by Susan Wiggs
“I’m certain we will,” Miss Tabby muttered. “Driver, to the main house,” she said grandly, and the carriage rolled away. The two sisters put their heads together again, talking and casting glances over their shoulders at Eliza.
What a pair of goose-brains, she thought, then turned her attention back to the mare. It took her most of the afternoon, but eventually she had the horse halter-trained. By the time Hunter arrived at the arena, she was proudly leading the mare in circles. The horse had a naturally impressive gait and stance.
“How does she look from there?” she asked, knowing the mare looked good.
“Fine,” he said, but he seemed distracted. “You can turn her out to pasture now.” He pulled back the gate, and Eliza led the mare past him. She could tell from the subtle slur in his voice that he hadn’t been the one drinking tea.
“Did the children enjoy their visit with Miss Tabby and Miss Cilla?” she asked. Did you?
“That’s what I want to speak to you about,” he said.
She let the mare loose in the pasture and slung the lead rope over her shoulder. She was hot and sweaty, gritty with sand from working all afternoon. The sun had tanned her forearms dark gold. In comparison to Hunter in his finery, she felt like a ragamuffin. “So speak,” she said.
They walked together to the covered well, which stood in the shade outside the bake house.
“Blue wouldn’t say a word, of course, and Belinda spoke only of this project you’re building with them. This toy boat, or some such silliness.”
Eliza refused to flinch at his accusatory tone. “Blue speaks to no one, and Belinda speaks to everyone. If you didn’t want to hear about the project, you should have changed the subject. And if these ladies reject your children based on this meeting, then they’re not worth courting anyway.”
“You think not?” He handed her a dipper of water from the well.
She paused to drink greedily, letting the water trickle down her chin and the front of her shirt. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. After Blue had shown her what was in the rosewood lap desk, she had come to understand why the little boy never spoke. But she was trapped in silence now too. She could never tell Hunter what she had learned.
“Your children deserve better,” she said.
“And what about me?”
She set down the dipper and leaned against the rim of the well. All the fatigue of a hard day’s work gathered in her shoulders. “I have no idea what you need, Hunter Calhoun.”
His finger traced a droplet of water down her throat, his touch both familiar and unsettling. “What I need and what I want are two different things.”
She shivered despite the heat of the day, and took another drink to soothe the dryness of her throat. Another drop of water trickled like a tear down her neck and disappeared into the top of her shirt. His gaze followed the path of the droplet, and the heat of his stare scorched her.
“You have to explain certain things to me,” she said. “Trying to make sense of your society is impossible for me.”
“Don’t you know why I’ve been avoiding you?” he asked. His voice was liquid and warm, all the rough doubts smoothed out by whiskey. “Can’t you guess?”
“Tell me,” she said.
He held her with both arms, his hands cupping her shoulders and then tracing down her arms. “It’s because I have a duty to Albion and to my children. They need a mother, and it’s my job to find her. I can’t concentrate on the search if all I can think about is you.”
She swayed toward him, desperate for his touch. “That’s a problem.”
He touched her breasts through the shirt, and she caught her breath, letting her eyes drift half closed.
“Oh, yes,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. “That is a problem.”
He kissed her the way she had been dreaming about for weeks, only instead of feeling a warm wave of delight, she felt herself burst into flames. It was too painful, too intense. She wanted him too much. Yet even though the sharp yearning stabbed at her, she could not force herself to push him away. She kissed him hungrily, a long devouring kiss that satisfied nothing, yet promised everything.
He pressed her against the river-rock edge of the well, parting her legs with his thighs and fitting himself between. She wound her arms around his neck and marveled at the wonder she felt when he touched her. How was this possible? How could she want this haughty, troubled, whiskey-drunk man with such intensity? And why him, only him?
If he made love to her right now, this instant, on the grass in full light of day, it would not be soon enough. “Please,” she whispered fervently against his hungry mouth. “Please.”
