Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (57 page)

He honestly didn’t know what was best for his children, couldn’t make the choices that needed to be made. That was why he needed a wife, to share in those decisions, to help bear those burdens.

Blue led the way down the dock. Unlike Belinda, he didn’t have a spring in his step, but a smooth dignity that was almost eerie in a boy his age.

A crudely built toy boat awaited at the end of the dock.

“See what we made,” Belinda said. The hull was fashioned from a hollowed-out block of wood. Its sail had been fashioned from a handkerchief with lace around the edges. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Very pretty.”

She dropped her chin to her chest in an uncharacteristically bashful pose. “It’s in honor of Mama,” she whispered.

The dart struck deep into unsuspecting flesh. He could never get used to hearing her speak of Lacey. “You’ll have to explain what you mean, sugar pie.” He kept his voice light, although he wanted to choke Eliza. She kept hammering away at this business of grief and loss, making it the center of his children’s lives. It was morbid, pure and simple, the way she fed their obsession with Lacey.

“We painted it special for Mama. I did the stern and Blue did the bow.”

Hunter hunkered down on the creaky wooden deck and inspected the paint job. Belinda’s paint was sunny yellow on the outside of the hull, a reflection of the face she showed the world. Blue’s was a neutral indigo color that said nothing.

For the inside of the hull, Belinda had used a dark angry scramble of violet swirls interspersed with slashes of black and brown. Blue’s choices, in contrast, were surprisingly light and clear, with puffy clouds of pastel.

Then Hunter saw something that brought a lump to his throat. In neat, precise writing, Blue had penned a message inside the boat:
It’s all right.

It was as close as Hunter had ever come to understanding his children. Eliza stood back, her hands clasped, blinking fast as she watched them.

“We’ve brought some things.” Belinda flipped open the lid of a wicker basket. “These go in the boat.”

She and Blue squatted on the dock, taking out their carefully preserved objects and placing them in the homemade boat.

Lacey’s things.

A mother-of-pearl comb carved with three roses. An imported pen with a sterling silver tip. A tiny old-fashioned china shoe, the one she had kept dried lavender in. An ivory-ribbed fan of painted silk.

Each object was something Lacey had owned and treasured. Each one was an inexorable reminder of her, evoking a specific memory of a moment, a look, a scent. He saw her eyes, peeking over the edge of the fan, her long curls spilling down from the comb, the pen pressed thoughtfully against her lower lip as she considered what to write. He could smell the dried lavender of her bed linens, which exhaled the fragrance when he made love to her.

Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a fury and grief too sharp to bear. The children seemed calm as they arranged the objects carefully in their boat. Finally, Blue put in a small branch of dogwood blossom.

Belinda held a card, thickly glued at the edges with sealing wax. On the front she had written
Mama.

“No one is allowed to read this,” she said solemnly. “No one but my mama.” She pressed the card briefly to her lips and put it in the boat. “We’re ready for the candle,” she said to Eliza.

Eliza’s cheeks were wet as she knelt down beside them. Hunter thought her tears would upset the children, but Blue and Belinda seemed more interested in fitting the candle into a holder in the stern of the boat, which was shielded from the wind by its tiny sail. Crickets buzzed in the grass at the water’s edge. Eliza lit the candle, and Blue lay belly-down on the dock.

“Careful,” Belinda cautioned, sliding the boat over to him. “Don’t let anything spill out.”

The boy held the boat gently in his two hands, then slowly lowered it to the water.

“Wait,” Hunter said, speaking past a terrible ache in his throat. “Wait, son.” He never even thought about what he was doing. It was automatic, like putting a wounded bird out of its misery. He simply twisted off his gold wedding band, the one engraved with Lacey’s initials, and dropped it in the boat.

Blue looked at him for a long moment, then turned away, setting the little craft on the surface of the water. The sun was gone, lingering like a bruise on the clouds behind them. The bay reflected the color of hammered gold, lightly ribbed by a southerly breeze. At first the boat sat idle, then turned lazily into the wind. Blue reached down and gave it a shove.

The candle flame wavered, then flared a little. A swirling current caught the tiny boat, carrying it away from the dock.

No one moved or spoke. The four of them kept their gazes riveted on the light, growing ever fainter as the breeze and current carried the toy boat out to sea. At last, after what seemed like a long time, darkness and distance swallowed the speck of light and there was nothing more to be seen.

“’Bye, Mama,” Belinda whispered. She reached up and took Eliza’s hand. The two of them turned and started back toward the house. They walked slowly, not looking to see if the others followed.

