Ashes and Ecstasy

by Catherine Hart

  “Thet’s the first bit o’ sense I’ve heard ye make lately,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat.

  The three of them shared a long, silent look of friendship and loyalty. Kathleen held a hand toward Finley. “Give me a hand up, Finley, and let’s head this ship for home. We will stop briefly at Grande Terre to pick up Isabel and then it is on to Savannah. I suddenly have a great need to hold my children in my arms!”

  Isabel, though she was learning to care a great deal for Dominique, chose to return to Savannah with Kathleen. They were all greatly relieved to see Kathleen once more, having feared she might never return. The joy of seeing her safe, if not yet whole, tempered Jean’s disappointment that she was returning immediately to Savannah. He understood her desire to see her children. Then, too, she must inform Kate and Reed’s family of the sad results of their search. With all his heart, Jean wanted to keep her on Grande Terre, but he loved her enough to let her go. Time, and the love shared with her children, would perhaps heal her wounds. Maybe then he would see her again, and find a way to open her heart to him.

  Chapter 11

  The first week of October saw the Starbright slip past the British blockade and nestle into her private slip at Savannah’s dock. Savannah still had seen no action other than the bother of the blockade. News was eagerly awaited and swiftly passed on. Just now, Andrew Jackson was campaigning against the Creek Indians. The town was celebrating Captain Oliver Perry’s brilliant naval victory against the British the previous month, which had effectively freed Lake Erie from enemy hands, and the Argus’s resounding victory over the British sloop-of-war, the Barbadoes, off Halifax, during which the enemy sloop had been captured and its captain slain.

  Kathleen’s return was both joyful and sad. After nearly three months away from home, it was wonderful to see her family once again, and to hold her children near. How could they have grown so in the time she had been gone? Alexandrea would turn four this month, her babyhood so swiftly left behind. Even Katlin, now two and a half, seemed surprisingly grown up.

  It came as something of a shock to Kathleen to realize how badly it hurt to be around her own son. Katlin resembled his father so exactly that it was impossible to look at him and not think of Reed. When he turned those bright blue eyes on her, or that sparkling crooked grin, Kathleen wanted to die with the pain.

  As much as she loved her sweet boy, Kathleen found herself unconsciously avoiding him. When she realized what she was doing, she deliberately set out to spend more time with him. After all, it was not the child’s fault that he was a miniature replica of Reed. It was not his fault that his father had gone off and gotten himself killed. Still, each time she held her son; each time she reached out to brush that errant black lock of hair from his forehead, that crippling lance of pain would pierce her heart. Where once Kathleen had hoped that she might be carrying another child—a last memorial to Reed—she was now thankful that she was not. It was hard enough to be around Katlin.

  Andrea was not nearly such a hurtful reminder. Her basic facial features were more Kathleen’s than Reed’s. Her auburn curls seemed an equal mixture of Kathleen’s red-gold tresses and Reed’s jet black hair. Even her eyes, that unique and brilliant turquoise—a blend of her father’s blue and her mother’s green—were still uniquely Andrea’s. If her actions sometimes imitated Reed’s, or her tastes or temperament aped his, it was, perhaps, less noticeable in a daughter than a son. If Kathleen had thought she was beginning to accept her loss and to work through her sorrow, she still had far to go. Everywhere were reminders of Reed.

  Upon hearing Kathleen’s sorrowful tale, Mary Taylor was not surprised. It was what she had expected all along, but she had realized that Kathleen needed proof. Having come through the worst of her grieving and adjustment to her son’s death, Mary now set about arranging a memorial service. The black crepe and wreath went back on the front door, with no protest from Kathleen this time.

  Privately, Kathleen thought she, Isabel, Mary and Susan all looked like black crows in their mourning dresses, but she could not gather the energy to care. All through the dreary memorial service and the glowing eulogy, she sat like a pale statue, neither weeping nor showing any emotion at all. She felt frozen in her own private hell.

