More Than You Know (11 page)

It was after sunset that Cutch introduced Claire to the banks of the Cooper River. He escorted her on one arm and carried a blanket under the other. Their walk took them out the front of the mansion, across the verandah, and through the expansive gardens that joined the house to the river. The air was redolent with new blossoms, their fragrance cut by the crisp scent of the water.

Cutch snapped the blanket open and laid it smoothly on a shallow incline. “Don't think you can just wander off,” he warned her. “No one wants to fish you out of the Cooper."

Claire raised the book she had in her hand. “You're not going to read to me?"

"Not this evening. I ... I, umm, got some things to do my first night back."

"Why, Mr. Cutch. I believe you have an assignation. And you've been so quiet about it."

"Like the sphinx.” He looked over his shoulder. “But here's Miss Bria. She's volunteered to take my place."

Claire stiffened a little. Bria Hamilton was an unlikely volunteer. Her welcome had been restrained to the point of being cold and she had made no effort at supper or dinner to thaw. Claire would have much rather been left alone. She gave herself better than even odds of returning to the house safely if she was left alone. With Bria at her side, Claire speculated she was likely to arrive dripping river water.

"Good evening, Miss Bancroft,” Bria said quietly.

"Claire. Please.” She had made the same offer before, but Rand's sister insisted on addressing her formally. Claire patted the space beside her. “Won't you join me? Mr. Cutch has brought a spread big enough to entertain the crew from
Cerberus."
Her smile faltered in the wake of Bria's silence. She wondered at what looks passed between Cutch and Rand's sister. “Mr. Cutch?” she said uneasily.

"I'm leaving now, Claire. You're in Miss Bree's fine hands."

Claire heard the grass fold softly under Cutch's feet, then the rustle of Bria's skirts as she settled herself nearby. The doctor had informed Claire, with a richness of expression he had not applied to anything else, that Bria Hamilton was a singular beauty. Her hair was the color of dark honey, smoothly coiled in an intricate knot behind her head. Her eyes, he told Claire, warming to his subject, were as blue as sapphires and shaded by long lashes that kept her glance remote and somehow mysterious. Claire imagined she also commanded what was now the fashionable line of beauty: a short waist and long legs; all of it confined rigidly in a whalebone corset that fit her like a cuirass. Only Bria's hands were flawed as far as Macauley Stuart was concerned. The backs of them were brown and the palms were coarsened. The nails were squared off and short. If she applied creams, they failed to eliminate the chapped skin.

"I'll take your book,” Bria said. “If you want me to read, I need to begin now. There's not much daylight left."

Claire started to hold out the book, then withdrew it again. “I'd rather not. Would you mind very much just keeping me company?"

Bria drew her legs up and stared at the river over her knees. “This is one of my favorite spots,” she said.

Which, Claire supposed, was Bria's way of saying she was trespassing. Rand's sister was as determinedly difficult to get along with as Rand. “It's lovely,” Claire agreed. “Is it—"

"How could you know? You can't see."

"I don't need you to remind me,” Claire said evenly, carefully holding her temper. “But no one I know has a favorite spot that doesn't have something to recommend it. I can smell the greening of the garden here. There's a sigh in the branches above us, and the sound of lapping water is always pleasant. Forgive me, but I don't think I've really intruded on your private place. The vision I have of it, the one I'll carry away, is no doubt different from yours."

Bria said nothing but neither did she move away. At least Claire Bancroft was not without a backbone. “What has Rand said about me?” she asked at last.

The question startled Claire. “Precious little,” she admitted. “But your brother seldom spoke to me during the voyage, and hardly at all about his family. Mr. Cutch told me scarcely any more."

"Then you asked."

"I admit I was interested when I learned we would be stopping here. When I first heard your name mentioned I thought you were the captain's fiancée."

One corner of Bria's mouth turned up in a smile that was startlingly similar to Rand's. “My brother must have found that amusing."

"Oh, I didn't tell him. He would have made too much of it, I think. Or deliberately misled me to try to prompt a reaction."

"And would he? Prompt a reaction, I mean?” Bria turned her head sideways to study Claire's profile. “Would you have been jealous?"

Claire hoped there was enough dusk to cover her immediate discomfort. “I think it would have only made me more curious about you. Your brother is ... well, he's ... he's unusually—"

"He's a bastard sometimes,” Bria concluded matter-of-factly.

"Yes,” Claire agreed. “There's that."

Bria laughed. “Have you said as much? To his face?"

"Only once. To his face. Several times behind his back."