Blue stood up. Hunter, still seated on the dock, told himself to hold out his hand to his son. But at that moment, something exploded inside him with the force of a dam bursting. Finally, after all this time, a deep and terrible grief came out of him, wild and uncontrollable. He erupted into sobs that racked and hurt and shook his entire frame.

Then, through the harsh tremors of his sobs, he felt something—a hesitant touch on his shoulder, delicate as a butterfly alighting there. The sensation froze Hunter completely. Weeping, tears, sobs, shaking—everything froze.

He felt the breeze on his face as he looked up at his son. Behind Blue, the first stars of the night came out. Blue tilted his head slightly to one side, gave the tiniest of smiles and whispered, “It’s all right now.”

Hunter wouldn’t let himself look away from his son’s face. “Say it again, Blue. I want to hear you say it again.”

“It’s all right,” Blue said aloud, no longer whispering. “I wanted you to know, it’s all right.”

Hunter slid his arms around his boy. How strong and slender Blue was, how warm and vital. He smelled of grass and fresh air. “Ah, Blue, Blue,” Hunter said, “I’ve missed hearing your voice. I’ve missed that so much.”

They held each other for a while, and then with the darkness came the realization that it was time to get back to the house. They walked home hand in hand, to find that Eliza had already put Belinda to bed. The little girl lay in the bars of moonlight that slanted through the window. She sent them a sleepy smile.

Blue didn’t need any help getting ready for bed, but Hunter stayed anyway, watching the boy’s quick, efficient nightly routine. Blue hung his clothes on a peg and put on his nightshirt. Then he climbed into bed and Hunter tucked him in. “Will you sing the lullaby, Papa? You know the one I mean.”

“Sing it,” Belinda urged, completely unsurprised to hear Blue speak. “Please sing it.”

Hunter softly sang the words he had always known:
Come away and fly with me, to the top of the highest tree, in a wagon hitched to the moon, a blanket of stars to keep us warm.

Blue joined in, his voice as sweet and clear as sunshine.
Past the clouds and past the sun, all the way to heaven, here I come.

“Good night, Papa,” Blue said, closing his eyes.

Hunter kissed both children. When he left their room and gently shut the door behind him, his feet didn’t even feel the floor.

“W
hy, Miss Eliza, you aren’t wearing your breeches today,” said Tabby Parks with a flutter of her fan.

Eliza laughed and smoothed her blue skirt. “I wouldn’t think of it, not on a day like today.”

She and Tabby and dozens of others stood on the broad meadow that formed a green apron around the mile oval. Excitement crackled like heat lightning through the summer air. The day of the exhibition had arrived, and people had traveled far, some even from across the sea, to bid on Albion yearlings.

Tabby waved her fan thoughtfully. “You mean, you won’t be working as a stable boy today?”

Eliza caught the sharpness in her tone. “Ah, I see what you’re trying to do. Charles—that is, Mr. Calhoun—told me to watch out for remarks like that. I didn’t believe him, of course, but I see he was correct.”

“Remarks like that. Whatever do you mean?”

With a smile, Eliza explained, “He said there would be those who look down on me because I wasn’t brought up a planter’s daughter and schooled in dancing and manners. He said—and I vow I did not for a moment believe this—that there are those who actually judge a person by the sort of clothes she wears. Can you imagine?”

“Heaven forbid,” Tabby said. “I’d best go find a seat.” She all but ran away, and Eliza had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

Hunter’s quest for a proper wife amused her even as it broke her heart. They were all such silly hens, running around and clucking about nothing. In the evenings after supper, sometimes she and Hunter sat on the porch and discussed it. He was serious about taking a wife, and she felt disloyal being amused by the whole process—but sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

She had made up her mind, after that day at the well, to take his advice and guard her heart. He could not have been clearer. He had told her, in words and in deeds, that he would never marry her. Her job was to help him with his children, and she had done her best. When Blue had entrusted her with his secret, she had felt the love and pride she imagined a true mother would feel. She could think of only one thing to do with the rosewood lap desk. She had taken it to Lacey’s room, where Hunter never ventured, and had placed it in an armoire beneath a dusty old jewel case.

The ceremony with the boat and candle had brought Hunter and Blue to their knees, but it had been a cleansing pain, a baptism by fire. Like steel from the crucible, they had both emerged stronger. Blue had taken to speaking again, though he would probably always be a shy, reserved boy. But he was back—well and truly back—from the dark place where his soul had dwelt for so long.

Maybe Hunter would not even need a new wife, she mused. The children were doing so well now.

