Azalea Read online

  AZALEA

  Brenda Hiatt

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 1994 by Brenda H. Barber

  This is a work of fiction. Though some actual historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  For my family. Thank you for your patience.

  PROLOGUE

  March 1809

  Another wave swept across the pitching deck of the Artemis, almost wrenching Christian loose from the rail he grasped with one hand. Instead of alarm, he felt only exhilaration. For so long he had dreamed of this, his first sea voyage! The reality was even more exciting than he had imagined. Shaking the salt spray from his hair, he laughed into the screaming gale.

  When his father had invited him to sail along on a business trip to America, Christian had jumped at the chance, the still-novel pleasures of London paling against the visions of adventure conjured up. What were gaming hells and cockfights, even the lights of the demi-monde, compared to this battle with the elements, the raw fury of wind and ocean? He had never felt more alive in all his eighteen years.

  "It's gettin' mighty rough, lad. Best you go below with the other passengers." Captain Taylor, a stringy, dark-haired man with a clean-shaven, leathery face, clapped a gnarled hand on his shoulder. "I've told you what a storm at sea can do— haven't you seen enough?"

  Christian breathed deeply of the fierce, fresh wind. "Not yet. It's my first storm, after all. Are we in some danger then?"

  The captain shrugged. "Any storm can spell trouble this far out and I'd as lief not lose a paying guest overboard. Why, I remember a time... But there's his lordship, your father, come for you. We can talk later. I've work to do."

  Captain Taylor turned to bellow orders at his crew, leaving Christian to grin after him. The captain's frequent tales of life at sea had been the best part of this voyage —up until now, anyway. Another splash of icy sea water caught Christian full in the face, making him gasp and sputter. Wiping the salt from his eyes, he saw his father beckoning him from the hatchway. With a last, reluctant look at the raging sea, he left the rail, stumbling slightly as the deck pitched beneath him.

  "Here you are, Son! Let's get below, where we'll be out of the crew's way." Lord Glaedon spoke heartily, but Christian couldn't mistake the concern in his eyes. "This looks like a bad blow."

  His father had spent a great deal of time at sea in his youth, Christian knew, which meant his caution, based as it was on experience, could not be ignored. Still, he couldn't suppress a cocky grin as he stepped forward.

  "Sailing is every bit the adventure you promised, Father," he said exultantly. "I hate to miss any of it. If you don't mind, I'd like to stay on deck for just a bit longer. Captain Taylor doesn't seem unduly worried—"

  At that moment a falling spar, torn loose from the mast above, struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder, knocking him heavily to the deck.

  For a few seconds he was dazed, not certain what had happened. Blinking as his vision cleared, he saw his father leaning over him, white-faced.

  "My God, Chris, that was a close one!" He had never seen his father so shaken. "Can you stand?"

  Christian nodded vigorously, though for the moment speech was beyond him. Scrambling to his feet, he followed the Earl down the ladder that led to their cabin, his enthusiasm about the storm temporarily dampened.

  The next morning dawned fair; a fresh breeze filled the sails while the sun sparkled on the deceptively innocent ocean. Christian, looking out from the same rail where he'd stood the evening before, marvelled at the change. It would seem that the sea was as fickle as he'd always heard.

  Perhaps with the return of fine weather, Captain Taylor would have more time to answer his myriad questions about the New World they approached. Not for the first time, he thought about what it would be like to carve out a life for himself in that untamed wilderness —a far different life than that awaiting him as second son to an earl, back in England.

  "Well, my boy, we'll be in sight of land in just over a week," said his father, coming up to stand beside him at the rail. "I suppose it's high time I told you the real reason I asked you to accompany me to America."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  April 1809

  "Azalea! Are you out here?" The housekeeper's voice floated across the paddock to the stables, where a small, trousered figure was currying a dainty, silver-grey mare with long, brisk strokes.

  "In here, Swannee!" the girl answered without pausing in her work. "What is it?"

