Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (94 page)

A
t King’s Creek, winter brought a stark, hushed beauty to the land. The low fields lay bare and etched by frost, and all along the creek, wind and cold leached the pigment from the reeds and grasses, creating an atmosphere of texture rather than color. After a two-hour ride from Albion and a soul-satisfying meal prepared by Noah’s widow, Patsy, Jamie smoked a cheroot on the porch of his brother’s place and waited for twilight.

He would always think of it as Noah’s place, although his brother would never again work stock in the training ring, ride fence along the edge of the property or drive a plow behind one of the muscle-bound Shires that had been his wife’s dowry.

Nor would Noah ever see the sight Jamie could see from his seat on the porch steps—a tall, strapping Julius bringing in the wood for his mother. He and Julius had spent the past week rebuilding one of the barns that had been burned in a clumsily idiotic attempt by the railroad company to intimidate residents along King’s Creek. You’d be so proud of your boy, Noah, thought Jamie.

After a while, he lit a lantern, for it was growing too dim to see the book he’d been reading—
From the Earth to the Moon
by Jules Verne. Not long ago, he would have dismissed it as an improbable yarn, but now…thanks to Abigail Cabot’s wild imagination and precise science, an outlandish story about members of a gun club planning a journey to the moon no longer seemed far-fetched. The chance of being shot into space from a cannon was not without its appeal.

Everything reminded him of her. The whisper of the wind through the bare trees was her voice speaking his name, the indigo sky at twilight was the color of her eyes, the phantom scent of winter evoked memories that didn’t just ache, but stabbed.

This was not supposed to happen to him. He was supposed to be immune, impervious. But the fact was, there was a hole in his life, and that hole was the exact size of a small dynamo, a woman he had pushed away on purpose.

Tugging a shawl around her, Patsy came out on the porch. She looked distracted, not as pretty as she’d been when Noah had married her fifteen years before, but strong and wise in the way of a woman who had survived hard times. “Come back inside,” she said. “It’s cold as a frog’s fingernails.”

“I’ll be along shortly.” Jamie put aside his book and took out the newspaper he’d brought along to read then share with Julius. He turned to an article about the fall congressional session, his chest tight with satisfaction as he read the summary of the railroad legislation. The Senate vote had tied, and Vice President Butler had cast an unexpected ballot, breaking the tie and favoring the farmers not the railroads.

As he scanned the pages of the
Post,
another item caught his eye. Timothy Doyle’s byline under the headline Senator Cabot’s Daughter to Wed in Gala Ceremony.

A frost swept over him, colder than the winter wind from the bay. The cheroot dropped from between numb fingers. He could hear the sounds of Patsy and Julius in the house behind him, the cozy clank of utensils as they put up the supper dishes. He told himself to join them, to forget the headline, or at least to admit he was pleased by it.

The marriage was his doing, after all. He had practically engineered the whole thing, and he’d done a damn good job of it. He’d shown Abigail how to be—how had she put it that night?—her best self. She’d become a woman who was far too good for the likes of him.

Or so he told himself. But he kept wondering if that was true, or if it was only an excuse.
I know what I felt when you made love to me, and I think I know what you felt when I surrendered everything to you.
Those were the last words she’d spoken to him, and they lingered and ached inside him. Because of her, he was a better man, and she’d understood that long before he did. Maybe that was why losing her had knocked him flat, because he could have made her happy.

Unable to resist probing the wound, he turned up the lamp and read the item in the paper.

Jamie had to read the announcement twice before he trusted his own eyes. The news story was about Helena Cabot, not Abigail.
Not Abigail.

He drowned slowly in the article. His senses filled with the pounding of his own heart, the hiss of the gas lamp, the clack of the wind in the reeds along the creek. The nuptials belonged to Helena, not Abigail.
Not Abigail.

Almost as a postscript to the article, there was a mention that the senator’s other daughter recently discovered a comet, and that all the principal observatories in Europe and the Americas were being notified.

Jamie extinguished the lamp and tore like a madman away from the house, turning his back on the square of golden light in the kitchen window. Twilight had only just begun to yield to the first stars, glimmering in the clear December sky. He found the star called Vega, the reference point given, and studied the field for a comet. Minutes passed like hours. He had only a vague idea of what to look for. Was it the yellowish wink or the white, crescent-shaped nimbus? Finally, with his eyes watering and a crick in his neck, he spotted a fuzzy, bluish glimmer and felt a clutch of recognition.

“Is that it, Abby?” he said aloud. “Is that your comet?” Whether he had found it or not was unimportant. What mattered was that Abby had found it, just as she’d predicted.

He stood there, grinning like an idiot, his heart full. “Miss Cabot’s comet,” he said, and then the grin faded.
Miss
Cabot. Not Mrs. Butler.

Questions flashed through him. What had happened? Why hadn’t she married Butler? She was supposed to be better off with him. That had been the whole point, hadn’t it? But maybe…

The door to Noah’s place slapped open with a bang of impatience. “You coming in for a piece of my chess pie?” Patsy yelled.

“Something came up,” Jamie called to her. “I need to go.”

“It’s dark, fool.”

