The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  Sean got up, pulled open the fridge and found it fully stocked. He took out a cold beer and, stepping back over to the table, pulled out a chair for the stranger. “Sit,” he said, lowering himself in the opposite seat.

  Etta sat down, eyeing him dubiously as he popped the cap off the beer and took several long, medicinal drawls. At last he brought the bottle down on the table so hard, it made her start. “So, Miss…Miss…”

  “Etta,” she filled in for him.

  “Miss Etta,” he said, and she nodded. “Right, could you please tell me why my wife smells like a jug of whiskey?”

  “I believe she’s been in the bourbon, Mr. Kelly,” she said, smiling again.

  Sean rubbed his temples. He was getting a headache. “And where, Miss Etta, would she get bourbon?”

  “Lord if I know! Best guess is she had a couple too many mint juleps at that tea party she went to this afternoon. Left here fine…came home—”

  “Tanked?” Sean interjected.

  “Mm-hmm,” Etta affirmed with a bob of her head. “The juleps has a tendency to sneak up on a baby like that little wife of yours.”

  “Damn Prissy Middleton and her tea party. I should call her husband right now and tell him what I’ve come home to. Tea party?” he said mockingly, sitting back in annoyance. “Well I can assure you this—there’ll be no more tea parties for Catie Kelly.”

  Etta’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh Lord, don’t tell me you one of those husbands.”

  Sean looked at her sharply. “And may I ask, ma’am, what you mean by one of those husbands?”

  “The kind that start layin’ down the law every time a girl goes out and has a good time for herself—exactly why I’ve stayed single. Won’t have no man telling me what to do. No, sir, no man’s gonna lay down the law to Etta Oliver.”

  “Beg pardon, Miss Etta, but at the moment, the only thing my wife will say is, ‘The boy pissed in the potted palm.’ Sounds to me like that tea party was quite the afternoon.”

  Etta flashed Sean another toothy smile. “Oh no, honey! She’s tryin’ to tell you ’bout me!”

  “You?” he asked.

  “Yes, honey, see what happened—”

  “Wait!” Sean stopped her long enough to grab another beer from the fridge.

  When he sat back down, she went on, “Well, it all started early this morning. I made breakfast like I always do.”

  “You made breakfast where?” he asked.

  “Across the square, at the big house on the corner—the Mayden’s. Like I said, I made breakfast then cleared the table like I always do. Well, it was washin’ day so I was runnin’ all over hell’s half-acre of Georgia collectin’ the laundry, and do you know what I saw?”

  “I can’t even imagine,” he said, looking and sounding as if, at this point, nothing could surprise him.

  “The boy, Mrs. Mayden’s grandson, was relieving himself in the potted palm—the big one in the front hall!” Her eyes went round as saucers. “And him nine-year-old! Can you believe it?”

  Sean could believe it, though he wouldn’t tell Etta Oliver. Having been raised with four brothers, he could personally attest that nine-year-old boys will relieve themselves anywhere that strikes their fancy. He shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, I grabbed that nasty little thing by his collar and dragged him to his grand-mama. And do you know what that crazy-ass white woman told me?”

  He shook his head again.

  “She looked down her nose at me and said, ‘Well, this is his house and therefore his potted palm. If he wants to piss in the potted palm, what business is that of yours?’ Can you believe your ears, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Let me guess,” he put in flatly. “You told Mrs. Mayden that she wasn’t bringing up her grandson properly.”

  “Somebody had to!” Etta argued with vehemence but then blew out a defeated sigh. “But…a lotta good it did me. Ol’ witch tossed me out, bags and all. That’s when I came across the queen of England right there in Monterey Square!”

  “And Catie hired you…right there on the spot?” he asked curiously.

  “Not really. When I told her what happened, that sweet little wife of yours offered to let me stay in the carriage house ’til I found another job. But I ain’t got no money, and I don’t take no charity. So I offered to cook in exchange for the hospitality. Figured it was the least I could do after I saw what that child made you for breakfast. That girl’s a gem amongst rocks. Ain’t many white folk would invite a big ol’, mad-as-a-wet-hen, black woman into their home.”

