Night Winds

by Gwyneth Atlee

  A moment later, he felt like a prize idiot when the two women mounted the porch steps, then closed the front door to leave him outside, cradling a hurt finch in his hands.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Justine lit the gas chandelier in the dining room to augment the lamplight.

  “I didn’t want to rouse the help,” Phillip explained.

  “They’re sleeping by now. They won’t mind the light. I thought I heard you down here,” she said softly. “What is it you have there?”

  “A wounded bird. I believe it’s called a finch,” Philip replied. He glanced up to see her leaning forward, as she tucked her cane beneath one arm and adjusted the ties on her pale green wrapper.

  “Is its wing broken?” Justine’s voice was soft with pure concern. Although she looked nearly identical to Lydia, she hadn’t a single ounce of spitefulness in her. Quiet and studious, she preferred her books to most human company.

  Phillip stared down at the finch, which he’d placed in a small wooden box. Its struggles must have exhausted it, for it sat hunched in a corner. One tiny wing drooped at an odd angle.

  “It appears that way.” He swore softly in frustration. “Why would that foolish girl believe I might cure this? How should I know about birds?”

  Justine’s head tilted in an unspoken question. Lydia would have nagged him until he closed tight as an oyster, but her twin’s low-key approach made him want to explain.

  “Ethan’s fiancée. Former fiancée, I should say. When I told him I’d found her on the beach, he swore they were through. I can’t blame him, either. I was so angry, I left her there, even though she’d hurt her foot.”

  “Phillip.” Mild reproof shaded the word.

  He nodded. “I know. It was ungentlemanly, at best. Her unladylike behavior was a poor excuse. Later, I worried some vulgar sort might come upon her and try to take advantage.”

  “So that’s where you were going. Lydia nearly danced into my room after you left. She swore it must be some scandalous assignation.” Justine smiled and shook her head, seemingly amused by her sister’s silly notions.

  “I finally found Miss Rowan at her home on Austin Street. She was weeping over a crushed birdcage in the yard. Someone threw it from an upstairs gallery.”

  “No! Who would do such a horrid thing?” Justine perched on the edge of a carved chair beside the mahogany table.

  “Her aunt claimed it was a wind that snapped the hook and made the birds fall, but frankly, I didn’t believe her. Miss Rowan cut her hands trying to open the bent cage door. When I offered to look at them, she passed the bird to me instead. Her aunt rushed her inside before I could say another word.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “Poor girl? I must admit, her sorrow was distressing, but she brought this on herself. Imagine, a young woman dashing about unchaperoned, working like a man inside a shop. And you should have seen her at the beach in her party dress. Just standing in the surf, as if she wore a bathing costume. Mother and Lydia were right. Inferior stock. Ethan was a fool to get mixed up with her.”

  “On the contrary. It might have been the most honest thing he’s ever done. He may stand to inherit a fortune, but he’s always been a spoiled, selfish man. Ever since the two of you were young, he’s done nothing but try to make himself look good at your expense. I thought you’d washed your hands of Ethan years ago. I was quite surprised when you took up with him again”

  “ I think he’s finally changed. After all, he spoke up for me regarding this latest trouble.”

  Justine shrugged. “From what you’ve told me, that could be so he can give some of those snobs he gads about with the latest details of your disgrace. At any rate, I thought his engagement with a shop girl signaled that there might be hope for him.”

  “She’s not simply counter help, either, Ethan tells me. She fashions jewelry at her father’s shop. He calls her an artist. Attractive, in her own way, but rather bohemian for my taste.”

  “Oh, so she’s the one. I’ve seen some of her work. Lydia’s friend, Virginia, has the loveliest brooch. She wore it to debut.”

  Phillip paused, thinking for a moment of Lydia’s debut last spring. Justine hadn’t gone. Her lame foot prevented her from dancing, and she’d refused to attend, for she scorned pity above all else. Besides, Mother hinted that suitors might pass over Lydia if attention were called to Justine’s “unfortunate affliction.” Whether or not Justine’s foot had anything to do with heredity didn’t matter; the idea that someone might think it did could be just as damaging.

