“You probably assume that in my unmarried state I’m ignorant of men and their manipulatings,” Justine resumed, gazing steadily at Patrick. “But what no one here realizes is that I once had a beau—as dashing as you are, Mr. Perkins—and after he declared his eternal love and took his liberties with me, he married my little sister. Now that you know to whom I’m referring, you also know he ran out on her, when Celesta was born. Sounds similar to what a certain man in this room did about ten years ago, doesn’t it?”
Patrick’s face was aflame, but he was too incensed to respond. Celesta held her breath, wondering what this could possibly lead to. Could Justine see Damon? Would she attack him next? It was clear that her maiden aunt was just warming up: after confessing the most shocking secret from her own past, who else would she expose?
“So you see, Mr. Perkins, my niece’s history hardly compares to those of the pedigreed fillies you’re used to cavorting with,” she continued stiffly. “It’s to her credit that her mother sought honest work and encouraged her many talents. And I’m quite proud to point out that Celesta is a widely read author. Far too intelligent for you anyway.”
“I knew that,” Patrick sneered, “but if you’re telling us those Sally Sharpe stories are worth reading—”
“I’m telling you to shut your mouth until I’ve finished!”
Her words echoed around her stunned audience, and the finger she was pointing at Perkins began to shake uncontrollably. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not her money you’re after, since you Perkinses certainly have your share. That only leaves one other thing you could want from a beautiful girl like my niece, and if you think you’ll be the first to claim it, you’re not only stupid, you’re blind.”
Damon saw Celesta’s face go white, and he stepped forward, speaking quietly. “Justine, I think you’re too upset to realize what you’re—”
“Damn right I’m upset!” she cried, pivoting to aim her finger at him. “You think I don’t know about you and Celesta? Who could sleep, listening to those animal moanings at all hours? Quite the Romeo, aren’t you?”
He tried to take her by the shoulders, but she jerked away violently. “Justine, I think we—”
“And quite the sneak, too!” she blurted. “I knew you were on my balcony the night of the fire, just as I know you’ve been waiting in the vestibule in case I got out of hand! Crazy Justine, everyone thinks! But you set that fire, Mr. Frye, because with me gone you’ll have access to the Ransom estate—”
“That’s not why I came here, and you know it.”
“—but it didn’t work, did it? Celesta saw the fire in time and spoiled your little plan.”
Her eyes were dilated black, and her slender body was trembling with rage, a volcano ready to erupt. Katherine was mortified, sitting with her head in her hands, while Eula was on the edge of her seat, wide-eyed. He had to stop this madness before Justine hurt anyone else—or herself—but she was backing away from him, deftly remaining beyond his reach.
‘‘Justine, please. We know each other too well to—”
“Yes, I do know you, Mr. Frye! You’ve lied to us about Lucy Bates, you’ve taken advantage of my niece, you’ve wormed your way into our hearts, and now you’re leaving! Get out of my house!” she shrieked. “You men are all alike and we can live without you!”
Katherine rose unsteadily from her chair. “Justine, you have no idea what you’re saying, dear. If you’ll calm down, we can—”
“It was you who got us into this mess, inviting him to live here,” the spinster railed, “and I’m doing what I should’ve done then. Mr. Frye is leaving. Now!”
Damon thought frantically but could arrive at no solution to this drastic situation. As long as she thought anyone was challenging her power as the head of the proud Ransom family, Justine would accuse them, rightly or wrongly, of trying to dethrone her. “I’ll leave when you sit down and rest,” he said in a low voice, pointing to an overstuffed chair. “You can’t protect Celesta or your money if you have a stroke, now can you?”
Justine’s mouth snapped shut, and she looked puzzled.
“Some of the things you’ve said are absolutely correct,” he went on in a soothing voice, “but if you kill yourself yelling at us, who’ll keep us all on the straight and narrow after you’re gone?”
The old woman crossed her arms. “Your point’s well taken, Mr. Frye. But you’re still leaving,” she said with a wry chuckle.
