He ignored the rumblings in his stomach and lugged his battered cardboard suitcase outside. He looked up and frowned. The sky was a uniform battleship gray and it was drizzling steadily. With a sigh he set down his suitcase and turned up his collar. A little rain was not enough to deter him. Not after all those years on the farm. Whistling softly to himself, he picked up the suitcase and began to walk.
He didn't get far.
Without warning the drizzle gave way to thick, heavy raindrops. Lightning flashed yellow in the sky, followed by reverberating peals of thunder. A moment later a solid silver sheet of water came pouring down. He took refuge in the doorway of a shop.
Set into each side of the recessed doorway was a small glass window lit from somewhere above. He stared, mesmerized, first at one narrow window, then the other. On his left, behind the thick glass, was an elongated deep-blue velvet neck draped with a strand of gleaming pearls. On his right, an identical velvet neck displayed a fine gold chain from which hung a filigreed charm. The center of the charm was a dried purple pansy with a lemon-yellow center pressed between two rounds of glass.
His eyes misted over as he remembered the locket his mother had given Reverend Flatts so long ago in exchange for a year's schooling. He knew how much she'd prized that locket, that it had been a treasured keepsake and the only pretty thing she had ever owned. Even though she had never worn it, his mother had sometimes taken the locket out, carefully unwrapping it from its nest of faded pink tissue, simply to admire it. A slight smile would play on her usually tight lips, and her eyes would suddenly seem far away, as it transported her somewhere into the past.
Of course, the pressed pansy would hold no memories for her, but he could imagine how she would treasure it. Especially if . . . He took a deep breath. He'd never given his mother a beautiful gift. Ever.
And in his pocket he had five dollars.
On an impulse, he picked up his suitcase and turned to face the door behind him. It was made of gleaming brass, its glass rectangle screened with a gathered pink curtain. Gold script letters, outlined in black, read 'BENSEY'S JEWELERS.'
The expensive sheen of brass and the elegant script letters intimidated him, and a keen instinct told him that he was out of his element. He had never before set foot in a shop that sold anything but the barest necessities. But before he could change his mind, he grasped the doorknob and turned it swiftly.
The door opened smoothly, soundlessly. Somewhere in the back of the shop, soft chimes announced his arrival. A current of air coming in from outside stirred something else: he heard a soft, musical tinkling above him.
He leaned his head back. Directly above him, suspended from the high ornamental plaster ceiling, was an enormous cut-glass chandelier, its prisms spraying myriads of rainbows in all directions. For a moment he stared openmouthed at it. Never in his life had he seen anything quite so beautiful.
He closed the door softly behind him. Then slowly he set down his suitcase, his eyes wide and curious. The carpet underfoot was plush maroon, a soft, muffling sea of velvet. From somewhere wafted the elusively sweet, feminine fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley. He sniffed appreciatively and tried to locate its source, his eyes flicking around the shop.
He drew another deep breath as the luxurious surroundings sank in, boggling his mind. The entire shop was sheathed in pale-green watered silk, and lining all four walls were mahogany-framed clear-glass counters filled with the deep, rich glow of tier after tier of sparkling, dazzling jewels. He had no idea of their value, but even to his untrained eye it was surely a king's ransom in gold and silver and gems.
His eyes roved on and his initial awe gave way to a heavy, sinking feeling. There was no one in the shop.
Sighing softly to himself, he bent down to retrieve his suitcase and leave.
'May I be of help?' The musical, cultured voice seemed to float from nowhere.
Startled, he spun around. As he watched, two long, spiderlike hands parted a pale-green curtain behind one of the counters.
The woman was tall and patrician. Her gleaming jet- black hair was pulled back into a tapering braid which was tightly coiled into a nautilus-shaped bun. She was dressed entirely in black, but the gold-and-ivory cameo brooch at her throat softened her otherwise funereal appearance and gave her an elegance he had never known anyone to possess. He felt her sharp gray eyes regarding him shrewdly.
Zaccheus gestured nervously toward the display window at one side of the door. 'That charm?' He cleared his throat. 'The one in the little window? How much does it cost?'
