“My brother’s wrong, Shae, wrong. You’re not Her. You never have been.” Though she was fiercely loyal to King, Alberta always spoke her mind. As far as Shae knew, hers was the only criticism King tolerated. Perhaps he felt he needed it to round out the toadying he demanded from his employees and associates.
“He’s right about one thing. No one thinks I deserve a Lowell,” Shae used the older woman’s offered kerchief to wipe away her tears. “That’s why I couldn’t go tonight. Cynthia tells me all the gossip —”
“— Of course she does.” Alberta pulled away and picked a cloth off the pile of scraps she’d torn for bandages. After dipping it in the washbasin, she wiped blood spatters from the wood floor. Her face puckered as she spoke of Shae’s friend. “That girl’s had her cap set for Ethan Lowell since the moment someone first explained trust funds. Without all the big words, that is. I imagine your ‘good friend’ is consoling him even as we speak.”
Shae wanted to argue, but she suspected that her aunt was right. She had always wondered at the edge of glee in Cynthia’s voice as her friend reported the latest set of snide remarks. Could Cynthia have exaggerated what she overheard to drive Shae from the man she wanted for herself?
Shae imagined Cynthia marrying Ethan. Dressing in the finest frills purchased with all his ready cash. Planning menus with his stuffy mother and the household staff. Socializing with the ladies of the garden club. Listening to him report the latest cotton export figures or extol his sailing prowess.
Though she knew how inappropriate it must look, she felt her lips twitch and then draw back in a smile. “I don’t think I deserve Ethan either. I don’t believe any thinking woman does.”
Aunt Alberta slapped her hand down on the table. “Have you no sense at all? Do you realize what you’ve lost, or what you’ve cost your father’s reputation?”
Shae felt the blood drain from her face. Though she cared little for her own loss, she felt guilt over her father’s. Guilt and fear, twined together like two hissing serpents.
For if she’d learned anything these past six years, she’d learned how King reacted to a loss. With this incident, she may have pushed him beyond the point of purgatory. Now he’d make her life a living hell.
CHAPTER TWO
It was after ten o’clock already, but Phillip Payton couldn’t think of sleeping. Though the maids had smoothed the fresh linens on his bed, he felt as if a thousand sand fleas crawled over his body. His flesh itched with the memory of the girl he’d left on the beach.
What if no one had helped her? He remembered the blood spots on the sand. She must have cut her foot quite badly, and by now she would have lain there for almost two hours.
Served her right, he tried to tell himself. Her game was obvious. Marry poor, foolish Ethan for his money and his name.
But what had put her off of it, he wondered? Had she only lost her nerve, as he’d assumed? Or had the gossip about her mother and Shae’s unladylike profession turned her?
Thinking of his own experience with gossip, he almost pitied her. Ever since his father died, he’d heard the whispers.
“A shame he’s not more like the old man. Just doesn’t have a head for business.”
By that, his detractors meant he wasn’t the ruthless terror his father had been. If a man was injured on the job, Phillip saw to it the company provided for his family. Despite his earlier assumptions that blacks and whites could never work together peacefully, he’d been willing to listen to a group of freedmen and afterwards, to give several a try. When those men proved themselves, Phillip agreed that he would continue to consider Negroes for positions on the docks. His “radical” hiring practices infuriated the white workers, who walked off the job and disrupted wharf business for weeks. His fellow businessmen insisted he’d “misspoken” and need only clarify his comments to the black men. In other words, go back on his word.
When he’d refused, the whispered gossip rose in volume to an outraged roar.
He’d upset the establishment, and for that they made him pay. His position on the board of the Port Providence Wharf Company, which he’d gained out of respect for his father’s influence, was unanimously rescinded. Still, he stubbornly refused to reconsider. His family’s social invitations mysteriously dwindled and then ceased. His mother was so upset with him, she’d gone to stay with her brother in New Orleans. He imagined she intended to boycott her home city until he finally bowed to the weight of her displeasure.
