Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (58 page)

“You all right, Noah?” Hunter asked softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You look mighty handsome up there, son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ride like the wind, Noah. I’ve seen you do it. Ride like the wind.”

“I aim to, sir.”

Hunter and Eliza and the other handlers moved away from the box. The starter climbed up on his platform, pistol in hand.

Eliza and Hunter shared a look, and all the noise and confusion of the riders and horses faded to nothing.

“What?” Hunter asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re pleased with me.”

“I am pleased with you. It was very nice, the way you just spoke with Noah.”

“I know how to be nice.”

“Yes, you do.” Before she said too much, she walked toward the reviewing stand. The first bench had been cordoned off with a garland of white flowers. It was reserved for the host of the race and his family.

Charles and the children waited there. Blue and Belinda, dressed in summer finery, clutched the front rail and kept their eyes riveted to the track. When Eliza walked past, Belinda jumped up and down. “Here, Miss Eliza! Sit with us. You must, you must.”

Before Eliza could shake her head and slip away, Hunter took her by the elbow and steered her to the bench. “You heard the girl, Miss Flyte,” he said with laughter in his voice. “You must.”

She ignored him, but smiled down at the children. “This is quite an honor.”

“Noah and Finn will take First Place,” Blue said with unquestioning confidence.

“Do you think so?”

He grinned at his sister. “They must.”

Charles took a sip of his drink and made a face. Then he brought out a flask from his boot and added more whiskey. He held out the flask to Hunter, who looked at it for a moment.

Blue and Belinda stared at him.

“Not now, Charles, but thank you,” Hunter said.

Eliza didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it all came out in a rush.

“Riders ready!” the racing master called. Every sound died. Even the wind seemed to be holding back, waiting for the start of the race.

The starter lifted his pistol toward the sky.

Noah drew fully into a tuck on the stallion’s back. The boy’s grip on the reins tightened and then slackened. Eliza was close enough to see the horse’s skin quiver and contract, acknowledging the presence of the rider.

The pistol exploded.

Gates shot back, and the horses and riders surged forward. The spectators all came out of their seats. Eliza could feel them behind her, the benches groaning with their movements. A deafening chorus of pounding hooves filled the air.

Eliza stayed frozen in place. She could not have moved to save her life.

The stallion came out of the gate like a bullet from a gun. Noah tucked and bent his head low over the pumping neck. Finn and the boy moved as one being—the barrier between horse and rider blurred.

But victory was not assured. This was a race of champions. Some of the horses and riders were experienced racers, and immediately a sorrel and a black pulled up. In the backstretch, the sorrel pumped ahead of Finn. There was a mad scramble for the first critical curve in the racetrack. The rider who dominated that curve would dominate the race. The sorrel, the black and Finn aimed like arrows for it. Noah tried to hold him in, but Finn ripped control from the boy and flew off, his speed so great that he nearly had Noah standing up in the saddle.

Noah’s yellow jacket gleamed in the sun, and even from a distance Eliza imagined the shudder of wind over the garment as he drove the stallion to shattering speeds. He took the curve only a fraction of a second ahead of the sorrel. Then it was a flat-out battle to the finish line, stretched across the end of the track.

The sorrel and Finn kept the lead, but they came on with identical speed. They moved, Eliza imagined, like twin steam engines or the opposite wheels of a locomotive. They were that fast, that relentless.

“A tie,” someone shouted. “There’s going to be a tie!”

For the first time, Eliza relaxed on the bench. Hunter sent her a glare of annoyance. “How the hell can you be so calm when there’s going to be a tie?” he demanded.

“There won’t be a tie,” she said simply.

“How do you—”

“Watch. Just watch.”

It was something she had noticed about the stallion early in his training. He had a peculiar sense of the finish line. Her father had explained to her once that some horses were compelled, by instinct or by training, to get there first. The ancient knowledge of the herd governed the horse’s behavior. An aggressive stallion like Finn had the drive and instinct to pull ahead of the pack.

No matter how focused a horse was, Eliza knew, it would always be aware of its surroundings. Herd animals relying on flight for defense had a strong need to know where everything was in the space around them.

If there was a sorrel charging neck and neck beside the stallion, Finn would know it.

Eliza’s fists clenched in her lap. Only a few lengths remained before the finish.

At first, she feared she was wrong, for nothing changed. The horses ran in perfect tandem, almost as if they were harnessed together. But then, just as her heart began to sink, something happened.

