Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (52 page)

Blue fidgeted restively on the seat beside him. The boy remembered the song too. But neither of them would speak up, Hunter knew. They would both keep the memories and the words and even the music buried deep.

“I know a song,” Eliza said brightly. “Would you like to hear it?”

Belinda clapped her hands and bounced in the seat. “Yes! Yes, please!”

Eliza launched into a strange song set to a vaguely Celtic melody. “‘Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: courtsied when you have and kiss’d the wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.”’

She had an untrained and curiously appealing voice. Not sweet, but a slightly husky croon that intrigued him. Hunter caught Blue glancing back over his shoulder at Eliza. The boy had never taken this much interest in someone.

“That’s one of Ariel’s songs from
The Tempest,
” she explained.

“Who is Ariel?”

“A sprite.”

“What’s a sprite?”

“A forest spirit. He lives under an enchantment. In the end of the play, the old wizard sets him free.”

“Will you tell us the story of
The Tempest?
”

Eliza laughed. “I can recite it from memory. And yes, I’ll tell you both, a little each night at bedtime. Would that be all right?”

“Yes!” More bouncing on the bench. The Morgan flattened her ears peevishly at the motion.

Hunter scowled at the road unfolding in front of the horse. Things were spinning out of control. He had no idea what might happen from one moment to the next. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all. He didn’t like what Eliza was doing to this family. To him.

She was making him feel again.

His sanity depended on holding himself at a distance, and she kept drawing him back. Closer to her, to home, to his children. Closer to the secrets in his own heart. He would have to resist her harder, because if he gave in to her, he’d be lost. Then she would leave—he had promised her California—and for the second time, he would lose the woman he loved.

He nearly choked on the thought. He didn’t love Eliza Flyte. He barely knew her. The magical, strange, compelling night he had spent making love to her was supposed to be expunged from his memory. He wasn’t supposed to think about it. She was a stranger with no knowledge of the world he lived in. Loving her could only lead to disaster.

His shoulders grew taut with tension as he drove nearer to Bonterre. The neighboring plantation was not quite as beautiful as Albion had been in its prime, but it was impressive nonetheless. The brick mansion crowned a green knoll, and the lawns and yards swarmed with guests and servants rushing here and there in pinwheels of color. The sun rode high in a clear sky that held the burning promise of summer.

This was the world he had been born to, the world his children were born to. When he had tried to leave it and make his own way, everything had fallen apart. That had been his mistake—trying to leave. He had to get back to where he belonged. He had delayed long enough.

As he surveyed the elegant company, Hunter wondered if it was cruelty or something else that had prompted him to bring Eliza today.
They’ll eat her alive and suck the marrow out of her bones,
Nancy had promised, and she had been right. He had only to look at his sister-in-law Delaney or Lacey’s cousin Francine in their ruffles and lace, to see what Nancy meant.

He knew of nothing quite so charming, nor quite so lethal, as the well-born women of Virginia. Their bite was more poisonous than the sting of an adder, a lingering sweet venom that could kill a person slowly, with unimaginable pain.

He got down from the buggy and lifted Belinda from the passenger bench. Before he could help Eliza, she had hopped out of the cart, and Blue had jumped to the ground.

“There’s Sarah Jane,” Belinda yelled, running off to play with her second cousin. Blue trotted after her. Hunter found himself alone with Eliza. “Well,” he said. “Welcome to Bonterre. I’ll try to introduce you to everyone.”

“As the governess?”

“I reckon so.”

“Fine.” Head held high, she walked toward their hosts.

Hunter waited by the buggy for a groom, then caught up with Eliza. He introduced her to Lacey’s parents, Hugh and Mamie, and then to the extended clan that made up the Beaumont dynasty: Trey, the eldest son, possessed his father’s relentless drive and ambition. Ernest, the younger brother, was a charming, laconic ne’er-do-well. Ernest’s wife, Delaney, had a sharp-eyed awareness of the least little slight. An array of cousins rounded out the family, all deeply concerned about the current state of fox hunting and the price of tobacco in Richmond.

Delaney took Eliza by the arm. “You’re just a perfect gem,” she said. “Where in heaven’s name did Hunter find you?”

