Calhoun Chronicles Bundle

by Susan Wiggs

“I do my own hair,” Abigail said.

  “Ah. Voila`. You see? Solange will take care of the hair for you, toute de suite.” She summoned one of her assistants, a tall, thin girl with bony cheekbones and solemn eyes. “She is an artist with the scissors.”

  “I don’t care to have my hair cut.”

  Madame refused to budge. “You have no sense of style. Surely you cannot deny that.”

  “I never pretended to be stylish.”

  “Like most American women, you do not understand style. It does not mean parading yourself around in the latest fashion, but simply presenting your very best self to the world. Contrary to your belief, this has absolutely nothing to do with physical attributes. Mademoiselle, it must be said. You have no self-confidence, and you need that far more than you need my dresses. It makes all the difference in the world. Did your mother never tell you—”

  “My mother died on the day of my birth.”

  The dressmaker’s businesslike façade never faltered. “For that, I am deeply sorry. Tiens, in the matter of style, I will play the part of the mother.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need—”

  “Of course you do. Everyone needs a mother. I cannot give you all your mother could, but I will do my best to see that you make use of your advantages rather than hiding them. Sacre bleu, those eyes are stunning, yet you keep your gaze averted and let your hair fall over them. You have a face filled with intelligence and character, but you keep your brow knit with worry all the time. You wear this Gothic prison of a dress in the most terrible shade of pea green imaginable. This is all easily changed, and your attitude will change as well. A woman with great style faces the world differently. You’ll see.”

  Abigail fidgeted through each step of the fitting and flatly refused to let Solange near her with the scissors. They wanted to change everything about her. But if they did that, how would she know who she was anymore?

  Face it, Abby, you’re afraid of risk. Jamie’s words infested her thoughts. Perhaps he was right, but that didn’t mean she could do anything about it.

  “Madame, I’m sorry, but I cannot be what you want me to be.”

  “Taisez-vous.” Madame Broussard lost patience with her. “You leave me with no choice. We must call at your home tomorrow for the final fitting.” That decided, the dressmaker escorted her to the front of the salon, where Jamie waited. “I will bring my assistants around in the morning,” she explained to him. “Perhaps Mademoiselle will be more amenable to a fitting at home.”

  “Perfect,” said Jamie.

  “Out of the question,” said Abigail.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” said Madame Broussard.

  “I have other plans—”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Jamie said as he accompanied her back to Dumbarton Street. “Cowardice doesn’t become you.”

  “Lying to a naval officer is not like me,” she pointed out. “It’s probably illegal, treason or something. Yet you’ve made me do it.”

  He roared with laughter. “Abby, if I had the power to make you do something, why the hell would I make you love another man?”

  Lying awake that night, Abigail turned his remark over and over in her mind, but couldn’t quite deduce what he’d meant by it. Nothing, probably. He prided himself on being an unsentimental man who regarded love and romance as baseless illusions. If she confessed that sometimes she felt her friendship with him deepening, he would probably laugh even harder.

  As she and Dolly worked side by side in the kitchen the next morning, laying out the breakfast tea, Abigail had a mad urge to confess all to the housekeeper who had run the Cabot household single-handedly for two decades.

  “I’ve done an awful, awful thing, Dolly,” she blurted out, hugging the Wedgwood teapot to her chest.

  “Have you, now?” Dolly never paused in rolling out the biscuit dough. Her generous arms jiggled with the motion.

  “Yes. I am horrible,” she said. “I’ve always been horrible. And I’m beginning to think I shall always be horrible.”

  “I’d argue with that,” Dolly said, “but I gave up arguing with you years ago. Would you like to tell me about this horrible thing?”

  “It’s a very great secret, and I shouldn’t even be telling you, but it’s just so awful that I can scarcely live with myself.”

  “This would be the correspondence you’re carrying on with Lieutenant Butler, wouldn’t it?” Weary wisdom shone from her round, pleasant face.

