When the Splendor Falls (92 page)

Great terra-cotta pots of beans, rice, and vegetables had been placed in the glowing ashes, the contents bubbling and steaming whenever the lids were lifted. Long tables had been set up and filled with warm breads and stacks of tortillas,
sopaipillas
, fried dough served with honey, salads, and sweet confections. Another table held the refreshments; bowls of fruit punch, pitchers of lemonade, bottles of wine and whiskey, and steaming urns of coffee.

The yard of the
rancho
was crowded with people. The diverse groups, friends and business acquaintances of Nathaniel, ranch hands, house servants, and
vaqueros
, and their families, the herders, shearers, bull whackers, and wagon masters, clustered around various fire pits and seldom strayed far from their own gatherings—even though it was a night where social status had been temporarily forgotten as Royal Rivers celebrated a successful spring season of lambing and shearing.

Guy Travers was sitting alone on a hard wooden bench brought from the house along with other chairs and tables, and arranged near the adobe wall separating the garden and orchard from the
rancho
yard where the fires in the great barbecue pits now glowed softly in the falling dusk. His plate balanced carefully on his knee as he ate, Guy listened to the sounds of music, cheerful voices, and laughter swirling around him, his foot tapping in time to the tune.

Guy reached out quickly for his wine goblet, his throat on fire from a chile pepper he’d accidentally speared, and heard the glass thud onto the ground as he knocked it over. Bending down, his hand groped in the darkness beneath the bench. Fortunately, the goblet had not broken. Guy sighed with frustrated relief, smiling as he felt one of his hounds give a quick lick to his hand, grateful no doubt for the wine just lapped up from his shoe, Guy thought, feeling a wetness seeping into his sock. Sitting back up, Guy suddenly stilled.

He sat unmoving for what seemed an eternity, staring with a wide green eye at the glory of the first sunset he had seen since being blinded in battle. Guy was afraid to blink, even to close his eye in thankfulness for the miracle that had happened. He had been so afraid it wouldn’t. Gradually, his sight had been improving, but a haze had lingered over his vision, keeping it blurred and colorless until this moment. His hand closed so tightly around the stem of the goblet that he snapped it, unaware of the blood trickling through his clenched fingers. His lips trembling, he hastily wiped the hot wetness from his eye, the brilliant scarlet and gold of the sunset blurring momentarily, and as he continued to stare at the glorious light he was saddened to see the colors fade as night fell, for he had been in darkness far too long to welcome it now.

Almost shaking with anticipation, Guy slowly glanced around. He grinned with pleasure at the first thing he saw; a tall and thin, familiar figure in calico and startling white apron, the fire making her skin even more coppery than it was.
Jolie.
She was standing in front of a short, plump Mexican woman, shaking a big wooden spoon at her as they argued, the Mexican woman raising a turkey leg in defense. As he continued to watch, Guy saw a dapper figure carrying a couple of loaded supper plates approaching, and he frowned.
Stephen?
He hadn’t recognized him at first, for he was dressed in a suit of dark gray and his hair was snowy white, but his step was just as brisk. The last time Guy had seen him, Stephen’s hair had been grizzled, but when he saw the man pause, wisely changing direction to avoid passing where Jolie stood, hands on hips now as she prepared to do battle, he knew it was Stephen. And in a minute, he had reached the bench, coming to stand by Guy’s shoulder in companionable silence for a moment.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Stephen. Quite a sunset,” Guy said, glancing up at the proud face he’d known his whole life.

“Yes, Mister Guy, it sure is. Nice an’ warm an’ I’ve never seen such a red sky,” Stephen replied, thinking Guy had asked a question, never even realizing Guy had addressed him personally or how he’d known anyone was there since no word had been spoken between them until now. “What happened to Miss Lys Helene? She was sittin’ here when I left. An’ I saw Miss Leigh an’ Miss Althea here a minute ago. You doin’ all right, Mister Guy?” he asked, carefully handing him his plate of food.

“Yes, thank you, Stephen, I’m doing just fine.”

Guy’s eye roved the crowd of people, searching for three women; two he knew he’d recognize, the other woman he’d never seen before, but knew he would know when he saw her for the first time.

