The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (12 page)

      
Be happy, Stevie.

      
      
      
Chase

      
Tears seeped unchecked from her eyes, rolling slowly down her cheeks and dropping onto the paper. With deliberation she took the letter and crumpled it in her hands. The heavy velum formed a small tight ball, crushed like her heart.

      
He had chosen. And his choice was as she had always known it would be...those savages over her. He said he loved her and perhaps he did, but not enough. Never enough. Never in her life had Stephanie Renee Summerfield been worthy of enough love. Only Aunt Paulina had truly cared for her and even she had deserted her niece in a premature death.

      
“I have no one,” she whispered in the empty room. The sound of her desolate words echoed in the gathering silence. Now she realized, after her night of stern resolutions and high-minded anger, that she still had held the faint hope that against the face of all reason, he would come back to her. Perhaps if Anthea had not killed herself—for that is what he must have meant by ‘‘ultimate sacrifice”—he would have.

      
But she knew, too, that keeping him that way would have been a hollow victory. The lure of the West, that land of endless sky about which he had spoken so passionately, would always hold him in thrall. And so would his father's people, the strange, savage Cheyenne who Anthea Remington had adopted as her own. What would make a white woman abandon every tenet upon which she had been raised?

      
A man like Chase.

      
But Chase was gone forever. Stephanie laid her head on her bent knees and huddled in the windowseat as a spring storm blew in, gray and angry, pelting the glass with splinters of sleet. She felt as if the icy shards were penetrating her heart as well.

* * * *

      
Spring finally arrived to stay. Daffodils and hyacinths bloomed and the skies cleared. The whispers over Anthea Remington's tragic death—which everyone knew was by her own hand, poor demented thing—were quickly eclipsed by the far more titillating rumors surrounding her scandalous bastard son. The half-breed heir to the Remington millions had simply up and vanished without a trace. Among all Boston's upper crust, he had left behind only a string of angry cast-off lovers—and Stephanie Summerfield.

      
The gossips had instantly seized on Remington's squiring about that most unlikely young miss. Agatha Lodge sniffed that Stephanie was thin and drab, not to mention a boring bluestocking. Whatever had he seen in her? To further fuel the fire, the servants' grapevine circulated the story that a marriage alliance had been agreed upon by the Reverend Remington and old Josiah Summerfield. Then the prospective groom had fled, no doubt gone back to join those hideous red animals who were raping and pillaging across the plains. He was, after all, tainted with their inferior blood and nothing better could be expected of him, regardless of a Harvard education.

      
But Josiah Summerfield’s daughter was from pure-blooded Boston Brahmin lineage. Much better was expected of her, even if her late aunt had raised her a bit unconventionally. Had the unscrupulous libertine taken advantage of the girl? Perhaps that was why she'd agreed to marry a man like Chase Remington.

      
For the first few weeks after Chase left, Stephanie remained barricaded in her room, awash in the self-pity only the very young are capable of feeling, utterly unaware of the fustian of gossip sweeping Beacon Hill. Then gradually her natural resilience and the stubborn courage that had always been uniquely hers asserted itself.

      
She must get on with her life and forget Chase Remington. Surely by now thousands of miles away, he had forgotten her. Stephanie made her valiant resolution and emerged from her cocoon, ready to dazzle even the spiteful Agatha Lodge.

      
Ever immersed in his account books, the dour old Josiah took no notice of such trifling matters as gossip, even if anyone would have dared to broach such a subject to the sharp-tongued, sour-faced old merchant. When he was notified by the Reverend Remington that his errant grandson would not be fulfilling the marriage contract, Josiah had been annoyed still to be saddled with a daughter of marriageable age. Just as quickly he left her to her own devices and returned to work. He was confident that another suitor of good family would come along shortly, considering the huge dowry he was willing to bestow to settle the matter.

