by Susan Wiggs
The plan didn’t sit well with Abigail, but she was fast learning that her opinion didn’t count for much with this man. Setting her jaw, she continued walking with her eyes straight ahead. She nearly collided with a speeding child who crossed their path, chasing a hoop with a stick. As Mr. Calhoun put a steadying hand beneath her elbow, the boy neither slowed his headlong pursuit nor acknowledged the sedate pedestrians.
“There’s something admirable in that,” Abigail commented with a laugh. “In going after something with such single-minded determination.”
“He’ll probably grow up to be president,” said Mr. Calhoun.
The shouts and whistles of draymen, the clop of horses’ hooves and a babel of foreign tongues filled the air. A cluster of well-dressed ladies, out for their daily constitutional, passed by. Abigail recognized the wives of Senator Moreland and the secretary of war among them. The ladies’ greeting was restrained as they swept past, then they huddled together to whisper about the encounter.
“Are we creating a scandal, walking without an escort?” he inquired.
“Does that matter to you?”
“What do you think?” He laughed and took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her wrist. “Abby, believe me, if you and I ever create a scandal, it’ll be caused by more than a walk in the park.”
Twelve
Daily letters arrived from Annapolis, their admiration and ardor increasing and intensifying. Abigail found herself barely able to eat or sleep, and often paced the floor until the wee hours. Close to despair, she sought out Helena in her room and found her seated at the dressing table.
“Abigail, I didn’t hear you come in.” Helena quickly shut a box on the table and shoved it aside. “Is everything all right?”
Abigail held out Lieutenant Butler’s precious letters. Like hers to him, they were filled with hopes and dreams, declarations of affection, promises that made her heart soar. But they couldn’t go on like this. The daily letters had come to mean everything to her, and she suspected hers had the same effect on him. “We have to stop this, Helena. It’s gone too far.”
Helena frowned at the papers. “Oh, the lieutenant’s letters. Are they terribly boring?”
“I’ve read each one to you. Do you think they’re boring?”
“No, they’re rather lovely.”
“What we’re doing is simply wrong,” Abigail said. “He’s replying to letters from me, but he thinks they’re from you.”
Helena picked up a silver-backed brush and drew it through her coppery hair. “You’re so good to do this, Abigail. It’s working out so well. Papa’s simply thrilled with the way the courtship is going.”
Abigail held on to the bedpost, needing support. “Suppose Lieutenant Butler were to…suppose he lost interest in you.”
“No man has ever lost interest in me,” Helena said without vanity. It was the simple truth, and they both knew it.
“But if he did, would it bother you?”
She gave a hollow laugh. “I should admire the man for aiming higher.”
“Never speak of yourself that way,” Abigail said, alarmed.
Helena crossed the room and hugged Abigail. “Don’t worry about me. You must answer his letters, dear. Say whatever you will to the man. You’re such a brilliant wordsmith. Just keep reminding yourself how much it means to Papa.”
Almost against her will, Abigail found herself writing to Lieutenant Butler with pathetic regularity, and awaiting his replies like a child on Christmas morning. She was as bad as Jamie Calhoun. Worse, because she was not taking part in this deception for political gain, but for personal pleasure.
Yet each time she resolved to stop, to inform Lieutenant Butler that she no longer wished to carry on their correspondence, she would read back over his letters.
Something precious and, dare I say, permanent is happening between us, my darling Miss Cabot…My regard for you is as constant as the moon, as ceaseless as the tides….
Oh, how could she resist such persuasion? Yet how could she go on?
Troubled by guilt, she made her way to the rooftop one night, intending to formulate a plan to extricate herself from her dilemma.
She wasn’t surprised to see Jamie Calhoun waiting for her, relaxing on one of the wooden chairs set up for viewing the sky. He’d taken to meeting her on the roof at night, sitting and talking to her while she studied the sky and recorded her observations.
“There you are, my stargazer,” he said expansively. He held a snifter of brandy in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other, and a candle to read by flickered in the breeze. “I was just reading Sir Galahad’s latest letter.”
