“I might know, but I’m afraid. I keep worrying about what might happen. Do you think about that, too? Do you even know who is out to kill you?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been receiving unsigned threats. I didn’t take them seriously enough, it seems. As you probably guessed, whoever wrote them wants me to change my hiring practices.”
“What might happen if you don’t give in to them? Next time, they might kill you, Phillip.”
He nodded, wishing she would change the subject. He didn’t need her disapproval too. “I’m in this hole so deep now, I can’t even imagine what the sky might look like, much less how I could scramble out. Or even if I’d want to. I know I may have cost my fellow businessmen some money, and I know I’ve hurt the white dock workers’ pride, but I gave those men my word.”
“Those Negroes?”
“They are men,” Phillip corrected, “and I gave them my word.”
Her smile looked like admiration. “Aha. I was right, then. This is about convictions, and I’m glad. But it’s about your life, too.”
“My life, my business, the well-being of my family. Thank you for reminding me of all my worries.” Tiredly, he swung his feet onto the bed.
“Will you send for the police?”
He shook his head after remembering not to shrug this time. “Half of them would cheer the shooter, I’m afraid. The only people I’d like to get word to are my sisters. They’ll worry if they hear about this before I tell them.”
She leaned into his embrace, as if she belonged there. For a long time, each drew strength from the other, as the warmth of early afternoon took its groggy toll. “Too dangerous to go out,” she explained, her cheek pressed to his chest.
The last thing he remembered hearing, before he fell asleep, was her voice.
“Phillip,” she whispered, sounding as sleepy as he felt. “Don’t you worry. I’ll help you, too. I promise.”
*
Lydia’s movements had the brittle edge they often did when she was nervous. She paced the floor, a habit borrowed from their brother.
This time, Justine didn’t move to comfort her. Instead, she frowned over the letter she’d been writing Mother. She’d let the ink pool in the middle of the page.
“Mr. Frindly never sends a message unless something serious has happened. He hasn’t seen Phillip all morning,” Lydia repeated. “You should have kept our brother here.”
Justine crumpled up the letter. “How? Once he makes up his mind about something, who has ever convinced him to change it?”
“Father.”
“Father had to die to get Phillip to change his mind and run the business. I thought that method too extreme. Phillip’s hurt and angry. He wants to be alone, that’s all.” Justine rose, then hobbled over to the box where she was keeping Shae Rowan’s finch.
She loosened the string around the top and raised the cheesecloth to peek in. The bird peered up at her, its head cocked, its orange-cheeked expression so comical she had to smile.
Phillip, please be with Shae now, Justine hoped. Helping her was right, and doing right would bolster the part of him that Ethan and this controversy had defeated.
“What if he attacks Ethan or does something even worse?” Lydia’s hands, like the rest of her, could not be still. She kept patting at her hair, giving the impression of the world’s most fidgety coquette. “Maybe we should look for him. We could have Willie drive us.”
“And what would you propose we do if we should find him? Drag him home like an errant toddler?”
“We could be certain he’s all right. Then we’ll simply tell him we felt cooped up, and we were just out for a drive. Perhaps we’ll even see some of my alleged friends about.”
“And I could watch you grovel for an invitation that would never come.”
Lydia shook her head. “No, I’ve passed beyond all that. I’m not certain that I understand what Phillip’s done, but knowing him, I can’t help but feel he’s right. A man’s word should be sacred, shouldn’t it?”
Justine nodded, surprised her sister saw so much, so clearly, when even their mother missed this basic issue.
“Then I think that’s more important than a few party invitations,” Lydia continued. Her lips squeezed together in an expression of annoyance. “Or even a few dozen.”
“I don’t think we should go,” Justine said. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Kelso say that there’ve been storm signs sighted? Someone has to be certain everything’s prepared.”
“Servants’ gossip,” Lydia waved a hand dismissively. “They’ve no more idea than the Weather Service. And besides, this house has seen more bad blows than either one of us. You’re just using that as an excuse to hide as always.”