“I’ll take a lantern.”

“You know better—”

“I have to.” He was already running for his horse. “This can’t wait.”

T
he bridal bouquet sailed past a dozen outstretched arms, but Abigail Beatrice Cabot remembered to duck out of the way. She was more than happy to see the tradition embraced by someone—anyone—other than herself. Sarah Generes let out a squeal of triumph, clutching the prize to her chest.

Wedding guests crowded the Long Room of Georgetown’s City Tavern, but there was plenty of space for dancing to the lively music of a small ensemble. Catching Helena’s hand as she passed by, Abigail gave an encouraging squeeze.

“You’ve made a lucky girl of Miss Sarah,” she said. “See, she’s holding the bouquet as though you’d sprinkled it with fairy dust.”

Helena was quite possibly the most beautiful bride ever to grace the elite society of Georgetown, yet a private melancholy softened her smiling façade. “I wish her well, then. Perhaps she’ll find a happy ending.”

“Ah, Helena.” Abigail kept hold of her hand and drew her to one of the tall windows with a wrought-iron balcony projecting out over M Street. “You were meant to be happy, and you will be, I just know it.”

“And you always were the smart one, weren’t you?” Helena asked. Her eyes suspiciously bright, she laughed softly. “Truly, Abigail, you’ve been such a comfort to me in so many ways.”

“What are you doing, hiding from the guests?” Their father motioned them back into the Long Room. “Never let it be said my beautiful daughters are wallflowers!” His pleasure in the event seemed to pour from him in waves of enthusiasm. Cocking out both elbows, he escorted his daughters into the midst of the admiring crowd. “A senator’s bride and a distinguished astronomer,” he declared. “You make me proud, my girls.”

Abigail felt a rush of love for him. Their new understanding of one another strengthened with each passing day. As for Boyd Butler, he’d gone to sea, and rumor had it he was carrying on a happy correspondence with the war secretary’s pretty daughter.

Father gazed at Helena with fond melancholy. “I can’t believe my firstborn daughter is leaving me.”

“Papa, I’ll always be your firstborn,” Helena protested.

“That will never change,” Abigail assured him. “Dance with the bride, Father. I believe I’ll go join the Vandiverts for oysters and champagne.” Disengaging her arm from his, she stepped back to send them onto the dance floor.

As she approached the banquet table, Abigail felt something catch the heel of her shoe. Pain shot up her leg. She clutched wildly at empty air, finding nothing to hold on to.

Mrs. Vandivert’s face registered pure horror, but not surprise. Abigail Cabot’s clumsiness was legendary and probably always would be.

Then a miracle occurred. A pair of strong arms caught her from behind and propped her against someone warm and firm.

“Easy now, honey,” he said in a Virginia drawl. “You don’t want to become the main dish at the banquet.”

Abigail’s bones melted.
Jamie.

She mouthed his name, but no sound came out. Turning in his arms, she gaped at his smiling face.

“I can’t leave you alone for a moment,” he whispered. “As soon as I turn my back, you get in trouble again.”

“Is…” Her voice broke. “Is that so?”

“Dance with me, Abby love. I need an excuse to hold you close.”

She followed in shocked obedience, and the aching familiarity of his embrace, his scent, his nearness, filled her. She drank in the longed-for sight of him, the feel of his arms around her, the subtle spice of his scent. Magic was at work tonight. He was an apparition from her sweetest dreams.

The weeks apart seemed to evaporate into thin air, and she danced in his arms as though he had never left her.

“You know what they say about fast women and blooded mares,” he explained with a familiar, wicked wink. “Give them free rein, and they’ll trample you every time.”

He was as obnoxious—and endearing—as ever. Abigail knew her heart shone in her eyes when she said, “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.” The urge to laugh pressed at her with the same insistence as the urge to cry.

“You’re always so literal, Abby. Very well, we’ll make a list. I came to humble myself before you, grovel at your feet, beg your forgiveness, declare my undying love and ask for your hand in marriage. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Those are only words,” she said, thick-throated with emotion. “How do I know you mean it this time?”

“Ah, you know, Abby. You knew before I did. You knew I could love you better than any man alive, but I didn’t think I could.” He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them to watch her intently. “That look on your face when you saw Caroline leaving my house—I feared that I could never love you without hurting you.”

“The only way you hurt me is by staying away,” she whispered, her heart lifting with every step they took. “I do like the sound of everything on your list, but the undying love will suffice.”

“You have it, then,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling, but gazing at her with an intensity that surged through her like an intimate caress. “You have every bit of my heart, Abby. Always.”

The dance set ended, but they held each other until another started up. “Damn,” he said. “I need to kiss you.
Bad.
And then I need to—” Bending down, he whispered the rest in her ear.

She indicated the wrought-iron balcony leading to a secluded loggia.

“Lead the way, love. And
hurry.
”

She did her best to move discreetly toward the exit, but managed to step on his foot. “Ah, Jamie.” She smiled at him through her tears. “How will you abide having a wife with such disgraceful dancing skills?”

“Wrong question, my wren. Dancing is for earthbound creatures. I’ll have a wife who can touch the stars.”