  Sean fell quiet for a moment, twisting the sweating bottle on the table in front of him. “To Catie,” he finally said, lifting the beer in toast, “my sweet little wife! May the world always be as kind to her as she is to the world. And may her husband…”

  “Not be one of those husbands,” Etta added, smiling again.

  “Aye, may he not.” Sean brought down the bottle and pushed himself away from the table. “Céad mile fáilte, Miss Etta—a hundred thousand welcomes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to take care of my sweet little wife.”

  “You do that!” she said, grinning ear to ear.

  On his way out, Sean stopped and turned back. “Er…I don’t have to call you mammy do I?”

  “Not if you want to keep all those pretty white teeth in that head of yours…no,” was his answer.

  Sean smiled. “I like your style, Etta Oliver!”

  Chapter 7

  When Etta Oliver had been living in the carriage house for over a month, Sean began to realize the woman had most likely become a permanent houseguest. He wasn’t complaining. The food was wonderful, and thanks to the addition of Etta to their home, he and Catie had managed to settle down into the domestic flow of married life. Etta’s motherly presence was certainly beneficial to the young newlyweds who were so removed from their own folk. Catie especially, who was dreadfully missing Rose, had bonded rather quickly with the stranger she brought home from the park. Sean chuckled to himself when he thought of it. Only Catie could shirk a chore, leave the house, and come home with a blessing like Etta Oliver. “Someone watches over that child,” his Aunt Rose once told him, and he believed it.

  “Why you dressed so early?” Etta asked Catie, who came into the kitchen carrying one of Sean’s shirts.

  “I’m having an early lunch with Delia then she’s giving me a lift to Prissy Middleton’s afternoon tea.” Catie’s first afternoon tea at Prissy Middleton’s was now only a faint memory. Once sober, she had explained to Sean how she had been pulled into circle after circle of women and, as southern hospitality dictated, was kept well supplied with mint juleps as afternoon tea gave way to cocktail hour. Neither Catie nor Prissy Middleton took notice of how well supplied until the bourbon had done its duty. In any event, Prissy had seen her young guest of honor home safely, and Sean was satisfied with Catie’s vow never to touch whiskey again—even if the oath was made crying and retching over the toilet bowl as he compassionately held back her hair.

  “Would you mind, Etta?” She held out Sean’s shirt with a pleading expression. “According to the Irishman, I banjaxed the last one.”

  Etta’s face scrunched. “Banjaxed?”

  Catie shrugged. “Irish I suppose.”

  “Catie!” Sean yelled from upstairs. “Where’s me shirt, darlin’?”

  “Coming!” she yelled back then rolled her eyes at Etta. “He’s meeting Annabelle Montague today at Norbury’s board meeting, and you’d think she was the Queen herself for all the fuss.”

  Etta moved the eggs to the back burner and took the shirt from Catie’s hand. “I don’t like that Delia Reynolds no more than I like an ironing board at the top of the house,” she grumbled as she headed for the steps.

  “What’s wrong with Delia Reynolds?” asked Catie, following on Etta’s heels.

  “She got one of those looks, is all.”

  “What sort of look?” Catie panted. She was always amazed at the effort it took to keep up with
a woman who easily outweighed her by four stone not to mention her age—not that she had a clue of Etta’s age. Etta Oliver was one of those women who could be forty-seven or sixty-seven. It was anyone’s guess.

  Etta stopped then. “The kind of look that say, I’m tellin’ you one thing, but I is thinkin’ somethin’ else. She’s got the sly look of a fox on her. You be careful is all I’m sayin’.”

  “Catie!” Sean stepped out and yelled again then grinned sheepishly when he saw them. “Sorry, thought you were still downstairs.”

  “You just cool your heels a bit, Mr. Board Meeting,” Etta snapped at him then bustled off to iron the shirt.

  Wanting to finish the Delia Reynolds conversation, Catie started to follow, but Sean stopped her. “Love, where are my tiepins?”

  She waved him towards their bedroom. “Look in my jewelry case?”

  “I did. They’re not there.”

  Catie blew out a lung full of frustrated air and, mumbling something about helpless men, went to fetch the pins. She opened the rich purple velvet box that had once been her mother’s and lifted out the top tray. “They’re right here.”

  “Ah,” he said, looking amazed. “Nifty, eh?”

  “It boggles the mind,” she quipped smartly.

  “Thank you, cailín.” He smiled and kissed her.

