Windswept

Windswept

Ann Macela

Copyright 2008 by Ann Macela

Cover illustration Copyright 2012 by Winterheart Design, http://winterheart.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the express written permission of Ann Macela, the copyright holder and the publisher of this book, except with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, organizations or businesses is entirely coincidental.

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Windswept

In its history, Windswept Plantation in Louisiana has been many things to many people. To the Jamison family, it has been the ancestral home since 1830. To historian Barrett Browning, it is a repository of family correspondence, journals, and stories which can lead to publications, promotions, and success in her academic career. To venture capitalist Davis Jamison, all these documents are a pain in the neck, since he must preserve them for the family and history, while guarding the family reputation. To Davis’s cousin Lloyd, the papers hold a horrible secret, the revelation of which will ruin the entire family.

Historian Barrett wants to bare the family history—all of it—to the light of day. Falling in love with the owner of the documents is not in her plans. Davis wants to solve the family mystery while protecting its good name. His cousin’s desperate fixation on hiding secrets and Davis’s intense attraction to Barrett both surprise him.

A secret will out, however, and it’s found in the journal of the first Jamison plantation mistress. Hiding the truth brings Barrett to a difficult choice: success with her career or a life with Davis. Revealing the truth brings Davis to an equally hard decision: ruin the family reputation or risk all to have Barrett forever.

Windswept

Chapter One

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

St. Gregoryville, Louisiana

June 1, 1830

A warm summer day with no rain.

My name is Mary Maude Davis Jamison and this is my journal, a present from my beloved husband, Edgar. He tells me it is customary for plantation masters and mistresses to keep written accounts of the events occurring on their property. I am looking forward to recording my life so our children and grandchildren will know of us and our perfect love.

I shall begin by describing myself and Edgar.

I am nineteen years old and have been married to Edgar John Jamison since April 1, 1830. I am slender, of medium height, with black hair and blue eyes. I have never considered myself to be pretty--never, that is, until Edgar taught me how to see myself through his eyes.

Edgar is a tall, handsome man, twenty-eight years of age with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. The blade of his nose has a small hook, but instead of detracting from his beauty, it only enhances his attractiveness--at least to me.

The first time I met him at a party in Mobile, I was struck by the elegance of his posture, the width of his shoulders, and most especially by his gentlemanly demeanor. He is already a man of substance and property, but there is a playful aspect to his nature I didn’t expect as he was quite serious to begin with. He now laughs easily and often, even at my small attempts at humor. I doubt I will ever meet a more pleasant and easy-to-get-along-with individual. Thank goodness he is not like those arrogant, overbearing men so prevalent in society.

As I have come to know Edgar, I have realized he is a truly kind man, solicitous of my well-being and my feelings, with never a harsh word. Neither does he have, as I have noticed in other men, the imperious attitude that assumes a woman has the intellectual capacity of a grain of rice and must be controlled by her “lord and master” in every endeavor.

We spend hours simply talking with each other, conversing at length on all sorts of subjects. He speaks very well and has plans for political service. He is not put off at all by my education--or by my opinions, even though Mama often told me gentlemen did not like ladies who talked about such manly matters as politics. Well, it is her and Papa’s fault I have them since they educated Belle and me just as they did our brothers Rob and Harry.

At my parents’ home in Mobile, Edgar courted me as if I were a princess, and he quickly drove thoughts of any other suitors completely from my mind. Our honeymoon to New Orleans was like being in heaven. I should probably not write such a thought in this journal, but my memories of the glories of the marriage bed and his introduction to it still make me deliriously giddy. I love him so much. I foresee many days of utter happiness stretching ahead of us into eternity. Growing old with this man will be such a pleasure.

***

Present Day

Houston, Texas

Friday, May 4

“Tell me, Dr. Browning, why should I hand over the Windswept papers to you?”

“Because, Mr. Jamison, I’m the best person for the job and because I had an agreement with your grandfather.” Barrett Browning put all the confidence, sincerity, and honesty she had into her words and tone, but she couldn’t help gazing warily at the man sitting behind the large ebony-and-teakwood desk across which papers, files, and pens marched in ordered precision. She wondered if he could see her tension.

E. Davis Jamison looked like a mid-thirties, taller, harder version of his grandfather--much harder. While Edgar Preston Jamison’s soft greenish-brown eyes held a roguish glint, Davis’s were hazel granite, and the glint was suspicious. While Edgar had the appearance of a benign elderly bald eagle with bushy white brows and silver hair, Davis personified the alert, vigilant bird in his prime, a black eagle if there was such a beast, with straight black brows, straight black mustache, and black hair combed--how else?--straight back. To complete the family, and avian, resemblance, Davis had inherited Edgar’s slightly hooked nose--a direct bequest from Edgar John Jamison, family progenitor and Windswept’s first master.

