by Shirl Henke
* * * *
As the driver reined in the matched chestnuts at the front entry of the forbidding gray stone building, Chase jumped impatiently from the sleek black brougham. He hated the Remington family mansion worse than a prison, which for him and Anthea it was.
Unwillingly, his eyes swept across the massive walls to the crenellated tower at the end of the east wing where his mother was held, quite literally, in the silken restraints which kept her from harming herself when one of her “fits,” as the doctors called them, overtook her. Most of the time she was quiet, engrossed in a solitary depression so bottomless little could draw her from it. Only when Burke or the reverend came near her did she display violence, screaming like a demented thing, frenzied and clawing at herself as if trying to rip open her own veins and drain her life's blood from them.
Anthea wanted to die. And Chase understood her reasons all too well. Yet there were occasions, although fewer and fewer this past year, when she was lucid enough to ask for her son. Wonderingly she would drink in the sight of him, her pale trembling fingers contrasting sharply against the dark bronze of his face when she touched him. They would live in the past when Vanishing Grass was alive and she was Freedom Woman. How illusive that freedom had proven for her...and for her only child.
His troubling reverie was interrupted when he entered the house and a butler announced in sepulchral tones that the reverend wished to see him in his study. Chase walked down the opulent carpeted hallway. A typical New England day in winter made lighting the gas lamps a necessity in the cavernous house. Gleaming cherrywood wainscoting complemented by French burgundy wallpaper lined the corridor. He paused with one hand on the inlaid ivory door handle as childhood memories once again assailed him.
Every time he entered this room he remembered the terrified six-year-old Cheyenne boy trembling before the tall veho who claimed to be his grandfather. Chase would never have believed it if his mother had not assured him it was so. He could not speak a word of English then and did not want to learn either. The whites were his enemies. Had they not attacked his village and killed his father? The tall, cold-faced old man with piercing blue eyes had done nothing to dispel his fears that awful day.
I was a little boy then, he reminded himself, turning the doorknob and peremptorily striding inside.
The Reverend Jeremiah York Remington still possessed the ramrod-straight posture and intense glare of an Old Testament prophet...or a Puritan fanatic. He was an ordained Congregational minister, pastor of the oldest and most prestigious church in the city, and he took his calling very seriously. As always he was dressed in an impeccably tailored blue wool suit without any adornment. His thick head of hair was snow-white now, immaculately barbered with heavy muttonchop sideburns. Sitting back in the leather upholstered armchair he steepled his big blunt fingers together and stared crossly at his grandson.
“Even three years at Harvard hasn't improved your manners.”
“Why should college at twenty-one do what you couldn't when I was six, beating me bloody with a cane switch?”
“ ‘He that spareth his rod, hateth his son but he that loveth him, chastiseth him betimes.’ Proverbs, thirteenth chapter, twenty-fourth verse,” Jeremiah quoted in the rich deep voice that held his congregation spellbound when he preached.
A bitter smile twisted Chase's lips. “Then you must've loved the hell out of me, Old Man. You sure did an almighty lot of chastening.”
“Do not profane the word of the Lord!” Jeremiah thundered. “As to the fires of hell, I don't doubt you'll be seeing them firsthand soon enough.”
“I don't doubt you're right,” Chase replied genially. “We ‘primitives' love a good crackling fire, but you and I have been over this road before. And it always forks at the same turn. You wanted to see me for some particular reason?”
Jeremiah studied the boy—no, no longer a boy but a man grown now, arrogant and self-assured. “You're not the illiterate little savage Anthea brought to me years ago, Chase, even if you still act rashly now and again. You've reached your majority this year. In another you'll graduate from Harvard. Have you given even a moment's thought to what you'll do with your life? Considered your vocation?”
Amusement did dance in Chase's black eyes now. “Well,” he drawled, “it certainly won't be a calling to the ministry.”
Jeremiah snorted in disgust. “Must every discussion we have be occasion for levity? I assure you I am not amused. Nor do I propose to continue funding your profligate immoral ways. ‘The wages of sin is death,’ Chase.”
