The Horsemaster's Daughter (49 page)

A
t noon the next day, Hunter waited in the foyer for Eliza to come down. The house was fragrant with the smell of Willa’s biscuits, which would be their contribution to the Beaumonts’ picnic.

Blue and Belinda waited out front with the buggy. Though Bonterre lay only a mile down the road, Hunter wanted to drive. There were still some things his pride would not permit, and arriving at his in-laws on foot was one of them. He had only one cart horse, an elderly and cantankerous Morgan mare. He couldn’t afford better. Every possible resource was for the Thoroughbreds.

Blue and Belinda wore their Sunday clothes. They shone like newly minted coins, the very sight of them bringing a smile to his lips.

He caught himself thinking about Eliza’s accusation earlier. Was it true? Did he deliberately avoid his children and look for excuses not to be with them? She had been vehement in her meddlesome insistence that he spend more time with them, that he speak to them of Lacey. The idea was preposterous. Didn’t Eliza see that?

No, she didn’t see anything but his children—two broken-winged birds she felt duty-bound to heal. She didn’t know them. Didn’t understand.

Upstairs, a door opened and shut, and Eliza came down the staircase on the right. His stomach lurched when he saw her. She looked both terrible and beautiful. She had clearly taken pains with her appearance. Her hair, freshly washed, gleamed brightly, and her brown homespun dress was clean. But she was barefoot, her clothes old and threadbare.

The eager expression on her face told him she had no clue about the reception she would get from the company at Bonterre.

“I’m ready,” she said with a big smile. “Where are the children?”

Hunter didn’t take his eyes off her. “Willa!” he yelled, loud enough to make Eliza jump.

The cook came hurrying in. “You need something?”

He still didn’t look away. “Take Miss Eliza upstairs and find her something to wear,” he commanded.

Eliza’s eyes widened as if she had stepped on a tack. “I am wearing something.”

“People in these parts dress up for picnics.” He spread his arms and turned in a circle, showing off his tailored blue frock coat and the emerald silk waistcoat beneath. “See?”

“I see a man with the pride of a peacock,” she snapped. “No, wait. That would insult the peacock.”

Willa gave a low whistle. “Girl, you look like a field han—oh.” She eyed Hunter guiltily. “I reckon I can find something.” She met Eliza halfway on the stairs. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you fixed up.”

Eliza turned and aimed a look of loathing at Hunter, prompting him to call out, “And Willa, don’t forget the shoes.”

At the first landing, they turned right, heading for the suite of rooms that had been Lacey’s domain when she had lived at Albion as his wife. How long ago that had been. Another lifetime.

He could still picture those rooms, though he had not opened the door to them since the day Lacey had taken the children and left.

“I married a tobacco planter,” she had said tearfully when he had announced his plan to turn Albion into a horse farm. “I am a planter’s wife. I simply don’t know how to be anything else.”

“We’ll work together on this, Lacey. It’ll be our own family enterprise. It’ll be good, you’ll see.”

How naive and simple he had been back then. How full of hopes and dreams.

His plea to Lacey had simply insulted her. “I am taking the children to live at Bonterre,” she announced. “When you come to your senses and decide to be a planter again, I shall consider forgiving you.”

She had taken crate after crate of her gowns and petticoats with her, but had left much behind—the older stuff that had fallen out of fashion. He knew this because he allowed Willa and Nancy to help themselves to whatever they wanted from Lacey’s rooms. He reckoned he was the only man in Virginia whose servants wore silk gowns from the Maison de Lumière in Paris.

Without even realizing he had taken out his flask, Hunter unscrewed the cap and took a swig.

“Ain’t going to help you none to show up tipsy,” Nancy scolded, coming into the foyer with her shuffling gait.

Resigned, Hunter put away the flask. “Woman, how do you do that?”

“No trick to it. I hear you pacing like a caged wildcat and I know you going to be wanting the whiskey. Why ain’t you left yet? Them biscuits’ll get cold.”

“Willa is putting a new frock on Eliza. And shoes.” He shook his head. “Christ, I should’ve let her show up at the picnic barefoot and in rags.”

“Folks at Bonterre’d eat her alive and suck the marrow out of her bones.”

