Calhoun Chronicles Bundle

by Susan Wiggs

  “And why is that?” Rowan asked without taking his attention from the machine.

  “Because he never forgave me for not returning home from my grand tour of Europe all those years ago. This is my punishment, surely.”

  “I take it you had a trying day.”

  “That would be putting it mildly. Christ. Where did those men learn to preach and pontificate? I was hardly able to make a dent in my cause.”

  “I think you’ll find patience is a virtue in Congress.” Rowan tipped the liquid from the beaker into a pair of marginally clean tumblers and handed one to Jamie. “Cheers.”

  “What’s this?”

  “A plum brandy, I believe.” At Jamie’s startled look, he indicated the apparatus on the table. “It’s a fast-action still. My own design.”

  Amazing. So few of Rowan’s machines actually worked. Jamie lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  Rowan had been busy, too, that much was clear to Jamie. He’d managed to add a layer of clutter to the mess already littering the parlor. On a slate hanging on the wall, he’d begun writing a long formula in what appeared to be hieroglyphics. The writing filled the slate board and spilled over onto the wall itself, all the way to the floor.

  “So why didn’t you return home from your grand tour?”

  Jamie already regretted letting that slip. But the fact was, he’d taken an unexpected liking to the slovenly Rowan and didn’t mind giving him a glimpse of his past. “Given a choice between hobnobbing in the courts and capitals of Europe or tending horses on a tidewater plantation, I chose the obvious.”

  “I’ve never understood tourism. Where is the value in standing by and watching others live their lives?”

  Jamie took a sip of the brandy, finding it pleasant and mellow. “That’s an odd question coming from someone who makes his living writing formulas and equations all day.”

  Rowan leaned back from the table. “That’s the way I make sense of the world. And things beyond the world—” he added, then seemed eager to deflect the topic. “So your father wanted you in the legislature as some sort of revenge?”

  “Punishment for all the fine wines and absinthe I drank, all the women I bedded. I reckon my father always resented that.” He spoke lightly, but the fact was, the tension between Jamie and his father had been evident for years. Yet Jamie’s decision to serve in the legislature had not come about due to pressure from his father. He had run for Congress as an act of contrition.

  “You’ve had quite an adventure,” Rowan said, fiddling with the homemade wine filter. “We’d all like to try our hand at absinthe and loose women. How did your family manage to lure you back to your native land?”

  Jamie gripped the thick glass tumbler hard. “They sent my brother, Noah, to remind me of my responsibilities. But instead of boarding the next steamer home, I persuaded him to come with me on one last horse-buying trip to the Middle East.”

  Rowan tinkered with a flange on the still. “And was it a success?”

  Jamie slammed back the brandy in three gulps, grimacing as the liquor burned his throat. “It was,” he said, “my greatest failure.”

  He went to the window at the rear of the house and looked out. Shadows gathered in the garden below, an unkempt tangle of overgrown hedges, weeds and a spent kitchen garden with a few turnips and gourds rotting into the soil. By contrast, the adjacent garden of Senator Cabot was as perfectly groomed as a poodle, with clipped box hedges, firethorns and late-blooming roses arranged symmetrically in the small space.

  A movement caught his eye, and he stepped closer to the window. In the tiny arbor, beneath a pair of arching yew trees, sat Abigail Cabot, her head bowed and her fists clenched around some papers in her lap.

  He set down his glass, murmured “Excuse me” and let himself out the back. A brick wall with a concrete top separated the two gardens, but that hardly slowed him. He’d scaled higher walls than this—sometimes in a hail of bullets, in front of a pack of guard dogs, and once when a horse trader in Carthage had charged at him with a scimitar.

  He hoisted himself up and over, landing on the carpet of grass in Senator Cabot’s garden. Abigail shot to her feet and the pages in her lap drifted to the ground.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Paying a visit to my neighbor.” He bowed in mock formality. When he straightened, he saw with a lurch of his gut that she’d been crying. Her nose was red, her cheeks wet, her eyes swimming with tears.

