“Brett tells me you have an interest in writing and that you intend to record some of the ghost stories about Caoin House.”
My uncle would stoop to the lowest level to win me over to his plan. “Dark tales of spirits and hauntings interest me.”
“I know you’re aware that Madelyn Petalungro, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s very own spiritualist, will be giving a series of private readings in New Orleans next week.”
“I do know. I’d hoped Uncle Brett would acquire tickets for us.” I had a curious thought. “How did you know this?”
“Brett told me of your interest and asked me to arrange the tickets. My office often helps him with these little chores—wiring for tickets or booking travel and accommodations. It saves him a trip to town, and when Brett is working on an invention, he is making money. When he’s making money, I’m making money.”
“And everybody went to heaven,” I added.
“You are quite the card.” He tipped the bottom of my glass for me to drink more.
I obliged. “Is Isabelle the woman in my uncle’s life? He knows far too much about fashion and women’s issues to be the bachelor he’s pretending to be.”
“You’re quite astute.” Carlton nodded toward the tall dark-haired woman, who leaned against one of the trees.
“She’s very nice.” Uncle Brett had introduced us when she first arrived, but he’d failed to make their relationship crystal clear. I hoped to weasel information out of Carlton.
“Isabelle is one of your uncle’s favorites. I believe in the last ten months, they’ve grown close.”
“She’s a beautiful woman.” I wasn’t certain how I felt. She was striking, with her olive complexion, dark hair, and large dark eyes. And soft-spoken. I wanted my uncle to be happy, and a solitary man was seldom happy. “Tell me about her. Has she ever married?”
“Widowed, like you,” Carlton said. “Her husband was struck by a car. Terrible accident. It’s been half a dozen years since it happened. Brett is the first man she’s shown the least interest in.”
My heart went out to her. I knew the loss of my beloved. Alex was never far from my thoughts.
“I’m sorry about your husband, Raissa. I heard he saved many men before he died.”
I rose. I couldn’t think about Alex’s last moments, his rush to the tank and the bullets that tore into him. “Excuse me.” I turned away and stumbled into someone. Strong hands captured my arms and caught me before I could fall.
“And you said you didn’t drink a lot! Here you are, tippling again, and slightly tipsy if your balance is any indication.”
“Robert!” I looked up at him and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. “I thought you’d changed your mind about coming.”
“Caoin House is a bit farther in the country than I anticipated.” He pointed to a departing carriage. “I had to find a ride.”
“I would have driven into town to pick you up.”
He stepped back and looked me up and down. “You are, indeed, the epitome of the modern woman. And here I thought you were merely a schoolmarm spending her free summer in the care of relatives.”
He made me laugh, and I grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. “Carlton, this is Robert Aultman. He’s doing business with Uncle Brett. Robert, this is Carlton McKay, esquire.”
A spark passed between the two men, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning. It was just a moment where some message was communicated between only them. The conversation continued pleasantly.
Carlton moved through life with the grace of a man born to privilege. Everything came easily to him. And if adversity dared to strike, he would survive and continue to hold his head high. Robert was younger, less at ease, more eager to please. I suspected beneath the cloak of a jester he hid a big heart.
After ten minutes of social talk, Carlton excused himself. “Your uncle has entangled himself in a game of croquet and been called out as a cheater.” Carlton’s lips twisted wryly. “I’d better step in.”
“Uncle Brett always cheats at croquet,” I told him. “Everyone here knows. It’s a joke.”
“And I must go and play my role as his defender.” Carlton stood in a fluid motion. He was as graceful as a big cat. How was it that such a handsome, articulate man remained unwed?
Robert put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. McKay, perhaps I could drop by your office next week. I’m opening a new business in Mobile, and I want to be sure I have all the paperwork properly filed.”
“A new client is always a reason to celebrate. Now watch out for Raissa while I assume the mantle of the conniving but brilliant lawyer.” He headed toward the croquet field, where Uncle Brett pretended to be insulted.