  "Your grandfather wants you up to the house right away. Visitors, I believe. And just look at you!" Mrs. Swann exclaimed in dismay. Azalea emerged from the stall, grinning impishly as she ran quick fingers through her tousled red curls. Enormous, grey-green eyes of startling beauty sparkled up at the distracted housekeeper, who at this moment was more inclined to notice the smear of stable dirt across the girl's left cheek than the flawlessness of the complexion it disguised.

  Mrs. Swann sighed gustily and opened her mouth in preparation for a well-rehearsed homily on her young mistress's shortcomings, but Azalea forestalled her with an affectionate hug.

  "Don't fuss, Swannee! Ten to one it's just Jonathan, and he won't mind seeing me in breeches. At any rate, I can go in by the pantry door and reach my bedroom without being seen."

  Mrs. Swann, plump fists on plumper hips, shook her greying blond head in resignation and gazed fondly at the glowing, untidy girl before her. For the past eight years she had been the nearest thing to a mother Azalea had known, and in truth, she couldn't have loved her more had the girl been her own daughter.

  Of course, who would not love such a beautiful child, with her bright, flame-coloured curls, thick-lashed liquid eyes and sweet, winning ways? But there was also a certain wildness about her that Mrs. Swann had done her best to control over the years—a task as futile as trying to control the fresh east wind that blew in from the coast.

  "All right, miss," she conceded gruffly, "but do hurry. And I don't believe it is Master Jonathan coming to call. Your grandfather has ordered supper set back an hour and an extra chicken killed. He wouldn't likely do that for one of your young friends."

  "Oh, how interesting —I shall hurry!"

  Azalea raced across the field at a pace that caused the long-suffering Mrs. Swann to emit another sigh and hope the girl's grandfather was well away from the back windows. At this distance, Azalea looked more like a stable-lad than a young lady of Quality.

  * * *

  A scant fifteen minutes later, a hastily scrubbed and gowned Azalea clattered down to the library, where her grandfather customarily received callers. She was surprised to find the old gentleman quietly reading alone.

  "Oh, have they gone already?" She stopped just inside the door, disappointed. "I did hurry, Grandfather, truly I did! Swannee said our guests would be staying for supper. Were they ladies or gentlemen? Are they staying here in Williamsburg? Or was it someone I already know? Was it Jonathan, after all? Why—"

  "My dear, my dear, always leaping to conclusions," Reverend Simpson said, breaking in mildly. "Taking your questions in order, they have not yet arrived, but are due within the hour. They will be staying for supper, which has been set back to eight o'clock. They are gentlemen, two in number, and are staying at Wetherburn's Tavern until
rooms can be prepared for them here. You have never met them, but have often heard me refer to the elder of the two, my old friend Howard Morely, Earl of Glaedon. The other gentleman is his second son, Christian, whom I have yet to meet. Obviously not Jonathan. Did I miss anything?" The old gentleman's austere, scholarly demeanour was softened by the twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

  "You know you didn't." She smiled fondly at her grandfather. "But I still want to know all about them. Why have we had no word that they were coming? How long do they stay?" Azalea fairly danced with impatience. She could not recollect when they had last had overnight visitors. And Lord Glaedon! The hero of so many of Grandfather's tales about his time in India, the one with whom he had shared such splendid adventures...!

  "Very well, my dear, stop twitching," the Reverend said, relenting. "Due to a quirk of the mails, Howard's letter informing me of the date of his proposed visit arrived on the same ship that carried Christian and himself hither. They arrived in America only yesterday, and will probably stay with us but a few days, as Howard has pressing business in Richmond. However—" he interrupted himself with a brief fit of coughing "—I hope they will return for a longer visit when their affairs have been concluded."

  This answer seemed clear enough, but there was something evasive in the old gentleman's manner that convinced Azalea there was more to the matter. "And?" she prompted. "What aren't you telling me, Grandfather?"

  "Precocious child! Can you read my mind now?"

