The Horsemaster's Daughter (80 page)

T
he next day dawned a miserable charcoal gray, the skies leaking a cold mist. Undeterred by the inclement weather, Abigail held a broad black silk umbrella aloft and argued with Jamie all the way to the dress shop on M Street. “We must tell Lieutenant Butler not to come.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along? For him to come courting?”

“Yes, but he’s coming to court Helena.”

Jamie dismissed the problem with an impatient wave of his hand. “When he sees you, he’ll forget he ever met your sister.”

“That’s preposterous. No man can be that stupid.”

“Trust me, any man can be that stupid. A glimpse of ankle, an inch of cleavage can reduce a scholar to a blithering idiot.”

His graphic language made her blush, and she ducked her head. He had the unique ability to hurt her in subtle ways. She didn’t know why she put up with it.

“This is what our entire association has been about, Abby,” he said, apparently unaware of her mood. “You challenged me to make you irresistible to Lieutenant Butler. Don’t get cold feet now.”

The day dimmed and the mist thickened. She could barely make out the terraced slopes of Georgetown leading down to the gentle curve of the Potomac. Far in the distance loomed the Navy Yard. The ghostly profile of the Arsenal on the riverbank to the south and east shimmered against the weeping sky. Sometimes Lieutenant Butler came down from Annapolis to conduct official business there. Unless she could find a way to stop him, he would soon have business right here in Georgetown.

“This is madness,” she said, balking even as Jamie pulled her into the elegant shop. “You can’t simply disguise me as my sister.”

“Who said anything about a disguise?” asked Madame Broussard, bustling forward to greet them. “My purpose is to bring out your natural attributes, not hide them.”

“But—”

The modiste ignored her as she drew her through the curtained doorway, leaving Jamie to fan the umbrella dry in front of the small stove in the salon. Madame scarcely stopped for breath as she issued instructions to her assistants in French. They brought out the dresses for the final alterations, but Abigail was too distraught to appreciate the fine jewel tones of the sumptuous fabrics, or the simple elegance of the accoutrements Madame’s staff had ordered—hats and shawls, beaded reticules and lovely swanskin fans.

Though her understanding of French was only adequate, Abigail realized the dressmakers were once again discussing the woeful extent of her imperfections in great detail. She knew very well what her defects were, and did not need to hear them enumerated in rapid, euphonious French.

She marched to the door. “I’m going home now,” she announced. “Madame, thank you for your time. The dresses are lovely. But no matter how attractive the dress, I will still have…” She paused, translating what she had overheard. “‘Unfortunate hair and sallow skin.”’

The modiste planted herself in Abigail’s path. “I am blunt. I do not apologize, and you are a fool to take offense. I merely speak the truth. You do have unfortunate hair. It is too long and badly cut. Whoever styles your hair does not know you, or care what you look like.”

“I do my own hair,” Abigail said.

“Ah.
Voila`.
You see? Solange will take care of the hair for you,
toute de suite.
” She summoned one of her assistants, a tall, thin girl with bony cheekbones and solemn eyes. “She is an artist with the scissors.”

“I don’t care to have my hair cut.”

Madame refused to budge. “You have no sense of style. Surely you cannot deny that.”

“I never pretended to be stylish.”

“Like most American women, you do not understand style. It does not mean parading yourself around in the latest fashion, but simply presenting your very best self to the world. Contrary to your belief, this has absolutely nothing to do with physical attributes. Mademoiselle, it must be said. You have no self-confidence, and you need that far more than you need my dresses. It makes all the difference in the world. Did your mother never tell you—”

“My mother died on the day of my birth.”

The dressmaker’s businesslike façade never faltered. “For that, I am deeply sorry.
Tiens,
in the matter of style, I will play the part of the mother.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need—”

“Of course you do. Everyone needs a mother. I cannot give you all your mother could, but I will do my best to see that you make use of your advantages rather than hiding them.
Sacre bleu,
those eyes are stunning, yet you keep your gaze averted and let your hair fall over them. You have a face filled with intelligence and character, but you keep your brow knit with worry all the time. You wear this Gothic prison of a dress in the most terrible shade of pea green imaginable. This is all easily changed, and your attitude will change as well. A woman with great style faces the world differently. You’ll see.”