Davis did have the same soft, deep, Southern drawl of his grandfather, but the grandson had made his into a voice of command. Barrett simply understood that when the man spoke, he did not need to raise his volume to be heard--or obeyed. Neither did he need his six-foot-plus height or his charcoal-gray power suit to command. Authority radiated off him in waves.

She could handle the type. She was used to dealing with large overbearing men--even ones whose voice and glance sent little shivers up her back. Her reaction must come from the importance of the situation. Now, if he would come quickly to the decision she needed. He wasn’t going to be easy to convince; she could tell from his posture and his hooded stare. He didn’t appear to be actively hostile, but he wasn’t going to let anybody put something over on him either.

She wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort, of course, but, as she waited for Davis Jamison’s reply, she couldn’t help thinking, and not for the first time, how sorry she was Edgar had passed away in early April. The old man’s lawyer had reported his death to her, per his deathbed instructions. She had gone to the funeral in Louisiana, but, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief, had not introduced herself there. After all, she’d met only a couple of Edgar’s relatives in passing, and a funeral was not the time to be pushy. Instead she had waited until later in the month to ask Davis for an appointment to discuss the plantation papers.

The man had proved difficult to pin down. He seemed to be on the go a great deal, either traveling on his own business or over in Louisiana tending to the estate. She had persevered, however, and now here she sat, in a downtown office building in Houston on the first Friday morning in May, hoping to make the same agreement, a contract that could make or break her career, with another Jamison.

Davis had accepted her condolences and then sprung his question with no preliminary chit-chat. She could not read the thoughts in his half-closed eyes as he listened to her answer and studied her for a long moment. He leaned back in his big, black leather chair, tented his fingers under his mustache, and said in his soft, deep voice, “Tell me about this agreement.”

Edgar had not told her much about this particular grandson, but she had researched him carefully after finding out Davis was the executor of the estate. His venture capital firm, Jamison Investments, was known for its integrity and trustworthiness, as well as its ability to make global deals without any information leaking to the press before the formal announcement. Jamison moved quickly, quietly, and successfully in financing new companies and bringing existing companies to rewarding partnerships. At the same time, he was reported to be a shrewd judge of projects and their proponents--and an expert negotiator. All right, appeal to his instincts and show him the profit.

“Your grandfather and I were collaborating on a history project using the records from your family home, Windswept Plantation,” she explained. “I believe you and I can be of mutual assistance to one another if we finish the project. Had he mentioned it at all to you?”

Davis nodded affirmatively, but said nothing.

“It’s rare to find complete plantation records, especially in an area occupied by the Federal Army during the Civil War, and even more so when the place is prone to hurricane and flood damage. Your grandfather said your family was blessed with a roof that stood up to storms and with ancestors who stood up to Yankees and who couldn’t throw even a newspaper clipping away.” She couldn’t help smiling as she remembered.

Davis did not respond. His stare reminded her of the ones she received from students who did not want to volunteer an answer to a question. If he thought he could rattle her with such a tactic, he was mistaken.

“He wanted me to work with him to inventory the papers,” she continued, “to look at them with an eye to their historical value, to see if enough data existed to put together a family or plantation history. In return, I could use the information I found to write academic articles about life at Windswept or other subjects that came to light from our research. We would discuss my writing a book or books, possibly the family history, after we had assessed the records. I was to spend this summer with him at Windswept to catalog the collection.

“My personal goal in this project is to produce scholarly, well-documented work. Any article would be in a professional journal or any book from a reputable academic publishing house. Your grandfather and I discussed our plans in a number of letters. These are copies of our correspondence and will give you a more complete idea of our plans.” She rose to hand him a file folder, then resumed her seat.

Barrett forced herself to remain silent and wait while Davis looked at the letters. This was not the time to run off at the mouth as her brothers had often accused her of doing. Besides, she wanted to see how he liked being on the receiving end of the silent treatment.

She used the opportunity to glance around for the first time since she walked into his office high in the tall building. Up to now, she had concentrated her gaze on him and it was something of a relief to break eye contact. Except for the colorful abstract art on the walls, the office was what she had expected for the CEO of an investment firm--rich woods in the furniture, darker reds and blues in the upholstery and carpet, and a view to the north stretching so far, you’d think you could see all the way to Dallas. The place even smelled rich, a blend of leather and furniture polish and something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint--but it caused her to shiver again. Resolutely clamping down on her reaction, she turned back to him and watched him read.