedding, gazed down the aisle, and found a ghost gliding toward him, Rand's grief over Susannah's death had been too fresh for him to recognize that Jess was no apparition.

But time had healed his sorrow. He had recovered from his loss of Susannah -- and reconciled himself to the fact that his beautiful neighbor resembled the woman he had wanted to become his wife.

Resembled, not duplicated.

He recognized that now.

Yet that day the uncanny similarities had him staring at Jess throughout the wedding reception and, later, sent him to find solace in a bottle of Benedictine brandy. Three nights afterward, when liquor only heightened his craving to go feast on the sight of Jess, he had come to his senses enough to put himself on one of his India-bound cargo ships. Out to sea, in more ways than one, he had kept going, traveling to any port in the world where he might find new textile markets and production methods, old colleagues -- and temporary diversions from heartache.

He discovered them all, to great benefit. The diversions took the form of voluptuous, dusky-skinned women who looked like no one he had ever loved. His old friends and cohorts in cities from Alexandria to Yokohama provided camaraderie. They had also aided him in expanding his shipping business and tripling the wealth in his bank vaults.

During those years he visited England intermittently for a week or two at most. But when he had come home this past February after six broiling months in Siam and Annam learning silk production, he surprisingly found England palatable, a savory for which he'd lost his taste that terrible day when he'd finally tracked Susannah down to a Whitechapel tenement. The day she'd died an agonizing death brought on by too little trust in his devotion to her and too much faith in herbal remedies for abortion. To test his recovery from his grief, he had decided to remain in England for as long as the euphoria lasted. But he'd be wise. Stay mostly in his London house or at the one in Manchester near his mills, coming here to his manor house in Kent only occasionally and usually for business reasons.

This trip was no different. He'd come south a week ago at the request of the local guildsmen to discuss a new railroad line that was to cut through the town of Ashford. He planned to attend their meetings, give what help or advice he could, and leave. Quickly.

Before he could go to church or into a shop -- and run into Jessica Curtis.

He reached for his morning coat and pulled it on. As he took the stairs at a leisurely pace, he admitted to himself that he felt no trepidation.

Only curiosity.

And great surprise.

Ironic, isn't it, after I spent three years avoiding Jessie Curtis and all the painful memories she evoked, she should pick the time that I recover to come running to me?

She wanted so little from him.

A few hours of his time for a few days. For a child.

Rand Templeton would afford that, wouldn't he? After all, he spent thousands of pounds each year on his orphanages and lying-in hospitals. He could share his talent with a child who needed what only he might provide.

As justification for her request, she knew that sounded good.

If only her body heard that! Then her blood would flow naturally, she'd become serene -- and her fingers would stop touching his treasures.

She snatched her hand away from the cool marble bust of some dead Roman general. She gave a short laugh at her nervous habit and resumed her pacing. Darwin did his best on his short spindly legs to imitate her walk, while the dog, Bones, collapsed on the floor, with only his eyes following her to and fro.

"Will you two please stop doing that!" she reprimanded the animals. But the dog yawned, and the monkey paused to reply in simian some phrase she surmised meant no.

She threw up her hands.

Where was Rand?

It was certainly taking him long enough to come down. It wasn't as if she'd landed on his doorstep to partake of his breakfast. She had waited for a decent hour.

She paused to admire a landscape painting. "Well, all right, Jessie. Perhaps eight o'clock might be termed a tad early."

Hah! More like aeons!

She considered a side table topped with a collection of palm-sized jade and ivory statues, strode over, and subtly arranged the grouping with more symmetry.

She was shocked at her boldness and readjusted them as they had been, all the while preaching to herself. "Actually, Jessie, before the designated calling hour of one or two, this time is rather obscene."

She whirled to find herself before a gold Tudor mirror, rolled her eyes around its floor-length size, and leaned forward, hands on her hips, to speak to her reflection. "Well, acceptable or not, I'm here and he did tell his butler he'd see me."