“Fine. As soon as you’re seated, with cake and some tea, I’ll go downstairs to pack.”
As suddenly as she’d begun raving, Justine meekly took the chair Damon was pointing at and watched him pour her a cup of tea with childlike awe. Then he excused himself, walking with unruffled grace toward the kitchen.
Celesta felt Patrick glowering at her. She made no response when he stood up and said, “I’ll follow him, to be sure he’s cleared out within the hour. To think that bastard could move in and then try to burn—”
“The only place you’re going is home, young man,” Justine commanded quietly. She sipped her tea and looked from Patrick to his mother. “You Perkinses are like vultures: we never saw your lowly faces until there was a corpse. Rachel may have passed on—under suspicious circumstances, I might add—but I’m not dead yet! So get out, and don’t you be hovering around us again!”
Chapter 20
Justine appeared at breakfast the next morning looking exceptionally pert and serene—younger, Celesta thought, than she’d seemed since Mama’s funeral. Her stormy speech had apparently cleared her mind of her stored-up suspicions, and swept clean of these emotional cobwebs, she chatted about the coming day’s activities as though yesterday’s tea had been nothing out of the ordinary.
When she saw a wagon out the window, loaded with workmen and large lengths of pipe, she rose from her place at the table. “There’s our water line crew, bright and early,” she commented with crisp approval. “Let’s see if Mr. Frye had the gumption to come with them.”
As she paused in the doorway and then walked down the stone path to greet them, Damon observed her closely. Her hair and clothing were immaculate, and her tight smile reminded him of the day he was repairing the gazebo, relegated to the cellar by a ramrod woman whose principles would not be compromised! He’d broken her rules—and she’d gone along with it—and now they watched each other with wary politeness. Both of them had been wrong a time or two, and both of them knew it.
“Good morning, Justine,” he said with a reserved smile. “I hope you didn’t think I’d renege on our plumbing project for personal reasons.”
“The thought never crossed my mind, Mr. Frye.”
What was on her mind? As he looked at her bright brown eyes and fragile smile she seemed so collected, so like the Justine Ransom known for her perceptive, if blunt, opinions. In town, the tongues were already wagging, and he could only wonder how much damage Ian Montgomery, Patrick Perkins, and he himself had done to this lonely woman.
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll let these men get started on the trench, and I’ll return tonight to move your furniture back into your room,” Damon said quietly. “I’ll work on the plumbing evenings and Saturdays, if that’s acceptable.”
“That would be fine.”
He nodded, and with a glance toward the kitchen window—was that Celesta’s shadow he saw?—he turned toward his horse. He’d just swung into the saddle when Justine’s voice stopped him.
“I appreciate your coming today, Damon. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned out your room and meals, and you owe us nothing.”
He studied her, holding the reins taut to keep his mount from shifting restlessly. “You’ve paid for the fixtures. I told you I’d install them, and I’m a man of my word,” he stated evenly. “But if you’ve decided someone else should—”
“You’re still the right man for the job,” she said with a little smile. “I rather enjoy watching you work.”
He hesitated, and then chuckled. By God,
the old girl was flirting with him! On an impulse he reached down to lightly touch her cheek, a cheek that had been as firm and enticing as Celesta’s at one time. Then he rode back to the Cruikshank mansion, whistling under his breath.
* * *
The September sun made the leaves on the pine oaks shine in shades of russet and copper beneath a cloudless blue sky. It was a day that sparkled like a jewel in the crown of early autumn, and once Justine returned safely from her shopping, Katherine insisted on working in the garden. Armed with a spade and a pitchfork, they were digging the last of the carrots, potatoes, and onions to store them away for winter.
Celesta paused with her foot on the shovel, blowing a wisp of loose hair aside. “Do you think Justine’s all right in there by herself?” she asked quietly.
“She’s cleaning—and smoking, I imagine,” came the breathy reply. “I suspect she’ll recover from what she said yesterday long before the rest of us will. If she even remembers it.”
