Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Following that tirade, a thick silence built between the two brothers with each heartbeat.

  A sudden bone-deep anger overtook Grey. He hid it by lounging negligently on the couch, an arm flung over its spine, a leg resting on the cushions. He considered his little brother in this new light. Obviously, Franklin was not the simple, plodding fellow Grey had always thought him to be. The little bastard was as ambitious as their mother was. That made him just as dangerous as Grey suspected their mother could be. “Are you quite finished, Franklin?”

  Franklin smiled and managed to look ruthless. “Finished? Hardly. I’ve barely begun.” He made as if to leave the room.

  Grey was up like a shot. He had a death grip on his brother’s arm before Franklin took two steps. Grey jerked him around and growled down into his startled face, “Begun what? What are you talking about, Franklin?”

  “Something responsible. So I’m sure you wouldn’t understand. But specifically I mean I have to meet with my election committee. I have to tell them everything. And we will have to come up with a strategy to combat this scandal, should it get out.”

  “Like hell you will.” Grey didn’t even try to keep the disgust out of his voice. Franklin tried to shrug off Grey’s hand, but Grey held on. “Look at it this way, Franklin—at least now you’re interesting. You have skeletons in your closet. Well, your bride-to-be’s family does, at any rate. You do remember Amanda, don’t you, you little shit? The woman you love? The one most likely to be hurt by all this intrigue in her family? Amanda? Does she ring a bell in that little avaricious head of yours?”

  Franklin’s expression blanked, his eyes rounded.

  “Exactly. Mother whipped you into a political froth, and you didn’t even consider for an instant Amanda and her feelings. Much less the impact on her entire family, did you? You ought to be ashamed. She should be your first consideration, you ass. The mayoralty is merely a political office that ends in a matter of years. But she’s to be your wife for a lifetime. And as it so happens, I like Amanda a lot. I have no idea what she sees in you, but her I respect.”

  Now Franklin did jerk himself away from Grey. “Don’t you dare to presume to lecture me on duty and responsibility.”

  “I’m not. I’m lecturing you on affairs of the heart. I am of course assuming you have one. And that you haven’t sold it to some political party. Or that you won’t end your engagement to Amanda in order to distance yourself from a scandal.” Grey stayed between his brother and the door, should he try to leave. “But you will listen to me about Taylor. It’s quite the long and ugly story, Franklin. But she is who she says she is. Even Mother says she is. Ask yourself how she would know. But beyond that, obviously Taylor was never hanged. And she’s only just recently found out that Amanda is alive. Taylor was told the same lies as they were.”

  Franklin grimaced and gestured impatiently, giving the impression that he felt they’d wandered off the subject—himself and his campaign. “Be all that as it may, I am sorry for the girl. But what does this have to do with—”

  “It has everything to do with any of us who know Taylor or that she lives. Think, Franklin. Use those astute political sensitivities your supporters all say you have. Someone told the Jameses these lies years ago—when you were a child—to keep them separated. It didn’t have anything to do with you and your aspirations to be mayor, for God’s sake. But Taylor and her family are no longer separated. They are in the same city now, only blocks apart. So whoever is invested in keeping them apart, and for whatever reason, is not going to be happy. And don’t ask me who this person might be. I don’t know. But I do need to find out before someone gets killed.”

  Franklin’s expression froze. “Killed? Dear God. I never even considered … Then you think there could be actual danger here, Grey?”

  “Finally,” Grey said sarcastically. “Yes, I do. Nothing has happened yet, but that may well be because only a few of us know that Taylor lives and that she is here in St. Louis.”

  Franklin looked genuinely troubled now. He gripped Grey’s arm. “I’ve behaved like an ass, Grey. I’ve been acting as if her appearance here were nothing more than a well-devised plot on the part of my political enemies. Can you forgive me?”

  A modicum of relief flooded Grey. “Yes. I will, if you will forgive me. We both behaved like asses, I suppose. And I will admit that had Taylor’s appearance been as you just said, your opponents couldn’t have plotted better. And I suppose it’s only natural that you’d want to protect yourself in the clenches.” Grey rubbed his sore stomach. “You’re very capable in that regard.”