  “You have a bad habit of barging in uninvited. Visitors are generally encouraged to call at the front door,” she pointed out.

  “If I’d known it would cause you this much distress, I would most certainly have done so.” He took out a clean handkerchief and thrust it at her.

  She made no response to his joking tone, but took the handkerchief and loudly blew her nose. Christ. Her tears made him want to move mountains, slay dragons, walk across hot coals—anything to make her stop hurting. Except none of those things would help; Abigail was more complicated than that.

  Hoping to distract her from her troubles, he pretended to admire the silver gazing ball set on a pedestal near the arbor. The curve of the ball exaggerated the endless arch of the sky and made Abigail appear ten feet tall. “Did you enjoy your visit to the Capitol this morning?”

  “My sister and I accompany our father with pride every year.”

  Interesting that she hadn’t answered his question.

  “I understand you made quite an impression with your introductory speech,” she added. “Most new congressmen would be reluctant to publicly oppose the railroad companies.”

  “That’s the whole reason I ran for Congress.”

  “Because you oppose the railroad companies.”

  “Here in Virginia, they’re driving good people off their land and spending public money for private gain.”

  By now, her tears had dried entirely and she watched him with a round-eyed fascination that made him feel an inch taller than normal. He had an inexplicable urge to stroke his finger over the agitated pulse in her throat, to ask her what it was that made her sad.

  “That’s a very unusual position for a man like you,” she said.

  “I’m fond of unusual positions,” he couldn’t resist saying with an insolent grin.

  She sniffed, tucking his handkerchief into her sash. “What a pity you have to be so crude. After realizing you came here to fight for the common man, I was thinking about revising my opinion of you. But I don’t know if I can do that.”

  He tried not to sound too patronizing as he said, “You’re a bright young lady, full of intelligence. I have faith in you, Miss Cabot. You can learn. Of course, in between sessions, I’ll busy myself in the manner you seem so ready to condemn me of.” He could tell, by the look on her face, that he’d managed to remind her of his seduction of Caroline Fortenay. With a shrug, he bent to retrieve the papers she had dropped.

  “Please,” she said with a helpless cry, “you needn’t bother—”

  “Lieutenant Butler,” he said, reading the signature. “My, my, he didn’t waste a moment in replying to your letter, did he?”

  “Give me that.”

  Jamie held the papers high overhead, well out of her reach. “Sweetheart, if I hadn’t posted your long missive, you never would have received a response at all. I think I deserve some of the credit here. I think I—”

  He broke off, focusing on a few phrases in the letter. By the sinking light, he made out the gist of it. “‘When I read your letter, I found the other half of my soul,”’ he read aloud. “‘Your heartfelt words give me a reason to believe in life and all its joyful possibilities….”’

  Jamie looked into her horror-struck face, and with a start, realized what he was witnessing. Two naive, basically decent people falling in love, their words heavy with the weight of sincere sentiment. In her eyes he saw the pain and wonder of a dawning new love. In Butler’s response, he read the shining hope of a golden future. It was something Jamie
didn’t believe in anymore, but that didn’t matter to Abigail. She was obviously new to this. She didn’t understand what was at risk. She loved with a fullness of heart and a totality of faith that left no room for doubt.

  “How it must amuse you,” she said, “to toy with people as though they were game pieces on a chessboard.”

  “Butler wrote a love letter. You replied. I merely performed the transaction. Do you hold the horse trader liable for the horse throwing a shoe?”

  “It’s dishonest,” she said. “He thinks my reply was from Helena. This has already gone too far. I must send a wire immediately, informing him of the misunderstanding.” Snatching the pages from his hand, she started for the house.

  He planted himself in her path. “I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re in luck, then. You don’t have to. I shall do this myself.”

  “Do what?”

  “Inform him that there’s been a mistake.”

