Ashton's Bride Page 3

  Margaret was suddenly aware that she was being watched, and felt that thrill of anticipation course through her, making her fingertips tingle and her stomach knot. She turned her head and saw a man— very tall and very handsome—staring at her. He nodded a silent greeting and walked toward her with long, graceful strides.

  He was blond. That somehow surprised her. She had a small, ridiculous twinge of disappointment, and a ludicrous pang in the back of her mind—the small corner that harbored her girlish, romantic notions. She just wasn't expecting a blond. Almost immediately she snapped to her senses. She was no starry-eyed girl but a solid, well-educated woman of thirty. But still.. .

  "Are you Margaret Garnett?" His voice was pleasant, perhaps a little too smooth. This was a man who was used to getting his way with women. She wondered how he knew her name, and had a momentary flash of the Magnolia University gossip mills spreading the news of the Yankee giantess stalking the campus.

  "Yes, I'm Margaret Garnett." Her voice was a little more frosty than she had intended, but it didn't seem to put him off. He continued to smile.

  "I'm Brad Skinner." He shifted his bourbon into the other hand so he could shake her right hand. "You and I constitute the only new faculty members here. Welcome."

  She took his hand, uncertain. He continued to speak. "I guess we're both after the same tenured English position, eh?"

  "Huh?"

  He laughed. "It's Magnolia's policy—for every tenured slot that becomes available, they hire two applicants and let them teach for a year or two. The winner gets the job."

  "I had no idea! That's positively barbaric!" Margaret was truly stunned. Why hadn't anyone told her this was only a trial position?

  "That's because these positions only open up about once every twenty years or so. See old Dr. Taylor over there?" He pointed to the ancient man on the chair. "He's been teaching here for about sixty years. He's an expert on the Civil War, or—as he calls it—the War of Northern Aggression."

  "An expert?" she harrumphed. "He probably fought in it." She blushed, suddenly aware of how malicious she sounded, but Brad Skinner merely laughed.

  "Actually, his father was the one who saw active duty."

  "You're kidding! His father was in the Civil War?"

  "Absolutely. He was only a drummer boy, and married very very late in life, but it's the truth."

  "Next you're going to tell me that his father lives just over yonder." She cocked her head, waiting for the answer.

  "To tell you the truth, he's buried just over yonder, in the Magnolia cemetery."

  "How do you know so much about Magnolia?"

  "Ah. I'm an alumnus—college class of 1980."

  Great, she thought. Her only competition is with an alum of the school. Not that it really mattered, she shrugged.

  "Can I get you a drink?" He placed his hand under her elbow and gestured toward the bar.

  "Sure. Uh, do they have anything other than bourbon? Maybe some white wine?"

  He grinned. "I wouldn't bet on it, but I'll check."

  And once again, she was standing by herself. She surveyed the crowd for Chet, but couldn't find him. She wanted to ask him more about this tenure situation.

  Her request for white wine had caused a commotion at the bar, and both Brad and the young bartender were looking under the card table, rooting through a cardboard carton that said Jim Beam in large red letters.

  Suddenly, Margaret felt a chill run through her, as if a door opened and a gust of frigid wind swept through the room. But she hadn't heard the heavy oak door open, and even if it had, it was a warm night. Her short-sleeve blouse had seemed too confining as she walked over from Rebel's Retreat.

  Her hands were trembling, and she clasped her arms together for comfort and warmth. No one else seemed to notice anything, the party sounds remained the same, with the clinking of ice and disjointed giggles. There was a dry lump in her throat, and she could feel the downy hairs on the back of her neck bristle. There was someone behind her.

  Slowly she spun around to face the person, but there was no one there. Then her eyes focused on an oil painting hanging on the wall. And against her will, she gasped.

  It was a portrait of the most handsome man she had ever seen. He wasn't simply good-looking, for a painting of a good-looking man can be found in any museum. This man was drop-dead spectacular.

  Margaret walked toward the painting, her legs seeming to move involuntarily. The man in the painting seemed to watch her, an optical illusion that happens frequently, she thought. But this was different.

  He was young, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, which immediately set him apart from the other paintings, all of white-haired gentlemen with musty gazes and blue-veined hands. No, this man was vital, alive. His clothing, a plain cravat peeking from billowing academic robes, was simple and seemed to be the style worn in the middle of the last century.

  But his face—his expression—could have been painted last week. Instead of the self-conscious countenance worn by the other men, his face was amused, a slight smile playing under the light brown mustache. His eyes were an extraordinary hazel color, not really solid brown, but the artist had painted flecks of green in his eyes. The overall shape of his face was slightly square, and his features were regular enough to be called chiseled, but that couldn't really describe his handsomeness. Perhaps it was his hair, slightly long and sun-streaked, that gave him such a modern look, or his sensual smile.

  Margaret stepped closer, her hands clenched. This was he, she thought. This is who she wanted to meet, who she had been looking for, the reason she wore makeup . , .