  "If I could, I wouldn't need to ask. But I can tell when you've decided something doesn't concern me, or that I'm too young to hear all of the interesting details." Azalea almost pouted before hastily remembering that she was now too old for such behaviour.

  Reverend Simpson sighed. "No, Azalea, young you may be, but this matter very definitely concerns you. Still, I would prefer to speak with Howard in person before acquainting you fully with the 'interesting details,' as you term them. I do promise to tell you all I can once I am completely in possession of the facts. Will that content you for now?"

  Azalea smiled reluctantly. "I suppose it must."

  "Good. Now perhaps you'd like to complete your toilette before supper —and I suggest you use a mirror this time. You missed a spot or two." He winked knowingly over his spectacles. Azalea grimaced, but hurried back upstairs to wash more thoroughly and put her hair in better order. She wanted to look her best for these distinguished visitors from England.

  * * *

  The warm spring afternoon was beginning to cool when Azalea returned to the library. She stopped short on the threshold, startled to find their visitors already present. Her soft surprised, "Oh!" caused all three gentlemen to turn.

  "Ah, my dear, here you are," exclaimed her grandfather, coming forward. "Let me present Lord Glaedon and his son, the Honourable Christian Morely. Gentlemen, my granddaughter, Miss Azalea Clayton."

  She dropped a curtsy and lowered her gaze in confusion. "I—I beg pardon for not greeting you upon your arrival! I was in the garden and thought surely I would hear the approach of your carriage—"

  "No need for apologies, child," the elder of the two visitors said, interrupting her warmly. "We have scarce been here ten minutes, and you could hardly have been expected to hear our carriage, as we rode instead. And let me say that I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last, though I feel I know you well from your grandfather's letters. You are even prettier than he described you."

  Azalea looked up quickly at the unlikely words to find kindly grey eyes regarding her. Timidly, she returned the Earl's smile.

  Lord Glaedon was a hearty man in his late fifties, with very little grey in his thick black hair. He looked, Azalea thought, as an earl ought to: confident rather than arrogant, and dressed with a simple elegance that rendered him by far the most fashionable gentleman she'd ever seen. He was also the tallest man she could remember meeting. That is, unless she counted Judd Bellby, a local farmer's son who was certainly no gentleman.

  "Thank you, my lord," answered Azalea, a heartbeat before she could be accused of staring. "Grandfather has told me much about you, also, and about the adventures you shared in India. Such wonderful stories!"

  "And stories they no doubt were, for the most part," Lord Glaedon replied somewhat gruffly, glancing at the Reverend. "Gregory ever had a tendency to exaggerate. Christian, my lad," he called, turning toward the other occupant of the room, "come forward and make Miss Clayton's acquaintance."

  The younger gentleman turned away from the window, where he had apparently been admiring the spectacular sunset. He advanced two or three steps towards Azalea.

  Looking up—far up—as he approached, Azalea realized that Christian was at least as tall as his father, and far more handsome. In fact, to her inexperienced eyes, he was the most perfect man she'd ever seen, with thick wavy hair so dark it was almost black and penetrating blue-grey eyes.

  Exciting eyes, Azalea thought irrelevantly, the colour of thunderclouds just before a storm. At first glance, at least, the Honourable Christian Morely seemed the answer to a young girl's every romantic dream.

  Blinking at the direction of her thoughts, Azalea had to suppress an urge to laugh at herself. Romantic dreams, indeed! Between studying, riding, gardening and other pursuits, she'd never wasted time on such fantasies. In fact, she had always scorned the other girls' sighs over a handsome new student or a visiting merchant's son. But of course none of those young men had ever compared to Christian Morely.

  "So this is little Miss Azalea! Not quite the child I was led to believe." His smile was condescending, Azalea thought, which immediately banished romance and put irritation in its place.

  "I was thirteen in November, sir, so I am scarcely a child," she retorted, standing up a little taller. She was suddenly glad she had given up her braids two months ago.

  "Isn't that what I just said? And I understand that you have had a hand in the managing of this, ah, estate for the past year, as well."

