Thorn set his gaze on St. Philips steeple, which rose high above her sister churches. Those steeples had guided sailors safely into harbor for almost a hundred years.
His eyes moved in the direction of King Street. Although he could not see it from his vantage point, that was the location of the house that had been left to him by David Stone. Stonehouse was a stately mansion, and even though Thorn considered it too large for his needs, he intended to make it his residence for the time being. He had written his solicitor and informed him to engage servants and have the house and grounds put in order.
At last the weary traveler had come home, but within his heart there was no feeling of homecoming, no jubilation—but rather great dread and uncertainty. He must face the past and try to set things right between his father and himself. His father would be in his seventies now—an old man. Although Thorn wanted to make peace with him at any cost, his father would have to apologize before they could bury the past.
Thorn had been so young when his mother had died that he did not remember her at all. Perhaps if she had lived, his life would have been different. Because of Wilhelmina’s lies and deceitfulness, he was left with little faith in any woman. Even Brittany had deceived him, but then he had expected it of her and her sex.
Against his will, thoughts of Brittany began to weave their way through his mind, and he shook his head to clear it. No, he must not think of her silken skin and the way she had filled him with…what? Surely not happiness. Fulfillment of his desires and nothing more. Their paths had crossed briefly, and as she had pointed out to him, there was no place in his life for her. Both he and Brittany would be better off when she was in the protective custody of her grandmother.
The sun shone down on the Victorious through a cloudless sky.
Brittany appeared on deck, looking cool and aloof in her blue muslin gown, although she was anything but calm on the inside.
She guessed that Thorn had already alerted the crew to the change in her appearance, because they seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her. She could only imagine their shock to see her so changed.
Dr. Rutledge came forward to stand beside her, but he was not prepared for the golden-haired beauty that seemed such a contrast to the dark-haired girl that he had come to know.
“Take care of yourself, young miss. And for my part, you can sail on the Victorious any time you want.”
She extended her gloved hand to Dr. Rutledge. “I have you to thank for Achmed’s recovery. You will always have my gratitude.”
The doctor’s face eased into a smile. “I will always be grateful to you, because what would have been an ordinary and routine voyage turned into an adventure.” He bowed to her. “I am always at your service,” he said earnestly.
She smiled and then swept past him. Achmed walked just behind her, feeling most uncomfortable in the buff-colored trousers and rough linen shirt that were stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. He had exchanged his satin slippers for a pair of scuffed black boots that were several sizes too small for him.
Brittany watched the Victorious ease toward the pier, feeling a great sense of loss. She glanced back at the crew members who were busily performing their duties. Most of them she did not know personally, but they had become familiar faces to her, and they had always treated her with respect.
Her eyes moved to the deck of command, where Thorn stood, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his attention riveted on the crew member who brought the gangplank into place. When this was accomplished, he turned his eyes to Brittany and held her gaze for a brief moment. Then with a quick salute at her, he tied off the wheel and seemingly dismissed her from his mind.
Brittany had thought he would at least bid her goodbye, but apparantly that was not to be. She turned back to the doctor and smiled at him. “Dr. Rutledge, will you please tell the captain that Achmed and I will be forever in his debt?”
The kindly man nodded. “That I will do, miss.”
Cappy now appeared beside Brittany and held his hand out to indicate that she was to move down the gangplank. With one last glance at the ship that had been her home for six weeks of her life, she moved down the gangplank beside Achmed, then across the pier to the waiting carriage.
Cappy politely helped Brittany into the carriage and then climbed in beside her. Achmed, still looking drawn and tired, was made comfortable in the seat opposite Brittany.
So closed a chapter of her life, she thought sadly. Thorn had brushed her aside as if there had never been anything intimate between the two of them. But then had she not told him that there could be nothing between them?
Life was cruel, she thought, for it had shown Brittany her heart’s desire, and had then made it impossible for her to keep it.
With a jingle of the bridle and the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone street, the carriage pulled away from the pier.
Brittany absently noticed the palm trees that dotted the landscape. She was aware of the bustling seaport, and the city in the distance.
A short time later the carriage stopped before a cheerful-looking inn with tall gables and a sign that creaked in the wind. Cappy got out and helped Brittany onto the boardwalk.
“The captain said you would be comfortable in the Green Gable Inn. The lady who owns it is a widow, and I can attest that she is a good cook.”
She followed Cappy through the doorway. He led her up to a counter and spoke to the man there. “This is Mistress Sinclair, who will be staying with you for a few days. She will also require a room for her servant,” he said, nodding at Achmed.
Brittany was given a room on the second floor. She insisted that Achmed be given a room where he would be comfortable, so Cappy promised to make arrangement for him to be taken care of in a room near the stables.
Cappy handed her the room key and smiled. “If you require anything, just send Achmed for me. I will be staying on board the Victorious until she has been unloaded.”
She offered him her hand. “Dear Cappy, you have been a friend to me. I thank you for all your help.” She bent forward and kissed his cheek, which brought a glow of delight to his face. “Good-bye, Cappy.”