  Franklin grinned. “I should be. I was always having to fight you.” But his grin didn’t last long. “What are we going to do, Grey?” His gaze flitted to the doorway. “Where is she now?”

  Grey turned to make sure she wasn’t standing behind him. “Upstairs. Attending to her toilette.”

  Franklin nodded … and again became serious. “We have to tell them, Grey. I mean Amanda and her parents. And Charles. They have to know. Especially if you fear they’re in danger. I suppose we are, too. I mean Mother, you, and me.”

  Grey nodded. “We are. All of us. I’ve been thinking about how to tell the Jameses without giving them all heart attacks. Franklin, will you allow me to tell them? I’d like to take Taylor along with me when I do. I think it will be easiest that way.”

  “All right. Is there anything I can do?”

  Grey’s answer was instantaneous. “Yes. Return to Mother’s and find a pleasant way of telling her to keep her mouth shut. Perhaps the threat of social scandal can induce her to keep Taylor’s existence hushed up for now. Tell her I’m trying to contain it, just keep it in the family. Tell her maybe we can stand united in this and no one’s life will be ruined, politically or personally.”

  Franklin was now despondent. “You think there’s a chance of a happy outcome, Grey?”

  “I pray there’s a chance of one, Franklin.”

  “I will, too.” He started to step around Grey, who no longer resisted him, but stopped and looked up into his eyes. “I truly am sorry, Grey, for the things I said … about everything. I didn’t mean them.”

  Grey held himself with dignity. “Of course you did. Most of what you said is true. I know that. And I will endeavor to lighten your load from this day on. I shall shoulder my share of the family responsibility.”

  Franklin considered Grey for a moment. “This girl has changed you.”

  Grey nodded. “She has. I wager she will change us all.”

  Looking undone, Franklin skirted Grey and made his way out of the room. In the hallway, he turned toward the front door and disappeared from view. Grey heard him taking his leave of Bentley, heard the front door open and close.

  Overcome with a heavy sadness, Grey stood where he was, his arms crossed over his chest. Only thirty minutes ago, Franklin had been one of the ones Grey had meant to protect. And he still was, he supposed. But only thirty minutes ago, Grey would have shared with his brother that his biggest fear was that the danger could come from one of the very people he had to tell. Or even worse, from their own mother.

  A little while ago, Grey knew he would have considered Franklin an ally. But now, following their most enlightening conversation and having seen for himself these new and unattractive facets of his brother’s personality, Grey knew a moment of defeat. Franklin was capable of treachery against Taylor. The most telling thing was … he’d never once asked to meet her, not even after being told by Grey that he intended to marry her. While he wasn’t quite sure yet what to make of that, he still had to admit that it seemed very unnatural. What could Franklin have up his sleeve? What was he capable of in the name of his political dreams? He’d already made Amanda a distant second, and supposedly he loved her. What then would he do to Taylor, someone he had every reason to fear and hate?

  “Son of a bitch,” Grey muttered.

  Just then, Bentley appeared in the doorway. Grey met the old man’s concerned stare. Obvio
usly, Bentley had heard everything … and had come to the same conclusions Grey had. Belatedly Grey realized he was nodding at Bentley … who was nodding back at him. At least here was as staunch an ally as he and Taylor could hope to have. Or was he? Grey suddenly realized that five years ago, when he’d hired Bentley, it had been on his mother’s recommendation. Grey’s insides curdled. Was there a spy in his own home?

  Just then, there was a knock on the front door. Franklin again? Bentley turned to go answer it, leaving Grey to reflect on the seeming coincidences of timing in the past two days, of his mother arriving without notice or invitation yesterday to confront him and Taylor. And then, this morning, Bentley had uncharacteristically sent Franklin upstairs with no warning to Grey. Grey tried to hold his suspicions at bay, tried to believe that his overbearing kin had simply got around Bentley. But Grey also wondered if maybe his mother knew something unsavory about his butler and was using it to force his cooperation with her and to glean information from him. But given Bentley’s age, Grey could hardly imagine what it might be or how it could matter.