Immediately, his glance came to rest on two women standing side by side as they talked.

Althea
. So lovely, and still as elegant and poised and perfect as ever, he thought with brotherly affection, although she was far more animated than he remembered. Althea had always been refined, possessing a politely detached quality that had held people at a distance, but now she seemed far more approachable, human even, as she stood there laughing at some remark, her classical features touched with warmth in the firelight.

Guy’s gaze moved to the young woman in blue standing next to her.

Leigh.
He frowned. How long had it been since he’d seen her? Two years? Almost three? He hadn’t been back to Travers Hill for over a year before he’d returned a blind man. The last time he’d seen her was when she’d ridden down to the river road with him to see him off after his last furlough home. She’d been sitting astride her mare, her long chestnut hair in a casual braid over her shoulder, and she’d looked like the little sister he would always remember as she waved to him until he disappeared around the curve of the river. Although she had always been a beauty, he wasn’t prepared to see the beautiful, vibrant woman standing across the yard.

Leigh, he thought proudly, was truly a woman now, and not that little tomboyish girl who’d always tagged along with him on his cross-country rides. And as he remembered the long days and nights at Travers Hill, and Leigh’s strength of will, her courage and compassion, he wondered anew at the woman she had become—a woman born of gentle blood, who had found a nobleness of spirit during the darkest time of her life, when there had been no one to turn to except herself.

As he watched her, she bent down to pat one of his hounds as it crawled up to her with no show of dignity whatsoever and begged for food. He smiled as she palmed a piece of fried dough from her plate and handed it to the grinning hound. A thin, dark-haired girl who’d been standing quietly with them held up a doll to her, and Leigh kissed the cold porcelain cheek, which seemed to please the child. Guy was shocked.
Noelle.
The sad-faced child was his niece. She must be a foot taller than when he’d last swung her in his arms and she’d squealed for him to swing her faster. Now she stood as wooden as the doll she clutched, he thought, having worried about her quietness for some time, but he was even more concerned now, watching her for a moment longer as Althea put a comforting arm around her daughter’s hunched shoulders.

Guy heard a voice and knew instantly the motherly figure weaving through the crowd was Camilla, and she looked just the way he had always imagined she would, and he was glad. He laughed softly as he caught sight of two little white-haired ladies sitting with heads close together as they whispered, trading bloodcurdling secrets most likely, for he knew without a doubt they were the Misses Simone and Clarice.

Guy’s gaze continued to search the crowd. There were so many people; some held his attention for a second or two, until he glanced away, certain he’d not seen anyone familiar. But suddenly he did see someone he knew.

Guy stared in disbelief, wondering what Michael Stanfield was doing at Royal Rivers. No one had told him the man was here. How strange. Surely the man would have heard of his presence and renewed their acquaintance; after all, they were both Virginians, and they’d been in the same regiment, Guy thought, certain it was Stanfield as he caught sight of the violet-blue trousers.

And as he watched Stanfield take out a corncob pipe and tobacco pouch, the truth flashed brightly in his brain as Stanfield struck the match on the heel of his boot.
Sebastian.
He was the very same man Leigh had introduced to him—the man calling himself Michael Sebastian. But his real name was Michael Sebastian Stanfield. And when Guy had known him he had been a captain in the cavalry. And before that, he’d met him at the occasional social function, but Stanfield hadn’t ridden to hounds much or frequented the race meets, so they’d never been overly friendly. In fact, Stanfield had been out of Virginia quite a lot during the years before the war. Guy believed he’d been an architect. But it was indeed the same man. Guy was puzzled, something bothering him as he tried to remember what it was about Stanfield he’d forgotten. But why on earth had the man not said anything when they met? Surely he remembered him, Guy thought, offended by the slight. Leigh had been right, and the man she knew as Michael Sebastian had lied. But why?

Stanfield continued to stand slightly apart from the crowd, just within the shadows of the wall as he leaned against it watching the people around him, his expression alert, as if waiting patiently. And Guy sat watching him, more curious now than ever, especially when he saw Stanfield straighten his shoulders, tensing as if he’d seen someone he’d been looking for. Guy turned his head, following Stanfield’s glance.

