The Magnolia Duchess

by Beth White

  “It’s what boys do.” Charlie shrugged. “But I got back at old Percy by spelling his name with the substance of choice on the house lawn. Headmaster investigated, I was the obvious culprit, and they made me clean it up. But as spring came on, the fertilizer did its work. I was sent down, but Percy was immortalized on the lawn all summer.”

  Fiona giggled. “No wonder your father was so outdone with you!”

  “I know.” Charlie laughed with her. “If Grandfa hadn’t intervened and sent for me to come and rusticate at the Farms, I don’t know what Da might have done to me. He wanted so much for me to be a gentleman and had me pegged for the church.”

  “And Mama wanted me to be a grand lady.”

  “It seems we were both a disappointment to our progenitors.” He glanced toward the pasture, where Tully grazed with the other horses. “How did you learn so much about horses?”

  “I studied. My family are all boat and fishing people, especially my papa. And Uncle Rafa was in the Spanish navy until he transferred to the diplomatic corps. But my mother was a schoolteacher, and she made me and my brothers read until our eyes bled!” Fiona smiled. “The boys hated it, but I didn’t mind at all. I found I could go anywhere, be anybody, in the pages of a story or a biography or even a science book.”

  “You learned about horses from books?” He sounded faintly incredulous.

  “Yes, haven’t you read William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle’s work? Or Antoine de Pluvinel or François Robichon? Besides owning the largest library in Mobile, Great-grandpa Chaz kept several horses, and he gave me my first pony.”

  “My grandfather is quite my hero as well.”

  Fiona tipped her head. “Admiral Lord St. Clair, you mean?”

  “Yes, I barely knew my father’s father. He’s also a military man—army—and a Member of Parliament. At least, I suppose he is yet. Who knows what has happened in the last years that I can’t remember?”

  She sensed his frustration. “Surely your memory will come back.”

  “The human brain is a mystery, even to medical men.”

  “I am going to pray for you every day and ask God to heal it.”

  “I’m not sure God cares about my brain.”

  The cynical curl of his lip stung Fiona’s heart. “Charlie, God cares about every part of you.” She laid her hand upon his forearm. The muscles there were tight from his clenched fist. “The Bible says even the hairs of your head are numbered.”

  He laughed. “See? I’d make a terrible clergyman. The church made a narrow escape when I went to sea.”

  She clutched his wrist. “You just remembered something! You did go to sea? Didn’t you?”

  He stared at her, confused. “No, I . . . everything is still gray and muddled, but I must be a seaman. Else how would I have gotten here from England?”

  “Well, I suppose you could have come over as a passenger. But British ships aren’t allowed into port here. So . . . had you run away and boarded a Dutch or Spanish ship, perhaps? Maybe you’d sailed to Pensacola or New Orleans before the storm took the ship off-course and you got thrown overboard.”

  “Maybe. But guessing does little good until I remember more details. And trying to remember only makes my head ache.” Charlie sighed. “I don’t want to keep you from your responsibilities, Fiona, in fact I wish you’d give me something to do. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I don’t want to be a burden on your family.” He glanced toward the house. “Speaking of which, who is that girl? Is she your sister?”

  Fiona squinted against the glare of sunlight coming through the barn door and made out Sehoy’s figure approaching from the beach. “No, Sehoy is a distant cousin from the Indian branch of our family. She arrived last night, after you fell asleep.” She went to the doorway and waved. “Sehoy! Come here! I want you to meet Char—Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I’ve been down to the shipyard to see what they’re working on,” Sehoy said when she got close enough. “Oliver shared a sandwich with me.” She gave Charlie her shy smile. “How do you do, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Much better, now that I’ve gotten up and around a bit.” Charlie’s manners were evidently deeply ingrained, for he bowed over Sehoy’s hand. “Your family has kindly provided shelter to this shipwrecked stranger, and I hope my presence will not inconvenience you.”

  “Oh no, of course not!” Sehoy gave Fiona a flustered look. “I am something of a refugee myself.”

  “I understand you’ve come from some distance. Where is your home, if I may be so bold?”