  Abigail nearly dropped the teapot. “You know? Who else knows?”

  Dolly cut a half-dozen sharp circles out of the dough. “Just myself, dearie, no need to worry.”

  “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

  “Heavens, no. Your sister needs a husband to look after her, and why not the lieutenant? You’ve done your part in keeping his interest trained on Miss Helena. I do love the girl dearly, and she’s as lovely as the summer sun, but after the first flush of romance, a man looks for more than a pretty face. It’s a fact that she’s not the most brilliant conversationalist. And that, mind you, is what makes a marriage.” She smiled in fond remembrance. “My husband of blessed memory used to listen to me for hours on end. He let me talk on and on…”

  So Dolly didn’t understand everything. Only Jamie Calhoun knew Abigail had carried on the correspondence not because she sought a suitor for Helena but because she herself was in love with Lieutenant Butler.

  “I must send him an urgent message,” she said, panic coming on strong again. “I will tell him that he must never visit or even think of Miss Cabot ever again. Yes, that is precisely what I—”

  “Abigail.” Her father came into the kitchen, beaming with stellar radiance. “My dear girl, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Startled, she set down the teapot and smoothed her hands down over her apron. Father never looked at her like this, never called her his dear girl. Then she noticed the letter in his hand, and her stomach turned over. The seal of Annapolis was embossed at the top of the page. Good heavens. Lieutenant Butler had written to Father.

  Abigail swallowed hard, finding her voice. “Sir, I can explain. I—”

  “You needn’t, Abigail. I understand completely, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I’m so proud of you.”

  “See? I told you there was no need to worry.” Dolly wiped her floury hands with a tea towel and put the kettle on.

  “I didn’t realize you had a letter from him, Father,” Abigail said. Oh, this was bad. This had gone too far. She felt as though she were drowning in quicksand.

  “Mr. Calhoun told me what you’ve been doing.”

  “He did?” I’ll kill him, she thought. I will shoot him point-blank in the heart.

  “Yes, he said you’ve been the active party in this courtship between Lieutenant Butler and your sister. He claims it’s all your doing. My clever, clever girl. What would I do without you?”

  She nearly melted from the warmth emanating from him, she teetered on the verge of realizing a cherished dream, something she had wanted since before she was even old enough to know what it was or why she wanted it.

  True, she dreamed of a romance with Boyd Butler, but in her heart, she was greedy for even more than that.

  Father’s rare smile had a magical effect on her, for instead of rushing to instruct Lieutenant Butler not to call on them, she heard herself say, “Father, I’m so glad you’re pleased.”

  “It’s not just me,” he said. “The entire nation owes you a debt of thanks.”

  Even in her desperation, she laughed incredulously. Finding the humor in an outrageous situation was a skill she’d learned from Jamie Calhoun. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “Not in the least. The support of the vice president is critical to my agenda in the Senate. He was wavering, falling into the camp of the anti-Reformists. But once we’re related by marriage, he’ll stand with me on the issues that matter so greatly to our nation.”

  Marriage. The very thought made her mouth g
o dry. Deep within her fear and confusion, she also faced silent questions about her father. Which did he want, marriage for his daughter or a political alliance for himself? She didn’t like to think of him stooping to tricks like any politician.

  He swept away her doubts by making the uncommon gesture of embracing her, kissing her cheek. He smelled of bay rum and peppermint, evoking the sweetest moments of her childhood.

  His delight and confidence in her, his show of affection, caused the entire world to change color. “Your mother would be as proud as I am to see you looking after your elder sister’s welfare. How I wish she had lived to see this day.”

  “I wish she’d lived, period,” Abigail said, touching her cheek where he had kissed her. Unable to abide the stifling kitchen any longer, she excused herself and hurried upstairs. It was Helena she needed to speak with about this, not Dolly or Father.

  Helena was the one who would determine the outcome of this fiasco, after all.

