Paxton and the Lone Star (66 page)

There was no question but that the family had done well for itself. Tom had been running Solitary for the last two years. His father, Jason Behan Paxton, and mother, Cassandra-Colleen, who everyone called Colleen, had moved back to the family home in Brand-borough, where Jason reigned as the town patriarch. Benjamin, Tom's younger brother, had ventured west three years earlier and sent back occasional messages that a man who knew mules could make a fortune—which he was doing—and that he was having the time of his life. Hope Elaine, Tom's sister, was married to a horse breeder in Tennessee. Tom hadn't seen Hope Elaine for over two years, but her letters indicated that she was happy and more than satisfied with her lot in life. And as for himself?

Ah, Jenny, Jenny
.

Shadows washed over him in the hypnotic calm, the emerald twilight closeness of the swamp.

Jenny, Jenny. What did you say?

His mind reached back into the past to pick a memory out of a host of memories like a rose from a bouquet. He knew he would prick himself on the thorns, but didn't care.

Forever? The very word you used as we fled to London. Forever.…

Tom's visit to England in 1806 had begun as a business trip, but had turned into much more. Not only would he bring home a shipload of wool fabric and cutting tools and sundry other articles and goods to be sold and traded in Charleston, but a bride as well.

A heavy overcast had delayed the dawn. Inside the carriage house behind the Vincent country mansion, all was dark and still. Tom carefully felt his way through the building until all the doors were closed and the windows shuttered. Only then did he remove the hood from the lantern he'd brought and load his carpetbag and rifle into the small fast barouche he'd selected earlier. The next step was riskier because he knew he couldn't avoid making noise. Working quickly, he selected the tack he'd need for the barouche and carried the rest to the stable, where he hid it under a pile of hay.

A horse nickered, another beat a tattoo on a stall wall. Tom held his breath, but the groom, who slept in a small room off the stable, snored on contentedly. Tom coaxed his favorite pair of bay geldings out of their stalls and led them into the carriage house, where he hitched them quickly to the barouche. Finished, he paused and took a deep breath. Everything was ready, and the minute Jenny arrived they could leave her father's country estate and make for London, there to board the Paxton ship that waited to set sail for South Carolina.

The side door creaked. Tom shielded the lantern and ducked out of sight.

“Tom?” a voice whispered. “It's me.”

“Close the door.” He heard the door close, then opened the lantern and hurried to meet her and help carry her bags. “You have everything?”

“I think so.” Jennifer stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. Dressed in a simple beige traveling gown, her pale, narrow shoulders hidden by a lined lace shawl, and a bonnet covering her long honey-blond hair, Jennifer Louise Vincent looked absolutely radiant. Only eighteen, five years younger than Tom, she retained a simple girlish innocence, yet was far from being a mere girl. The master artist, love, had blessed her with subtly blushing cheeks which complemented her classically high cheekbones, pert nose, and full rose-colored lips that were sensual and yet almost regally demure. Most striking, however, were her eyes. Amethyst, they were widely spaced, frank, open, and compassionate; they drew people to her, as they had certainly drawn Tom the moment he met her. “We'd better hurry,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “The servants will be up and about any minute. Someone may have heard or seen me as it is.”

“They'll be too late to stop us,” Tom assured her, leading her to the barouche. “I hid the tack, and I can't imagine your father riding bareback.” He loaded Jenny's bags and helped her into the backseat. “Up you go. I'll get the doors and we'll be on our way.”

Tense and a bit breathless, Jenny settled into her seat. Tom brushed his lips across hers, then shielded the lantern and plunged the carriage house into deep shadow again. He groped his way to the large doors that led outside and, wincing at every squeak and rasp, carefully opened them. The sky was lighter outside, gray instead of black, revealing a line of thunderheads sweeping toward them from the north. Tom ran back to the carriage and swung up onto the driver's perch. Restless, the horses moved back and forth in their traces and stamped the hard ground. “Ready?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Jenny.

“I'm ready,” she replied with a brave smile.

“Stand where you are!” a furious voice shouted from the open doors.

“Oh, Lord!” Tom groaned, his heart almost stopping.

“Father!” Jenny gasped.

“Light,” the same voice snapped.

