A Most Unusual Match (13 page)

O
vernight the wind shifted to the northwest, sweeping in cooler temperatures and the deep azure skies of approaching fall. Hugging a shawl around her in the pleasantly cool morning air, Thea shifted from foot to foot, anticipation crawling over her like ants.

Today she would see her grandfather.

She was about to start toward the neat brick carriage house to fetch the carriage herself when the extended brougham rolled into view, pulled by two stately bay Holsteiners Devlin had imported from Germany. “I took a chance,” he'd told Thea. “They're primarily coach horses, great bones and natural balance, yet mostly unknown in America.” He grinned. “Uncle J. groused for months about the expense.”

Nab pulled the team to a dignified halt at the front door. StoneHill's coachman and stable manager was dressed for the occasion in a hunter-green frock coat and top hat; when Thea told him he looked splendid a self-satisfied smile beamed from the coffee-colored face, still smooth as a river pebble even though he'd passed three score years the previous week.

“Mister Stone'll be along in a jiffy, miss,” he said. “He's
jawing with Jeremiah about Percy. Old boy's off his feed again, and you know Mr. Stone. Don't matter none that horse is older'n dirt, and if he takes a notion to pick at his feed a bit, why, leave him be, I say.”

Oh, dear. Percy. Devlin and the Appalousey spotted horse had grown up together, and Devlin loved the animal with a devotion that moved Thea to tears.

“Nab, Mr. Stone doesn't need to accompany me.” She buried the spur of disappointment deep, reminding herself that in a few short hours she would have all the company she needed. “Come on, let's swing back by the barn, and I'll insist.”

Nab hopped down to hand her up into the carriage. “Miss Langston, you a mighty fine woman. The Lord took His time about it, but He finally gave Mr. Devlin what he's been missing for more years than I like to count.”

Embarrassed, Thea busied herself with smoothing her skirt. “Thank you, Nab. But until the Lord sees fit to inform Mr. Devlin, I don't think I'll bring the matter up.”

When they reached the stables, Nab darted inside. A short while later he returned with Devlin, who climbed inside the carriage, tossed jacket and homburg down on the seat beside him, then with a long sigh sat down across from Thea.

“Devlin, you don't need—”

“I'm coming with you,” he cut across her protest. “I know you'd be safe with Nab, and are quite capable of traveling on your own. That's not the point. I'm coming because I want to be with you. Besides, it's the right thing to do, meeting your grandfather at the depot.” He glanced down at himself and grimaced. “I did wash my hands and pick out the worst of the straw.”

The odor of horse and hay and some stringent medicinal
smell wrapped around Thea. Devlin's thick mahogany locks fell in haphazard disarray, and streaks of perspiration marked his temples. His blue shirt was wrinkled and streaked with dried horse saliva. But he'd cleaned up as best he could, just to be with her and show respect to her grandfather. The spiny knot in Thea's chest slowly dissolved. “Grandfather used to spend most of his days with printer's ink smeared on his face and shirt cuffs. Thank you, Devlin. Since you insisted on coming along, I'll confess how glad I am.” She hesitated, adding hesitantly, “How's Percy?”

“Holding his own. Uncle J. and I have finally agreed it's either the sprained ligament that holds the ball of the femur in the hip socket, or a diseased stifle joint. I've placed a telephone call to a veterinary surgeon friend. I know Percy's past his prime, but I can't…” His eyes clouded over. “We've tethered him in his stall to restrict his movement. He's alert, no signs of sweating or agitation. I got him to eat a little more of his breakfast. He's not in severe pain. I'd know if he were, he'd tell me—” He stopped and momentarily closed his eyes. “You must think I'm a softheaded crackerbrain.”

“I think—” Thea leaned across and took one large fist, still damp, in both her hands “—that you're the most compassionate man I've ever known, and you have a way with horses I've come to believe is a gift. I mean…oh, padiddle. Now I'm going to tear up.”

She blinked rapidly, feeling silly until Devlin reached across and brushed away the welling tears with his thumb. Thea's breath backed up in her throat. While the carriage rattled down StoneHill's long drive, for a span of unmeasured time the two of them swayed with the movement in a silence fraught with feelings too fragile to be acknowledged.

But when Devlin's steady appraisal of her persisted, his eyes gone dark as a late-summer thunderstorm, the words finally broke free. “Devlin, you are…a very special man. And I think more than ever I want to believe what my grandfather used to believe, about God. You do have a gift where horses and people are concerned that can't be learned through studies, or thoughtful dissertations or reasoned thinking. I think God gave you this gift.” She laughed, a soggy, self-conscious sound. “Now I'm the one who sounds like a crackerbrain. Grandfather would say I'm thinking too much. Probably talking too much, as well.”