But that was just fanciful thinking, she forced herself to admit. He was a creature of this strange and haughty society where every gentleman required a suitable wife. Once he found one, convention would be served. Nothing lasted, including the love she felt. It would heal and leave a scar, but after a while it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Miss Flyte?” A strange, exotic-looking man approached her. He had very dark hair, a bushy mustache beneath a prominent nose and a courtly air as he bowed from the waist. “I am Simon Vega, from California.” She stood there in amazement. He tucked his flat silk cap under one elbow and said, “I work for Roberto Montgomery, of Rancho del Mar. Mr. Calhoun sent a wire some weeks ago to the landline office, regarding his auction.”

Her thoughts darted in confusion. Had Hunter brought this man here as a way to get rid of her, or to give her the dream she had once confessed to him? “I’ve read that California is a beautiful land,” she said uncertainly. “I’ve seen pictures, maps, of a place called Cielito.”

He smiled. “A little heaven, and the name of a favorite dance. It is the name they gave to many areas in the old days. Most of them deserve it.” The smile sharpened as he grew businesslike. “You have a great reputation as a trainer of horses. My client, Don Roberto, is a wealthy man. He would be pleased to employ you…if that is your desire.”

Hunter had arranged this, she realized. Did he know what was in her heart and in her mind, or was he simply through with her?

“There is no need to reply right now,” Simon Vega said. “You must be given time to consider it. The herds are nothing like this, of course.” He gestured at the racehorses. “Most are reclaimed from the wild. Don Roberto would give you a bungalow by the sea,” he added, then put on his hat and bade her good day.

She had to find Hunter, had to explain to him that dreams were safer when they were locked in her heart. But he’d never understand, because he was a different sort of dreamer. He believed in making dreams come true.

She found him with his bright head bent over the proffered hand of a woman she didn’t recognize. Something about her told Eliza she was not one of the usual silly hens. She wore a gown of deep burgundy velvet that accentuated the lush curves of her figure. A hat with a wide brim obscured her features, and a wealth of golden-brown hair spilled down her back. Rather than giggling and waving her fan, she looked Hunter in the eye and spoke earnestly to him. Eliza wasn’t sure how she knew, but she sensed an intimacy between them.

Her stomach churned as she walked away.

What did she expect? she wondered. That he’d marry the governess? Such unlikely things only happened in books.

Ah, but it hurt, wanting him and knowing she’d never have him. He had been hers for that one brief, magical night, a night she could not forget. Why hadn’t she realized back then that it would be the only time he would touch her like that, love her like that? In her naiveté, she had thought it was the beginning of something.

She was wiser now in so many ways. Too wise to get her heart trampled.

“That’s his sister-in-law, you goose,” said Charles, planting himself in front of her to stop her retreat.

“What?”

“You know very well what, Miss Heart-on-her-Sleeve. The woman Hunter’s talking to. It’s Isadora Peabody Calhoun, Ryan’s wife.” Charles took her arm and led her toward the woman in the velvet gown. “Come and meet her. She’s one of those damn Yankees. But she is wonderful.”

Eliza tried not to feel relieved. “Charles,” she said hesitantly. “What was it like when Hunter’s wife was alive?”

He blanched. “Why do you ask?”

“I simply wish to know,” she said awkwardly, stung by his heart-on-her-sleeve remark.

A bead of sweat trickled down Charles’s temple. “She was so damn lonely,” he said through his teeth.

“Mrs. Calhoun, you mean,” Eliza said. She pictured Hunter’s wife pining away, desperately writing love letters, day after day. “Lacey.”

“Yeah, and the hell of it was, he never even noticed because he was so caught up in his horse trades. She needed him so bad, and he never even knew—” Charles broke off, wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Enough said. Let’s go meet my Yankee cousin.”

Unlike anyone Eliza had met in Virginia, Isadora had a direct, intelligent manner and an air of confidence. “How do you do?” she asked. “I have been perfectly frantic to make your acquaintance. It’s such a blessing, what you’ve done for Blue. We’ve been so worried about him.”

“It was Blue’s doing, not mine. I don’t think you have to worry anymore.” Eliza watched the children race with a pack of youngsters across the lawn. “They’re remarkable children.”

“They’re lucky to have you.”

A commotion of shouts and whistles erupted in the yard adjacent to the barn. Hired footmen clustered around a gleaming black hired coach. A compact, dapper man with a brass-handled cane and bushy white side-whiskers stepped out and strolled toward the oval, accompanied by an equally elegant lady.

“Heavens be,” Isadora exclaimed. “That is Lord Alistair Stewart and his daughter, the Lady Margaret.”

“Someone of importance?” Eliza asked.

“I should say so. He’s quite the figure in racing. A true institution in the sport, known for having a perfect memory of every race in the past half-century.”

