Love in Three-Quarter Time (23 page)

If she'd joined the abolitionist cause, might not she be able to picture herself in his role. The angst he had felt, the torture, the fear. Surely it had all passed through her as she waited atop that hill. Surely the same motivations that had driven him to help her slaves escape had driven her this very evening. Might she somehow be able to forgive him even the death of her father?

For he had yet to forgive himself. He still castigated himself with the echo of her words.

You will never amount to anything.

You are no sort of man at all.

She did not know how true those words were. His father had said the same to him before he died, when even as a young boy, Robbie spoke of freeing the slaves. How those words had dug into his heart.

He would have to tell Constance the whole truth—soon. But for this one week he would allow himself the bliss of her company. He would give their new relationship time to bud and grow, like the corn he so carefully tended. He would let their bond strengthen.

Then he would tell her the truth. All of the truth.

Her father would still be alive if it weren't for him.

Could she forgive such a monumental sin? Perhaps. She truly had grown into a remarkable woman. But what sort of pain would she feel each time she looked into his eyes? Would the image of her father lying dead in his coffin haunt her every time Robbie spoke her name?

Forgive? Maybe.

But accept? Trust? He could never ask that much of her. He didn't know if he could ask so much of himself.

He watched as the shadow of her slim form moved up the stairs to the portico and disappeared into the house like a ghost into the night.

CHAPTER 32

“So do you plan to tell me about your mysterious rendezvous yet?” Patience stretched to prod her sister's ribs beneath the silky fabric of the ornate coverlet. Despite the fact that they shared a mammoth bed, it proved harder to reach her than when in their tiny side-by-side beds back home.

Constance put down her Bible and turned toward Patience. She propped herself on an elbow, as flickering golden light played across her face. “I'm not sure if I'm ready yet.”

“You can't keep sneaking away, you know. Somebody is bound to notice. I can't make excuses for these ‘emergencies' forever.”

Constance had dashed off this afternoon without explanation for the third time in a week.

“I know. I know.” Constance sighed. “But if I speak of it, it will become so real. I fear I might chase it away.”

“It? Or who?”

Constance did not answer.

“Is it someone forbidden?” Patience whispered, conspiracy thick in her voice. “Who could you even have met out here? Tell me it's not a slave or an Indian or someone ludicrous like that.” The girl seemed not to understand basic social decorum on such matters.

Constance just giggled.

“I wouldn't put it past you, you know.”

“It's not anybody inappropriate.”

“So why all the secrecy?”

Constance bit her lip and wrinkled her nose. “If you must know, it's Robbie.”

“Robbie Montgomery? After all these years?” Patience hoped so, for she'd grown to admire the kind and intelligent man as they'd talked theories of energy late into the evening.

“It seems so.”

“What changed?” Patience wondered if she would ever understand the mechanics of love.

“I suppose I've changed. I must tell you a secret to explain. And this one, you must swear never to share.”

With all due seriousness, Patience initiated their childhood “handshake” for matters of such dire consequence. They bumped fists and elbows and ended by tweaking each other on the ear. “You have my word.”

Constance chuckled despite the gravity of the situation. “It's all Lorimer's doing. He arranged a meeting for me to pass a message concerning the abolitionist cause, and as it turned out, my contact was Robbie. Lorimer planned the entire incident to prove Robbie could trust me. You wouldn't believe the horrible things I said to him about slaves and abolitionists all those years ago.”

“Gingersnap! I don't know whether to put you over my knee or to hug you. You should have never taken such a risk. But I do know what it means to you to have Robbie back.” Patience decided on the hug, pulling her sister to her and stroking her silky hair.

“Truly, I'm not so certain I do have him back.” Constance took Patience by the arms. “It all feels like a dream. He treats me as though I might fade into the mist. Something is still not right. And he will speak of no plans or intentions, only of vague subjects such as literature and philosophy.”

“He hasn't tried to…”

“No, no, of course not. He would never. But always before he kissed me with such fervor. Now he acts as though I'm made of crystal and might break within his grasp.” Constance let loose of Patience and flopped back upon a stack of pillows.