  Although Phillip found it appalling that anyone might consider his beloved sisters defective, he had to concede that it could happen. A man had a responsibility to keep his family strong, even in future generations.

  He completed his examination of his tiny, winged patient and set it gently back into the box. The finch hopped a few steps from his hand. “I don’t see as splinting this wing would do him any good. Let’s see if a little quiet and a warm spot might help.”

  “Here’s the saucer of water you wanted.” Carefully, Justine placed it in the box.

  “Good. At least he seems calm now.” Phillip draped a linen towel over the top.

  “That’s because the bird knows, just the way Miss Rowan did.”

  Phillip felt amusement twitch the corners of his mouth. “The bird knows what?”

  “They both know you’re a healer, or that you’re meant to be.”

  “If either had more than a thimbleful of sense, they’d realize that was just an old dream, one I’ve long since put to bed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get myself in bed as well.”

  “Phillip?”

  “What is it?”

  “I want you to remember. It’s more than just a dream. It’s still a possibility.”

  *

  Phillip undressed for the second time that evening. Who was his younger sister to goad him about old ambitions? Surely, she must know family responsibilities had left him no alternative but to take over the business. Was she not one of those obligations, a young woman who would no doubt remain unmarried, yet whom he felt compelled to support in fitting style?

  And what was all this nonsense about Shae Rowan sensing the healer in him? Shae recognized him only as a port in the middle of the typhoon that she’d stirred up.

  As he twisted in his sheets, he thought of her again. How off-course, how lost she’d looked this evening, both at the beach and near her front walk, by the demolished birdcage. Red-blonde waves had freed themselves from any semblance of a hairstyle. He remembered how they’d fluttered in the breeze about her arms and shoulders. She had a physical appeal so very different from the women of his and Ethan’s station. Something about her set him to mind of the graceful lines of egrets, their wild beauty as they flew over the dunes.

  He thought about those delicate hands, the same that splattered him with sand. They must have strength as well as beauty. How must they look as she hammered metal or put links to the flame to close them? How odd to think about a woman shaping jewelry, shaping anything as valuable as gold. Something in the image awakened in him an unexpected pang of need a surprisingly animal sensation.

  Pushing aside the unwelcome thought, Phillip instead recalled those lifeless puffs of feathers that lay upon the bottom of that cage. Had it been her father who had thrown them, out of anger? Was it any of Phillip’s business if he had?

  A sultry breeze stirred the curtains and brought to him the scent of Mother’s roses. He smiled at their sweetness, and at the distraction that they brought to mind. They reminded him his rose was coming home tomorrow, his sweet rose, his Rachel. He pushed aside his doubts and thought about her long, white neck. He remembered how she’d let him kiss it, once, before she left for Houston and a visit with her older sister. He imagined a day, not too distant, when he’d unpin her glossy, dark brown tresses and let them curtain him as he went about a lover’s toil.

  A husband’s, come next spring. He smiled, imagining the way her e
yes shone last month when he presented her with Grandmother’s ring, the same that Mother gave him to signal her approval of his choice. Rachel, his love, how he longed to touch her! As he allowed his mind free rein, Phillip barely noticed how the waist-long hair he dreamed of had lightened to red-gold.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.

  Proverbs 11:2

  *Thursday, September 15, 1875 *

  “Take some tea.” Aunt Alberta pushed the hot cup into her hands without waiting for a response.

  Shae leaned out of bed to place it on the night table, untouched. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she wondered what was wrong.

  “Your father won’t wait for you, so quit moping, Mary Shae.”

  Of course. The light. Without the cage bars to impede it, the morning light came unbroken to her room. Shae missed the silhouetted figures of tiny finches hopping in that cage. She even missed the dream that she would one day lift it from its hook and remove it to her new home, when she married Ethan.