“ ‘But the gift of God is eternal life.’ Romans, sixth chapter, twenty-third verse,” Chase replied beatifically. “See, you did beat a few lessons into me.”
“If only you would take them to heart.”
There was the faintest hint of regret in the old man's voice but Chase did not hear it. “Maybe red savages don't have hearts—or souls to save. Did you and your missionary friends ever consider that, Old Man?”
Jeremiah winced inwardly at the appellation Old Man. Never once in all the years beneath his roof had his only grandchild addressed him as Grandfather, no matter how often he prayed to his God—or how often he beat the willful boy. He had been forced to accept Old Man, a term of respect among the savages, or so Chase had informed him. “You are only half-Indian—”
“I am Cheyenne,” Chase said proudly.
“Cheyenne, whatever,” Jeremiah replied, dismissing the distinction. “The fact is that you are heir to the Remington name and as your uncle has no issue, also to the family fortune.”
“Give it to charity. I don't want it. All I've stayed for is my mother. Once she's gone—”
“Anthea could live years yet,” Jeremiah quickly interjected. “Her mind is afflicted, not her body.”
“And we both know the reason for her affliction, don't we?” Chase felt a red haze envelop him.
“Silence!” Jeremiah commanded. “We've had this discussion before, too. I did not summon you to rehash the past. It's time you grew up and accepted your responsibilities as a Remington. I know you won't pursue a career of public service such as Burke has, and we both agree you're highly unsuited for the ministry. But there is the family's business. It's been in the hands of hired managers since my brother Jasper passed on. You have a good head for figures. You could run Remington Enterprises.”
Chase shrugged, pacing gracefully across the luxurious Turkish carpet which had come from one of the family warehouses. “I imagine it would be a divertissement,” he said indifferently. All he was doing was marking time with the veho, waiting for the day when he could ride free once more. Anthea could live years yet. The old man's words mocked him.
Reverend Remington watched the enigmatic young man, struggling to leash his own frustration and fury. “You think you'll just ride off to live with those savages one day. Do you honestly believe they'll accept you back a second time?”
“You're the one who had me dragged off in chains and shipped here after I was taken prisoner at Washita. I never deserted my people.”
“Little matter how you got here. You're white now. You sleep on clean linens and eat crepes for breakfast. You've received a classical education. The stink of an animal skin hut wouldn't hold the allure it did when you ran off as a fourteen-year-old boy.”
“You understand nothing about how the Cheyenne live.” Even as he made the retort, Chase feared himself that the old man spoke the truth. Could he go back? Would his father's people accept him? And even if they did, could he now accept them?
“I don't need to understand them—I know how the Remingtons live. We accept the responsibilities the good Lord gave us. It's only a year to your graduation. You need to stop fornicating with whores and committing adultery with Delilahs such as Agatha Lodge.”
Chase turned from the window with a faintly surprised expression fleetingly on his face. “So, you've had me followed. I expect your investigator had a good time...vicariously.”
Ignoring the jibe, Jere
miah replied, “It's time you thought about taking a wife.”
The statement hung suspended in midair as blazing blue eyes dueled with glittering black ones.
Chase finally broke the silence. “You're actually serious, aren't you?” No wonder Burke tried to kill me. The old man really does intend to make me his heir. “Have you a demure Christian virgin from a socially prominent family who is willing to martyr herself by marrying a man with tainted blood? For damn certain there can't be many candidates in Boston,” he added with grim humor.
“In spite of your less than desirable paternal bloodlines, our good name has induced a number of prominent families to consider a marriage alliance.”
Chase scoffed. “Our good name with a few million from your father's business ventures to sweeten the bargain.”
“Coralee Vandeventer would make you an exemplary wife, as would Alice Ralston,” Jeremiah said, ignoring Chase's sarcasm.
“What about Stephanie Summerfield?” some insane impulse made him ask. Instantly he regretted the rash question. What the hell made me say that?