Robert reached for my hand and squeezed it. “You look amazing. You have the prettiest legs I’ve ever seen.”
I flushed, self-conscious. “I would never have bought shorts, but I love them. To be able to run and play without a skirt flapping is . . . freedom.” The word surprised me. I’d never really thought of freedom as a sensation. “In the summer heat, I know I’ll enjoy them even more.”
Robert’s gaze slid from my eyes to my legs, and he whistled softly. He was an incorrigible flirt. “Show me the grounds. This is such a beautiful place.”
Together we walked away from the tents, strolling through the lush grass beneath the shady oaks. I gave him a limited tour, including the story of Eli Whitehead and the construction of Caoin House for the most beautiful woman in the Confederacy.
“A very romantic story,” Robert said. “This estate is the bee’s knees.”
“I should go and help Winona with the food. We’re offering a buffet where people can pick and choose. Winona, my uncle’s housekeeper and cook, is amazing. She can make the simplest thing, like chicken salad, into a feast. Last night I helped her pre—”
Robert pulled me behind one of the big oaks and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I’m sure Winona is a paragon of virtues, but I’m far more interested in you.” His lips grazed my earlobe.
“I don’t even know you,” I said, breathless.
“That’s what I’m hoping to remedy.” He ran his fingers through my short curls. “I really want to know you, Raissa.” His palm gently cupped my cheek. “No, I really want to kiss you.”
The mimosas had done their work to loosen my inhibitions. I wanted to kiss him. I’d barely been a bride before I was a widow. Alex had been dead for nearly two years, and at last I felt as if I was shrugging off the shroud of mourning. But when Robert leaned in for a kiss, I pushed him away. My dead husband still claimed my heart. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
He instantly backed away. “I’m sorry, Raissa. My actions were too bold. I thought—”
“If I led you to believe I was ready to—”
“No. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m impetuous.” He offered his arm to escort me back to the tents. “I believe that’s a fox-trot. Why don’t we see if I can remember how to dance?”
I planted my feet, forcing him to stop. “Robert, I’m sorry.”
“For what? You love someone who died. You should never apologize for loving someone. My timing was off. If you can forgive my forwardness, we can continue as friends, learning about each other. In time, maybe you’ll develop deeper feelings for me.”
“No promises, Robert.”
“I’m not asking for a promise, only a chance.”
“Chance is a gambler’s friend.” I sought to lighten the mood.
“And I am a gambler,” Robert said, offering his arm to escort me back to the party. “But be warned, I always win.”
The sounds of the party continued to the south of us. When I looked toward the tents, I found Uncle Brett and Carlton watching us. My uncle laughed and slapped Carlton on the back, and they retreated to the house together. No doubt my uncle was very, very pleased to find me wandering among the oaks with Robert. The handsome young man was yet another reason for me to stay at Caoin House. My uncle would be overjoyed if I found someone to love and cou
ld begin my married life anew.
CHAPTER SIX
Dancing was an activity I’d vastly underestimated. Alex and I had had little time to go to the Savannah blind tigers, or speakeasies where dancing was part of the evening. As a schoolteacher, I’d had to guard my reputation with great care, and many of the venues for dancing also served alcohol. Now I danced to make up for lost time.
To my surprise, I discovered I was at ease with the steps and a partner holding me. I found it deeply gratifying that both Robert and Carlton made sure I didn’t miss a song. I lost count of the mimosas Carlton put in my hand. I simply gave myself to the music, allowing my partners to spin me, my bare feet skimming over the soft summer grass. Had it not been a private party on the grounds of my uncle’s home, I fear I would have been a scandal. Something had loosened the ties of my social corset, and I decided life was too short to squander. The jaunty new dances like the Texas Tommy—which my partners executed with flair—were fun and left me short of breath. The fox-trot was wonderful and also quite physical, but the waltz was my favorite, and Carlton was the master of it.