Only Ethan Lowella friend he’d been long estranged from his sisters, and his fiancée stood beside him in this crisis. Well, at least he was certain of Ethan and his sisters. Rachel had “gone visiting” in Houston about the same time his mother had left town. But she planned to return tomorrow. Even though he hadn’t heard from her, he wasn’t worried. Much.
A gilded clock ticked on the mantel. Surely, someone must have found Shae Rowan by this time. People often walked along that section of beach, most of them in better moods than he had been tonight. She wouldn’t have been alone too long, he told himself.
But what if the wrong people stopped for her? With its healthy maritime economy, Port Providence drew rowdy sailors and longshoremen by the score. He’d read about so many brawls and knife fights in the paper that he’d long since lost count.
Despite her wretched manners, her rank stupidity, and her transparent goals, the girl was beautiful. A helpless morsel in pink silk upon the sand.
Phillip swore. If he expected any sleep tonight, he would have to dress and check on her.
His sister tittered as he met her on the step. “Don’t tell me you’re off to see a patient at this hour!”
Lydia still liked to tease him about his abandoned medical practice. As if his dream had been some sort of silly joke. After his father’s death two years ago, his mother and sister had insisted he wake up. The dream became a nightmare as he took up the reins of his father’s business, a business he had sworn he’d never run.
But there had been no other choice. Despite the yellow fever ravaging his father’s body, the elder Payton had put every last ounce of his energy into pressuring his only son to keep the business in the family.
Lydia smiled, enthusiastic as any other eighteen year-old who’d touched on a big brother’s weakness. She’d let down her long, black hair. Hours had gone into arranging it for the Lowell’s party, the only social engagement she’d attended since July, when Phillip’s troubles had begun.
“Well? What is it, Phillip?” she asked slyly. “Some steamy rendezvous? Won’t Rachel be amused!”
“I just thought I’d take a late stroll. Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”
Despite the nightgown she was wearing, Lydia’s eyes glistened like morning dew. “How could I possibly sleep? I was telling Justine all about that ungrateful Rowan girl who let down poor Ethan. I’m sure there’s more to it than illness, or whatever her family cooked up. Did you know the girl’s mother ran off with a strange man?”
“That’s hardly the daughter’s fault,” Phillip answered, unsure of why he bothered to defend Shae. “After all, I wouldn’t want to be held liable for your tart mouth. And I’m surprised at Justine for welcoming such gossip.”
“Justine thinks it’s tragic. She might be so shy she can barely speak to anyone outside the family, but she still thinks everyone’s a story.” Lydia rolled her eyes at her twin sister’s odd notions.
A smile tugged at the corner of Phillip’s mouth. “And you think everyone’s a scandal. Goodnight, Lydia.”
“This wouldn’t be a meeting to settle that silly disagreement you’re having about the business?” she guessed.
“It wouldn’t.”
“Oh, splendid. I’m so enjoying my months as a pariah.” She raised a drooping hand to her forehead in such a perfect imitation of their mother’s histrionics that Phillip couldn’t help but laugh.
He kissed the top of her dark head. “Thank you for that.”
“It’s a woman, then, I’m guessing.
If you do anything interesting, I’m sure to find out. I’m fiendishly good at guessing secrets,” she warned.
“Don’t wait up for me.” He winked at her. “You’ll need all your strength tomorrow for your investigation.”
*
While Aunt Alberta made a pot of tea, Shae hobbled to the stairwell and moved awkwardly upstairs toward her room. Her rooms, she might have called the large space, for her father had allowed her to have a wall knocked out so she’d have space enough to set her spells to canvas.
Spells . . . She smiled at the thought. No one had called her painting magical in years, no one since her mother, when Shae was yet fifteen.
Glennis’s eyes had glowed in admiration of the green-rimmed lake that seemed to sparkle from the midst of Shae’s landscape. “Faith! You’ve painted Ireland! Ireland’s in your blood, even if you’ve never seen it!”