  “I don’t understand why you are trying so hard to impress this Miss Montague,” Catie called out to Sean as he disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Because,” he yelled back.

  She came to the door. “Because?”

  Busy tying his tie over his undershirt, Sean glanced from the mirror to her then back. “Because Miss Montague is from an old English family and has a lot of pull in our little corner of the world.”

  “So. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I could use the woman’s recommendation back home. That’s what.”

  “Sean,” said Catie, giving him an odd look. “You’re married to an old English family. I’m confident that Bennet Darcy has just as much pull in our little corner of the world if not more than Annabelle Montague.”

  “If you don’t mind…” A knock on the bedroom door interrupted Sean and he brushed by her to answer it. “Thank you, Etta. Do you think a blue tie with the grey suit is okay?”

  “Blue gives a man importance,” Etta said without hesitation. “Now stop bickerin’ and come eat before breakfast gets cold.”

  “We’re not bickerin’,” Sean informed her.

  “Yes we are!” Catie corrected him as Etta shook her head, threw her hands up, and left them to it. “Now what’s this, ‘if you don’t mind,’ business?”

  “If you don’t mind—” He slipped on his shirt and began working the tie over the collar— “I’d like to earn the positions in my career on my own merits and accomplishments—not because I married Bennet Darcy’s sister.”

  “And you don’t think marrying me was an accomplishment?” she asked, baiting him. She noticed him thinking carefully before answering her.

  “Accomplishment, yes, but I shouldn’t imagine my ability to woo Catie Darcy is one of the skills I’ll need as a potential headmaster.” He stepped inside the closet, hoping to get out of the line of fire. Etta was right…they were bickering.

  “Woo!” she cried.

  Blast, he thought, grimacing. How is it men invariably choose the wrong word? He slid into his suit jacket, straightened himself for battle, and plunged back out of the closet. “Come now, me darlin’,” he said with so much sugar coating it was a wonder he didn’t pucker. “Marryin’ England’s most prized lass will always be my greatest triumph. You know that. But sure it’d be better for a man to have more than his brother-in-law speakin’ for ’im, eh?”

  Whether his Irish charm was working or not, his appearance was most definitely redirecting her. “Most prized,” she repeated indignantly while inspecting the sight he presented in his three-piece suit. She smiled despite herself, and her voice dipped to a seductive purr. “You make me sound like a bull.”

  “You’re no bull to be sure, mo chailín.” Sean came over, eased her up on the bed and then leaned over and kissed her, meaning it. He pulled back and grinned like a wolf. “Now stop bickerin’, woman.”

  “You started it. You insufferable a-ass,” she croaked, as his hand slid under her skirt and up her thigh. His aftershave tickled her nose and his muscles felt tight against the binds of his jacket.

  Feeling her dissolve in his hands, Sean slowly worked his way down her neck with sensual, lingering kisses until he heard that soft exhale of air that told him she was his for the taking. God help him if that sound wasn’t sweeter than his dear mother’s voice. “Damn,” he rasped against her skin.

  “What is it?” She impatiently reached up and pulled him against her.

  “I’m going to be late.”

  ***

  Norbury’s board meeting was held at Challongate Plantation, the home of Annabelle Montague. If you could call it a home, Sean mused when he first set eyes on the massive white antebellum structure. As Pemberley often did, the grand southern mansion made him feel as if he should make sure his shirttail was tucked in.

  Although much of Georgia had been burned in the wake of Sherman’s March to the Sea during the Civil War, Savannahians had put away their acrimony like a locket tucked under a shirt, unseen but always there, heavy against their chest, and welcomed the Union General in order to save their fair city from the torch. During Sherman’s occupation of Savannah, Challongate Plantation had been seized by a rowdy band of lower-ranking officers and their troops. To this day, there was a black stain on the wood floor in the dining hall were an “uncouth captain,” according to Miss Montague, had pressed out his cigars with the toe of his Yankee boot. If it weren’t for the Montague’s Staffordshire relations, with their old English money, Challongate would have been sold after the war for a pig’s ear to what Miss Montague referred to as a “carpetbagger” —a term that made the woman purse her lips like she’d taken a bite of a particularly sour apple. All this information was relayed during Sean’s brief introduction to the woman before the meeting was called to order.