Later, folks would whisper that it was magic, or the work of the supernatural possessing the horse from misty Ireland. Folks swore up and down and crosswise that they actually saw all four of the stallion’s hooves leave the ground at once and shoot forward, a full length ahead of the sorrel. For years to come, spectators would tell their grandchildren of the day they saw the Irish horse fly.

In truth, Eliza simply recognized that the stallion’s heart had done the work. Heart. Spirit. Her father called it different things, but what he meant was the will to win.

The Irish Thoroughbred surged across the finish line and kept going. Noah uncoiled from his crouch, ripped the cap off his head and sent it sailing jubilantly through the air. The stallion slowed gradually, sand flying and then settling, to make way for the rest of the herd.

Hunter stood on the bench, hollering like a wild man, his fists raised to heaven and his face shining with triumph. In a frenzy of congratulations, he and Charles thumped one another on the back. Then Hunter jumped down from the bench and picked up Blue and Belinda, hugging them close and then letting them scamper off into the milling crowd. Finally he grabbed Eliza so swiftly she had no chance to think, and swept her into an embrace that took her breath away.

“We did it,” he said, spinning her off her feet. “We did it.”

She felt the heat of several stares on them, and pushed away, knowing her cheeks were on fire. “You’d best go and see Noah.”

He was laughing as he stepped back. What a different man he was in triumph, with the darkness gone from his eyes. Here was a man who had seen the fulfillment of a dream. Victory seemed to add inches to his stature. He braced one arm on the rail and vaulted over, striding across the racing oval to Noah.

Eliza felt the joy of triumph too, but it tasted bittersweet in her mouth. She had wanted this for Hunter, and for the children and Noah and Albion. But the price of his success was her departure. There was now no reason for her to stay.

As she tried to exit the reviewing stand, Charles stopped her. “Where are you off to?”

“I—”

“Aren’t you staying for the auction?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s a banquet and a ball tonight.”

“No, Charles, I’d rather not.”

“Why not?”

She gestured at the crowd, the ladies in their beautiful gowns, the men in frock coats and gleaming top hats. “I don’t belong here. You know that.”

“You had as much to do with Finn’s race today as the horse himself.”

“Is the horse coming to the ball, then?”

He laughed. “No, but if he had a smile like yours, I’d find a way to bring him.” He took her hand, leading her toward the house. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’ll arrange everything.”

“Charles—”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t waste your breath. Haven’t you figured it out by now? I don’t take no for an answer.”

“I
don’t know what’s lining up faster,” Ryan Calhoun said to his half brother at the ball that night. “The mares for your stallion’s stud service, or the belles for your hand in marriage.”

Hunter lifted his glass in salute to the bevy of ladies who paraded past, their sharp-eyed mamas trying to direct his attention to their daughters. “A couple of years ago, everyone declared Albion was a ruin. Now look at them.” He beamed at his guests, all vying to be seen at the victory ball. Men and women who would not have deigned to be caught here when the place was bankrupt now crowded the dance floor. Even his father-in-law, Hugh Beaumont, had made an appearance, and had offered cordial—if not heartfelt—congratulations on the success of the auction.

“This is sweet,” Hunter admitted. “My my, but this is sweet.”

He felt Ryan’s gaze as he drained his glass of whiskey and held it out to a hired servant for more. But Ryan said nothing. Half brothers, they were too far apart in age and distance to be truly close. Hunter was the elder by twelve years, and Ryan’s address, most of the year, was in the realm of Neptune. Still, Hunter knew him well enough to feel his disapproval.

“Your Yankee wife must be dragging you to too many temperance meetings,” he joked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re staring at me as if I just farted in church.”

Ryan straightened the tie of his puce silk neck cloth. “It’s not my place to judge you. Lord knows, I have enough flaws of my own. But if you don’t slow down on the whiskey, you’ll miss your own party.”

The servant arrived with another drink. Hunter took an unapologetic swig. “I’m celebrating, little brother.”

“There was never any question of that. I always knew you could make a success of horse racing. Finding that lady trainer was surely a stroke of luck, wasn’t it?” Ryan had never mentioned meeting Eliza on Flyte Island the night she’d helped the escaping slave. People of the Underground Railroad never spoke of their doings.

“I’d have shot Sir Finnegan if it wasn’t for her.”

