by Susan Wiggs
So this was Hance Adair, of whom Lexington's belles talked in fascinated whispers. A man who possessed more than charm or good looks. Through means no one had yet discovered, he'd made a small fortune in a unique shipping enterprise. His ships were deep-draft, oceangoing vessels capable of shooting the Ohio rapids at Louisville and descending to New Orleans, ultimately to make port in England. An amazing concept, Ivy reflected. An ingenious one. One that had made Hance Adair extremely rich in a very short time.
Ivy would have liked to have made his acquaintance, but already he was surrounded by a bouquet of beautiful, tittering women. Hance Adair would never notice Ivy, bookishly plain, and, at twenty-five, with one foot already in the lonely pasture of spinsterhood.
"He never stays around long," Sarah explained to Lucy. "Mama says Hance has always been a restless sort. Come on, Ivy, you must meet him, too. I'd best make introductions before he disappears again."
Hance was used to his sister's simpering friends, with their skillfully batting eyes and fluttering fans, their confidence that the world would fall at their feet should they so command it. Lexington was full of them. But as soon as he took Ivy Attwater's slim hand in his and felt her firm grip, he knew she was different.
He noticed immediately that she wasn't beautiful. Her eyes were too wide set, although the color was lovely, reminding him of a glass of brandy shot through by candlelight. She had a small, impish turned-up nose and thin lips that smiled in a way that was merely friendly rather than fetching. Her nut-brown hair had not been fussed over; it was pulled back to reveal the unadorned honesty of her features.
When he raised her hand to his lips, Hance found himself hoping intently that she wouldn't giggle. If she did so, she'd be no different from all the others.
She didn't giggle. Her smile merely broadened, and she said, "How do you do?" with clear articulation.
"Much better now, thank you," Hance said and swept her onto the dance floor.
Before long the Caddicks' ballroom buzzed with urgent whispers. For Hance Adair, the rakish, golden lady's man, who'd been pursued relentlessly by scores of Lexington's most delectable belles, appeared to be smitten. If he hadn't been dancing attendance on Ivy Attwater before their very eyes, no one would have believed it.
Granted, Ivy was respectable, the daughter of one of Transylvania University's most eminent professors, but the girl was positively dowdy, and far too outspoken in matters that should never concern a lady. The bolder gossips also pointed out Miss Attwater's age as yet another defect. At twenty-five, she was well past her courting years.
Hance wasn't impervious to the curious glances, his brother Luke's bemused expression, his parents' fond smiles. Nor did he fail to note the miffed pouts of the Beasley twins, whom he'd been calling on for the past few weeks. But he didn't care. He was fascinated by Ivy Attwater, who somehow managed to move through the steps of each reel and quadrille with careless grace while she spoke knowledgeably on subjects ranging from river shipping to Joseph Buchanan's radical philosophy of human nature.
"I've purchased a tract of land just north of High Street," Hance told her. "I intend to make it the site of the grandest house Lexington has ever seen."
"You said you spend most of your time in Louisville."
"So I do. But I should have a decent house to come back to."
Ivy grinned at him. "How very modern of you, Mr. Adair. So materialistic."
The laughter began in his eyes and then rippled from his smiling mouth. Ivy frowned at him.
"Didn't you think my comment was rather barbed, Mr. Adair?"
"Barbed?" he laughed. "Miss Attwater, it was downright rude!"
"Then why are you laughing?" she demanded.
"Because you delight me. Most young ladies ooze pure rapture when I impress them with my wealth."
She tried to look stern. "Mr. Adair, I am not young, and I never ooze."
"Which is precisely why you're so delightful. Now, if you're not too disgusted by my materialism, I'd like to take you for a drive tomorrow."
Hance wanted to fill his life with Ivy Attwater. Just being around her gave him a sense of goodness. Never had he met a woman so honest, so utterly devoid of the grasping, smothering qualities he attributed to the fairer sex.