  “I am of the Upper Creek, whose villages cluster mainly along the Tallapoosa River.” Sehoy’s expression darkened. “Though I am not certain many will remain after General Jackson drives my people out.”

  Charlie looked intrigued, but Fiona was reluctant to allow Sehoy to dwell in bitterness, however justified it might be. She gave Charlie a warning look and slipped her arm through Sehoy’s. “You said you’ve already eaten, but perhaps you’ll join me and Charlie with a cup of tea while we tuck into some of the dumplings from last night.”

  “Dumplings and tea,” Sehoy sighed. “Yes, that will make everything quite all right.” But she allowed Fiona to draw her toward the house.

  MOBILE

  Following her parents about the globe on diplomatic missions, Maddy had dined with governors, generals, prime ministers, and heads of state, but she couldn’t think when she’d laughed more or had a more interesting conversation during the course of a meal.

  Truth be told, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to relax and truly enjoy herself—not since Stephen left for Canada anyway.

  She met Desi’s twinkling dark eyes with a pang of guilt. Stephen had gone to war and died in service to his country. What was wrong with a woman who was glad her husband was dead?

  “What’s the matter?” Desi laid his big, warm hand on hers, his thumb tracing the edge of her wedding band.

  She looked away. That was the problem, having a conversation with a man who’d known one since childhood. He could apparently still read her every mood.

  “Not a thing.” She smiled and pushed back her chair, sliding her hand out from under Desi’s. “I’m going to fetch dessert. Who wants blackberry pie?”

  “Me, me!” Elijah, who had been all but asleep in his plate, roused at the mention of sweets. “A big piece, Mama!”

  “I’ll help you.” Aunt Giselle rose and followed Maddy into the kitchen. She was a small, pretty blonde woman, comfortably rounded after bearing Maddy’s three cousins, Israel, Diron, and Ruthie.

  The two women set about loading the pie, dessert plates, clean silverware, and serving knife onto a large, ornate silver tray that Maddy had inherited from her Spanish grandmother. The tray had rarely been used, as she so seldom entertained. Desi’s return surely justified a celebration—

  “Desi has grown into quite a fine-looking gentleman, has he not?”

  Nearly dropping the wine bottle in her hands, Maddy whirled to face Giselle. “What? Oh! Yes, he—he’s—” She put the bottle on the tray, then busied herself taking down from the cupboard the long-stemmed crystal flutes Mama had give her upon her marriage. “It’s very good to see him again.”

  “He is clearly pleased to see you again as well.” Giselle’s tone was dry.

  “Aunt Giselle, Desi might as well be my brother. Of course we’re glad to see each other.”

  “Madeleine, Desi has not perceived you as a sister since he was out of short coats. You are a young and beautiful woman, and there is nothing wrong in enjoying the attention of an attractive gentleman.”

  Maddy turned, mouth open. “What do you mean? He has not—Are you saying he saw me as a—that he had feelings for me when—Oh dear. I had no idea . . .”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say that as a silly young miss you were unfortunately quite absorbed with yourself.” Giselle propped the tray against her stomach and tsked. “Had your papa not sent Desi off to William and Mary at that exact moment in time, the po
or boy would probably have offered for you and found himself ignominiously rejected.”

  Maddy put her hands to her warm cheeks. From the dining room she could hear Desi’s laughter rolling under Elijah’s high-pitched chatter. “I wish you hadn’t told me. How am I to go back in there and face him now?”

  Giselle rolled her eyes. “The same way you did ten minutes ago. What is the matter with you, child? You are a polished hostess with a world of breeding in your heritage and training. There is no reason to be so overset unless . . .” Her aunt peered at her sharply. “Unless you return those particular feelings.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I only ran into him this afternoon.” Maddy bit her lip. “It’s just that he brings back such memories of our family—my family, I mean—and it makes me homesick for Mama and Papa.” It had nothing to do with the delicious thrill of intercepting the caressing look in a pair of wicked black eyes. Of course not.

  She snatched up the wine flutes and rushed past her chuckling auntie. Desi looked up with a smile when she entered the dining room, and they stared at one another for a long moment. She suddenly understood the image of scales falling from one’s eyes. Desi’s expression was tender, full of humor, and not in the least brotherly.