“I lived all my life on Flyte Island,” said Eliza. She didn’t seem intimidated by Delaney’s keen looks and probing questions.

“The children are quite a handful, aren’t they?” Delaney prompted. “Tell me, my dear, how are you getting along with young Theodore?”

Hunter pivoted away to the punch table. Lacey’s family was scandalized by the way he was raising his children at Albion, a place that had turned its back on tobacco to embrace a questionable enterprise. Yet his in-laws weren’t too proud to buy his horses or bet on them, he noticed.

Ever since his first yearling sale, a number of belles had begun to primp for him, from Josephine Jefferson herself to Tabby and Cilla Lee Parks of Norfolk. Women with money, social standing, looks. He had best stop delaying and choose a wife. His kids needed a mother. Their reaction to Eliza was proof of that.

He caught his gaze wandering to Eliza. A bevy of inquisitive neighbors and cousins clustered around her, their voluminous white party gowns enclosing her like a blossom in a hornets’ nest. He had to stifle the impulse to rescue her from being sucked into their midst.

But Eliza was strong in ways he was just beginning to discover, so he walked away—to get something to drink.

A
s a hired governess, Eliza knew she was not supposed to be enjoying herself, but she couldn’t help it. Was this the oddest gathering in Virginia, or were all picnics like this? Was there really a game called croquet, or had this strange group invented it specially for the occasion? She had no idea, but hitting a wooden ball through hoops struck her as the height of weirdness.

She loved it. She loved whacking the silly ball, and later on she loved the game of blindman’s buff even though she wound up tangled in an azalea bush while the other guests laughed uproariously. She loved mumblety-peg too, having no idea that ladies weren’t supposed to play games with knives. As it turned out, she threw Ernest Beaumont’s hunting knife better than anyone else, and doubled over with mirth to see him, hands tied behind his back, trying to extract it from the ground with his teeth.

Then there was the talk, which was far less enchanting than the party games. The picnic guests spoke endlessly of nothing at all. It was uncanny, the way a pair of grown women could yammer on about the quality of a fabric or the merits of a curling iron for thirty minutes without ceasing. Even more uncanny was the way the men spoke to each other, swaggering about and describing their fox hunting exploits or tobacco crop, each trying to outboast the previous one.

So this was the world she had missed by living on the island.

“Miss Eliza, you must be exhausted from all the games,” a young lady said, linking arms with her. “Come and get a drink of lemonade with my sister and me.” It was Miss Tabitha Parks of Norfolk. She and her sister Priscilla had taken a special interest in Eliza. They insisted on being called Tabby and Cilla.

“The men are about to start jumping their horses,” Cilla said. “It’s entirely too tedious.”

Eliza thought she might like to see the jumping, but the sisters were being kind, so she allowed herself to be swept along with them.

“Tell us what it’s like, being a governess,” Tabby said.

Eliza took a cup of lemonade from a servant. She smiled her thanks, but the serving girl kept her eyes downcast, and didn’t see.

“Yes, tell us,” Cilla prompted.

“I’ve only just started,” Eliza confessed. “It’s quite different from
Jane Eyre,
though.”

The sisters exchanged a blank look. “Jane who?”

“Never mind.” Cilla leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it entirely too grotesque, looking after a boy who won’t speak?”

A flash of maternal protectiveness, the likes of which Eliza had never felt before, momentarily blinded her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you know. The boy, Theodore. Do you suppose he’s simple, or touched in the head—”

“He’s a beautiful, lovable boy,” Eliza broke in, “and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“There, there,” Tabby said placatingly. “Cilla didn’t mean any insult. What we
really
want to know is this—What is he like?”

“Blue?”

“No, Hunter Calhoun, of course!”

Eliza smiled, knowing her heart was in her eyes, but not caring that they saw. “He is wonderful, and annoying, and funny, and sad, and…wonderful.”

Tabby fanned herself vigorously. Cilla nearly choked on her lemonade. “Heavens to Betsy,” they exclaimed in unison. “You’re in love with him!”