“Give me that.” She snatched it away. “Honestly, can you allow me no privacy whatsoever?”
“We agreed that you’d share the letters,” he reminded her. “It helps me to plan strategy.”
“You needn’t bother. I’m going to stop writing to Lieutenant Butler,” Abigail informed him, tucking the letter into her pocket.
“You’ve got him on the line, ready to reel in. Why would you let him go now?” His breath made light puffs of mist in the chilly air.
“Because he thinks I’m my sister.”
“Nonsense. He thinks you’re his destiny. Didn’t you read the letter? You must keep at it.” He indicated the telescope, its round eye poking out of the observatory dome. “How long have you been sweeping the sky for a comet?”
“More than two years.”
“Would you abandon the vigil now?”
“Of course not.”
“You mustn’t abandon your correspondence with Butler, either. He’s all but declared his heart.”
In spite of herself, she shuddered with anticipation. “But it’s dishonest. I’m misleading him.”
“You’re afraid, Abby.”
“He’ll find me lacking.”
“Lacking what?”
“My sister’s beauty.”
“He would be right, then. You do lack your sister’s beauty.”
She bristled. “Kind of you to point that out.”
“Abby, you have your own appeal. If you tried to mimic your sister, it would simply be odd.”
She frowned, uncertain. He hadn’t called her beautiful—that would have been a lie. Still, he’d complimented her. Hadn’t he? And why did his admiration make her feel so strange inside? Why did it make her imagine his hands on her, his lips?
“It’s not just the way I look,” she said. “It’s…all of me. I’m all wrong.”
He gulped back the brandy. “Christ. How did you learn to doubt yourself at every turn?”
“A woman like me has plenty of opportunities, Mr. Calhoun. Don’t you remember the night we met? I was so graceless, and you saw what Lieutenant Butler wrote about Helena in his second letter. When she dances, she moves like a summer cloud. I, on the other hand, move like a coal tumbrel backing into a dark alley.”
He laughed.
“That’s it.” She marched toward the door to the attic steps. “I’m putting a stop to this right now.”
“I’m not laughing at you. Well, I am, but not maliciously. Look, your skill at dancing is just that. A skill. It can be practiced, improved.” Setting down the letter, he crossed the roof in a few strides, the gravel crunching beneath gleaming riding boots. He positioned himself in front of her and made a formal bow.
“May I?”
“No.”
He maneuvered himself in front of the door, barring her escape. “You rejected me the last time I asked you to dance, too. I won’t accept no from you this time.” Without giving her a chance to reply, he slipped a hand around her waist, hugging her close. Then he captured her other hand. “One-two-three, one-two-three…”
Against her will, he pulled her into the steps of a slow waltz. Here in his arms, with no one but the stars to see her, Abigail wasn’t plagued by her usual self-consciousness. For a few minutes, she allowed him to sweep her along, feeling the rhythm of their dance steps pulse through her.
&nbs
p; She tried to fantasize about dancing with Lieutenant Butler. Yet for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone but Jamie Calhoun. He embraced her with a firmness that brooked no protest, and despite the unorthodox situation, she liked the feeling of closeness and intimacy. She even—and Lord forgive her—liked feeling warmth in improper places.
The thought caused her to stumble, then pull herself up stiffly, breaking the flow of their movements. She awaited a scolding, but instead, Mr. Calhoun simply stood gazing down at her. “I know what your problem is.”
She gasped, certain he read the dilemma in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know how to let go.”
“Let go of what?”
“Of…I don’t know how to describe it. Of yourself. Your inhibitions. If you simply surrender yourself to your partner’s rhythm, it’ll go much easier for you. Trust me, I know these things. Now. One-two-three, one-two-three…” Pulling her along, he started up again.
Abigail made a conscious effort to relax, to follow his lead. To her surprise, she did indeed find it a little easier.
“Was I right?” He grinned at her. “I was.”