  Then she began to laugh at herself, at the absurdity of her bizarre feelings. Margaret Garnett, six-foot-tall Yankee giantess, wears makeup for oil painting on Tennessee mountain. It was ludicrous, insane. Maybe the altitude had made her crazy. But still she couldn't turn away from the painting, those compelling eyes, the smile.

  "So I see you've met your host." Brad Skinner was at her side, offering her a plastic cup with an inch of bright yellow liquor. "We're in luck. There was some wine."

  Margaret took the glass mechanically, without taking her eyes from the painting. "Who is he?" Her voice sounded strange. She had been looking for some indication of who he was. Even the artist was anonymous—no signature in the corner to indicate who painted the piece.

  "Don't you know? That's General Ashton Johnson, C.S.A., the builder and first occupant of Rebel's Retreat. . ."

  But Margaret didn't hear any more. She simply dropped her plastic cup and ran for the nearest exit.

  The courtyard offered no relief from the suffocating feeling that had so swiftly washed over her. It was too warm, too sticky. Even the foliage seemed to radiate heat.

  Brad had not followed her outside, and the still-functioning part of her mind realized he must be wiping her spilled drink off the marble floor in Johnson Hall.

  None of that mattered. The only thing that seemed important was that painting, or rather, the man in the painting. Never had Margaret felt so completely drained, yet exhilarated. Part of her wanted to rejoice, to revel in the newly found sensation of finally falling in love. The other part of her was already laughing at those feelings with complete disdain. It was comical —Margaret Garnett falls in love with an oil painting of a dead man.

  Just the thought, the disjointed knowledge that this man was dead, was almost overwhelming. But of course he was, for more than a century. Perhaps she simply felt this strange emotion for an equally dead artist, but even as the thought formed in her mind, she realized that was not the case. It was not an artist's rendering that had caused this tumultuous effect. She was certain that it was the man himself. She had felt it earlier at Rebel's Retreat, and now she knew why.

  Suddenly her arm was touched, and she jumped. It was Brad Skinner, grinning at her as if her abrupt departure had been the most natural action in the world.

  "You were right to run," he murmured, casually wiping his lapel with a wadded-up napkin. It l
eft streaks of white paper crumbs on the dark blue. "The wine ate through three layers of marble when it hit the floor, and there was a hole in the plastic cup. Take my advice—stick to bourbon. It's safer."

  Still trembling, she managed to smile. "Sorry. I suddenly felt ill. I must be more exhausted than I realized."

  "It was the picture, wasn't it?"

  Margaret stared at him, her face blank. She didn't want him to know how very right he was. "The picture?" Even to her own ears, she sounded inane.

  "The portrait of Ashton Johnson. Women love it; they seem to find the old guy more fascinating than any of the living men in Magnolia." He shrugged, carelessly tossing the napkin into the bushes. "Do you know how demoralizing it is to have a dead Confederate as your competition?"

  The party inside was still in full swing, but Margaret felt as if it had ended long ago. "I think I'll go home now, uh, I mean back to Rebel's Retreat." She felt self-conscious in front of Brad, as if he knew how unnerved she really was.

  "Would you like me to walk you back?" The offer was noble but halfhearted.

  "No, but thank you. I'll be fine."

  "Well, it was nice to meet you, Margaret, I'd better get back to the reception." He motioned inside with a nod of his head. "I'll explain to everyone that you're exhausted from the trip. They'll understand." He smiled and ducked back into the hall. The courtyard was illuminated by light for the few seconds the door was ajar, and she could see the courtyard was open. The path that led her to Johnson Hall was visible from where she stood.

  Before she left, she reached into the bushes for the napkin Brad had pitched earlier. For some reason she didn't bother to analyze, the thought of trash outside Johnson Hall was particularly disturbing.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning was a revelation to Margaret. To awake without the city sounds of bleating car horns, whining alarms, garbled curses, and the constant crunching of garbage trucks was an experience she had not enjoyed for twelve years. Twelve years.

  She rubbed her eyes, willing the memories away, but they refused to vanish. It was a little over a dozen years earlier that her life had been forever changed, yet there were still times she was able to forget what had happened on that July day.

  Hugging a pillow to her chest, Margaret fell back against the heavy mahogany headboard, heedless of the harsh sting when her head hit a sharp edge. The pain was good, reassuring. Because for so long she had felt only numbness.

  It was the summer after she had graduated from high school, taking the Hawkins English Award and a partial scholarship to Columbia University. Her father treated the whole family to a trip to Martha's Vineyard.

  For as long as Margaret could remember, she had wanted nothing more than to visit Martha's Vineyard. She badgered her parents every spring, hoping against hope to talk them into vacationing on the island, but the answer was always the same,

  "I'm sorry, Margaret." Her dad would ruffle her hair affectionately. "It's just too expensive. Maybe next year."