  Sean glanced around the formal dining hall, which was temporarily doubling as a boardroom. The board members, six men and four women, whose individual portraits lined the main hall of Norbury’s administration building, sat in their respective seats around a gleaming mahogany table, looking as somber as pallbearers. Discussing the welfare of children shouldn’t be such a grim affair, he thought. But then again, these men and women saw a business not a school, dollar signs instead of faces—the very reason Dr. Middleton’s presence was important. He didn’t have a vote, but he’d get his say on matters brought forth.

  Robert’s Rules of Order was strictly adhered to, and Sean was grateful to be somewhat familiar with the published work of Brigadier General Henry Robert. As the proceedings progressed, Sean stole a few sidelong looks at Norbury’s chief benefactor. She was just as Dr. Middleton had described her — a sour old thing who never smiled. The sixtyish woman looked very much like some of the centuries-old family portraits that graced the halls of Pemberley’s gallery, reserved and forbidding. Sean wondered why it was that those with the most wealth always looked the most miserable. “Money swore an oath that nobody who did not love it should not have it,” he quoted the old Irish proverb in his mind. Sadly, maybe all she loved was her money.

  Remembering his and Catie’s many walks down Pemberley’s long gallery made Sean smile. For fun, they would try to imitate the faces of her dour old ancestors and laugh until their sides hurt. Wonder what she’s doing right now, he thought, his heart skipping a beat. He’d reluctantly left her in a mass of soft, white sheets, smiling and flush from their lovemaking.

  “…paving the property’s service roads makes no sense. Gravel works fine, and it’s cheap!” one of the pallbearers argued vehemently, making Sean wonder how long he’d been daydreaming. Weren’t they talking about a shipment of ap
ples from North Carolina only seconds ago?

  Feeling the intensity of her stare, he gave Annabelle Montague a covert glance. Bloody hell! The woman was looking right at him. Had she taken notice of his inattention? Had he grinned like an eejit when recalling his and Catie’s amorous rendezvous that morning, which had nearly made him late? Sean felt a warm glow crawling up his neck, making the blue tie Etta had picked out suddenly tight as a noose.

  Thank the heavens the meeting adjourned for lunch, and he escaped quickly to the adjacent sun porch where refreshments were being served until the dining hall table could be set for lunch.

  “Where’s the fire, Kelly?” Dr. Middleton asked, causing Sean to nearly spill the coffee he was stirring. The man laughed. “Calm down, buddy! You’ll have to get used to these sleepers if you ever want to be a principal.”

  “Sorry, sir. I just missed my coffee this morning.”

  Grinning, Hugh Middleton nudged Sean’s arm. “You old dog! I know how it is. Prissy and I hardly slept the first year we were married.”

  Good Lord, Sean thought, is it written across my forehead?

  “Hugh Middleton.” They both turned and tried to appear pleased that Annabelle Montague had joined their conversation. “I should like to have you and Mr. Kelly join me for lunch,” she asked, but it wasn’t a request.

  “Well, we’d be delighted, Annabelle,” Dr. Middleton said, adding the required affable smile.

  After a brief attack of a hacking, smokers cough, Miss Montague cleared her throat and looked directly at Sean over glasses attached to a shiny silver chain that dangled about her face. “I look forward to learning more about Norbury’s Irish intern,” she said as a small gong sounded behind her. In a graceful, flourishing circle, she turned to the board members, whose conversation had been silenced by the gong, and announced, “Lunch is served, ladies, gentlemen.” Then, with Hugh Middleton as escort, she led the party back into the dining hall.

  Though it was midday on a Wednesday, the meal was clearly going to be a formal affair. Seeing the place settings, silverware, and crystal, Sean knew immediately they were in for a several-course meal. For once, he was actually thankful for the many black-tie dinners he had been obliged to attend at Pemberley throughout his and Catie’s four-year courtship. His first meal in the grand dining hall of his wife’s ancestral home would have been an absolute disaster had his Aunt Rose not taken him to Pemberley’s kitchen and given him a crash course in “Soup to Nuts” dining. Never in Sean’s life had he seen so many pieces of silverware for one meal. At home, Emma Kelly would put everything she had prepared for her husband and five sons on the table and stand back, praying no one would be stabbed by a fork.