More Than You Know (14 page)

Because it was his custom to rise late, Orrin Foster was used to eating his breakfast alone. What he found disconcerting this morning was the unusual quiet of his home. When he inquired about the whereabouts of the others, he was told his wife was having another lie-in, Bria and Claire and Dr. Stuart had all requested breakfast in their rooms, and Rand had gone fishing with Cutch at dawn.

Orrin accepted this information without comment. He masterfully hid his annoyance by closing himself in his study and starting his first drink two hours ahead of his usual schedule.

Unaware that his stepfather was applying himself early to a superior state of drunkenness, Rand lay back on the grassy riverbank and closed his eyes. It was not so much that he was relaxed, just that he was tired. Beside him Cutch sat with his legs folded tailor-fashion, plucking thick blades of grass, then holding them up to his mouth to whistle through them. Almost forgotten, the fishing poles were propped on forked branches so their lines could meander in the river with the current. Cutch eyed one of the poles as it bowed a bit. “Could be you got a bite,” he told Rand. “Mmmm."

Cutch shrugged. “Probably you'd just toss it back in like the others."

"Pro'bly."

Lowering the blade of grass from his lips, Cutch looked down at Rand. “Don't seem right, somehow, you yankin’ me awake this morning to come out here. Trampin’ all this way from the house just to fish, then not carin’ if you catch a thing."

"I wanted the company."

"I can see that.” Cutch nodded slowly, his wide mouth pursed to one side in a wry smile. “You've been downright loquacious."

"I didn't say I wanted to talk. I just didn't want to be alone."

"Then you probably want me to sit here all quiet like."

"Pro'bly."

"No whistlin’ through the grass."

"No whistlin',” Rand said.

Cutch turned his attention back to the river. He dropped the blade of grass in his hands and plucked a new one. Instead of trying to make a reed of it, he simply fanned it back and forth across the bottom of his chin. In deference to Rand, he kept his thoughts to himself.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the umbrella of willow leaves above Rand and touched his face. He laid his forearm across his eyes to shade them. He remembered that Claire had been lying in bed in much the same posture when he had entered her room. Rand frowned slightly, wishing he hadn't remembered that. He'd made Cutch tramp two miles along the riverbank to get away from memories of Claire. Apparently distance had nothing to do with it.

"What time do you make it?” Rand asked.

Cutch glanced through the willows to the angle of the sun in the sky. “Ten-thirty or thereabouts. Why? You have some pressin’ appointment you only recollected now?"

"No. No appointment."

"Didn't think so.” It seemed to Cutch that what Rand needed to do was sleep. Judging by what he'd heard last night, there was precious little of that going on. He hadn't asked about it. That wasn't his way. He could wait for Rand to tell him. “I suppose everyone's up at Henley. Could be they're wondering where we are."

"I told Jeb.” Rand felt the slant of sunlight change. He moved his arm. “You were in Charleston yesterday. How soon do you think we could be ready to sail?"

Cutch realized he wasn't surprised by the question. He'd sensed a certain restlessness in Rand throughout the morning. They might still be walking if Cutch hadn't thrown down his pole under the willow and announced it was the perfect fishing spot. “Supplies have been ordered but nothing's been loaded. The men think they have a week yet to make ready."

"I know that. Can it be done in two days?"

Cutch whistled softly. “Two days. The men won't like it."

"I didn't ask if they would like it. I asked if it could be done."

Cutch's high brow furrowed. “If I leave this afternoon and put the order to those on
Cerberus,
yes, it can be done. The remainder of the crew will have to be routed from their homes. They think they have more time with their families."

Rand nodded. He stopped short of giving the order. There was some peace to be found simply knowing what could be accomplished in two days’ time. He would not push toward that end now. Rand sat up. There was no possibility that he would sleep this morning. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, sighed softly, then selected a blade of grass and held it up to his lips. The sound was short and sharp.

Cutch countered with a deep warbling whistle and the competition was begun. The impromptu woodwind selections included recognizable versions of “Dixie” and Stephen Foster's “Camptown Races.” Rand admitted defeat when Cutch offered up several measures of “Ode to Joy."

Laughing, Rand tossed his blade of grass aside and leaned back so he was braced by his arms. He crossed his ankles. “You're quite something, Cutch. ‘Ode to Joy.’ Where did you learn that?"

"Same place you did, I expect. Your father used to play it. Bria, too, now that I think of it. Been a long time since there was music coming from Henley."

Rand nodded slowly. The Yankees might as well have destroyed the piano when they tramped through his home. Instead they'd left it untouched. The same could not be said of the piano player. “Were you in my room some time yesterday?” he asked.

