by Susan Wiggs
Panic and joy bloomed inside her. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Could Jamie have been right after all?
She couldn’t be sure. He was so formal, standing there, revealing the depths of his heart with soldierly deliberation. Jamie would be touching her at this point, she thought. He’d grab her by the shoulders or perhaps even kiss her—She stopped the thought in its tracks. It was disloyal even to think of Jamie when Lieutenant Butler was addressing her.
“I only regret that you didn’t feel comfortable explaining yourself to me right from the start.”
“Your feelings changed very quickly, Lieutenant. You thought you were coming here to see my sister.”
“I came to see the woman who told me she experienced a second sunrise when she received my letter. The woman who wrote that I am her polestar, guiding her heart.”
Dear heaven. He had memorized her letters, just as she’d memorized his.
“This isn’t quick,” he said. “It isn’t sudden. I’ve had weeks to think about it.” Keeping his hat beneath his arm, he sank down on one knee before her.
She nearly exploded with giddy panic as reality closed in. Could he love her as he claimed to love the writer of the letters? What would he think when he discovered she had a physical imperfection? She’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but she’d never remembered to consider everything that was at stake.
This wasn’t happening, she thought wildly. Dreams simply didn’t come true, not like this, not for her. He took her hand, holding it with the reverence he might afford a holy relic. She braced herself, expecting to be swept away in the same currents of awareness that engulfed her when Jamie touched her, but at the moment she was too numb with shock to feel a thing.
“My dear Miss Abigail,” he said, “I have an important question to ask you.”
She had no voice. That faculty deserted her along with the ability to breathe or even think. She swallowed hard and managed to croak, “What sort of question?”
“The most important one of all.”
Twenty-Three
Franklin Cabot lifted his wineglass and beamed at Abigail in a way that was completely new to her. In the past, he’d been kindly and even tolerant, regarding her with duty-bound affection and sometimes even admiration when warranted. Now he afforded her the genuine respect and attention she had hoped for all her life.
She raised her glass to answer his salute, and Helena did likewise, the three of them sharing a celebratory supper in the wake of Lieutenant Butler’s departure.
“To my extremely clever daughter,” the senator said. Disbelief tinged his expression of delight. “Soon to be a bride. I’m so very proud of you, my dear.”
Setting her glass precisely between the saltcellar and the finger bowl, Abigail tried to cherish her triumph. Things were working out as planned, after all. At last she had found the way to her father’s heart.
“And to my even more clever sister,” she added, looking in Helena’s direction. “None of this would have happened without you.”
Helena gave a careless smile and set down her wine without tasting it. “’Twas you who wrote the letters.”
“But he came to see you in the first place.” Abigail could never guess at what Helena had said to Lieutenant Butler. But she did know her sister was capable of being extremely persuasive when she wished to be. Abigail wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea that her sister had persuaded the lieutenant that he loved her. Wasn’t it more romantic when a man fell in love almost against his will?
But it was silly to quibble over such a minor detail in the face of her triumph.
“The two of you are a remarkable team,” Father declared. “You should have put your heads together years ago, by God.”
“And don’t forget Mr. Calhoun’s part in this,” Abigail said with a sudden surge of loyalty. After all, she’d promised to champion his cause with her father.
“Indeed,” Father said. “He did you more good than a year of finishing school.” Grinning, he put down his wine, then set to eating his thickly sliced ham and the buttered squash Dolly prepared in abundance each fall.
Abigail was afraid to pinch herself for fear that this wasn’t actually happening. She, Abigail Beatrice Cabot, was going to marry Boyd Butler III. First, she’d loved him from afar with the hero worship of a calf-eyed girl, then with the unwavering fervor of a woman grown, and finally, now she would love him with all the fullness of a wife’s heart. What’s more, she’d pleased her father, putting the perfect sheen on her happiness.
