Read The Horsemaster's Daughter Online
Authors: Susan Wiggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
He pressed his hands against the tabletop. “I’m a believer in making the most of my advantages. My dear, I’ve been a senator longer than you and your sister have been alive. I love my country and have dedicated my life to making it the finest nation in the world. Currently, there is a movement afoot to hobble the railroad expansion right here in Virginia. My task is to win the support of the vice president.”
Abigail couldn’t help wondering what lay at the heart of her father’s desire—a wish for Helena’s happiness, or his need for a political alliance? With the merest hint of censure in her voice, she asked, “Is it possible to do that without sending Helena off to marry a man she’s just met, a man she hardly knows?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Don’t you want me to get married, Abigail?” Helena asked, picking at the biscuit crumbs on her plate.
Abigail measured her reply with the same precision she measured her sugar. “I want you to do whatever makes you happy.”
“Pleasing Papa makes me happy.” Helena covered the biscuit with jam and handed it to him.
“Young Butler is smitten, Abigail,” Father said, taking the biscuit. “Everyone saw that last night. Your sister is in need of a husband. Why not bring the two needs together?”
Because I am in love with Lieutenant Butler, Abigail thought, pressing her teeth into her lip to keep from saying it. She scanned the rest of the newspaper column, noting that the disreputable James Calhoun merited a respectable few inches of gossip. He’d portrayed himself as a country gentleman, but the paper focused on his golden good looks, his suave continental manners, his reputation on the horse-racing circuit. And, of course, on his deliciously unmarried status.
The report made his status as a newly elected congressman seem far less important than his mysterious charm. Lost in thought, Abigail folded the paper exactly down the middle, then folded it again, running her thumb along the crease. She lined up the corner of the paper with the corner of the table. Then she moved the saltcellar to the precise middle of the lace cloth.
Helena observed her with baffled affection. “How on earth did you get so fussy, Abigail?”
Abigail didn’t know, and so she said nothing. In addition to her freakishly sharp vision, she had a keen sense of spatial relations, knowing when she entered her room if some object was the least little bit out of place. A mysterious idiosyncrasy within her demanded order and precision whether it be a folded paper, a saltcellar, books on a shelf or even a floral arrangement. It was one of her many unattractive foibles.
Her father pushed back from the table. “I must be off,” he announced. “I have nothing but committee meetings until the Senate convenes.” He kissed his daughters in distracted fashion, then went to gather his papers for a day of planning for the new legislative session.
“Well,” said Abigail in the wake of his departure. “It seems you’re going into politics.”
“Or perhaps politics will be going into me.” Helena stared at the shock on Abigail’s face, then burst into laughter. “Am I too bawdy for you? Have you never felt the stirrings of desire for a man?”
Abigail could think of no reply, so she said simply, “Really, Helena,” and added another two grams of sugar to her tea.
As Helena nattered away about the wedding reception, Abigail felt a bittersweet ache rise in her chest. How wonderful it would be to fit into the world as her sister did, blithely certain of people’s love, acceptance and esteem.
“…and so I invited him to call on us,” Helena was saying.
Abigail snapped to attention, and her heart lurched. “Lieutenant Butler?”
“Who? Oh, him. No. I was speaking of Mr. Calhoun. If you’d been listening, you would have heard me say that.”
“So you want Mr. Calhoun to court you, too?”
“Didn’t you see the man? Every young lady in the room last night wanted him.”
“Not this young lady.” Abigail pictured the golden hair, the blatantly sensual features, the icy gray eyes that could slice a person to ribbons with nothing more than a look. There was something dangerous, possibly predatory about the man. He seemed to find the world entirely too amusing, yet at the heart of his mirth was a chill, shadowy darkness. He didn’t seem to her to be a man capable of being happy.
