Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (70 page)

A
derelict, half-dressed servant answered the door. Jamie had a swift impression of dark hair in need of barbering, distracted eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles and a mouth pulled down in annoyance. The man was not elderly; in fact, he was a strapping young specimen, yet he shuffled along slowly as though in no hurry to do anyone’s bidding. Jamie wondered what sort of gentleman would allow a servant to comport himself in such a manner.

“Honestly, Professor Rowan, what can you be thinking? It’s eleven o’clock in the morning and you’re not dressed,” Helena Cabot scolded.

“I am dressed,” the man said, rubbing the shadow of a beard on his cheeks. He brushed at the crumbs littering the front of his gaping robe. “Not dressed means naked. I am not naked. But if you prefer—” His ink-smudged hand went to the front of the threadbare robe.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Abigail pushed past him into the house. “We’ve brought your new lodger to meet you, and you mustn’t frighten him off.”

Jamie stepped into the foyer. So the derelict was the eminent Professor Michael Rowan, one of the noted intellectual treasures of Georgetown University. For no particular reason, Jamie had expected a pale, subdued bachelor scholar in his twilight years. Instead, his clearly reluctant host was a husky man who didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

“Not to worry,” Jamie said. “I’ve never been frightened by the sight of a naked man.” He extended his hand to the professor. “How do you do. James Calhoun. Miss Cabot was kind enough to offer an introduction.”

Professor Rowan shook hands cordially enough, leaving only a small ink stain on Jamie’s palm. “Which Miss Cabot?”

“The kind one.” Jamie couldn’t resist saying it.

Abigail sniffed and poked her nose into the air.

“Refresh my memory,” said Rowan, scratching his head. “Was I expecting a guest?”

“Mr. Calhoun isn’t exactly a guest,” Helena explained. She favored the professor with a look any other man would have walked across hot coals for, but Rowan didn’t notice. “He’s your new lodger.”

“When did I agree to take in a lodger?”

“Right this instant, you great fool. You’re rattling around in this house all alone, and you can barely afford it, so you really must take in a lodger.” Helena clasped her hands. “You and Mr. Calhoun will get along just famously.”

“I don’t get along with anyone.”

“Then it doesn’t matter who your lodger is,” Helena pointed out.

“True.” Rowan nodded and led the way to a parlor cluttered with wires and magnets, stacks of papers and books, a machine with cylinders on the wall. Intrigued, Jamie scanned the room. He considered himself an educated man, but the contraptions that littered the place baffled him. He thought he recognized a pressure gauge hooked up to beakers and glass tubing, and the oak plaque and brass paddle of a disassembled telegraph transmitter. An oblong wooden box spewing wires and horns dominated one wall. A fire alarm system, perhaps?

“Mind the gyroscope,” Rowan mumbled, brushing past Helena, completely missing her worshipful look.

“Why do you have a gyroscope?” Jamie asked. “Do you go to sea?”

“This instrument has a number of useful applications,” Abigail said. She and Rowan elbowed each other like a pair of naughty schoolchildren. Jamie Calhoun had seen many places, met many people, experienced many adventures, but he still thought the present company strange indeed.

The rest of the house was nearly as cluttered as the parlor. The old residence had tall-ceilinged, narrow rooms and floors that creaked. Rowan explained that he conducted many of his experiments at home because they required constant monitoring.

“I used to sleep in the Laboratory of Applied Sciences,” he said, “but some of the other faculty members objected, so I had to find a place of my own.” He smiled distractedly. “There is much to be said for making work into one’s life, isn’t there, Miss Abigail?”

“Indeed, I have found it so.”

“My sister is a great astrologer,” Helena explained.

“Astronomer,” Rowan corrected.

She waved a hand. “The distinction isn’t important.”

“It’s as different as a man from a woman.” Despite the spectacles, his stare sent out undercurrents of meaning.

Helena caught her breath with an audible gasp before turning away. “What’s important is that she is going to be famous. Tell him, Abigail. Tell him how you’re going to be famous.”