Justine prided herself on being above Lydia’s snide remarks, but this one made her want to choke her twin. She glared, focusing every ounce of her displeasure in her gaze. “Simply because I do not choose to hobble pathetically about does not mean I am hiding. We’ve had this conversation many times. I do not want anyone’s pity.”
“Of course you don’t. Why would you need it? Your self-pity is enough. You’d rather rot inside this house than take a chance on being hurt. But this isn’t about you today, Justine. It’s about Phillip. He may need us, and if you won’t come with me, I’ll go by myself. As usual.”
Shocked and hurt, Justine hadn’t yet begun to frame an answer when Louise Kelso cleared her throat. The heavyset woman had been with them since childhood, running the house as efficiently as if it were her personal empire.
Justine turned to her, glad of the distraction.
Mrs. Kelso announced, “Mr. Frindly’s come back. It’s regarding Master Phillip.”
Despite her lame foot, Justine rushed toward the front parlor. She could not compete with Lydia, however; her sister reached the manager first.
“What is it?” Lydia asked. “Have you seen him? Is everything all right?”
Mr. Frindly removed his hat to reveal a bald pate flushed crimson.
Something in his manner set Justine’s hands trembling. “What is it?” she demanded.
Frindly held up a hand, signaling for quiet. “I came to see if he was here. You haven’t heard from him?”
A pause. A long, long pause while Justine’s pulse thudded in her ears. Apparently, Frindly already knew her earlier excuse for Phillip’s absence had been false.
“We haven’t seen him since this morning. What’s happened? Tell us at once!” Lydia demanded.
“You’re welcome to sit down,” Justine offered, with a brief remembrance of manners.
Mr. Frindly’s head shook. “I couldn’t. I I was brought word of a report of a shooting near the Gulf. A horse matching the description of Phillip’s Cure was found dead in the street.”
“Phillip?” both twins asked at once.
“A man ran from the scene. A witness said it appeared as though he had been injured. I thought, if it were Phillip, perhaps he would come here.”
“Have you already checked St. Michael’s and the police?” Justine asked.
Frindly nodded. “And I have men waiting at both spots in case he turns up.”
Lydia’s voice was nearly choked with tears. “It can’t be. Whoever would want to hurt Phillip? I know he’s made some people angry, but this . . .”
Frindly apparently changed his mind about sitting, for he dropped into an overstuffed chair as if the burden of his news were too heavy to bear. “This labor trouble is more serious than your brother may have mentioned. There have been threats, though Phillip refused to give them credence. He may have been wrong.”
“We’ll find him,” Lydia insisted. “I can’t let my brother die.”
“No. You’ll stay here,” Mr. Frindly told her. “I’ll send word the minute I know anything. I’m so very sorry to have worried you like this. I’ll be on my way so I can find him. Oh, there’s one more thing . . .”
He looked uncomfortable, as if he weren’t certain whether he should share this i
nformation.
“Please, tell us everything,” Justine coaxed.
“The witness said there was a woman with him. Might he be with Miss Tisdale?”
“Let’s hope not,” Lydia said.
“I’d best be going,” Frindly said. “I’ll send a message to the Tisdale house just to be certain.”
Justine thanked him, despite the bad news he had brought. As she closed the front door, she turned toward Lydia. “If he was running, perhaps he’s not injured after all. Maybe he was just stooped over in case someone fired again. Or it’s possible it wasn’t even him at all.”
Lydia shook her head. “There were threats didn’t you hear Mr. Frindly? Phillip didn’t believe they were anything serious. Stupid fool. I’m so angry at him, always thinking he can take on the whole world himself!”
“Five minutes ago you were proud of him,” Justine reminded her.
“Five minutes ago I wasn’t worried that he might be that he might be shot. Or dead. Why does he have to be so stubborn?”