  This was the first family event that was completely Margaret's doing. Without her years of begging, they never would have planned the trip. Without her pleas, her father would not have managed to find a place in the exclusive Gay Head section. The owners needed a spot in Boston for a week, and the Garnetts simply swapped homes with them. It was perfect.

  And it was all to celebrate Margaret's graduation from high school and her scholarship to Columbia.

  Her brother and sister, both already out of college and working, came along as a surprise. She could still see the pleased grin on her mother's face that evening during supper, toasting the Garnett clan with chipped glasses filled with bourbon. They had forgotten to buy wine, and the only liquor in the house was a half bottle of inferior bourbon left by the previous renters of the cottage. So they each took a few sips, her brother nudging her all through the seafood dinner, teasing her about the torments that awaited her at college. But she could tell he was proud of her. They were all proud of her.

  Margaret never knew whether it was the fish or the bourbon that caused her to become so ill during the night. Since she'd only had a few sips, she assumed it was the fish, although no one else in the family got sick. It didn't matter what caused her to stay in bed the next day. The only thing that mattered was she was unable to go on the fishing trip. Her dad could rent the boat only for a day. With long faces and plenty of sunscreen, they left the next morning. Her mother wanted to stay with her, but Margaret insisted she go.

  "Well," her mother had said uncertainly, brushing a strand of hair off Margaret's forehead.

  "Come on, Mom. There's plenty of ginger ale and crackers here for me. I'd rather be alone anyway . . ." Those words always came back to haunt her, but at the time—as they hung so innocently in the air—no one gave them a second thought.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. Just don't expect me to eat the catch of the day."

  With that her family left. Her sister opened a window to let in some fresh air, and her brother tossed her a baseball cap. "Hold on to it for me, Sequoia. It's a genuine Red Sox cap. Puke on it, and you're dead meat."

  It was the last time, she recalled later, that anyone ever called her Sequoia, her family's name for her once she reached her full height.

  Margaret sat up in the bed, running her fingers through her tangled hair. It was never determined how exactly the little boat flipped over, or how her family, each member an expert swimmer, could have perished so swiftly. Her uncle, who became her guardian until she was twenty-one, launched an investigation, demanding answers that were better left unknown. Margaret didn't care how they died, if there were enough life preservers, if they hit a rock or another vessel's wake.

  Instead of becoming her closest relative, her uncle became her most vivid reminder of the tragedy. And he could never forgive Margaret for not joining his crusade. Her uncle wanted to sue everyone, to point accusing fingers at the entire state for the death of his brother and the family.

  Margaret buried her grief in her studies, making friends slowly, delighting in English literature and history. Dwelling in the distant past became her refuge. Her uncle had been furious that she spent her small inheritance on education, then continued to study on loans and additional scholarships.

  And now she was in Tennessee on a remote mountaintop. A wonderful fragrance filled her new room, subtle and green and fresh. It was late summer, and still this place smelled better than springtime.

  She stood slowly, stretching, arching her back and extending her arms. She had slept surprisingly well after last night's reception, slipping into the soft bed. It was an old piece with carvings of griffins and unicorns on the headboard. This was surely one of Ashton Johnson's beds, strange and fanciful. Right before she fell asleep, she had a fleeting thought.

  "I wonder," she murmured aloud. "Did he actually sleep in this bed?"

  And from some faraway place, perhaps a whimsical corner of her mind she hadn't reached in over twelve years, she heard an answering voice, male and drowsy and touched with a southern drawl.

  "Yes. But I do believe they have changed the linens since then."

  She managed to find some coffee in the old kitchen at Rebel's Retreat, a discolored tin with a few scoopfuls of coffee so stale she doubted there was any caffeine left in the grounds. Using a tin stove-top coffee maker, she doubled the amount to compensate for the advanced age of the beans, and ended up with a cup of musty, elderly brew.

  Padding around the kitchen, barefoot and in a faded, crumpled sundress, Margaret explored the near-empty refrigerator shelves and the crooked drawers. There was a half bottle of Major Grey's Chutney, the cap askew and caked with dried brown crust, and some pickled okra. The flatwear consisted of three bent-prong forks and a tarnished serving spoon. One shelf contained some mismatched plates, and another held a can of Le Sueur Peas and a sticky baby bottle nipple.

  Somehow this struck Margaret as funny rather than sparking her fury. She was in a strange place, knew
virtually no one, and had no idea what to expect, yet still she felt the unfamiliar stirrings of optimism.

  Before she had sought comfort in the vastness of New York City, where no one knew her past and there were no side glances at Margaret Garnett, survivor of the boat accident. Now she was in a small community where intimacy would be impossible to avoid. And she wasn't terrified.

  Perhaps this would be good for her, she mused, staring out the window at a beautiful drooping tree. Maybe this absurd place could herald a new beginning.

  A sudden rap at the front door caused her to jump. It wasn't a loud sound, simply unexpected in the vast quiet of the kitchen. As she walked to the door she couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since she had been comfortable with silence.