“Helena, that’s not the reason—”

“She’s going to sight a comet with her telephone on the roof.”

“Telescope.”

“Didn’t I say that? And the president will strike a gold medal in her name. I declare, it’s all too exciting.”

“I’m all aquiver just thinking about it,” Jamie muttered.

“No need to be sarcastic,” Abigail said.

“There are easier ways to strike gold.”

“It’s not about the medal.” Abigail handed Rowan a file of notes covered in mysterious mathematical symbols. “More work on my comet calculations.”

“A parabolic orbit,” he said. “Well done.”

“Is it?” Her face lit up, and for the first time since he’d met her, Jamie realized she was almost pretty. “The more I learn, the less I trust myself. And the more I compute, the deeper the mystery seems.”

No, she wasn’t pretty, he decided. She had depth and passion, traits he found far more interesting. “How do you know the comet’s there?” he asked.

“It’s a precise science,” she explained. “Blind faith and magic have no place in science.”

“This is the work of a gifted mind,” Rowan assured her, perusing the calculations. “Keep working on it. Keep pulling back the curtain, little by little.”

The three of them had no idea how strange they all were. Abigail and Michael Rowan behaved like slightly befuddled, scholarly colleagues. Helena regarded Rowan with the sort of reverent adoration reserved for fallen gods, but of course the clod didn’t notice. Ironic, thought Jamie. Every man in the capital wanted Helena Cabot, but the one she wanted barely knew she was alive.

“Do you suppose I could see my quarters?” he asked, interrupting the comet discussion.

Rowan blinked behind glasses so thick they magnified his eyes. “Oh. Certainly. Right this way.” With a shambling gait, he crossed the hallway and opened the door to a large but spartan chamber furnished with a bedstead, an armoire, a washstand and fireplace. Rowan frowned and scratched his head. “Odd. I thought I’d ruined this room along with the rest of the house.”

“I sent Dolly over to clean it,” Helena said.

“Oh. Thank you. Good of you.” Rowan pointed to the window. “Look there. A view of both gardens.”

Indeed, the high window looked down into the narrow row gardens behind the houses of Dumbarton Street. Senator Cabot’s garden was adjacent to the one directly below the window, an arrangement Jamie might find quite convenient.

“Excellent. I’ll take it.”

“It’s too perfect.” Helena clasped her hands, beaming at everyone. “I just love it when things work out so neatly.” She touched Rowan’s arm. “Isn’t that so? You need money, Mr. Calhoun needs a home and we need you to stay on as our neighbor. It’s like doing a puzzle, and every single piece fits just right.”

“Those aren’t the sort of puzzles that interest me,” Rowan stated and left the room. Helena followed him, peppering him with conversation that he deflected with a shield of indifference.

Jamie found himself alone in the room with Abigail Cabot.

“Well,” she said with a nervous flutter of her hands. “That was simple enough, I suppose. We’re going to be neighbors, then. How convenient for you.”

He scowled. Was he that obvious? “Convenient in what way?”

“You shall have access to my sister every day. Most of the gentlemen who court her have to travel much farther.”

“Is that why you think I chose these lodgings? To court your sister?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

The fact was, the idea hadn’t crossed Jamie’s mind. Helena Cabot was inordinately beautiful, but so was the
Venus de Milo
at the Louvre, and he didn’t want to court
that.

But let Miss Abigail make what she would of his motives. She’d find out his true objective soon enough.

“I’d best be going,” he said. “I’ll be needing my things brought around.”

“Of course. Helena and I must be on our way as well. Dumbarton Street is an exceedingly pleasant place to live, but it thrives as much on gossip as it does on politics.”

“So does Congress, I’m beginning to understand.” He held the door for her. “Come. I’ll escort you and your sister home.” He grinned. “Gallant of me, isn’t it? Going ten steps out of my way, solely for your sake.”