The woman cocked her thin eyebrows. Her appraisal of him took no longer than a split second. Bensey's Jewelers was St. Louis' purveyor to the carriage trade; the young man standing before her had obviously stumbled in here by mistake. That happened on occasion, and over the years she had perfected her routine of tactfully showing those who did not belong here to the door. She did it so proficiently that those who were shown out never really knew quite what had happened. She was prepared to dispense with Zaccheus in just this manner when something about him— something so vulnerable, so painfully awkward, but deadly earnest—changed her mind. Just this once, she decided, she would be genuinely helpful. She smiled thinly, clasping her elongated hands in front of her. 'The pressed-pansy charm?'
Zaccheus nodded wordlessly.
The woman took a key ring out of her pocket, strode over to the built-in display case, and unlocked it. She reached inside and lifted out the gold chain and held it looped between two extended fingers, the pansy charm dangling at the end. 'It's beautiful, isn't it?' She lowered her voice confidentially. 'It's imported. Eighteen-karat gold and Venetian glass.'
Zaccheus looked at her. 'Is that good?'
'Good?' The woman laughed softly. 'Heavens! Eighteen karat is as pure as you can wear. Anything purer is too malleable. It would bend or break.'
'How much is it?' Zaccheus managed to whisper. He reached out, gingerly touching the fragile charm with the tips of his fingers. The glass felt glossy and cool.
'Ten dollars.'
'Oh.' Zaccheus' face fell and he let go of the charm. 'It's . . . I'm sorry . . . it's too much.' He turned away.
The woman nodded. 'If you are interested, we also have them in sterling silver. For four dollars.'
Zaccheus perked up. 'Could I see one?'
'Of course.' The woman replaced the chain on the velvet neck, closed the display case, and locked it. Then she selected another key from her ring. 'I'll be just a moment.' She went back behind a counter, parted the curtains, and disappeared again. Through a crack between the curtains, he could see her bending down in front of a big iron safe.
Zaccheus leaned over the counter to wait. Placing his elbows on it, he stared down. Displayed beneath the thick glass top were gold rings with tiny rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. He peered closer, trying to make out the minuscule price tags tied to them. The cheapest ring he saw was forty dollars.
He let out a soft, impressed whistle. And then he saw something that really made him blink. One ring, a diamond surrounded by ruby baguettes, had a label that read . . . Could it be? Two thousand dollars? Was it possible? He had no idea that jewelry could be that expensive.
'Here we are.' The woman was back with a tiny purple velvet box. She set it down in front of Zaccheus and lifted the lid.
The charm was identical to the one in the window. The only difference was the chain and filigree casing. They were sterling silver, not gold.
Zaccheus dug into his pocket and came up with four damp one-dollar bills. He parted with them easily. So he wouldn't eat until the next day. So what? Hunger was nothing new to him. And besides, the pansy charm was far more important than a few meals.
Reverend Flatts frowned at his pocket watch and then clicked the brass cover shut. He stared down the length of the platform. 'The train's late,' he said.
Phoebe did not answer. She remained seated on the bench, her expression taut and pained. She hadn't wanted to come along to meet Zaccheus' tra
in, but when the telegram from the college came with the time of his scheduled arrival, her uncle had insisted she be there. 'It's a bad time for Zaccheus, his mother having taken so ill. He'll need to be among friends, Phoebe. Besides, it's quite a long drive from the station out to the Howe farm. I'm sure he'll be grateful for the company.'
It had been impossible to argue.
Phoebe clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hunched forward, her chin resting on her clenched fist. The sun had already gone down, and a sliver of moon floated like a white gondola in the twilight sky. It was turning decidedly chilly. Besides her and her uncle, only three other people were waiting on the train. She glanced toward them. A young man was standing with his arm coiled around his wife, who was holding their baby.
Phoebe flinched and quickly turned away. Her head had been pounding all day, but now seeing the baby, she felt an acid pain gnawing into the pit of her stomach. She took a series of deep breaths, but the pain in her stomach refused to go away and her head continued to throb, had hardly ceased to for more than two months now.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did I let it happen? she hissed soundlessly to herself.