“Well, of course I didn’t invite him to come courting,” Helena went on, her conversation flitting madly, a hummingbird in search of nectar. “He’s coming to board with Professor Rowan.” Helena folded her dainty hands beneath her chin, framing a slightly mysterious smile. “You see, it’s too perfect. Poor Professor Rowan is rattling around in that huge old house next door. He has all the room in the world and no one to share it with.”
Abigail felt a surge of affection for her sister. Dear Helena, always trying to manage people, to weave them together like threads in a tapestry. “And have you informed Professor Rowan that he’s about to become host to a freshman congressman?”
“I sent Dolly over to set his house in order first thing this morning,” Helena said. “Professor Rowan will be ever so grateful, won’t he?”
Probably not, but like everyone else in the world, he was biologically incapable of saying
no
to Helena.
“About the courting,” Abigail said, keeping her voice casual. “Do you mean to let Lieutenant Butler pursue you, or were you only saying that to please Father?” She held her breath, waiting for her sister’s answer.
“He asked permission to write me from Annapolis, and of course I agreed.” Helena sighed. “He pleases me, too.”
“But do you love the man?”
Helena added an extra dollop of cream to her coffee. “I haven’t decided yet. I just met him.”
Abigail’s secret desires pressed at her, seeking escape like bubbles in a bottle. With a stern will, she kept them inside. Yes, she loved Lieutenant Butler. Her heart told her that. Yet her far more reliable mind convinced her that Boyd Butler was out of reach. She loved navel oranges from Jaffa, too, but that didn’t mean she could have them anytime she wanted. They simply weren’t available.
Abigail would never tell Helena how she felt about Boyd Butler. She would never make Helena feel guilty simply for being Helena. It wasn’t her fault for being what she was, no more than it was the fault of a perfect magnolia blossom for attracting bees.
Last night the lieutenant had confessed his yearning for romance and poetry, but what he really wanted was Helena, and who could blame him? She was beautiful and charming. She had her secrets, but so did everyone.
“I don’t have to decide today, do I?” Helena asked with a brilliant smile.
“Of course not.”
“I abhor making decisions,” Helena said, using the tip of her finger to gather up the crumbs on her plate. “Don’t you?”
Abigail couldn’t help laughing. “Actually, no. I like deciding what’s to come next, and then making it happen.”
“I don’t,” Helena declared. “How tedious. If I never make up my mind about anything, then every day comes as a surprise.”
Shaking her head, Abigail finished her tea. She wished she’d planned a busier day to keep herself occupied. But it was not to be; the calibration would not take place until late afternoon. She had no proper occupation, although astronomy was her vocation. Three days a week, she worked for Professor Drabble at the university, computing star charts and studying astronomy.
She was content with the work, and preferred a classroom to a ballroom. For her, a gala party was rife with lethal hazards—flying bouquets, fast dance sets, breakable objects placed in the path of a clumsy woman.
By contrast, no one at the university seemed to know or care that she was different. In the laboratory or observatory, she was known for her keen mind and sharp eye, not criticized for her unkempt looks and argumentative manner. She dreamed of mountaintops under crystal skies, islands in the middle of vast oceans—places far from the crowded fishbowl of the capital city and the insular snobbishness of Georgetown.
As she and Helena prepared to go their separate ways, Dolly came in with a printed card on a silver tray. “A gentleman has come to call, miss.” The housekeeper set the tray in front of Helena.
“Goodness,” Helena exclaimed, not even looking at the card. “He wasted no time getting here. Please show him to the front parlor.”
“Yes, miss.”
Helena beamed across the table. “Oh, this is going to be fun, isn’t it, Abigail dear?”
Of course it wasn’t going to be fun. Not for Abigail. Helena loved to play with people as though they were fashion dolls, dressing them up, sending them out on adventures together and watching what happened. Perhaps social meddling was a science of sorts, but quite a different science from astronomy.
When they descended to the parlor, their visitor stood with his back to them, hands on his slim hips as he looked out the window. Filling the tidy, well-appointed parlor with his assertive presence, he stood one hundred ninety centimeters tall in his polished fashionable shoes. He was exactly five centimeters taller than Lieutenant Butler, Abigail noted.