As I drank and danced, a host of white-jacketed waiters served trays of drinks and kept the buffet table stacked with food. The night was filled with magic, and at least a hundred people chatted and laughed while the champagne and alcohol flowed freely and the phonograph spun the music into the cool night.
The clock struck midnight and continued to the wee hours, and still we danced. The champagne had given me a sparkling buzz that made the lights brighter and the conversation more entertaining. I was tipsy, but in a most enjoyable way. When Uncle Brett put on a record that was a slow waltz, I accepted Carlton’s invitation.
The new style was a very close frame. Carlton danced with confidence, and he was a masterful lead. The lighted torches Uncle Brett had put throughout the oak grove were a swirl of golden light as I spun and almost floated on the beat of the music.
“You’re a natural, Raissa.”
“I love to dance. Must be inherited. Uncle Brett loves it, too.” My uncle was dancing close with Isabelle, and they were no slackers at cutting a rug. To my chagrin, I realized I’d been so preoccupied with Robert and Carlton that I’d failed to find the time to really talk to Isabelle.
“It’s been a wonderful party,” Carlton said. “And you look fetching in those shorts.”
I’d almost forgotten the prank Uncle Brett and I had cooked up. “Yes, my uncle has exquisite taste. I can’t believe he purchased such modern attire for me, but I think I’ll never wear a skirt again.”
He laughed and whipped me around in a spin that made me giddy. “You’re a naughty girl, Raissa.”
“Not normally, but tonight, yes, I am naughty. Tomorrow I will likely pay, but for the moment I refuse any consequences.”
The song ended, and he returned me to the table, where Robert waited. “Thank you for the dance, Raissa. I believe I’ll turn in.” Carlton finished the last swallow of his drink. “Good night, Robert. Tomorrow we must have a tennis match.”
“You’re on,” Robert said, standing. When Carlton left, Robert sat back down.
“I believe the coach is turning into a pumpkin,” I said. Uncle Brett had let the phonograph run down, and he was sitting at a table across from Isabelle. The look he gave her told me how much he cared for her. Tomorrow I would make it a point to seek her out and spend time with her. I didn’t want my presence in the house to interfere with their romance. As I knew, time was too short to allow inconsequential things to stand in the way of love.
Robert and I walked to the front door, where one of the dozens of servants Uncle Brett had hired met him to show him to his room. I didn’t know if Uncle Brett had picked the south wing—as far from my bedroom as possible—or if that was the luck of the draw, but it amused me. I had no intention of acting rashly with Robert. Some men thought that a widow or, heaven forbid, a divorcée, was prize plum pickings. I didn’t intend to be one of those easy girls.
For a moment, as we said good night, I wondered if he would try to kiss me, but he didn’t. His hand slid down my arm and caught my fingers for a quick squeeze, and then he followed the white-jacketed servant down the hallway.
When I got to my room, I changed into a nightgown and opened the balcony doors. The night was once again cool, such a blessing. I stepped onto the balcony, aware of the smell of tobacco. Someone was smoking a cigarette, and I went to the railing and looked down on the drive. Uncle Brett and Isabelle held hands. She smoked a cigarette in an elegant holder. They spoke softly, and I couldn’t hear her words, but the tone was clear to me. She adored my uncle, and she was confiding in him.
I heard the words niece, and pretty, and future. She wanted to know if I was planning on living at Caoin House. Until that moment, I wasn’t aware that I was actually considering my uncle’s offer. I’d accepted my life as a Savannah schoolteacher and widow.
The luxury Caoin House offered was an existence far different from my mortgaged cottage, rigid work schedule, and stacks of student papers to grade each night. But it was Robert’s presence in Mobile that tempted me. If I returned to Savannah, I could correspond with Robert and see him occasionally. But I would never know if real feelings might develop between us.
A soft breeze brought me the scent of gardenias as Brett put his arm around Isabelle and pulled her to him, pressing a kiss on her lips. It was hard for me to remember that he was not an old man, only in his forties. He had many years ahead of him and plenty of life left in him. I hoped that Isabelle was the woman he deserved.
