“Veronica received a little boy and returned a message to a man. I am all curiosity, you can see, Mrs. B, because she will not divulge!”
“Well, we all have our little secrets, Madge dear, why should we spoil her fun? Come along and help me calm down. I will tell you all about my reclaimed social set, and you will see what fun it is. I hardly know where to start, everythin’ is just so wonderful! Well, I suppose it began the day Ronnie came to board, and since then…” Mrs. Beaumont’s voice trailed off as she mounted the staircase.
Madge was obviously reluctant as she followed Mrs. Beaumont in confusion.
Veronica waved at Madge with a smile, her feet swinging freely beneath her hoopskirt. “That should keep her busy for an hour, at least.” Leaving for her bedroom, she tried to write and found her previous lack of inspiration engulf her. Ignoring Maum Jo’s calls for dinner and Madge’s pounding on the door, Veronica sat lost in her thoughts until the door unlocked and admitted her roommate.
“Ronnie, what are you doin’, sittin’ on that window seat? I find you there constantly, and I never know what to make of it,” Amy said, peeling off her gloves.
Veronica set aside her journal, its page still blank. “The Harris family is well, I hope.”
“Yes, I am glad they still have one boy to keep their spirits up. But enough of me. I hear there was a commotion this evenin’. What is this I hear about you sendin’ messages to men through little boys?” Amy removed her bonnet and hatpin, throwing them to her vanity.
“Madge is just imaginin’ things. It was merely Bentley botherin’ me again, is all,” Veronica nonchalantly replied.
Amy nodded, as she walked behind her changing screen. As she pulled on her nightgown, she conversationally commented, “I thought Bentley went back home.”
“That’s never stopped him before.” Changing into her nightgown, Veronica slid into bed, her back facing Amy to dissuade further questioning.
“From what Madge told me, you said the man was welcome anytime. Surely, you would not send such a message to Mr. Stratford.”
“I don’t remember sayin’ she was privy to my affairs.” Veronica jerked her covers close though the heat stifled.
“Yes, well. I had a nice day with the Harris’. I don’t think I’ll be seein’ them anymore. Stayin’ in Rhett’s house was—he’s everywhere.” Amy paused, tying her robe. “Ronnie—whatever you’re hidin’ from me, you know I won’t pressure you into tellin’ me. Just know I’m here to listen.”
“Of course.” For Veronica, the conversation had ended before it started.
* * * * *
Now was the moment. Veronica sat in bed, searching for evidence that Amy might possibly still be awake. No, her steady breathing betrayed her. Veronica slipped out of bed, hugging her robe close to restrain excitement.
Stumbling in the dark, she reached her trunk by stubbing her toe on it. Veronica cursed the fact that it was so dark at two in the morning, biting her lip to keep from crying out. With great discomposure she found her white chemisette and dark green riding skirt, feeling too lazy to lace her hoopskirt. She tied a small black bow at the collar, and looped her long braid into place.
Thinking the room stuffy, she opened the window. In the dark, Veronica could hear the hefty silence of the sleeping city. Such an odd sight, to watch a cityscape when there was no formal activity. She turned from the window and reached for her shoes, struggling to pull on her boots without waking the house. She then buttoned her jacket, not wanting her chemise to attract attention. She picked up her skirts and crept down the hall, grateful for the carpets.
Stumbling into the kitchen, she walked across the yard to the stable, watching the ground with a trained eye. Veronica congratulated herself with her foresight: she had spent the past week memorizing every mound so she would not trip. Upon reaching the door she realized she had no key, and had to return to the house. On her second attempt to open the stable, she unlocked the padlock and walked inside. She lit the kerosene lamp.
Stables had always been a place of comfort for Veronica: it had been her refuge back home, when her father was furiously drunk. She held her lamp high to see as she stepped forward to be received by Beauregard, Mrs. Beaumont’s horse. “Hey there, sugar.” She pulled a stool close, hung the lamp on a hook above, and sat down. “I suppose there’s no one here but you and me.”