“I do have you to thank, Helena,” she said, picking at her food, hardly tasting it. “If not for you, he never would have—”
“Enough of thanking me and applauding my cleverness.” Helena laughed, though a bitter edge sharpened her mirth. “It’s all worked out just famously. You loved the man, I didn’t, and now he’s wound up with the proper sister. Eventually, you and the lieutenant would have discovered your mutual tendre, with or without anyone’s help. Love finds its own way,” she added, her voice softening. “No one can control that, no matter how much she might wish it.”
Abigail wondered if Helena was thinking of Michael Rowan. Did she regret loving him, or did she revel in it?
“Mr. Calhoun would certainly disagree with you there,” she pointed out. As she spoke, she cut her ham precisely into ninths. “He believes love is a game of strategy. He urged me to set about winning Lieutenant Butler with a systematic approach. Do you believe that, Father? Do you believe love can be brought about by logic and strategy?”
He smiled indulgently, and a gentle, faraway look crept into his eyes. “I believe that for a lucky few, love can grow from what is truly important in life—honor, respect and recognition. Now, those are matters worth pursuing, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of pursuit.” He bit into one of Dolly’s buckwheat biscuits. “Senator Troy Barnes has stepped up his campaign to win you, Helena, and once it gets out that Butler has settled on your sister, he’ll redouble his efforts.”
“I hardly know the man.” Helena laughed again, but Abigail noticed her taut grip on the stem of her wineglass.
“By all accounts, he’s an excellent young man with bright prospects. Family fortune is in banking, and he hails from one of the most beautiful places in the country—Saratoga Springs, New York.”
“The city is known for its Thoroughbred racetrack,” Abigail said, and thought immediately of Jamie and the horses of Albion. Her hand stole up to touch the exquisite necklace, but she dropped it when she realized what she was doing. It seemed disloyal to be thinking of Jamie at a time like this.
Helena frowned. “Oh, Papa. Isn’t it enough that you’re marrying off one of us at last? Must you get greedy?”
“My dear, it’s not that I’m greedy. I’m simply desirous of the same sort of happiness for you that your sister has found.” He passed her the tray of biscuits and the talk turned to plans and politics. There would be a meeting of the two families, of course, and they would set a date. Father was happy to leave all the details to others. He’d achieved his objective—he’d settled the future of his younger daughter and was poised to forge the political alliance he needed.
After the meal, but before retiring to his study, he bade his daughters good-night. When Abigail kissed him lightly on the cheek and stepped back, he studied her with unusual intentness. “This betrothal certainly agrees with you.”
“Does it?”
“You look quite…quite different.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “You can say it, Father. I used to look a frightful mess. Mr. Calhoun convinced me to order some new things for myself. He escorted me to the dressmaker’s.”
“Indeed. She’s a wonder worker.” He kissed Helena and went to his study for his nightly cigar.
“I’ve never seen Papa so happy,” Helena remarked. “Or you either, for that matter. You are happy about this, aren’t you, Abigail?”
She was hav
ing trouble sorting through all the emotions crowding her heart. “I’m a bit overwhelmed. I can scarcely believe it’s happening. Part of me hasn’t even accepted that it’s real yet, and another part fears it will disappear at any moment.”
Helena took her by the hand and headed for the front door. “I have the most brilliant idea.”
“Now what?”
“We must inform the Washington Post of your engagement.”
“I’m sure between Father and the Butlers, word will get out in due time.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Helena pulled her sister out into the blustery night. “We shall send the news by way of the telephone.”
Abigail knew better than to argue with her sister. Besides, she was feeling particularly kindly toward Helena, who had been the catalyst in all of this. And in the back of Abigail’s mind, almost unacknowledged, lived an ugly little kernel of fear that maybe this was all an illusion. The more people she told, the more real it would become.
In her usual brazen fashion, Helena slapped the brass knocker a time or two, then let herself in. “Hello,” she called, leading the way up the stairs. “It’s us. The Cabot sisters. We need to send a wire on the telephone.”
