Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7

by Jennifer Chance

  Marguerite’s face was blank but Kit’s eyes were shining with understanding—understanding and deep dismay.

  “The camp in Florence was a pit of unspeakable cruelty,” Win said. “Why he had the wretched luck to go there I’ll never know, but he still was better off than those he cared for, the prisoners subjected to his untutored hands. There were slaves, there, soldiers. The overseers were abominable excuses for human beings. And yet, James Masters apparently thrived during his work in those camps. Thrived and eventually left, to set up private practice, of all the despicable acts.”

  “In the Grand?” Marguerite finally asked, her voice sounding absolutely miserable—as it should.

  Something grew very cold inside Win and he curled his lip, forcing himself to continue. “No. The small plantation house that the Masters commanded in 1865 was barely half finished, and it fell to Sherman’s March like so many of the houses before it. James, however, no idiot, was no longer there when the march came. He and all his thousands of dollars fled, returned only long after the Union cavalry had left the state, and the rebuilding began. He was no longer a doctor either, but a businessman. He was better at that. Using the money he’d extorted from his neighbors, he rebuilt. Prospered. Money begets money, then as now. There are no records of his acts, of course. My family has long known how to bury or burn anything they don’t like. But that doesn’t change the truth of what happened here.”

  Once again, Kit Wellingford looked as if he might say something, and Win barely restrained himself from lashing out.

  “What is it, Kit?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me you have something to add to this family secret, some new even more lurid tidbit to entertain us? Or do you merely want to reassure me that this was all a hundred and fifty years ago, that no one holds anyone accountable for the sins of their fathers anymore?” His lips twisted. “One merely whispers about them in dark corners, and laughs in self-righteous glee.”

  Marguerite flinched at the venom in his voice, and Kit waved his hands in what could have been surrender, anything to ward off Win’s rage. “What? No! Of course not, no! I’ve nothing to add, nothing at all to add!” The man was babbling now, but Win didn’t have time for him anymore. The damage had been done.

  He swung his gaze stiffly to Marguerite, and nodded, staring through her without actually meeting her eyes. He would be able to, eventually. Soon, even. He’d learned to live with what he was, what his family was, and put on the show the world demanded. But he couldn’t look at her yet. Not…yet.

  “The audience begins at seven-thirty tonight,” he said. “It’s no longer an issue with the public health office, they’ve already contacted me to inform me they’re dismissing Gibbs’ complaint. She’s got her teeth into the mental competency issue, though.” He sighed, feeling his tensions actually ease a bit as he turned his focus on a problem he could actually do something about, instead of one so mired in history that it might as well be stuck in cement. “I don’t know how we get around that, other than to prove that Holt’s efforts were worth it, that the curse was lifted.”

  “The curse! Oh, my God, the curse, yes!” Win had forgotten that Kit was there, and as the man burst out into excited babbling about coming to Holt House, about bringing others—many others, and how it had to be done, the party, the music, the staging—Win really did groan.

  This just wasn’t going to get any better.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Are there supposed to be all these people here?”

  Cindy peered over the long line of cars that were parked on either side of the lane leading up to Holt House. There’d been no time to re-surface the lane, with the steady traffic of cars and equipment trucks, but the drive was really too narrow to accommodate more vehicles than were already there.

  “I vote for dropping you off and finding someplace to park where I won’t be blocked in,” Cindy said. “Any cars look like they might’ve brought the royal family?”

  “Ugh, no, that’s an entirely different issue. The security’s going to be insane.” She’d let Win handle that detail, and after the blow up he’d had this morning, she was glad she had. He’d certainly been looking for any reason to talk with anyone other than her.