The old man stroked his chin consideringly as he leaned back in his chair. “I seem to recall the child, Josiah's girl. Wasn't she that wild little hoyden who followed you around like a puppy dog?”
“She's grown since then,” Chase said dryly, recalling his reaction to her soft curves and the scent of apple blossoms.
“Still a bit young, but if she's amended her childish ways, she might do. Might do quite well.” He studied his grandson with renewed interest. “Have you met her socially?”
“You might call it that. But don't go asking her father about a dowry just yet. I haven't agreed to marry anyone. As you pointed out, I still have another term at Harvard.”
“Which will be completed soon enough. Arranging a proper marriage alliance in our circles takes time, as you well know. And remember, a virtuous woman's price is far above rubies.”
“Ah, but I believe the exact quote is ‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’ ” Chase strolled to the door without being dismissed, a habit he knew infuriated the old man. “I'll let you search for me. Personally, I prefer the other kind of woman.”
“We have not concluded this discussion,” Jeremiah blustered, knowing it was useless trying to stop his arrogant grandson. He leaned back once again in his chair and began to scheme. He would have the boy married off as soon as he graduated. Once he'd taken a wife and had a child on the way, he'd be bound to remain in Boston, to assume his duty to the Remington name.
‘‘Stephanie Summerfield, eh?” Jeremiah scratched his thatch of white hair, trying to recall some scandalous incident that took place between the girl and his grandson when they were children. Useless. Chase's entire life in Boston seemed to be composed of an uninterrupted series of scandals. Ah, well, they were little more than cubs then. Surely by now Josiah's daughter had learned to behave properly, even if Chase had not. He would have her investigated. If she proved acceptable, he would proceed. All the better that the boy was attracted to her.
The old man smiled to himself. Perhaps the Lord was at last answering his prayers.
* * * *
“I have the most splendid new Portland Cutter and the snow's fresh as an October apple, Stephanie. You simply must say yes,” Oliver Standish cajoled. His pale earnest face was lit with boyish excitement at the prospect of showing off his latest toy. As the only son of the Standish banking family, he was allowed all the toys his heart desired. Unfortunately the one he most devoutly wished for he had not yet obtained—Stephanie Summerfield.
“You've been cooped up here for ages. Cynthia told me you haven't been out since the Cabot’s' ball over a week ago,” Oliver stated, as if such solitary confinement was beyond human comprehension.
She had spent the past week moping about the big lonely house. Her father worked long past the dinner hour every night, leaving her with far too much time to dwell on her incredible encounter with Chase Remington. At first she had hoped he would call on her. But then Cynthia had come gossiping two days after the ball, cattily delighted to relate how she had seen Chase with Sara Gideon, a famous British opera diva touring the eastern seaboard. The two of them were very cozy in an elegant private dining booth at Wellingtons.
He had made his preferences clear. Chase preferred older sophisticated beauties like Agatha Lodge or the glamorous Lady Sara. How he must have laughed at her girlish flustering. Other than surprising her by grabbing her in the darkened library, he had not made any physical overtures. In fact, after she had told him the shocking truth about his uncle, he had been politely solicitous as he escorted her back to the ballroom. He had not even attempted a kiss.
Not that I would have refused him.
“I say, Stephanie, are you quite the thing?” Oliver asked in affected British cant.
Stephanie placed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Yes, yes, Oliver, I'm perfectly all right. And I shall be delighted to go sleighing with you this afternoon.”
As soon as the Standish boy left, she regretted her capitulation. He was childish, spoiled and not very bright, but at least the ride would get her out of the oppressively silent house. If only her father had not forbidden her volunteer work at the charity hospital. She had so enjoyed feeling useful and needed for those brief months until Josiah Summerfield learned that she was tending Irish immigrants with cholera and flatly refused to allow her to engage in such a scandalous and dangerous activity.
What he truly wished was that she find some proper young man to wed and leave him in peace with his account books. Her mother had died when Stephanie was five and Josiah had never remarried. Indeed, the encumbrance of a daughter had been sufficient distraction for him to enlist the aid of his wife's spinster sister, Paulina. He had happily left child and household in her hands while Stephanie grew up.
