King of the South

by Calia Read

  “Go about your business, Livingston. What I do doesn’t pertain to you.”

  “You are my business, Raina!”

  He gazes at me the same way he did all those years ago in the dimly lit hallway at Belgrave. And although he might not remember what he said, I do…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Rainey

  1914

  “Checkmate.” I smile victoriously, and lean in. “Inquirin’ minds want to know. Did you intend to lose two games in a row?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Livingston nearly growls in frustration. He’s always been terrible at losing. “Let’s play again.”

  I sigh and glance at the clock on the mantel. “I can’t. I need to be goin’. We played almost eight games.”

  “And now we’re preparin’ to play the ninth.” He begins to line his pieces back into their correct positions.

  My neck is stiff, and my buttocks have gone numb from sitting in this chair for so long. Do I have the energy in me to play another game? No. I could fall asleep right here if I close my eyes for too long.

  But will I play another game? Yes.

  On the lounge is my brother. He sits forward and closes the ledger in his lap. He’s been there for as long as we’ve been playing chess, calmly going through the family accounts, a weekly routine of his. He’s so quiet the only times I remembered he was in the room was when he took a break to stretch or get a drink.

  Miles pulls out his pocket watch, takes one look at the time and shakes his head. “It’s half past one.” Twisting around, he looks at me. “I take it we’re stayin’ here for the night?”

  “Yes,” I reply my eyes already on my pieces, considering what my first move will be.

  Sighing, he stands and grabs the ledgers. “Then I believe it’s time for me to turn in,” Miles announces.

  Livingston and I watch him take his jacket that’s draped over the back of a chair. At the beginning, my brother’s visits to Belgrave were several times a week. But when I began to stay overnight at Belgrave, so did Miles. I think Momma made him stay for propriety. She didn’t say it, but I knew her far too well and knew she thought it was too unseemly for me to stay at Belgrave unchaperoned.

  However, this was Livingston. And even if Livingston couldn’t remember, we all knew he was Miles’s best friend since childhood. He’s been in my life since the day I was born. I recognized Livingston was handsome, but I had no intention of being forward. The man had been in a terrible accident. All I wanted was to see him get better.

  “Good night, Miles,” Livingston says, his voice cordial.

  My brother stops midway to the door and shakes his head ever so slightly. It’s still jarring for him to hear Livingston not call him Pleas. “Good night.”

  Miles walks out of the room and up the stairs. Lately, the guest rooms have become our rooms. In the last month, I’ve lost track of the number of times we’ve stayed here overnight. I knew Livingston was in good hands. He had his twin and his doctor on call. Not to mention a slew of servants who could help.

  But I felt responsible for him, and I didn’t trust anyone else for that matter. He almost died. I almost lost another person. Someone I didn’t know the world without. I wanted to protect him from any harm and shield him from the curious eyes of society until he regained his memory.

  Everyone in Charleston couldn’t help themselves but speak on the attack of Livingston Lacroix. Who was his assailant and why? How long would it be until he showed his face in public? People visited Belgrave, but Nat was just as vigilant over Livingston as I was and would only allow close family and friends to see him.

  Her protectiveness was valid. She was his sister.

  What was my link to him?

  Exhaustion suddenly gets the best of me. I sit up straight, bring my arms over my head, and yawn. When I lower my arms, I’m tired but prepared to play one last game with Livingston. But across the table, I find him regarding me with curiosity. His eyes linger on my throat and drift across my chest. As though he can sense me watching him, he meets my gaze. His curiosity has turned to interest.

  Immediately, I look away. My heart’s racing far too fast. I need to get away from his probing gaze. Suddenly, I push my chair back from the table. “I’m very tired. I can’t play another game.”

  Livingston sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re quittin’ on me?”

  “Afraid so,” I reply and stand. “I think I will follow Miles’s lead and turn in for the night.”

  “Very well then.”

  I stand there, look down at his coal black hair. I’m not going to leave him by himself. Left to his own devices, he’d roam the halls of Belgrave all night if he could.

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “You need sleep.”

  Beneath my palm, his muscles bunch. “No, I don’t.”

  “Everybody does, Livingston,” I say gently.

  He lifts his head. Those hazel eyes may not have years of memories behind them, but he can still feel emotions, and his frustration is palpable from the set of his shoulders to the rigid set of his jaw. “Why sleep when I can aimlessly walk through the halls of a home that is unfamiliar to me?”

  My heart lurches at his words. “Someday, they won’t be unfamiliar, and everybody and everythin’ will become clear.”

  Resting his elbows on the table, he leans forward. His head drops as he rubs the back of his neck. “When will someday come?”

  “Soon.”

  At my reply, he looks at me from the corner of his eye and smirks. “You sound so sure of yourself.”

  “Because I’m positive it will happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were born to survive this,” I say without hesitation.

  There’s no immediate recognition in his eyes. It would be naïve to expect him to remember those words. However, it doesn’t stop me from saying them because he needs the reminder. And so do I.

  You can be the most buoyant person alive, but you will inevitably find yourself overcome by life. It happens to everyone.

