Call Me Softly

by D. Jackson Leigh

  “Without so much as a thought, you’d turn your back on a hundred years of breeding, a hundred years spent building an international reputation, five generations of family history? Being adopted by Wetheringtons certainly didn’t make you one, did it?”

  The pain on Lillie’s expressive face didn’t cool Swain’s flash of anger, but she did regret that the filter between her thoughts and her mouth apparently had failed. She needed to be more careful. Voicing her thoughts would probably only antagonize and further alienate the woman who apparently was her new boss.

  “I apologize. It’s not my place to question you,” she said gruffly. “You were right earlier. I’ve got work to do, Ms. Wetherington. I’ll be at the stables if you need anything.”

  She turned and left without waiting for a reply.

  *

  Lillie was stunned. The sound of Swain’s boots pounding down the staircase was fading away before she could form a coherent thought. The personal attack had come out of nowhere. This was the person Abigail told her to trust? This woman, to whom Abigail apparently had confided that Lillie was adopted and who had used that knowledge like a sharp knife?

  She couldn’t stop the tears that gathered and ran down her cheeks. It had been a very long, very exhausting day. Her weariness was more than physical. Sharing her grief with Swain, someone else who knew Abigail well, had made her feel briefly that she wasn’t absolutely alone. Now, she felt even more rudderless in this continuing nightmare.

  Lillie jumped at the sound of the door slamming downstairs and went to the French doors of the balcony. Dusk was beginning to settle across the fields, but Swain was striding toward the stables, not looking back at the house. She could almost feel the anger in her stiff posture. She sighed and rubbed her temple again.

  Being adopted by Wetheringtons certainly didn’t make you one, did it?

  Lillie pulled another letter from her purse, one that bore her name. The responsibility of what the letter asked of her settled like a heavy weight on her weary shoulders.

  Family secrets are a Southern tradition—a crazy relative, a petty crime, an indiscretion. As you must suspect, the Wetheringtons are no different.

  More than thirty years ago, there was a drunken night of bad choices. I’ll spare you the details, but tell you that twins were conceived that night.

  I loved my husband, Jim, beyond reason, so I found a way to forgive him. Eric never did because he thought he was in love with the girl his father impregnated. He also couldn’t forgive me for standing by Jim’s side. You know the rest. Eric went to England to study and cut us completely out of his life until Jim died. It was the worst sentence he could have ever imposed. It broke his father’s heart.

  Jim’s penance to me was that he had to pay to abort the only other children he’d conceived, since I could have no more after Eric. He never knew that the girl, instead, had taken the money and fled. She delivered a boy and a girl eight months later and died soon after. Had Jim known he had children born of his blood, he would have immediately taken them into our home. But I feared that looking into the faces of my husband’s infidelity every day would destroy our marriage. So, I selfishly kept their existence from him. I let those innocent babies grow up in an orphanage, without parents. It was unforgivable, a much worse sin than my husband’s mistake.

  No one else knows about this but Bonner Whitney, my friend and attorney. He’s helped me keep track of the twins over the years. One, we believe, was killed in a Texas brothel. Swain Butler is the other.

  Swain knows nothing of this. I should have told you both the truth before now, but I was too ashamed and always thought I would have more time.

  Bonner is to reveal all of this at the reading of my will. Swain will surely be angry, and Bonner is prepared to bear that anger for me.

  I need you to do what I’ve never had the courage to. Speak for me. Explain my shame and regret to Swain. Beg her forgiveness. Most important, don’t let her reject her birthright out of pride.

  Though you have come into my life by different paths, I love you equally. And, though blood does not bind the three of us, circumstance and likeness of heart do. I hope that the two of you will learn to trust and hold to each other so I can rest peacefully, knowing neither of you is alone in this world. I implore you to consider making South Carolina your home. I fear you will never be safe in England because the constables don’t seem concerned with the evil that stalks your family there.

  With this request, I evoke some old Southern advice: Secrets can be like sleeping dogs that bite when startled awake. If they must be roused, call to them softly.

  Lillie put the letter away with a sigh. She had no strength to deal with this situation. She needed to settle her business here quickly and leave. She hadn’t told Abigail that her stalker was American. She wasn’t safe here either.

  She had taken photos for an international nonprofit over the past few years and had made friends all over the world. She would change her name and travel. She would never return to the London flat of her idyllic childhood. And she would certainly never live at a polo estate with Wetherington on the front gates.

  But she had promised. She choked back the tears that threatened to start anew. She missed Mum and Dad. She missed Grandmum. She owed them more than to just disappear.

  So she would do as Grandmum asked, even though it obviously would be more difficult than she thought. She had no idea exactly what she was supposed to say other than explain that Grandmum regretted what she did. After tonight, she doubted that she and Swain Butler would become close friends. But Lillie had promised only that she would try.

  She wiped away the last tear. She would go down to the barn and apologize. She would make things right with Ms. Butler. Then she would never make promises to anyone again.

  *

  Swain’s emotions were churning like whitewater. She’d never lost anyone close to her. Hell, she’d never had anyone close to her before Abigail. She’d never known her father, and her mother had died when she was just an infant. Even her own twin was a stranger. So Abigail’s death was a soul-deep pain that had caught her completely unprepared. And that pain made her want to lash out.

