Christie (24 page)

Relieved, Christie once again began to lead him out the door,
"Very well, then, Uncle. Charleston, here I come!"

Garrett stood on the deck of the
Marianne
as she sailed the Rhappahannock River away from Fredericksburg. He had been to Windreach plantation the day before, staying only long enough to find out from a bewildered Celia Trevellyan that neither Christie nor Charles were at home, that she hadn't seen or heard from them since each had left, and that she didn't know when either was expected back at Windreach.

Now, as he traveled out toward the Atlantic, and Charleston, he made up his mind to put all further thoughts of his wife aside. He had been right in the first place, he thought. There was no room for a woman in his life—not even a haunting little minx with a smile that could . . . Sharply, he forced himself to fix on his next immediate target. He would go straight to Carlisle and inform him of what he had learned.

Harper had verified what Rutledge had told him about the tobacco deal of 70. The facts were all falling into place. Now, if only his luck were to hold and he could locate the second middleman and get him to reveal the name of the one who had hired him and Cutwell . . . His luck! His thoughts turned gloomy. With the way things were going for him lately, God knows what he might expect. Twenty years was a long time. Suppose the murderer were already dead? Suppose he had died easily in his sleep one night, never suffering— Abruptly, he shut his mind to the thought. Damn! It was still something he had to do. Even if the man were dead, the world would have to be told, his name properly blackened. He, Garrett Randall, would see to it. So help him, he would!

Chapter Seventeen

Life in Charleston wasn't exactly proving to be a vacation for Christie. To her shocked dismay, she discovered the Stanhopes kept slaves, and, it was even more distressing to her that Lula and Jasper were forced to stay in the slaves' quarters where they also took their meals.

Protesting that the black woman and her son were not slaves, but free blacks, Christie had argued that they ought to be treated as such, but with no success.

"Christie," her Aunt Margaret had said, "you must understand, we have no facilities for nonslave servants. Would you have us endure these persons of color in our guest rooms?"

"But why not?" Christie had asked, her eyes wide with hurt. "Lula and her son are my friends."

"Friends!" Her aunt's face had shown an expression of contempt. "Obviously you, in your isolation at Windreach, have been kept completely in the dark concerning what goes on in the world. If you had not, you would know what the rest of us have come to recognize very clearly. Persons of differing color were not meant to mix socially; nor were those of the
darker race intended to be regarded our equals. They were meant to serve, and we, to reap the fruits of their labors."

"But Aunt," Christie had pleaded, "we Trevellyans have never countenanced such beliefs. You know Father keeps no slaves, and Aunt Celia herself told me she was proud that all servants at Windreach are duly paid for their services. I can't believe that you, as a Trevellyan yourself, would allow—"

"We shall speak no more on the matter," Margaret had intoned in her most authoritative voice. "Now, run along and dress for tea. Melissa and Belinda have invited some very nice young people they're expecting you to meet. That Jeffrey Hallo well comes from a
very
fine family."

And with a sad little sigh, Christie had obediently gone to her room to do her aunt's bidding.

As she had anticipated, the most tolerable of her moments in the Stanhope household came when Philip was about. Evening meals were usually pleasant enough, her uncle having about him a congenial mode of conversation that centered around topics of more interest to her than those of her cousins and aunt, who seemed more than ever concerned with the frivolities of social involvements or the latest gossip in the community.

But Philip was not home all that often during the day, his business with the bank requiring he spend time there or elsewhere in the area, and during the hot days of the long summer weeks that passed, Christie endeavored to do all she could to invent reasons to avoid the inane chatter that came from her cousins' company by finding excuses to

take to her chamber from which she usually sent for Lula.

There, despite the stifling heat of the close room, they quietly continued with the lessons they had each come to enjoy while Aunt Margaret was told that Christie was having Lula work on a new hair style for her or that she was being given a massage or helped to try on several gowns so she could decide what to wear for some coming engagement on the Stanhope's ever-full social calendar.

The letter to Charles had been sent, and one evening before dinner, some two and a half weeks after her arrival in Charleston, Christie was summoned to her uncle's study where Philip presented her with her father's reply.

Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the white parchment envelope bearing her father's seal. Inside, the familiar bold handwriting covered less than half a page:

My Dearest Christie,

You have no idea how wonderful it was to find your letter when I returned from New York and learned you are safe in the arms of your family. I respect your need, for some time to think and will refrain from traveling to Charleston to take you home until the month is up.

Please remember that the only concern on my mind is that you are happy.
.
Remember, too, that I love you. Until the end of your month, then, I remain

Your loving father, Charles

There were tears in her eyes as she folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her pocket.

"Oh, Uncle Philip! What a fortunate girl I am to have a father like mine. Not one word has he written of my folly, not a single suggestion that I have done wrong, or might have spared him this or that. . . only wishes for my own happiness!"

"It is clear he loves you very much, my dear," said Philip. "And why shouldn't he? You are a dear and loving daughter. Sometimes I wish my own offspring . . . ah, well, no point going into that. If wishes were horses, the beggars would ride, eh?"

Christie smiled and was about to leave when Philip made a gesture for her to sit down on the carved Chippendale chair nearby.

"Stay a moment, my dear," he said. "There's more. Along with your father's missive to you, came this envelope entrusted to me."

He indicated an envelope similar to the one she had opened; it lay on his desk.