“You’ve told me about it so many times. . .” Shae had shrugged, even then embarrassed by the praise. She didn’t paint or mold clay to hear how good her work was. Instead, she did those things out of an inexplicable compulsion to capture the images inside her. Mother had never understood that, in either Shae or Father. Glennis didn’t create beauty; she simply worshipped it. Had her adoration of King’s craft drawn the two together from the start? Had they used it as a substitute for love?
Her mother shook her head so hard, her simple chignon unwound itself. Tears gleamed on the ends of her red-blond lashes. “No, child. Your eyes, they’re touched by faeries. You truly see it, Shae. This is home. Killarney.”
The way she’d said it, home, had given Shae her first inkling of how badly her mother still missed Ireland. But Shae had never dreamed she might go back. Not without her. Not without goodbye.
Now a wave of painful longing swelled inside Shae’s chest. She wiped her eyes with a stained sleeve of pink silk and wondered why Father’s anger forever made her think of Mother. Why should his bitterness always feed her guilt? She was not the one who’d run away, taking only her jewelry and their love. It was Mother, only Mother, who had hurt them both.
As she used the banister to pull herself to the second floor landing, a stiff breeze made the lace curtains stand out in the hallway. She paused to close the window. Past it, a flickering street lamp lit the quiet avenue. Tiredly, Shae limped toward her room.
The door stood open, though she rarely left it so. Aunt Alberta harassed her so much about her jumble of brushes and supplies that it was easier to keep the whole mess out of sight.
Shae felt her face grow warm. If Aunt Alberta had put everything away again, she’d never remember how she’d mixed the right soft green for the dune grass. But when she stepped inside the room to survey the damage, the dim light of the open veranda door illuminated a far more distressing scene.
Her easel lay on its side across the floor, pointing like an arrow to the fallen painting. Forgetting her sore foot, Shae dropped to her knees to check for damage. The canvas had fallen facedown on the hardwood floor. Though she lifted it carefully, the wet oil paints had smeared beyond redemption, leaving a blurry whorl upon the floor. Her low moan built in strength as she thought of all the hours lost, then spied the deep crack in the easel’s leg.
How on earth could the easel fall? Though it stood fairly close to the doorway, it was solid, too heavy to have blown.
A thought chilled her to the core. Had Father come in here to find her when she’d run? Could he have done this? Though his cruel words often bruised her soul, he had never laid a hand on her or any of her things. Had her flight swept aside his last, thin vestige of control? Shae sank beside the easel, her limbs unstrung by the thought.
Surely not. Father loved her paintings, didn’t he? How often had he stood behind her, whispering praise at her captured images? Or had that happened before Mother left, in the days when he had painted, when he’d yet been himself? Still, hadn’t he bought her the easel and supplies? Father truly loved her, no matter what mistakes she made, no matter how awful his temper had become.
It was then she looked up and noticed that her birds had disappeared.
Her finches! A jolt of fear lifted her to her feet, then onto the gallery. She stuck her head over its railing and looked down but could see nothing in the darkness. Heedless of her bandaged foot, she ran out of the room, terror propelling every step. Had he taken them somewhere? Or could the cage have somehow fallen? No, it couldn’t have! But neither could the easel!
Blades of pain stabbed through her cut foot with each step as she ran downstairs and then past the kitchen doorway. From the corner of her eye, she saw her aunt set down the teapot.
“Mary Shae,” Aunt Alberta exclaimed, “what is it?”
“My birds!” she cried. The front door slammed against the wall as she flung it open.
*
The stars gave little light as Phillip came upon her, where she knelt on the walk beside the lawn. Silhouetted by the dim glow from the front windows, her features were invisible. Still, he knew something was very wrong. He knew it by her rocking, by the unnatural stiffness of her back and shoulders.
He hesitated and then heard her quiet whimpers. His black gelding, Cure, stamped and snorted, impatient at the delay.
Phillip frowned. He should go home now. Early the next morning, he had a meeting with his buyers. A half-Irish Jezebel was no concern of his. Or was she? Had she been thrown out of the house because he’d caused her horse to wreck the gig?