  She avoided the barn corridor where she knew Rob and the two grooms were feeding and bedding down the horses. Instead, she stomped up the stairs to her apartment. She slammed the door behind her and stalked through the kitchen to pace the expansive great room.

  Swain was angry that Abigail had to go to England and die. In some irrational way, she wanted to blame Lillie. Damn it. This was her home. These were her and Abigail’s ponies. Maybe her last name wasn’t Wetherington, but Swain Butler was the name behind the Wetherington stables. Swain had hand-picked these horses and trained most of them herself.

  And this little London socialite, who’d probably never even been on a horse, intended to just swoop in and sell them without a second thought. Why couldn’t the Wetheringtons have adopted her, not a silly girl with no comprehension, no appreciation for what this family held dear?

  She would have saddled a pony and headed to the trails to let the cadence of the ride soothe her rattled nerves, but it was already dark, and moonless. As a child, she’d sorted out her emotions at a battered upright piano in the dining hall of the orphanage where she grew up. So tonight, she settled behind the baby grand that took up her dining area and began to play.

  The hard, staccato notes of an angry concerto ricocheted off the tall windows and exposed rafters of the open room. She’s going to sell the ponies. She pounded the keys in an angry rhythm.

  She wanted to hate Lillie. She didn’t care that Lillie was beautiful…bewitchingly beautiful. She wouldn’t fall prey to that soft British accent and those sad brown eyes.

  She played song after song, letting the discipline required to play the notes properly help her regain control. The last notes were still hanging in the air when she noticed the letter she’d cast aside.

  If the letter instructed her to sell the ponies, she would. The
n she’d leave. She’d managed on her own before, and she would again. Swain Butler didn’t need anyone, not even the Wetheringtons.

  She walked back to the kitchen and found a knife to carefully open the letter. Her hands had been shaking when she sat down at the piano, but they were steady now. She pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. She was not at all prepared for its message.

  My dear Swain,

  Not since Eric left to live in England and Jim died have I found anyone who loves the ponies as much as I do. Until I met you.

  You have been such a joy to me ever since the day I persuaded you to come to the Wetherington stables. Whether it is despite or because of the hardships you weathered as a child, you have grown into a young woman who would make any parent proud. You have a strength and steadiness that the people around you and the ponies you train instinctively trust.

  While I have been away, you have protected and nurtured the things every Wetherington holds most dear—home and ponies. Now, I ask for your help once more.

  Take care of my Lillie. She must be so scared and alone right now. She needs a champion. You must teach her to love the ponies as we do. She needs to finally find her real place in the family, and she hasn’t yet had the opportunity to do that. Show her what it means to be a Wetherington. I have a feeling you know that better than any who wear the name.

  She shouldn’t live in London alone. You must convince her to make her home in Aiken. I have deliberately left some legal entanglements that will delay the reading of my will to give you time. I promise you will be rewarded.

  I ask this with all of my trust and affection,

  Abigail

  Swain clutched the letter to her chest and did what she hadn’t done since she was a small child. Sinking to the floor, her back against the cabinets, she sobbed. Abigail’s death wasn’t just words now. It felt real. She’d never again see her, the woman who’d finally made her feel like she belonged. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she screamed at the pain cutting through her. Why did everybody always leave her?

  A warm weight settled against her side and she buried her face in Beau’s wiry coat until her tears subsided. She still had him. He was the only steady presence in her life.

  He’d been a half-starved puppy rooting in the trash at the polo fields when she found him. A fellow mongrel that society had tossed out. She sat back and pushed him away when he began to lick at her tears. She wiped at her mouth when Beau’s long tongue swiped across her lips. “Yuck, Beau. You kiss like a guy, and your breath stinks like dog.” Her breath hitched between her words and her teasing was forced, but she offered him a small smile. “Wait, you are a boy dog, aren’t you?”

  Beau sat back and woofed in agreement. She stared into his intelligent eyes, finding the strength to steady her emotions. She pulled her shirt up to wipe away the last tears and the sticky dog slobber. “When life kicks you, let it kick you forward, right?” Beau woofed again. “Yeah? Well, you know what? I’m damned tired of getting kicked.”

  None of this was really Lillie’s fault. She had to be hurting, too. Swain had lost one person close to her. Lillie had lost three. Abigail had sent Lillie to her and she’d reacted like a wounded dog. She’d growled and snapped at Lillie, then run under the porch to whimper like the cur that she was. If she wanted to persuade Lillie not to sell the stable, she had to quit licking her wounds and crawl out from under that porch.

  Struggling to her feet, she retrieved the letter she’d dropped on the floor and walked over to the tall windows of her living room. She sighed as she stared out at the stars that pierced the pitch-black sky and settled on the brightest one speaking to her now.

  “Okay, Abigail. We’ll teach Lillie to love the ponies. But I’m counting on you to help.”