“Not for me.” Without warning the carriage jolted, pitching Thea sideways. Before she blinked her startlement, Devlin's arms shot out and he grabbed her shoulders. But instead of settling her back against the seat he pulled her across the space separating them and into his embrace.

“Never for me,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Thea, what you said, about God? What would you think if I told you I've been thinking, too? That maybe our meeting in Saratoga Springs wasn't happenstance, or fate, or luck?”

Crushed against the solid muscles of Devlin's chest, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, Thea wriggled her hands around his back until she could lay her head against him and hear the thunder of his heart. Incredulity fought against fear, and a lifetime of disillusionment. Was he sharing his feelings—or his faith?

Finally the weight of his arms gentled, but instead of the kiss Thea secretly hungered for, he eased her back across the carriage, onto her own seat, then sat, elbows propped on his knees, his hands worrying his hair. “God,” she heard him murmur, “what am I supposed to do?” Even as she sucked in air to offer something, anything, he lifted his head and gazed across the space separating them. “I can't tell you everything I want to—need to. Not today,
not like this. I know it's not fair to you, but Thea? Will you be patient with me, for a little longer?”

In dawning wonder, Thea read in his eyes everything for some reason he wouldn't verbalize, and a wash of golden light seemed to flood her heart. For today, she decided, she could return to this man one of the gifts he had given her when he led her out of that jail cell into fresh air, and freedom. “Patience isn't my strong suit,” she admitted, “but for you, Devlin, it's not difficult at all. Whatever you need to say to me can wait. After all, you did save my life. In some cultures, that means I'm bound to you, for the rest of it.”

The lines of tension bracketing his mouth eased, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I like the sound of that,” he said. “I like the sound of that very much, Theodora Langston.”

 

Two weeks later, Thea and Charles Langston stood by the fence, watching Devlin work with Percy. The gallant old horse moved smoothly, with only a slight hitch in his black-spotted hindquarters. With each passing day, like the aging Appalousey stallion her grandfather had regained much of his former strength as well. Instead of the gaunt, defeated creature Thea had kissed farewell in June, he now stood tall and dignified. Courtesy of Bessie's cooking, he'd gained several pounds, and after the first two days had shed frock coat and bow ties altogether. He and Jeremiah acted more like long-lost brothers than two strangers.

StoneHill Farm, Thea decided, offered far more potent elixirs than all the springs in Saratoga.

“You love him very much, don't you, Taffy T?” Charles affectionately tugged a strand of hair that had slipped free of pins. Though now late September, a sultry summer haze
still lay over the farm, and humidity had coiled the errant lock into a loose curl.

Absently Thea tucked it behind her ear. “So much it frightens me.” Gaze fixed upon Devlin, she waited until the tremulousness that shadowed every waking hour subsided. “I think Devlin feels the same. But we haven't spoken the words.” She laughed a little. “Do you see how wonderful he is with Percy? Infinite patience, gentleness—never a harsh word or sudden move? When Devlin and I are together, he treats me the same.”

Charles snorted, then coughed to mask the ungentlemanly noise. “Can't think of a single woman I've known, including your grandmother, who wanted their man to treat them like his horse. That's a banal cliché straight out of Western pulp novels.”

“Not when the man is Devlin.” She glanced sideways. “On occasion he's displayed other emotions as well, Grandfather.”

“Good.” Beneath his neat iron-gray mustache the corners of Charles's mouth tipped upward. “I trust his intentions are as honorable toward you as they are toward his horses. I'm not sure I make as capable a chaperone as Mrs. Chudd, especially since I don't plan to give up my evenings playing chess with Jeremiah.” A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest—a sound Thea hadn't heard in months. “I beat him last night. Plan to do so again. All I have to do is bring up the War. So if you and Devlin want to slip out to enjoy the moonlight, have no fear of your grandfather interfering. Frankly, I'm enjoying the two of you trying to pretend you're not in the throes of a courtship.”

A twinge of guilt nudged Thea. She had not confided
all
details of her sojourn in Saratoga. “Well…at least you're more agreeable to be around than Mrs. Chudd.” Five days after Charles's arrival, Nab had driven her
former chaperone off to the depot; she'd endured quite enough Southern cooking, she informed Thea, and too much Southern humidity. Her services hadn't been needed since their arrival at StoneHill anyway. “At any rate,” Thea finished, “I don't need a chaperone. I am almost thirty years old, remember.”

“Ha! Look more like a sweet young miss to me. Let's see what Master Stone has to say about it. He appears to be headed our way.”

