by Susan Wiggs
Somehow he cornered her again, pressing her between the rail and a wall of the upper saloon. She felt intimidated by his height, and uncomfortably aware of the undeniable tension between them. Yet the genuine bafflement in his face irritated her.
“You’ve told me—shown me—only the surface facts. I know as much about Galileo, and he’s been dead for centuries. You’ve shown me nothing of what lies beneath the outer layer. I know you only as a man behind a handsome barrier of charm and urbane manners.”
He grinned at that. “You think me charming? Handsome? My, my—urbane? I never knew.”
“Don’t get a big head about it. A handbag can be handsome. A Pekingese dog can be charming.” In the light emanating from the saloon, she studied his eyes, noting their disturbing shade of gray. It was not a flat color, but a storm of hues from opaque coal to pale ice. “A muffin tin can be charming on the surface. But it has no more substantive virtue than a hollow shell.”
He threw back his head and guffawed. “A perfect observation.” Then he grabbed her shoulders, and she was startled by a swift, unbidden reaction. “That’s exactly it. I’m all surface charm, no substance beneath,” he said, seeming not to notice her flushed face, the nervous way she gripped the rail.
Trying to slow her racing pulse, she studied those eyes again, searching the complicated facets of shadow and light. “That’s what you want me to believe.”
“That’s what is true. There’s nothing more than you see before you now.” He bent to an intimate angle, his lips dangerously close to hers.
Heavens, what was it about the man? About her? She lost all perspective when she was around him. Taking refuge in resentment, she pushed against his chest. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You have a past. You have an inner life. Just because you refuse to speak of them doesn’t mean they’re nonexistent.”
He traced his finger over the pulse in her throat and smiled when she flinched. He was taunting her by crowding close, touching her, reminding her of what they had done together under the stars. But he didn’t kiss her now, only rubbed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip in a manner so outrageous that she froze.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’m not that interesting.”
She took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye to prove she wasn’t afraid of him or intimidated by his nearness. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
“I don’t subject myself to anyone’s judgment, honey. Not even yours.”
Furious, she ducked under his arm, escaping the imprisoning posture. “Then we really don’t have anything to talk about, do we?”
“All right. I confess, you have me confused. You wanted lessons in getting a man to notice you—namely, Boyd Butler III. Am I to understand you also want to be friends with me?”
“What if I did?”
“I’d tell you to aim higher.” He moved close to her again, his presence as oppressive as the heavy atmosphere of the estuary. Taking her hands, he added, “You can do better.”
“Maybe I can, maybe not. You won’t reveal enough of yourself for me to see who you really are.” In the silence that ensued, it occurred to her that he was like the stars that had been her passion for years. At first they seemed distant, mysterious, impossible to know. In time, she had come to know the stars as well as the dahlias in her garden. But unlike the stars, he was not revealing himself to her.
“Why do you stare at me like that?” he asked.
“I was thinking of the stars.”
“Clearly I missed something.”
“They used to be a great puzzle to me. But then I applied mathematics and logic, and I understand them now. I know their size and color and weight, their brightness and composition. And I know precisely where they are, even when they’re invisible to me.”
“You’ll have to explain the relevance of that observation. Are you saying that if you study me using scientific methods, you’ll come to know me?”
“Perhaps.”
“As I said earlier, there’s nothing—”
“Noah,” she said, watching him closely. “Is he nothing?”
A dull red crept into his cheeks. “What about Noah?”
“Why don’t you tell me? Tell me about your half brother.”
His mouth hardened. “I suspect someone already has. Julius, I assume. He told you all there is to know.”
“He told me what he knows. I’d rather hear the truth from your lips. I very much doubt your nephew can explain a man like you. Tell me, does your father keep him as a slave, or does he pay him a pittance for working at Albion?”
He shoved away from her on the deck. “You’ve got the wrong idea, Abby.”
The intensity of his anger intrigued her. “Then enlighten me.”
“I never liked being my mother’s only son,” Jamie said. “Never liked being the legitimate one.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be the one they expect everything of.”
That didn’t surprise her. “Noah’s mother was a slave?”
He nodded. “When my father was young and even more foolish than me, he had an adventure with a laundress at Albion. Our father was—is—a decent man, but he’s careless. He’s always had the bad judgment to love inappropriately. I think he did love Noah’s mother, but it brought them nothing but grief.”
“And a son.”
“And a son,” he admitted. “Eventually, my father gave Noah his name, although he failed to acknowledge his son until Noah was sixteen and didn’t need him anymore.”
“I don’t think it’s possible to ever stop needing a father,” Abigail said.
Jamie dismissed the comment with a careless shrug of his shoulders. “Noah did fine without him. Which was just as well, because by then my father was too busy with his other love affairs.”
Abigail remembered the fresh flowers on the headstone of Lacey Beaumont Calhoun, and a chill passed over her. Jamie seemed to be saying the Calhoun men were destined to suffer through tragic love affairs. She studied his face, searching the shadowed planes and angles for the boy he’d been, but finding only an impenetrable hardness. Had he known of his father’s affairs? How had they affected him?