  Azalea regarded the young man suspiciously. Was he teasing her? Her grandfather's house and lands, while respectable, could hardly be called an estate. However, she could detect no trace of malice in Christian's amused expression and decided that he might merely be ignorant of the extent of an American plantation.

  "That is true, sir," she finally conceded. "Mrs. Swann is gradually entrusting me with the duties that belonged to my grandmother many years ago. Part of my education, Grandfather tells me." She smiled a bit wryly.

  "But not your favourite part, I take it?" He smiled back, a friendly smile that allayed her suspicions and put her at ease.

  "Well, it's certainly more amusing than Latin, but I find I have less and less time to spend with the horses and plants—" Azalea broke off in some confusion, not certain whether she should have revealed these pastimes, which Swannee had informed her repeatedly were less than ladylike. She glanced in her grandfather's direction, but he was deep in conversation with the Earl and appeared not to have heard.

  "You like horses, then?" Christian prompted when she paused. He didn't look the least disapproving.

  "Oh, yes! Above all things. Do you?" Azalea replied, caution vanishing as the conversation turned to her favourite topic. "You'll have to meet Lindy, my mare," she continued when he nodded. "She's the most beautiful thing imaginable! Perfect lines, and the smoothest trot in Virginia. Do we have time to go down to the stables before supper, Grandfather?" she asked eagerly, turning back to the older gentlemen.

  "Certainly, my dear. You youngsters run along," Reverend Simpson replied with barely a glance in her direction. Azalea thought he looked grave. He obviously wanted to continue his discussion with Lord Glaedon. "Go for a ride if you wish. Supper will not be for an hour or more."

  "We'll return in time," Azalea promised, then turned back to Christian with sudden diffidence. "That is, if you wish to come, sir." He didn't seem at all like a "youngster" to her.

  "I'm quite counting on it," he responded with another warm smile. "And please,
no more 'sirs'—it makes me feel positively ancient. Call me Chris."

  Azalea agreed delightedly. "You brought a horse from the inn, you said? I can have Lindy saddled in a flash. I'll show you a bit of Williamsburg before supper."

  * * *

  Christian was finding young Miss Clayton unexpectedly likeable. He was not certain just what he had anticipated, but it was not this fresh, piquant woman-child.

  When his father had first acquainted him with his plans, Christian had been dumbstruck and then affronted. The more the Earl told him of the girl's circumstances, however, the more curious he had become. Now, very much to his surprise, he found himself actually giving his father's outrageous suggestion serious consideration.

  "Grandfather keeps some prime bloods, as well as a couple of carriage horses," Azalea told him eagerly as her mare was saddled. "Lindy, of course, is my favourite, but I will be interested to know what you think of some of the others."

  Her enthusiasm made Christian smile, for horses were a passion of his, as well. It was... interesting to discover that they had that much in common, at least. "I can scarcely wait. Perhaps tomorrow I might have opportunity to try the paces of one of them. I'm certain they will cast this nag I hired from the inn quite into the shade."

  * * *

  A short time later, Chris accompanied Azalea down Queen Street toward the main thoroughfare of the town. He whistled tunefully as they went, to her secret delight. Whistling was something Swannee had often scolded her for doing. Still, even with his example before her she didn't quite dare to join in.

  As it was late in the day, Duke of Gloucester Street was nearly deserted. "I fear Williamsburg is not the hub of activity it was before the war," she told him apologetically as they turned their horses onto the wider road. "Then, it was the capital of Virginia, and quite an important political centre for the whole country."

  Chris nodded. "I read a bit of American history before leaving England. You seem quite thoroughly schooled in it, though."

  Azalea could feel herself blushing. "Well, yes. I used to badger Grandfather to let me attend classes at the college." She pointed down the street the other way, to where a fine building, designed on noble lines by Sir Christopher Wren, was still visible in the failing light. "Of course that was impossible, but he did arrange for a tutor. Dr. Jonas is so enraptured by Williamsburg's history, much of which, of course, he has lived through, that I couldn't help but get caught up in it."