  The man himself had never figured prominently in those fantasies. In her mind, he would ever be away on business, and she would be left to paint in one of the mansion’s massive halls. A childish fancy, she realized. Marrying Ethan had been a poor plan from the start, either to fulfill her father’s dreams of prestige or her own, of escape. She’d been wrong to try to use the man that way.

  “I’m not going to the store today,” Shae announced.

  “You’d feel better if you did.”

  She shook her head. “I have to go see Ethan, to apologize.”

  “Too late for that, my dear. You’ve humiliated him publicly. No man forgives that.”

  “I don’t care.” She fidgeted with the lace of her sleeping gown. “No, that’s a lie. I do. I was wrong to do that to him. I was wrong to agree to marry him at all. I’m taking back his ring.”

  She picked up the gold band, with its flawless, oval ruby surrounded by white diamonds. What a relief it would be to dispose of the elegant burden. She’d always worried she would chip or discolor it with the tools of her trade, so she often took it off. Then she fretted she would lose it or that someone might construe her bare fingers as ingratitude. She might enjoy working with precious materials, but she didn’t feel equal to possessing them.

  Alberta sniffed disdainfully and crossed her thick arms. “You’ll do no such thing. We’ll send Lucius to return it, or another friend of your father’s. It would be entirely improper for you to”

  “ But I am entirely improper, aren’t I? That’s what you’ve been telling me forever. ‘Proper ladies don’t labor in shops.’ ‘Proper ladies pull the laces on their corsets ‘til their eyes pop out.’ ‘Proper ladies don’t indulge in this velocipede fad.’” Her aunt had been so angry about “that obscene contraption,” as she’d called it, that Shae had prudently decided she would store it in a shed owned by Father’s bookkeeper.

  Shae climbed out of bed and limped across the room to examine the contents of her wardrobe. After a brief search, she pulled out a walking skirt and an unfashionably plain pearl gray waist. She wrinkled her nose at the corset she pulled out before tossing it onto the bed.

  “I never said that part about the eyes,” Alberta argued.

  “You certainly did. And you and Father have had me so convinced I’ll lose my head, I’ve been terrified to spend more than a moment talking with a boy. Imagine my surprise when King started trying to pawn me off on Ethan like a just-weaned kitten.”

  Alberta pursed her lips and then settled for an exasperated sigh. “We only want the best for you, child. Your father and I believe our biggest mistake was to let you go into the shop when She left.”

  Shae unceremoniously stripped off her nightgown and tossed it on the bed before pulling on her chemise and drawers. She hooked her corset at the front, but left the drawstrings loose to goad her aunt, though her narrow waist scarcely required cinching.

  “I’m not a child,” Shae protested as she tied on a modest bustle and then dressed, “and your biggest mistake had nothing to do with the shop. It was trying to pass off a piece of cut glass as a gem. I’m not, you know. I never will be, either. It’s time you both accepted that.”

  Alberta opened her mouth as if to argue, but the words died on her lips. Finally, she spoke, her voice softened by regret. “Perhaps it is. I’ll tell King you’re ill.”

  “You’d better not. I’m taking Samson.”

  This time, her aunt looked bemused. “I don’t believe so. After last night’s mischief, the gig is ruined. King will take Samson and the phaeton, so that leaves you”

  “ On foot. Very well.”

  “You won’t get far on that foot.”

  Shae lifted her chin in challenge. “I’ll crawl if I must. But I am going to see Ethan.”

  Her door banged open. “The hell you are, Mary Shae,” King told her. “You’re coming to the shop. As long as you insist on being a part of my business, you’ll be there every day.” He was dressed for work, in a conservative brown suit. Nothing interfered with his work schedule. He hadn’t even missed a day when Shae’s mother disappeared.

  At his entrance, Shae recoiled instinctively. All she could think of was the smashed cage on the walk. “You killed my birds.” Her sentence failed to rise to indicate a question. When she saw his scowling face, she knew.

  He did not deny a thing. “Stop this foolishness at once. If you’re hell-bent on spinsterhood, you can damned well earn your keep."