“It would serve her right.” He brought his fist down on the newel post. “I didn’t expect her to want to stay.”

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged her off that island.”

Hunter gently touched Nancy’s shoulder. “I had to, honey. It wasn’t safe there anymore.”

“And you think it’s safe here, for a girl like that?”

“Like what?” He scowled. “She’s just a tad ignorant, that’s all.”

Nancy stiffened, and he could feel her probing attention as if she were looking at him. “That’s all?” Her clouded eyes were still curiously alert, her face compassionate. “I see.”

“She’s supposed to be in Norfolk waiting for a ship to California.”

“What’s California?”

“It’s a huge place far in the west, across a distance as wide as the Atlantic. To sail there, you have to sail southward, nearly to the bottom of the world where the sun never shines and the ice never thaws.”

“And this girl don’t want to do that.”

“She does,” he said. “She told me—”

“So let her go.”

I can’t. I’m not ready yet.
He took a deep breath and wondered if he could get away with a sip from his flask. “I need her to stay until I remarry,” he told Nancy.

“Ha. Who you going to marry?”

“I guess I can find a wife now that Albion’s out of debt.”

“It ain’t Albion I’m worried about, boy. It’s you.”

“I’m fine,” Hunter insisted. But of all the people in the world, Nancy was the one he was least able to deceive. “Honey, I’m doing the right thing with Eliza. The children took to her.
They
need her. No call to send her away tomorrow.”

Nancy snorted. “She doesn’t want you to do that any more than you want to.” She reached up and cupped his cheek the way she had been doing since he was a baby. “Girl’s just been driven out of the only home she ever knew. You let her bide a while here. I expect she’ll be ready for a change by and by.”

“I’m ready for something,” Eliza announced from the top of the stairs. “Though I’m not certain what.”

In a decidedly feminine rustle of skirts, she descended. Hunter stared at her as if she were a stranger. Her hair was pulled sleekly back and plaited, the plaits pinned in a neat cluster at the nape of her neck. She wore a dark blue dress that was quite plain—exactly what you would expect a proper governess or nanny to wear.

As she descended the stairs, the toes of her shiny black tap boots peeked out from the hem of the skirts. It felt eerie, seeing Lacey’s dress again. He could not recall the last time he had seen Lacey wearing this particular gown, but he could picture her so clearly—that smooth, almost haughty carriage, that upright posture bred into her at Miss Porter’s School in the north.

“I’ve decided I’m not angry with you anymore,” Eliza said, grinning at him. “Willa explained that you’re being kind and helping me fit in.”

“I’ve seldom been accused of kindness,” he said.

What Eliza lacked in finesse she made up for in enthusiasm. She nearly slipped a couple of times on the stairs, but she clung to the rail and laughed at her blunders.

“These shoes will take some getting used to. They pinch terribly.”

He held out a hand to steady her. “I think they’re supposed to.”

“And what would you know of ladies’ shoes?” she asked.

“I’ve heard enough complaints.”

“Here,” Willa called, hurrying down the stairs. “You’ll be needing a hat.” The straw hat had a wide brim, and it made Eliza’s face look like the middle of a flower. Hunter felt a hitch of emotion as she gazed up at him with a radiant smile. “I had no idea a picnic was such a grand affair,” she confessed.

“Around here, a picnic’s never just a picnic.” He held the front door for her, catching a whiff of gardenia fragrance as she walked past.

“Your wife had beautiful things,” she said to him. “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply. Nor did he make a comment when she nearly fell backward trying to get into the buggy. He caught her against him, and immediately started to feel the way he had yesterday morning in front of the mirror. Damn the woman.

Laughing at herself, she landed in the seat beside Belinda.

“We’ve been waiting and waiting,” Belinda said. “So we made friends with the mare, just like you showed us.”

“The horse is mean,” Hunter warned her. “She bites.”

“Not anymore,” Belinda said. She and her brother exchanged a conspiratorial look.

“You’re all turning strange on me,” Hunter grumbled. He sat on the driver’s banquette and flicked the reins. The Morgan started forward.

“Blue,” said Eliza, “maybe you would like to sit up beside your father.”

“It’s not safe,” Hunter said, his objection swift and automatic.