He must have thought it was a plea to stop, for he groaned and pulled away. His eyes were bright crystals, the emotion trapped deep inside where she could not reach it. Despite the whiskey, a sharp lucidity hardened his features.
Eliza supposed she could be wrong, reading so much into his expression, but something unspoken passed between them.
“I’d best go.” He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the old overseer’s residence, which now housed Noah and the newly hired grooms.
“The children have made something very special,” she said. “This evening at sunset, it’ll be ready. You might want to see for yourself.”
“Fine.”
“We’ll be down at the dock.”
“Don’t wait for me,” he said.
“You know we will.”
Just when she thought he was turning to leave, he put out his hand, tipping up her chin to hold her gaze. “Promise me something, Eliza,” he said.
Anything, she thought, loving his touch. But she had the presence of mind to say, “That depends on what you’re asking.”
“Guard your heart. Don’t depend on me to do it, because I won’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He skimmed his thumb down her arm, pressing the pulse at her wrist. “Oh, honey,” he said. “Yes, you do.”
When Hunter headed down to the landing at sunset, the first thing he noticed was that the children were dressed in their Sunday best. It reminded him that he never took them to the nearest church at Exmore, leaving that duty to Nancy and Willa. Folks probably looked askance at him for letting the servants take his kids to the Negro church, but he ignored the disapproval.
He had been ignoring disapproval for a good long while.
Three more days, and the exhibition and yearling auction would be upon them. Excitement ran high, buzzing through his bloodstream in a way the whiskey never could. The stallion was perhaps not at the peak of his form, but he was close. He was the fastest horse Hunter had ever seen, and he had seen plenty, having traveled from the Union Course racetrack in New York to the Metairie Course outside New Orleans. An impressive performance by Finn would bring a fortune in stud fees and stimulate interest in the auction. If all went well, he might just turn a profit for the first time since inheriting Albion.
He owed much of it to Eliza Flyte. The thought of her troubled him and he slowed his steps, in no hurry to see her at the dock. But he saw her in his mind’s eye anyway, all bathed in golden sunset colors, her hair an inky stream, her eyes deep with wanting him.
It was getting harder and harder to keep his distance from her. She was so unspoiled, so unconventional. This afternoon at the well, he had amazed himself by pulling away from her when everything inside him wanted to take her, possess her, fill himself up with her and pour himself into her. When he was on the island she had been good for him, bringing calmness to his soul and clarity to his thoughts. When it was just the two of them, he felt clean and new, as unspoiled as she, as if the sins of the past had never happened.
He was greedy for that feeling again. But it was a false feeling. He was a tainted man, a man who had sinned in the past and taken on responsibilities he couldn’t ignore simply because he happened to be obsessed with the horsemaster’s daughter. The only thing to do was keep his distance, and when the time was right, send he
r to California.
Yes, that would be her reward. He would spend some of the profits from the yearling auction to buy her a stateroom on a ship bound for the west coast.
When he neared the water’s edge, she smiled at him, that open, breath-catching smile that said so much and concealed so little. He had told her to guard her heart, but he was not certain she had the first idea of how to do that.
“Papa!” Belinda jumped up and ran to him, grabbing his hand and tugging him out to the dock. “Papa, come see. We’ve made a wonderful thing.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, smiling down at her.
This precious little girl needed a mother. It was as simple as that. She was too good. She demanded nothing and forgave everything. He didn’t deserve her, but she deserved a mother who would raise her to be a perfect Virginia belle. But Lacey had been a perfect belle, he reflected uncomfortably. Did he really want his daughter to turn out like Lacey?
He honestly didn’t know what was best for his children, couldn’t make the choices that needed to be made. That was why he needed a wife, to share in those decisions, to help bear those burdens.
Blue led the way down the dock. Unlike Belinda, he didn’t have a spring in his step, but a smooth dignity that was almost eerie in a boy his age.