  Oh, dear.

  As she and Giselle served warm, sugary slices of crusty pastry, dripping with juicy blackberries, she scrambled to regain her composure, somehow carrying on light banter with her guests. As Giselle had said, Maddy had as a young Washington debutante effortlessly fielded the admiring advances of gentlemen of the diplomatic corps as well as those in governmental circles. But years of following the drum as a soldier’s wife and the responsibilities of motherhood had forced her to put away that glamorous polish. Some days she felt like an entirely different person than that giddy young girl.

  Which was as it should be. But with Desi here in her home—absent the protective presence of her father and the safety of her identity as Stephen Burch’s wife—her equilibrium vanished. She sank into her place beside a juice-and-sugar-festooned Elijah and stared at her pie, bereft of appetite.

  “Mama, if you don’t want your pie, I’ll eat it for you.”

  She looked at her little son, grateful for the attention he demanded. “And you would surely pop if you did.” She picked up her fork. “Thank you, but I shall deal with it on my own. If you’re finished, perhaps you and Ruthie and the boys would like to go to your room to shoot marbles.”

  “Israel! Diron! I don’t gots to have a bath!” Elijah hopped down from his chair and shoved it with more enthusiasm than grace against the table. “Mama said!”

  The Lanier boys, aged thirteen and eleven respectively, along with ten-year-old Ruthie, good-naturedly followed little Elijah out of the dining room. Soon they could be heard from the other side of the cottage, whooping and chattering over their game.

  Desi pushed away his empty dessert plate and eyed Maddy over his wine glass. “I take it normal bedtime has been suspended for the evening. How was the fishing expedition this afternoon? I didn’t notice fish on the menu tonight.”

  “Uncle Rémy took him, you’ll have to ask him.” Maddy smiled at her handsome, bewhiskered uncle, still savoring the last bite of his pie. “I was grateful for the break so that I could cook dinner and finish a sewing project that needed to be completed before tomorrow.”

  Rémy licked the back of his fork and put it down on his plate. “I’m always happy for an excuse to baptize a worm,” he said, chuckling. “My older brothers were taking me fishing when I was smaller than Elijah. Never get tired of it.”

  “Don Rafael often took me as a boy as well,” Desi said. “Maddy would go with us, but refused to touch the worms. She always took a book and read while we fished.”

  “Which is why my Latin and Greek are quite as good as yours.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

  “Languages are your strength,” he said with a good-natured shrug. “You should have been allowed to go to college as well.”

  Giselle clicked her tongue. “A woman has no need of languages to run a household, and would be utterly out of place in an institution filled with rowdy young men.” She folded her napkin and laid it upon the table as if daring anyone to contradict her.

  Eyes twinkling, Uncle Rémy cleared his throat. “Desi, you must tell us more about your assignment here. Rafael wrote to say you’d been sent to New Orleans to serve as aide to Governor Claiborne.”

  “Yes, I enjoyed my stint in the capitol on Jefferson’s staff, but because of my familiarity with the Louisiana and Florida Territories it was felt that I’d be more useful there.” Desi’s tone was casual.

  So casual that Maddy’s curiosity rose. He had demonstrated that he hadn’t forgotten clues to her inmost feelings, and it appeared she remained sensitive to his secrets as well. Covertly she studied him as the conversation turned to politics—the dismally unpopular Embargo Act, power struggles between Federalists and Democratic-Republicans, the Indian wars in central Alabama, and locally, Governor Claiborne’s struggle to control his recalcitrant Spanish and Creole citizens.

  As a very young man, Desi had been a people-pleaser, intelligent and quick to make a joke. He possessed a rare ability to listen, to elicit stories and information from others, and the wit to remember it—qualities most likely learned at her own father’s knee. But now . . .

  Now there was some layer of danger beneath the urbanity, something flexible and sharply honed, like the blade of a fine sword. He was no less charming, to be sure. His smile came easily, he leaned toward one as if inviting confidence, and that glint in his deep brown eyes made one feel as if she were the only person in the room. But she knew. Instinctively she knew he listened for something specific and would file it away for his own purposes.