“I know you have troubles, miss. I hope life is good to you and that you find happiness.” The first mate moved away, and Brittany watched him until he climbed into the carriage and disappeared.
After she instructed Achmed as to where his quarters were located, she climbed the steps to her room. Everything was so new and frightening here in America. She only hoped she would soon be on her way to her grandmother.
Chapter Nineteen
Thorn reined in the gray gelding he had acquired at the livery stable in Charleston. He dismounted and stood quietly drinking in the beauty of Stoddard Hill.
It was as if time had stood still and he was caught up in a deluge of boyhood memories. Like looking upon a long absent friend, his eyes swept down the wide lawn to the aged redbrick structure that had housed the Stoddard family since the middle part of the seventeenth century.
The manor house had been constructed in the style of an Italian villa, with its main house towering and grand like a sentinel with two indentical flanker buildings on either side. The flanker on the right housed a great library, and the other was where the Stoddard men had gathered for over a hundred years to discuss politics and planting.
Stoddard Hill had spanned the golden years of indigo, rice, and cotton. The magnificent gardens and reflective pools rose above mirror-bright waters of a nearby lake.
But Thorn saw something else, too—there was evidence of neglect. It was summer, and yet he saw no indication that the fields had been tilled. There were no cotton stalks with their unopened cotton balls as there should have been. On closer inspection, he observed that the usually manicured grounds were untended and weeds choked the flowerbeds. What was wrong?
Thorn had come by way of the road, which was considered to be the back of the manor house where all the outbuildings, barns, and stables were located. Her
e, too, he saw neglect. Slave cabins had fallen into disrepair, and the stable door was hanging on rusted hinges.
He pushed his uneasiness aside. It was a beautiful morning; the mist still clung to the tops of the live oaks that were draped with Spanish moss. The front lawn was terraced and flanked by three reflective pools which sloped down to the Ashley River. Black swans nested near the rice mill pond, and tame deer roamed unafraid in the vast park.
Home. Thorn had come home at last. Until now, he had not fully realized how much he missed the land of his birthright. When he had gone to sea, he had been an angry young man, and the Victorious had only been his substitute for Stoddard Hill. Deep inside he had always known that he would one day return, for this land was in his blood, it was his heritage.
For over a hundred years this plantation had gone to the eldest Stoddard son. Now, Wilhelmina must fancy herself as lady of the manor. How she must have gloated in triumph the night his father had ordered him to leave.
Raw anger burned in Thorn’s heart. Even now Wilhelmina might try to keep him from seeing his father, but he was prepared to deal with that. No woman, not even the treacherous Wilhelmina, would keep him away.
Of course there was always the possibility that his father might not want to see him. If that was the case, Thorn was prepared to ride away and never again attempt to contact his father.
Thorn looped the horse’s reins around his hand and led the animal forward, not knowing what kind of reception he could expect.
Thorn had always thought of himself as a fearless man but the thought of facing his father made him physically sick inside. He had always admired his father, and until Wilhelmina had come along, they had been closer than most fathers and sons, for they had both shared a love for this land.
Now that Thorn was older, he realized what a fool he had been for allowing Wilhelmina to be rid of him so easily. He should have demanded that his father hear the truth; now perhaps it was too late.
When he approached the stable, a young boy came forward with a smile on his black face. “Does you wants me to stable your horse, suh?”
“No,” Thorn answered, looking the boy over to see if he was familiar. He wasn’t. “I may not be staying that long. Just keep him in the shade and give him water and oats.”
“Yes’suh,” the boy agreed, leading the horse into the coolness of the stable.
“Is the master at home?” Thorn inquired, not realizing he was holding his breath, waiting for the answer.
The boy’s dark eyes moved over Thorn with open curiosity. “Yes’suh, the master’s in, but he’s been feeling poorly, and the mistress, she don’t let him have visitors no more, and she ain’t home right now, so you can’t see him.”
Thorn’s eyes ran the length of the stable, searching for Old Rubin who had been in charge of the horses for as long as Thorn could remember. Rubin had set Thorn on his first horse and had taught him how to ride. With a feeling of dread, at last Thorn asked: “Who tends the horses?”
The boy shook his head. “The mistress done hired a new man when Ole Rubin died. Mr. Turner gives orders now. I’s his helper,” he said with pride.
“Rubin must have worked in the stables for over sixty years,” Thorn said, more to himself than the boy. “I suppose I expected him to live forever.”
The young boy’s eyes held a puzzled light. “No’suh, he done died of the fever. Ain’t none of us live forever, ’cepting maybe ole Esmeralda.”
Thorn thought of the slave he had always called Granny. She had to be well over a hundred now. “Is that old woman still alive?”
“Yes’suh. We reckon she’ll be here after we’re all dead and buried.”
With grim determination, Thorn turned his steps toward the house, not knowing what he would find there, or the extent of his father’s illness.
When he stood on the steps, a rush of feelings overwhelmed him, and he placed his hand on the brass doorknob before he reconsidered and raised the lion-head door knocker. He was coming home, not as a son of the house, but as a man seeking his past.