Cutch took Rand's deliberate change of subject without blinking. “Just before I left for Charleston,” he said. “But you were there then. Why?"

Rand shrugged. “I thought maybe you had gone through some of the papers on my desk."

"Not while you were there. And certainly not while you weren't. Something missing?"

"No. They're just not the same way I left them. Or at least how I thought I left them."

"Orrin,” Cutch said. It was not a question. “Still looking to get his hands on the riddle."

"That occurred to me. I suppose he thinks I wouldn't keep it on the ship when I'm here."

"That would be a logical assumption."

"I don't know. I used to believe he didn't think it really existed, but Bria told me that even when I'm not here he searches the house for it from time to time. It seems he can't make up his mind where I might be hiding it."

"He's afraid of it."

Rand wasn't sorry about that. “Good. He should be."

Cutch didn't reply. Even if he had thought one was necessary, his attention now fully rested on another matter. His pole was bobbing in earnest and in danger of being pulled free of its support. “Look at this!” he grabbed for the pole just before it slipped through the forked branch. “Seems like I've caught me some bragging rights!” He stood up and snapped the pole toward him. His line stretched and the pole arced, but nothing came to the surface.

Unperturbed, Rand stayed where he was. “You hooked a rock,” he said. “You can brag all you want to about that. I'll be happy to make certain everyone knows."

Cutch snorted. “Don't be so quick to judge.” He ducked out from beneath the willow and walked a few feet to his right, then his left. Something was definitely tugging on the end of his line. He could feel the current pulling him. It was
not
a rock. Cutch tugged on the pole again and sensed the give. He drew in the line as he walked down the bank to the river's edge. Water lapped at his bare toes and the rocks were cool under his feet.

"It's coming, Rand!” The line stretched taut again as Cutch heaved. He danced sideways over the rocks, looking for the angle that would land his fish on the bank. Veins stood out on his forearms like cords when he heaved again. This time his catch gave in. Cutch almost fell backwards as it leaped out of the water and sailed over his head, flapping and dripping water all over him. Behind him he heard it flop heavily on the grass.

Cutch scrambled up the bank to examine his prize. Rand was already kneeling beside it, trying to release the hook. Cutch's eyes went from his catch to the man trying to free it. The faint ruddiness of Rand's complexion couldn't be properly explained by his sudden exertion.

"Seems like I caught a rare
Femina corsetus."

Rand didn't look up. “Appears that way."

"Probably originated somewhere upstream."

"Pro'bly."

"Near Henley, I expect."

Rand's grunt was noncommittal. He knew a surge of satisfaction out of proportion to his accomplishment when he finally pulled Cutch's hook free of the material. He took off his jacket, folded Claire's corset, and stuffed it into one of his sleeves. He draped the jacket over his arm and picked up his pole. Without a word to Cutch, he began walking in the direction of Henley.

Cutch grabbed his own pole and caught up quickly, falling into step beside Rand and matching his long stride. “Don't suppose there's anything to brag about after all."

"No,” Rand said quietly, his eyes on the uneven ground. “I don't suppose there ever was."

Orrin was holding court in the entrance hall when Rand and Cutch arrived. Elizabeth stood on the stairs, supported by the banister on one side and Claire on the other. Her face was pale and pinched with pain. Claire's features only held concern. In contrast to both of them, Bria was stoic. She showed no distaste or pleasure for the proceedings, no anxiety or apprehension. Her beautiful face was simply expressionless, as if she had ceased to hear or see anything, or as if anything she saw or heard had no impact.

Dr. Stuart stood at the foot of the stairs. The bandage across his nose was only a few shades paler than his freckled complexion. His left arm was stretched out at his side, his hand resting on the newel post. His posture suggested he was shielding the women from any drunken physical advance Orrin might make. At the end of the hall Rand saw Jebediah, Addie, and two other servants hovering around the doorway, afraid to interfere, afraid to move away.

Rand gave his jacket and pole to Cutch. “What's going on, Orrin? Why is my mother out of bed?"

"She's not much good
in
it, is she?” he snapped. The edges of his words were only slightly slurred.

Rand started forward, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Rand, no!"

It was his mother's voice that brought him up short. “It's the drink,” she said. “It will pass."

Orrin chuckled. “Always the peacemaker, your mother. Well, I've got my own peacemaker.” Until now his left arm had been partially concealed from Rand. He raised it enough for Rand to see that he was holding a Colt. He waved it in the direction of the stairs. Elizabeth and Dr. Stuart cringed. Claire's reaction came a moment later in response to Elizabeth's shudder. Only Bria remained unmoved.