“Because he’s Phillip. Listen, perhaps he’s just hiding somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t hit at all.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do.” She wanted to, she had to believe that it was true.
“There was one more thing. Do you think he’s really gone back to Rachel? If he did, I hope she took the bullet, after what I saw.”
“No, I think it was Shae Rowan . . .” Justine whispered. “He went to help her after all.”
“Shae Rowan? But why?”
“Because he’s Phillip, and helping her was the right thing to do.” Admiration lent Justine confidence. At least her brother wasn’t facing this alone. If Shae was with him, she could help. Or more correctly, they could help each other.
Lydia’s hands jerked like a marionette’s as she tucked a loose strand into her chignon. “You can try all you like to convince yourself that he’s all right. I’m worried, and I’m going out to find him.”
“No, please don’t. Stay here with me. He’ll come home. I know he will, and I’ll just worry more if you’re gone, too.”
She shook her head emphatically. “Not this time. You can stay at home and play the cripple all you want, but I refuse to sit here helplessly. I won’t come back ‘til I find Phillip.”
Her decision made, Lydia’s jitters appeared to evaporate at once. She strode out of the room, her steps emphatic as their brother’s.
CHAPTER TEN
Light. The light was wrong in here. Shae peered through sleepy eyes, then jolted suddenly awake. For several long moments, disorientation swirled like a sea mist in her mind, making it impossible to remember where she was.
The dimming daylight silvered the window shade. The highboy made a frightening silhouette. The Olivers’ guestroom, she remembered, and it must be early evening.
She found a second sensation, one of warmth, even stranger than the first. Her cheek and chest felt heat, and a strange, though not unpleasant, weight pressed on her upper arm. Slowly, cautiously, she inclined her head to look. Her heart lurched when she recognized a man’s hand resting there.
Phillip’s, she remembered. Phillip’s hand. And Phillip’s bulk beside her felt like a yellow patch of sunlight on a winter’s day.
Her mind returned to their kiss on the beach, the rush of intensity when his lips touched hers. And the shock, that heated her like a blush, that his kiss could ignite her, though Ethan’s formed a shell of fragile ice around her heart.
A slow, tight smile stretched her mouth. Out of pure exhaustion, they’d fallen asleep together on the bed. She’d been sleeping with a man, after a fashion.
How odd. It didn’t feel like the taste of hellfire her Father had threatened. Nor had Phillip torn off her clothing and laid waste her maidenhead, as her aunt would imagine. Instead, their closeness felt comforting, as tender and intimate as a purring cat curled on one’s chest.
She stared at his face, relaxed in slumber, and looking so much younger than before. Unable to resist the impulse, she reached up to smooth the ruffed hairs of his eyebrow. The lashes just beneath it fluttered.
Awakening, he gazed at her, and his smile warmed her like his touch. “We fell asleep,” he explained, as if she couldn’t tell. “I’m sorry. Last night was pretty rough.”
She nodded, digging her chin into his good shoulder. “I couldn’t keep my eyes open, either. But it’s a good thing we’re alone. If my aunt were here, you’d have to marry me for this.”
“And what about your father?”
She paused to consider. “I might be an instant widow.”
Laughter started deep in his chest, then rumbled to the surface. His hand squeezed her shoulder, and he straightened, then kissed the top of her head.
Instead of following suit, instead of taking the chance he offered her to move away, she lingered. It had been so long since she’d felt comfort from human contact. She looked up at him, in the hope that her gaze could somehow express her gratitude.
It must have signaled something other than what she intended, for he kissed her mouth softly, just the way that she’d remembered. Just the way a part of her had hoped he would.
Light, a liquid light flowed through her, sending showers of sparks from lips to heart to hands. She wanted, quite unreasonably, to feel him, to immerse herself in this sensation. Oddly, she recalled the experience of shoving her hands into wet clay, then molding it upon a borrowed potter’s wheel. She wanted that with him, not to shape him, but to feel his essence at some primal level.