  After Win had left that morning from the library’s historical reading room, Kit had turned to her, speechless, looking like he was about to cry. She’d not been able to comfort him, and he’d left shortly thereafter, too, his words still incoherent. In truth though, Win’s outburst wasn’t Kit’s fault. She’d spent another hour or so reading deeper into the history of James Masters. There’d been very little on him, but what she’d found represented in a very dry way the details of Win’s lurid story: he was a doctor, he worked during the Civil War, he’d returned to Charleston as a businessman, and he’d eventually built the Grand. There was no mention of the sisters ever coming to Charleston, and no mention at all of scandal. The only indication that James hadn’t had his license was an oblique reference to his serving as an apprentice to another doctor during the war, who remained unnamed, at least in the books she could find at the library. What Win had outlined was unfortunate, to be sure, but he’d seemed to have amplified it over the years, magnified it into an even darker transgression than it was.

  There had to be a reason for that, she knew.

  Marguerite paused as she surveyed the house. It was beautiful out here, she had to admit. She wondered if Dawson would be pleased, or if the restoration of the home would only make him unhappier. She was certainly sadder and more distraught today than when she’d first arrived at Holt House. Win was too, now that she thought of it. Their emotions running so close to the surface, they were difficult to control now, awkward and unwieldy.

  She ignored the brightly lit house which seemed to hold a number of people, and angled around the rose-colored home. “Passion,” had been Priscilla’s charge against the house, too much passion to be easily contained. It’s why the gardens had grown so full and lush—and why her own son had fallen for whomever she thought was the wrong person. But was passion in and of itself ever inherently evil?

  Marguerite shook her head, reaching out to caress a shiny dark green leaf. The flowers weren’t blooming, she could tell at a glance, but the place was still such a transformation that it took her breath away. In the haze of the gathering night, the trellises lined the pathways in perfect symmetry, now strung with glinting fairy lights. The gazebo was lit up with more lights, winking from beneath its archways and half-hidden among the ferns, and Marguerite smiled in appreciation of what Win had done. Even if the flowers couldn’t bloom any longer in the gardens of this sweet old home, he could evoke the look of blossoms, show people what it must have once been like.

  “It’s…it’s so beautiful.” The voice wasn’t hers, but was one she absolutely recognized.

  Marguerite turned quickly, startled to see an immaculately dressed Dawson Holt, resplendent in a fine black suit, snowy white shirt and elegant bow tie. He was accompanied by Cindy Marks, the bodyguard’s arm tucked into the old man’s as if he was the one performing the courtly escort, not her.

  “Mr. Holt!” Marguerite exclaimed, but she pitched her voice low. “I thought you were inside.”

  “I told the kids to come on ahead, that I’d be here after dark,” he said. “They left me in the city with three nurses and two drivers, absolutely ridiculous. I snuck out the back.”

  “You drove here yourself?”

  Dawson drew himself up. “I most certainly did. I’m eighty-seven years old, not dead.”

  Cindy chuckled at his side. “Found him at the head of the lane after I parked our car, navigating the ruts in the grassy shoulder left by all Win’s trucks. He was kind enough to walk with me.”

  But Dawson wasn’t finished yet, still scowling at Marguerite. “I have my eyesight checked every three months to make sure I am still safe, and my hearing and mental faculties every six.”

  “Your mental…” Marguerite asked, frowning. “Then why do you—your children,
I mean—why does anyone doubt your abilities?”

  “They’re not aware that I’ve taken those measures,” Holt said, his tone turning gruffer. “I haven’t seen the need to inform them, until now. Their lack of faith in me is perhaps not all that surprising, given my attitude toward this old house, but…”

  He looked over to Marguerite, and she was again struck by how frail he seemed, how thin. For all his bluster, he, too, had been hoping for miracles tonight, but even with his eighty-seven-year-old eyes, he could see that nothing was blooming on the trellis beams or in the heavily planted plots. The flowers’ stems and leaves were a vibrant, glossy green, but the blooms of the night-flowering plants—where there were blooms—were closed up tight.

  “I wanted to thank you, Marguerite, for believing me,” he said, and Marguerite’s heart twisted at the sad resignation in his tone. “For believing in me, and in this place. This beautiful old home that I remember so well, a boy’s memory, with everything brighter than it surely was, brighter and lighter and filled with happiness.”