“Good morning, Mr. Calhoun,” Helena said, gliding across the room as though she wore ice skates. “How good of you to come.”
Abigail approached him more slowly. She could not have glided unless she was in a gondola on a calm sea.
He turned, sending her a dazzling smile that did odd and unexpected things inside Abigail. “On the contrary, it’s good of you to have me. You both look quite recovered from last night’s festivities.”
“We mustn’t waste a minute,” Helena said. “I cannot wait for you to meet Professor Rowan.”
“Your father’s not at home?”
Abigail felt a sting of suspicion. Typical politician. Always looking for the advantage. “If you meant to call on our father, you should have arrived earlier,” she said.
“What, and rob myself of the charm of your company?” He lifted an eyebrow, mocking her.
“Something tells me you don’t need any more women in your life.” Abigail couldn’t resist the veiled reminder of what she’d witnessed in the White House garden.
“My dear, any man will tell you, there’s no such thing as having too many women in one’s life.”
“Never bicker with my sister,” Helena broke in.
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll lose.” She took Abigail’s hand. “My sister can outbicker anyone.”
His grin was devilish, yet seemed filled with unfeigned delight. “Perhaps she’s met her match.”
“Doubtful. You don’t know Abigail, Mr. Calhoun.”
“Helena, please.” Abigail squeezed her hand. Perhaps her sister was right, but Abigail’s argumentative nature was a defense. She kept the hard shell of her intellect in place to cover the softer underbelly of her vulnerability. “Mr. Calhoun didn’t come all the way across the city to hear about me.”
“She’s a first-order scholar at the university,” Helena said, ignoring Abigail’s discomfiture. “My sister is the most distinguished student in the department of mathematics, and one of her specialties is in deductive logic. She has a deadly way of arguing. The wise man gives in without a fight.”
He gave a low whistle, and his gaze feathered over Abigail with a subtle insolence. “I’ll keep that in mind. But you understand, I’ve never been one to shy away from a good fight.”
“That attitude will stand you in good stead in Congress,” Abigail said, hoping to change the subject. This man disturbed her. Memories of his garden seduction kept flashing through her mind. If she didn’t know better, she might mistake curiosity for attraction.
But no, she thought. That was what she felt for Lieutenant Butler. Mr. Calhoun inspired a different sort of fascination. He was a sight to look at, his shadowy gray eyes burning deep, his body honed like an athlete’s, his hands looking less pampered than they should for a gentleman. When she studied James Calhoun, she had an overwhelming perception of danger. He didn’t threaten her in any physical way, but in a deeper sense. He challenged and provoked her, and outside of academia, she disliked being challenged and provoked. It made her uncomfortable.
“Let’s go, then,” Helena said, leading the way into the light-filled stairway that angled up through the tall, narrow town house. It was one of the finest features of the house, open from top to bottom with oriel windows at each landing.
Abigail fetched her latest batch of notes and calculations to show the professor. Then they descended to street level, pausing at the cloakroom to don fringed shawls and bonnets. Professor Rowan lived next door, but the autumn air was brisk, and manners in Georgetown restrained. No lady ever left the house without a wrap and hat. Even the Cabot sisters had not excused themselves from that rule. So far.
As they stepped outside, Abigail stole a look at Mr. Calhoun. The breeze toyed with his too-long hair, and the sunshine glinted in his mirrorlike eyes. What would it mean to have this handsome devil living right next door to them? And what on earth would he think of Professor Rowan?
A
derelict, half-dressed servant answered the door. Jamie had a swift impression of dark hair in need of barbering, distracted eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles and a mouth pulled down in annoyance. The man was not elderly; in fact, he was a strapping young specimen, yet he shuffled along slowly as though in no hurry to do anyone’s bidding. Jamie wondered what sort of gentleman would allow a servant to comport himself in such a manner.