  The front door closed. Bentley reappeared in the open doorway to the parlor. Grey stared at the waiting Bentley. “Yes? What is it?”

  Thus acknowledged, the old man held his hand out. In it was a folded note. “This just arrived for you, sir. By courier.”

  * * *

  Following a hasty luncheon, preceded by Greyson’s washing up and then dressing, Taylor now found herself sitting opposite him—and the very astonished and downcast Bentley—in his brougham, the same enclosed carriage she’d ridden in two nights ago. If Greyson’s face hadn’t been so grim, if his manner hadn’t been so forbidding … and if he weren’t so angry with her right now because of her outright insistence that her spirit guide accompany them … she might have asked him what was wrong and where they were going. Not since she’d been a child had Taylor allowed anyone to shepherd her in such a manner as this.

  But here in St. Louis, with its tall buildings, its crowded streets, and its throngs of people—any one of whom could be her enemy—Taylor was unsure of herself. And so, smartly, she’d allowed the handling she’d been subjected to in Greyson’s home. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention now to every road they turned down and to every house they passed … as well as to every face. Was her father out there somewhere? Would she know him—or Amanda or Aunt Camilla—if she saw them? Would they know her?

  It was suddenly of vital importance that they did. That was what Greyson had said. As soon as his angry brother had left—Taylor, and everyone else upstairs, had heard their raised voices—Greyson had bounded up the stairs, an unfolded note in his hand, and had interrupted her getting dressed, much to Mrs. Scott’s indignant consternation. That stout lady—in her forgiven state now Taylor’s staunchest defender—had already had her hackles raised by discovering that Taylor’s bed had not been slept in. But Greyson had ignored the older woman’s protests to tell her to arrange Taylor’s hair and then dress her in a traveling costume, that they were going out. But he wouldn’t say where.

  “Not here,” he’d said, giving her a weighty stare. “Later. When we’re away in the carriage.” The only conclusion Taylor could draw was that he suddenly did not trust someone in his home. One of his servants? It had to be, because besides Greyson himself, there was only her and his servants residing there. And here she was with him. So it had to be one of the staff.

  Not for the first time—or even the last time, she suspected—Taylor wished herself free of this intrigue and the shackles it placed on her freedom. She wished for more of the open air and the sunshine she’d stood and reveled in only momentarily in the coach yard before she’d been whisked inside the stuffy carriage in which they now rode. With only the small side windows opened for air and a cool cross-breeze, Taylor felt as cramped and as constrained as she actually was. This city of the white people grated. She longed for the openness of her beloved Nation, for the hills, the forests, the icy cold streams. She longed for the common language of the soft-spoken People. She yearned for her mother and the guidance she could give … guidance Taylor now admitted she hadn’t listened to in the past but very much needed now.

  Beyond that, she longed for her gun that Greyson had taken away from her. She still had her knife, safely sheathed and tucked away inside her new and fancy button-top boots. Mrs. Scott had nearly fainted when Taylor had whisked the weapon out from under her bed pillow and slipped it down the side of her polished leather shoes. But still, her gun was a much better defense against another’s bullets, she’d told Greyson. She could take care of herself. She was an excellent shot. And he knew that. Weren’t three men dead because of her unerring aim? Greyson had assured her, at lunch, that was exactly why she wasn’t getting her gun back. He didn’t want to be the fourth.

  Taylor sighed, directing her gaze out the small window, watching the city going about its business. She was dressed in the same manner as were the other women she saw. This upset Taylor more than not having her gun. She wanted her own clothes. Practical clothes like those she normally wore. A man’s britches and shirt and vest, along with her boots. The first private opportunity she had, she assured herself, she would speak with Calvin about obtaining such an outfit for her. She may need it—and soon. Something in her heart and her gut said this would be so.

