Free Merline Lovelace by Untamed

merry-eyed miss of eleven or twelve. Her sister Vera, Barbara discovered, was a serious-minded scholar recently returned from a convent school in New Orleans. A fourth daughter was mistress of her own home in the Carolinas, Louise informed Barbara, and the other Morgan sons were away at university or off on various business pursuits.
    Dinner turned out to be a lively affair. Barbara was unused to sitting down to table with children, butfound herself smiling at Sarah’s infectious giggles and replying easily to Urice’s eager questions about everything from India muslins to the new dropped shoulders and epaulette collars. Vera’s questions were somewhat more daunting.
    “My mother says you are but lately come from abroad, Lady Barbara. Has the debate over Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise on the education of women lost some of its heat?”
    “I, er, have not heard it mentioned of late.”
    Or at all!
    Her delicate face assuming serious lines, Vera lowered her soupspoon. “Do you agree with the basic tenets of the treatise? That women debase themselves by exercising the power of their beauty instead of their reason?”
    Barbara was saved by Urice, who’d obviously heard the same question posed before.
    “Oh, pooh! You’re not going to go off on another lecture about how a gentleman shouldn’t jump to pick up a lady’s handkerchief for her, are you?”
    “Not at all. I merely hope our guest would agree a woman is capable of picking up her own handkerchief.”
    “I do indeed,” Barbara said. “But why should she, if she has a handsome swain to do it for her?”
    Urice sent her sister a smug look, which disappeared when their guest continued calmly.
    “Beauty can be as potent a force as intellect. Awoman would be a fool not to employ both to achieve her ends.”
    “The same way a man would be a fool not to appreciate both,” the lieutenant put in with a smile.
    “Just so.”
    Spooning her soup, Barbara sipped at the delicately flavored pumpkin bisque. It was quite good, as were the saddle of beef and pork tenderloins in wild mushroom gravy that followed. She reserved judgment on the squash soufflé, but decided she’d never tasted a more delicious syllabub. Rich with raisins, nuts and cinnamon, the pudding-like dessert swam in a puddle of sweet, thick cream.
    After dinner, the family repaired to the parlor where Urice gave an astonishing performance on the piano. Her nimble fingers flew through selections from Mozart, Handel and an Italian composer Barbara had never heard of before switching to lively country airs. When the tinkling notes of “Green-sleeves” faded, the girl slowed the pace and began a piece with an odd rhythm. Every third or fourth beat she stuck a chord at the lower end of the keyboard, almost like a drumbeat. In between, the notes trilled swift and sweet, like a lark on the wing.
    “What an unusual piece,” Barbara commented when she finished.
    “Do you like it?”
    “Very much.”
    Pleasure stained the girl’s cheeks. “It’s my owncomposition. I based it on one of the songs my mother’s mother taught her. The Osage are quite noted for their musical ability, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t. I must confess I’ve not met anyone of Osage descent before.”
    Truth be told, she found the girl’s pride in her mixed heritage somewhat surprising. The Americans she’d met so far had displayed a wide range of attitudes toward the native population, but here in Indian Country the mix of cultures and bloodlines appeared to occasion little concern or comment.
    The concert ended, Zach rose and issued an invitation. “Are you up to a stroll? There’s a harvest moon out tonight. It’s a sight to see rising over the river.”
    Barbara started to demur, but the knowledge that the lieutenant must soon return to Fort Gibson changed her mind. If he had questions or qualms about Barbara’s claim of kinship to his mother, she’d best hear them now.
    Making her excuses to her host and hostess, she