She tightened her mouth against a smile. “Perhaps. But I’ve often wondered, why does the woman always have to go backward?”
“Because men are too clumsy to do it. But you’re not supposed to know that.”
Something was on Helena’s mind, Abigail could tell the moment she came down to breakfast the next morning. Helena’s whole being seemed to glow with an inner light, yet it wasn’t a calming force. She drummed her fingers on the table until their father scowled her into silence. She jiggled her foot until her knee hit the call bell on the table leg, summoning Dolly.
Finally, Father asked, “Good God, Helena. What is the matter?”
“I’m excited, is all,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve spent a holiday in the country.”
“Who said anything about a holiday?” asked the senator.
“Oh, didn’t we tell you?” Under the table, Helena grabbed Abigail’s wrist and squeezed hard to warn her sister to keep silent. “We’ve had an invitation to the seashore.”
Mr. Calhoun had set it up with diabolical precision. Knowing Helena would follow Professor Rowan anywhere, he’d included him in the plans. And Helena had a way of getting what she wanted.
“The Calhoun family would like us all to come,” she said. “They have a place called Albion. A Thoroughbred farm. Please say we can go, Father. Please.”
Abigail twisted her wrist free. She already knew she’d be given no say in this.
“It’s important to your Senate position,” Helena pointed out. “The Calhouns are rich.”
“So are we,” he said.
“You’re up for reelection next year. A donation from the Calhouns would certainly help your campaign.” She took a dainty sip of her coffee. “Mr. Calhoun’s father plays golf with the chief justice of the Supreme Court. Did you know that?”
Abigail couldn’t help but admire her sister’s acumen. When it came to domestic drama or matters of politics, she was like a skilled river pilot at the tiller, navigating rocky shoals and hidden undercurrents.
Very well, Abigail thought. A visit to the seashore with the Calhouns. By now, she should be accustomed to being pushed around by Jamie Calhoun. Maybe too accustomed.
Thirteen
Jamie was unexpectedly nervous during the journey to Albion. In the roomy hired coach, he played host to four guests, Franklin Cabot and his daughters and Professor Michael Rowan. Jamie had engineered the whole thing in order to make a point with the senator. Yet instead of sensing victory, he felt weighted by the idea that much was at stake here.
Keeping his apprehension carefully tucked away, he said, “There’s your disputed land, Senator. That’s what the railroad companies want to claim.” He pointed out the broad flatlands of the low country farmers. They were poor, simple families of the land, sharecroppers and ex-slaves tending crops and raising livestock. The railroad company wanted to reclaim the central valley in order to increase its coverage of Virginia, sending the long fingers of commerce down to the very edge of the Chesapeake, where barges and seagoing vessels could complete the link across the sea.
Holding aside the leather flap of the wind shield, the senator rubbed his side-whiskers in thoughtful interest. He studied the fertile lowlands fed by innumerable estuaries, the rice and indigo fields etched into the landscape and the occasional shanty hunched in the middle of a field.
“An expensive proposition, as you can see,” Jamie said, “given all the drainage and reclamation work it would take to lay tracks. What were the calculations per mile?”
Cabot lowered his bristly eyebrows. “Your point being?”
“I just wondered, sir, if it’s to be so hugely profitable, why wouldn’t a private railroad company pick up the expense?” Jamie felt Abigail’s attention like the heat of an unseasonable sun. He knew she couldn’t understand his opposition to the expansion. As a moneyed landowner, he ought to favor it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And his task was to convince her father to agree with him.
“That’s precisely what my opponents in Congress are fond of asking me,” Cabot replied to his question. “They fail to see the long-term benefits of railroad expansion in this state. For years, there’s been a fever for westward expansion, but when it comes to looking after our own home state, we fail to invest. That must change.”