“Everything got better once you brought her to Albion,” Ryan pointed out. “Funny how that works.” Then he bowed from the waist. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go dance with my Yankee wife.”

Hunter watched him find Isadora in the crowd and take her hand. She turned and smiled at him, and that smile had the power to light the world. What an odd match those two were—red-haired Ryan oozing Southern charm, and tall, straitlaced Isadora, whose intensity and ruthless intelligence intimidated most people. But when they were together, the match seemed perfectly right.

Hunter wondered if Lacey had ever regarded him with that depth of affection. He couldn’t recall, but he supposed that if she had, he’d remember it.

He tossed back the whiskey and set aside his glass. Enough woolgathering. The tides of fortune had turned for him, and brooding about the past was no way to celebrate. As he strode toward the dance floor, he ran a gauntlet of eligible ladies. There were the daughters of Se
or Montgomery’s agent, neighbors and visitors from all over the Tidewater region, and Lady Margaret Stewart from England. Like the Thoroughbred in his stables, these elite young ladies had been selectively bred and trained for a specific purpose—to marry well and to carry on the way of life that was so cherished by them all. Two years ago, women of their class had recoiled from Hunter with scandalized whispers. Now they preened and strutted to get him to ask for a dance.

He chose Tabby Parks because she had dark hair.

She giggled as he bowed before her, and he wondered if there was a polite way to let her know he’d changed his mind. It was too late. What was one waltz anyway? He’d had enough whiskey to make the identity of his partner cease to matter.

“What a wonderful night for you,” Tabby said, and he had to admit her voice had the smooth warmth of honey. “How very proud you must be.”

“I reckon I am,” he said. “I’ve put a lot of hard work into this.”

“You’ll be wanting to restore Albion soon, then,” she said.

“Restore it?”

“Of course. Replant the tobacco fields, refurbish the house, buy some new darkies—”

He laughed, cutting her off abruptly. “God Almighty, I just got rid of that way of life.”

She ran her tongue lightly over her bottom lip. “But think of your children, Hunter. They’ve been raised like wild Indians. It’s time they settled down. Theodore’s old enough to be sent away to school, and Belinda needs to learn her needlework and deportment…”

At that point, he stopped listening. Tabby had no notion of what his children needed, and no inkling of his plans for Albion. Neither did her sister Cilla, nor Lady Margaret, nor Miss Martin of Williamsburg. He danced with each in turn, favoring no young lady over the others.

As the evening wore on, Hunter had to force himself to make the terrible admission that his success wasn’t enough. The money, the fame, the admiration of women, the esteem of his peers—none of it meant anything to him. He had always thought that if he saved Albion, his life would be complete. He had set out to build a horse farm, and to do it without slave labor or becoming beholden to any other man. He had accomplished that—but now what?

His thoughts kept drifting, as they so often did, to Eliza. What was it Ryan had said about her?
Everything got better once you brought her to Albion.
It was so true. Quietly, without really explaining what she was doing, perhaps without even meaning to, she had turned his life around. She had tamed the madness from his horse, but, more importantly, she had brought his children out of their mire of despair. Blue and Belinda would always bear the scars of losing their mother, but the joy was back again. They embraced each day with an exuberance Hunter had not seen in them since before Lacey had left.

Could he ever thank Eliza for that? Was there any way?

He supposed not. A simple thanks would sound too trite and inadequate. He wished there were something he could give her, offer her, say to her, to let her know how important she was to him.

But what?

As he danced with a beautiful, smiling woman in his arms, he wished Eliza had come to the ball. It startled him, how much he wished that.

The only thing she had ever asked of him was the freedom to travel to distant California in search of a dream. Now he could afford to buy her passage to the distant Pacific coast. He should want her to have what she wished for, even though the thought of sending her half a world away simply emptied him. For once in his life he had to look beyond his own selfishness. He had torn Eliza from her world with the promise that he would help her embark on a new life. It was time to let her go.

The decision didn’t please him, yet having it settled in his mind had a certain calming effect. He put more effort into making small talk with his dance partners, even coaxing a smile from Miss Bondurant, who was petrified of him.

In the middle of the dance, she peered over his shoulder and asked, “Who is that with your cousin Charles? I don’t recognize her.”

Hunter led his partner in a turn that allowed him to see Charles dancing with a petite young woman in an ice-blue gown. He wasn’t the only one craning his neck and staring. Practically everyone in the room was.

