Calhoun Chronicles Bundle

by Susan Wiggs

  “This gives new meaning to a bee in the bonnet,” said Trey. “How can I thank you, Miss Flyte?”

  “You needn’t thank me at all.” For the first time, she noticed the initials LBC on the fancy—and now soiled—handkerchief. “Just listen to your horse, Mr. Beaumont. He will always tell you what’s wrong.”

  A light smattering of applause sounded, and she was surprised to see a group of onlookers. Tabby and Cilla fluttered their fans. “We had no idea, Miss Eliza, of your hidden talent. How on earth did you get so good with horses?”

  Eliza chafed beneath the glare of attention. “I’ve worked with animals all my life.”

  “Really?” Both sisters closed in on her. “Do tell.”

  There was no point in lying or covering up. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of her past, who she was and the way she had been brought up. Eliza said simply, “My father was a horsemaster in England, and he taught me everything he knew.”

  “My God,” said Trey Beaumont. “She is the horsemaster’s daughter.”

  Delaney Beaumont gasped. “But you said you were governess to Hunter’s children.”

  “I confess it is a new enterprise for me.”

  “Imagine that. To go from taming horses to training children. You are truly a woman of many talents.”

  Eliza stared into her magnolia-blossom face. “You have no idea.”

  “I think I do, Miss Eliza.” Delaney’s smile held no warmth. “I think I do.” She turned sharply and walked away with her nose in the air.

  People certainly were strange, Eliza reflected. What a variety of personalities she had encountered, just here at this party. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Every animal she had known was an individual with its own unique foibles and idiosyncrasies.

  She headed down a manicured slope of lawn past an area where a group of men stood around, smoking and drinking, laughing loudly. She wasn’t surprised to see Hunter among them. He was easy enough to spot in a crowd. Taller by half a head than most, and with his golden hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, he cut a striking figure. The sight of him caused a queer tightening of her stomach, and she had to tear her gaze away.

  Heavens to Betsy, the Parks sisters had said. You’re in love with him.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Eliza thought. She was supposed to forget what had happened on the island. Hunter certainly had. Now that she was getting a glimpse of his world, she understood why he had said I’d never marry you.

  He wasn’t being cruel, just realistic. He had been born and raised to marry one of these gorgeous ladies. He’d already done so once, and tragedy had ended it. Now he would find another mate, and he would select her from the opulent, fan-fluttering group of ladies on the lawn.

  It was interesting that among people, the females strutted and performed for the males, not vice versa as in nature. Here, the garish plumage belonged to the ladies; the flirtatious behavior came from them. Eliza found it all faintly ridiculous and unnecessarily coy. She could not imagine performing like that to catch a man’s attention. On the island, she had caught Hunter’s attention without even trying.

  She heard shouts and splashing down by a pond fringed with cattail reeds. On the bank, Belinda and a group of little ones threw rocks and skipping stones in the water. Some of the boys had stripped down to their breeches. They swung on a rope out over the water, then shrieked as they dropped in.

  Smiling, Eliza approached the group. Even Blue seemed excited, clapping his hands as some of the older boys jumped in. “Would you like to go swimming?” Eliza asked.

  He nodded eagerly.

  “You do know how to swim, don’t you?” she asked.

  Another nod.

  “Here, let me take your shirt and shoes so they don’t get all muddy.”

  As the boy peeled off his shoes and socks with gleeful haste, she stood back and thought, Talk to me. Tell me why you’re so silent, Blue. She wanted to know. She wanted to hear his voice, his laughter, perhaps a song he knew.

  “Now the shirt,” she said, holding his shoes and stockings.

  He peeled off the white chambray shirt and tossed it to her. Then he turned and ran down to the pond. Eliza watched him for a second, then called out sharply, “Blue!”

  He froze, hunching up his shoulders. She walked up to him and gingerly took his hand, her throat thick with dread. “My God,” she whispered. “My sweet God.”

