Christie

by Veronica Sattler

  "I see you've wasted no time in availing yourself of the funds I set aside for such uses." His voice was laden with sarcasm.

  Christie, who hadn't noticed him come in, whirled to face him, her face still aglow from the merriment of moments before. She decided to ignore his tone. "Look, Garrett, Lula picked this out for me. Doesn't she have wicked taste?"

  The emphasis was not unintentional, for the very cause of their humor the moment before Garrett had entered had been Lula's declaration that it might do him good to see Christie in clothes deliberately chosen to make him sorry she was leaving—without him—forever.

  Now, at her words the two women recalled the source of their humor and burst out laughing all over again—Lula's gaiety emanating in a low throaty chuckle suggestive of a person twice her size, Christie's rippling out in a long peal of tinkling mirth which spread its musical sound merrily through the room.

  Garrett was momentarily caught up in the realization that he'd not really heard her laugh before, and he wondered why that should bother him now. Then, as he was pretending not to notice her at all, out of the corner of his vision he caught Christie's grimace from the pain laughing brought to her jaw. Although, in repose, it didn't show any swelling or distortion, upon closer inspection, when she moved it, as now, it revealed considerable damage done to delicate flesh.

  Silently he cursed himself for his lack of control two evenings before, and in a subdued tone, asked his question. "Now that you have something to wear, do you feel up to having supper out? I've discovered inn which serves good food, not too far from here."

  Christie looked at Lula, who was about to disappear into the dressing room to see about the final preparations for Christie's bath, and the black woman gave her an almost imperceptible nod as she exited.

  "Why, yes, thank you, Garrett. If you'll allow me a ion time to bathe and dress, I can be ready in less than an hour ... if that suits?" She finished by jiving him a soft half-smile that he found utterly switching, and therefore troubling. Gruffly, he said, "See that it's not longer," and then, as if reconsidering his mood, in a softer voice, "Christie, I . . . ask you to forgive me for hurting you the other night. Though born of an uncontrolled and emotionally charged moment, it was an inexcusable action. I can promise you it will never happen again id I'm sorry—sorrier than you can imagine." He intoned the words slowly, as if groping for them. He had never apologized to a woman before, and it was not without effort that he now found the words. Then, as if in an attempt at covering his awkwardness, he rushed on. "You'll be leaving soon. I thought we'd spend the time over supper composing the message to your father. But, beyond that, I'd—like to suggest that we put aside our differences for the time remaining and try to make it as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. I'm willing to try, if you'll agree."

  Listening as much to the change in his tone as to the words, Christie, who had been feeling the strain of their hostile relationship as greatly as he, now gave him as much of a smile as her sore jaw would permit, and answered readily.

  "Oh, yes! I'd like that!" And turning to join Lula in the dressing room, she added gaily over one dainty shoulder, "I'll try to make it half an hour!" Then, almost with a bounce, she was gone.

  Exactly half an hour later, a bathed and perfumed Christie met him in the sitting room, ready to leave. Over the deep blue gown she had on the long velvet cloak Lula had purchased in a matching shade, and as she carefully raised the loosely fitting hood over her high-piled, Grecian-styled hair, Garrett came forward to take her arm.

  "You are beautiful," he said simply. "Come, I'm going to enjoy showing you off."

  He had also bathed, and was shaved carefully for the occasion, and Christie smiled as she took in the magnificent figure he presented in formal clothes. Above the impeccably tied white cravat, his bronzed features suggested a chiseled strength and savage beauty that played counterpoint to the civilized details of his garments. He wore a waistcoat of black silk, topped by a double-breasted coat of deep-claret-colored velvet, which fitted snugly about his lean waist. Once again, she noticed, he chose high, narrow boots over the almost dainty, pointed- toed shoes some of the more foppish men of fashion were sporting at that time. His tight-fitting breeches were of a soft, dove gray and she was not beyond remembering the power of the loins they covered.