Feeling a bit like a voyeur, watching my uncle woo his date, I turned to leave the balcony. My gaze swept the oak grove, and I froze. A man stood in the canopied oak trees, some fifty yards from the house. He was dark haired, and he wore what appeared to be a uniform, complete with knee-high boots. Cavalry? He had to be. He was definitely military, although the pale-gray uniform was nothing like the olive drab that Robert had worn.
When I’d seen him earlier, I’d assumed that he was a workman, but I knew, somehow, that wasn’t true. He stood in the oak grove looking up at my window. Almost as if he knew I would come out to the balcony. I tried to convince myself that he was one of Uncle Brett’s guests. There had been more than a hundred people at the party, and more would arrive tomorrow after church services for the Sunday games. In my heart, I knew better. There was something in his stance, the wide spread of his legs that claimed the ground he stood upon, and the fixed gaze at my window. This man was not at Caoin House for parties and celebrations. He had lost something here. I couldn’t say what, but I knew he’d come to claim it.
And no one would stand in his way.
I gripped the wooden balustrade. The man took several steps toward me, moving into a ray of moonlight that illuminated the gold braid on his coat and the military insignia on the sleeves of his jacket. He ranked high in whatever army he served.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
Almost as if he heard me, he bowed low, and I saw the sword at his side, tied by a golden sash. He was such a young man, in his twenties. I knew him then, or at least the branch of his service. He was a Confederate. A man who’d fought for a defeated nation.
A dead man.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rather than sleeping in, I woke early the next morning, still exhilarated from the events of the past night—the dancing and flirting, and especially the visitation from a ghost. I wondered if the vision had been brought on by the mimosas I’d sipped so liberally, or perhaps my subconscious was gifting me with an image to kick-start my writing. My Confederate visitor was an omen. I needed to write.
Winona was in the kitchen with coffee brewing, and I helped myself to a cup and hurried to the library, where I found pen and paper. If I wanted to write ghost stories, no more perfect opportunity would present itself. I’d seen a ghost. Now all I had to do was weave a story around the specter who haunted the oak grove. To that end, I couldn’t wait for Pretta Paul to arrive. She’d sent word by one
of the other guests that she’d been tied up in the candy store until late Saturday. She would arrive after church for the brunch Uncle Brett and Isabelle were organizing even as I put ink to paper.
It occurred to me that I should go and help them, but the memory of their closeness last evening argued that I should give them some privacy. To that end, I curled up in my uncle’s plush wing chair and began to write a description of the ghost I’d seen.
What my eyes couldn’t fathom, my imagination provided in great detail. Like a photograph in a tray of chemicals, my nocturnal visitor took on form and shadings. His dark eyes were melancholy, and his cheeks slightly sunken. He was hungry. But not for food. Hungry for life, for warmth, for the pleasures denied him as he drifted between the physical and spiritual worlds. Yet his uniform was impeccably maintained. He was a man who took pride in his service and his rank, which with a little research into the insignia on his lapel, I would soon know.
I’d noticed the three stars on the collar of his tunic, and the blue cuff below a gold scroll that somewhat resembled a fleur-de-lis. Or at least that was the best description I could give. Uncle Brett, who’d studied the Civil War for years, would be able to help me. He’d visited many of the battlefields and knew the history inside and out. Mobile Bay had played an important role in the war, and I always believed it was one of the things that drew him back to the city he’d left behind as a young man. He would know immediately the rank of my revenant.
With great care I drew the design as clearly as I could. It was peculiar how detailed my memory was, considering I’d only seen the phantom at a distance for a few minutes. But it was all in the service of my dark imagination, so I merely went with what I could remember.
When I had written my description and drawn what I could remember of the insignia, I put my tablet on the desktop and went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Soon the house would be awakening, and I would have duties as cohost. I would also see Robert. The thought of that shut off any hunger pangs.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 4