Eliza’s face heated. She wasn’t quite sure what she was embarrassed about, but these women seemed far too interested in her feelings for Hunter. “I never said—”

A flurry of excitement erupted on the lawn where the jumping course had been set up. Trey Beaumont came charging in on a lathered and clearly distressed roan hunter. The horse was prancing and tossing its head as Trey hauled hard on the reins. A froth of spittle formed at the corners of the horse’s mouth.

Eliza set down her cup of mint lemonade. She picked her skirts up to the knees and raced across the lawn. “Slacken the reins,” she called to the rider. “Do it now.”

He must have been so surprised by the command coming from a woman that he obeyed. Eliza positioned herself in front of the horse and made a soothing sound in her throat. The horse shook his head violently, nearly cracking his skull against hers. “There now, easy,” she said, and took the reins. The roan momentarily settled. “Sir, dismount quickly.”

The bewildered man got off the horse, and it sidled in agitation. “I don’t know what came over him.”

Tabby and Cilla Parks arrived, breathless with excitement. “Miss Eliza,” Tabby said. “You ran right out in front of that horse. You could have been killed.”

“I’m fine.” Eliza held fast to the reins and ran her hand up the length of the roan’s skull, absorbed in watching the ears.

“But we didn’t finish our conversation,” Cilla said. “And it was just getting interesting.”

Eliza ignored them as she coaxed the horse to lower his head.

“He’s my best jumper,” Trey Beaumont said, “but he’s not been himself.”

Eliza handed him the reins. “Hold him still, and I’ll show you why.” She took a lace-edged handkerchief from the sash of her gown. Carefully, she probed into the horse’s ear. The Parks sisters looked as though they might faint. Even Eliza grimaced when she extracted a small hornet.

“This gives new meaning to a bee in the bonnet,” said Trey. “How can I thank you, Miss Flyte?”

“You needn’t thank me at all.” For the first time, she noticed the initials
LBC
on the fancy—and now soiled—handkerchief. “Just listen to your horse, Mr. Beaumont. He will always tell you what’s wrong.”

A light smattering of applause sounded, and she was surprised to see a group of onlookers. Tabby and Cilla fluttered their fans. “We had no idea, Miss Eliza, of your hidden talent. How on earth did you get so good with horses?”

Eliza chafed beneath the glare of attention. “I’ve worked with animals all my life.”

“Really?” Both sisters closed in on her. “Do tell.”

There was no point in lying or covering up. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of her past, who she was and the way she had been brought up. Eliza said simply, “My father was a horsemaster in England, and he taught me everything he knew.”

“My God,” said Trey Beaumont. “She is the horsemaster’s daughter.”

Delaney Beaumont gasped. “But you said you were governess to Hunter’s children.”

“I confess it is a new enterprise for me.”

“Imagine that. To go from taming horses to training children. You are truly a woman of many talents.”

Eliza stared into her magnolia-blossom face. “You have no idea.”

“I think I do, Miss Eliza.” Delaney’s smile held no warmth. “I think I do.” She turned sharply and walked away with her nose in the air.

People certainly were strange, Eliza reflected. What a variety of personalities she had encountered, just here at this party. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Every animal she had known was an individual with its own unique foibles and idiosyncrasies.

She headed down a manicured slope of lawn past an area where a group of men stood around, smoking and drinking, laughing loudly. She wasn’t surprised to see Hunter among them. He was easy enough to spot in a crowd. Taller by half a head than most, and with his golden hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, he cut a striking figure. The sight of him caused a queer tightening of her stomach, and she had to tear her gaze away.

Heavens to Betsy,
the Parks sisters had said.
You’re in love with him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Eliza thought. She was supposed to forget what had happened on the island. Hunter certainly had. Now that she was getting a glimpse of his world, she understood why he had said
I’d never marry you.

He wasn’t being cruel, just realistic. He had been born and raised to marry one of these gorgeous ladies. He’d already done so once, and tragedy had ended it. Now he would find another mate, and he would select her from the opulent, fan-fluttering group of ladies on the lawn.

It was interesting that among people, the females strutted and performed for the males, not vice versa as in nature. Here, the garish plumage belonged to the ladies; the flirtatious behavior came from them. Eliza found it all faintly ridiculous and unnecessarily coy. She could not imagine performing like that to catch a man’s attention. On the island, she had caught Hunter’s attention without even trying.

