Until You (Westmoreland Saga 3)

. . . Cotton fields, meadows, a wagon filled with goods, a little girl with red hair . . . “My papa calls me ‘carrot’ because of my hair, but my name is Sheridan. There is a rose—a flower—called Sheridan, and my mama named me for it.”

. . . A restless horse, a stern-faced Indian, the smell of summer. “White men are not as good as Indians for giving names. Not flower, you. Fire, you. Flames. Burn bright.”

. . . Campfires, moonlight, a handsome Spaniard with smiling eyes and a guitar in his hands, music pulsing in the night. “Sing with me, cara.”

. . . A tiny, neat house, indignant little girl, angry woman. “Patrick Bromleigh, you ought to be horsewhipped for the way you’ve reared that child. She can’t read, and she can’t write, her manners are deplorable, and her hair is wanton. She announced to me, as bold as brass, that she fancies’ someone named Raphael Benavente and she’ll probably ask him to marry her someday. She actually intends to propose matrimony herself and to some Spanish vagabond who cheats at cards. And I haven’t even mentioned her other favorite companion—an Indian male who sleeps with dogs! If you have any conscience, any love for her, you will leave her here with me.”

. . . Two solemn men standing in the yard, a third one in the doorway, his face tense. “You mind your aunt Cornelia, darlin’. I’ll be back for you before you know it—a year or two at most.”

. . . A distraught child clinging to him. “No, Papa, don’t! Don’t leave me here! Please! Please, I’ll wear dresses and fix my wanton hair, just don’t leave me here. I want to go with you and Rafe and Dog Lies Sleeping! That’s where I belong, no matter what she says! Papa, Papa, wait—”

. . . A stern-faced woman with gray hair, a child who was supposed to call her “Aunt Cornelia.” “Do not try to stare me out of countenance with that expression, child. I perfected that very look long ago in England, and I’m quite immune to it. In England, it would have served you well, were you Squire Faraday’s acknowledged granddaughter, but this is America. Here, I teach deportment to the children of people whom I would have once regarded as my inferiors, and I am lucky to have the work.”

. . . Another woman, stout, pleasant, firm. “We may have a position for you at our school. I’ve heard some very good things about you from your aunt, Miss Bromleigh.”

. . . Little girls’ voices. “Good morning, Miss Bromleigh.” Miniature young ladies in white stockings and ribbons practicing their curtsies while Sheridan demonstrated.

Her palms were perspiring on the dressing table’s top, her knees were turning to liquid. Behind her, the door opened and a blonde girl stalked in, her voice raised in fury. “You unspeakable fraud!”

Reeling from the fleeing visions, Sherry forced her eyes open, lifted her head, and stared into the mirror above her dressing table. Framed beside her own face was another face, a FAMILIAR FACE. “Oh, my God!” she moaned as her arms began to shake and give way, forcing her to either straighten from her hunched position or fall to the floor. Slowly, she lifted her palms off the dressing table, and very slowly, she turned, while terror began to hammer through her, banishing weakness and lethargy. Her entire body vibrating with panic, she faced Charise Lancaster, and felt each of her enraged words as if it was a blow to her head:

“You evil, despicable, scheming slut! Look at this place. Look at you!” Her eyes were wild as she looked around at the luxurious green and gold suite. “You’ve actually taken my place.”

“No!” Sheridan burst out, but her voice was unrecognizable, brittle and frantic. “No, not on purpose. Dear God, don’t—”

“It will take more than prayer to save you from prison,” her former student snapped, her face contorted with fury. “You’ve taken my PLACE. . . . You tricked me into marrying Morrison with all your talk of romance, and then YOU TOOK MY PLACE. You actually intended to MARRY AN EARL!”

“No, please, listen to me. It was an accident. I lost my memory.”

That only made her more infuriated. “Lost your memory!” she screamed contemptuously. “Well, you know who I am!” Without another word, she swung on her heel. “I’ll be back with the authorities within minutes, and we’ll see how they feel about your memory loss, you vile—!”

Sherry ran without realizing she was moving, clutching the other girl’s shoulders, trying to make her listen before she did the unthinkable, her words tumbling over themselves. “Charise, please, listen. I was hit in the head—accident—and I didn’t know who I was. Please wait—just listen to me—You don’t know, don’t understand what it would do to them to have a scandal.”

“I’ll have you in a dungeon before nightfall!” she raged, flinging off Sheridan’s hands. “I’ll have your precious earl exposed for the fool he is—”

Blackness rose up before Sheridan’s eyes. Black on white. Headlines screaming. Scandal. Dungeons. “This is England, and you aren’t nobody, so the law will be on his side.”

“I’ll leave!” she cried, her voice plaintive and demented and confused as she began backing toward the door. “I won’t come back. I won’t cause trouble. Don’t bring authorities. Scandal will kill them. Look at me—I’m leaving.” Sherry whirled and ran. She fled down the staircase, nearly knocking over a footman. A lump rose in her throat at the realization that Stephen was going to walk into this hall in an hour, thinking he was about to be wed, only his bride would have deserted him. Her heart hammering, she raced into the library, scribbled a note, and thrust it at the stricken elderly butler, then she tore open the door, and raced down the steps, down the street, around the corner.

She ran and ran until she couldn’t run anymore, and then she leaned against the side of a building, listening to a voice of her more recent past—a beloved voice—a beloved voice explaining things that had never happened to a woman he’d never met: “The last time we were together in America, we quarrelled. I didn’t think about our quarrel while you were ill, but when you began to recover the other night, I fou

nd it was still on my mind.”

“What did we quarrel about?”

“I thought you paid too much notice to another man. I was jealous.”

Staggered by yet another shock, Sherry stared blindly at a passing carriage as she wandered slowly down the street. But he hadn’t been jealous. His attitude had hardened from the moment she’d asked him if they were “very much in love.”

Because they’d never been in love.

Her mind went numb with confusion and shock.

39

Stephen grinned at Colfax as he strode into the main hall, dressed formally for his wedding. “Is the vicar here?”

“Yes, my lord, in the blue salon,” the butler said, his expression oddly withdrawn for such a festive occasion.

“Is my brother with him?”

“No, he’s in the drawing room.”

Cognizant of the fact that he was not supposed to see his bride before the ceremony, Stephen said, “Is it safe to go in there?”

“Perfectly.”

Stephen walked swiftly down the main hall into the drawing room. Clayton was standing with his back to the room, looking into the empty fireplace. “I’m early,” Stephen began. “Mother and Whitney are a few minutes behind me. Have you seen Sherry? Does she need any—”

Clayton slowly turned around, his expression so foreboding that Stephen stopped in mid-sentence. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“She’s gone, Stephen.”

Unable to react, Stephen stared at him in blank disbelief.

“She left this behind,” Clayton said, holding a folded sheet of notepaper out to him. “Also, there is a young woman here, waiting to see you. She claims to be the real Charise Lancaster,” Clayton added, but he made that last announcement in a tone of acceptance, not ridicule.