He had leaped out of the moving coach at a dead run the moment it turned into the keyhole of the drive, and vanished behind the hedge above which flames flickered and smoke bellowed. As soon as Magnus dragged the horses to a halt in front of the main house, he too took off to join the fire-fighting efforts, leaving the lathered and heaving team in the hands of a young boy and leaving her to find her way out of the coach on her own. No sooner had she clambered to the ground than the boy led the horses at a trot towards the stables and away from the fire that had the equines stamping their shod feet and blowing.
She aborted her attempt to help fight the fire almost immediately when she proved more a hindrance than help, unable to heft the surprisingly heavy water-filled buckets with the same ease, and more importantly speed, as the soot-sprinkled men and women who’d formed a long line from creek to cottage while children ran empty buckets back.
She’d ended up standing by with Miss Alma—Coral and Mr. Rufus were in the thick of things, fighting flames that thrashed and coiled like living things—feeling helpless and useless. Now that things had settled a bit, no one was seriously hurt, and more importantly Maisie and Miss Lisette were safe, she felt a little calmer though still shaky.
Careful to modulate her tone to disguise her disquiet, she said, “If you find you cannot abide the thought of remaining here at Sugar Hill, I assure you I understand. Maisie’s safety and well-being, as well as yours and Miss Lisette’s, supersedes any need I have for some semblance of measured control and sanity in the operation of this estate.”
He held her gaze, then bent and retrieved something from the ground.
Her hat. She’d torn it off when the heat from the flames proved too much.
He dusted a layer of ash from it and frowned in consternation at the resultant grey smudge on the ebony sateen.
“Thank you, Mr. Banner.” She eased it from his hands. “Please send everyone up to the house for refreshments.” She’d already sent Miss Alma and Coral ahead with a few other women to begin making sandwiches and lemonade. “I’ll send for the sheriff—”
“Don’t bother.”
“Excuse me?”
“Barrister Griffiths and Sheriff Klugg are friends,” he said. “Close friends. They have been since they started school together a quarter century ago. We could have found Griffiths standing here, an empty kerosene can in one hand and lit match in the other, and Klugg would accept Barrister’s claim that he found the items on the ground and my house was already ablaze.”
She frowned at the smouldering wood and glowing ash.
“You think Barrister did this?”
He raised an eyebrow when she looked at him.
Exhaling, she plunked her filthy hat on her head and gathered her skirts. “I certainly hope you’re wrong, Mr. Banner. On both accounts. Because if this was arson, whoever did it must be held to account, no matter who it was.” She leaned towards him and added in a murmur, “If you ultimately choose to depart my employ, please provide me before you go a list of names of overseers you feel qualified to replace you.”
“You realise he won’t be satisfied until Sugar Hill’s his,” he said.
She paused and, drawing breath, turned to face him. “I’ve lost almost everyone and everything important to me, Mr. Banner. I’ve very little left to lose except Sugar Hill and George’s unwavering belief in me and my ability to care for it.”
She swallowed, and allowed herself a bitter smile before adding, “If there’s one thing I abhor more than a liar, Mr. Banner, it’s a bully. I’ll not let Barrister Griffiths—or anyone—frighten me into giving up that which is mine whilst there’s a fighting breath left in my body.”
Chapter 15
Need
BATHED, HER AUBURN hair washed and lifted off her nape in a bundle of weaved curls that shimmered red-gold in the light of the candelabra, her soot-smudged daywear exchanged for a dinner gown of ebony silk with a square neckline and sheer, three-quarter-length sleeves, Mrs. Sweeney proved an exquisite sight. She belonged at a formal dinner party with other wealthy and beautiful people, not at the head of a long table shared with two homeless guests, only one of whom was delighted by the upscale change of scenery.
Maisie had taken the news of the cottage’s loss surprisingly well, her initial concern being for Joe and anyone else potentially harmed by the fire and her second concern being for her shelves of books. Once Joe assured her that he’d buy her new ones, she cast off disappointment to revel in the news that they’d be living, temporarily, in the big house.