  Abigail pushed open the door to her sister’s room. With a hasty motion, Helena slid a sheet of foolscap paper under the skirt of the dressing table with an almost furtive movement. Taking up her hairbrush, she counted the strokes. “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine…” Then Helena caught her eye in the mirror. “Yes?” she asked. “What is it, Abigail?”

  “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

  “Excellent. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Abigail hesitated, unsure of what she wanted to say. Helena kept raking at her hair, counting under her breath.

  “Helena, are you angry about something?” Abigail asked.

  “No, of course not.” Dropping the brush, she stood and paced the small area behind the dressing table. “Actually, I am. Michael—I mean, Professor Rowan has been absolutely beastly to me ever since we returned from our weekend in the country, and I’m thoroughly exasperated with him. What should I do, Abigail? I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’re asking me?” Abigail couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “We are a sorry lot, we two, aren’t we? I don’t mean to make light of this but I can’t advise you on matters of the heart, Helena. I’m far more confused than you are.”

  Helena sank down on the end of the bed. “How I wish Mama were alive. She’d know what to do.”

  Helena was right—a mother advised her daughters on tender affairs, but lacking a mother, the sisters had blundered their way into a sticky web of intrigue and forbidden adventure. They had wandered into places better avoided, places a mother would guide them away from.

  “Do you remember anything about her?” Abigail asked, hungry for the least little detail. It was not the first time she’d asked, but Helena usually avoided speaking of their mother. “Anything at all?”

  Helena released a long, sad sigh. “I always thought that was impossible, for I was only three when she died. But sometimes—no, it’s silly.” She picked at the tapestry counterpane that lay over the bed.

  “What?” Intrigued, Abigail sat down beside her. “Tell me. You must tell me.”

  “All right, but you must promise not to laugh. The fact is, Abigail, sometimes I think I can hear Mama’s voice, singing a little song.” She hummed off-key, but even so, Abigail felt an eerie familiarity with the tune. She could not remember ever hearing it, yet a tingling awareness shot down her spine.

  “Of course,” Helena went on, “that could have been one of the nurses or nannies Papa hired.”

  “No. It was our mother. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just know.”

  “So do I,” Helena agreed. “When she sang, she used to touch me, here.” She reached out, the back of her hand grazing Abigail’s cheek. “And there was…a smell. Flowers, but something more. A breath of flowers and something warm and soft. I cannot really describe it, but the memory of that perfume is very powerful.”

  Abigail studied her sister with both compassion and envy. Compassion, because Helena had been old enough when their mother died to feel the loss. And envy, because Helena remembered anything at all.

  Father never spoke of their mother except in the most general terms, so what little Abigail knew was gleaned from gazing at formal portraits, an entry or two scribbled in a social diary. Beatrice Gavin had been a famous debutante in her day, and she’d married the most eligible man in Washington. She’d been stunningly beautiful. Helena looked exactly like her. People were always remarking on it, and the resemblance shone from the photographs and from the gilt-framed portrait in the winter parlor.

  “That’s lovely,” Abigail said wistfully. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “It’s not much, I’m afraid.” Helena peered at Abigail. “Is something the matter? You look worried.”

  Abigail took a deep breath. “Lieutenant Butler is coming to call this afternoon.”

  Helena went to the dressing table and resumed brushing her hair. “Who? Butler…oh, him. The one who’s been writing you all those letters. He danced with me at Nancy Wilkes’s wedding.”

  Part of Abigail wanted to shake the willful forgetfulness from her sister. How could Helena fail to remember Lieutenant Butler, surely the finest young man in the navy, possibly in the universe?

  Yet another part softened with relief. It seemed Jamie Calhoun was right after all. If the impossible did happen, and Abigail did manage to win the lieutenant’s favor, Helena would not begrudge her the attention. She shifted on the edge of the bed. “I have a confession to make.”

  Helena slowed the strokes of her hairbrush. “You never do anything wrong. What could you possibly have to confess?”