Abigail fidgeted through each step of the fitting and flatly refused to let Solange near her with the scissors. They wanted to change everything about her. But if they did that, how would she know who she was anymore?

Face it, Abby, you’re afraid of risk.
Jamie’s words infested her thoughts. Perhaps he was right, but that didn’t mean she could do anything about it.

“Madame, I’m sorry, but I cannot be what you want me to be.”

“Taisez-vous.”
Madame Broussard lost patience with her. “You leave me with no choice. We must call at your home tomorrow for the final fitting.” That decided, the dressmaker escorted her to the front of the salon, where Jamie waited. “I will bring my assistants around in the morning,” she explained to him. “Perhaps Mademoiselle will be more amenable to a fitting at home.”

“Perfect,” said Jamie.

“Out of the question,” said Abigail.

“Until tomorrow, then,” said Madame Broussard.

“I have other plans—”

“Don’t be a baby,” Jamie said as he accompanied her back to Dumbarton Street. “Cowardice doesn’t become you.”

“Lying to a naval officer is not like me,” she pointed out. “It’s probably illegal, treason or something. Yet you’ve made me do it.”

He roared with laughter. “Abby, if I had the power to
make
you do something, why the hell would I make you love another man?”

Lying awake that night, Abigail turned his remark over and over in her mind, but couldn’t quite deduce what he’d meant by it. Nothing, probably. He prided himself on being an unsentimental man who regarded love and romance as baseless illusions. If she confessed that sometimes she felt her friendship with him deepening, he would probably laugh even harder.

As she and Dolly worked side by side in the kitchen the next morning, laying out the breakfast tea, Abigail had a mad urge to confess all to the housekeeper who had run the Cabot household single-handedly for two decades.

“I’ve done an awful, awful thing, Dolly,” she blurted out, hugging the Wedgwood teapot to her chest.

“Have you, now?” Dolly never paused in rolling out the biscuit dough. Her generous arms jiggled with the motion.

“Yes. I am horrible,” she said. “I’ve always been horrible. And I’m beginning to think I shall always be horrible.”

“I’d argue with that,” Dolly said, “but I gave up arguing with you years ago. Would you like to tell me about this horrible thing?”

“It’s a very great secret, and I shouldn’t even be telling you, but it’s just so awful that I can scarcely live with myself.”

“This would be the correspondence you’re carrying on with Lieutenant Butler, wouldn’t it?” Weary wisdom shone from her round, pleasant face.

Abigail nearly dropped the teapot. “You know? Who else knows?”

Dolly cut a half-dozen sharp circles out of the dough. “Just myself, dearie, no need to worry.”

“I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Heavens, no. Your sister needs a husband to look after her, and why not the lieutenant? You’ve done your part in keeping his interest trained on Miss Helena. I do love the girl dearly, and she’s as lovely as the summer sun, but after the first flush of romance, a man looks for more than a pretty face. It’s a fact that she’s not the most brilliant conversationalist. And that, mind you, is what makes a marriage.” She smiled in fond remembrance. “My husband of blessed memory used to listen to me for hours on end. He let me talk on and on…”

So Dolly didn’t understand everything. Only Jamie Calhoun knew Abigail had carried on the correspondence not because she sought a suitor for Helena but because she herself was in love with Lieutenant Butler.

“I must send him an urgent message,” she said, panic coming on strong again. “I will tell him that he must never visit or even think of Miss Cabot ever again. Yes, that is precisely what I—”

“Abigail.” Her father came into the kitchen, beaming with stellar radiance. “My dear girl, why didn’t you tell me?”

Startled, she set down the teapot and smoothed her hands down over her apron. Father never looked at her like this, never called her his dear girl. Then she noticed the letter in his hand, and her stomach turned over. The seal of Annapolis was embossed at the top of the page. Good heavens. Lieutenant Butler had written to Father.