  Uncle William and Aunt Barbara had returned from Augusta the previous month. Their sympathetic gestures were almost more than Kathleen could bear. That, plus Mary’s sweet, considerate understanding, made her almost wish she had not come home. They loved her, and she them, but their pity was hard to take. If someone was not inadvertently reminding her of Reed, they were stumbling over their tongues trying to remember not to mention him.

  Isabel and Kate were the only adults Kathleen could relax and be at ease with at this time. Isabel had finally stopped mothering her, and since she had been with her through the entire voyage, there was no need to explain anything. Isabel had seen it all as it happened.

  Kate, on the other hand, had a knack for extracting details almost before Kathleen realized it. Her manner was calm and forthright; and while understanding, she did not emanate the stifling pity Kathleen felt from others. Kathleen knew her elderly grandmother loved her and was there any time Kathleen might need her, but Kate had never been a weak person and she would not encourage her granddaughter to become so.

  Kathleen’s Uncle William would rather have taken a beating than approach her on the subject of Reed’s will, but it had to be done, and the sooner it was accomplished, he decided, the better.

  “I didn’t even know he’d had one drawn up,” Kathleen said in a stunned whisper.

  William looked sheepish. “He came to me when he decided to go to war. ‘Just in case,’ he said.”

  Kathleen swallowed hard. “Just in case,” she echoed.

  Clearing his throat, William straightened the papers before him. “Ahem. Now, Kathleen dear, as you may have guessed, Chimera is bequeathed to your son Katlin, under your guidance until he reaches his majority. Generous amounts are specified to be set aside for Andrea’s needs and her dowry. There is also a yearly stipend for Mary and for you.

  “In addition—and quite unusually I might add—he has left the shipping firm entirely to you.” He shook his head in puzzlement, but Kathleen understood completely. Reed was returning to her all that she had brought to him—the shipping company and all the frigates Kathleen’s father had left her upon his death.

  “Sweet, arrogant scoundrel!” she croaked, choking back a sob. “Heaven forbid he should die in debt to me!”

  William looked uncomfortable at the sight of her tears. “Might I ask what you will do with the ships and the firm, Kathleen?”

  “Why, I shall run the company myself, with Ted’s help, Uncle William,” she said without hesitation. “I do hope Ted has not been made to worry over his position with the firm.”

  “No, no, that hadn’t occurred to any of us, dear girl. Our concern was solely for you. We thought perhaps it would be easier on you to sell it and let someone else take the responsibility.”

  Kathleen laughed rather cynically. “I might be able to sell the ships for a profit to a privateer right now if I wanted, but with the blockade so tight, the shipping industry is not exactly at its height. With all respect, Uncle, I probably couldn’t give the firm away right now. No, I’ll keep it. I have reliable help. Trade will pick up after the war, and someday my children will inherit it from me.”

  A week after she had arrived home, Kathleen ordered all the bedroom furniture removed from the master suite and stored in the attic. It had been decorated to Reed’s taste before their marriage in a striking Oriental design of bold reds and blacks. She had always thought the unusual decor suited him so well. Now it was a unique form of torture just to enter the room. His ghost seemed to linger there. Each time she opened the door, she expected to see him standing at the double doors to the veranda, looking out over the plantation, or flung across the wide bed, exuding that fatal, virile charm. The very air still carried the scent of his cologne an
d cigars. His personal items were still strewn about the room atop the dressers and tables, and his clothes remained in the closets and drawers.

  At night, as she lay alone in the immense bed, the room throbbed with the essence of his presence, yet echoed with emptiness. Memories assaulted her all night long, and she replayed in her mind every conversation that had taken place within these walls; every sigh, every kiss, every moan of ecstatic lovemaking that this bed had witnessed.

  Kathleen knew that if she did not exorcise his spirit soon, she would go stark, raving mad. That was when she ordered Reed’s things stored in the attic. By the time she had finished redecorating, the room looked entirely different, which was her intention. The walls had been painted a deep autumn gold, with a brown and gold patterned Oriental rug and cheery yellow curtains and bedspread. The warm patina of cherry wood welcomed Kathleen to the moderate-sized tester bed, flanked by cherry nightstands. The matching dresser and armoire were filled soley with her clothing, and against one wall stood her mirrored dressing table. A pair of delicately carved chairs with lemon-colored cushions sat on either side of a small round table. The room reflected only Kathleen’s taste. At last she began to sleep decently, though there were still times when she would awake from a deep sleep and swear she had heard Reed’s voice or felt his touch. She would still sometimes think she smelled his tangy cologne or cigar, or the musky male scent of his skin.