He spoke briefly with Rowan about the arrangement, then stepped out into the crisp autumn day. Leaves tumbled along the neat brick walkways. A few hacks and cabs stood in the roadway, their wheels angled and blocked against the incline of the hill, horses indolently swishing their tails. Students sat clustered around enameled iron tables at a café down the block, and neatly attired servants went about their errands.

It seemed to Jamie a neighborhood of intimidating self-importance. He’d been to the courts of Europe, to Middle Eastern palaces and to places the people of Washington could not possibly imagine. Yet to him, staid Georgetown, with its brick streets and pastel-painted doorways, its brass knockers, gaslight sconces and wrought-iron garden gates, was more exotic than the palaces of Luxor. Certainly its residents were far more baffling.

He was about to bid the ladies a good day, when a bicycle messenger arrived, puffing with exertion from his climb up the hill from M Street. The youngster wore the deep blue livery of a naval orderly, and when he dismounted the cycle, he came to attention with a smart salute.

“Ensign Clarence Sutherland at your service,” he said. “I have a message for Miss Cabot, from Lieutenant Butler.”

Abigail Cabot was transformed by the expression that brightened her face. Accepting the envelope, the little wren turned into a songbird, her smile fulfilling the promise of her incredible eyes. She was foolishly moonstruck over Butler, and had absolutely no skill at concealing it. This was unfortunate, for she was going to be eaten alive. Jamie had done his best to warn her, but clearly she hadn’t listened.

“Goodbye, Mr. Calhoun,” she said with undue haste. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Come, Helena, let’s go inside.”

Jamie wondered if, for once, he’d read the situation wrong. Could Boyd Butler actually be pursuing Abigail? If so, Jamie would be amazed, and he’d be reluctantly impressed. It took a certain subtlety of taste to appreciate a woman like Abigail Cabot. Perhaps Jamie had underestimated the young naval officer, dismissing him as slow-witted, shallow and unimaginative. More likely to go for the ripe-peach beauty of the sister, Helena. She was a fine enough bundle, but it took more than a first-rate set of breasts to hold a man’s interest beyond the bedchamber.

Which sister was Butler after? The question nagged at Jamie as he watched the two of them, the swan and the wren, step through the heavy, imposing door to their father’s house.

And why did the answer matter to him?

F
illed with bittersweet joy, Abigail scarcely felt the floor beneath her feet as she went upstairs to the parlor. Clutching the envelope to her bosom, she resisted the urge to press it to her mouth.

A letter from Boyd Butler.

Helena hurried after her. “Honestly, Abigail, must you rush so? I haven’t seen you move so quickly since those mussels made you sick at the Spanish ambassador’s house.”

As if Abigail needed to be reminded of that. Helena never meant to be insensitive, although she was often blunt. In fact, that very night it had been Helena who had rushed her from the room and found a spittoon before Abigail disgraced herself entirely.

She led the way into the comfortable morning room and took a seat on the dark green settee. Helena sat in a wing chair opposite her and folded her hands in her lap. “So what does the letter say?”

Abigail took a deep breath, sorting through her feelings. The prospect of a letter from Boyd Butler filled her with delight, even though she understood perfectly that it was Helena he wanted. Why didn’t that fact make her miserable? Because, she realized, this courtship would make her father happy and her sister happy—and two out of three wasn’t so bad.

Helena’s curiosity about Boyd Butler seemed strange to Abigail, for ordinarily she treated all suitors with equal disdain. Perhaps this time things were different. Perhaps she truly did want to be courted.

In a way, Abigail felt she’d been granted a reprieve. No gentleman ever took an interest in her, and Butler’s brief flare of attraction at the wedding—exhilarating as it was—had unsettled her. She didn’t know how she would act if he pursued her. Watching him court Helena was safer than being the object of his desire. This way, Abigail didn’t have to risk making a fool of herself. It wasn’t the same as having a love affair of her very own, but in her own private way, she might find safety preferable.

