Beauty for Ashes (16 page)

Griff tucked the mail into his breast pocket just as the man rose from his chair and crossed the lobby.

Griff regarded his younger brother with a mixture of astonishment and annoyance. “Philip.”

Key in hand, he turned and headed for the stairs. “How long has it been? Five years? Six?”

“Closer to eight.” Philip matched his steps to Griff’s as they ascended the wide staircase. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way merely to remark upon my appearance.”

“It’s Father. He’s quite ill. His doctors think it’s his heart.”

They reached the landing. Griff fitted his key into the lock. “I very much doubt that, old boy. Our father’s heart is his least vulnerable spot.”

He opened the door and motioned Philip inside, noticing that his brother had put on a bit of weight. His hair was graying too. Perhaps the rigorous duties of a proper Southern gentleman were wearing him down. “How in the Sam Hill did you find me anyway?”

Philip frowned. “A Mrs. . . Gilbert?”

“Gilman.”

“That’s right. Anyway, she wrote to Mrs. Pinckney that you were here, acting as somebody’s horse trainer.” He grinned, revealing a glimpse of the sunny child he’d once been. “You know how the Charleston grapevine works. Mrs. Pinckney told Mrs. Allston, who told Mrs. Ravenel, who told me.”

“I see.” Griff tossed aside his key.

“Look, I know you’re angry that Father plans to leave everything to me, but can you honestly say you want it? Especially now when all of South Carolina is still a ruin?” Philip plopped into the chair by the window. “The house in town is in dire need of a new roof, and the gardens have fallen into such a state, I can only be thankful Mother is not there to mourn them. You wouldn’t even recognize the plantation. One of the winnowing houses is nearly down. The trunk gates are all broken. I’d sell, but who would buy it? There’s no one to work it. It’s worthless in its present condition.”

Griff took the other chair and gazed out the window. His father’s house in the city, spacious and elegant as it once had been, held no special charms for him. But the rice plantation on the Pee Dee was the site of the few truly happy memories from his growing-up years. The thought of that property passing out of Rutledge hands left him feeling unsettled. He toyed with a coin and set it spinning on the polished desktop. “No doubt River Place is a ruin after all these years. But by the saints, Philip, it’s our family’s ruin, and I expected to have some say in what happens to it.”

Philip scratched his head. “Well, this is a surprise. First time I’ve seen any hint of sentiment from you.”

“I always loved River Place more than anywhere else. Except Pawley’s Island.”

“Father sold the island cottage right after Mother passed on. He said it was a business decision, but I think it was too painful for him, holding on to the place that was Mother’s favorite.”

Griff smiled, remembering. “Even as she complained mightily about the inconveniences of getting there.”

Philip looked around the hotel room, and Griff saw it through his brother’s eyes—the genteel shabbiness, the quaint, small-town attempts at elegance. “So this is where you’re hanging your hat these days.” Philip shook his head. “What’s the matter? The cards are not falling your way?”

“I’m just passing through. After the horse race I’m off to try my luck in Australia. Ranching maybe.”

“You? A rancher? You’ll last all of ten minutes.”

“Maybe. But it’s no concern of yours.”

Philip glared at him. “All I care about at the moment is Father. I see now that I shouldn’t have come all this way to talk to you. Your heart is as unyielding as ever.”

“A wire or a letter would have done just as well.”

“I doubted you’d bother reading it. Aunt Alicia said her last three letters to you were never answered. It broke her heart.”

“I’m very sorry for that. Aunt Alicia was a great lady. Aside from Mother, the greatest.”

“You shouldn’t have ignored her because you hate Father.”

“I don’t hate him. We simply never understood each other. It’s best for both of us this way.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you. But I thought you should know Father is dying.”

Griff shrugged. “We’re all dying, little brother. Some of us faster than others, but dying nonetheless.”

Philip’s gaze hardened. “Do you ever let anyone into your heart, Griff? Or are you this unfeeling with everyone?”

Griff thought of the night in Two Creeks when he had forgiven Rosaleen’s debt. He had felt sorry for her, wanted to protect her, despite her duplicity. And Carrie Daly—that woman had somehow managed to lodge herself in his heart—not that his attraction to her was going anywhere. He was quite capable of tender feeling, even when there was no future in it.

Philip stood, rattling the coins in his pocket. “So long as I’m delivering family news, there’s something else you ought to know. I’ve asked Susan Layton to marry me, and she has accepted.”

“You don’t say.” Griff laughed. “So, Father and Thomas Layton will have their way after all. I suppose when one’s aim is to join two parcels of land, any Rutledge will do.”

“That isn’t fair, Griff. I happen to think very highly of Susan. She’d have made a fine wife for you, as I know she will make for me.”

Griff leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “When’s the happy day?”

“We haven’t set a date. Susan wants to spend this winter with her cousins in Atlanta. We’ll pick a date after Christmas. Not that it will matter to you.”

Griff rose and offered Philip his hand. “I wish you and Miss Layton every happiness.”

“I’m sure we will be.” Philip consulted his pocket watch. “I still have time to make the last train. I can see my own way out.”

Waves of guilt and regret pushed hard in Griff’s chest. He clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “Despite what you might think, I’m very glad to see you. And I apologize for sounding so harsh. It took courage to come here, knowing how I feel about everything. And, of course, I most sincerely hope for Father’s recovery. Please tell him I said so.”

Philip nodded and headed for the door. “Take care of yourself, Griff. Send me a letter from Australia. I promise not to return it unopened.”