His hand cradled her cheek, his large, long-fingered hands. Hands that might mold her.
Like Ethan tried to do. Like King and Aunt Alberta. None of them had been content to know her as she was.
Fear dimmed the flow of light. Would she substitute one set of keepers for another, just because his kiss ignited such a pleasant fluttering beneath her stomach?
His fingertips caressed her neck so lightly, without pressure. The sparking intensified as his questing tongue parted her lips. Willingly, she complied, though the fear nagged at her, though she remembered cruel, whispered remarks she’d overheard about her mother’s weakness.
Yet she couldn’t stop herself. Her hand gently followed the curve and angle of Phillip’s shoulder, then his upper arm. The hardness of the muscle both pleased and surprised her. She would have smiled when she felt that muscle quiver, but her lips were otherwise engaged.
The disappointment when his mouth left hers spiked into a shower of sensation when new kisses fell upon her neck, beneath her ear. Dear God, she had never guessed that such pleasure awaited! For years, she had heard only the costs of indiscretion.
The costs. Her bliss-soaked brain struggled to remember.
If she went too far, he’d think he owned her afterwards. Owned her body, owned her mind, owned even her work and all she stood to earn from it. Was she a cat in heat, which could not save itself the consequence of kittens?
As if the thought of cats had summoned it, a dog’s barking broke through the sounds of their heavy breathing. Insistent toenails scratched from the direction of the front door.
Shae jerked away from Phillip, glad of the distraction. “Jasper!”
Phillip stared at her, his eyes dark with regret.
“He’s come home,” she remarked as she left the bedroom to open the front door.
She came back, holding the white terrier in her arms.
“Shae . . .” Phillip began.
She perched beside him on the bed’s edge. Jasper licked her cheek before she pushed him into her lap.
“I’m sorry, Phillip, but we have to stop and think. Too much is happening to both of us. Why do something we might both regret later?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t make decisions lightly, but my mind’s made up. I I care for you, Shae. I want more than anything to know you.”
“In more than the Biblical sense, I hope. No, don’t answer that. I don’t think you’re sure yet, and even if you ar
e, you’re only half of this decision. I’m through with letting others rule me. I won’t allow them, and I won’t allow you, to determine how I live.”
His voice bristled, as if she’d insulted him deeply. “I won’t turn into Ethan or your father the moment that you let your guard down. Why can’t you understand I’m not some domineering tyrant?”
She lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I’m not certain I’ve ever known any other sort of man.”
*
Despite the awful circumstances, Lydia loved driving White Wing in the two-wheeled gig. Her father’s old gelding, named for the legendary racing yacht, had been recently retired from any but light duty. Still, he remained an old showman, one that lifted hooves and flowing tail to mark his fluid trot. His gleaming ivory hide and handsomely arched neck, too, rarely failed to elicit admiration from passersby.
Not that Lydia was especially looking for admiration, despite the fact that her debut season had been so unceremoniously cut short. But among his other attributes, White Wing was docile enough that even the gentlest lady might easily drive him. And docile enough that he wouldn’t likely spook at the scent of human blood.
Heaven help her, but she more than half expected to find her brother lying in a pool of blood. Though Lydia prayed a desperate plea that it might not be so, fear whispered in her ear, even above the sounds of the old gelding’s hooves crunching the oyster shells that lined the avenues.
He’s dead, as dead as Father.
The words repeated endlessly, a litany of pain. To drown them out, she tried to sing the first song that came to mind, some foolish old song urging the defeated Southern cause. But the tune fell flat, then took up the cadence of a child’s sobs. She stopped and let the whispers have their way.
Lydia’s gaze swept the gaps between the houses, among the trees and shrubs, beside the pilings of raised cottages as she traversed the lowest sections. She questioned children still playing in the cooling evening air, though their responses proved too contradictory to be useful.
“I was there! I saw that man run by.”
“You’re crazy. My brother saw ‘em haul off a dead body.”
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