  Cindy squeezed the old man’s arm. “It’s a story worth believing in, from what Marguerite told me,” she said. “Without you, the house surely wouldn’t ever have seen this day, right? That has to count for something.”

  Dawson chuckled, and he looked around the garden. The lights had grown brighter with the darkening of the evening, and the breeze picked up just enough to move the air softly through Marguerite’s hair. From somewhere in the corner of the gardens, hidden from view, the sound of tuning strings stirred to life.

  Dawson stiffened, his gaze shooting back up to Marguerite’s face. “Music!” He sounded exactly like that long ago ten-year-old, she thought, caught up in the magic of the moment.

  “Music.” She nodded, lifting a quick hand to brush away a tear. “If we’re going to have a celebration tonight, we have to have music, wouldn’t you say?”

  The sound of the music did more than awaken the old man’s memory, it served as notice to everyone inside. Marguerite turned as the door to the back porch opened, a flurry of people spilling out onto the wide lawn. There was Constance Gibbs, the Holt children, and another man she didn’t recognize but who had the look of a doctor, Kit Wellingford with his camera, looking like he was about to burst with excitement, and a knot of other people—also newcomers.

  And, of course, there was Win.

  Their gaze met briefly across the open lawn, but he quickly looked away. In that brief moment though, the air was electric between him, and waves of his almost transparent emotion passed over her. Guilt, mainly. Pain, remorse. Obligation.

  All for a man Win had never met, never known?

  Still, would she have done anything differently, had she discovered the truth that one of her own forebears was a charlatan and a cheat? She understood the weight of familial pride Win carried around his neck like a yoke. Garronia society was built on that same weight. She couldn’t discount it, for all that she ached to pull the embarrassment, the shame away from him.

  “Daddy!” Holt’s daughter, Sarah, now hustled over to them, her face set above her no-nonsense outfit of a casual summer-weight dress and espadrilles. She hadn’t dressed up for the occasion, like Dawson had. Her brother turned as well, his loose sport coat and khakis at least giving a nod of understanding to what this evening meant to his father. Marguerite liked him better for it.

  “Daddy, how are you feeling? Where is Bobby—and who’s—”

  “She’s a good friend,” Dawson said, patting Cindy’s hand as if they’d known each other for years. “Kind enough to see me out here.” He raised his voice to Win, as if oblivious to the charged air around them. “Splendid thing you’ve done here, Mr. Masters. Couldn’t have done a better job honoring Holt House if I’d had a decade to do it.”

  Marguerite’s heart swelled with pride. Then Constance stepped forward, the triumph in her voice unmistakable.

  “It’s so unfortunate that your, ah…misconception was not proven out, Dawson. I know it must be a terrible disappointment, but probably better that you’re able to get the care you need, now.”

  Behind Constance, Win stiffened, and for a moment Marguerite thought he might bodily throw the woman from his house.

  Then, from the direction of the river, a clanging bell sounded—along with a voice, drifting up on the breeze.

  “Halloooo!”

  Win’s head snapped up, more grateful for Bess Hilty than he’d been for anyone in a long time. He started forward, surprised to feel a hand on his arm.

  “Sir, Mr. Masters, if I could trouble you for just a moment.”

  “Take your photographs, Wellingford,” Win gritted out. He deeply regretted allowing the man to attend tonight, but Marguerite had instantly agreed to Wellingford’s babbling demands back in the library reading room, and Win hadn’t had the presence of mind to stop him. “But try to keep your mouth shut, if you can possibly manage it.”

  “But—”

  Win was already down the back stairs and heading for the river walk. He exchanged another glance with Marguerite, nodding, and she quickly turned to Holt, no doubt making apologies. He waited for her at the gazebo, painfully aware of the last kiss they’d shared there—it already seemed so long ago—and everything that had come after. Everything.