  “Miss Cabot, brutal honesty has its place, but the occasional white lie does wonders for a fragile heart.”

  Her face softened. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  He pressed his advantage. “No, you don’t. He’s just had a letter from you declaring him the keeper of all your dreams.” It was strange, the way he could remember word for word what she had written. “And look at the reply.” He grabbed the page and read, “‘With each phrase of your letter, my heart soared higher.”’

  “He is so very sensitive,” she agreed, snatching it back.

  “And he’s fortunate that you recognize his sensitivity. Really, Abby. A wire message?”

  She returned to the arbor and sank down to the bench again. “I must figure out the best way to manage this.” She stared at the final page of the lengthy letter. “He intends to continue this correspondence as a formal courtship.”

  “Your father will be overjoyed. You know that.”

  “Not when he discovers that Lieutenant Butler’s love for Helena is based on a letter from me.” Abigail buried her face in her hands.

  “You’re making this much more difficult than it has to be. As soon as Butler discovers who wrote the letter, he’ll transfer his affection to you.”

  She dropped her hands and stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Jamie loved the sound of her laughter, but not when it was edged with despair. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Calhoun. It’s Helena he wants, Helena he pictures as he pens all these adoring phrases.”

  Jamie hesitated. If this didn’t work out the way he’d planned, Abigail was going to get her heart broken. But he had to make her believe she could win Butler for herself. “Read his words again, Abby. He’s in love with the author of that tender prose, not with a pretty face.”

  She scowled, and he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

  “I refuse to go on with this deception,” she stated.

  “Don’t call it a deception. Those letters—yours to Butler and his to you—are possibly the most honest things I’ve ever read.” He did not add his assessment that they were wrongheaded and bordering on foolish.

  “I refuse to—”

  “A Butler, Abby. America’s royal family. Think how proud and happy your father would be.” Seeing a soft glow of hope in her face, he realized he’d found her most vulnerable spot. She lived and breathed for the old man.

  “Helena already asked me to reply to him again,” she admitted.

  “Of course she did,” Jamie said with an excess of patience. “She knows how much your father values this association.” He plucked a small purple aster and tucked the tender blossom into the bodice of her shirtwaist. His finger trailed lightly across the tops of her breasts. This was an interesting game—keeping her attention while urging her to write love letters to another.

  She moved away, but he pursued her. This was his shot, he told himself. He could become Abigail’s mentor, engineer a courtship with the vice president’s son, then reap the rewards of her grateful father’s political favor. Today in the legislature, the lesson had been hammered into him. Nothing was accomplished without powerful support, and no support was available to newcomers unless they found a way into the inner circle of influence.

  Abigail Cabot, gateway to possibility, he thought wryly. “Unfortunately, your sister will lose interest in Butler.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Because he knew women like Helena Cabot all too well. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She stared down at her hands, confirming his hunch.

  “It’s up to you, Abby.” Seeing her hands tense up, he pressed his point. “For your father’s sake, you have to keep Butler’s interest. You’re a kindhearted girl. You can’t risk breaking the poor man’s heart by stopping the correspondence.” He stepped even closer, surprised and unexpectedly moved by her warmth, her womanly scent. “It’s what you want, Abby. Admit it, you do.”

  She shuddered and half closed her eyes. “It’s all so hard to understand. Everything seems brand new to me. Even the merest thought of Lieutenant Butler inspires a host of embarrassing physical sensations, things I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

  God, thought Jamie, if Butler could see her now, he’d be a goner. The idea of making love to this complicated, dizzy-in-love creature was almost too tempting to resist.

  “He’ll be delighted to hear that. Why don’t you tell him in your next letter? It’s you he wants, Abby. He’s falling in love with your words.”

  She seemed to catch hold of herself then. “You are so wrong, Mr. Calhoun. Lieutenant Butler is a man of good sense and honest sentiment. He’s not that stupid.”