She had asked herself that same tormenting question over and over despite the fact that she knew the answer perfectly well: Because Chester Savage is so irresistibly handsome, so irresistibly rich, and so very, very virile. Because he is everything and anything a woman could possibly want, all rolled up into one stunning package.
She had discovered, in fact, that there was only one thing lacking in Chester Savage. Decency.
Phoebe sighed to herself.
It had begun so innocently on a fine autumn afternoon. The trees had been a romantic cornucopia of golds and rusts, and the breezes had been caressing with summer's afterglow. Birds had swooped and chirped, bees had hovered over late blooms, and butterflies had fluttered quietly across the fields. Strange, how time seemed to have come to a stop that afternoon.
How she could still conjure it up without consciously meaning to! How the sweetest song of a bird or the buzz of a bee could transport her straight back to that fateful afternoon when it had begun. That afternoon that had seemed so very perfect.
It had been the perfect day for a picnic. She had packed a lunch, placed it in the straw basket between the handlebars of her bicycle, and then was off, pedaling through Muddy Lake and down the dusty country road, a cool breeze against her face. She had not even planned to ride far, and had no destination in mind. But the afternoon had been so enticing, so superbly entrancing, that she had ridden nearly six miles before she pulled over to the side of the road and pushed the bicycle to the stream which flowed smoothly along the edge of the fields. She sat down to rest and eat lunch, and had then dozed off.
She had felt something tickling her nose. She twitched it and continued sleeping, but the fly, attracted by the remains of the picnic, buzzed angrily around her. She opened one eye and waved it lazily away. Then she sat up straight. She didn't know how long she had been asleep, but the sun was already beginning to weaken. Soon it would set. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and slowly turned her head around. She had a distinct, queer prickling feeling— the feeling that she was being watched.
There was a copse of old trees on the other side of the road, no more than ten yards behind her. And he was standing there, one hand holding the reins of a beautiful gray gelding, the other on his hip, one shiny boot resting on a felled tree. She had never seen him before, but his ruggedly handsome face, thick black hair, and trim physique—not to mention the boldness of his stare—both appealed to her and repelled her in a way no man ever had before. She glared at him, but he remained standing there, a cocky smile on his lips.
Quickly she gathered up her things and hopped indignantly to her feet. By the time she stuffed the picnic leftovers into the handlebar basket and pushed the bicycle to the road, he and the horse had moved.
They stood squarely in the middle of the single-lane road, blocking her way.
'Do you mind?' she asked icily.
He grinned, his teeth white and strong, his eyes filled with masculine sureness. 'A lady would say 'please,' ' he reminded her in a soft, cultured voice.
Her face reddened. 'And a gentleman would take it for granted that a lady doesn't need to be taught her manners.' She tossed her head. 'Now, will you please let me pass?'
He remained frozen. 'Ah, so you're strong-spirited . . . as well as no lady.'
'Get out of my way!' she said angrily. She made a pretense of pushing the bicycle into him, but the ploy did not work. He neither batted an eyelash nor moved an inch.
'You've been trespassing,' he said quietly.
She glared at him, her eyes glowering. 'If I'm trespassing, then so are you.'
His eyes flashed with amusement and he waved a languid hand all around. 'That stream. Those fields. In case you didn't know it, the properties on both sides of the road are part of the Savage holdings.'
'And so is the flour mill.' With her chin she gestured to the complex of buildings far across the fields; then she eyed him closely. 'So what? Who are you to complain?' It was her turn to be amused.
'I'm Chester Savage.' He grinned.
She stood there frozen with embarrassment, unable to speak. It was a moment before she finally found her voice. 'Well, I'm sorry to have trespassed,' she said with testy defiance. 'Now, are you satisfied?' She leered at him and put her right foot on the pedal of her bicycle.
He led his gelding aside to let her pass, but in her nervousness she got off to too slow a start. The bicycle, with her on it, toppled over with a clatter.