A second silhouetted figure stepped forward and uncovered a lantern. Bright light bathed a scene in which the players were frozen in place: Jenny, fright etched on her delicate features, in the rear seat of the barouche; Tom, looking hard and wary, on the driver's seat.

“Damn me for a fool, but they were right,” Sir Theodotus swore, stepping into the carriage house. A man of medium height, his confident, almost imperial demeanor made him appear massive and threatening despite his almost comical nightclothes. Sparse white hair—he had forgotten his wig in the rush—ruffled in the amber light as a breeze swept through the doors. A full white moustache bristled under his large, bulbous nose as he glared at the elopers. “Give me the light, Pendergrast.”

Pendergrast, the burly head butler, obeyed with alacrity.

Dressed in a nightshirt, robe, and slippers, Sir Theodotus approached the barouche. “Get out of that carriage, Jennifer Louise,” he commanded, “and return immediately to your room.”

Jenny shook her head. “No, Father.” Her voice quavered, but she gained strength of purpose with each word. “Tom and I are leaving. We're to be married, and we're going to America.”

“Nonsense,” Sir Theodotus growled. “Paxton, is this how you repay the hospitality of a man who's invited you into his home? My God, man, we've done business together. We've eaten together. We've even
fished
together, and now you try to steal my daughter from me?”

“I asked you for Jenny's hand, sir,” Tom reminded him in a deceptively soft voice. “We wanted your and Lady Eugenia's blessing, but you refused.”

“Of course I refused,” Sir Theodotus snapped. “You barely know my daughter, and she can't possibly know you. If she did, she'd never entertain such a ridiculous notion as this.”

“We know each other well enough to be sure that we're in love,” Jenny said defiantly. “I want to do this, Father, and I won't let you stop me. We
will
be married.”

Sir Theodotus took a deep breath and jerked his head toward his servant. “Help my daughter out of that carriage, Pendergrast, and escort her to her room.”

Pendergrast took a tentative step toward the barouche. “Miss Jennifer,” he said, keeping a wary eye on the grim-visaged American, “why don't you do like your father says?”

Not hurrying, Tom picked up his rifle and let the barrel drift toward Pendergrast. Quailing at the sight, the servant stopped in his tracks. Brawling with the American was one thing. Getting killed was quite another.

“My God, Paxton! Put that weapon away!” Sir Theodotus said, shocked by the threat of violence.

“When we're safely away from here,” Tom replied in the same soft voice. “I don't want to hurt anyone, but we're leaving, just as Jenny told you.”

“I cannot allow that!”

“You'll have to allow it, sir. You have no other choice.”

“You, sir, are a … a … barbarian!” Sir Theodotus sputtered through his moustache.

A ghost of a grin played across Tom's face. “Maybe,” he allowed, “but if so, I'm a barbarian who's deeply in love with your daughter.”

It was obvious that further argument with Tom was pointless. Confusion, frustration, and fury mingling in his voice, Sir Theodotus turned to his daughter. “Please don't do this, Jenny,” he pleaded. “Your mother and I.… Well, damn it, you just can't be serious!”

“But I am, Father,” Jenny replied gently. “More serious than I've ever been in my life.”

“You'll be miserable. The colonies are no place for a young lady of your breeding and refinement. Think of all those savages and ruffians roaming about committing depredations and all manner of vile—”

“I might remind you, sir, that this is 1806,” Tom interrupted. “The colonies, as you call them, have been free for over twenty years. And Jenny is going to be free there, too.”

Sir Theodotus looked forlornly at Jenny, but she only nodded in agreement with Tom's statement. His face sagged and his shoulders slumped. “Since I can't reason with my daughter, it doesn't appear that I can stop you, Paxton.”

“That's right, sir. You can't.” Holding the rifle in one steady hand, Tom gathered the reins with the other. “So if, under the circumstances, you'd like to reconsider—”

“Never, damn you!” Sir Theodotus swore.

“Very well, then.” Tom snapped the reins and the horses bolted forward into the morning light.

“Paxton!” Sir Theodotus roared after the departing lovers. “This isn't over! You'll pay for this, I swear it!”