  “He’s a navy man,” Jamie pointed out.

  “You don’t amuse me.”

  “Fine, then give the poor clod credit. If he’s as brilliant as you claim, then he’s in love with the author of the letters, not some painted doll at a party.” He had her there. He could tell, could see it in the way her attention riveted on him. This was almost too easy. “Attracting a man like Butler is a simple matter, requiring a few good intentions and a little creativity. Between the two of us, we have plenty of both.”

  “You cannot make a man love me any more than you can keep a flower from turning its face to the sun. Nature has endowed us with certain urges. That’s why we speak of the magic of love.”

  “I disagree. Love is a science, not unlike astronomy.”

  She burst out with a sarcastic laugh. “Now you’re being absurd again.”

  “Not at all. Courtship is simple animal husbandry. There’s no magic involved, only smoke and mirrors. Common sense and imagination. Let us make a bargain, Abby.” He held her gaze with his, actually enjoying this. “You’ll help me win your father’s support against the railroads, and I shall show you how to make yourself irresistible.”

  “Me? Irresistible.” She laughed again. “Now that would be a challenge.”

  He plucked the flower from her bodice and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re halfway there already.”

  “And how did you become such an authority on matters of the heart?”

  “Oh, honey,” he said with a wicked grin, “if I told you that, I’d be guilty of corrupting a lady’s morals.”

  Eleven

  “I cannot believe I agreed to this insane bargain. I should know better than to put my trust in a man who rides a racehorse named Sultan to the legislature.” At the crossroads of M Street and Virginia Avenue, Abigail regarded the dressmaker’s shop with skepticism. The tradesman’s shingle was a black silhouette in the shape of a spool of thread and the moniker Madame Broussard, Modes Modernes pour la Femme.

  The shop window reflected Jamie Calhoun’s grin. “In the first place, his name isn’t really Sultan, it’s Oscar, but I wanted to impress everyone. In the second place, he’s a retired racehorse. Oscar was a champion in his day, but now he’s my pet. He spends his days eating molasses oats and standing stud to an array of mares that would make a real sultan envious.”

  She pulled her mouth into a prune of disappr
oval, sniffed and looked away.

  “Ah,” said Jamie with a burst of exasperation, “there you go again, pretending displeasure. It ill becomes you.”

  “How do you know I’m pretending?”

  He grinned even wider. “I read your letter to Butler. I was drunk at the time, but I’ll never forget that you admitted to a sensual nature.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides to keep from touching her burning cheeks. “That doesn’t mean I’m not offended by references to the mating habits of horses.”

  “Of course you’re not offended. You are a woman of science. You’d never take offense at a natural process. That would be like taking offense at planetary motion.” He put a proprietary hand at her waist. “Come along, then. Madame Broussard is waiting.”

  Abigail balked, pulling back.

  “Now what’s the matter?” he asked with a touch of annoyance.

  “I’m trying to figure out what on earth I’m doing. I consider myself an independent woman, yet I find myself preoccupied with pleasing my father and trying to appeal to a man who doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

  “You wouldn’t be Abigail if you didn’t constantly question yourself.” He regarded her with uncanny understanding. “Think of it this way, what is the worst that can happen if you fail?”

  “Humiliation, social ostracism, outright scorn—”

  “Has the fear of failure ever stopped you from conducting a scientific experiment? Of course not. Look, you agreed to this. Next time Butler sees you, his eyes will fall out of his head.”

  “I’m making a terrible mistake,” she insisted. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” But that was a lie, of course. She did know. She wanted Boyd Butler; she’d been smitten with him ever since they had been paired up in dancing class as gawky adolescents. The trouble was, she had stayed gawky while Boyd Butler had grown into a god.

  And like a shill buying medicine from a snake-oil salesman, she had agreed to Jamie Calhoun’s program of self-improvement. One of the first lessons, he insisted, was to acknowledge that, like it or not, fashion mattered.