Talk to me. And for more than a few blithe sentences about the weather, the local crops, the building projects for our students at the Farrell School for Young Ladies.

She set her jaw, spun around, and forced herself to note the more colossal splendors of Randall Templeton's drawing room. She'd never been here before, but she had heard of its assets. Better now to train her mind on those. And what riches this room offered!

The oval buttercup moire walls gave a glow to the English Empire furniture. With the morning sun streaming through cream voile curtains, the brasses and bronzes of India and Siam sparkled, along with the crystals of Ireland and Paris. Even the portraits of the Templetons were gay renderings of happy people, each of whom smiled down at her.

Jess paused before the oil portrait of Felicia Templeton. A woman who had gained notoriety for writing under her own name, Felicia had shocked society with the power of her arguments to improve the lot of women and children in the mills and porcelain factories.

Her work was carried on from near or abroad by her only child, Rand, a businessman and confidant of Queen Victoria. A man who supported legislation for higher wages plus a shorter workday and workweek for the laboring class. A man who resembled his mother physically in the classic simplicity of his cheeks, jaw, and glistening black hair. Randall Douglas Templeton was the fourteenth marquess of Ashford, the scion of an ancient family so entwined with the fortunes of their country that every element here -- each painting, vase, and sculpture -- spoke of his predecessors' wealth and power and friends.

But Jess cared for them not so much as for the other beauties in this room. Her eyes darted to a French pedal harp and a xylophone. Both stood uncovered as testament to their recent use in a house where the master was not often in residence. Yet what attracted her most was the piano -- his rare French Érard grand piano, ebony and gilt rococo, its ivory keyboard glowing, summoning her.

Her hand reached out, touched the keys. A chord resounded softly around the walls, definitive, crisp. The room's acoustics lived up to their reputation. She bent and tried a few more chords, a few bars from an étude she was teaching herself so that she could persuade Amanda to play more than scales.

Drawn herself, Jess glanced toward the closed door. Rand might keep her waiting, and this -- her eyes traveled to the keys, which were her irresistible temptation -- beckoned. Tossing caution away, she seated herself and began to play.

The venerable piano had more resonance, more power, than she'd heard from any other instrument. Even though it was more than a century old, it was the first model the famous French piano makers had constructed and one of only two in England. This particular piano lived up to its reputation. It was grand. Majestic. Sweeping the room with the force of its clarity. Different from Farrell Hall's two pianos, which now seemed too mellow for her taste. Whereas this -- she let herself move into the drama of a piece by Bach -- yes, this instrument could call from one the delights of music -- its ecstasies. Its sorrows. Its --

She felt him more than heard him.

Her back straightened. Her hands stopped.

She turned. Caught her breath.

She had prepared herself so well for her speech...but not for him. She never had. She knew once again she wasted her hope to have tried. Every time she had gazed at Randall Templeton, she had been immobilized.

By his size. Inches taller than her own five feet eight.

By his coloring. Blue-black hair with eyes to match.

By the way he looked at her... oh, now, that did make her shiver. He always gazed on her as if she were unreal.

And that chilled her hope that he might become more than polite to her. Forced her into a flurry of activity to cover her sorrow at his dislike of her.

But she couldn't look flustered today.

Wouldn't.

For Amanda's sake.

"Good morning, Jessica," he said with politeness as he stood in one of the few shadows of the brilliant room. She couldn't see his face, so she sought other clues to his disposition. Her eyes ran down his body. The dove gray of his morning attire gloved his massive shoulders and lean torso with perfection. He appeared relaxed.

She clasped her hands together and offered him the pose she called Prunes in Vinegar -- mouth pursed, head back. Her attitude was meant to curdle milk, or a student's blood, at twenty feet. But for Rand, she diluted the mix with neighborliness in her voice. "Forgive me, Lord Templeton. I love to play and --"

He took a quick step forward into a sunbeam and said, "And I have kept you waiting an interminably long time."