Or so she told herself as she took her time breaking the seal and opening the envelope. She tried to ignore a twinge of annoyance at Helena, who picked up her petit point and worked a thread through the design. This was the start of a romance, for heaven’s sake. Couldn’t she have a little respect for the weightiness of the momentous occasion? Or at least savor it? Didn’t she even want to be alone to dream about it?

But, as usual, Helena left the thinking to Abigail. It wouldn’t do to point out that the letter was a private correspondence and that Abigail had no right to read it. She and Helena shared everything; they always had. Raised by a constantly changing parade of nurses and nannies, tutors and taskmasters, they had taken refuge in each other. Motherless, and with a father like Franklin Cabot, they’d learned to cling to one another.

She unfolded the message. His stationery bore the embossed gold seal of a naval officer. “He has a fine clear hand,” she said, feeling a thrill ripple through her. This falling-in-love business was heady stuff, like an exotic virus. Even though she loved him from afar, she had not expected the sensation to be so…so physical. She took a peculiar delight in seeing his penmanship for the first time. It was personal and intimate, a glimpse at a facet of Boyd Butler that had been hidden from her until this moment.

“Of course he does,” said Helena. “They train them to do that in the navy, don’t they?”

He probably learned penmanship long before going into the navy, but Abigail didn’t point that out. She took a deep breath and started reading.

“‘My dear Miss Cabot’—” She stopped, feeling a flutter of her heart. She’d never been anyone’s dear. The designation made her want to laugh and weep at the same time. Taking another deep, steadying breath, she went on. “‘They say that Helena of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships. Dare I say that Helena of Georgetown has a face that could launch the entire United States naval fleet?”’

As soon as she read her sister’s name aloud, Abigail turned into a machine. An armored reptile, impervious to feeling. All along she’d known Lieutenant Butler wanted Helena, but until she actually read the name, saw it shaped by his concise handwriting, Abigail had been able to imagine the tender words were meant for her. Without changing her voice, she read on, but everything inside her turned to ice. This was a
love
letter to her sister. Not even meant for her eyes. “‘I find myself preoccupied with thoughts of you. In the middle of muster drills or morning inspection, every other notion drains from my mind. Should you favor me with the merest fraction of my admiration of you, I would consider myself the most privileged of men.”’

As she recited the words, Abigail sneaked a glance now and then at her sister. In the diffuse light of the late-autumn morning, she was like a goddess from another world, a place devoid of ugliness or infirmity. The polished copper fall of her hair framed a porcelain-perfect face, which was now consciously arranged into an expression of polite interest. Yet her hands stayed busy, working the petit point as though with a will of their own.

Struggling to hold her sick disappointment at bay, Abigail finished reading, though the aching tenderness of Boyd’s closing nearly undid her. “‘You hold my heart, a crystal, within your slender hands….”’ Her voice trailed off into the sunny silence of the morning room. She stared down at her own small, squarish hands until the words on the page blurred, then she blinked to clear her vision and looked up at her sister.

Helena clasped her hands in her lap. “How lovely,” she said. “How heartfelt and delightful.” She frowned at Abigail’s expression. “Are you all right? You look a bit ill, dear.”

“I’m fine.” Abigail folded the pages with a reverence reserved for holy relics.

“Now, who did you say that was from?” Helena inquired, her brow puckered with a frown.

Abigail nearly crumpled the note as she put it back in the envelope. “Oh, for the love of heaven,” she snapped. “Are you so inured to having men’s hearts laid at your feet that you can’t keep track of them all? Perhaps we should keep a book like a star log, listing all your conquests. Or maybe a strategy map such as Father keeps in his study, only instead of voting blocks, we can mark off each—”

“Abigail, please.” Helena took out a handkerchief and pressed it to her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be flip. Why are you so distraught? This isn’t like you.”

Abigail gritted her teeth and held herself very still. “Of course. And I didn’t mean to—Actually, I did. My frankness is surely the least of my assets. Honestly, Helena, have you truly forgotten which man has pledged his soul to you?”