  “Come on,” I urge. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” he grumbles as he stands.

  “Oh, my apologies. I meant walk me to my room,” I reply smoothly and slip my arm through his. “This house is so enormous that every time I stay here, I want to request a map for each wing.”

  “I could use that map,” he says agreeably as we step into the foyer. It’s dimly lit with a servant standing beside the front door. Typically, Ben holds that position, but since the attack, a servant has been stationed directly beside the front door at all hours. Livingston knew it was for him. Of course, he did. He might grumble remarks under his breath here and there, but I think he relied on the knowledge that if he ever lost his way, someone could lead him back.

  “When I walk the halls at night, I almost feel as though I’m walkin’ through a forest. The steps I take out of my room are not guaranteed to be the same ones I take back,” he says.

  “Then don’t take the walks,” I reply, my tone quiet. As we walk up the stairs, it feels as though the silence of the home becomes more pronounced. Our voices are defined, and our words echo to the high ceilings, only to fall slowly around us like snowflakes.

  “I want to.”

  “But you need to sleep more.”

  He shrugs as we step onto the second floor and head toward the family quarters. “I don’t need sleep. I’ll sleep when I remember.”

  “Livingston, you can’t mean that. You don’t know how long that will be.”

  He’s nodding before I can finish my words. “I certainly do.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  In the middle of the hall, he stops. I come to a halt beside him and watch as he takes a deep breath. “If I stay awake and keep active, then perhaps I can come close enough to my memories to capture them.”

  My God. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. My heart tugs at his admission. “I can
understand that,” I nearly whisper.

  My words are the truth. Livingston and I clash so frequently because we’re too much alike. I know he’s headstrong and tenacious. He’s not staying up all night out of pleasure, but necessity. Nonetheless, his confession is a strike to the gut, and I have to stop myself from stepping forward and giving him a hug.

  We stand there in the hallway, silently staring at one another, waiting for the other to speak. I don’t know what else I can say to make this situation better. I look around the hallway and note my room is far closer than I realized.

  Clearing my throat, I gesture to the closed door on the left. “My room is here.”

  Tucking his hands into his pockets, Livingston looks behind him with a brief nod. “Very well then. Good night, Florence Nightingale.”

  I’m not deceived by the nickname. He started saying it after I accidentally spilled a bowl of clam chowder on his bed and nearly scalded his arm. Livingston never missed an opportunity to say it. I almost missed le savauge. But I would take Florence Nightingale because it showed there was still a piece of the old Livingston I knew.

  I dip my head in his direction and sigh. “Good night.”

  I walk past him, taking notice that he still hasn’t moved. I open my door when he asks, “Why are you always here?”

  I think his question over. “Because I’m a close friend of the family’s, and I want to see you get better.”

  He nods, seeming to accept my answer. “We argue far too much.”

  “Always have.”

  “We argue, yet we are close friends?”

  “I’m a close friend of the family’s,” I repeat, placing heavy emphasis on the word family.

  He nods but doesn’t look convinced. “Are you anxious to leave my presence because your husband is waitin’ for you?”

  I’m so surprised by his question that it takes me several seconds to answer. “If I had a husband, chances are I wouldn’t be sleeping here right now.” That’s not true. If I was married, and Livingston truly needed my help, I’d tell my husband to shove off. My friend needed me. “But there is no husband. And I’m not anxious. It’s late.”

  Livingston doesn’t appear the least bit put off by the time. “Why are you not married?”

  I’m sure people have asked themselves that in private conversation. “Whatever was wrong with that Pleasonton girl? Why couldn’t she find a husband?”

  No one had the courage to ask me.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I reply.

  “I don’t know why I’m not married.”

  When I realize how insensitive my retort was, I cringe. He asked because he truly didn’t know. He wasn’t goading me.

  Say you’re sorry, you brat!

  Livingston merely smirks, though. “Care to enlighten me why I have no wife?”

  “Because you’re a shameless seducer,” I offer with a smile.

  Livingston’s nods, his eyes twinkling. “Ah. I sound charmin’.”

  “You have a slew of admirers and an abundance of hostile lovers.” There’s no awareness in his eyes. The blankness staring back at me is still jolting to see. I pointedly look away, and pick at invisible lint from my skirt.

  “And I am unmarried because I’ve yet to meet someone who can handle …”

  “Hostile humor?” he suggests.

  I snap my finger and smile. “That’s precisely it.”

  He smiles back, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Seeing him relaxed pulls at me, making my stomach continuously flip until I feel dizzy.

  I lean against the wall for support and hold a hand to my heart. “That truly hurts.”

  He crosses his arms and slowly approaches. “I met you at the same time like everybody else, but I see you differently …” His brows furrow as he continues to look me over. “I could love you.”

  I can’t tell whether that’s a statement or an offer.

  “Is that so?” I reply, trying to keep my reply light. My chest tightens at his words.

  He’s not himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

  Livingston lifts a shoulder, but he boldly keeps his eyes on mine. “You drive me mad. And you don’t behave how a woman should.”