  They made a breathtakingly handsome couple as they left in the carriage Garrett had hired, and this was borne out by the heads which turned to follow them as they were seated at the inn.

  At supper Garrett put forth his most charming self, taking special care to tend to her every need or whim, from ordering a wine he remembered enjoying at Charles's table, to amusing her with little anecdotes, some of which included tales of boyish pranks involving him and Jesse in their early years.

  Since she had never heard him mention much of his family before, Christie listened with special attention to the latter. At a point in one particularly humorous account of how Jesse had had to dive headlong into a pond, fully clothed, to avoid the anger of bees whose honey he had been pilfering, Christie interrupted him.

  "Your brother, Jesse, where is he now?"

  "Home, at Riverlea, running things," he countered. "And that reminds me, I'd better send off word to him, where I am. This New York trip was planned without his knowledge and he's expecting me to arrive along with those horses I purchased from your father. Not that it would be the first time I've gone off without informing Jesse of the details," he added.

  "And your parents—what of them?" she asked, continuing the light spirit of inquiry.

  She noticed Garrett's change of tone immediately.

  "Both dead," he said curtly.

  Christie, assuming from the way he sounded that their deaths might have been recent, countered with "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. It happened twenty years ago." Then, as if realizing how heavy the conversation had become, he changed the subject.

  "What was it like to be the only daughter of a wealthy widower growing up on a plantation in the wilds of Virginia?" he asked. "I imagine it could have gotten pretty lonely without brothers or sisters for companionship."

  "To be sure." She smiled. "But it also had its advantages. I was forced to learn to amuse myself and, as a result, lean read, ride, swim and, oh, do lots of things most women never accomplish to any degree of perfection, if at all. Although, if my Aunt Celia had had her way,"—she laughed—"I'd have done few or none of those and have grown up bored out of my mind—or worse, with no mind at all."

  She then launched into a few childhood stories of her own, making him chuckle delightedly as he entertained visions of this little minx climbing forbidden trees, exploring haylofts, and acting very much like the child he had been himself.

  He watched with growing fascination her animated features as she chatted freely now; listening to the unrestrained sounds of her laughter bubbling up to punctuate and accent her lively conversation, he was once more overcome with the growing awareness of how difficult t it was going to be to send her off in a day or two, in all likelihood not to be seen by him again. She had, in the short space of time they had been together, become the most singularly intriguing woman he had ever met, and as he began to know her now, unbeset by anger or fear, she threatened to become important to him in ways he was not completely ready to acknowledge.

  His mind was thus engaged, trying to sort out the confusions generated by emotions he had assumed to [be long dead or lost to him, when it came time to leave. Garrett was standing beside her, making ready to help her on with her cloak, when they suddenly realized the evening had passed so quickly and with such engrossed interest on both their parts that they had forgotten to compose the letter to Charles.

  "Who would have thought we'd be so carried away by conversation we'd neglect our one priority?" he mentioned to her softly. As he spoke, his hand drifted to one long lock of hair as it curled its way down over her shoulder and breast. He fingered the shiny strands, and they seemed to have a will of their own as
they curled obediently around his brown fingers.

  Christie's eyes were fixed on his as he did this and she again felt that strange play of joy and excitement rioting inside her. Then her eyes drifted up, beyond his shoulders, and she froze.

  Garrett caught the reaction instantly, and assuming it was directed toward his familiarity, dropped his hand to his side; but then he realized she was looking at a point over his shoulder, somewhere behind him, and as he turned to find the source of her discomfort, he heard her whisper. "Oh, God, no!"

  "Christie, what—?"

  "It's Uncle Barnaby—Barnaby Rutledge. And he sees me! Sees us!"

  A thin, bespectacled man with straight gray hair and of medium height approached them now. He looked to be about fifty-five, was well, though conservatively, dressed and carried a fashionable cane in one gloved hand.