  “You might recall that the day after the wedding Lieutenant Butler wrote, hoping to strike up a correspondence.”

  “I do remember.” Helena smiled. “And you were kind enough to send a letter back to him, and Papa was so pleased with everything. You’re always so good about that, Abigail.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid I was not so good this time. Or maybe I was a little too good at it.”

  Helena’s forehead puckered and she cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean? Didn’t you say the correspondence went well?”

  “I did.” Abigail dug her hands into her knees. “But I’m afraid I didn’t quite…make it clear that you considered this a passing flirtation. In fact, I suppose you could say I encouraged him to believe his passion was reciprocated.”

  “Why on earth would you do a thing like that?”

  Abigail’s cheeks burned. She stared at the floor and secretly thought, Because I love him. I couldn’t bear to see him hurt.

  “I did it for Papa,” she stated, settling for a half truth. “Mr. Calhoun started it, actually, by posting a letter that—well, it said far too much.”

  Helena smiled fondly. “Ah, Abigail. When most people put in two cents’ worth of effort, you put in four.”

  “I never meant for anyone to see that letter. I’d never have mailed such a personal note.”

  “Why would Mr. Calhoun do a thing like that?”

  “He’s a careless, manipulative man with a perverse sense of humor. He thought it would be a good way to impress Father by helping to attract the perfect suitor. Of course, I should have stopped it cold.”

  “And you didn’t. You continued this romance of letters between me and Lieutenant Barnes.”

  “Butler.”

  “And now he’s coming to see you in person.”

  “Yes. Er, no. He’s coming to see you, Helena, remember?”

  “Oh, Abigail.”

  “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  She nodded miserably. “The correspondence grew very…intense. Our feelings—that is, your feelings for each other have deepened.”

  “But that is wonderful! Father will be so—”

  “Proud. He is. He already told me. But it gets worse. Lieutenant Butler’s already written to Father as well.”

  “Then why do you look so glum, Abigail?”

  “Because he’s coming to propo
se to you.”

  Helena’s face went ashen. “Good God. Oh, Abigail. How could you?” She drew the brush through her hair in nervous strokes, the coppery locks taking on a rich gleam.

  Abigail felt miserable. “It’s not my finest moment, is it?”

  The strokes slowed to a thoughtful pace, and Helena said, “Well, perhaps you’ve gone too far with this, but it might work out. Are you certain of his intentions?”

  With a shaking hand, Abigail took a folded note from the pocket of her apron. “His writing is so touching and beautiful. Listen to this. ‘Your letter is a treasure more precious than gold. I carry it tucked in a place next to my heart, letting its very essence flow into me. I beg you, write again, dearest angel, and it will be as springtime after gray winter….’ How could I not reply to that, Helena?”

  She swiveled around on the low stool. “Abigail.”

  “Yes?”

  “You outdo yourself in all things. You always have. Even when it comes to getting into trouble, you surpass the experts.”

  “Do I?”

  “You never do anything halfway.”

  “I don’t.” Her stomach rolled with anger and misery and shame.

  “So what do you suppose is going to happen when he comes to call?”

  “Actually, I thought you would meet with him.”

  “Perhaps I shall, then. And I’ll hear what he has to say, and Papa will still be pleased. But this deception must stop.”

  “I agree.” How on earth had she let this happen? “You can tell him—”

  “No, you must tell him. You got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out of it.”

  “You’re the one who told me to write to him in the first place,” Abigail protested.

  “I certainly didn’t mean for you to take things this far,” Helena said.

  Abigail glared at her sister, feeling a terrible shift in the foundation of their relationship. They had colluded for years, been allies through many adventures. This was playing out like a bad farce, except it involved people who weren’t play-acting at all. This would change lives.

  “You’re right, of course. There’s only one possible way to deal with this. I must tell Lieutenant Butler the truth, and suffer the consequences.” Grasping the bedpost, she stood up and forced a smile. “They say confession is good for the soul. After this, my soul will be very healthy indeed.”