Chuckling wryly, Celesta bent down to knock the soil from a handful of long, orange carrots. “How much of it was true, do you think?”
Her aunt made a sound that was part laughter and part sigh. “Well, Damon certainly didn’t set the fire—at least not the one in her room,” she added coyly, “but I never suspected she and Ian Montgomery . . . just as I had no idea you were writing dime novels, dear.”
She met her aunt’s probing gaze with a shy smile. “That part’s true enough. Ironically, it was one of my stories she was reading when the fire started.”
Katherine giggled, taking ten years from her careworn face as she straightened her back. “I wish I’d known, Celesta! Your mother would’ve been so proud if—”
“She knew. It was a secret we enjoyed every time Sally Sharpe appeared on the racks, because only we two realized who Montgomery C. Lester actually was,” she replied wistfully. “Although if Patrick claims he knew, that means he must’ve—”
“He’s just the sort to go rifling through your drawers. Pun intended,” came a voice from behind them.
They swiveled like little girls caught gossiping, to see Justine watching them from the hedgerow. She was wearing her oldest skirt, and her blouse sleeves were rolled to her elbows. Her smile was proud beneath a straw bonnet that rippled in the breeze.
“I probably shouldn’t have revealed your publishing success,” the spinster continued as she knelt to gather the loose potatoes at Katherine’s feet, “but I had to prove to that transparent cad—and his insufferable mother—how far above them you are, Celesta.”
“Well, I ... thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Justine glanced up at her sister-in-law, clearing her throat. “I’d be happy to loan you my Sally Sharpe collection sometime, if you’re interested. You’ll be amazed at the imagination this niece of ours has, and I’m certainly glad I kept her stories stashed safely in my armoire.”
Suddenly overwhelmed by this unexpected praise, Celesta shoved her spade into the earth so that she wouldn’t explode with joy. To think that Justine, of all people, would preserve her stories—
She frowned, and then glanced slyly at her kneeling aunt. “How long have you known about Montgomery Lester?”
Justine chortled. “I should’ve figured it out long before I did. The story about Damon Dare was a dead giveaway.”
Celesta raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps someone besides Patrick rifles through drawers.”
“Perhaps. Eula impresses me as a woman who’d stoop to that.”
After a moment Katherine began to quake, and then they were all laughing, conspirators of the dearest sort. Celesta looked at her two aunts and wished this happy moment could last forever. Their eyes sparkled, amid their faces glowed with recaptured youth. They felt like a family now, the three of them bound by ties more compelling than common blood or ancestors: they had something to prove, to the Perkinses and everyone else in this tale-spinning town. If only . . .
But they all remembered yesterday, and for several minutes the three of them worked in silence, Katherine and Celesta wielding the tools while Justine retrieved the vegetables. Finally the eldest woman sighed, tossing a rotten potato over the row of zinnias, toward the riverbank. “I suppose that tidbit about Ian has sprouted wings by now,” she said softly. “Funny how easily that slipped out, after more than twenty years of keeping it locked away.”
Katherine glanced briefly at Celesta, and they both kept digging. What was there to say? Justine would reveal what she wished to, in her own way, and they could only hope she didn’t get upset again.
“You see, I said that piece for you, Celesta,” she continued quietly. “I wanted the Perkinses to know they can’t consider you in the hired-help class anymore. And I wanted to warn you, by my own painful example, about how easy it is to lose your heart to a handsome man. Your father was my age, but I was too young for him by half—which was why he conquered me so quickly with his bold, beautiful eyes. And lies. He was good with those, too.”
She stood to stretch, looking toward the river as though expecting to see her old lover there, beckoning her. “Rachel and I had our differences, but I never wanted her to suffer my fate. And how could I have warned her about Ian’s duplicity without admitting my own shame? It was unspeakably embarrassing—and she wouldn’t have listened anyway. Too impetuous and outspoken, your mother was.”