  "Christie! My dear child! But what are you doing in New York? Charles never mentioned—"

  Then, looking around, from Christie to Garrett to the space beyond, he asked, "Where is Charles? Imagine that scoundrel not telling me you were coming here!"

  Then he looked at Garrett questioningly. "Sir, I don't believe we've met—"

  Christie tried to find her voice.

  "Uncle Barnaby, I'm afraid—that is, Father isn t—

  "What my wife is trying to say, sir, is that it would hardly be appropriate for a father to accompany his daughter and son-in-law on their wedding trip. Garrett Randall, sir, at your service."

  Later Garrett was to wonder at the ease with which these words came to him, but at the moment he was concentrating on getting Barnaby to believe them, for he had already seen the clear, steady blue gaze of that gentleman's eyes which had told him in an instant this was no fool to be dealt with lightly. It was those very steady blue eyes which now focused on Christie.

  "Your wife! Christie, I was at Windreach less than a fortnight ago, at your birthday ball, and no one mentioned you were to be married! Come to think of it, though, I do recall seeing you dancing with Mr. Randall, is it?—on that occasion."

  Christie was becoming frantic inside, although outwardly, except for a face suddenly gone pale, she maintained a degree of calm. Privately she thought Garrett insane to have invented such a preposterous story. Eventually the truth had to come out! Her speech gave only slight evidence of her nervousness.

  "Uncle Barnaby, Father doesn't know I'm here—"

  "That's the truth, I'm afraid, sir. You see, Christie and I eloped. Not the most popular behavior, I'll admit, but in an affair of the heart, well, one doesn't always think straight." He gave Christie an admonishing glance.

  Barnaby's level eyebrows raised almost above his spectacles. "So much in love you couldn't wait, Christie? But what about your father? Surely you've written him? What does he know of this?"

  "We—we were composing our message to him only now, over dinner," Christie lied, her words coming with difficulty to the unfamiliar task. "We only arrived today, sir."

  "Well, my dears, hurry and be off to forward it— this instant. It's not too late to find a willing courier if you grease his palm adequately, even at this time of night."

  He was ushering them toward the door now. Then, almost absent-mindedly, he spoke to Christie.

  "Ah, Christie, in my haste to relieve your father's worry, I forgot. My dear, my warmest good wishes for your happiness, of course. May you be as happy as your dear mother was in her marriage." And then to Garrett, "My congratulations, Mr. Randall. Hmmm, name seems familiar. I believe I knew your father.

  Charleston area? Rice and tobacco? Yes, well little time for small talk now. Come to see me at my lodgings tomorrow. And where are you staying?"

  They exchanged addresses, and before she knew what else was happening, Christie found herself seated beside Garrett as their carriage took them back to The Duchess.

  "What point," she began, her words filled more with despair than anger, "is there in telling him that monstrous lie when he's bound to find out the truth sooner or later? And now what possible good would it do to write my father anything?"

  "Not at all, Christie. We're simply going to write him that we've been married."

  "But we're not married!" she cried.

  "But we will be by this time tomorrow," he replied softly. He was not looking at her at all just now, but staring out the window at some point beyond in the blackness outside.

  "You're not serious!"

  "Perfectly serious." He turned toward her then. "It's the only recourse left to save your reputation and your father's sensibilities now. Running into Rutledge changed everything. We have no other choice."

  "But—" She wanted to say that her notion of marriage involved love, and that theirs could only be a hopeless arrangement, but somehow the words wouldn't come. "—But we hardly know each other, and besides, how can we arrange a ceremony that quickly?"

  He was regarding her quietly in the darkness of the carriage, their faces only barely illuminated by the

  moonlight which filtered through the small windows.

  "Others have been wed on shorter acquaintance. As for the ceremony, we'll say we were—and will be—married aboard ship. I saw a vessel in port not far from where the Marianne is docked, whose captain I know. He's a good man who, I'm sure, will be willing to perform- the necessary words over us and pretend he said them while carrying us to New York. I'm going to see him tonight, after I drop you off at the hotel."