Jamie nodded politely. “That’s why I came to Washington,” he said. “To change things.” He indicated the broad, misty fields, some of them still studded with sheaves of corn. In the distance, a lone farmer wrestled with a plow tugged by a rangy mule while his children played in the turned-under chaff in his wake. Jamie couldn’t have asked for a better picture to show the senator—this was the American way of life at its most fundamental level.
“He’s your constituent every bit as much as the railroad companies,” Jamie said. “More so. The railroads are run by industrialists from Pennsylvania and New York. These lands are worked by Virginians. Tell me the railroads will put it to better use.”
Cabot leaned back against the leather seat, crossing his gloved hands over his knees. “I admire your ambition, Calhoun. But I remind you that politics is a tricky business. Alliances are fragile things, and they change with the wind. You’ll want to form yours with delicacy and skill.”
“Excellent advice, sir,” Jamie said, struggling not to mock the patronizing tone. “I’m fortunate to have the benefit of your wisdom and experience.”
Abigail stifled a choking sound beneath a lacy handkerchief.
“I hope you’re not allergic to the sea air,” her father said with a frown.
“No,” she said, looking as though she wished to sink beneath the seat cushions. “It’s just a bit thick in here.”
Jamie wanted to choke her himself. “Never fear, Miss Cabot,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
His guests reacted to Albion as he hoped they would—with gratifying admiration. The seaside home of his boyhood had a haunting beauty all its own. The house occupied a gentle rise, bathed in the mysterious sea-light unique to the Chesapeake.
Live oaks arched in a graceful canopy over the long, straight drive leading to the main house. On either side, pastures rimmed by endless white fences rolled out into the gentle hills and down to the sea. Mares and yearlings browsing in the high fields lifted their heads at the scent and sound of the approaching coach horses.
The driver pulled up in front of the house. The surface of the horseshoe drive, composed of crushed oyster shells, crunched under the iron-banded wheels of the coach.
Two footmen attended the new arrivals. Seamus and Will were both cordial and deferential as they secured the stair in place and handed the ladies down. Helena smiled in appreciation of their old-fashioned manners, and both attendants nearly dropped their jaws at the sight of her. Predictably, Abigail accepted minimal assistance exiting the coach.
/> Jamie watched her as she tipped back her head, one hand on the crown of her hat, holding it in place as she regarded Albion. He saw the reflection of the imposing house in her wide eyes—tall windows, slender columns flanking the entryway, the pediments fashioned in the classic lines of a Greek temple.
“So this is your family home,” she said. “It’s lovely.”
Rowan scratched his full beard and studied the imported, hand-carved spindlework trim that stretched the entire length of the gleaming veranda. “I should be charging you a higher rent, Calhoun.”
At that moment, the front doors swung open. There stood his parents, as proper and stiff as a pair of lawn jockeys. His father wore a beautifully tailored frock coat and trousers of superfine; his mother was predictably lovely in a gold satin gown. Both of them smiled a cordial welcome, and none of the guests seemed to notice the tiny details that were glaringly obvious to Jamie. Lines of discontent had been permanently etched in his mother’s face, and a subtle glaze of a morning dram of whiskey shone in his father’s eyes.
Jamie took a deep breath to steady himself. The weekend stretched endlessly before him.
“Jamie was always such a trial to us,” Tabitha Calhoun announced to everyone, but her beautiful smile softened the comment until no one noticed it was a condemnation. “I can’t tell you what a pleasant surprise it is to find him in such excellent company, now that he’s gone up to Washington.”
With the measured gait of a bridesmaid, she led the way into the formal parlor and invited the guests to sit down. Jamie’s father clapped him on the shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you a stint in the legislature would be just the thing?” He lowered his voice, adding, “Hated to see you eating yourself alive over Noah.”
“Indeed,” Jamie murmured, gritting his teeth. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. Yet when he glanced at Abigail, saw her watching him with those deep midnight eyes, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in bringing her here. Unlike everyone else, she seemed to understand him and his fierce desire to be a part of this place that had never wanted him. It was unsettling, having someone in his life who saw him so clearly. He wasn’t sure he wanted that.