  The little boy’s back was striped with angry red welts. “Who did this to you, Blue?” she whispered, keeping her voice down to preserve the boy’s dignity. “Who was it?”

  His face clouded. Then he wrenched away from her and ran to the pond, grasping the rope and swinging himself wildly out over the surface before dropping in.

  He stayed underwater a long time, long enough for Eliza to take a step in the direction of the pond. Then suddenly he broke the surface, his light brown hair slicked back and his lips parted in a grin.

  Eliza fought against the thoughts she was having. Surely not. Surely Hunter Calhoun, for all his troubles, did not beat his son. He didn’t show affection for the boy the way Eliza ached for him to, but he was gentle enough, if remote.

  Today in the buggy he had prodded Blue to speak up. How many times had Hunter done that? How many times had he begged the boy to speak, and been ignored? Enough times to drive him to violence? Did he get so frustrated that he hit his son?

  Turning on her heel, she hurried off to find Hunter. She was like the wooden mallet on the croquet green, scattering the men with her brazen approach. She supposed there was some rule or regulation about a woman marching into the midst of men who were busy smoking and drinking, but she didn’t care. “I need a word with you,” she said to Hunter, unable to look left or right, afraid she would start railing at him right away.

  She could hear low murmurs rippling across the ranks of onlookers.

  Hunter wore the laconic smile of a man who had just spent a pleasurable hour in the sun, drinking whiskey with his cronies. He spread his hands in mock helplessness. “Only three days at Albion, and she’s already bossing me around,” he said.

  The others laughed. Eliza turned and strode away, heading for a rose arbor in the side yard. She stalked to the tall trellis, fragrant and alive with the rumble of bees, and then set her hands on her hips.

  “Do you beat your son?” she demanded, when Hunter caught up to her.

  His lazy affability vanished like the dew in the angry heat of the sun. “What?”

  “I asked, do you beat your son?”

  “Damn you,” he said. “It’s bad enough you come waltzing into our lives—”

  “I didn’t waltz anywhere. If you recall, you dragged me bodily from my home.”

  “While it was burned to the ground by men who would have burned you right along with it if they’d found you,” he reminded her.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out. “Is it because I’ve found you out? Because you beat him until his back is red and bruised from the blows?”

  “What the hell are you babbling about?”

  “Blue!”

  Hunter took a menacing step toward her, pressing her against the roses that climbed up the arbor. The sickly sweet aroma filled her senses, and she couldn’t take her eyes off Hunter’s furious face.

  “You look at me, goddamn it,” he said, “and you listen well, because I’ll only say this once. I would never—ever—raise a hand to my son. Never have, never will, so you can take your crazy notion somewhere else.”

  She refused to flinch or look away, though she wanted to. His words filled her mind. She thought of the way he was with Belinda and Blue, and she suddenly knew how terribly wrong she had been to assume he had hurt his son. Drunk or sober, Hunter Calhoun was, if anything, overly cautious. He would not lay a hand on his children. It was almost sad, the way he took pains to avoid touching them.

  “I had to ask,” she said, “because Blue’s been beaten.”

  He scowled and didn’
t let up pressing on her. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “When he took off his shirt to go swimming in the pond, I saw that he’d been beaten. There are terrible welts on his back, and—”

  He gave her one final shove as he pushed off and strode toward the pond. “Blue!” he bellowed. “Blue, get the hell out of the water. Blue! Where the hell are you, boy?”

  The child came slogging out of the pond, eyeing Hunter askance. Eliza wondered how often Blue had seen his father drunk, and if he always regarded him with this heartbreaking suspicion and regret. Hunter took the boy’s hand and turned him, and when he saw the marks on his back, his eyes blazed with fury.

  “Who did this to you, son?” he demanded. “Who beat you?”

  Blue stared at the ground. The other boys ceased their shrieking and chasing to watch.

  “You tell me, son,” Hunter said in an urgent hiss. “I want to know who did this.”

