Assisted by her father Shanna mounted the carriage at last, and the barouche moved briskly away from the dock. Shanna leaned back, watching the familiar houses and trees roll by. Inwardly she braced herself for that which she knew would come. They were clear of the village and well on the road to the manor when Trahern, without glancing at her, broached the subject. His voice was so abrupt it gave her a small start.
“Have ye had enough of thither and yondering, daughter, or have you set your heart upon a husband?”
His brawny hand lay firm upon his stout knee, and it was there Shanna placed her own so the plain gold band on her finger was ready to the eye.
“You may call me Madam Beauchamp, papa, if not by my given name.” Her eyelids fluttered downward, and she ventured a peep at him from their corners. “But alas,” she let sadness creep into her voice, “there is also something I must tell you that is most distressing.”
Shanna felt strange in her tale, for his eyes, the same shade as her own, turned in silent question to her. Unable to meet them, she averted her face. Tears came, though much in part from shame at her deceit.
“A man I met, most gallant, most handsome—we wed.” She swallowed hard as the lie grew more bitter on her tongue. “After one brief night of bliss,” —she dissolved in grief for a moment and then forced herself to continue—“he stepped from our carriage and turned his foot upon a stone. Before the surgeons could do aught, he died.”
Orlan Trahern slammed his staff against the floor of the barouche with an unworded curse.
“Oh, papa,” Shanna sobbed tearfully. “I was so late a beloved bride and so soon a widow.”
With a snort Trahern turned from her and sat quietly staring off into the distance, deep in thought. The well traveled road passed between thick groves of palms and stretched into the sunlight again. The daughter quieted her weeping and, for the most part holding her peace, gave only an occasional sniffle until they reached the sprawling white mansion. Riotous colors flooded the lawn as poincianas unfolded their scarlet blooms, and clusters of fuchsia frangipani graced the air with sweet scent. The neatly clipped lawn spread as far as the eye could see, broken at regular intervals by the great trunks of towering trees that spread thick foliage high at their tops. Only rare shafts of sunlight pierced the crowns, dappling the wide porticos that stretched endlessly along the front and wings of the mansion. Covered archways of white-washed brick shaded the raised veranda bordering the house on the main floor, while on the second story ornate wooden posts lined the long porch with sections of lattice-work, lending privacy to the separate chambers. The mansion was weighted down by a steep-pitched roof bedecked with dormers. French doors were an easy access to the porches from most any room in the great house, and the small, square panes of crystal within the doors sparkled with the mottled light, showing the care and attention of many servants.
Trahern sat silent, unmoving as the barouche halted, and Shanna glanced at him with a certain amount of trepidation, not willing to break his mood. She made her own way from the carriage and up the wide steps to the broad veranda, there pausing uncertainly to glance back. Her father sat still, but his head turned and he stared at her, his brow heavily furrowed in thought. Laboriously he rose, stepped down, then slowly climbed the stairs as if his cane were leading him by the hand. Shanna went ahead to the front door and opened it, waiting for him. Several paces away he stopped and peered at her again. The wonderment left his face and slowly was replaced by rage. Suddenly he raised the stick high over his head and threw it flat upon the porch.
“Dammit, girl!”
The door slammed shut as Shanna’s hand flew to her throat, and she shrank away from him, eyes wide with fear.
“Do you take so little care of your men?” he roared. “I would have at least seen the lad!” In a slightly lower tone he inquired, “Could you not keep him alive ‘til you got with babe?”
In some awe of her father, Shanna replied softly. “There is still that chance, papa. We did spend our wedding night—together. ‘Twas only a week before we sailed, and I know not—”
She blushed slightly at the lie, for she was as certain now as a woman could be that she bore no seed of Ruark’s in her belly.
“Bah!” Trahern snorted and stomped past her, leaving his cane where it lay and letting the door slam again behind him.
Meekly Shanna retrieved the stick and followed her father into the house. She paused a moment in the entrance hall as all the memories of her years in the manor came flooding back with a rush. She could almost imagine herself a child again, squealing with excitement as she raced down the staircase that seemed to curve around on itself and encircle the long, crystal chandelier suspended from the lofty ceiling. The shimmering prisms that set the hall aglow with myriad dancing rainbows had always been a source of fascination for her. And she could well remember scooting on all fours upon the marble floor as she searched around the large and lavish ever present ferns and greenery that bedecked the room for the small, darting kitten Pitney had given her, or when she stared up in awe at the portrait of her mother which hung near the drawing room door, or squirmed with girlish impatience upon the large carved chest which sat below it while she waited for her father to return from a tour of his fields.