He was staring at a tall figure in the crowd. Guy would have known Neil Braedon anywhere. He didn’t look much different than he had the last time Guy had seen him, the night of the party during that summer a lifetime ago. The man was still a handsome devil, Guy thought with none of the former envy and dislike he’d once felt for him. Actually, the truth of the matter was he liked Neil very much. They’d had a long talk the other night, staying up past midnight as they spoke of the war and reconstruction, and the future battles that would test the strength of the nation as it tried to become united again.

Guy rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, wondering what Stanfield was up to and making a promise he would have a word with the man tomorrow and demand an explanation for the charade he was playing. Glancing back, he was surprised to see Stanfield had disappeared. He could hardly wait to tell Leigh who her mysterious reb was. As he looked around quickly, trying to find him, his gaze slipped past a small figure standing just along the wall a piece, near the gate, and he knew his search had come to an end.

Lys Helene.

Guy stared rudely, knowing he could gaze his fill at her without causing her to blush, because she didn’t know he could see. He felt his heart begin to pound, for she was even more exquisite than he’d ever dreamed she could be.

She was standing in the light of the burning torches by the gate. Guy smiled, for it was the perfect place for her to stand to give him a clear view of her. Her hair was a deep, glorious red-gold, thick and curly and piled high on her small head, and Guy wondered that her slender neck could support such weight. Her face warmed his heart. It was lightly freckled, with a short, tip-tilted nose that he longed to touch with his fingertip, and her mouth was full and wide, made for kissing, he thought. She was a petite, delicate-boned woman with slender hips and small breasts, and reminded Guy of a fairy sprite in her frothy gown of white lace over cream satin. Just the right height for him, he found himself thinking, knowing the top of her head would fit nicely beneath his chin when they danced. And his arm would fit perfectly around her tiny waist.

If only she would come closer. He wanted to gaze into her eyes. She had told him they were light gray. But he wanted to see the expression—he had to know what she felt when she looked at his face, he thought nervously, remembering his disfigurement, his dreams beginning to crumble as he imagined leaning close to kiss her and a look of revulsion crossing her face as she turned away from him. She deserved so much better than he could ever give her, he thought, shaking his head and swearing beneath his breath, afraid now to face her, to learn that there was no future for them.

When he glanced up, she was gone.

“Lys Helene!” he called out, glancing around anxiously, for why hadn’t she come to him? In fact, she had been noticeably cool toward him the whole week. Had he done something to offend? Perhaps she had sensed he was regaining his sight and was offended that he’d not confided in her. He got up, determined she would be the first to know he could see again.

“Mister Guy, where’re you goin’?” Stephen asked, stepping forward to take Guy’s arm.

“I’m all right, Stephen. I’ve got to find Lys Helene.”

“Sure, Mister Guy, I saw her goin’ through the gate a few minutes ago. I’ll get her,” Stephen offered.

“No, Stephen. I’ll find her,” Guy told him, placing his uninjured hand over Stephen’s where it rested on his arm.

“Now, Mister Guy, you can’t go walkin’ ’round with all these strange folks here. You’d get confused, an’ half of them aren’t makin’ any sense anyway when they talk. You let me guide you back into the house. It’s been a real long day fer you. You need your rest.”

“I’ll be able to get there by myself, Stephen,” Guy assured him, smiling as he met Stephen’s doubtful dark eyes. “You finish your dinner. That slice of beef looks mighty good. Don’t let it get cold,” he said, gesturing toward Stephen’s plate, where he’d set it on top of the wall.

Stephen glanced between his plate and Guy, then down at the hand grasping his tightly. Then he looked back up at the young gentleman’s smiling face, the bright green eye gazing directly into his suddenly winking mischievously.

“You’ve a fine head of white hair, Stephen,” Guy said.

“Mister Guy? You can’t see my hair. Someone’s told you it’s white.”

“Yes, I can, Stephen. And I saw the sunset tonight. You didn’t mention the gold of the clouds. The first of many I hope to see with you, old friend.”

“Mister Guy? Mister Guy, you can’t see, can you? You’re not foolin’ me?” Stephen mumbled, searching his pockets with a trembling hand for a handkerchief, but Guy was faster and took the freshly laundered square of linen from his coat pocket and handed it to the old man, who took it gratefully.