Rand knew he could get the weapon away from Orrin, but not perhaps without it discharging. He held his ground. “Put it down, Orrin. You can't enjoy Henley if you're swinging from a rope."

"Concord,” Orrin said, jabbing the gun in Rand's direction now. “Concord, damn you. That's what it's called now, you bastard. That's what I named it and that's what it's called. No more goddamned Henley. No more goddamned Hamiltons. This is
my
house and I'll be goddamned if any one of you will go into
my
study, through
my
things. Did you think I wouldn't know? I know everything that goes on around here, do you hear? Everything!"

"Orrin,” Rand tried to inject his voice with calm, but even to his own ears it sounded more like a warning.

"Shut up,” Orrin snarled. His grip on the Colt tightened and he leveled it a bit more solidly at Rand. “Unless you want everyone to know what I saw last night. Would you want that, Rand? Would you?"

Rand was careful not to look at Claire. If she was not giving herself away, then he was not going to do it with a guilty glance. Hoping that his stepfather could be redirected, Rand asked, “What's this about someone being in your study? Is that why you've summoned everyone?"

"Ain't it just,” Orrin drawled. “Someone's been lookin’ through my books. I know the order. I know when they've been misplaced on the shelves. My desk, too. Always keep the letter opener one particular way on top of my papers. It wasn't the way I left it. Seems no one here knows anything about it. You're late to the party. Could be it's you."

"It was me,” Cutch said.

Orrin's brows rose. He wavered a bit on his feet, startled by Cutch's rumbling baritone, almost as if he'd forgotten the towering presence of the black man. “Well, damn,” he said softly. Then he fired.

Cutch staggered backward, but the bullet did not put the big man on the floor. His soft grunt of pain was covered by Elizabeth's scream and the sound of the Colt being discharged. Before Orrin could squeeze off another shot, Rand tackled him, taking him out at the knees. The Colt fell heavily and spun away from the combatants. Macauley Stuart bent to pick it up, but it was Bria who reached it first. She rose slowly, holding the weapon in a steady, two-handed grip, and pointed it at where Rand had Orrin pinned to the floor. Her eyes, like her hands, were unwavering.

Bria's voice was eerily calm. “Get away from him, Rand."

Rand glanced at his sister, struck by her tone as much as her order. Her expression was cold, her beautiful sapphire eyes remote. She could kill, he thought. Had she been anyone else, he could have let her. “No, Bree. Give the gun to Stuart."

On the stairs behind Bria, Rand saw that his mother had sunk to a sitting position. She was crying softly, almost soundlessly. Claire was still beside her, one arm around Elizabeth's narrow shoulders. Rand knew it was Claire's presence, her offer of comfort, that was keeping his mother from a well-deserved fit of hysterics. His eyes darted to Stuart. The doctor hovered near Bria, looking as if he might try to take the Colt from her. He'd made no move toward Cutch to examine the injury.

Rand glanced backward. Cutch was leaning against the door, stemming the flow of blood from his shoulder with one hand. He had finally dropped Rand's jacket but still held both fishing poles. Rand shook his head slowly, the smallest smile playing on his lips.

"Cutch is going to be fine,” he told Bria. “Orrin only winged him.” When Bria's stance did not falter and her eyes remained unmoving, Rand wondered if she had even heard him. “Bree, look at him,” Rand said more loudly, this time with a touch of urgency. “Look at Cutch.” It seemed to Rand that even Orrin was holding his breath, waiting to see what Bria would do. Rand's weight bore down a little harder on his stepfather, just as a reminder that he was paying attention.

"I'll be right as rain, Miss Bria,” Cutch said. His deeply melodious voice had a soothing cadence. “Right as rain. I've been hurt worse than this tumblin’ out of bed."

Bria's eyes narrowed. She hesitated, then risked a glance at Cutch.

He winked at her.

The gesture was so unexpected that Bria blinked owlishly. Her eyes refocused, first on Cutch's injury, then on the weapon she held. The cool remoteness of her expression vanished, replaced by one that was almost like surprise.

Rand saw his chance. “Stuart, take the gun. Bree will give it to you."

Macauley held up his hand. It hovered just above Bria's wrist for a moment. She lowered the gun slightly and relaxed her grip. He took it from her loose fingers easily.

Orrin released the breath he was holding. Rand reared back from the sour reek of it. He got up slowly and brushed himself off. Stepping over Orrin as though he were so much offal, Rand went to Cutch. He took the poles from his friend's hand and propped them in the corner. “Jeb,” he called to the servant still hovering at the far end of the hallway. “Help Cutch to one of the rooms upstairs."