      
Only when Stephanie accepted her first social invitation to a cotillion given for Addie Lake by her doting parents, did she realize that her association with Chase had done more than break her heart. Her finishing school roommate Addie greeted her with a coo of delight when Stephanie walked into the big ballroom on her father's arm.

      
“Ooh, Stephanie, you've come out of seclusion at last! I was positively delighted when you accepted the invitation. What a luscious gown.”

      
Josiah snorted in disgust. “Dress ought to look good on her. Cost me enough.” Then seeing August Lake talking to several bankers by the punch bowl, he quickly excused himself from the frivolous female company and headed off to talk business, the real reason he had come.

      
“Most girls could never wear that color successfully, Stephanie,” Addie added, eyeing the pale shade of green which would have made her sallow complexion look utterly jaundiced.

      
Embarrassed by her father's brisk dismissal, Stephanie smoothed the delicate embroidered sprigs of leaves on her skirt. “I'm pleased you like the gown, Addie. Your own is quite lovely, as is the party. Thank you for inviting us.”

      
“Why, you poor dear, of course I wouldn't have dreamed of excluding you, no matter what those vile-tongued old harridans say. I never listen to gossip,” she added with a self-righteous lift of her plump double chin.

      
Stephanie paled. “Gossip?”

      
“Why about you and that wicked Chase Remington, silly. Oh dear, don't tell me you didn't know?” She placed four chubby fingers on her powdered cheek in mock regret. “But of course you didn't. You've been hiding away like a virtual hermit since he jilted you.”

      
Stephanie stiffened her spine and her eyes darkened with indignation. “Mr. Remington and I were never engaged, so he could not have jilted me. I merely went on a few social outings in his company.”

      
“Whatever you say, my dear,” Addie said in a sweetly patronizing tone. Then her eyes took on an avid glow as she asked, “Did you keep company with him because of your old childhood friendship? You never did explain how you knew him at the Cabot’s' ball last winter.”

      
Stephanie had never really liked Addie, even though they had been thrust together by necessity in school. The girl always had been catty and backbiting in spite of the loving indulgence of both parents. “No, I never did explain since there's really nothing more to it than a brief acquaintance when I was a little girl.”

      
Before Addie could launch into another line of questioning, Tom Bennington and George Gordon sauntered over and asked the ladies to dance. Prior to approaching the young women, the two young gentlemen had tossed a coin to determine their prospective partners. Tom lost and bowed over Addie's hand while the winner George swept Stephanie into the strains of the waltz.

      
She was used to the succession of self-important and shallow sons of the city's elite fawning over her and expected the evening to be like many others had been since her debut. But as she traded partners through mazurkas, schottisches, polkas and waltzes, she detected a subtle difference. Instead of the compliments and braggadocio, there were odd assessing looks and stilted conversations about the weather. A few of the bolder ones had held her too tightly or issued invitations to stroll in the Lake's English garden out back. One man possessed the audacity to ask her to slip out for a carriage ride! She indignantly declined every one.

      
What sort of gossip had Addie been hinting at? Even if Chase had broken an engagement—which he had not—why would anyone blame her? After all, she was the aggrieved party! Surely no one had learned about that disastrous night spent with Chase in the snowstorm. Would Oliver Standish have been cad enough to disclose it after all this time?

      
When the late supper was announced, Stephanie had no appetite and wanted only to leave, but as usual, Josiah was closeted away with his cronies, discussing stocks and bonds. She went in search of him with no success. In route back to the ballroom she heard Addie's thin titter amid the giggles of several other debutantes. When they mentioned her name, she froze.

      
“What do you suppose it feels like? Ooh, I wish I could ask Stephanie.”

      
“I dare you!”

      
“Just imagine, doing that with a half-wild red Indian.”

      
“Half-wild, my aunt Fanny's bloomers—Chase Remington is a Harvard man, after all. And so wickedly handsome he would be hard to resist.”

      
“I heard poor Stephanie was hiding because she was in a family way, but after seeing her tonight, I suppose that's not true.”

