The Horsemaster's Daughter (45 page)
Read The Horsemaster's Daughter Online
Authors: Susan Wiggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
…make yourself ready for the mischance of the hour…
—William Shakespeare,
The Tempest,
I, i
“I
’ve never rescued anyone before,” Hunter said, steering into the strong southerly current. He glared at the sputtering, cursing girl on the deck. “I wonder if it’s always this difficult.”
During the first hour of their escape from the island, she had not stopped talking. No, thought Hunter, thirsty for the rum he had already finished, she didn’t talk. She whined. She ranted. She was ranting still.
“…no better than the Portuguese in Africa, capturing slaves. Who gave you the right to snatch me from my home? To steal my things and my animals and carry us off as if we were booty looted from a shipwreck?”
He adjusted the tiller. “Imagine,” he said. “How dare I?”
“You can’t force me to stay. I’ll go home, see if I won’t.”
He’d had enough. Securing the tiller with a line, he thrust himself toward her, moving fast. Surprising her.
He shoved her up against the side of the pen and glared down into her face. “Listen. Because I’m only going to say this once. Your father was killed for helping slaves escape. Last night the slave-catchers burned your house to the ground. Lord knows what they’d have done if they’d found you.”
“Is that why you came back for me?”
“I didn’t come back. I was lying at anchor, waiting for you to come to your senses. Which, I needn’t point out, you failed to do.” He knew he would never tell her how he’d paced the decks, wrestled with indecision until it was almost too late. He’d never confess what the sight of her burning house had done to him. “I couldn’t let you wait around to be killed,” he said brusquely.
“Who are you to make that decision for me?’
Someone who cares.
He bit his tongue to keep the words in. Caring brought heartache. He was walking proof of that. “Someone who doesn’t want you on his conscience.”
“And exactly what do you propose to do with me?”
He’d had plenty of time to think about it, but the ideas flew out of his head. When he looked at her now, when he smelled the wild heathery fragrance of her hair, all he could think about was what he had done to her that night. No matter how drunk he got he could still remember the taste of her mouth and the way her breasts had felt cupped in his hand. He could remember the startled sounds of delight she had made and could feel her legs wrapped unabashedly around him.
Hunter had lost count of the women he had loved over the years. But he knew there had never been anyone like Eliza.
“Well?” She pushed for an answer. “Have you thought about that? Have you?”
“Of course I have,” he lied, letting her go and pushing away from the pen. In truth, what
would
he do with such a girl? A feral woman, raised by her unconventional father at the edge of nowhere. The wild islands had been her classroom, a handful of books her tutors. In terms of horse sense, she was more learned than the most dedicated scholars at Old Dominion. But in terms of living, she was a babe in the woods. She had no idea how to get on in society.
“I’ll pay you for the service you’ve done me,” he said.
She plunked down on the deck and examined the gash in her foot. “You have no money. You said so yourself.”
“When this stallion starts winning, I’ll be flush. You’ll be well compensated, I promise you that. You’ll be able to book passage to California. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
“I never pictured myself doing it,” she said, wrapping a bandanna around her foot. “I never saw myself leaving the island.” She stood up to grasp a shroud, and faced east to the low flat islands behind them. In the uncertain light of the coming dawn, there was little to distinguish them from sea or sky. “I can’t see it anymore,” she said quietly. “I can’t see Flyte Island.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there,” he pointed out. In a way, he was glad she couldn’t see her former home. The eerie glow from the fire had pulsed unnaturally into the night, illuminating the grief in her face. Now the shadows of dawn softened her drawn features. Still, he reminded himself, the woman had lost her home last night, lost it in a shock of violence. He wished he knew how to comfort her.
“Remember how you said you and your father used to dream of seeing California, the wild herds out there?” he said awkwardly. “I brought all your pictures and maps.”
She held herself very stiff and straight as the rounded bow pushed into the low mist on the water. “It’s easy to dream. Harder to face the dream coming true.”