"It contains a bank draft for several thousand dollars made out to me, to be cashed for your use. Charles felt it might make you feel easier to have some ready cash available, should you have a need for anything while you are here. Of course, if he had asked me, I would have told him it wasn't necessary."

He moved to open the secretary portion of his desk now, and Christie saw him take out what appeared to be a medium-sized valuables box and set it before him as he continued.

"My coffers are at your disposal while you are here, Christie, and you should feel free to ask me for anything you should require in the way of money,you know. Not that I've seen you spend a penny as yet. Don't you feel the desire to acquire a new bonnet or some such pretty trifle? Heavens, if the situation were reversed, and Melissa or Belinda were with you in Fredericksburg, I daresay they would have visited
ev
ery dressmaker in town by now."

Christie grinned impishly at him. "Then they'd be having a hard time spending all that much money, Uncle. We have only one dressmaker in town right now, and she's none too good. I've made my own clothes on occasion in preference to going to her or traveling to Richmond. But to answer your question, there's only one thing I should like to purchase at the moment. Thunder needs a new girth for his saddle. I looked at it yesterday when the girls
and
I took a canter about the square. Will you let me
have enough to replace it?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll replace it for you. In the meantime," said Philip, opening the valuables
bo
x. "I want to show you where I'm putting this
bank draft until I might need to cash it for you. It
is
your money, you know. Until then, I shall inform

Margaret that you are to draw any cash you require from that which she always has available for her own use. Of course, at the rate you're spending, my dear, I
w
ouldn't be surprised if we return the entire draft uncashed to Charles when he comes."

Laughing, Christie said, "That should please
^F
ather. He's not above saving a penny here or there."

She was about to leave, rising out of the chair she
ha
d taken, when suddenly, looking around the room, she exclaimed, "Why, Uncle, what sort of room is this?"

"My private study," he answered, smiling, "but I see you have noticed some of my little trophies."

The room they were in was clearly a man's study, with its darkly appointed, masculine-looking Chippendale furniture, heavy Eastern rugs, and numerous heavy brass lighting devices; but what had caught Christie's eyes was what appeared to be a very large collection of some mementos of one sort or another. These were placed on walls and various pieces of appropriate furniture about the room. One wall was almost totally covered by a group of framed documents, interspersed with a few other hanging objects and a painted portrait or two. On one document she made out the words, "Notice of Foreclosure," and on another, she read the signature, "George Washington."

"Trophies, Uncle?" she asked, walking toward a cherry card table that held a superb piece of Meissen porcelain done in the rococo style and colored in soft tones of mauve, green, and pale yellow. Beneath it lay a neatly handwritten card which read: "To Philip Stanhope—You played the better game. —T. Jefferson."

"Yes, trophies, as I'm fond of calling them," said Philip. "The exquisite figurine you see before you, for example, I won as a wager over a game of chess with Mr. Jefferson some years ago. I was a guest at Monticello as a result of some business my bank had with him. He admired a ruby ring I was wearing as we sat down to play, and I had seen the statue and coveted it, so I suggested we wager one against the other in our game. He was reluctant at the outset, so we played merely for the sport for a while, each of us
winning two games. At that point, I suggested the wager again, and he agreed. As you can see, I won."

"And you keep it here as a memento of your triumph," said Christie, gazing in wonder at some of the other objects about the room. "And the same with the others?"

"Exactly," said Philip, "but I prefer the word, 'trophy,' to 'memento,' for they are all objects which remind me of something I have won."

He gestured at another wall that was covered with the mounted heads of various wild animals, and in the center of which hung a plaque on which was mounted a magnificent gaming piece, a highly polished firearm with a beautiful walnut burl stock.

"My gaming trophies are obvious for what they are. You didn't know I was an expert marksman, did you, my dear?"

"No, indeed, Uncle," said Christie, "but have you pursued human game as well?" she asked, indicating a perfectly matched pair of silver dueling pistols in a glass-and-mahogany case on the bookshelves to her right.

"Only with an aim less than deadly, rest assured," he said. "My dueling days are over, I hope, behind me, but in those affairs, I only aimed to wound, never to kill. That was all when I was a youth, living with my family in New Orleans. Dueling has always been quite popular down there, you see."

"I see, indeed," said Christie, not at all sure she liked this new side she had discovered to her uncle; but this she endeavored to keep from revealing as she turned toward him once more.

"Thank you for sharing these things with me,
Uncle Philip. They make me take a new look at my favorite uncle."

"You flatter me, you little imp," said Philip, obviously pleased with himself. "I also happen to be your
only
uncle! Now let us go, my dear," he said, extinguishing the candles in several lamps. "Your Aunt Margaret will have my head for keeping us so long. We're late for dinner!"

And taking her arm, he led her toward the dining room.

A week later, Christie saw yet another side of her uncle's character, a side she had never suspected existed. It was midmorning, and Lula had just helped her change from her morning gown into a new, deep-plum-colored riding habit, a gift from Philip when Aunt Margaret had noticed her old one to be heavily mended, and therefore, unsuitable to wear any longer.
,_^

They were assaulted by loud, angry sounds of shouting and screeching as they opened the door, the din emanating from the direction of Melissa's room at the opposite end of the hall. Motioning for Lula to remain behind, Christie stepped cautiously toward her cousin's chamber.

"You sluttish little
bitch!
I should have expected as much of you!" The sound of Philip's voice reached easily over the background noises of hysterical female weeping as it gained in volume with each word.

"Philip, the child says he forced her—took advantage—
"