She let out a cry. 'Now look what you made me do!' she wailed accusingly, more hurt by her loss of poise than any real physical damage suffered.
'Here, let me help you.' He let go of the horse and bent down, lifting the bicycle off her. He held out a hand to help her up.
For a moment she stared up at him. Almost reluctantly she extended her arm.
With one swift movement he pulled her to her feet and she stumbled awkwardly against him. Despite herself, her heart thumped wildly.
'Are you hurt?' He seemed genuinely concerned.
She pushed herself away from him and bent over to brush off her skirt with the back of one hand, strangely disturbed that he was still holding on to her arm. She was at once aware of dark, smoldering eyes burning with intensity. She felt curiously weak, and the beating of her heart seemed to grow louder and louder, until it reached a thundering crescendo.
That was how it began. The initial meeting. The mutual attraction. The passion. The fire. The love on her side and the lovemaking on his.
The deceit.
Phoebe Flatts had always harbored a weak spot in her heart for the Bronte sisters. The lonely moors, the empty countryside, the wind whistling through the tors or whipping through tall meadow grass while an attractive, tall, dark, brooding man hiding some terrible secret swept an innocent but strong-willed heroine off her feet—that was what she spent her idle hours reading and rereading and dreaming about. In the stories, the hero was always strong and powerful, and romance fraught with danger, but in the end, true love would triumph. And the heroine, no matter how spirited, was ripe for the picking.
As was she.
The Savages were one of the richest, most powerful and influential families around, and Chester Savage was an only son. Heir to thousands of acres of prime farmland, a flour mill, and grain-storage facilities, he was a dream come true. Everything about him fitted Phoebe's romantic notions to a tee.
They met again and again. She lied to the Flattses, cunningly contriving one excuse after another for her absences while she wove a web of charm to trap Chester Savage.
Only, she never realized that he was the spider and she was the fly.
They rendezvoused at discreet places where no one would see them. In a clearing in the woods while the weather held. In a deserted shed after the first frost set in.
At first, she tried to resist tempt
ation, but her resistance was weak, and her romantic naiveté held sway. She had visions of Chester Savage pulling up in front of the Flatts home, hat in hand. Wooing her. Begging Reverend Flatts for her hand in marriage.
That was the way it was supposed to happen.
Instead, the secret rendezvous continued. She cajoled Reverend Flatts into buying her a mare, and horseback riding proved the perfect cover. She could come and go as she pleased, no questions asked.
The trysts, for die time being, at least, were enough. Phoebe would have done anything to feel Chester Savage's powerful arms around her, his moist kisses on her lips.
One thing led to another.
It was not long before the kisses progressed to more serious matters. His lips sought not her lips, but her breasts. Then his hands sought her smooth, round buttocks and the mound between her thighs. Ultimately, of course, he had mounted her, entered her, and ridden her to peaks of ecstasy she had never quite imagined could exist.
She had been afraid, but it had felt so good. Love-making became a drug like no other. She felt compelled to be used by Chester Savage, to feel him inside her, to clamp her naked legs around his naked buttocks. She searched her soul and kept telling herself that something which felt so good . . . which was so beautiful . . . simply couldn't be wrong. She decided that Aunt Arabella had once lied to her: sleeping with a man did not hurt at all. On the contrary. What it did do was fill her with the most exquisite ecstasy she had ever known to exist, and she lived and breathed solely for those heady moments. She thrived on the passion. Her face glowed with radiance; she had come alive as she had never come alive before.
Arabella noticed the change in her and told Reverend Flatts: 'I'm so glad Phoebe has finally got over her parents' death, the poor thing. I was worried about her, she was so listless. The fresh air is doing her a world of good. I'm so glad you bought her that horse.''
Phoebe, overhearing her aunt, had smiled to herself. If Aunt Arabella only knew! she thought. But she knew better than to tell her. Still, she wished she had a friend to confide in, to share her exhilarating secret life with. But there was no one. She had made no friends. Since coming here, she had remained aloof from everyone except Chester Savage.
Texas Born Page 14