A crudely built toy boat awaited at the end of the dock.
“See what we made,” Belinda said. The hull was fashioned from a hollowed-out block of wood. Its sail had been fashioned from a handkerchief with lace around the edges. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Very pretty.”
She dropped her chin to her chest in an uncharacteristically bashful pose. “It’s in honor of Mama,” she whispered.
The dart struck deep into unsuspecting flesh. He could never get used to hearing her speak of Lacey. “You’ll have to explain what you mean, sugar pie.” He kept his voice light, although he wanted to choke Eliza. She kept hammering away at this business of grief and loss, making it the center of his children’s lives. It was morbid, pure and simple, the way she fed their obsession with Lacey.
“We painted it special for Mama. I did the stern and Blue did the bow.”
Hunter hunkered down on the creaky wooden deck and inspected the paint job. Belinda’s paint was sunny yellow on the outside of the hull, a reflection of the face she showed the world. Blue’s was a neutral indigo color that said nothing.
For the inside of the hull, Belinda had used a dark angry scramble of violet swirls interspersed with slashes of black and brown. Blue’s choices, in contrast, were surprisingly light and clear, with puffy clouds of pastel.
Then Hunter saw something that brought a lump to his throat. In neat, precise writing, Blue had penned a message inside the boat: It’s all right.
It was as close as Hunter had ever come to understanding his children. Eliza stood back, her hands clasped, blinking fast as she watched them.
“We’ve brought some things.” Belinda flipped open the lid of a wicker basket. “These go in the boat.”
She and Blue squatted on the dock, taking out their carefully preserved objects and placing them in the homemade boat.
Lacey’s things.
A mother-of-pearl comb carved with three roses. An imported pen with a sterling silver tip. A tiny old-fashioned china shoe, the one she had kept dried lavender in. An ivory-ribbed fan of painted silk.
Each object was something Lacey had owned and treasured. Each one was an inexorable reminder of her, evoking a specific memory of a moment, a look, a scent. He saw her eyes, peeking over the edge of the fan, her long curls spilling down from the comb, the pen pressed thoughtfully against her lower lip as she considered what to write. He could smell the dried lavender of her bed linens, which exhaled the fragrance when he made love to her.
Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a fury and grief too sharp to bear. The children seemed calm as they arranged the objects carefully in their boat. Finally, Blue put in a small branch of dogwood blossom.
Belinda held a card, thickly glued at the edges with sealing wax. On the front she had written Mama.
“No one is allowed to read this,” she said solemnly. “No one but my mama.” She pressed the card briefly to her lips and put it in the boat. “We’re ready for the candle,” she said to Eliza.
Eliza’s cheeks were wet as she knelt down beside them. Hunter thought her tears would upset the children, but Blue and Belinda seemed more interested in fitting the candle into a holder in the stern of the boat, which was shielded from the wind by its tiny sail. Crickets buzzed in the grass at the water’s edge. Eliza lit the candle, and Blue lay belly-down on the dock.
“Careful,” Belinda cautioned, sliding the boat over to him. “Don’t let anything spill out.”
The boy held the boat gently in his two hands, then slowly lowered it to the water.
“Wait,” Hunter said, speaking past a terrible ache in his throat. “Wait, son.” He never even thought about what he was doing. It was automatic, like putting a wounded bird out of its misery. He simply twisted off his gold wedding band, the one engraved with Lacey’s initials, and dropped it in the boat.
Blue looked at him for a long moment, then turned away, setting the little craft on the surface of the water. The sun was gone, lingering like a bruise on the clouds behind them. The bay reflected the color of hammered gold, lightly ribbed by a southerly breeze. At first the boat sat idle, then turned lazily into the wind. Blue reached down and gave it a shove.
The candle flame wavered, then flared a little. A swirling current caught the tiny boat, carrying it away from the dock.