Patience studied her sister. “Still, I don't understand the secrecy. I would think with our mothers grown so close, everyone would be thrilled to hear about this. Why, I swear I've caught them whispering about the two of you on more than one occasion.” She had observed an ongoing shift in Mrs. Beaumont's attitude toward Constance ever since that first day of their arrival.

Constance swiped at a tear. “I don't understand either. We don't speak of it. We hardly speak of anything. We mostly walk or ride or sit, clinging to each other's hands. Fear simmering always between us. I didn't want to tell anyone until I knew for certain that it's real.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“We're meeting again tomorrow afternoon. He says he will at last speak his heart, and we shall discuss everything. That he wanted to treasure every moment with me until that time.” Constance's tears streamed freely now. “I'm so afraid. Will you pray with me?”

Patience cleared her throat. She could not bear to let down her sister. “Where is Martha when we need her?” She scanned her mind for a solution. “Perhaps you can pray, and I shall follow along. You're better at such things.”

So she joined hands with Constance and closed her eyes tight as her sister prayed. A tingling warmth washed over her as she listened to her sister's heartfelt cry.

For a moment, Patience almost wished she believed.

* * *

Franklin perused the bookseller's science shelf for the fifth time. No exciting new treatise magically appeared. He brushed his thumb across the spines in shades of brown, burgundy, and blue, hoping he might yet discover one he hadn't read. But no. Would this interminable summer never end? At least the leathery smell of old manuscripts brought a degree of comfort.

The stout form of Mrs. Wellington, society matron extraordinaire, entered his peripheral vision. “Afternoon, Mr. Franklin.” It was too late to ignore her once she spoke to him. And after all, she donated a substantial amount to their school.

He braced himself for the encounter. Pushing up his spectacles, he turned. “Afternoon to you, Mrs. Wellington. How are you enjoying this weather?”

“It's sweltering.” She snapped open the fan attached to her wrist and fluttered it, unwittingly revealing the moist stain under her arm. Women's fashion remained a conundrum to him as he observed their heaping on the clothes for day and wearing scanty evening gowns at night. “So glad I'll be leaving for the countryside tomorrow. We'll be staying at Monticello with President Jefferson for a time. I need some books to while away the time as we travel.” The woman never missed an opportunity to drop names.

Although Franklin did so admire Jefferson, his mind caught on the word
Monticello
. Monticello was near Charlottesville. It was likely that this insufferable person would see the Cavendish ladies long before him. “Sounds lovely,” he managed.

“And how is your break passing?”

Uncle always released the students during the hottest weeks of the year. Mr. Franklin sought for something positive to say. But in the end, he resorted to the truth. “I miss the boys. I hardly know what to do with myself in the summer.”
Especially with the Cavendishes gone
, he thought.

“Mr. Franklin, you must learn to recreate. Rest is good for the soul. But you'll never find relaxing reading material in this section of the store. Come with me.”

He followed her stern bidding like a dog at her heels. However would he survive a career of appeasing these shallow individuals who funded the school? His life stretched long and tedious before him. Long, tedious, and empty.

“Here you go. Choose a novel. My gift to you,” she said in a lofty manner, as though he could not afford a mere book.

“So kind of you, Mrs. Wellington. But entirely uncalled…uh, unnecessary.”

“Nonsense. I insist.” Her tone indicated she would brook no argument.

He took a deep breath and found the resolve to answer politely. “Perhaps I can choose something to donate to the school library when I'm finished.”

“Perfect.”

He scanned the shelves and chose the first book to catch his eye.
Waverley
. No author listed. But one pointless novel would suffice as well as the next.

“Oh, wonderful. A historical. My boys did so love this book. We'll be seeing much of the talented author, mark my words.”

She strode imperiously to the counter. “Put this on my account please, Mr. Jamison.”

“Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to wrap it?” The clerk directed the question to Franklin.

“No, thank you. I'll be reading it soon enough.” Which he no doubt would, despite its origin, the genre, and his annoyance, for he had nothing better to do this evening. “And thank you, Mrs. Wellington.” He tipped the book in her direction.

“Anytime, Mr. Franklin. You just keep up the good work educating our youngsters. I'm so proud to be your sponsor.”

Why didn't the woman pat him on the head and be done with it?