  Reed’s private study was another room almost impossible for her to enter. It was so totally masculine and so achingly Reed, with its comfortable leather furniture and gigantic desk. Mementos of Reed’s travels lined the walls and tables, and a life-sized portrait of him hung above the fireplace.

  For some reason, Kathleen was reluctant to disturb this room. While she did not want it to become a shrine to his memory, she could not find it in her heart to remove his things. What books and records she needed, she transfered to the smaller office behind the main staircase. Then she closed and locked the study door.

  The only other item she took was a hand-crafted miniature of the Kat-Ann, a birthday gift to Reed from her. It was an exact replica of the ship so dear to both of them, and though she feared she was only prolonging her agony by having it near, she placed it atop the small table in her bedroom. It gave her a strange comfort to see it there—to be able to reach out and touch it in the night. Though she told herself she was being foolish, it was almost like touching a part of Reed in some way.

  As time went on, Kathleen’s anger, though still there and very real, was now directed against the British, who had caused Reed's death. Had Reed not felt compelled to defend his country, his life would not have been in danger. Daily she cursed the English. What more could they take from her? Her estate in Ireland now belonged to that poor excuse for a peer, Sir Lawrence Ellerby. They were responsible for the death of her husband. The more she dwelt on it, the angrier she grew. Her wrath became like a canker that ate at her constantly. A fierce desire for revenge was spawned almost without her realizing it, and seemed to nourish itself upon her anger. Bitterness sharpened her tongue and narrowed her up-tilted green eyes. Her appetite deserted her, and the sharp points of her cheekbones stood out prominently in her thin face.

  In desperation, Kathleen immersed herself in running the plantation and shipping line. When she could find no work at home, she took up the reins at Emerald Hill. Kate’s sad, wise eyes followed her granddaughter with sorrow and understanding. With the wisdom of her years, she knew Kathleen needed to find peace in her own way, in her own time. She just prayed that the girl would not ruin her health in the process.

  It was during this time of restless energy and building resentment that Kathleen brought Reed’s black stallion, Titan, to Emerald Hill.

  “I can not find the time to exercise him properly,” she told Kate. ”It breaks my heart to see him confined so much of the time, since no one but Reed and me could ever ride him. He will tolerate no one else on his back, the princely rogue! Besides, I know you will think I am mad, but I think that horse misses Reed every bit as much as I. He stands so forlornly, as though he’s awaiting his master’s return. I can’t bear to see it.”

  Kate shrugged. “Animals sometimes sense more than people realize. There is nothin’ so strange in thet.”

  A rare smile tugged at Kathleen’s lips. “I thought it might cheer him up if we put him with a few of the mares.”

  “Put him t’ stud?” Kate asked, intrigued. Years before, she had sold Titan to Reed. The stallion was part of Emerald Hill’s prestigious stock, and therefore of excellent bloodlines. “Aye,” she nodded. “ ’Tis a wonderful idea!” With a twinkle in her green eyes, she chuckled. “Thet certainly ought t’ perk up his—er—spirits alright!”

  “You are a leprechaun in a grandmotherly disguise!” Kathleen laughed. “Where is the dignified leader of society hiding behind that outrageous humor of yours?”

  Kate smiled benignly, glad to have made Kathleen laugh. It was so extremely rare these days.

  Kathleen was conspicuously absent from all social functions that fall. Not only was it inappropriate for a newly widowed woman to go out in society, but Kathleen simply was not interested. Even those few functions she might have gone to, such as the church social and sewing circles, she declined. Sunday mornings found her in the Taylor pew with her two small children, but afterward she returned to Chimera. Often, invitations to Sunday dinner were forthcoming from friends, but aside from an occasional meal at Susan’s or Barbara’s, she politely refused them all. The only exception she made was to hold a small party for the children in honor of Alexandrea’s fourth birthday.