Eliza wondered if Lord Stewart had known her father. It was strange to think that he’d had a life in England so long ago. She wanted to ask the Englishman if he’d ever heard of Henry Flyte, but she felt awkward and bashful. Before long she lost sight of Lord Alistair as others arrived from Louisiana and Saratoga and other far-flung places.

She walked down toward the pen at the starting gates, where the jockeys and horses waited to race. Here, the tension was drawn taut, not so much with high spirits but with nerves. The jockeys, mostly young black men, walked their horses slowly, many of them speaking to the stallions in low tones. Eliza spotted Finn and Noah right away, and her stomach lifted in anxiety.

Both horse and jockey looked fit to be tied. Noah seemed wound up like a coiled spring, and the stallion kept flattening his ears and pawing the ground. It wasn’t a good sign. The animal might be unpredictable in the gate and race.

She went to them, holding out a folded garment. “I’ve brought you something, Noah,” she said.

His head came up quickly, in unison with the horse’s. It was almost comical the way the two of them had taken to each other. Their temperaments were the same. They were both smart and quick and high-strung, which could be virtues, or spell disaster, depending on other factors.

She handed it to him. “My father wore this in the Epsom Derby. Why don’t you try it on?”

He shook out the short silken jacket. The yellow fabric rippled on the afternoon breeze. “Miss Eliza, are you sure?”

“Of course. In his day, my father was quite the rider, or so he used to tell me. I never saw him race. I’d be honored if you’d wear his silks today.”

“I will, then,” the boy said, beaming. “I’d be purely proud to wear this.”

She held out the jacket while he put his arms in the sleeves. Specially tailored to fit close and neat, it might have been made for him. He was small and compact, much as her father had been. The sleeves were a little short, but he didn’t complain. She stepped back, her heart swelling with emotion. “Look at you, Noah,” she said. “Just look at you.” On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

The other jockeys hooted and hollered with good-natured derision. Despite the deep brown color of his skin, she could see him blush to the tips of his ears. He looked handsome in the yellow jacket, the tight trousers and fitted boots.

In the midst of the excitement, the gentleman from England stopped. “The stallion’s remarkable,” he commented. “Remarkable indeed. If reports of his gifts are true, his fame will spread.” He eyed Noah. “I say, haven’t seen that cut or color in a quarter-century, perhaps longer.”

Eliza’s chest tightened. She forced herself to speak calmly. “Sir, these jockey’s silks once belonged to a man called Henry Flyte.”

The pale, sharp eyes narrowed, and Lord Alistair thumped his cane on the ground. “Henry Flyte, you say? Why—”

“He was my father,” she added in an eager rush.

“Your father, you say?” The pale eyes shifted away.

“His most famous race was on a horse called Aleazar—”

“Pardon me, miss. I must go and find my seat.” Lord Alistair stabbed his cane into the ground and pivoted away.

His evasiveness puzzled her, but before she could follow the Englishman, Charles arrived.

“All that’s missing,” he said to Noah, “is the cap.”

Noah’s pride seemed to collapse in on itself and he appeared to withdraw and grow smaller. He lifted his shoulders up around his ears.

“Hello, Charles,” Eliza said.

“Sir,” Noah mumbled.

Father and son were incredibly awkward with one another. Charles’s posture was stiff as he entered the pen and crossed to Noah, holding something out.

“I thought you might want to wear this as well,” he said.

It was a leather jockey cap with a buff-colored visor. Hesitantly, Noah took it. “Thank you, sir.” He ran his thumb over the stitching on the back. Eliza craned her neck to see the embroidery. In small, careful stitches of green silk were the letters
NC.

“That stands for Noah Calhoun,” Charles said.

The boy’s eyes flared wide. Charles put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. “Good luck in the race.”

He left immediately, strolling the grounds with a mint julep in one hand, a cheroot in the other and a well-dressed young woman on each side of him.

A bell clanged, and Eliza saw the stallion shiver in response. Finn remembered this. The horse had raced a hundred times before, in Ireland. He remembered this.

With his heart in his eyes, Noah put on the cap and led the stallion to the gates.

Eliza was glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. Her stomach was so jumpy she knew she couldn’t have kept anything down. When she saw Hunter waiting at the numbered gate, she grew doubly nervous.

He held the stallion’s head as Noah mounted. The boy looked small and athletic in the racing stance, his legs tucked up and his chest bent low over the horse’s back. Hunter drew aside the door of the starting gate, watching every move the stallion made.

Eliza held her breath. Thank goodness her father’s racing days had ended before she was born, for she was not made to endure this heart-pounding anxiety. The horse’s behavior was hard to read when he was confined to this small space, but he didn’t sidle or balk. His ears stayed pricked forward, his eyes on the oval track.