As though she’d asked her question aloud, he said, “So you see, when it comes to love, the men of my family are not inclined to loyalty.”
“Loyalty isn’t an inborn trait. Besides, you probably have more of Noah in you than your own father, and according to you, Noah was a good man. Julius knows that, too, but at his age I imagine he has questions. I know I did, about my mother. Yet my father would never speak of her.” She refused to back down. “You ought to be ashamed for not telling Julius more about the way his father died. You owe it to him, Jamie.”
He cut the air with his hand. “You think that would help? You think Julius needs to know every detail of his father’s death?”
“He deserves to know the truth.”
“Not this truth.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated. “It’s a long story, Abigail.”
“It’s a long ride up the Potomac.”
Hands on hips, he gazed out at the dark water and a faraway look crept into his eyes. “We were on a horse-buying trip in the Middle East, and there was trouble.” Jamie swallowed, then spoke softly as though he’d forgotten she was there. “I’ll say no more—to you or to Julius. Suffice it to say I had a half brother who was twice the man I am. He died. It happens. It makes us curse God and doubt his existence when a good person dies before his time. But it happens far too often.”
She thought of her mother and couldn’t dispute it. The bitterness in his voice was edged with a regret she’d felt all her life. Though the things he said were painful to hear, she didn’t want to drop the subject. He was beginning to talk to her in a way he never had before.
Jamie folded his arms and faced the city lights, just coming into view from the deck. The Potomac formed a sweeping bay around which the capital was built. A mile-long woo
den bridge connected Virginia and Maryland; the Navy Yard, Arsenal and penitentiary stood sentry along the shore.
“Why do you say Noah was twice the man you are?” Abigail asked.
“Because he did things that mattered. Yeah, he was a jockey. He won more races than he lost, but there was more to him than that. He taught me to ride and shoot and fish. He taught me that laughter’s a good way to deal with things and that to worship, all I needed to do was to look out at the world of nature.”
Perhaps that was how Jamie had formed his reverence for the land, why he was willing to battle the powerful railroads to safeguard a part of Virginia.
“I wish I’d known your brother.” She regarded Jamie with new eyes. “Noah’s the reason you ran for the legislature and the reason you’re committed to halting the railroad expansion.”
“Your point being?”
“You don’t want to be considered a good man, even though you are.”
“Shouldn’t you be saving all these admiring thoughts for your lieutenant?”
She scowled at him. “I’m capable of being friends with more than one sort of person.”
“Trust me, I know. I’ve read your letters.”
She hated herself for having let him. Why had she given him that glimpse of her heart? It was like the rabbit turning belly up to the wolf.
“You of all people shouldn’t criticize me for having feelings of admiration. You encouraged me to do so,” she reminded him. He made her inexpressibly sad, and the feeling surprised her. Why should she feel a thing on behalf of Jamie Calhoun? They had formed this alliance for the purpose of snaring her a husband and winning Jamie the support of a powerful senator. That left no room for caring.
“Well,” she said, trying not to seem flustered, “one thing is certain, my father is impressed with you and your family.”
“Then the holiday was a success. Abby, don’t mistake me for a man with a conscience. I came here with an agenda, and I’ll do what I have to do in order to accomplish it.”
“Including befriending Senator Cabot’s homely daughter?”
He laughed. “Touché, darling.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he caught her chin in his hand and closed it, running his thumb lightly along her jawline with insolent familiarity. “You’re very close to winning your lieutenant,” he said. “That’s what you should think about rather than decrying my low character, which is what you were about to do.”
She jerked away. “You think this is a game to be won or lost,” she said. “I love him. Can you understand that?”
“Love.” He gave an unpleasant laugh. “You think you love Butler because he poses no threat to your well-ordered little world. He demands nothing of you beyond the occasional poetic letter. So long as he stays out of your reach, you won’t have to risk yourself.”
She glared at him. “How dare you say these things?”
“Because no one else will. Face it, Abby, you’re afraid of risk. Pining away for Boyd Butler is like loving a star. You don’t have to put yourself in the position of being vulnerable. Have you ever wondered what would happen if you dared to take a chance?”
“I take risks,” she retorted. Why couldn’t he see that? Why didn’t he understand the ridicule she’d endured because of her clumsiness, her love of the stars? “Didn’t I learn to ride a horse?”
“Then risk your heart,” he snapped.
“As you’ve risked yours?” she demanded.
He ignored—or avoided—the question. “You want to win your father’s esteem, but nothing you’ve ever done in your life has garnered more than passing admiration from him. When you stop trying so hard, you might succeed.”
“Or fail.”
They argued back and forth as the side-wheeler docked, then sat in stony silence all the way back to Georgetown. Helena chattered blithely away, while Professor Rowan listened with helpless admiration.
When they arrived at Dumbarton Street, Jamie insisted on helping the porters bring in the luggage, lingering to confer with Abigail’s father on the brick walk between their two houses. Now that Father had seen for himself how wealthy the Calhouns were, he regarded Jamie with expansive approval and a growing openness to his position on the railroad issue.