  “You flatter me,” I cut in.

  He’s closer than before. So close I can smell him. Has he always smelled so good? Yes, he has. When I was a young adolescent with stars in my eyes, I discovered the opposite sex and decided they weren’t pests after all. Anytime Livingston would visit and he would walk past me, I would inhale the crisp, clean scent of him, and I felt as though a thousand butterflies were set free in my chest. I never told a soul. But I finally understood what every girl my age was speaking of when they talked of infatuations they had for boys our age.

  I forgot all about that until now.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” he says. “I think that’s different and original.”

  “Different and original,” I repeat. “Those are two words no one has ever used to describe me.”

  “Think you could love me?”

  He’s not himself, he’s not himself, he’s not himself.

  But I was. I had my memories in order and my mind in place. There was no explanation for how I was reacting, which was flustered and almost delighted by his words. We’ve always had an intense repartee between one another that never gave us time to consider one another as anything else but word-sparring partners.

  Right then, the light on Livingston shifts. I see past the teasing, his womanizing ways and the charm I’ve watched him reserve for the world. I know he’s not giving me that charm now.

  He stares at me with a naked vulnerability, and a hunger that takes my breath away.

  He leans in so our faces are inches apart. “Could you love me?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Rainey

  My fingers tightly curl around the railing as I shake away the memory. I was foolish then to ever give weight to his words. He didn’t know what he was saying. Shortly after our conversation in the hallway, Livingston’s memory came back. No one knew why, or what brought about his memory. Maybe time is what his brain needed to heal.

  His entire family was elated, and even more so to realize that Livingston could answer a burning question for them: who attacked him. Which in a surprising twist was one of Nat’s good friends, Scarlett Gould. It was a case of mistaken identity. She was after Étienne the entire time.

  In the midst of all this celebration, I smiled. I was truly happy. But my heart twisted and tugged as though it was being tormented. I was going to lose my time with Livingston, and I didn’t want that. Perhaps I cared for him more than I realized. I knew it was unfair of me to hold hurt against Livingston when he didn’t know he caused it. So I pushed the time out of my head as best as possible. If it didn’t exist for Livingston, it wouldn’t for me. That was easier said than done.

  I want to ask why he doesn’t love me, but I don’t. It’s easy to admit your love for someone. Far harder to ask why someone doesn’t love you back. No one can do that and walk away with their pride intact.

  Tears fall down my face. In a hurry, I brush them away but they seem to keep coming one after the other.

  You played a dangerous game, and you lost.

  “Rainey. Please, stop!” Livingston reaches me and grabs my arm, turning me around. He opens his mouth but stops when he sees my glassy eyes. He reads into my tears as something else entirely. “What happened? Did that fella make an advance toward you?”

  With the backs of my hands, I wipe the tears and shake my head. “No. Loras was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Then tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how to make you happy!” Livingston drags his hands through his hair and turns to walk away from me, then comes right back. It’s like there’s an invisible rope tied between us. We can only walk so far before we’re yanked back to one another. “Rainey, I can’t …” His words fade as he stares at me with agony in his eyes. “You overheard me speakin’ with Nat. Does this have
to do with the telegram? Because I’ll let you read it. I’ll tell you what Étienne said.”

  He doesn’t wait for my reply before he reaches into his back pocket and produces a folded piece of paper. I take it from him and read through it.

  TRIED CALLING STOP

  EXAMINED FINAL LEDGER STOP

  TODAY THE TEMPERATURE WAS HIGH STOP

  CLOSE TO ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN STOP

  GIVE EVERYONE MY LOVE STOP

  E.

  Confusion doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. “What is this? What is Étienne talkin’ about?”

  “When we have to pass important information on, this is our subtle yet creative way of communicatin’ to each other. He was informin’ me that he finished lookin’ through your family’s accounts. There’s no money, and it was worse than we thought. The accountant wasn’t attentive with the bookkeepin’. It will take a lot more than your dowry to pay off your family’s debts.”

  “How much?”

  Livingston hesitates for a moment. A flash of pain enters his eyes. “One hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.”

  A shallow breath escapes me. All this time, I’ve been hoping we owed far less or that the accountant was wrong in his estimation, but this was worse than I could ever imagine.

  “I wanted to wait until after we were back in Charleston to tell you. Not here. But I don’t want you to think I’m hidin’ somethin’ from you.”

  Right then I realize that Livingston truly doesn’t know that I heard what he said to his sister.

  “Dammit! I don’t know want to do.”

  I stare back and take a deep breath, trying my best to gather the courage for my next words. “Tell me why you can’t love someone like me,” I blurt.

  His head rears back as though I’ve struck him. “What?” he says, his voice ragged.

  It’s out, and now there’s no going back. I need to keep going. I need answers. “I heard you tell Nat you couldn’t love someone like me. Why? Why did you say that?”

  The rain beats against my body. The material of my dress is heavy and itchy. My hair has fallen and hangs around my face. Livingston’s hair clings to his forehead with the ends curling out. Droplets of water gather to the edges of his perfectly molded face before they fall away.