Celesta smiled to herself. Eula Perkins had often accused Mama of stronger traits than those—and Justine was no stranger to them, either.
“I wish I would’ve mended our fences, though. Rachel and I shared more than Ian’s betrayal, and I find myself wondering if she wouldn’t be alive today, had I invited her home.” She blinked at them, a little sheepishly. “This old mind stumbles onto the damndest thoughts sometimes. I’ll be quiet now, so we can get our work done.”
Damon saw them strolling past when he was eating breakfast on Broadway a few days later, and he wondered who was watching over whom. His heart stung from missing them—both of them, damn it— and he watched them until they were too far down the street to see. Justine looked composed and demure, her basket over her arm, while Celesta listened to her with a sweet smile that drove him absolutely crazy.
Was that a new dress she was wearing? The deep green fabric flattered her immensely, and the billowing leg-of-mutton sleeves whittled her waist to a dainty proportion he could span with his hands—how he wanted to!
Did her ears burn with the gossip about how he’d set fire to the suite and stolen her virtue? Was she aware that Eula and Patrick had dusted off the suspicions about a crazy streak in the Ransom clan, and that rumormongers had lovingly polished the tale with their tongues? Hannibal, like most small towns, was cruel that way. In his darker moments, Damon wished he hadn’t returned.
Yet he was far from hopeless. In his room at the Park Hotel, or while eating meals that Katherine’s put to shame, his feelings for Celesta deepened. She kept him awake nights: God, he returned from the Manor each evening and fondled his memories of how she looked and what she said until they were threadbare. By an unspoken agreement, they exchanged only the briefest greetings when he went there to work. He saw questions in her eyes, and someday soon she would have all the answers, he vowed
But now they both waited—for what, he wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t sneak her into his hotel room, and he didn’t expect her to slip upstairs while he installed the bathroom fixtures. Jokes about fitting pipes into holes made him miss the sparkle in her eyes and her subtle laughter as much as he missed the way her body drove his to a frenzy sweeter than life itself.
That evening he worked alone in the round tower room, his labor accompanied by the steady creak of Justine’s rocking chair from behind the opposite wall. She was listening to her phonograph, and although she was using the earpieces, he heard occasional strains of music escaping them.
Did she ever listen to those French lessons? Perhaps she hadn’t originally had any: a woman who concealed dime novels beneath her groceries might switch the c
ylinders in the store and come home with some real toe-tappers in home-study canisters. The thought made Frye laugh out loud.
Her rocking ceased . . . she was putting a different record on the spindle. Damon pushed the porcelain tub over to the wall, carefully aligning its faucet holes with the shiny pipes he’d just connected. He felt a presence, and turned to see Justine staring blankly at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly. And after a moment he tried, “Shall we find Katherine? Or may I get you something?”
She left, her silver hair fluttering over her wrapper, her hands clenched into bony fists. Her tread on the stairs was firm and steady, yet he sensed he should follow her. And when she opened the back door to step down the stone pathway toward the gazebo, he ducked into the summer parlor. Katherine was working her needlepoint, and Celesta was reading, a cozy scene with Brahms playing in the background.
“Justine just walked outside. I think we’d better see to her.”
They were up immediately, their faces lined with worry as they followed him into the moonless night. Celesta was carrying the parlor lamp, her lips pinched grimly.
“She does this sometimes,” Katherine murmured, peering anxiously into the darkness ahead. “Something upsets her, and she roams for half the night, I wish you were still here, Damon, though I suppose it’s for the best.”
He smiled sadly and then he stopped short. Justine was at the edge of the bluff overlooking the river, gazing out as though searching for a steamer that was long overdue. He held his breath . . . should he fetch her? Or would she slip and tumble down the embankment in her confusion?
The spinster turned, and when she saw them watching her she crossed her arms and shivered with the evening breeze. Her flowing hair caught the light from the lantern, and Damon felt a worm of apprehension crawling in his stomach. She was looking at him with the same expression she’d worn when she accused him of setting her fire.
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