  Blue continued to stare at the ground. Eliza knew the boy would not speak. She swept her gaze around the half circle of youngsters.

  “We need to know what happened to Blue,” she said to the group.

  “It was Master Rencher,” said a small, chubby boy, jerking his thumb toward a group of men talking in the shade. “He laid into him during lessons ’cause Blue wouldn’t speak up.”

  Hunter said a word that made the boys turn pale. He stalked across the lawn so swiftly that Eliza had to run to keep up. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Hunter didn’t answer. As he walked toward the tutor, he peeled off his frock coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  A thin, elegant man with the clear, pleasant speech of a scholar, Rencher sat on a garden chaise with some of the older men, laughing and smoking. Hunter didn’t even give him a second to prepare. He grabbed Rencher by the collar, dragging him from the chaise and hauling the surprised man to his feet.

  “You son of a bitch,” Hunter said between his teeth. “You goddamn son of a bitch.”

  His fist smashed with a sickening crunch into Rencher’s face. Blood spurted in an arc, spraying over Hunter like a crimson fountain. The tutor fell after that first blow, curling into a ball on the ground and trying to protect his face with his hands. Hunter drew back his foot to aim a kick at his ribs and kidneys.

  From out of nowhere, Blue raced in, dripping wet. He flung himself at his father, grabbing his hand and tugging desperately. His face begged Hunter to stop.

  Eliza watched with her heart in her throat. She wanted so badly to help. But all she and the rest could do was stand by and watch them.

  At his son’s touch, the fight seemed to go out of Hunter. He backed off, stepping away from the trembling, whimpering man on the ground. Then he grabbed Blue with one hand, Belinda with the other, and started walking away. He didn’t even look to see if Eliza followed.

  Hugh Beaumont hurried toward them. “See here, Calhoun—”

  “I gave your goddamn tutor the sack,” was all Hunter said. He didn’t look left or right as he headed straight for home.

  Blue lay facedown on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the smelly poultice Nancy had put on his back. They’d made him and Belinda go to bed early, right at sundown, and he knew it was going to be a long time before he slept.

  He was mad at himself. He should have been more careful with his shirt, but he’d forgotten all about the stripes from Master Rencher’s cane. Thanks to him, his papa had thrashed the schoolmaster in front of everyone. Grandfather and Grandmother Beaumont would shake their heads and click their tongues and say things like He can’t control himself when he gets like that…. Whatever will become of the children?

  They were always saying things like that.

  Restless, Blue peeked at his sister. She lay sound asleep. Very quietly, he got out of bed, went to the open window and stood looking out at the deep purple shadows in the yard. The breeze smelled of new grass and flowers.

  On the sill was a glass canning jar containing the butterflies Belinda had caught at the picnic. Cousin Francine had tied a bit of muslin over the top of the jar so Belinda could take them home.

  He picked up the jar and peered inside. They were so pretty—two of them with yellow and black splashes on their wings. As he looked closer, he saw that the edges of the wings were ragged and powdery from beating helplessly against the glass. Although they were beautiful and Belinda loved them, they were prisoners inside that jar. If they didn’t stop beating their wings, they would probably soon die.

  Blue set down the jar and untied the string, removing the bit of muslin. The butterflies stayed inside.

  Go. He didn’t speak aloud, even though he wanted to.

  Then a gust of wind came, and the butterflies stirred, rising fast out of the jar and flying out the window. Blue watched them until they were little wild specks against the night sky, swooping like leaves on the breeze. Then he turned and went back to bed.

  Twenty-One

  “I want to talk about Blue,” Eliza said.

  “I want another drink of whiskey,” Hunter murmured, balancing an empty glass on his drawn-up knee.

  They sat on the front veranda. It was twilight. Willa had already put the children to bed and a hush had settled over the farm. Evening birds haunted the high branches of the live oaks, and a light breeze rustled through the leaves. A steam packet slid by on the distant quiet waters. With the sun melting into a pool of gold on the bay, it should have been a scene of tranquility. But instead, Hunter felt edgy with unspent rage. Eliza looked anxious and upset, twisting the fabric of her blue picnic dress.