Professor Rowan met them at the top of the stairs. His wrinkled shirt open at the collar, his thick spectacles crooked on his face, he appeared even more distracted than usual. “Hello,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you.” His bleary-eyed gaze drifted over Abigail. “You look funny. Did you change your hair?”
“She looks beautiful. An idiot can see that,” Helena said.
“Just what is it you want?” he asked.
Helena planted her hands on her hips in a challenging posture. “Papa wants to marry me off to Troy Barnes,” she said. “Does that upset you?”
He followed her into the parlor. “Should it?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
He scratched his head. “I thought the prospect was Lieutenant Butler.”
“That was this morning. He’s Abigail’s prospect now. My latest suitor is Senator Barnes. Do you care?”
He flinched, and she had the satisfaction of seeing her dart strike home. But he countered with one of his own. “The question is, do you care? You seem content to accept your father’s choice, regardless of whom he chooses.”
Jamie Calhoun came to the doorway, bracing his hand on the lintel, shifting his hip negligently to one side. “I thought I heard voices,” he said. “And how are the little neighborhood peahens?”
He looked more unkempt than Rowan, which was an even greater shock since he was normally so fussy about his appearance. Shirt agape, neckcloth missing, uncuffed sleeves flapping loose, he resembled a pirate too long at sea. Somehow, disarray looked well on him.
“We have the most amazing news,” Abigail said, taking his hand. Instantly a current of warmth connected them, catching her by surprise. In her excitement over Boyd Butler, she’d forgotten her powerful reaction to Jamie Calhoun.
The unexpected pang of yearning was followed by a flutter of panic. It was Boyd Butler she wanted, she told herself. He was all she’d ever wanted.
A sharp, mysterious odor emanated from Jamie. She quickly let go of his hand. Stepping back, she looked from him to Rowan and back again. “You’re both drunk as lords,” she accused.
“Having never actually met a lord,” Rowan said, “I can neither confirm nor deny this.”
“I can,” Jamie said with exaggerated self-confidence. “I’ve met a good number of lords in my travels abroad, and I assure you, they are often quite drunk.”
“As drunk as you are?” asked Rowan.
Helena pressed her lips together. Abigail could tell she was trying not to laugh.
“Probably not.” Staggering to the cluttered sideboard, he lifted a clear bottle of colorless liquid. “I don’t think they have tequila in Europe.”
“Have what?” Abigail held the open bottle to her nose and sniffed it. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Good heavens. Is it kerosene?”
“Woman, bite your tongue.” He tipped a little into a tumbler and held it out to her. “Marvelous stuff. You should try it.”
“We came to send a message over the telephone.”
“What for?”
“To tell the newspaper my stunning news.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, Jamie.” Impulsively, she kissed his cheek, feeling another tingle flash through her, but attributing the reaction to her excitement about Boyd. “You were right after all.”
“I was?”
“Yes. It worked.”
“It did?”
“Yes. When the lieutenant discovered I was the letter writer, he wasn’t offended. Thanks to Helena, he was intrigued rather than angry.”
“Helena has that effect on people,” said Rowan. Regarding her in stunned amazement, he gave her a glass of liquor. Abigail surmised that he had been operating under the grim assumption that Helena would marry Boyd. Now, liberated from that notion but challenged by the new threat of Troy Barnes, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He drank his tequila in one gulp. With a gleam in her eye, Helena did the same. When he offered her another shot, she hastened to hold her glass out of reach. “One is more than enough, thank you,” she said.
“It all happened just as you said it would,” Abigail told Jamie. “He asked me to marry him. I said yes, he spoke with my father and now we are to make the announcement to the papers. Can you believe that?”
“Believe it? Honey, I predicted it.” With a sharpness that surprised her, he added, “In fact, I insist on being the first to kiss the bride.”