A door rasped open. Veronica dimmed the light, her fingers quivering as a shadow stepped from one of the stalls. “Who’s there?” the shadow and Veronica demanded in unison.
“Veronica?”
“Who’s there?” she repeated, lighting the lamp and holding it before her. She almost didn’t want to look, for fear someone else had come. He cautiously stepped forward to keep the majority of his form hidden. But Veronica would know that stance anywhere. And he was the same…mask and all. “Jonathan? I thought you were goin’ to call me Jinx.”
“I had been given the impression it was improper for women to meet men late at night.”
Hastily stepping from the stool to explain, she tripped over her long skirt. Crying out as she collapsed onto the hay, Veronica ruefully clutched her ankle. She gasped against the pain. She was determined not to cry. Good lord, when would she be in control of her person?
Frowning, Jonathan pulled her ankle from beneath her skirt. Veronica could hardly contain her astonishment that he dared be so bold without at least asking. She was rightly appalled that a man stared at her ankles. Yet another rule she had broken.
And as her mind wandered, she was struck by how soft his hair seemed from this close distance. Hardly able to restrain her curiosity, Veronica reached for it, snatching back her hand as he bemusedly glanced at her.
“Did you just touch my hair?”
“It looked so soft, I could hardly deny the—and I’m so abominably curious.”
“I daresay the only reason you came is because you were curious as to what I would say. For all you know, everythin’ that needed to be said was said at the party.” He squeezed her ankle. “Does that hurt?”
Veronica shook her head as he replaced her shoe. “Well, what is it you have to say?”
“That all depends on what you have to say in return, I suppose.” He rotated her ankle.
Cryptic man. “Why are you still wearin’ your mask?”
“To keep you safe.”
“From what?”
Jonathan frowned in surprise as he crouched beside her. He had hoped she would be able to draw a conclusion. “I’m sure you don’t want to know.” Standing, Jonathan was suddenly intent on studying the surrounding architecture.
Veronica watched him, his arrogance annoying her. “Why not?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Why must you always assume I would not understand?” Veronica said, moving to stand beside him. She flinched as the pain intensified and Jonathan murmured, “It would probably help if you keep your weight off it.” She focused on her breathing to abate the pain.
Ignoring her surprised protests, Jonathan pulled her into his arms and carried her to a nearby bench. Leaving to bring the lantern, he smiled and sat beside her. “Does it still hurt?”
Veronica nodded, tears hidden behind her clenched eyes. She mumbled, a frown creasing her face as Jonathan said, “Veronica, sometimes you’re so helpless.” She blushed as he brushed a stray hair from her face.
Jonathan suddenly felt a brotherly interest in Veronica, a deviance from his usual attraction. He knew it would wound their reputations if found alone in the stable. Her evident trust in him was gratifying.
“This stable isn’t half so comfortin’ as it seems durin’ the day,” Veronica muttered, determined to scrape together any sense of decorum she had left. Slightly annoyed by his chuckle, she said, “I am not helpless, no matter what anyone tells you.”
“Who would tell such tales of you? Who would dare say you were weak and helpless?” Jonathan’s eyes fixed on her hair. In this light, her golden hair looked almost red. He figured
she must have brushed it fifty times before she came. Amy did half so much and achieved a soft sheen; nothing like Veronica’s strident power.
“Brad, for example.” Veronica yawned behind her gloved hand and blinked away the sleep that threatened to conquer. Was she was tired, or was his accent decidedly more…northern than she remembered?
“Brad Williams?” Jonathan shuffled hay aside with his toe. “Why do you think he would say such things?”
“Do you know him?”
“We met a couple of years ago, between Richmond and Washington.”
“How convenient.”
“I suppose you could say we’ve been friends for a long time.” Jonathan frowned. She was too perceptive to his thoughts. “We are…well, we’re good friends.”
Veronica stood, testing her foot to see whether it would carry her weight, and began to pace. “Friends?” He nodded. She continued pacing. This was decidedly odd. Brad knew she was looking for Jonathan when she visited; why had he not said anything?