Orrin had recovered sufficiently to sit up now. He also found his voice. “No nigra is going to use one of my bedrooms,” he barked. “Take him to the servant quarters."

Rand turned on his stepfather. “Shut up, Orrin.” He gave the order without rancor.

Cutch made a quiet protest. “You don't have to put me up in the big house. I can—"

"Shut up, Cutch.” Rand waved the hesitant Jebediah forward. “Now, Jeb. Give Cutch some support. Stuart, help him.” He took the Colt as the doctor lent his assistance to Jeb, then stepped out of the way. Motioning to another servant in the hallway, Rand gave orders for her to supply Stuart with whatever he needed. “Go on, Kate. Follow them up and make yourself useful. Mother, help Claire down a step so they can pass without trampling her."

Elizabeth swiped at her tear-stained face with the back of her hand. She regarded her son with a mixture of wonderment and admiration. “Yes, Captain,” she said quietly. She guided Claire to the step in front of her. “Just for a moment, dear. Then you can help me back to my room. We'll be the caboose to this train."

Orrin lurched to his feet. “Like hell, Elizabeth. I want to see you in my study."

Rand stepped forward and leveled the barrel of the Colt at Orrin's head. “I won't let Mother talk me out of it again,” he said. He sensed that the parade on the stairs had halted momentarily to see if the drama would be played out this time. Rand indicated the study's paneled doors with a quick gesture of his gun hand. “Through there, Orrin. Get drunker. Pass out. No one wants to hear from you any longer."

Orrin's hesitation cost him. Lightning quick, Rand shifted the position of the weapon and struck Orrin in the back of the head with the Colt's butt. Orrin grunted hard and collapsed in stages, falling to his knees first, then forward on his hands, and finally flat-faced on the floor at Bria's feet. She stared down at him just long enough to make certain he was out cold.

Bria stepped around Orrin to open the study doors; then she bent at the waist and grabbed him by his boots.

Elizabeth leaned forward and placed one hand lightly on Claire's shoulder. “Bria's dragging Orrin inside his study."

Claire nodded. She had followed most of what happened, right up to the moment Orrin's body thudded to the floor. Beside her she noted that Jeb, Macauley, and Cutch were on the move again. She waited until they passed before she returned to Elizabeth's side and offered her help.

Rand watched Claire's shoulders brace to take his mother's weight. He didn't like what he saw. Elizabeth was almost wholly dependent on Claire just to be able to stand. It looked as if Claire was lifting his mother, not merely supporting her. Rand thrust the Colt back in Bria's hands as she came out of the study and took the steps two at a time.

"Let me,” he said. He felt Claire stiffen as he inserted himself between her and his mother. “You can't carry her, Claire."

Elizabeth looped her arms around her son's shoulders and was lifted easily in his arms. “Take his elbow,” she told Claire. “Come with me to my room."

Claire could not explain that she had no wish to take Rand's arm. She imagined he felt the same way. He did not pause overlong waiting for her to come to a decision. Claire reached for him, expecting to be able to curl her fingers in his jacket. Instead, her hand rested solidly against the sleeve of his shirt. The thin cotton was no barrier to the warmth of his skin. She felt his corded muscles tense beneath her palm. Claire almost pulled away, but some sense of self-preservation kept her attached. Releasing him now, she thought, would be a kind of admission that she was disturbed by his closeness. Claire was not prepared to acknowledge that openly to herself or to Rand.

At the foot of the stairs, Bria watched her mother, Rand, and Claire turn on the landing. The Colt was still heavy in her hand. She emptied the chamber of the remaining bullets and pocketed them; then she laid the gun on the entry hall table. She did not think it looked terribly out of place next to the vase of flowers she had arranged only yesterday. It looked ... handy.

Bria was on the point of joining everyone above stairs when she noticed Rand's discarded jacket on the floor. It lay there in a creased heap, but was untouched by the drops and spatterings of Cutch's blood. She backtracked, stooped, and picked it up, smoothing the collar and pressing out the sleeves with the heel of her hand.

Her curiosity was caught by the dampness of one of the sleeves. At first she thought she had been mistaken about Cutch's blood and that it had not only stained Rand's jacket, but soaked the sleeve through. When she risked looking at her hand she saw it was not red at all, but merely damp. Frowning now, Bria raised the sleeve and found the weight of it more than could be explained by its wet state. She opened the jacket and slipped her hand inside the sleeve. Her fingers touched the ridged edge of the object that had been thrust inside.

Looking at the corset and surmising it could only have belonged to Claire, Bria was left with the notion that what she had stumbled upon in Rand's jacket was another Hamilton riddle.