Abigail swallowed hard, finding her voice. “Sir, I can explain. I—”

“You needn’t, Abigail. I understand completely, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I’m so proud of you.”

“See? I told you there was no need to worry.” Dolly wiped her floury hands with a tea towel and put the kettle on.

“I didn’t realize you had a letter from him, Father,” Abigail said. Oh, this was bad. This had gone too far. She felt as though she were drowning in quicksand.

“Mr. Calhoun told me what you’ve been doing.”

“He did?” I’ll kill him, she thought. I will shoot him point-blank in the heart.

“Yes, he said you’ve been the active party in this courtship between Lieutenant Butler and your sister. He claims it’s all your doing. My clever, clever girl. What would I do without you?”

She nearly melted from the warmth emanating from him, she teetered on the verge of realizing a cherished dream, something she had wanted since before she was even old enough to know what it was or why she wanted it.

True, she dreamed of a romance with Boyd Butler, but in her heart, she was greedy for even more than that.

Father’s rare smile had a magical effect on her, for instead of rushing to instruct Lieutenant Butler not to call on them, she heard herself say, “Father, I’m so glad you’re pleased.”

“It’s not just me,” he said. “The entire nation owes you a debt of thanks.”

Even in her desperation, she laughed incredulously. Finding the humor in an outrageous situation was a skill she’d learned from Jamie Calhoun. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“Not in the least. The support of the vice president is critical to my agenda in the Senate. He was wavering, falling into the camp of the anti-Reformists. But once we’re related by marriage, he’ll stand with me on the issues that matter so greatly to our nation.”

Marriage. The very thought made her mouth go dry. Deep within her fear and confusion, she also faced silent questions about her father. Which did he want, marriage for his daughter or a political alliance for himself? She didn’t like to think of him stooping to tricks like any politician.

He swept away her doubts by making the uncommon gesture of embracing her, kissing her cheek. He smelled of bay rum and peppermint, evoking the sweetest moments of her childhood.

His delight and confidence in her, his show of affection, caused the entire world to change color. “Your mother would be as proud as I am to see you looking after your elder sister’s welfare. How I wish she had lived to see this day.”

“I wish she’d lived, period,” Abigail said, touching her cheek where he had kissed her. Unable to abide the stifling kitchen any longer, she excused herself and hurried upstairs. It was Helena she needed to speak with about this, not Dolly or Father.

Helena was the one who would determine the outcome of this fiasco, after all.

Abigail pushed open the door to her sister’s room. With a hasty motion, Helena slid a sheet of foolscap paper under the skirt of the dressing table with an almost furtive movement. Taking up her hairbrush, she counted the strokes. “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine…” Then Helena caught her eye in the mirror. “Yes?” she asked. “What is it, Abigail?”

“Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Excellent. I’ll join you shortly.”

Abigail hesitated, unsure of what she wanted to say. Helena kept raking at her hair, counting under her breath.

“Helena, are you angry about something?” Abigail asked.

“No, of course not.” Dropping the brush, she stood and paced the small area behind the dressing table. “Actually, I am. Michael—I mean, Professor Rowan has been absolutely beastly to me ever since we returned from our weekend in the country, and I’m thoroughly exasperated with him. What should I do, Abigail? I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re asking me?” Abigail couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “We are a sorry lot, we two, aren’t we? I don’t mean to make light of this but I can’t advise you on matters of the heart, Helena. I’m far more confused than you are.”

Helena sank down on the end of the bed. “How I wish Mama were alive. She’d know what to do.”

Helena was right—a mother advised her daughters on tender affairs, but lacking a mother, the sisters had blundered their way into a sticky web of intrigue and forbidden adventure. They had wandered into places better avoided, places a mother would guide them away from.

“Do you remember anything about her?” Abigail asked, hungry for the least little detail. It was not the first time she’d asked, but Helena usually avoided speaking of their mother. “Anything at all?”

Helena released a long, sad sigh. “I always thought that was impossible, for I was only three when she died. But sometimes—no, it’s silly.” She picked at the tapestry counterpane that lay over the bed.

“What?” Intrigued, Abigail sat down beside her. “Tell me. You must tell me.”