Perhaps Brad thought her Jonathan still lived down south; maybe the Jonathan he knew was not this particular Jonathan. But no: it had to be this Jonathan for he named Brad’s surname, which she had not mentioned. Veronica slipped on the slick hay, crying out as she fell.
Jonathan half slid, half ran before managing to catch her. “Jinx,”—he laughingly said, holding her upright—“Someday, you will have to learn how to stand on your own.”
“I can stand fine.”
“I don’t think so, but as you wish.” He released her, rocking on his heels.
“You don’t think so? I wasn’t sure you ever thought, with you always switchin’ accents. Tell me, please, I should so like to be enlightened!”
She’d caught his accent again. Veronica really was too observant. “Well, I suppose I don’t necessarily think. Not when it comes to you…as puzzling and hatefully bewildering as it is.” With a moment’s hesitation, he darted to kiss her cheek. Now embarrassed, Jonathan leaned against a column and pulled his cap low to hide his smile from her blush.
Veronica began to say several things, only to swallow them before they left her lips.
“You are dumb, Miss Vernon,” he said, and she continued to be dumb as she could think of absolutely nothing genteel to say. Thinking perhaps Veronica had not heard him, Jonathan repeated himself.
“I suppose I shall be quite dumb until I decide on somethin’ proper to say in reply.”
Always amused when Veronica relied on her sense of propriety when confused, he patiently waited.
“Just to inform you, kissin’ me was most improper. In fact, it would only be proper if I were engaged or…married to you,” Veronica faltered, brushing stray hairs from her forehead. Why was she snapping? She had rather enjoyed that little move of brotherly affection and something she could not quite permit herself to admit.
“Are you sayin’ that if I were engaged to you, I could kiss you all I wanted?”
“I suppose so, I don’t know. This is highly improper!”
“You’re pretty when you’re confused,” he smiled.
“Yes, I realize that. I’m also pretty when I’m annoyed, or angry with you. Or when I’m upset. Or when I’m cryin’. Is there ever a moment when I’m not pretty?”
Jonathan paused in surprise. “I suppose when I think of you talkin’ with Stratford.”
“You wish me to speak only to you?” she was shocked into silence as Jonathan nodded. This was her luck. First, to be engaged to Bentley! One who obsessed over every contact Veronica could possibly make with a man. Then, she to be thrown into a house with Brad, who made it quite clear he would rather have nothing to do with her, unless she could amuse. Now, it seemed she came full circle with Jonathan. Surely, he was not so protective as Bentley!
“And if you were to see me speak with Brad?”
“He I would not mind.”
“Brad Williams you wouldn’t mind seein’ me with!”
“Of course not.”
There was a pause as Veronica registered her shock. “Why not?”
“He would give his life for you, because he’s that way.”
“Brad. Brad Williams is that way. Where have you been that you would admit to such thoughts? He has swayed you!”
She obviously didn’t think warmly of Brad. What a horrid miscalculation on Jonathan’s part. “Have you anythin’ more to say?”
“If you would be so kind as to be quiet, you would hear what I have to say.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Proceed, please: enlighten me,” he said as with a shake of her head, Veronica sullenly turned away. “Miss Vernon?”
Veronica bit her lip. She didn’t want to get into an argument—not after waiting all these years to find him. She flinched as his breath pressed slightly against the hairs of her neck.
“Will you be adding anything more, Miss Vernon?” his voice held a tint too much of Brad’s incessant teasing and sarcasm.
Veronica whirled to slap Jonathan. If only that mask did not cover his face!—what she could see resembled Brad’s white fury. “You dare call me ‘Miss Vernon!’”
Jonathan pulled his neckerchief a centimeter higher in the case that in a fit of rage she ripped his mask off. How horrendous that would be. Pretending to be shocked, he asked in a voice unlike his own, “Are you saying that isn’t your name?”