Heart racing, Thea nodded absently, unable to tear her gaze away from Devlin. Shirtsleeves rolled to reveal tanned forearms, thick hair gleaming in the morning sun, he flashed her a grin that oozed contentment. Halterless, Percy clopped along beside him, ears pricked forward, his speckled muzzle just brushing Devlin's shoulder.

“Your horse is certainly looking more lively than when I first arrived,” Charles said to Devlin when they reached the fence. “You say you've had him since you were a boy?”

Devlin nodded. “My grandfather was out in the Oregon Territory back in '76, searching for land because he was afraid we were going to lose StoneHill. He saved a family of the Nez Perce tribe from slaughter, along with a half dozen of their spotted horses. In gratitude, they presented him with their best foal, a colt my granddad named Percy, in honor of the tribe.”

“He grew up some.” Uncomfortable around horses, Charles stepped back when Percy thrust an enquiring head through the fence rails. One striped hoof pawed the dirt—his way, Devlin had informed Thea, of demanding attention. “Based upon my very limited knowledge of horseflesh, he acts surprisingly vigorous for twenty-one years old.”

“A whole lot of love and a little bit of—” Devlin hesitated “—what I used to call luck. These days I'm thinking
I might call it something else.” He stroked Percy's ebony withers, then ran his hand along the speckled rump. “Either way, he's been a faithful companion. It's a relief, seeing him improve daily.”

“My granddaughter's perked up, as well.” Charles winked at Devlin. “Does my heart good, seeing
her
daily improvements. She's needed to put this whole business with Edgar Fane behind. With that in mind—” he dropped a kiss on Thea's forehead “—I think I'll retire to a shady spot on your back veranda, and see if I can coax Bessie out of some of that apple strudel I smelled baking this morning.”

“S
ubtle as an Appalousey's spots, isn't he?” Thea kept her gaze on one of the striped hooves, a characteristic of this particular breed. She seemed to be learning a lot about the equine species these days, she thought, scratching behind Percy's ear.

“I see where you inherited your predilection for speaking your mind. Well, since he's provided the opportunity, why don't you come along to the barn, help me get Percy settled. Then we'll go for a walk.” His voice turned sober. “I've been thinking.”

I never stop,
Thea wanted to say, her pulse still settling after her grandfather's throwaway remark about Edgar Fane. But with a newfound patience—or was it the old fears?—she maintained her silence, and followed Devlin and Percy to the barn.

An hour later, they left the worn path toward the woodland to stroll alongside the two-foot high stone wall that for over half a century had marked the boundaries of StoneHill Farm. Tufts of Queen Anne's lace and bunches of goldenrod brushed their clothing as they passed, while a warm southern breeze caressed the distant treetops.

Then Devlin enfolded Thea's hand in his, and began
to talk. “All my life, I've known this was home, and my responsibility,” he said, trailing his fingertips over the wall as they walked. “Yet all my life, I've wondered who I might have been, if I'd followed in my grandfather's footsteps and headed west instead of going to college. Or if my mother had taken me back to New York City when she left after my father's death.” The hand holding hers flexed, a restive movement quickly stilled. “These past weeks, I keep thinking that if she had, I might have met you earlier, before life got so complicated.”

“Or we may never have met at all.” Dread curled into a tight hot ball in her middle. “Devlin, if you brought me out here to tell me something unpleasant, I wish you'd go ahead and get it over with, particularly if you're trying to find a polite way to say my grandfather and I have trespassed on your hospitality too long. I've suffered through about all the suspense I can handle.” Especially when a letter with a news clipping, freshly arrived with the morning mail, was now burning a hole in the pocket of her dress.

Devlin stopped and faced her directly. “I should have remembered. Your mind is prone to dark musings, and your imagination is stronger than a team of Percheron.” When Thea opened her mouth to object, he kissed the tip of her nose, then cupped her cheek. “I love your mind, and have a healthy respect for your imagination. Which is why we're a perfect match. I can't hide what I feel any longer, Thea. Every day, those feelings dominate my day, no matter how hard I try to keep them stabled in the barn.”

In one of the intimate gestures she'd grown to cherish he cupped her other cheek, holding her transfixed within a gentle cage. She could have broken free and run away—this man would never use force to bend her to his will, or trap her into listening to words she couldn't bear to hear.
And because of it, she'd given him her heart as well as her trust.

“I can't hold the words inside any longer. Whenever you look at me,” he finished in a ragged whisper, “I see the same feelings in your beautiful eyes. You dread suspense. So don't you think it's time we shared those feelings with each other?”