Determined to put as much distance as possible between the barouche and Sir Theodotus as quickly as he could, Tom whipped the horses into a fast trot. Ahead, the sky was clear and bright. Behind, lightning-filled clouds gathered. As long as they stayed ahead of the storm, they could outdistance any pursuit. Still, not until the Vincent estate was more than a mile behind them did Tom heave a sigh of relief and slow the team to an easier pace. Several miles later, Jenny called for him to stop, and climbed up beside him.

“You all right?” Tom asked, slipping one arm around her.

Jenny huddled against him. “It was awful,” she finally said.

“But it's over, now. All we have to do is head for London, and then on home.”

“Home,” Jenny murmured. “South Carolina. And we'll be husband and wife.”

“We certainly will. Until death does us part.”

“And we'll love each other forever,” Jenny whispered. “A beautiful word, forever. Forever and ever …”

With thunder rumbling far behind them, the carriage rolled on toward London.

Forever
, Tom thought bitterly as he turned onto the broad wagon road that connected Solitary to Brand-borough.
Forever.…
Only four years. It was strange, though, how he never felt alone when he visited Jenny's grave. Somehow, he could sense her spirit there—feel it as palpably as he could when he sat or played with or simply watched the twins.

The horse broke into a ragged trot as the land rose out of the swamp. The road widened and cut through a meadow lush with a third growth of hay that was ready to be cut if the weather held, then narrowed again, squeezed between towering rows of cane. Farther along, a large fenced field reserved for mares and their foals was dotted with huge shade oaks, two of which had been made into giant ornamental fence posts that marked the entrance to Solitary. Tom's pulse always quickened when he entered the long wide drive and saw the plantation house his grandfather and father had built. The sprawling two-story structure, its whitewashed sides gleaming in the morning sun, was surrounded by trees, the most prominent a pair of venerable white oaks so enormous that no two men together could circle their trunks with their arms. The breeze cooling his face, Tom urged the clay-colored mare into a gallop, then reined in sharply by the hitching posts set in the ground on either side of the steps.

“Morning, Lavinia,” he called, sliding off the mare and looping the reins around one of the posts. “Hot enough for you?”

“Sho' nuff, Mr. Tom.” The black woman standing in the open front doors grinned back at him. “Goin' to be a real swamp swizzler, if'n yo ask me.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at Lavinia's latest expression. “Where's Vestal?”

“Right here, Mr. Tom!” A young black boy, lean as a whip and moving just as fast, came tearing around the corner of the house. “I'll take care of her.”

“She'll want a rubdown and some cool water. Hot and close in the swamp today. She must've sweat ten gallons. I know I did.”

“Mind you be careful with that horse now, Vestal!” Lavinia called as the boy clambered onto the mare. “You
walk
it, you hear?” She handed Tom a tall glass of mint-flavored tea and watched him fondly while he drank. “I swear, that boy …!”

Dressed in a bright-red blouse and a long sky-blue skirt, with a red kerchief tied over her curly black hair, Lavinia was an impressive figure. Her sleeves were pushed back to reveal thick forearms that were not strangers to hard work. Her strong hands could deliver a resounding smack to the backside of a mischievous boy, too, Tom knew, for Lavinia had supervised the household and taken care of the Paxtons for twenty years. Now in her mid-thirties, though her waist was thick and lines were beginning to appear on her face, she was no less in charge than she had been when Tom was a boy. “Visitin' Miss Jenny again, Mr. Tom?” she asked, knowing he had been and watching intently for any sign that he was relapsing into the deep depression that had gripped him for weeks following Jenny's death.

“I took some flowers out there,” Tom replied. Aware of her concern, he flashed her a quick grin to show that he was coping with the vestiges of his grief. “Stole them out of your garden again, I'm afraid.”

“Shoot, frost'll get 'em soon anyways, so I'm glad you did. Make me feel like I'm givin' her somethin' too. Miss Jenny, she always did like pretty things.”

“Speaking of which, where are those sons of mine? They weren't up when I rode out.”

Lavinia's smile broadened, if that was possible. The Paxton twins were her special pride and joy. She was responsible for them when they were at Solitary, and it was more of an honor than a duty for her. She jerked her head toward the rear of the house. “They be around back playin' with Mr. Maurice. I figured it be all right, they like playin' with him so much.”