“I am sayin’ that after everythin’ you have done, you dare try to be formal with me? You pompous, egotistical—!” She was no mood to be whimsical, no matter what she happened to feel for him. “You will not laugh at me, you…abnormal human!”
“Do you have anythin’ more to say or are you readying for an apology?”
Veronica squealed as she ran from the stable. She could hear him chase, and it was quite obvious he would catch her. Reaching the door just in time, Veronica, instead of slipping outside, as Jonathan assumed she would, grabbed the whip. She snapped it to the ground.
“Miss Vernon, what do you think you are doing?”
“I know how to use a whip, Jonathan. My daddy taught me when I was little. Said I should use it when someone is threatenin’ me.”
“At least you have passion,” Jonathan tisk-tisked.
She hadn’t noticed before, but it seemed as though he steadily pulled at his neckerchief so she couldn’t see the lower half of his face. “What, are you hidin’?” Veronica jerked the tail of the whip to her hand, slapping Jonathan’s cheek along the way. It looked as if a bullet had sliced him. Horrified, she watched as the blood almost sensually oozed.
Jonathan it wiped away. He most definitely had underestimated her reaction.
Veronica couldn’t keep her eyes focused on his. They were too beautiful for her to be angry at. She instead concentrated on his mouth, which was very capable of upsetting her: “You are a little Delilah, just like all your other Southern friends. Oh, you are a pretty rose. But like all flowers, you shall wither and wilt and fall to pieces. No one will remember you, because you will no longer be the belle of the ball.”
Veronica was shocked. She couldn’t react to his insulting and demeaning behavior. This same man had wanted her to speak only to him! The same man who envied every conversation with Bentley! Well, it was obvious Jonathan merely thought of her as a puppet; they had not been friends after all. She turned away, determined not to cry.
“Shall we call a ceasefire, Ronnie?”
Indeed, he was a puzzle. How could he insult her one moment and ask for a ceasefire in another? “Repeat yourself,” she cried.
He hesitated: he felt he was being tested. “Shall we call a truce, Jinx?”
Veronica turned, her eyes cold and wet with unshed tears. This was not going at all as planned. “That is not what you said before.”
“I did so.” He did not like that betrayed look in her eye.
“That is not true. You called me Ronnie before, and now you call me Jinx.”
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Veronica was all astonishment. “Like
what?” she demanded, even more shocked as he burst, “You look at me with such a piercing gaze. It's not fair for you to do this: I shall not answer. I distinctly called you Jinx, each time, no matter what you say. If anything, I would have heard that name from A—Miss Amy, or Miss Madge. I had seen you with both that night.”
“You are ramblin’.”
“Why do you not believe me when I say I called you Jinx?”
“Because I’m sure you did not say Jinx both times. And for all I know, only Amy, and I think on one occasion, did Brad ever call me Ronnie.” She smiled at his sulkiness. How funny, that the thought of Brad calling her Ronnie did not repel her as it used to. And how aggravating.
“You are still mad at me, and are only saying such to egg me on. You have no idea what I went through to get here, or what I went through to even get to that stupid party. Do you realize we are at war? I could be a yank for all you know.”
A nervous sort of laughter escaped. “But you couldn’t be, could you? You were born in the south, same as me, though Brad may have otherwise convinced you.” Veronica paused, remembering the garden argument. “He spins words so fast it makes my head ache.”
A defeated aura crept over his frame. “You must understand what you are saying. You are calling me a Confederate soldier, one who is fightin’ against the Union. You assumed I would consort with the likes of—Veronica, have you ever seen a grown man be whipped because he was too decrepit?” He was secretly glad when he saw her cringe. “One never forgets the moan of a man who is hit by a metal whip.”
“Metal?”
“Whippin’ a slave is not like whippin’ a horse, Veronica,” Jonathan gravely said. She cringed again, surprising him. Was it from his reference to her horse? He knew she never whipped any animal. It must be something else. “Some owners have the ends of the whip dipped in metal to increase the pain. How would it feel, to be whipped with thin pieces of metal stingin’ across your back, Veronica?”
Catching the Rose Page 18