He tried not to stumble and tread on his partner’s feet, but the shock made him clumsy. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving to the edge of the dance floor. “I’d best get you to safety.” With a self-deprecating grin, he delivered her to her mother and then turned to gawk at the newcomer.

It was Eliza Flyte, of course, but an Eliza he had never seen before.

Festooned in a blue satin gown, she was an enchanting creature, small and slender, with glossy black curls caught up in fancy combs. She wore long white gloves and carried a lace fan on a ribbon at her waist. Blue slippers showed occasionally beneath the full, shimmery gown. Everything about her was remarkable, from the vivid beauty of her face, to the sound of her laughter, to the compelling energy of her dance step.

She was the sort of vision adolescent boys conjured in their minds when they thought about the girl they’d like to marry. She was the woman grown men dreamed of when the girls they did marry turned out quite different from their adolescent fantasies. She was the beauty little girls pictured when they wondered what they would be once they were all grown up.

She was Miranda, daughter of Prospero, a creature of myth and air, stardust and seafoam.

He had definitely had too much to drink. He went to the punch bowl and gulped down several cups of mint lemonade to counteract all the whiskey he’d consumed. Then he ran a hand through his hair, straightened his neck cloth and walked across the dance floor to Charles and Eliza.

“Pardon me,” he said in his most charming drawl. “But I do believe I’d like to break in.”

“Go away,” Charles said, never taking his eyes off Eliza.

“That’s hardly the polite reply, cousin,” Hunter said, trying to be good-natured.

“Who ever said I was polite?” Charles twirled sharply, presenting his back to Hunter.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eliza said, laughing. “You’re like a pair of little boys.” She extracted herself from Charles’s grasp and turned to Hunter.

She fit in his arms as if she had been specially fashioned for his embrace. They moved well together, her small steps easily keeping up with his. The fancy dress offered a dazzling view of her bosom, the cleavage deep, the tops of her breasts prominent above the scalloped neckline.

“You’re staring,” she said with laughter in her voice.

“Do you blame me?”

She laughed again. “I really don’t think it’s considered proper.”

“I assure you it’s completely improper, but I can’t help myself.” He splayed his fingers over her back, amazed that his hand was able to span her waist. “Who the devil did this to you?”

“Your cousin Charles. The one you just accused of being impolite. The one you just banished from the floor.”

“Charles did this? He must be a man of hidden talents.”

“It was Charles and Willa, with some help from Belinda and Blue. The dress belonged to your late wife, and Willa altered it and added some trim.” She bit her lip. “I hope you’re not vexed about the dress.”

“Hell no, I’m not vexed. Lacey had enough dresses for five women.” He didn’t recall his wife in this blue dress. But then, he didn’t recall her in
any
particular dress. Yet he knew he’d never forget the way Eliza looked tonight. “I had no idea you were this—” He hesitated, trying to rephrase the comment.

“You had best stop there,” she said. “Anything you say will surely get you in trouble. You’re so charming when you don’t speak.”

Lord, but he liked her. Liked this laughing, teasing, beautiful girl.

“You have to admit,” he said, “you do look different.”

“I feel different. My father used to play tunes on his mouth harp or hum them, and he taught me some dance steps, but I had no idea it was like this.”

“Like what?”

“So beautiful,” she said, her eyes sparkling with wonder. “So…magical. Everyone looks lovely. The music sounds like nothing I’d ever imagined. It fills this room. Every corner of this room, all the way up to the rafters. Why didn’t anyone tell me music was like this?”

The ensemble—on a dais at the end of the room, under the shell-shaped half dome of the ballroom—put out a sound that was liquid and full and sweet. It stunned him to realize she was hearing music for the first time. He and the other guests took the simple country tune for granted.

“From now on, and forever after, I’ll always imagine the angels in heaven when I hear music.” She tilted back her head, exposing the arch of her throat, and laughed aloud as they turned swiftly together. “No wonder dancing was invented,” she said exuberantly.

He speculated about how long it would take her to realize she had become an object of speculation. Already, after only this one dance, he could feel the attention of everyone in the room. The men, of course, could barely contain themselves, their eyes hard and avid as they awaited a chance at her. The women stared too, though with a different sort of sharpness.

“Miss Flyte, I think it’s only fair to warn you,” he said.

“Warn me about what?”

“I think you’re going to be very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”