Now she sat, with their hostess’s wholehearted approval, at one end of the table, facing their hostess—in direct defiance of Joe’s murmured suggestion she sit beside him mid-table—turning her head between mouthfuls of food as she absorbed the scents, sounds, and sensations of their new, very temporary dining arrangements. She looked like she belonged there, an impression enhanced by the shimmering green sateen dress she wore adorned with pale-pink satin rosettes.
Upon hearing of the disaster, and his and Maisie and Miss Lisette’s loss of everything but the clothes they had on, the Guenthers had promptly sent over a trunk full of clothes containing numerous outfits Miss Chloe had outgrown as well as some of Mr. and Mrs. Guenther’s cast-offs.
Though far fancier than anything Joe had considered buying for her and a half size too big, Maisie wore her new-old dress like it had been made for her. She wore the moment, too—the long table and silver tureens, the glowing candelabras, and whole faux-family tableau—like it had been constructed just for her, while he floundered like a beached dolphin.
The expensive suits Mr. Guenther had included with the charitable clothing donation, though appreciated, exacerbated his unease. Not just for their quality, which reminded him of how far out of his depth he was, but for their fit.
Three inches too long in the leg and a size too small, the trousers threatened to cut off circulation to his lower extremities. If they didn’t trip him up first.
The light-blue shirt and darker blue jacket were, worse, compressing him from all directions and forcing him to take shallow breaths to avoid sending a brass button or two flying across the table. The blue-and-white-striped tie was the only thing that fit properly, and had the added blessing of cinching the shirt’s collar almost closed at his neck, because, short of crushing his larynx, the shirt button and hole were not going to match up.
A few of Mrs. Guenther’s simple, unadorned day dresses proved more accommodating of Miss Lisette’s figure, the two of them being of similar height and slenderness. But she seemed no less discomfited than he by the abrupt change of abode and wardrobe, and had politely declined Mrs. Sweeney’s offer of dinner with them in favour of joining Miss Alma, Coral, and Rufus in the kitchen. Occasional brief bursts of muffled laughter echoed through the closed butler doors, a sharp counterpoint to the tension knotting Joe’s jaw.
Mrs. Sweeney caught his eye and cast him a hopeful smile, which reminded him he’d yet to tell Maisie about their hostess’s other gracious offer.
Drawing breath and ignoring the pinch at his mid-section, he set aside his fork. “What would you think, Maisie, about learning to read—”
“School?” she exclaimed, jerking her head his direction. “You’re going to send me to school?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Mrs. Sweeney was a teacher before she came here, and she’s offered to teach you braille.”
She turned her face towards the far end of the dining table. “You’d teach me, Mrs. Sweeney?”
“I’d like to,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “If you want me to?”
Maisie smiled, and then nibbled lower lip.
“What’s wrong, Maisie?” he murmured.
She angled towards him and, pitching her voice to a barely audible whisper, asked, “Can we afford it?”
He blinked, taken aback. They weren’t rich by the standards of those who owned this and neighbouring plantations. But nor were they poor.
He made a comfortable living. And with no
rent or mortgage costs, and his tendency to reserve spending for only what was needed—clothes, food, medicine, and most of it for Maisie and Miss Lisette’s comfort—and put everything else in savings and investments, he’d managed to tuck away a tidy sum. Was it enough to send her to a school for the blind? He didn’t know. He’d never looked into it.
But how would she know that? He’d never spoken with her about money, or her education, beyond what Miss Lisette taught her or read to her. And from the way they lived...
Left to his own devices, he’d wear the same work clothes every day and subsist on coffee and whatever leftovers were at hand. It was only Miss Lisette’s intervention that kept him, alongside Maisie, well-nourished with a hot meal every evening and dressed in clothes that were clean and in good repair.