      
“Maybe not but if she kept company with that awful half-breed, she must've let him bed her. He never bothers with any woman who won't.”

      
“She must've been a disappointment. After all, he did leave town!”

      
Gales of laughter followed the last sally. Stephanie felt nauseated. Balling her hands into fists she prepared to wade into the midst of the vicious little cabal of “ladies” who were supposedly her friends and tell them precisely what she thought of them.

      
Suddenly a musical tenor voice with just the hint of a Southern drawl said, “I don't believe a word of it. No one with any sensibility—not to mention a grain of common sense—would.”

      
Stephanie gasped and turned to face a handsome stranger in the blue and gold of a cavalry officer's dress uniform. He was tall and very slender with wavy light brown hair and warm brown eyes that were sympathetic without a trace of pity. “Please accept my apologies for startling you. I didn't intend to cause you further undeserved discomfort.”

      
Stephanie warmed to his smile, which seemed honest and kind. “Your apology is duly noted, Lieutenant—?”

      
“Phillips. Hugh Phillips, but since I'm only a second lieutenant, technically I should be addressed as a mere mister, Miss Summerfield.”

      
“Have we met before? Surely I'd remember so chivalrous a gentleman,” she added, returning his smile.

      
“No, but I inquired about the identity of the beautiful woman whirling across the dance floor when I came into the room. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to supper?’'

      
She nodded in assent, taking the arm he gallantly offered, and they began to stroll toward the groaning buffet tables in the Lakes' immense dining room.

      
“I was late for the ball, I'm afraid. A hazard of duty when one is a soldier.”

      
“Are you stationed here in Boston then?”

      
“No, I was only sent here from Washington to deliver dispatches to Colonel Breckenridge. My permanent assignment will be with the Seventh Cavalry, in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. My family is from Baltimore but I have a married aunt living here in Boston. Marybelle Kenyon. I'll be staying with her for a while. You see, I have a month's leave coming. I'd be honored if you would consent to spend a brief bit of it in my company, Miss Summerfield.”

      
Hugh Phillips was balm for her wounded soul. She quietly relished the look of amazed jealousy on the other debutantes' faces when she passed the buffet table in the company of the dashing young officer. Their plates heaping, they found a quiet bench in an alcove where they could dine privately.

      
After a few moments more of polite conversation, Stephanie laid down her fork and looked at Hugh. “How do you know the gossip about me is not true?”

      
“I could not be more certain. You are a lady. Just watching the way you conducted yourself on the dance floor convinced me. There is an air of innocence, of honor about you that is inviolable. If your father saw fit to agree to a betrothal with the Remington heir, it would have been an honorable marriage. The man was a bounder to leave you—not to mention an utter fool.”

      
“Most people in Boston would not agree with your assessment...of me, at least,” she replied darkly.

      
“Most people in Boston are stuffed shirts with nothing better to do than polish their own tarnished halos by attempting to tear them off the real angels.”

      
Stephanie felt a small burble of laughter well up at his earnest assertion. “I'm not guilty of having an affair with Chase Remington, but that scarcely makes me an angel.”

      
“When you smile, you are. I have a feeling you haven't done nearly enough smiling in your young life and I propose to remedy that. Will you take tea with Aunt Marybelle and me tomorrow afternoon?”

      
Stephanie smiled again. “Yes, I believe I'd enjoy that.”

      
In the weeks that followed, Hugh Phillips became Stephanie's constant escort. They attended ice-cream socials and dances, went on picnics, and horseback rides. His aunt Marybelle was a kindly older matron with the same innate Southern gentility as Hugh. Although Marybelle was nothing like Aunt Paulina, Stephanie grew fond of the lady. And of her nephew. He was charming but never slavish like Oliver Standish. He was warm, but never forward like Rayburn Lawrence. Hugh made her feel safe, something she had never felt with Chase.