He had two distinct sets of females with which he associated. There were the proper ladies, the ones who simpered and batted their eyes and mentioned pointedly that at thirty-two, Hance should think about settling down. And then there were the others, the bold, lusty, free spirits of the frontier, who didn't hold with repressing their bodies' needs.
Ivy Attwater didn't fit into either category. She was a class unto herself, neither missish coquette nor brash saloon girl. Intelligent and forthright in her opinions, generous of heart, possessed of an honest, captivating charm. She had a direct way of looking at Hance that told him she was more interested in the person he was than in what he had to offer her.
Hance worked hard at courting Ivy. Almost daily he called on her, taking her for drives, for walks, poking through Tilford's bookstore. The Reverend Rankin and his parishioners were astounded to see Hance appear in church with unusual regularity.
But Hance's favorite hours were those he spent alone with Ivy, hours he took great pains to arrange. In May they picnicked on his plot of land, when the delicate flowers of the bluegrass turned the acres to an undulating carpet of lavender.
"Mr. Adair," Ivy said, tucking a mint leaf down into her glass of lemonade.
"I won't answer you until you agree to call me Hance."
She grinned. "Very well. Hance. You've been in Lexington for weeks. Aren't you neglecting your business concerns?"
"A little, perhaps. But my associates, the Tarascon brothers, will take care of things in Shippingport."
"You've never spoken of your business, Hance."
He hesitated, wondering what her reaction would be if he told her the truth. His single exploit into river piracy had convinced him that such a life wasn't for him, but the large amount of money he'd earned had been seductive. The money gave him a sense of worth, a sense that nothing was out of his reach.
He'd happened upon a more agreeable—and more lucrative—way of earning it. Since the port of New Orleans had been acquired by Mr. Jefferson and opened to American shipping, Louisville had undergone an explosion in shipping. The huge rivers of the West provided highways to every part of the world, a resource just waiting to be tapped. Hance had joined the Tarascon brothers in their grand enterprise of building oceangoing vessels below the Falls of the Ohio. They weren't particularly selective in the goods they transported, be it bootleg whiskey, stolen furs, or an honest load of grain.
The profits Hance reaped were astounding.
"Hance… ?"
He looked up at Ivy and realized he hadn't responded to her question. Hastily, he said, "I'm into transportation."
"What sort?"
"Anything I sense a demand for."
"You're evading me, Hance."
He smiled the smile that had melted dozens of hearts. Ivy only looked at him steadily.
"It's just that I'm enjoying your company too much to talk of business, love."
She shook her head slowly. "You disappoint me."
Hance chuckled. Other women flattered him, took what he said as gospel, but not Ivy. She demanded more from him, made him present more of himself than he was accustomed to doing. He suspected she'd be fascinated by the intricate workings of shipping, the network of distribution that stretched from Pennsylvania to New Orleans and beyond. But he didn't want her to know about the darker aspects of his enterprise. Her opinion of him had become of supreme importance. He deflected further questions by asking her about herself.
"We're from Boston," she told him. "Father was teaching ancient literature at Harvard College. Unfortunately the faculty there found some of his ideas a bit radical, and they made life rather hard for him. He was ready for a change when he heard about Transylvania University."
"The uni
versity is lucky to have him. My brother Israel has spoken highly of his teaching."
"Some of his ideas are quite fascinating."
Hance lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"My parents never discouraged learning, even of things that are supposed to be of no interest to women. Did you know that many of John Locke's ideas stem from his correspondence with Lady Masham?"
He leaned his head back and laughed heartily. "Ivy, I confess I've had cobwebs growing in certain areas of my brain. You're the breath of fresh air that will chase them away."
She flashed him her frank smile. "It appears you've given me a calling, Hance."
She was the only woman Hance had ever met who didn't want either his money or his commitment to marry. Ivy Attwater was a giving person, sharing herself while asking nothing in return. Hance forgot the world as they talked and laughed their way through the summer of 1806, forgot that his life was less than admirable, forgot how he used people and hurt his parents. It was as if some of Ivy's innate goodness had rubbed off on him, minimizing his many flaws.