“Nonsense.” She helped Blue climb up. “He’s probably old enough to take the reins.”

Hunter studied the small silent boy beside him. “Ask me,” he said softly. “Ask me for the reins, son.” As soon as the words were out, Hunter wanted to reel them back in. Why did he do this, time and time again? Why did he keep hoping, when it was clear there was no hope?

Blue stared up at him, his face blank. His eyes, as clear and as deep as the sea, begged for a turn at the reins. But he said nothing.

“One word,” Hunter said, because he couldn’t help himself. “Just say ‘please,’ and I’ll let you drive.”

Blue looked away and faced straight ahead at the worn dirt road.

“You look real nice,” Belinda said to Eliza. “Your hair is so curly and pretty.”

Hunter’s stomach twisted. Ever the peacemaker, Belinda was always quick to change the subject or turn the attention away from Blue’s affliction. Belinda would do anything to stave off a confrontation. She was protective of Blue, as fierce in her own way as Hunter was in his. Who were these children?

He felt unworthy, undeserving of them. Perhaps, he thought wildly, they weren’t his at all, but two enchanted creatures. Each time he looked at them, he felt a strange sensation that they could not possibly belong to him. They were too beautiful. They were something left by the fairies one night; perhaps they weren’t real children at all, but changelings come to make mischief on his life, and one day they would leave.

Then he studied Blue and saw the pain locked in the boy’s eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. Blue was his son, and the boy bore the wounds of that.

“Thank you for that compliment,” Eliza said to Belinda. “This dress belonged to your mother.”

“Really? I don’t remember it. Mama had lots and lots of dresses.”

“Which ones do you remember? Tell me about them.”

Hunter bit his lip to keep from telling her to shut up. She had been doing this since the moment she’d met Belinda, encouraging the child to dredge up memories of her dead mother. It was morbid, yet Belinda seemed to relish her recollections of small details, everything from the way the light struck her mama’s hair when she sat on the veranda to the design of her favorite cameo necklace.

“And she used to sing us a song, a special song in the nursery at night,” Belinda mused. “But I can’t remember it. Something about a blanket of stars.”

The back of Hunter’s throat itched for a slug of whiskey. He flicked the reins to urge the horse faster. Mamie Beaumont would surely have a nice big vat of her planter’s punch made up for the guests. He salivated just thinking of the sugary liquor. But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep out the memories. Belinda had been just five years old when Lacey had died so horribly, yet the little girl had an uncanny memory for details. She recalled colors and smells and sounds with razor-sharp accuracy. And she had a way of phrasing things that made Hunter remember too.

“…a blanket of stars and a wagon hitched to…”

“The moon?” Eliza guessed.

“Maybe.”

Blue shifted in agitation and drummed his fingers on the rail of the cart.

“Do you remember the tune?” Eliza prompted. “You could sing the tune and the words would come back to you.”

Belinda heaved a sigh and slumped back against the seat. “Can’t.”

“Maybe your father or brother remembers the song,” Eliza said.

Hunter shouldn’t have been surprised by her suggestion. He shouldn’t have been surprised that once she asked it, he recalled every word and every note of the lullaby.
Come away and fly with me, to the top of the highest tree, in a wagon hitched to the moon, a blanket of stars to keep us warm. Past the clouds and past the sun, all the way to heaven, here I come.

Blue fidgeted restively on the seat beside him. The boy remembered the song too. But neither of them would speak up, Hunter knew. They would both keep the memories and the words and even the music buried deep.

“I know a song,” Eliza said brightly. “Would you like to hear it?”

Belinda clapped her hands and bounced in the seat. “Yes! Yes, please!”

Eliza launched into a strange song set to a vaguely Celtic melody. “‘Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: courtsied when you have and kiss’d the wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.”’

She had an untrained and curiously appealing voice. Not sweet, but a slightly husky croon that intrigued him. Hunter caught Blue glancing back over his shoulder at Eliza. The boy had never taken this much interest in someone.

“That’s one of Ariel’s songs from
The Tempest,
” she explained.

“Who is Ariel?”

“A sprite.”

“What’s a sprite?”

“A forest spirit. He lives under an enchantment. In the end of the play, the old wizard sets him free.”