  They finished the ride to The Duchess in silence, and after dropping off a benumbed Christie at their rooms, Garrett saddled Jet and went off toward the docks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They were married at four o'clock in the afternoon of the following day aboard the schooner, Charleston Belle. Lula was present, although the witnesses were the first mate and the boatswain because it was unclear as to whether a person of black skin could legally witness any document such as a marriage contract.

  Christie's recollection of the entire day was a blur, although some of the details were later pieced together for her by Lula. In the morning they had composed and sent appropriate explanations to Charles and Jesse, although the letter to the younger Randall was considerably briefer than the other, and certainly more cryptic. It read:

  Jesse—

  I'm in New York on a hunch related to the Harper matter. Will return once I've pursued all leads. Additionally, I am married.

  Garrett After that, Garrett left Christie at The Duchess to prepare herself for the coming ceremony while he went to make the final arrangements—which included buying a ring—and then went to call on Barnaby Rutledge and William Harper. Rutledge had been on his way out and agreed, after profuse apologies, to call upon them on the following day; although, before they parted, they had ascertained one thing: Jeremy Randall had been a business acquaintance of Barnaby's about twenty years before.

  Harper was not yet back from his out-of-town business and Garrett was encouraged to return in a couple of days. So, at some time after three o'clock, Garrett had returned to fetch his bride-to-be for the wedding.

  Later Christie was to recall she wore the deep-rose-colored gown of India muslin with a matching pelisse of heavy silk, trimmed in sable.

  Captain Markham, of the Charleston Belle, was a robust-looking man with red hair and a fiery beard, who, she remembered, smiled a lot during the brief ceremony.

  After the words had been said, Garrett informed them Markham had insisted on presenting the young couple with a wedding gift in the form of a special place to spend their wedding night. That gentleman maintained his own residence in New York and insisted they accept the use of his house on the Hudson as nuptial quarters, at least for one night. Apparently the house was empty, except for a pair of servants who occupied some downstairs rooms and kept it ready and habitable for whenever Markham was in town. The captain would, he had said, send word to his staff to expect the Randalls and their servants shortly after the ceremony.

  This change of plans necessitated their taking the hired
carriage back to The Duchess to pick up some clothes and the like, although, once there, Christie insisted on stopping at the stables to visit Thunder.' Sensing her need to be alone for this, Garrett had gone with Lula to their suite where the black woman and her son were instructed to assemble all the party would need for the overnight trip before going on ahead to Markham's to prepare things.

  Then Garrett had returned to fetch his bride and they made their way to the captain's house, Christie later seemed to recall, in complete silence.

  When they arrived, they were pleasantly surprised to find Markham's residence a magnificent example of the kind of Dutch manor house which had dotted the banks of the Hudson since the days of Stuyvesant's tenure. Sitting high up on a bluff, it commanded an unobstructed view of the river below.

  Inside, the rooms were richly appointed with magnificent furnishings ranging from fine examples of furniture crafted by Philadelphia and Hudson River cabinetmakers to objets d'art from all over Europe and the New World. Handsome family portraits and exquisite landscapes adorned the walls. Lush, thick carpets from the East covered the floors. Everywhere they looked, things gleamed and sparkled from loving care.

  At their arrival the elderly, white-haired couple who greeted them introduced themselves as Mr. and Mistress Van Loon and shyly offered their services to them, saying if there was anything they could do to make their stay more comfortable or enjoyable, the newlyweds need only ask.

  Thanking them, Garrett said he would be sure to send his own servants down with any requests, and then he ushered Christie upstairs where they found Jasper waiting with cooled bottles of champagne and a broad grin. Lula came forth and drank a toast with them to the future and some vaguely suggested state of bliss they were supposed to find there; the words had been composed by Jasper. Then she left to prepare Christie's bath while Jasper did the same for Garrett.