When they passed the tiny port of Cape Charles, a shrill steam whistle sounded and a few fishing boats scudded by, shrouded in nets. The bay was opening up to a new morning. A vessel hove into view, emerging from the fog like a watery ghost.
“Get down, quickly,” Hunter ordered her.
Eliza dropped to the deck and lay in the shadow of the stock pen. “Who is it?”
“Might be the scum who burned your place.”
“Ahoy! What’re you shipping?” came the demand from the boat. It was a skipjack, small and swift, flying enough canvas to outrun the scow in any wind.
“Livestock, and not a very good lot,” Hunter said, sounding chagrined. He squinted through the fog, trying to see how many manned the skipjack. “And you? Out fishing today?” He already knew the answer to that. He saw no lines or weirs.
“There’s been a slave escape from a place in Northampton County,” a voice from the other boat said. “Handsome reward out for him.”
Eliza closed her hand around a marlinespike, and Hunter’s blood chilled. He had taken charge of keeping her out of danger. Reaching down, he snatched the pointed tool from her. “Haven’t seen a soul, slave or free,” he said loudly.
“My partner and I, we’re after a lone runaway,” one of the men explained. The bow of the sailboat angled toward the scow and cut cleanly through the gray water, drawing close with unexpected speed. “Young buck, crippled by a mantrap, last seen a bit north of here.”
“Well, you’re braver souls than I,” Hunter said, “taking off after such a vicious character.”
The man spat a stream of brown tobacco juice overboard. “You watch what you say, mister.”
“You sure you only got livestock there?” the other asked. “If’n you’re telling the truth, you oughtn’t to worry.”
Hunter could see, by the ruffles in the water ahead, that he had a chance of catching the oncoming breeze if he could get there in time. But the other boat was steep-sided and sleek, quicker and more maneuverable than the ungainly scow. He had nothing to hide, though, and Ryan’s ship was long gone. Still, he knew these two had burned Eliza’s home and could well be the ones who had murdered her father. Elaborately casual, he unlashed his tiller and steered into the wind. “I’m not worried, gentlemen,” he said easily. “Kind of you to inquire, though.”
“Slacken sail!” The skipjack closed the distance fast, outfitted with plenty of canvas for fast runs to the big cities in the north. The sailboat hove in and out of the mist, finally emerging too close for comfort. The man on the deck held a long percussion shotgun pointed straight at Hunter.
“You hard of hearing?” the man demanded. “I said, slacken sail!”
Hunter was outmanned, outgunned and outmaneuvered. He had no choice. He grasped the mainsheet and gave it a quick jerk. The sail slackened instantly.
The pair of men on the skipjack worked with piratical precision. A grappling hook swung across, thunking against the side a few times before it grabbed hold. They pulled hand over hand, dragging the helpless scow toward them. The sailors were a weather-beaten pair, their hard faces creased with that special brutality of men who hunted slaves for profit.
Caliban planted his forepaws on the gunwale, black lips drawn back in a vicious grin. He didn’t bark but made a far more threatening vibration deep in his throat. In the pen, the stallion whistled and thumped his hooves. Nervously the slave-catcher swung his weapon toward the big dog.
“Hold your fire,” Eliza yelled, jumping up from her hiding place.
Hunter set his jaw. He wondered if she understood what a bother it was, keeping her safe.
“Well, now,” the slave-catcher said, and despite the distance of several yards, Hunter could see the hard glitter in his eyes. “What have we here?”
Two sharply hungry gazes locked onto Eliza. Her wet dress hugged her form, showing the outline of her nipples, chilled to hardness, the tender curve of her belly and hips, the V-shape between her legs. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t have to. They saw a woman, ripe for the plucking, and they wanted her in the crudest way possible.
Exactly as Hunter wanted her—and had taken her.