Twice a week, she set out their soiled clothing to be collected, washed, stitched or patched if needed, and returned by the washerwomen he paid biweekly. Once a week, she provided him a list of needed household and food supplies. Always there was a request for a new book or three to read, and occasionally a request for a specific additional dollar amount along with leave to take Maisie shopping to replace some item of clothing she’d outgrown along with the relevant accessories and undergarments. He ensured the list was fulfilled the next day—or as soon as the appropriate vendor could deliver—and added thirty percent more than specified to Miss Lisette’s cash requests.
On Saturday nights, she laid out a clean dress for Maisie, and for Joe, his single serviceable suit—brushed and spot cleaned—eliminating one reason for him to avoid Sunday church services. God knew he’d find another reason or three if he could. Sixteen years of dinner hours bookended by his outspoken Greek-Orthodox mother and short-tempered Irish-Catholic father had developed in him a decidedly agnostic approach to religion. Miss Lisette was Baptist and devout. It was to her church Maisie, and he on occasion, went. Overall, it was a prudent, almost spartan lifestyle, established out of personal preference and familiarity. Viewed through the experience of a blind nine-year-old who spent most of her days in the company of the over-indulged youngest daughter of wealthy plantation owner...
It was no wonder she thought a lack of money was the reason he’d never sent her to a school for the blind. Or arranged for someone to come to Sugar Hill and teach her. Difficult as her misconception was to acknowledge, the real reason he hadn’t sent her—blind ignorance—was worse.
He murmured, “Mrs. Sweeney volunteered to teach you, Maisie. She wants nothing from us but the opportunity to help you learn to read.”
A smile softened Maisie’s doubt, and she darted a glance in Mrs. Sweeney’s direction. “Really?”
“Really,” he said. “If it’s what you want.”
“I do,” she whispered. “More than anything.”
“If I may interject.” Mrs. Sweeney graced Maisie with a smile that, if Maisie had been able to see it, would have left no question in her mind how much the elder woman adored her. As it was, Maisie had only Mrs. Sweeney’s words and formal tone to work with, and the result was immediate—her smile vanished, replaced with pale-faced dread. “Oh, honey, don’t despair.” Mrs. Sweeney pushed back her chair to stand. “I’m going to teach you, but—” She came around to kneel beside Maisie and grip her hand. “I’ll need something from you, too. Patience. I don’t expect I’ll be as quick as you to grasp this new language, so I hope you’ll help me?”
Maisie’s expression lightened. “I’ll be happy to help you. I’ve always wanted to learn braille, but—” She looked down at her lap.
“It’s all right, Maisie,” Joe murmured. “You don’t need to protect me. If I’d known how much it meant to you, I would have arranged for you to start learning it a long time ago.”
But he hadn’t. And that was on him.
As though sensing his self-reproach, Mrs. Sweeney offered him a reassuring smile before giving Maisie’s hand a squeeze.
“It’s all settled, then,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I’ll send away for the materials first thing in the morning.”
“How long until they get here?” Maisie asked. “When can we start?” The joy and anticipation in her voice sliced through Joe like a rusted blade, reinforcing his failure, at least with regard to advancing Maisie’s independence.
He fixed his gaze on a bead of condensation slowly curving towards the underside of his water goblet.
“Well, I don’t know for certain, love...” Mrs. Sweeney’s voice trailed off, and he felt her gaze on him. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know, how’s that? And now,” she added cheerily as she returned to her chair, “I think we all need a big slice of Miss Minerva’s specialty coconut cream pie.”
What Joe needed was a good swift kick in his arrogant complacency for hitching himself to the false belief that he knew best what Maisie needed and wanted. Mrs. Sweeney had gently but resolutely peeled back his blinders to show him otherwise. And though it galled him to admit it, he was thankful.
He might have ploughed on another ten years with the bit in his teeth, seeing only what was directly in front of him. At least now he had a chance to step back and look at the bigger picture while Maisie was still young enough to forgive him—before she realised how far he’d almost set her back.
Inspired by a feeling of gratitude he hadn’t felt since learning of George’s death, he smiled.
“What do you think, Maisie?” he murmured. “Does a slice of Miss Minerva’s coconut cream pie sound good to you?”