  Marguerite hurried toward him, her heels crunching along the shell pathway. She looked even more beautiful close up than she had from a distance. Her hair was unbound and tumbled over her shoulders, her silky summer dress skimming her curves without hugging anything too tightly. She wore no jewelry, and didn’t need it, her smile and her bright, flashing eyes more captivating than any stone or glint of gold.

  “You had the royal family come with Bess?” she asked as she approached, her words caught on a laugh.

  He grinned, and almost without thinking, he held out his hand to her. Before he remembered himself enough to withdraw it, she clasped it with hers, holding tight. He could have tonight, he decided. Tonight, this night, these precious few hours. It would fortify him for what had to come after. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—endure Marguerite’s pity, her undoubted desire to explain away his own shame and obligation, his absolute rock solid decision not to drag anyone of worth into his family tree, not only because of the past, but because of the present. But tonight…tonight was made for dancing and music, and to make a ridiculous dream of an old man possibly come true. There were exceptions, for nights like this.

  Now Marguerite was tugging him forward as Bess called out again, while behind him, as instructed, Win’s team of gardeners explained the long and involved process of the restoration to the small knot of attendees. Together he and Marguerite hurried down the lane to where the trees closed in tight. Marguerite paused only briefly as they came upon the string quartet, playing some waltz or another that Kit Wellingford had assured him was commonly played during the Holt garden parties. The man was useful for some things, he mused, just not for keeping his secrets to himself.

  Then they were through the trees and onto the wide lawn that led down to the river. Bess had assured him that she had a float that could accommodate people only—no llamas or alpacas or rabbits or dogs aboard. She’d been good to her word. A gleaming white miniature barge now lay tethered to the dock, floating jauntily on the river. Stepping off it now were two elegantly dressed older people—and an entourage of another four men and two women, who fanned out around the couple. Security for the king and queen of Garronia. Even in the rural south, you couldn’t be too careful.

  “Your majesty!” Lifting the hem of her dress, Marguerite broke away from Win and jogged forward. The queen looked up and her face broke into a wide, delighted smile.

  “Marguerite!” she said, her thick Garronois accent carrying on the light breeze. “I was right before—look how much you’ve changed. Jasen, hasn’t she changed?”

  Win slowed to a stop and watched the happy reunion, reminding himself that the Saleris were close to the Astiris, that of course it was natural for the reigni
ng monarchs to have such an unaffected relationship with Marguerite. It still surprised him when the queen pulled Marguerite into a hard hug, rocking her on the dock, while her husband looked on with an unabashed smile.

  At length, the king looked up and noticed Win watching, and he dropped a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We should…” he began.

  “Oh! Of course, of course.” Queen Catherine straightened, passing a hand over her hair with distracted ease. It was perfect before, and remained perfect, her glittering diamond headband serving as the only mark of royalty she needed.

  “Miss Bess, I must commend you on your fantastic mode of transportation. You’ll do the rest as we discussed, yes?” the queen asked her.

  “Oh, I surely will, your majesty.” Bess nodded her head briskly, sending the queen a broad grin. Even she had dressed up for the occasion, her thick books and organic cotton separates traded for sandals and—cleaner cotton separates, Win decided, a cream-colored tunic and trousers that softened and warmed her weather-carved features. She looked as much part of the countryside as the river and trees themselves.

  “You should join us, at the house,” Win found himself saying. “If you hurry, you’ll have time to go fetch Beatrice, too.” Bess straightened, turning toward him in surprise, and there was no mistaking the brightness in her eyes. It was one night, Win thought. Why not go all in?

  “Why, why I surely appreciate that, Mr. Masters,” the older woman said staunchly. She nodded again to the king and queen, then scurried back to the boat.

  Meanwhile, the queen turned her gaze to Win. He straightened under her scrutiny.

  “Ah! Wyndham Masters. I am so exceptionally glad to make your acquaintance in person. Marguerite, walk with the king while I meet your young man.”