Helena bit her lip. “It was either Mr. Troy Barnes or Lieutenant Butler. Both inquired about…well, you know.”

Abigail did know. Ever since Helena had come of age and shocked the polite world by not settling down to an advantageous marriage, her sister had received offers with the frequency of honeysuckle attracting bees in summer.

“It’s from Lieutenant Butler.” Abigail pushed the letter into Helena’s lap. “Lieutenant Boyd Butler.”

“Of course. The Annapolis man.”

“The vice president’s son.”

“He dances like a prince.”

“And writes like a poet.” Abigail stood up, pacing in agitation. “You cannot dismiss him, Helena. Not this time. He’s too…important.” She had almost said “vulnerable,” but that would have been too revealing, even to Helena. “You heard Father this morning. An alliance with the Butlers would mean everything to him.”

“Yes, it would, but I’m trying to remember why I should concern myself with pleasing Papa.”

“Helena.”

“That was quite naughty of me, wasn’t it?” Helena lapsed into a dreamy silence, seemingly preoccupied with something important and mysterious.

Abigail held in her exasperation. While she labored in quiet diligence to do the right thing, Helena wavered between daughterly affection and open rebellion. Yet, for both women, the results were the same. Their father was never cruel to them, but he treated them with a remote civility that had a subtle cruelty all its own.

“He wants a reply,” Abigail said, her gaze falling to the letter in Helena’s hand. “He asked—begged—for one directly.”

Helena dropped the envelope on a side table and picked up her sewing again. “Of course. But I could never—Oh, you know me, Abigail. I have no head for such things. The words simply aren’t in me. I need you, dear.” She raised troubled eyes to Abigail. “Would you be so kind?”

Abigail turned to the window so her sister wouldn’t see her face. She supposed she could refuse; perhaps she would. But no. If she didn’t write the letter, Helena would dash off some blunt rejection, dictating it to one of her father’s secretaries who might or might not accomplish the task with tact and discretion. Several years ago, she’d sent an unscrupulous servant to dismiss a suitor, and the story had appeared in the next day’s
Post.

Abigail couldn’t bear to see Lieutenant Butler treated in such a manner. Though she had every right to resent him, she discovered that she could not. Being angry at him for falling in love with Helena was like being angry at the autumn leaves for falling from the dogwood trees that lined the brick streets of Georgetown.

“And what is it you’d like me to say?” she asked her sister.

“Tell him how delighted I was to hear from him. Tell him I share his feelings.”

“But you don’t,” Abigail said. Then a stunning thought struck her. “Or do you?”

“Probably not. But as you said, this is important to Papa. Think how pleased he would be with me if I really did win the heart of Lieutenant Barnes.”

“Butler.” Abigail had thought of nothing else. Could she bear seeing him wed to her sister? “And what would you intend to do with his heart? Add it to your collection?”

“Abigail, you know me better than that. I’m thinking of Papa, and you should, too.”

“Believe me, Helena, I am thinking of Father, too.”

“Then will you do it? You’ll send a letter?”

“I have to go to Foggy Bottom this afternoon.”

“Then do it when you return. Please, Abigail. It would mean so much to me.”

“Very well. But only if you tell me what to say.”

Helena flung her petit point into the sewing basket and stood up. “Oh, how I wish I had your head for words and paragraphs! You’ll say exactly the right thing, I know you will, Abigail. You always do.” She gave her sister a fervent hug and hurried from the room.

Abigail sat alone, pondering her options. She didn’t really have any. There was only one person capable of sending a reply, and being discreet about it.

Unbidden, a memory of the previous night crept into her thoughts. It was something Jamie Calhoun had said to her.
Why do you think they call it falling in love? When you truly fall in love, you’ll know it. You will weep with the knowledge.

Abigail didn’t weep, but she felt like doing so. Perhaps that was what Mr. Calhoun had been trying to explain.

But how could he have known?