  Normally, Shae dropped her gaze at her father’s demands or accusations, but not this time. “You killed them,” she repeated stubbornly.

  Alberta grabbed her by the arm. The older woman’s nails dug in painfully as she shrilled, “How dare you accuse your father? He’s a fine and generous man! More than She ever deserved! More than you”

  Shae tore her arm away from her aunt’s grasp.

  “ Leave me alone. Both of you.”

  King glowered like an angry sea. “You’ll need to finish cleaning that smeared paint off the floor. Then I’ll see you at the store. The walk will do you good.”

  In his wake, Alberta left. She slammed Shae’s door behind her, as if to prove her brother was not the only Rowan who could leave a room emphatically.

  *

  A whiff of turpentine stung Shae’s nose and brought tears to her eyes. She glared down at the smear of blue and orange still left from her aunt’s earlier efforts with the varnished oak. She couldn’t care less if it stayed there until the Second Coming. She wasn’t cleaning it.

  Neither was she walking to the store at King’s command. First she would see Ethan, no matter what her father and aunt said.

  Shae unwound the bandage on her right foot and examined the instep. Though tender and puffy, the wound had long since ceased to bleed. She rewrapped it using some clean cotton strips her aunt had left upstairs. After donning a pair of thin, summer-weight stockings, Shae forced a shoe on her left foot, then her right. She bit her lip and outwaited pain in stubborn silence.

  While she came down the stairs, Aunt Alberta’s voice carried from the kitchen as the older woman noisily upbraided Eva for some shortcoming. The poor maid must have just arrived. Shae knew this wasn’t the first occasion Eva had been berated for poor timing. The hired woman had come in on the heels of King’s tirades before.

  Eva might need her job too much to dodge the rough side of Aunt Alberta’s tongue, but Shae refused to listen to another angry word. Quietly, she slipped outside and hobbled toward the combination stable and carriage house.

  Not many months before, Shae had been proud when Father gave in to her pleading and bought her Delilah and an elegant sidesaddle. Despite her aunt’s disapproval, riding about delighted Shae. While the mare’s limbs pumped, Shae’s mind soaked in the graceful forms of palms and wispy, summer clouds. She saved the images like found coins, to be later spent within her art. Today, however, the horse’s function would change from recreation
to basic transportation.

  Delilah’s deep gold head poked out of a stall, and she raised her lip in what looked like equine hilarity. Still angry over the wrecked gig, Shae turned to glare at the beast.

  “They’ll be sledding in Hades before I bring you another apple,” Shae vowed. “Try laughing about that for a bit.”

  Though the horse showed no contrition, Shae soon relented and stroked the narrow stripe on the mare’s forehead, then smoothed the white forelock. Delilah might be a blasted nuisance sometimes, but Shae supposed, in her own way, the beast offered at least as much in the way of loyalty as Cynthia.

  As Shae began to saddle Delilah, the mare laid back her ears and lifted a rear leg as if to kick. Swatting the animal a warning, Shae decided she really ought to seek a better class of friends.

  After adjusting her hat, Shae slipped her foot into the left stirrup and hoisted herself into the seat. Ordinarily ladies were assisted, but even during her first lessons, she’d been too eager to wait. She draped her right leg on the same side, over the hook-like pommel, and wondered, not for the first time, if she’d feel more balanced if she rode astride, just like a man. But the idea was scandalous, of course; she could already imagine her aunt afflicted with the vapors at the sight. Hmmm. Perhaps it wasn’t such a poor idea after all.

  She tapped Delilah with her riding crop, and the mare responded with a flowing trot down Austin Street. As sore as her right foot felt, she was glad to be on horseback.

  It would have been far more appropriate to wear a riding costume, but she hadn’t planned that far ahead this morning. Besides, although Father had first encouraged her to become an equestrienne to keep her from moping about the house after Mother left, he’d never tolerate her sporting garb inside the workplace. If Shae managed to force herself to go to the shop later, she didn’t want to face the outburst that offense would provoke.