Abigail checked the thought. She was becoming as cynical as Jamie.
As she watched him and her father talking together in a circle of misty gaslight, Abigail realized she was becoming increasingly confused by her feelings. Her goal was to attract Lieutenant Butler, yet when she drifted into daydreams, it was Jamie’s face she saw, his laughing eyes and smiling mouth, his skilled hands reaching for her as he taught her to dance, to accept a man’s compliment, to feel his kiss upon her cheek, her lips.
It was all so confusing, having pledged her heart to one man while being tutored by another. She wished she could talk to someone about it. To her dismay, she realized she wanted to tell Jamie Calhoun. He was infuriating, brutally frank, rude, licentious, sarcastic and disrespectful. He claimed he was only using her to maintain ties with her father. But he was the best friend she had.
He would mock her, telling her the feelings he provoked were the result of cunning and skill, not pure-hearted affection. According to Jamie, courtship was every bit as precise a science as astronomy. When its principles were applied properly, it was unfailingly effective.
Abigail had to acknowledge—in her mind if not in her heart—that she was the willing victim of a gifted practitioner, a mouse in a laboratory, as much an object of empirical study as Socrates in his glass maze.
Forgotten amid the noisy activity, she followed the small group into the lower foyer. Her father issued directives to the porters, then rang for Dolly to come help. Helena and the professor stood whispering together, their gazes locked in an intimate way that betrayed their secret—to Abigail, at least. The porters jostled past with the luggage, and she stepped out of the way, pressing herself back against the hall table.
Almost without thinking, she picked up a stack of cards and envelopes from the silver tray. The first was a note from Madame Broussard. The modiste had finished her dresses and was ready for the final fitting.
Most of the mail was for her father, and she set it aside. Then she picked up the last envelope, opened it and gasped.
No one heard her. No one but Jamie, who seemed almost eerily aware of her moods. He thought nothing of intruding on her private thoughts.
“What is it?” he asked.
She didn’t answer because she couldn’t speak. But he must have read her thoughts in her wide eyes and blushing cheeks. With a wicked grin, he plucked the letter from her and scanned it. “My, my,” he said. “The plot thickens. Prince Charming is coming to see his lady love.”
Part Three
Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.
—George Eliot
Nineteen
The next day dawned a miserable charcoal gray, the skies leaking a cold mist. Undeterred by the inclement weather, Abigail held a broad black silk umbrella aloft and argued with Jamie all the way to the dress shop on M Street. “We must tell Lieutenant Butler not to come.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along? For him to come courting?”
“Yes, but he’s coming to court Helena.”
Jamie dismissed the problem with an impatient wave of his hand. “When he sees you, he’ll forget he ever met your sister.”
“That’s preposterous. No man can be that stupid.”
“Trust me, any man can be that stupid. A glimpse of ankle, an inch of cleavage can reduce a scholar to a blithering idiot.”
His graphic language made her blush, and she ducked her head. He had the unique ability to hurt her in subtle ways. She didn’t know why she put up with it.
“This is what our entire association has been about, Abby,” he said, apparently unaware of her mood. “You challenged me to make you irresistible to Lieutenant Butler. Don’t get cold feet now.”
The day dimmed and the
mist thickened. She could barely make out the terraced slopes of Georgetown leading down to the gentle curve of the Potomac. Far in the distance loomed the Navy Yard. The ghostly profile of the Arsenal on the riverbank to the south and east shimmered against the weeping sky. Sometimes Lieutenant Butler came down from Annapolis to conduct official business there. Unless she could find a way to stop him, he would soon have business right here in Georgetown.
“This is madness,” she said, balking even as Jamie pulled her into the elegant shop. “You can’t simply disguise me as my sister.”
“Who said anything about a disguise?” asked Madame Broussard, bustling forward to greet them. “My purpose is to bring out your natural attributes, not hide them.”
“But—”
The modiste ignored her as she drew her through the curtained doorway, leaving Jamie to fan the umbrella dry in front of the small stove in the salon. Madame scarcely stopped for breath as she issued instructions to her assistants in French. They brought out the dresses for the final alterations, but Abigail was too distraught to appreciate the fine jewel tones of the sumptuous fabrics, or the simple elegance of the accoutrements Madame’s staff had ordered—hats and shawls, beaded reticules and lovely swanskin fans.
Though her understanding of French was only adequate, Abigail realized the dressmakers were once again discussing the woeful extent of her imperfections in great detail. She knew very well what her defects were, and did not need to hear them enumerated in rapid, euphonious French.
She marched to the door. “I’m going home now,” she announced. “Madame, thank you for your time. The dresses are lovely. But no matter how attractive the dress, I will still have…” She paused, translating what she had overheard. “‘Unfortunate hair and sallow skin.”’
The modiste planted herself in Abigail’s path. “I am blunt. I do not apologize, and you are a fool to take offense. I merely speak the truth. You do have unfortunate hair. It is too long and badly cut. Whoever styles your hair does not know you, or care what you look like.”