Lexington society buzzed about the unlikely liaison. The couple appeared everywhere together, much to the dismay of numerous belles and their ambitious mothers. Ivy ignored the talk, but Hance grew weary of it. At the Beasley plantation one autumn evening, he won a horse race and the twins presented him with a coin-silver julep cup. It was customary for the victor to receive a kiss from his hostesses, but Hance merely walked from the racing green, shedding his jacket and loosening his stock.
While the twins glared daggers at his back, he found Ivy sitting beneath a crab-apple tree and gave her the cup.
"You're behaving dreadfully," Ivy admonished.
He took a cup of whiskey from a passing servant, drew long on it, and lay in the grass beside her. "I've never been noted for my manners, love."
She tried not to smile at him, at his lazy grin, at the golden hair ruffled by the evening breeze. "Hance, you cut them dead."
But he only laughed and drank some more and discarded his stock, wresting his shirt front open. His chest glistened damply in the waning light.
Ivy regarded him with frank admiration, unabashedly moving her eyes over him.
"What are all those scars?" she asked.
Hance moved a hand absently to his chest. "Battle scars," he admitted. "But not the soldiering kind. I used to be quite a brawler."
Ivy pressed her mouth into a thin line of disapproval. "I hope those days are over. I despise fighting no matter what the cause."
A lazy grin slid across his face. "I am a man completely at peace," he assured her. He picked up a crab apple that had fallen to the ground and contemplated it. "There's an old saying," he mused, "that if you eat a crab apple without frowning, you'll win the heart of the person you desire."
"Easier said than done," Ivy teased.
He sent her a challenging stare, then bit deeply into the apple. Ivy watched him closely, looking for the first sign of a grimace. Hance chewed slowly, sensually, as if savoring every bit. Calmly, he consumed the apple and tossed the core away.
"Well?" he asked, spreading his arms.
She tried to remain serious. "I've never been more impressed in my entire life."
Laughing, he drew her into his arms. The evening around them was soft and warm, flower-scented and alive with the sound of a fiddler's playing and the murmur of the Beasleys' guests. Hance was a little in awe of the feeling of having Ivy in his arms. He'd held countless women, but none had ever had this effect on him. She was like a soft cushion against the rest of the world, comforting him against all harshness, making him feel as if the two of them belonged to a different world.
But reality came intruding in the person of Farley Caddick. He was a haughty, self-important young man, the son of one of Lexington's leading families. And he despised Hance, despised him for his rakish handsomeness and his ease with the ladies. Only recently, Hance had relieved him of his favorite horse in a card game; Farley was still smarting from the coup.
"Why Hance Adai-ah," he drawled, haughtily dropping his rs. "I didn't know you had a charitable bone in your body. But here you are, ignoring all of Lexington's most beautiful songbirds to keep company with a little brown sparrow."
Hance looked quickly at Ivy. The only sign that she'd caught the stab of Farley's insult was a blossom of red smudges on her cheeks.
"Leave us alone, Farley," he said, his voice taut and quiet.
But Caddick made no move to leave. "What are you trying to prove, Adair?" he demanded. "Have you suddenly decided to be a gentleman, or have the belles finally found out what a scoundrel you are?" Farley emitted a harsh laugh. "Imagine, the artful Adair, relegated to entertaining a plain little pigeon. I declare, you're both desperate, aren't you?"
Caddick looked slightly distressed that Hance hadn't risen to his bait. Spoiling for a fight, he went on. "Of course," he drawled, "I could be wrong about the little lady. Could be some of those books she's always reading have finally taught her something. I wonder how long it'll be before she decides to share some of those charms with the rest of us. Tell me, Hance, is it true she's not the dried-up little sparrow we all thought she was?"
No thought preceded Hance's action. Knowing only the heat of blinding rage, he shot to his feet and drove his fist into Farley's smirking face.
Caddick landed with a howl on his backside as blood poured from his nose. Snarling an oath, Hance dove onto him, losing sight of Ivy in the scuffle that followed. The last he saw of her, as Nathaniel Caddick and several others hauled him away from Farley, was her bewildered face, stained with a humiliated flush. A look of bleak disappointment haunted her eyes. Instantly, Hance knew she disapproved of his defense of her.