  Taylor looked down at herself now and almost didn’t recognize that it was her underneath the sharply elegant and constraining dusky gray traveling costume with its high-necked white blouse and lacy cuffs. Mrs. Scott had proudly and gently laced and hooked and tied Taylor into the outfit … without corsets. Since yesterday, it was understood between her and the housekeeper, now also lady’s maid to Taylor, that there would be no mention of corsets.

  Mrs. Scott had then fashioned Taylor’s long hair into an upswept do and plopped a small hat atop the curls. The hat, though ridiculously small, was the only item of her current apparel that Taylor hadn’t minded. In fact, it had delighted her—it was adorned with feathers. Seeing them, Taylor had immediately savaged Mrs. Scott’s handiwork. She’d freed from the hairpins a long tress at her temple, had plaited it into a thin braid, and then had plucked out a feather from the hat, which she’d fastened to her braid with a bit of red ribbon. It now hung provocatively over her shoulder and lay atop the swell of her breast. Eyebrows throughout the house and in the coach yard had risen, but no one … wisely so … had challenged her. Not even Greyson.

  “Taylor, you look lovely dressed as you are.”

  Taylor jerked her gaze to Greyson’s face. His countenance was sober, his voice cool. She glanced at Bentley, squashed next to Greyson on the narrow seat. His eyes wide, the man-bird sat rigidly and had his hands folded stiffly in his lap. His knuckles were white. Taylor focused again on Greyson. “I hate it,” she said unceremoniously.

  Bentley squeezed his eyes shut and began mumbling something under his breath. It sounded like a prayer.

  “I’m sorry you hate your costume,” Greyson said, his voice dramatic with mocking patience. “I’m sure Mrs. Scott would have allowed you to pick out another—”

  “No. I don’t hate just this dress”—she grabbed up a wad of the satin material in her fist as if to show him—“but all of them. They itch. And I must wear too many layers of them. I hate the bloomers—”

  “Dear sweet God in heaven,” came Bentley’s suddenly loud voice.

  “Hush up, Bentley,” Greyson ordered testily. He leaned toward Taylor. “A lady doesn’t mention her … underpinnings in the company of, well, anyone.”

  Taylor leaned toward Greyson, her nose nearly touching his. “I’m not a lady. A lady probably wouldn’t have been in your bed last night, either. You didn’t seem to mind then.”

  Bentley now all but sobbed a heartfelt prayer for deliverance. Greyson abruptly sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Taylor. She sat back herself and impassively gazed at him, her mind all too happy to recall for her, and in intimate detail, the taste, to
uch, and feel of the striking man sitting across from her. A shiver of remembered pleasure slipped over Taylor’s skin as each part of her recalled his kisses, recalled where he’d touched her with his mouth, where he’d drunk of her femininity, where his hands had caressed … her breasts, her belly, her—

  “Stop that,” came Greyson’s sharp rebuke.

  Bentley sucked in a breath. Taylor blinked back to the moment. Instantly she knew that her expression must have softened and betrayed her sensual turn of mind … because Greyson looked singularly uncomfortable as he shifted his position atop the brougham’s leather seat. Taylor arched an eyebrow. Maybe now he’d be more open to telling her where they were going.

  “Where is it you are taking me?” Her bold question broke the stinging silence that hung heavy like a sleeping bat between the three of them. “We are away from your home now. You may speak, Greyson.”

  “Why, thank you,” he said sourly. “And I would prefer you call me Grey. All my friends do.”

  In light of his sarcastic tone, Taylor ducked her chin regally. “Then I will call you Grey when I come to consider you a friend.”

  Looking dumbfounded, Greyson dropped his hands to his lap in a limp heap. Taylor maintained her impassive and staring expression. Bentley began pleading, this time directly to Taylor. “Please, Miss James, won’t you behave? You really do look quite lovely, as Mr. Talbott says. And this is a beautiful day. Here we are out for a nice drive, though God alone knows why I’m along for it. So cannot we just be grateful?”