Bria's smile widened. “Good for you, Miss Bancroft ... Claire.” Bria sat up and inched closer to Claire, narrowing the gulf of blanket between them. “I love him to distraction, you understand, but we're all opinionated Hamiltons here and we don't always share the same opinions. He thinks I should get married and leave the running of this place to Orrin. As if that's an answer to anything. Letting Orrin run the plantation is the surest way to run it into the ground."

"Your brother must have his reasons."

"Oh, he does. My best interests, he calls them. Getting married would get me away. He doesn't understand that I couldn't leave Mother.” Bria's voice dropped to a whisper. “He doesn't understand I'm saving Henley for him."

Claire wondered if Bria imagined she was an ally—all because she had been able to call Rand Hamilton a bastard. “I'm not certain why you're telling me this,” she said. “I don't have any influence and I don't even know if I disagree with him. Perhaps he doesn't want to feel responsible for the sacrifice you're making."

"Sacrifice? This is ... was my home, too. I have a right to determine the lengths I'm willing to go for it. There's no reason for Rand to feel responsible or guilty."

"Have you told your brother this?” Claire asked gently.

The passion in Bria's voice faded and she only sounded tired now. “Twenty minutes before I came down here,” she admitted softly. “I wasn't quite recovered when I joined you."

"I see,” Claire said slowly, unaware of her companion's thoughtful regard or the hint of admiration in her eyes.

"Yes,” Bria said. “I think you really do."

Claire saw a lot more over the course of her first week at the plantation. Orrin Foster was a drunk. Not a sloppy, slurring, stumbling drunk, Claire realized, but a steady, serious one. He began applying himself to this single-minded pursuit when he rose for breakfast, usually around ten, and he paced himself throughout the day, taking time to ride into the fields or oversee the small stud. That he managed to do this without breaking his neck was a measure of his horsemanship or proof that God watched over fools.

The master of Concord—and he liked to refer to himself that way at times—was largely genial during the day. He had an open, affable countenance: a round face, wide smile, and the steady pink of drink in his cheeks and broad nose. He was by nature loud and expansive in his expressions, spreading his arms wide in conversations, slamming his hand down when he was crossed. It was toward evening that he tired, and that tiredness made him just plain mean.

What Claire could not see for herself, she saw through the eyes of others. The tension as evening approached was palpable. Elizabeth Foster made efforts both to placate her husband and excuse his behavior. Bria often simply excused herself. Dr. Stuart usually followed her, offering his escort into the gardens and along the riverbank. Claire and Rand stayed, the hours passing interminably, until Elizabeth retired to her room or Orrin took himself off to the study. Rand's presence, as far as Claire could tell, had virtually no effect on Orrin's drinking or his manner. Orrin seemed unconcerned by his stepson and made no attempt to affect consideration for consideration's sake. He did not make a pretense of extending kindness to Elizabeth or Bria for Rand's benefit, but Claire doubted that he treated them any worse. Orrin Foster was not given to posturing. He was what he was and he appeared to relish the idea that Rand had no countermeasure for that.

It was nearing the end of a particularly grueling Sunday, a full week after their arrival, that Claire decided she could leave Rand and Orrin alone in the parlor and nothing would come of it. There might be some words exchanged, but they would probably not trade blows. Exhausted from the tension that Orrin raised like a dust cloud around him, Claire excused herself soon after Elizabeth. She was surprised, though, to hear Elizabeth still making her halting way up the stairs.

Claire swept her cane in an arc in front of her and moved confidently across the large foyer to the bottom of the stairs. She climbed only a third of the steps before she was at Elizabeth's side. “Is it your foot?” Claire asked. “I think it must be bothering you more than you've admitted."

Elizabeth's hand tightened on the banister and she let her slight weight be supported on her uninjured leg. “It's really nothing,” she said. “I have no tolerance for pain, I'm afraid."

"I doubt that's true,” Claire said softly. A woman who subjected herself to Orrin Foster's savage tongue and boorish manners, Claire thought, had a great deal of tolerance for pain. It occurred to her that in some ways, Elizabeth Hamilton Foster was very nearly numb. “Here, take this.” She handed Elizabeth her cane. “Use the banister on one side and this on the other."

Elizabeth did not grasp the cane until Claire quite firmly put her fingers around it.

"Here,” Claire repeated. “Use it, or I promise I'll call for Rand.” It was then that Claire felt it being seized like a lifeline. She matched Elizabeth's careful steps until they reached the top of the stairs. “Let me take your elbow now and you use the cane. We shall manage nicely, I assure you."

Elizabeth offered her arm, but it was Claire who provided the support. They made their way down the hall slowly. At the entrance to her room, Elizabeth tried to return the cane.