  “You’ve had enough whiskey,” she said.

  “You sound like a goddamn temperance scold.”

  “I sound like someone who cares about Blue. Lord knows, somebody needs to.”

  He lost his breath as if she had knocked the wind out of him. Damn the meddling woman. “I care about my son,” he said. “I’ve loved him since the day he was born and I held him in my arms and thanked God for the blessing. You’ve known him a few days. So don’t go thinking you know what’s best for him.”

  “I know you care. So much that you nearly killed a man today. But that’s not the kind of caring Blue needs.”

  He swiveled away so he didn’t have to look at her. “What the hell do you know about what Blue needs?”

  “Not much. That’s why I want you to tell me more about him. I want to know everything.” She put her hand on his sleeve, her fingers resting lightly, like a timid bird. “Please.”

  It was the please that did it. That, and the fact that she touched him. He turned to her, his heart on fire with the need to tell her everything, the need to get it out.

  “He stopped speaking the day his mama died,” Hunter said.

  “That much I know. How did she die?” Eliza asked.

  He dragged in a deep breath, feeling a sharp ache in his chest. “In a fire,” he said, and when Eliza winced, he added, “It was an accident.”

  “How did it happen?”

  He could tell from the expression on her face that she was really asking why it had happened. He had never explained it all, beginning to end, to another person. But he wanted to now. Needed to. “I suppose the trouble started when Lacey moved back home to Bonterre,” he said quietly. “She left me the same day the French spinet piano did. The furniture was carted off to auction to pay the debts my father left. She was so mortified that she took the children on foot, marching straight across the meadow to her father’s house.” He stared into his empty whiskey glass. “And I did what any typical Southern gentleman would do—I started drinking.”

  “Why?”

  “It blunted the pain of having my family taken away. People gossiped that my pride was hurt by the shame of poverty. In truth, it was Lacey who suffered from the shame.”

  “Was Blue all right?” Eliza asked.

  He nodded. “He still talked, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I need to know what made him stop,” she said softly.

  With elaborate ca
re, Hunter turned the glass around and around in his hands. “I don’t know why, but she took to closing herself up in her room and writing long letters nearly every morning. That’s what Blue used to tell me. You’d never know it, but he was a big talker. Every time he saw me, he’d tell story after story.”

  Hunter paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “He used to tell me all about his day. He said his mama wrote letters for hours and hours in the mornings, and then she would seal them up and send a houseboy down to the landing with them for the afternoon packet. I never paid much mind. Lacey always did write with a fine hand, so I reckoned she was just corresponding with friends to while away the hours.

  “But Blue never told me what happened the day she died. I had to get the story from a servant girl who was scared out of her wits. While sealing one of her letters, Lacey was careless with the wax and flame. You have to understand, my wife was a beautiful woman, vain about her figure and devoted to fashion. She wore whalebone stays and a cage of steel hoops beneath her skirts. When the sealing wax dropped on her skirt and was ignited by the flame, those hoops became her prison.”

  Her jaw dropped in horror. “You mean she couldn’t get out of her burning clothes?”

  He stared thirstily at the bottom of his empty glass. But tonight he knew no amount of whiskey would blunt the memories, so he simply set down the glass and continued. “I’m told her screams weren’t heard at first because she had shut the door to her room in order to write in private. When they found her, most of the clothes had burned away.” He swallowed hard and looked into Eliza’s strange, misty eyes, as if to find peace there. “She had no hair left to speak of.”

  “Oh, Hunter. I’m so sorry.”

  “By the time I was summoned, she had been put to bed. I found her whispering to Blue—she didn’t have much of a voice left. The Beaumonts said he refused to leave her side. I was stunned when I saw her, so close to death.” His beautiful Lacey. What a shock that had been. “She did recognize me, but I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. Blue seemed upset, so I told him to wait outside with his sister.”