The very sound of the word bride filled her with giddiness. He gave her no time to ponder the sensation, but grabbed her around the waist and planted a long, hard kiss on her. His mouth was hot and tasted of the dark, mysterious substance he’d been drinking. Abigail’s shock splintered her thoughts until he let her go as abruptly as he’d seized her. Dazed, she tried to make sense of the feelings seething through her.
With careless aplomb, Jamie shoved the glass of tequila into her hands. “Now you have something to drink to, so drink.”
Neither Rowan nor Helena seemed to notice Jamie’s shameless display. They were completely absorbed in one another.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jamie urged Abigail. “Bottoms up. Cheers and long life to the soon-to-be bride and all that.”
“To all that.” Lifting the glass with a shaking hand, she swallowed a healthy gulp of the liquid.
Her insides burst into spontaneous combustion. A fire roared in her ears. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Without moving, she seemed to soar skyward. It was a heady sensation, yet frightening, too. The room tilted, and she felt Jamie’s hands on her as he guided her to a chair. At last the roaring subsided enough so she could hear again.
“Better?” he asked with a wicked grin.
“What is that? It should be outlawed.”
Rowan held up the bottle. Only a little of the clear liquid remained. “Tequila is a sacred substance, fit for kings and gods,” he said, overenunciating his words. “Since the pre-Hispanic era, Indians from the highlands of Jalisco, Mexico, have made liqueur from the agave plant.”
“My cousin Blue, who is a doctor in San Francisco, sent me several bottles,” Jamie added.
“Doesn’t your cousin like you?” Abigail asked. “Does he wish to do you in?”
Helena took a sip straight from the bottle. Then she held it to the light and frowned. “There’s something rolling around in here. A little swollen brown thing.”
“That would be the worm,” Rowan said.
“The agave worm,” Jamie added. “It’s usually found only in bottles of Mezcal, but this is very high-quality tequila.”
“A worm?” Helena held the bottle close to her face, almost going cross-eyed as she studied it with disgust.
“Aztec priests started the custom,” Rowan said. “Gives the drink an actual life spirit.”
<
br /> Jamie took the bottle and refilled Abigail’s glass before she could stop him. To her horror, the worm flowed into her tumbler. “El gusano is prized as an aphrodisiac,” he said. “It’s meant to be eaten, my dear.”
She studied the grublike thing, pale and grotesquely swollen in the bottom of her glass. “Why would anyone eat that?”
“Within the worm lies the key.”
“The key to what?”
“To freedom, to enchantment, to a new world of wondrous experiences.”
“It’s a worm, not the Holy Grail.”
“There’s only one way to find out if I’m right,” he said. “You have to try it.”
She recalled that he was the one who’d made her eat a raw oyster. “Never,” she said, shoving the glass into his hand.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He drank the liquor, worm and all, making a big show of chewing it with exaggerated relish.
Helena and Abigail exchanged a look. Abigail closed her eyes, inhaling fresh air through her nostrils. Helena headed for the nearest spittoon.
“So you wish to contact the Washington Post,” said Professor Rowan, ignoring their disgust. He seated himself by the tall wooden box on the wall and set to operating the telephonic device. The machine crackled to life, and the operator connected him with the telephone at the paper. A faint voice sounded at the other end. “Yes? This is Timothy Doyle, at the Post.”
“Can you hear me? It’s Michael Rowan in Georgetown.”
“Yes, indeed, Professor Rowan, I hear you quite clearly.”
“Good. I have a bit of news for you to print. The vice president’s son is going to marry Senator Cabot’s daughter.”
“You don’t say? Boyd Butler and Helena Cabot?”
“No,” Rowan said quickly. “Boyd Butler and Miss Abigail Cabot.”
“The short, odd one? Very funny, Professor. I can hardly print that. It would be taken as a joke, and I don’t do satire.”
Jamie severed the connection with a swift flip of the lever. Abigail felt as cold and empty as an abandoned cave. Rowan’s face went pale. He muttered an apology and shuffled away to check on Helena.