She flashed him a joyful grin.
“I don’t care how it sounds, Joe. I want to taste it!”
“I PRESUME, FROM YOUR advising Miss Maisie of my desire to help her learn braille, that you intend to stay, Mr. Banner?”
“It never crossed my mind not to.”
He didn’t look away from the darkness fragrant with the vanilla of the magnolia’s large white blooms and buzzing with a chorus of katydid, cricket, and frog sounds. But when she moved to stand next to him, he offered her a wry smile, his eyes and dark hair reflecting a gleam of interior light from the study windows. She gripped the rail with both hands, finding stability in its cool solidity.
She had retreated to the study to work when Mr. Banner, Maisie, and Miss Lisette retired to their new accommodations in the ground-floor guest wing. But the journals and ledgers had not retained her interest. Her mind wandered after her houseguests, visualising Mr. Banner tucking the blankets around Maisie, kissing her on the forehead, perhaps settling on the edge of the bed to read her a story before turning himself in for the night. That was when her thoughts had taken a dreadful detour.
Did he sleep naked? Was his skin the same golden brown all over, or only in those places she could see that were frequently exposed to the sun? Would he go straight to bed and sleep, or would he toss and turn, restless and...hot?
That was what had compelled her to leave the desk and open the terrace doors: a full-body flush and antsy restlessness only cooler air and movement could dispel. But he’d been there, leaning over the balcony rail, trousers hugging the firm roundness of his buttocks, white shirt ghostly in the illuminative reach of the study lamps.
The flush that she’d sought to temper flared to a full-blown surge of sexual desire, startling in its strength. It was nothing like she’d known in her married experience. It inspired a clenching, weak-kneed urge to touch herself. To ask him to touch her.
She’d been obliged to face away from the glassed doors and focus on the stern portraits of Sugar Hill’s previous owners until the searing heat in her lower body relaxed to a gentle throbbing warmth and her shallow breaths returned to near normal. Only then had she dared look over her shoulder, to find he hadn’t moved.
Damn him. Damn him, because she knew then his presence there was no accident. He’d come purposefully. And he was waiting, perhaps hoping she would not only notice him but join him. And so, against every sensible thought in her head, she opened the door and glided out with surprising sedateness, betraying in her voice and m
ovements none of the quavering aftermath of her incendiary thoughts.
“It never crossed your mind, even once, that it might not be safe for you and Maisie to stay here? That you both might be better off elsewhere?”
He didn’t reply immediately but gazed into the darkness as though attempting to make out a shape. Then he said, “No. But it did occur to me that you should go.”
“I told you, I’ll not—”
“I know. You’ll not leave while there’s a fighting breath left in your body.” He faced her. “Is your pride really worth dying for?”
“Is yours?” Despite the exasperated resignation in his voice, her body thrummed with excitement at the spark of reciprocal desire she noted in his gaze before he turned back to the rail. The bones of his hands flexed beneath his tanned skin as he gripped the stone.
She pressed her body to that same cool stone, anchoring herself as she admired the opalescent shimmer of magnolia blooms in the tree’s dark rounded shape, like luminescent jellyfish floating on a night tide.
“It is less pride, Mr. Banner, than need,” she said softly. “I need to stay, for I have nowhere else to go.”
He looked at her, but she kept her gaze on the magnolia.
“What about Texas? Or England? You’re from there originally.” There was no antagonism in his tone this time, only confusion.
She nodded slowly. “I am. But I’ve no wish to return. England holds sad memories for me, and Texas...William and I were supposed to move there together. Only I made it. I lived with his aunt for four months before accepting a teaching position in the local school. Then I met George. Now I’m here, hoping I’ve finally found a place I might belong.”
He angled to face her. The moon hung full and round behind his left shoulder, casting its silvery-white net over him, brilliant where it ran the ridge of his shoulders as though to highlight the breadth and moulded strength of the man inside the white shirt. The rest of him was bathed in shadow but for his ear, cheekbone, and corner of his mouth. His eyes gleamed black.
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