  Everyone thought the “young Widow Taylor” was taking her loss extremely hard. They had been used to her ready smile, her tinkling laughter, her vivacious love for life; and it was difficult to compare this thin, withdrawn woman in black with the lively girl she had once been. The life seemed to go out of her with Reed’s death; the glow was gone from her once-dazzling emerald eyes. Where formerly she had been the first to flaunt convention, she now seemed content to retreat into her widowhood. If she was a little sharp with well-meaning friends, they understood her deep grief, for they knew how much she and Reed had loved one another.

  All the same, there were several of her former suitors who hoped she would soon recover, for when her period of mourning was over, perhaps the lovely widow would once more grant them the favor of her smile—and to some lucky man, perhaps her hand. In the meanwhile, they shook their heads and said, “What a pity! What a shame! All that youth and beauty gone to waste, hidden behind drab widows weeds and tears.”

  They would have been shocked indeed, to see the lovely Widow Taylor on the anniversary of her beloved husband’s birthday. Early in the day, she locked herself in Reed’s study, refusing either to come out or open the door to anyone. Della found her lunch tray untouched outside the door.

  By late in the afternoon, Isabel and Mary were getting worried. There had been no sound from inside the study for hours, and Kathleen refused to answer their knocks and pleas to come out. Finally, not knowing what else to do, Mary sent for Kate.

  Kate had not been inside Chimera for two minutes when the oddest sounds began issuing from behind the study door. Perplexed, the three women went to stand in the hall outside the room. Loud, off-key singing, interspersed with riotous laughter, rent the air.

  They looked at one another dumbfounded. Then a wide grin split Kate’s features, and she began to chuckle. “Saints alive! The lass is stinkin’ drunk!”

  “She is what?” Mary gasped.

  Kate nodded. “Soused t’ the gills, if I’m not mistaken, and most likely on Reed’s best bourbon.”

  Isabel leaned against the wall, weak with relief. “Thank God! I was afraid she had hurt herself!”

  “Nay, but she’ll be hurtin’ come tomorrow mornin’, I’ll wager,” said Kate sagely.

  Slouched in Reed’s favorite chair, Kathleen was sipping from the bottle. When she depleted her repertoire of Iri
sh ballads, she switched to the bawdy tavern songs and chanteys she’d learned from her roughneck crew.

  Mary cringed in embarrassment, but Kate and Isabel, at least, saw the humor in the situation. They felt sorry for Kathleen, knowing how hard this particular day was for her, and they knew she would regret her binge the next day. It was humorous until her giddy laughter and raucous singing turned to uncontrollable sobs. The click of the glass from behind the door betrayed her search for yet another bottle of forgetfulness.

  “Tryin’ t’ drown her sorrows, poor darlin’,” Kate murmured sadly.

  “It doesn’t sound as if it is working,” Mary sighed.

  “It never does for long,” Kate supplied.

  Kathleen did, indeed, feel dreadful the following day. Her brief moments of forgetfulness had departed with the anesthetizing effects of the liquor. Now she was left with a throbbing head that felt inhabited by a thousand drummers. The high voices of her children pierced her brain like a band of bagpipes, and the light of the day nearly blinded her with its lancing rays. Foul-tasting fuzz coated her tongue, and her stomach lurched at the smell of the mildest of foods.

  “Moderation in all things,” Mary counseled, as she commiserated with her that morning. Following Kate’s advice, she handed Kathleen a small glass of bourbon.

  “Ugh!” Kathleen gagged. “I do believe I’ve had more than enough of this!”

  “Kate swears it will help,” Mary informed her. “It was your Grandfather Sean’s cure for overindulgence—that and a generous helping of fresh air.”

  That was Kathleen’s first venture into the blessed oblivion to be found in strong drink. While she never again indulged to that extent, she did resort to a hefty helping of brandy to relax her nerves before going to bed. Soon she had doubled that amount, as well as increasing her intake of wine at dinner. Before long, her mint julep in the afternoon became two, and sometimes three.