"Keep it for now. I suspect you will need it tomorrow more than I."

"Oh no, I couldn't let them see me—” Elizabeth broke off. “I don't want Rand and Bria to suspect how much it still pains me."

Claire heard in Elizabeth's voice what measure of pride it cost her to admit that. “I don't know that either of them believes your assurances to the contrary. What does Dr. Stuart say?"

"He's only examined it once,” she said. “The day of your arrival. I haven't asked him to look at it again. He says it's a sprain, a bad one to be sure, but still, merely a sprain.” Elizabeth opened the door to her room and hobbled inside. She invited Claire to join her.

"Will you permit me to look at it?” Claire asked.

Elizabeth's brows lifted. “You? What do you mean, dear? How can you
look
at it?"

Claire held up her hands. “With these.” It was not difficult to imagine Elizabeth's surprise and skepticism. “I spent a great deal of my time on the islands with native healers. I was able to identify illnesses of the stomach and heart. A broken bone presented no problem to me."

"But you had your sight then,” Elizabeth said warily. “And they were
natives."

"I'm not suggesting that we use charms or amulets or tiki to relieve your pain, but perhaps there is some herbal remedy that will be more helpful than the patent medicine Dr. Stuart gave you."

Elizabeth sat down slowly on the edge of her bed. “How did you know he had given me anything?"

"The hint of anise and alcohol on your breath."

Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if there's not opium in it,” Claire told her. “And it hasn't been effective, has it?"

"No, not nearly as much as I'd hoped."

"Are you sitting on the bed, Elizabeth?"

"Yes."

"Then lie down."

Elizabeth placed the cane at the foot of the bed and eased herself back. She winced as Claire's weight depressed the mattress. Such a small movement should not have hurt so badly, she realized. She bit her lower lip when Claire's delicate hands moved lightly over the tautly stretched skin of her lower calf, ankle, and foot.

"Is your skin still a purple hue here?” asked Claire. “Or is it fading to yellow?"

"Indigo,” Elizabeth told her. “Just there ... and there."

Claire nodded. She lowered Elizabeth's foot gently. “I'm not sure this is a sprain, Elizabeth. You may have some sort of fracture. You need to stay in bed and keep your weight off the foot. The color in your skin is because of swelling and poor circulation. You do not require any medicine with alcohol. It will only serve to further the problem.” She leaned forward. “And in the event you think I learned that from an island witch doctor, I know that from my father. He's made a study of the blood and medicines that might affect its flow and humor. Some children have picture books read to them. Sir Griffin let me sit on his lap and look through his microscope. He read his journal entries to me as though they were

Chapters in a Dickens novel. For a long time I thought a corpuscle
was
a character.” She smiled when she heard Elizabeth's small chuckle. “When my father and I returned to Solonesia, I was his assistant. I was helping him with his work on hemophilia."

"I think you would be wise to listen to Miss Bancroft, Mother."

Elizabeth and Claire turned simultaneously toward the door. For all that Claire prided herself on being able to attend to extraneous sounds, she had not heard Rand's entry into the room. Now she was aware of his footfalls as he approached the bed.

"If it's privacy you want,” Rand told them, “then you have to close the door. It was not my intention to—” His eyes fell at that moment on his mother's discolored ankle. He swore softly.

"Rand!” Elizabeth reprimanded him. “There is no need to be coarse."

Claire smiled. She believed that Rand had made some effort to hold himself back. She had overheard the full range of his salty expressions on board
Cerberus,
and this bit of cursing was only mildly seasoned. “You mustn't scold him on my account,” Claire said innocently. “I've heard much worse."

Rand wished that Claire was not oblivious to the acid glance he cast in her direction. He snorted derisively to convey what he thought of her comment.

Elizabeth's eyes, so much like her son's in their chestnut color but infinitely more warm, darted between Rand and Claire. She wondered if they knew they wore their antipathy like armor. “Why don't you take Claire outside?” she asked Rand. “It's not too late for a walk in the gardens. I believe Bree and the doctor are out and about. And there's nothing to be gained by all three of us examining my foot.” She arranged her petticoats and taffeta skirt over the offending appendage. “Send Addie to me. She can help me prepare for bed."

"I'd like to make you a poultice,” Claire said. “Leeches would not be out of the question."

Elizabeth made a face. “Absolutely no leeches. A poultice will be fine. But not just now. Please, enjoy what remains of the evening and don't give another thought to me.” She smiled sweetly at her son.

Rand wondered when his mother had become as oblivious to his acid glance as Claire.