Gilded, he rivaled her fondest memory of him -- when he attended a dinner party that Cat and Spence had given at Farrell Hall last summer. That night he had worn formal black and stark white. Today his softer hues of gray wool with pearl linen stock performed a sweet counterpoint to his bronzed complexion, and the manly contrasts undid her.

"Don't stop," he told her, extending a finger toward the keyboard. "You're wonderful. I remember hearing you after one of Cat and Spence's parties last June." He smiled with a warmth he had bestowed on countless others, never her.

The unexpected heat baked her reason, and she blurted, "But you left in the middle. I thought you hated my rendition."

She thought she'd see tolerance, hear diplomatic words for an uninspiring performance. Instead, he moved even nearer, caught her eyes with his magnetic blue ones and declared, "I was rude. But I often wished I had stayed for more. I can only apologize now and assure you that my exit had nothing to do with your talent or the piece you chose. I wrestled with a private torment which never should have affected our relationship. Yet I see, regrettably, it has. Allow me to make amends. If it pleases you to play now, after I kept you waiting far too long, I will not be the one to take you from your joys. Won't you continue? Please?"

"No. Thank you."

"But you will be doing me an honor. Few are as expert as you, and the instrument is so rarely used that it falls out of tune without benefits from a master's touch."

His courteous behavior astounded her with its novelty and summoned more bluntness. "You are being gracious, which is all well and fitting, but I really didn't come here to play the piano, my lord. I came to talk."

"Very well." He advanced and she could detect remorse in his concern. His tone and proximity made her freeze. Too close to him, she always felt lightheaded. It was his extreme self-assurance. Today the cause was his charm, which he lavished on her for the first time. She felt her mouth watering as he said, "We will talk. But after these three years we have known each other, Jess, I would hope you'd call me Rand."

Lest he come any closer, she managed a socially correct smile.

His gaze drifted up from her lips to her eyes. "Can I ring for coffee, perhaps?" When she did not answer, he asked, "Or do you prefer tea?"

She would make him ill at ease again if she didn't perk up and treat him normally. He had offered an explanation for his behavior. "Private torments" might mean much to him, but she must accept it for whatever it denoted and state her business. Far from the Prune, you're acting naive and featherbrained -- qualities you dislike...which destroy a woman.

"I don't care for anything, thank you. I realize I am calling at a peculiar hour of the day."

He cocked a brow at her. Laughter stood in his eyes.

The novelty of it thrilled her. Shocked her. Sent her to the edge of propriety and the point of her visit. "I heard from my butler you had come home to Kent the other day. I had to snatch this opportunity to catch you now or lose you entirely. You never seem to stay here at the Temple for very long, and I know you might think this indelicate of me to come so early and without a chaperon. But, well, heavens, Rand, I'm too old and too busy for such fripperies as a guardian tagging along behind me. So I hoped I might prevail upon our status as neighbors and ask you to see me. And I came so early because I wanted to be sure to get you" -- before you could find a reason to avoid me, refuse me -- "before your butler could say you were not at home."

Rand looked as if she'd doused him with ice. "Jess, I would never turn you away, but then...I see from the way you look at me that you think I would."

She swallowed her chagrin at her indelicate phrasing. "Not at home" was a favored expression of butlers to turn out unwanted visitors. From the way Rand had always treated her, Jess assumed she'd never be welcomed into his presence. Used to being regarded as an oddity by anyone who had a whiff of her past, she often wondered if Rand had heard whispers of her background and those caused him to be cool. She couldn't believe that he could be so small as to do that, but she'd had no other explanation for his behavior toward her. Until today. When private torments didn't bother him as they once had. And she felt an enormous wall fall at her feet as he ridiculed himself.

"Good God, I have been awful toward you. I have much to make up for. I apologize again. Come sit down." He nodded toward a gold velvet chair.

She took the chair he indicated and was pleased when Darwin came to perch himself near her legs and offer her a congenial way into this conversation. The monkey stood, arms folded, like a little man in charge. His gleaming brown eyes blinked at her in confusion, then scanned to Rand, who took a wing chair opposite her.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought them," she ...