“Now I see why you ain’t being so friendly,” the man with the gun said. “Keeping the wench to yourself. Can’t say’s I blame you. I like a nice yeller bitch every once in a while myself.”
Hunter felt a dull, quiet shock. Could these idiots possibly have assumed that Eliza was his slave?
“What’s he talking about?” she demanded.
“Don’t address your betters like that,” he snapped at her.
“My betters?”
“Sit your scrawny ass down, woman, and shut your yap.” Reaching forward, he shoved at her shoulder. She stumbled back, tripping over a coil of rope and plunking down onto the deck.
“Can’t do a thing with poor Bertha,” he said to the others, pasting on a long-suffering look. He deliberately used the name of the insane wife in
Jane Eyre
and hoped Eliza would catch on. “She used to be more biddable until the fever was at her. Addled her brains. Fried them, I think.”
“She fried her brains?” The sailor scratched his head.
“The fever did. Turns out there’s nothing to be done.” With a crudeness that came too naturally to him, he scratched his crotch to indicate the cause of the fever.
The slave-catchers exchanged a glance of distrust. Realization must have dawned on Eliza like the sun breaking through clouds. Squatting on deck, she strummed her lips, making an awful noise that caused the dog to tip back his head and howl. The men watched her with amazement. Their previous edgy lust gave way to disgust and, in small measure, a twinge of pity for Hunter for being saddled with such a creature.
Saddled with her. Almighty God, she was his now. His to keep, his to protect. And he was so inept at keeping and protecting anything.
His hand itched. Her Henry Rifle lay at hand, leaning in the shadows against the pen. He had to force himself to regain his patience. “I know you must be in a hurry to go about your business,” he said. “I’m not looking for any trouble. Got enough of my own right here on this boat.” He indicated the grappling hooks. “Here, I’ll give you a hand with these.”
Hunter slung one heavy iron hook overboard. The sharp point caught the rudder of the skipjack, yanking it off its mooring.
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to be so careless.” He reeled in the hook and slung it again, this time taking out a section of the gunwale. “I’m damn clumsy with this business—”
“Just leave it, you blamed fool,” the slave-catcher said. “Damn your infernal hide. You disabled our steering.”
“Have I, now?” Hunter asked.
Eliza’s lip-strumming trailed off. She came up on her knees to watch.
“You’ll have to give us a tow. Now, make fast that other hook,” the slave-catcher ordered.
Hunter took up the heavy second hook. He could feel Eliza’s eyes on him, pleading with him not to toss it to them. He sent them the most charming grin he could muster, the grin that had saved him from beatings as a boy and had won him impossible bank loans as a grown man.
“Gentlemen,” he said, hefting the hook up onto his shoulder, “choke on it.”
With that, he heaved the grappling hook overboard. The disabled skipjack foundered, sails luffing uselessly in the breeze. The current played havoc with her, swinging the bow wildly and causing her to wallow in a wave trough.
Gunshot exploded from the skipjack but the shot went wild, pinging harmlessly into the water. And Hunter calmly steered the scow out into the stream of the current heading into the bay.
A
lbion.
In Latin the word meant “white,” but Eliza’s overwhelming first impression was of green. Green hills rising in ever-receding misty layers to the west. Green haze lying in the low valleys between the hills. Green trees taller than anything she’d seen on her low country island. Green murk at the fringes of the vast opening of the bay leading way up into the heart of Virginia.
The lushness of the area seemed vaguely decadent, as if it were about to burst from so much bounty. But decadence in the conventional sense had never bothered Eliza particularly.
While Hunter secured the lines to the ramp so the livestock could exit, Caliban barked excitedly and leaped ashore, toenails scrabbling over the weathered planks. Eliza felt nothing of the dog’s sense of adventure. Overnight, her world had been transformed. The father she thought she had known had turned out to be a different person entirely. She took pride in the notion that he had secretly helped fugitives to freedom. Yet a part of her felt betrayed, because he’d hidden something so important from her. And the thing that he’d hidden had got him killed.