Her aunt Paulina proved to be a free spirit and a bit of a bluestocking who encouraged Stephanie's interest in literature, history and philosophy, even the suffragette movement. She had an unconventional childhood and if she missed a father's love, she could always rely on her aunt. Then when she was fifteen, her beloved confidant died suddenly of a heart ailment, leaving Stephanie once more alone, poised on the brink of womanhood with no one to guide her.
Josiah offered a sizable dowry and suitors began to flock about her. But the insecure girl always felt they were more entranced with her father's bankbook than with her. She knew Rayburn Lawrence was. At least Oliver was not interested in her money. If only he were not so boring! She doubted he had even read a book since leaving St. Vincent's Academy two years ago.
Hardly a Harvard man, she mused as the dark, sinfully beautiful image of Chase Remington rose in her mind's eye. Chase, with the magical white smile and the razor-sharp wit. Chase who had always been as much of a misfit and an outcast as she felt herself to be. “I’m being foolish. He's a libertine who would never have given me a second look if I hadn't come running to warn him about the plot to kill him,” she scolded herself as she checked her appearance in the mirror one last time.
Haunted amber eyes stared back at her from a pale ivory face with a nose a trifle too long and a chin decidedly too bold for conventional beauty. And to make matters worse, her hair was neither blond nor brown but some strange almost metallic color, so coarse and heavy it defied all her maid's attempts to style it in the sleek poofing pompadour currently the fashion. No help for it, she was tall, thin, with a decidedly unpretty face...lord, perhaps even a bit hatchet-like because of that accursed chin. And she liked Aristotle. Poor Oliver with his double chin and sweetly vapid mind was probably the best she could do unless she wanted to settle for a fortune hunter like the Lawrence boy…who come to think of it, wasn’t all that bright either.
Just then her maid, Constance, entered the room bearing the new sable coat her father had given her for Christmas. The lustrous furs would have utterly delighted her if Josiah had not tartly informed her that if she did not like it she could take the matter up with his secretary
's wife, who had been sent to select it. Slipping into the satin-lined wrap, she prepared to enjoy her afternoon sleigh ride with Oliver. Her father would not even notice she was gone.
* * * *
“Don't you think we're going a bit too fast?” Stephanie asked Oliver, chewing her lip nervously as she watched the gleaming blades of the Portland Cutter slice through the crisp white snow at a constantly accelerating rate of speed.
“Nonsense, my dear. There's no way to overturn a cutter as heavy as this one,” Standish replied, snapping the reins across the horses' rumps once more.
The Neponset River wound alongside the rolling hills as they raced by its frozen course. They had left the city behind hours ago, speeding southward over the trackless mantle of white. Now as the pale winter sun began to drop low on the horizon, Oliver urged his team homeward. Billowing gunmetal clouds began to mass ominously, ready to dump a fresh deluge of January snow on them. Her eyes scanned the riverbank ahead looking for a passable refuge if they could not outrun the impending storm.
The Remington’s' country place was only a mile or two away, but it was unlikely to be occupied in the dead of winter. As if I'd want to appear a soggy, snow-covered beggar at Chase's doorstep, she thought tartly. Yet remembering long-ago summers spent here brought a bittersweet pang to her heart.
Her childhood reverie was interrupted as she was flung sharply against the side of the seat when the sled sharply changed course. “What are you doing, Oliver?” she gasped, holding onto the seat awkwardly with mittened hands.
He was forced to lean closer to her to be heard over the noise of the rising wind. “I'm taking us down to the river. We'll make better time on the flat surface.”
High above on a bluff, a lone figure sat on his ebony stallion, watching the expensive conveyance careen onto the frozen river. Muttering a curse, he kneed the horse into a canter. Didn't that fool driver realize last week's warm spell had partially thawed the big river? With the past few days of dropping temperatures and heavy snowfall most of it had refrozen, but it was sheer stupidity to put anything as heavy as a Portland Cutter on that ice.