No one moved or spoke. The four of them kept their gazes riveted on the light, growing ever fainter as the breeze and current carried the toy boat out to sea. At last, after what seemed like a long time, darkness and distance swallowed the speck of light and there was nothing more to be seen.
“’Bye, Mama,” Belinda whispered. She reached up and took Eliza’s hand. The two of them turned and started back toward the house. They walked slowly, not looking to see if the others followed.
Blue stood up. Hunter, still seated on the dock, told himself to hold out his hand to his son. But at that moment, something exploded inside him with the force of a dam bursting. Finally, after all this time, a deep and terrible grief came out of him, wild and uncontrollable. He erupted into sobs that racked and hurt and shook his entire frame.
Then, through the harsh tremors of his sobs, he felt something—a hesitant touch on his shoulder, delicate as a butterfly alighting there. The sensation froze Hunter completely. Weeping, tears, sobs, shaking—everything froze.
He felt the breeze on his face as he looked up at his son. Behind Blue, the first stars of the night came out. Blue tilted his head slightly to one side, gave the tiniest of smiles and whispered, “It’s all right now.”
Hunter wouldn’t let himself look away from his son’s face. “Say it again, Blue. I want to hear you say it again.”
“It’s all right,” Blue said aloud, no longer whispering. “I wanted you to know, it’s all right.”
Hunter slid his arms around his boy. How strong and slender Blue was, how warm and vital. He smelled of grass and fresh air. “Ah, Blue, Blue,” Hunter said, “I’ve missed hearing your voice. I’ve missed that so much.”
They held each other for a while, and then with the darkness came the realization that it was time to get back to the house. They walked home hand in hand, to find that Eliza had already put Belinda to bed. The little girl lay in the bars of moonlight that slanted through the window. She sent them a sleepy smile.
Blue didn’t need any help getting ready for bed, but Hunter stayed anyway, watching the boy’s quick, efficient nightly routine. Blue hung his clothes on a peg and put on his nightshirt. Then he climbed into bed and Hunter tucked him in. “Will you sing the lullaby, Papa? You know the one I mean.”
“Sing it,” Belinda urged, completely unsurprised to hear Blue speak. “Please sing it.”
Hunter softly sang the w
ords he had always known: Come away and fly with me, to the top of the highest tree, in a wagon hitched to the moon, a blanket of stars to keep us warm.
Blue joined in, his voice as sweet and clear as sunshine. Past the clouds and past the sun, all the way to heaven, here I come.
“Good night, Papa,” Blue said, closing his eyes.
Hunter kissed both children. When he left their room and gently shut the door behind him, his feet didn’t even feel the floor.
Part Three
Lest too light winning
Make the prize light.
—William Shakespeare,
The Tempest, I, ii
Twenty-Five
“Why, Miss Eliza, you aren’t wearing your breeches today,” said Tabby Parks with a flutter of her fan.
Eliza laughed and smoothed her blue skirt. “I wouldn’t think of it, not on a day like today.”
She and Tabby and dozens of others stood on the broad meadow that formed a green apron around the mile oval. Excitement crackled like heat lightning through the summer air. The day of the exhibition had arrived, and people had traveled far, some even from across the sea, to bid on Albion yearlings.
Tabby waved her fan thoughtfully. “You mean, you won’t be working as a stable boy today?”
Eliza caught the sharpness in her tone. “Ah, I see what you’re trying to do. Charles—that is, Mr. Calhoun—told me to watch out for remarks like that. I didn’t believe him, of course, but I see he was correct.”
“Remarks like that. Whatever do you mean?”
With a smile, Eliza explained, “He said there would be those who look down on me because I wasn’t brought up a planter’s daughter and schooled in dancing and manners. He said—and I vow I did not for a moment believe this—that there are those who actually judge a person by the sort of clothes she wears. Can you imagine?”
“Heaven forbid,” Tabby said. “I’d best go find a seat.” She all but ran away, and Eliza had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.