Thorn was not acquainted with the man who opened the door, and stared at him with dark, surly eyes. Franklin had been the butler for as long as Thorn could remember. This man must have replaced him. Was nothing to be the same? he wondered, glancing over the man’s shoulder at the shabbiness of the once-grand entryway.
“I want to see Mr. Stoddard,” Thorn said in a tone of authority.
“The master does not receive guests, and the mistress is not in. You will have to call another time.”
The butler was in the process of closing the door, when Thorn grabbed it and shoved him aside. “I am Thorn Stoddard, and I will see my father. Where is he?”
Now the man looked startled. “You are the son?”
“Have I not just said so? Now show me to my father at once.”
“But the mistress left instructions that no one was to see the master,” the man persisted. “I was not told to expect you.”
Thorn reached out and grabbed the startled butler by the coat front and pulled him forward. “I am not interested in your mistress’s orders, or whether or not you were told to expect me. I asked to see my father. Where is he?”
Although Thorn did not raise his voice, the butler knew by the dilation of his pupils that this was not a man to trifle with. “Y-yes, sir. He’s in the garden.”
Thorn pushed the butler aside and moved down the hall, past the winding stairs and out the back door. He stood for a long moment on the screened-in porch, then moved down the brick walkway while boyhood memories entwined their way through his mind. He thought of the times he and his father had walked in this garden, discussing books they had read, or debating the latest potitical happening.
He glanced across the reflective pond where the hillside was alive with colorful azaleas. In the distance, he had a view of the flooded rice fields. A sleepy creek glided lazily past stately magnolia trees, while bright sunlight poured its warmth and light onto Stoddard Hill. The land was alive and teeming with life.
Thorn’s footsteps quickened across the narrow suspension bridge that spanned the sparkling brook. He knew where to find his father. When he saw the small Honeymoon Cottage nestled among the azaleas, he paused to drink in its beauty. The cottage had been constructed by Vincent Stoddard over a hundred years ago, when he wanted a place of privacy to spend time with his young bride. The cottage had been built of Italian marble, with floor-to-ceiling windows, so it had a magnificent view of Stoddard Hill.
Hesitantly, he moved to the front door to find it slightly ajar. Thorn pushed the door open and came face-to-face with his father.
Time, it seemed, had not been kind to Benjamin Stoddard. His once-proud stance had become stooped; his blue eyes were dull, and his hair was almost completely white.
For a long moment the two men assessed each other, and when Benjamin smiled, his blue eyes held a light of uncertainty. “At last the prodigal comes home to his grieving father. What took you so long, Thorn?”
Thorn did not answer at first; he was too disturbed by the sight of his father’s frail appearance. “I was told you have been ill, Father.”
The old man shook his head, his eyes bright, his lips trembling. “It’s nothing to fret about. Mostly boredom. How have you been, Son?”
“I suppose you know I became owner and captain of the Victorious after uncle David’s death.”
“Yes, I know that. Your mother’s brother gave you the means to see the world. I often tried to picture you in some distant port.” Ben’s eyes became sad, and his mind seemed to wander. “I wish you had come home sooner. Now I am but a shell of a man. I am old and tired, like this land. Both of us are worn out.”
Thorn had never heard his father speak of defeat before, and it cut into his heart. His voice was calm, however, when he spoke. “I wasn’t sure of my welcome, Father.”
The old man’s eyes misted, and he sank down into one of a pair of Queen Anne chairs. “Son…Thorn, I have paid handsomely
for not trusting you. Can you forgive me for believing the lies?”
“I will put it aside, if you will,” Thorn said.
For a moment Ben’s eyes burned with conviction. “God, how I have paid. To be torn away from the only person in the world that means anything to me.” His eyes became wild. “That woman I married—that woman…” His voice trailed off, and when he looked at his son, his eyes were swimming in tears. “I would not have blamed you if you never came back. I am nothing but an old fool, for not trusting you.”
Thorn sat down in the matching Queen Anne chair, crossed his long legs, and forced a smile. “If you were an old fool, then I was a young fool. You always said we were too much alike to get along. I should have made you see the truth.” He shrugged. “Youth does not always practice good sense.”
Happiness illuminated Benjamin’s wrinkled face, and his features eased into a smile. “I have prayed for this day for a very long time. I feared I would die before I saw you again. Now that you are here to take over for me, Stoddard Hill will bloom again.”
“I am not certain of my plans.”
Ben’s eyes were eager. “You can see that you are needed. Stoddard Hill is going to seed.”
“I would have come sooner, but—”
Benjamin held up his hand. “Don’t take the blame, when you know it rests with me. I have been to hell and back, but it was a hell that I created for myself. No one is to blame for what happened but me.”
“We don’t need accusations and blame-placing between us, Father.”
“Let me finish what I have to say, Thorn. It should have been said long ago. I know now what happened the night I drove you away. I know you were innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“This isn’t necessary, Father.”
“It is to me, Thorn. We both know who was responsible for—”
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