Roarke appeared like a flame-haired giant, balling up his fists and demanding an explanation.
"He attacked me, the infernal beast," Farley spluttered. "He should be horsewhipped."
"Throw him out," barked Farley's father, Samuel. "Throw him out like the rubbish he is."
Hance wrenched himself from the grips of the two men who flanked him. Glowering, he retreated. "No need for an escort," he growled. "I know my way out."
He paused for just a moment, moving his eyes over the scandalized crowd gathered around the crab-apple tree. He caught sight of Ivy, and their gazes locked.
Her look told him, with dreadful finality, that the image he'd spent weeks building had crumbled. She took a single step away, then turned her back on him.
As he stalked through the dark, dusty streets of Lexington, the only thing Hance remembered with any clarity was that look. The stark, searing disappointment in her brandy-colored eyes, impaling him with disapproval. Hance knew he'd made a fatal error. Ivy would never forgive him for being so rash, for losing control.
Full of self-loathing, he headed for Satterwhite's Tavern and drank enough whiskey to drown a skunk. He did the same at several successive taverns, but the needed effect eluded him. Hance didn't feel as base and worthless as he deserved. Slamming a coin down on the bar, he stormed from the saloon, pointing his feet in the direction of Miss Nellie's. It was fitting, he reflected grimly, for him to turn to Nell Wingfield after being rejected by a decent woman. He'd done it once before, after Janie Carstairs.
But none of the girls, not the lush, brassy-haired Doreen nor the exotic octoroon Cherisse, was to his liking tonight. Even Belle, with her tongue curling into his ear as she whispered an outrageous suggestion, couldn't coax Hance out of his mood of self-loathing.
He was about to leave, disgusted with himself, when a girl he'd never seen before crossed his path, carrying a tray of glasses across the parlor.
The girl was striking—small, with a shining mane of inky hair and wild blue eyes fringed thickly by long, curling lashes. Prominent cheekbones and an arrogant lift to her chin, a well-shaped nose and a smooth brow, added pride to her appearance. Her body was taut and firm, yet at the same time generous in its proportions. She had a delicious-looking mouth and an air of innocence about
her that intrigued Hance.
He was seized by a sudden masculine urge. Grinning, he felt more like his old self again. He planted himself in front of her, feet splayed and arms akimbo, smiling lazily as he blocked her path.
"Not so fast, pretty girl," he said. "I wouldn't mind a few hours of your company tonight."
She tried to push past him. "It's not my place."
There was a lilting arrogance in the way she spoke that made Hance pause, considering. Recognition teased his mind, then burst into consciousness.
"By God," he laughed, "why didn't I see it before?" Insolently, he reached out and stroked her smooth, copper-tinted cheek. "You're an Injun, aren't you, girl?" That would be even more satisfactory, spending his anger on such a lovely specimen of the race he hated.
He took the tray from her. "Come on, little squaw," he said. "You and I are gonna have some fun."
"Let me be," she said through her teeth.
Hance's reply was cut off by a meaty hand clapped firmly over his shoulder. He twisted his head to see Jack, whom Nell employed to deal with unruly patrons.
"She ain't one of the girls," Jack said.
Hance jerked away from him, reeling a little. "What the hell difference does it make?" he demanded. "Look, I'll pay double the usual fee."
Nell edged her way forward, placing her hand on Hance's arm.
"Mr. Adair," she said with an affected formality that infuriated Hance, "I'm afraid I must insist that you leave Mariah alone. She's not to be had for any price."
Mariah shot Nell a look of gratitude. This wasn't the first time she'd turned aside a large amount of money for her. Nell declared that no amount was worth as much as decent help these days. But Mariah suspected that it was more than practicality that made Nell so protective of her. Nell's harshness concealed a streak of sentimentality as wide as the Kentucky River. Having ascertained early on that Mariah was a virgin, Nell had made sure that this quality was guarded as closely as her cache in the safe.