She heard shouts and splashing down by a pond fringed with cattail reeds. On the bank, Belinda and a group of little ones threw rocks and skipping stones in the water. Some of the boys had stripped down to their breeches. They swung on a rope out over the water, then shrieked as they dropped in.

Smiling, Eliza approached the group. Even Blue seemed excited, clapping his hands as some of the older boys jumped in. “Would you like to go swimming?” Eliza asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“You do know how to swim, don’t you?” she asked.

Another nod.

“Here, let me take your shirt and shoes so they don’t get all muddy.”

As the boy peeled off his shoes and socks with gleeful haste, she stood back and thought,
Talk to me. Tell me why you’re so silent, Blue.
She wanted to know. She wanted to hear his voice, his laughter, perhaps a song he knew.

“Now the shirt,” she said, holding his shoes and stockings.

He peeled off the white chambray shirt and tossed it to her. Then he turned and ran down to the pond. Eliza watched him for a second, then called out sharply, “Blue!”

He froze, hunching up his shoulders. She walked up to him and gingerly took his hand, her throat thick with dread. “My God,” she whispered. “My sweet God.”

The little boy’s back was striped with angry red welts. “Who did this to you, Blue?” she whispered, keeping her voice down to preserve the boy’s dignity. “Who was it?”

His face clouded. Then he wrenched away from her and ran to the pond, grasping the rope and swinging himself wildly out over the surface before dropping in.

He stayed underwater a long time, long enough for Eliza to take a step in the direction of the pond. Then suddenly he broke the surface, his light brown hair slicked back and his lips parted in a grin.

Eliza fought against the thoughts she was having. Surely not. Surely Hunter Calhoun, for all his troubles, did not beat his son. He didn’t show affection for the boy the way Eliza ached for him to, but he was gentle enough, if remote.

Today in the buggy he had prodded Blue to speak up. How many times had Hunter done that? How many times had he begged the boy to speak, and been ignored? Enough times to drive him to violence? Did he get so frustrated that he hit his son?

Turning on her heel, she hurried off to find Hunter. She was like the wooden mallet on the croquet green, scattering the men with her brazen approach. She supposed there was some rule or regulation about a woman marching into the midst of men who were busy smoking and drinking, but she didn’t care. “I need a word with you,” she said to Hunter, unable to look left or right, afraid she would start railing at him right away.

She could hear low murmurs rippling across the ranks of onlookers.

Hunter wore the laconic smile of a man who had just spent a pleasurable hour in the sun, drinking whiskey with his cronies. He spread his hands in mock helplessness. “Only three days at Albion, and she’s already bossing me around,” he said.

The others laughed. Eliza turned and strode away, heading for a rose arbor in the side yard. She stalked to the tall trellis, fragrant and alive with the rumble of bees, and then set her hands on her hips.

“Do you beat your son?” she demanded, when Hunter caught up to her.

His lazy affability vanished like the dew in the angry heat of the sun. “What?”

“I asked, do you beat your son?”

“Damn you,” he said. “It’s bad enough you come waltzing into our lives—”

“I didn’t waltz anywhere. If you recall, you dragged me bodily from my home.”

“While it was burned to the ground by men who would have burned you right along with it if they’d found you,” he reminded her.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out. “Is it because I’ve found you out? Because you beat him until his back is red and bruised from the blows?”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

“Blue!”

Hunter took a menacing step toward her, pressing her against the roses that climbed up the arbor. The sickly sweet aroma filled her senses, and she couldn’t take her eyes off Hunter’s furious face.

“You look at me, goddamn it,” he said, “and you listen well, because I’ll only say this once. I would never—ever—raise a hand to my son. Never have, never will, so you can take your crazy notion somewhere else.”

She refused to flinch or look away, though she wanted to. His words filled her mind. She thought of the way he was with Belinda and Blue, and she suddenly knew how terribly wrong she had been to assume he had hurt his son. Drunk or sober, Hunter Calhoun was, if anything, overly cautious. He would not lay a hand on his children. It was almost sad, the way he took pains to avoid touching them.

“I had to ask,” she said, “because Blue’s been beaten.”