She felt foolish, having believed all this time that he’d been murdered because of his affinity for horses. But foolishness was not the cause of her broken heart. Hunter Calhoun was.
Even after an eventful night, a dangerous sail across the dark waters of the bay and an encounter with slave-catchers, he looked magnificent. The sunlight had a special quality when filtered through the tender green of the budding trees, and when it fell over him, his harsh masculinity was softened, so that he appeared almost vulnerable. His beard, nearly an inch long by now, had reddish strands amid the gold, and the ends looked so soft she had to fold her hands into fists to keep from touching them.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked.
She stood up, preparing to help off-load the animals. “What do you suppose became of those men you left out in the bay?”
“With any luck, they couldn’t repair their steering and were swept out into the Atlantic.”
The thought that they might die created a strange coldness in her chest. Not regret, but discomfort, certainly. Hunter showed no emotion at all as he went about setting the ramp. After a while, he glanced at her again. “
Now
what?” he asked.
“I was just thinking about
The Tempest.
”
“That again.”
“I never really thought about the ending. But you know, the story ends before they leave the island.”
“So?”
“We never learn what becomes of everyone.”
“Prospero goes back to his dukedom in Milan. Ferdinand and Miranda sail to Naples, where they live happily ever after as prince and princess. All the sprites and beasts are released from their enchantment. Make fast that line, will you?”
She obeyed sulkily. He didn’t understand. As long as she stayed on the island, she didn’t have to worry about the way things ended. Now, thrust into this strange place, she had to make her way through unfamiliar terrain, alien and green, fraught with peril.
Hunter went to the end of the dock and gave a shrill whistle. The chickens clucked and scolded. In the distance, a slender man started running toward them. Alarmed, she edged toward the scow.
“Eliza,” Hunter said. “You can’t stay hidden away on that island forever. You belong in the world, not hiding from it.”
Perhaps he understood more than she knew. Her heart lurched at the sight of the stranger coming toward her. It was a youth, she saw as he drew near. She had never seen anyone quite like him. He was neither black nor white, but a melding of the two, with matted black hair that hung in long, twisted ropes from scalp to shoulder. His skin was the color of polished oak, his eyes the light gold of autumn leaves. His slight build gave him the look of a boy, but he had a peculiar musculature in his build, and a weary wisdom in his face that hinted he was older than he appeared.
“This is Noah,” Hunter said. “Runs the stables and races our horses. Noah, this is Miss Eliza Flyte.”
Noah sent her a brief nod, but clearly his interest was fixed on the gated pen in the scow. “Well?” he demanded.
Hunter said nothing as he slid back the bolt. Eliza took hold of Claribel’s rope halter and led the milch cow ashore. Hunter opened the other side of the pen.
Noah shrank back, his fascinated gaze fixed on the blindfolded stallion. Hunter took the leading rein and brought Finn down the ramp. The horse’s skin quivered, and his ears flicked with tension, but he walked obediently across the ankle-deep grass.
Hunter reached up and removed the thick cloth from the horse’s eyes. “You were right. I didn’t have to shoot him.”
Noah’s face lit with a radiant joy that nearly brought a smile to Eliza’s face. “Praise the Lord,” the youth said. “The horsemaster gentled him.”
Hunter shook his head. “The horsemaster died some months ago.”
Noah blinked in confusion. “Then who—”
“Miss Flyte,” Hunter said, gesturing at Eliza. “The horsemaster’s daughter.”
The boy stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Ma’am, you’re a wonder. Truly, a God-given wonder.”
“He’s a wonderful horse,” Eliza said, relieved to find a topic in common with this intense, handsome boy. “He simply needed a special sort of training.”
“Can you show me?” he asked. “Can you show me what you did?”