  He wasn’t going to admit what he was really doing in Mobile. Maybe his mission was innocent, even heroic. But whatever it was, he was up to something interesting. Something that served to wake Maddy up, as if from a long sleep.

  And she was going to find out what it was.

  4

  AUGUST 18, 1814

  NAVY COVE

  The small oilskin bag hidden under his shirt was on Charlie’s mind as he scattered seed for Fiona’s chickens and watched them run after it, flapping and squawking. He enjoyed these homely little duties that had made him feel useful over the last couple of days. Lying abed with nothing to do but nurse an aching head and worry over the parchment code secreted in that bag had all but driven him mad. Ironically, the brainless nature of light physical labor freed his mind to think creatively.

  After checking to make sure Fiona was out of sight, he leaned against the outer wall of the chicken coop. With a quick tug at the thin leather string tied about his neck and attached to the bag, he removed the paper and unrolled it. Only a couple of paragraphs written in his own crabbed hand, the encrypted message stared back at him as if daring him to pick its knots apart. He closed his eyes, letting the letters parade before his mind. Repeated patterns? Would that help? Frequent letters? There had to be a key.

  He didn’t remember writing it. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing before washing up on the beach, he was involved in something clandestine. Until he knew what that was, he mustn’t allow anyone else to see this paper.

  “Charlie! Where are you?” Fiona’s voice came from somewhere close.

  He tucked the message back inside its pouch and shoved it inside his shirt. “Here I am. Saw one of your chicks scoot back here, so I—” Rounding the corner of the coop, he came face-to-face with Fiona. “Oh. Did you miss me so soon?” He smiled at her and stepped closer. Even in men’s breeches and boots, she really was pretty, and he’d quickly figured out he could rattle her with certain insinuating looks.

  She retreated a step, a rosy flush spreading under that golden dusting of freckles. “I just wondered if you’d like to go riding with me and Sehoy. If you feel up to it, that is. I’ve finished my chores, and Tully needs exercise.”

  He touched the ban
dage tied about his head. The wound was still sore to the touch, but no longer ached incessantly. “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all day. Let me put this bucket away.”

  In the barn they found Sehoy kneeling in the extra stall, playing with the baby goats. She looked around, laughing as one of the kids hopped onto her lap and licked her chin. “I see you found him,” she said. “How are you feeling, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Please don’t stand on ceremony,” he said with a smile. “I’m just Charlie. And I’m feeling better every day. Still can’t remember a deuced thing, but the old noggin is healing nicely.”

  “That’s good.” Sehoy pushed the little goat away and rose, dusting her knees. Self-consciously she looked down at her dress, which he suspected was a hand-me-down from Fiona, as it was half a foot too long and drooped at the neckline. “I’m not the most experienced rider, so I hope I won’t keep you from enjoying your ride.”

  He laughed. “I was just about to say, I hope you ladies will take it easy on me, since I’m not quite up to snuff.”

  “We’re just going down to the beach.” Fiona lifted a saddle and blanket off a nearby stall door and led the way outside. Three horses—Bonnie, Tully, and a small buckskin gelding called Dusty—waited just inside the corral, their lead ropes tied to the top rail. “Charlie, can you saddle Tully? I’ll take care of Dusty for Sehoy, and I’ll ride Bonnie.”

  Charlie patted the stallion’s glossy withers and grabbed its halter. “Of course. Let’s see if saddling a horse comes back to me.”

  To his relief, it did, and within a few minutes the three of them had mounted and were trotting the horses down the sandy, shell-strewn path through the woods toward the beach, Fiona in the lead. Charlie, bringing up the rear behind Sehoy, found the discomfort created by the jouncing motion far outweighed by the sheer exhilaration of the breeze in his face and the welcome stretch of his muscles. As they got closer to the water, they slowed to a walk, and he could hear the gentle lap of the waves against the sand. Gradually the trees thinned to brambles and shrubs, and he could see the water glinting like diamonds in the morning sun. As they broke free of the trees, a mild gust of warm, salty air swept his hair back from his face. Tully danced sideways, forcing Charlie to instinctively knee and rein him in the desired direction.