Cursing himself, Phillip dismounted and wrapped Cure’s rein around the wrought iron fence. He opened the gate and walked into the yard. As he moved closer, he could see a birdcage, its frame crumpled, on the walk. Several small forms lay still inside it, their feathers puffed out from their bodies. Two others showed some signs of life, one with twitching feet, the other flopping helplessly around the ruined cage.
The young woman still wore her party dress, though by now mud and salt water had stained it beyond hope. As she struggled with the cage door, she didn’t seem to notice him.
“Could I might I help with that?” The offer came without conscious decision. Though he knew he couldn’t be to blame for this, he wasn’t one to ignore the suffering of any creature.
“He killed them killed them,” she sobbed outright, paying no attention to his offer. “They’re only little birds. My finches.”
Phillip had no idea if she recognized him, or even realized anyone was here. Her delicate hands still clawed at the cage door in a futile attempt to force it open.
Phillip put his large hand over both of hers and stilled them. “Stop. Let me. You’ve cut yourself.”
She blinked, looking at their hands. Hers were scratched and raw from struggling with half-broken wire bars. Then her gaze brushed his.
Her stare jolted him, as if he’d suddenly plunged into a cistern filled with ice-cold water. Once his father had taken him hunting in Central Texas, and they’d come upon a young coyote with its leg caught in a steel-jawed trap. It had stared at him that way, its gaze utterly wild and just as forlorn.
He had never hunted after that.
She didn’t resist when he moved her hands away from the damaged cage. Didn’t speak as he struggled with its door. After forcing it open, he gently captured the flapping creature and placed it in her palms. Carefully, she made a net of her fingers and watched him reach in for the bird whose feet still twitched. It felt warm and limp as he removed it.
A strange-looking creature with bright orange circles on its cheeks, it struggled for an instant, then grew still. He was surprised how quickly the tiny body’s heat began to dissipate.
“Who did this, Miss Rowan?” Despite Shae’s betrayal, Phillip couldn’t imagine Ethan doing such a thing. Though embarrassed by his fiancée’s strange behavior, his old friend seemed more confused than angry. Ethan would be busy puzzling over this inexplicable rejection, not plotting vengeance against a few striped birds. Phillip would stake his life on it.
“My fa”
“ Mary S
hae, look here!” A woman’s loud voice interrupted, and she hurried down the steps of the front porch to join them. “I checked upstairs, and look at what I found.”
The gray-haired woman held out a broken metal curve. “I I must have hung the cage out on the upstairs veranda while I was sweeping, but I never took it off the stand and put it back. Remember how the wind picked up this evening. It must have blown the cage. Knocked down your easel too.”
Something in her explanation sounded too shrill, almost desperate. As if she could accept no other possibility.
“The wind?” Shae asked. There was no mistaking the doubt in those two words.
“Who is this?” The woman stared at Phillip, her gaze demanding explanation.
He suddenly wondered if he’d intruded on a family quarrel. No doubt Miss Rowan’s earlier actions had given everyone in this house ammunition for years of heated battle.
“My name is Phillip Payton.” He wanted to offer his hand, but he realized he still held the dead bird. Gently, he laid it back inside the cage. “I came to check on the young lady.”
“She’s fine, thank you. You’re free to go home now.” Having directed servants all his life, Phillip realized he had just been dismissed.
When he hesitated, she continued more forcefully, “I’m her aunt, Miss Alberta Rowan. Don’t worry. Mary Shae’s had an awful shock, but her father and I will take care of her.”
Ignoring the older woman, Phillip turned toward Shae. “Are you certain? I I’ve had some medical training. Perhaps I might look at your hand.”
Shae’s gaze darted to his face, then back to the door. “They want me inside now. I’ll be fine.”
He took her arm and helped her to her feet. Abruptly, she offered him the wounded bird. “I can take care of myself, I promise. Why don’t you tend him instead?”
With the street lamp’s poor illumination, Phillip couldn’t say for certain what he saw in Shae’s expression. But he knew what he felt. A sudden jolt, a recognition, that he could not begin to name. Its impact compelled him to accept the feathered bundle that she offered.
Night Winds Page 2