Griff parted the curtain and watched Philip hurry toward the railway station. Remembering their shared childhood he felt, despite the bad blood between them, a stab of affection for his younger brother. The news of their father’s failing health and of Philip’s impending marriage filled him with unexpected sadness.

Through the window he watched the banker lock the door and hurry to his waiting rig. Across the street, Mrs. Daly exited Chastain’s bookshop.

He resisted the urge to go after her. Her intended, Mr. Chastain, had made his contempt for Griff quite clear. As drawn to her as he was, Griff didn’t wish to cause Mrs. Daly any trouble.

He let the curtain fall and opened a letter from his friend in Australia. Warren had filled several pages with descriptions of his work at the seminary and a recent trip to the seaside, but the minister’s glowing report failed to cheer him.

He tossed it aside.

How on earth had he wound up so utterly alone?

Carrie locked the bookshop and hurried along the street toward home. The last few days at the Verandah had been strange indeed. Though Lucy and Rachel had been much in evidence, Rosaleen seemed always to be somewhere else. On Sunday, while Rosaleen apparently slept in, Carrie attended the town church with Lucy. She liked the way Daniel Patterson wove a poem or the words of a hymn into his message and the quiet way his wife, Deborah, welcomed her with a nod and a smile at the beginning of the service. Though Deborah always slipped away as the benediction was read.

After church Mrs. Whitcomb joined them for an afternoon in the park. That night Carrie had heard footsteps in the corridor and the closing of doors, but neither Rosaleen nor Rachel had called out their customary good night. Perhaps they’d feared it was too late and they would wake her.

This morning she’d been the first one up and out the door. Nate was due home on the afternoon train, and she wanted the shop to look perfect. She puttered around dusting shelves that were not really dusty, going over the accounts that were already up-to-date—each transaction recorded in her own neat script—and hoping for customers. Helping them with their reading selections would surely make the time pass faster. But the shop remained empty all morning, the afternoon came and went, and still Nate hadn’t returned.

Passing the mercantile on her way home, she nodded to a couple of women just exiting the store, their arms laden with packages. Surely Nate would return in time for dinner. Perhaps they’d splurge and go to the inn for steak and potatoes and his favorite lemon pie. Afterward she’d surprise him by setting a date for their wedding. Imagining his look of happy surprise brought a smile to her face. Now that she had made up her mind, let go of her girlish fantasies, she was eager to set her plans in motion.

She entered the Verandah just as the evening train arrived, the sharp sound of the whistle reverberating in the quiet streets. She called a greeting to Mrs. Whitcomb and mounted the steps to her room with the odd feeling that something was amiss. The hotel was too quiet—no muffled talk coming from the room of the Provost sisters, no Lucy pounding down the stairs, no Rosaleen dealing cards in the parlor. It was as if the entire place was holding its breath.

She shook her head to clear her apprehensions. She was merely overly excited, maybe even a bit nervous, awaiting the chance to tell Nate of her decision. When he got back, the old hotel would breathe again.

She tidied her hair, splashed a bit of lavender water onto her neck, and sank into her chair beside the window. The smell of boiling turnip greens and frying fatback drifted up the stairs, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since her two biscuits with jam at breakfast. Her stomach rumbled, but the prospect of more of Mrs. Whitcomb’s food wasn’t enough to rouse her from her chair.

Shouts and footsteps sounded in the street below. A woman laughed. Someone began singing loudly and slightly off key. A glass shattered. Carrie parted the curtain. Mill hands, no doubt, with a little too much liquor in their bellies.

Then the Verandah’s front door crashed open, and Mrs. Whitcomb let out a surprised yelp. Carrie rushed down the stairs. When she reached the landing, she stopped stock-still, her skirt swirling about her ankles. She clutched the newel post, her heart kicking.

Nate Chastain strode into the foyer. Behind him, wearing a shimmering pink dress and a triumphant smile, stood Rosaleen.

THIRTEEN

Griff scrawled his signature at the bottom of the bank draft and sealed it for mailing. The Pinkertons’ fee for finding Rosaleen had taken a healthy bite from his funds, and in the end he had forgiven the debt he’d come here to collect. What was the matter with him? Maybe he was losing the granite-hard resolve that had for so long served him well.

He collected his gloves, hat, and a couple of the sugar cubes he kept as special treats for Majestic. The train whistle emitted two short blasts, and he thought again of his brother’s surprise announcement. Though marrying anyone merely to increase the Rutledges’ land holdings was utterly ridiculous, he envied Philip. His brother would have a family. Somewhere to belong. Everything Griff had rejected in order to pursue life on his own terms.

He hadn’t thought of Susan Layton in years. She wasn’t a beauty. Her chin was too weak, her eyes too round and too prominent. But she had a trim, womanly shape, a sweet disposition, and a ready laugh. Like most young girls of her class, she’d been educated in the finer points of etiquette. She knew which fork was for pickles and which for fowl and how to chatter on for hours and hours about nothing more consequential than the weather. She had been taught to refrain from expressing her opinions, to be subservient to her man, dutiful in every way. Philip would have little cause for complaint. But what on earth would the two of them talk about?

He picked up his key and headed for the door. When his father had first broached the subject of Griff’s marriage to Susan, Griff simply had not been able to imagine twenty, thirty, perhaps forty years of sitting opposite her at the dinner table with little more to say than “pass the salt” and “do you suppose it might rain?” He wanted a woman who shared his curiosity about the world, who knew what she thought about things and wasn’t afraid to express it. Someone as open, as warm, and yes, as headstrong and opinionated as Carrie Daly.