Franklin left the building to the sound of a jingling bell. How he missed bells. School bells. The tinkling quality of the Cavendishes' giggles. It was dashed unfair that Mrs. Wellington would jaunt off to Charlottesville while he stayed in town to pine the summer away.

A thought caught hold of him.

Unless…No, he could never. He shook the ridiculous notion away.

But why not? What would stop him from traveling to Charlottesville? A bachelor. With no commitments. On holiday.

In fact, he deserved a journey. He hadn't taken a trip since he'd arrived in Richmond.

Heavy summer air filled his lungs and somehow turned light and rejuvenating. Buoyed his step. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? He needn't sit here awaiting their return. For once, he would take charge of his life.

He would pack his bags, mount his horse, and travel to Charlottesville.

And there he would propose once and for all to the lovely Miss Cavendish.

* * *

Today Constance held the mare to a walk as they meandered along the forest trail. No point in rushing. Better to forestall the inevitable. She brushed aside a branch with her hand. The verdant leaves matched her sleeve. At least she wore her own riding habit of deep green velvet instead of the borrowed, ill-fitting one she'd donned the last time she took this journey toward Montgomery Manor. She hoped Robbie would find it pretty. Perhaps if she resorted to her old tricks, she could distract him from his purpose and matters could remain the same for a few more days.

But was that any sort of solution?

She supposed she must face it, whatever
it
might be. She'd grown sick of secrets. Whatever Robbie held back from her, she needed to know the truth. And she would not yet give in to despair.

She would hope that somehow they might overcome every obstacle. That someday she might marry Robbie. Rear his children. Beautiful children with rich auburn hair and his sky blue eyes. Live in his sprawling white house and tend his plantation as her very own. Grow a flower garden in the back. Turn the fruit to jams and jellies.

Such dreams had filled her waking thoughts and her sleeping hours for days. She would not relinquish them. She would not let Robbie's secret tear them apart.

Constance crested the final hill to the clearing she had galloped through last time. In the distance she saw the stream where she had collected wildflowers and cried. No tears today, pray God.

Robbie had not yet arrived, so she clicked her tongue, pressing harder into the horse's flanks and urging her to a canter. Together, they swept round the lush field several times. The white mane of the mare streamed in the wind. Unable to resist, Constance tossed off her hat and pulled out her pins to allow her copper hair to flow through the breeze in tandem.

The lightness of the moment broke through her heavy heart with the sun stroking her cheeks and the rush of speed and wonder as she flew about the meadow. She kicked the horse into a full gallop as laughter bubbled from her throat. At least for this moment, she could be happy and free.

On her fourth turn about the field, she saw Robbie waiting under the willow by the stream. Its wispy branches rained pale green leaves about him. Wildflowers danced in the wind at his feet, their colorful display contrasting with the simple brown of his breeches and work shirt.

Waving the green cap she had thrown aside, he smiled.

Wistfully. Forlornly.

She wished he wouldn't do so.

Slowing the horse, she trotted toward him. The moment had arrived. She could avoid it no longer.

Constance tugged to a stop, and Robbie lifted her by the waist from her sidesaddle. She imprinted the feel of his strong, rugged hands about her into her memory.

He perched the cap upon her head. “Whatever shall I do with you, my Gingersnap? You never can stay properly attired.” He ran his finger down her cheek as if she were made of fine china.

She tipped her head up, hoping for a last kiss before this dreamworld fell apart once again.

Robbie did not disappoint. He lowered his head to caress her lips with his. She threaded her arms about his neck, and he pressed her to him in desperation, like a man clinging to a rope that might save him from a deadly fall.

Their kiss turned to a hunger and thirst all bound up in one, a thirst that might never be quenched and a hunger that might never be satisfied.

He broke the kiss and sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, burying his head in her neck.

She ran her fingers through his dark, silken hair. Kissing his head, his ear, his cheek…

Robbie held her away from him. “I have to say this—
now.
Or I shall lose my courage for all of time.”

Her stomach turned to knots.

“Sit.” He pointed to the ground.

She saw the patterned quilt he had spread among the wildflowers. Lifting her skirts, she obeyed his command.

He remained standing and paced, raking his fingers through his hair.

Whatever he said, it would not tear them apart, she resolved in her heart yet again.

“Your father's death was all my fault.” He spit out the words.