“I can indeed.” She beamed, thinking that perhaps the world was not such a terrible place after all. Yet even as she smiled, fatigue rolled over her, and she had to turn away to stifle a yawn.
“Stable the horse and turn the cow out to the meadow by the bake house,” Hunter said to Noah. “And see that the stallion gets a portion of sweetened oats. We’ll put him through his paces later this morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Noah approached the stallion with a cool authority that pleased Eliza. The youth was clearly comfortable in the presence of horses. Finn’s skin quivered and his ears twitched, but he was docile enough as Noah took hold of his lead. He hesitated, thought a moment, and said, “I reckon Blue will be mighty pleased to see the horse.”
Hunter nodded curtly.
“Maybe,” Noah said, speaking cautiously, “seeing the horse will help—”
“The boy’s beyond any help,” Hunter snapped. “Come with me,” he said to Eliza. Without waiting to see if she complied, he strode across the broad, misty field—a lawn, she supposed, although she had never seen one. How lovely it was.
She tried to guess Hunter’s mood. He was a different person, here on the mainland. He held his shoulders more tensely. He walked more stiffly. And he hadn’t smiled since setting the slave-catchers adrift. He reminded her of Mr. Rochester, dour and secretive.
She shook her head, trying to banish her speculation, at least for a time. She wondered what he meant about his son being beyond any help.
He led her around a curve in the broad lawn. Immediately, she found cause for worry. “That is your house?” she demanded, staring at the huge white structure tucked into the cleft of two soft green velvet hills.
“It is.” He didn’t seem to notice her consternation.
House
seemed such an inadequate term for the place. Columns soared three storeys from the marble steps of the front to the Greek-style pediment over the front entranceway. Row upon row of windows, each with a railed balcony, flanked the front. The first level had a veranda that wrapped around the entire vast structure. This was no house but a mansion, or a château, or an estate. Perhaps a villa or manor. But certainly not a house.
A long open drive with a parade of arching live oaks led the way to the front entrance. With each step, Eliza’s sense of dread heightened. Though the breeze blew sweet with new growth, her chest felt tense, and it was hard to breathe. She inhaled laboriously, like a fish floundering on the beach. And still Hunter kept going, heedless of her discomfort.
The closer she drew to the house, the more she saw. Hand-carved scrolls crowned the front columns. A broad staircase led from the lawn to a railed porch that wrapped around the lower floor. Above a soaring portico were rows of French windows flanked by delicately carved shutters. She noticed something else as well. The white paint, which had appeared so stark and gleaming from a distance, was chipping and peeling. A few of the windows were cracked, and a few others had boards put up to cover the panes. Some of the shutters hung askew. An air of neglect haunted this once-fine white palace. She remembered what Hunter had told her about his life here, and about the death of his wife. Perhaps when he had lost her, he had stopped caring about the appearance of his home.
He went up the granite steps—the bottom one had a broken corner—and opened a tall door with a leaded fan-shaped lintel. Eliza stepped, wide-eyed, into a broad entry hall. The ceiling rose up all three storeys and a skylight of leaded, frosted glass let in a flood of diffused sunlight. Two staircases, each a mirror image of the other, curved up each side of the hall. Gilded double doors—all mysteriously closed—flanked the entrance, and twin narrow passageways led toward the back of the house. Though the hall was empty, with dust balls ambling across the wooden floor and cobwebs draping the woodwork in the corners, the sense of weary, spent grandeur stole her breath. Now she knew how Jane Eyre felt, getting her first glimpse of Thornfield Manor.
“Nancy,” Hunter called out. “Nancy, I’m back.”
He didn’t turn to Eliza, didn’t welcome her. And even if he had, she wouldn’t feel welcome in the haunted, shabby elegance of this strange house. A cavernous silence shrouded the place, yet in the midst of that silence, she heard a weird tap-tap, drawing closer. The click of old bones? The snap of dry tinder? She could not place the noise.
And then she saw Nancy.