Thea swallowed hard. “Yes. No.” He was close, too close. Her head swam; she twined her fingers to keep from touching him and losing the battle with inevitability.

Abruptly, the warm hands encasing her cheeks dropped away. She heard the rustle of his clothing, opened her eyes in a panic, to discover him standing a yard away, watching her. Thea suddenly discovered a costly mistake was easier to bear than the long-suffering kindness blazing forth from those eyes.

“I wish I were a horse,” she blurted, almost as angry with him as she was with herself. “They don't need words. You know already by their responses how much they love you. You don't make demands of them they're incapable of meeting. You just care for them, and allow them to be…to be horses,” she finished, adding grumpily, “Don't say it. I'm not a horse. Grandfather already reminded me.”

“And here I am, hiding a specially made halter just for you underneath my shirt.” His absurdity made her laugh, and Devlin's whole body seemed to relax. “I'm willing to do just about anything, you see, to keep you at StoneHill,” he said. One long step brought him back to her side, close enough to count his eyelashes. “Since we're not horses, I suppose we're stuck with words. I've tried not to say them because I'm just as afraid as you are. What if your feelings are mired in gratitude? What if your heart is irrevocably tied to Staten Island?”

“It's not. They're not. It's just that—”

“Good. No more excuses, then. Close your eyes if you need to, but unstop your ears, and your heart.” He watched her, the irises expanding in his pupils until the black completely crowded out the gray. “I love you, Theodora Langston. I love you, more than I can explain. If you tell me you could never be happy here at StoneHill Farm, I don't know if I'd survive.”

Nerves roughened his voice, and Thea realized in misty-eyed astonishment that he was shaking. As though a warm gust of wind swept over the mountain and shoved her with an impatient hand, she took one faltering step, then threw herself against him, wrapping her own shaking arms around his back. “I love you, I love you, too,” she choked out against the salty dampness of his neck. “And I don't want to go back to Staten Island. You'll never have to be afraid that I'll leave you like your mother. Or Sylvia.” Helpless against the emotions buffeting them both, she pressed fervent kisses against his neck and jaw.

All of a sudden rough hands slid beneath her arms and Devlin lifted her completely off her feet. “Yes!” he shouted the affirmation, his gaze more open and joyous than Thea had ever seen. “Thank You, God!” He whirled her around, then his head lowered and he kissed her.

 

The Atlantic Ocean churned, white-capped waves crashing onto the cowering beaches. Storm clouds scudded across a sky the color of iron.

Edgar Fane stood on the widow's walk of the seaside mansion he'd bought off a bankrupt shipbuilder three years earlier. Face lifted to the spitting wind, he allowed the fury of nature to batter away his own fury until, chilled and damp from salt spray, he returned to his study.

Simpson had left the latest reports tidily stacked on his desk. A muscle jumped over Edgar's left eyebrow as he
picked up the one that had arrived yesterday. Most of the private detectives he'd employed over the past two months were as stupid as tree stumps, not worth the energy it would require to have them tossed into the surf. But this last fellow, fired by Pinkerton National Detective Agency the previous year for his questionable interrogation methods, was a gift from the gods. He'd have Simpson pay Hiram Witticomb a bonus, this time with real money.

Though rage still hummed through Edgar, he forced himself to sit down, suppressing the urge to sweep the rest of the folders to the floor again, just to torment Simpson.

Perhaps it was time to pay his secretary another bonus, as well. After switching on the banker's lamp Edgar read through Witticomb's report, this time with his temper firmly in check.

As Edgar reread the detailed notes his mind tormented him with the mental image of Theodora
Pickford.
Witticomb's description of her couldn't be more accurate had she been standing in front of the man when he wrote it.

The chit had played Edgar for a fool, but she would pay for her temerity. So would the man named Devlin Stone, who had secured her release from Saratoga's jail, then vanished, probably with Theodora.

A satisfied smile gradually soothed the jagged edges of Edgar's anger; hands laced behind his head, he leaned back and contemplated the final revelation Witticomb had unearthed.

“Every orphan dreams of a reunion with long-lost relatives,” Edgar mused aloud to the ceiling. “It will be my pleasure to give you back your father, Theodora
Langston.
” But not for long…

This time, Edgar would also ensure that no pesky lawyers or mysterious benefactors interfered. And an impotent Secret Service would continue to flail after shadow trails that led—nowhere.

As for Charles Langston, he'd always had a warm spot for the old man. But Langston was too naive for his own good. Another tidy moral lesson on life's disappointments
needed to be delivered. Edgar would allow him to live out the remainder of his days, grieving for his son and, when the time came, his granddaughter.