  Chapter Five

  Exhaustion, a hot bath, and an amazingly comfortable bed were better than a handful of sleeping pills. Lillie was sleeping deeply when the ringing phone pulled her from her dreamless slumber.

  She blinked and rolled over to look at the clock. Nine o’clock. “Bloody hell,” she muttered. She was usually an early riser. She cleared her throat and fumbled for the phone on the bedside table.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Wetherington?” The deep male voice was not familiar.

  “This is Lillie Wetherington.”

  “We haven’t met, Miss Wetherington, but I’m Bonner Whitney, Abigail’s attorney here in the States. I’m so sorry to hear about Abigail. I’ve known her for more than fifty years. We’ll sorely miss her around here.”

  “Thank you. A lot of people will miss her, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve spoken with the solicitor she employed in the U.K. and wanted to let you know that Abigail’s body left London today and should be ready to be picked up early Friday. I’ve notified the funeral home, but you’ll need to go by and make the final arrangements.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Whitney. I just have to find some transportation.”

  Lillie padded to the balcony doors and stared out at the large polo field behind the house. Two riders were jostling over a small ball, their horses pushing against each other, maneuvering to gain an advantage. She easily recognized Swain as one of the riders, her white knit shirt bright against her tanned skin.

  “I’m sure Swain can take care of whatever you need. Have you talked with her?”

  “We met yesterday. She did offer to assist.”

  “Fine. Good.”

  Swain swung her mallet and the ball shot out from under the horses’ feet. Both riders pursued it immediately.

  “I suppose we will meet after the funeral to discuss my grandmum’s estate?”

  Swain angled her mount at a full gallop to shoulder the competing horse off course. Another graceful swing of her mallet and the ball spun between the goalposts. Swain threw her head back and laughed with abandon. It was the most beautiful thing Lillie had ever seen. Swain and her mount seemed to react as if the horse could read her every thought. It was a graceful dance, but at the same time so raw and powerful it sent chills down Lillie’s arms.

  “I’m afraid it may not be as soon as you’d like,” Bonner said, drawing Lillie back to the conversation.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We have some legal hoops to jump through since Abigail had a will on file here, but drew up a new one recently while she was in England. She stipulated in the new will that we wait at least a month before it is read and probated, but the legal red tape could take as long as two.”

  “Two months?” It would be weeks before she could disappear. “Why would she do that?”

  “I can’t say, but I can tell you that Abigail hoped you would stay here in South Carolina during that time.”

  “I guess we’ll make the best of it, then,” Lillie said.

  “Excellent. Contact me if you need anything. My numbers are in Abigail’s address book in her study.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitney.”

  “Please, call me Bonner.”

  “Then you must call me Lillie. I’ll keep you advised of the arrangements.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye, Lillie.”

  She pressed the button to end the call and watched as Swain and the other rider again grappled for a ball midfield. Two months. What would she do here for two months?

  The players galloped closer. She hesitated, then retrieved a camera and a telescopic lens from her luggage and shot frame after frame. When she realized she was unconsciously following only one of the riders, she lowered her camera and glanced down at the last frame—Swain wheeling her mount, her mallet raised high like a warrior in the midst of a battlefield. It was an incredible image. Maybe she should add sports photography to her resume. She returned her camera to its case.

  Two months, and the one person she needed to depend on was angry with her. She had no way to get around. Did they have taxis out here in the country?

  Lillie took a deep breath and exhaled. Okay. She couldn’t spend weeks on this farm if she didn’
t patch things up with Swain. She needed food and transportation, and Swain to help her get those things. She also needed to repair yesterday’s damage.

  *

  Swain dismounted and handed her reins and mallet to Rob. They’d ridden three sets of ponies and it was time for a break. “That’s it for field work today. Go grab some lunch. We’ll take Nor’easter and Finesse out to stretch their legs after I do a couple of hours of paperwork.”

  Rob turned the horses over to John, the head groom, and shuffled his feet. “Uh, I was hoping I could have the afternoon off.”

  Swain frowned. “I’ll ride Nor’Easter, but you need to exercise Finesse. What’s so urgent?”

  “Today’s mine and Annie’s anniversary.”

  “Your third, right?”

  Rob nodded. “Yeah. I’m taking her out to dinner tonight, but I haven’t gotten her a gift or anything.”

  “Damn, man. You sure are leaving things to the last minute. What do you plan to buy her?”

  “Hell if I know.” He puffed his chest out. “She already got me. What do you get a woman who has everything?”

  Swain cocked her head. “I dunno. A sympathy card?”

  Rob thumped her on the shoulder. “Yeah, right. Seriously. You’re a woman, sort of. What would she like?”

  Swain snorted. “Sort of?” Her men friends saw her as one of the guys, but one with inside information on what women were thinking. She was the only reason their wives and girlfriends didn’t get kitchen equipment or a fishing rod as gifts.

  Rob rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Come on. This is important.”

  She chuckled. If the women of this community only knew just how much they owed her. “Okay. You’re right. Annie is important. Why she puts up with your ass, I don’t know.” She paused to think. “Jewelry. A necklace. With small diamonds in it. I saw some nice ones that aren’t too expensive at Floyd and Green Jewelers.”