The woman was old and stooped, her small black face suffused with an unexpected serenity. She wore a dimity dress and a crisply clean apron. At first Eliza thought she was leaning on a cane, but then she noticed that the tip of the cane was sliding along the floor and tapping against the baseboard. Nancy was blind, Eliza realized with a start, studying the deep-set, cloudy eyes. Blind as Mr. Rochester after the fire.
“Nancy, I’ve brought Miss Eliza Flyte home to stay a while,” Hunter said, striding across the hall and giving her a hug. An unexpected lump rose in Eliza’s throat. The tiny, dark woman and the big fair-haired man embraced, closing their eyes with an air of long affection.
“How do you do?” Eliza said nervously, raising her voice.
“I’m blind, girl, not deaf,” Nancy scolded, but not unkindly. “Come here, so I can get a look at you.”
She “looked” with a brief touch, taking Eliza’s hand in hers and then trailing her fingers upward, lightly tracing the topography of her face. Once Eliza got over being startled, she pressed her mouth upward into a smile.
“You just a little bit of a thing,” Nancy remarked. “But strong, I can tell.” Her hand lingered in Eliza’s hair, and a curious expression came over her face.
“Is something wrong?”
Nancy was quiet for several moments. She turned away. “Let’s get you something to eat, and then you need a rest.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said, feeling uncertain.
“Come on, then,” Nancy said with a hint of impatience.
Hunter started toward the front door.
“Mr. Hunter!” Nancy said sharply.
He froze, then turned to face her. “Ma’am?”
“Ain’t you wondering about the little ones?”
“Of course.” His face tightened strangely, as if something painful stabbed into him. “How are Blue and Belinda?”
“Off to their lessons at Bonterre.” She spoke the name with a certain distaste. Addressing Eliza, she explained, “That’d be the Beaumont place up the road. I reckon they’ll want to meet you when they get back this afternoon.”
Hunter turned sharply for the door and left the house. Eliza stared after him a moment, baffled by his manner. What sort of father was so uninterested in his children?
“Papa?” a voice called, trembling slightly.
“Belinda, what’s wrong?” Hunter asked his daughter. She was the one bright blossom in his life; she gave him a reason for emerging, at least once a day, from the fog of whiskey he usually hid inside. He bent down on one knee and held out his arms.
She came to him, her face curiously solemn for a seven-year-old’s. “I have something to tell you, Papa,” she said.
He held her for a few moments, moved by the pure sweetness of her scent, her voice, the warmth of her body. Over her head, he watched the stallion in the paddock adjacent to the stables. The last time Finn had been penned there, he had been caked in mud and possessed by madness. Now he stood placidly, flicking his tail at flies. Later this afternoon, Noah would begin working with him, and if things went well Finn would be taken out to the mile oval to see if he would race again.
Hunter tried to remember the last time Belinda had smiled for him, the last time he’d heard the sound of her laughter. It had been too damn long. Feeling awkward and unworthy, he picked her up in his arms. How light and delicate she was. How fragile, like a butterfly.
He kissed her golden blond curls. She had a great, beautiful mop of hair that more than compensated for the threadbare condition of her dress, which she was fast outgrowing. He’d have to ask her grandmother Beaumont if she could search her attic trunks for another of Lacey’s childhood gowns. If he thought about it too hard, the idea of his little girl wearing her dead mother’s dresses would make him insane.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, sugar pie,” he said, setting her down. “I’m all ears.” He took his and waggled them, hoping to coax a grin from her. He wished she had dolls and fairy tales on her mind, but Belinda had left those behind two years ago, putting them to rest with the same solemn finality with which he had buried his wife in the family plot.
She didn’t smile. If anything, she grew more somber still. “It’s about Blue.”
His heart took a dive, though he didn’t let it show in his face. “What about Blue?”
“Well, he didn’t come to Bonterre for lessons today. Master Rencher said he’d take a switch to him.”