“Honestly, Professor Rowan, what can you be thinking? It’s eleven o’clock in the morning and you’re not dressed,” Helena Cabot scolded.
“I am dressed,” the man said, rubbing the shadow of a beard on his cheeks. He brushed at the crumbs littering the front of his gaping robe. “Not dressed means naked. I am not naked. But if you prefer—” His ink-smudged hand went to the front of the threadbare robe.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Abigail pushed past him into the house. “We’ve brought your new lodger to meet you, and you mustn’t frighten him off.”
Jamie stepped into the foyer. So the derelict was the eminent Professor Michael Rowan, one of the noted intellectual treasures of Georgetown University. For no particular reason, Jamie had expected a pale, subdued bachelor scholar in his twilight years. Instead, his clearly reluctant host was a husky man who didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
“Not to worry,” Jamie said. “I’ve never been frightened by the sight of a naked man.” He extended his hand to the professor. “How do you do. James Calhoun. Miss Cabot was kind enough to offer an introduction.”
Professor Rowan shook hands cordially enough, leaving only a small ink stain on Jamie’s palm. “Which Miss Cabot?”
“The kind one.” Jamie couldn’t resist saying it.
Abigail sniffed and poked her nose into the air.
“Refresh my memory,” said Rowan, scratching his head. “Was I expecting a guest?”
“Mr. Calhoun isn’t exactly a guest,” Helena explained. She favored the professor with a look any other man would have walked across hot coals for, but Rowan didn’t notice. “He’s your new lodger.”
“When did I agree to take in a lodger?”
“Right this instant, you great fool. You’re rattling around in this house all alone, and you can barely afford it, so you really must take in a lodger.” Helena clasped her hands. “You and Mr. Calhoun will get along just famously.”
“I don’t get along with anyone.”
“Then it doesn’t matter who your lodger is,” Helena pointed out.
“True.” Rowan nodded and led the way to a parlor cluttered with wires and magnets, stacks of papers and books, a machine with cylinders on the wall. Intrigued, Jamie scanned the room. He considered himself an educated man, but the contraptions that littered the place baffled him. He thought he recognized a pressure gauge hooked up to beakers and glass tubing, and the oak plaque and brass paddle of a disassembled telegraph transmitter. An oblong wooden box spewing wires and horns dominated one wall. A fire alarm system, perhaps?
“Mind the gyroscope,” Rowan mumbled, brushing past Helena, completely missing her worshipful look.
“Why do you have a gyroscope?” Jamie asked. “Do you go to sea?”
“This instrument has a number of useful applications,” Abigail said. She and Rowan elbowed each other like a pair of naughty schoolchildren. Jamie Calhoun had seen many places, met many people, experienced many adventures, but he still thought the present company strange indeed.
The rest of the house was nearly as cluttered as the parlor. The old residence had tall-ceilinged, narrow rooms and floors that creaked. Rowan explained that he conducted many of his experiments at home because they required constant monitoring.
“I used to sleep in the Laboratory of Applied Sciences,” he said, “but some of the other faculty members objected, so I had to find a place of my own.” He smiled distractedly. “There is much to be said for making work into one’s life, isn’t there, Miss Abigail?”
“Indeed, I have found it so.”
“My sister is a great astrologer,” Helena explained.
“Astronomer,” Rowan corrected.
She waved a hand. “The distinction isn’t important.”
“It’s as different as a man from a woman.” Despite the spectacles, his stare sent out undercurrents of meaning.
Helena caught her breath with an audible gasp before turning away. “What’s important is that she is going to be famous. Tell him, Abigail. Tell him how you’re going to be famous.”
“Helena, that’s not the reason—”
“She’s going to sight a comet with her telephone on the roof.”
“Telescope.”
“Didn’t I say that? And the president will strike a gold medal in her name. I declare, it’s all too exciting.”
“I’m all aquiver just thinking about it,” Jamie muttered.
“No need to be sarcastic,” Abigail said.
“There are easier ways to strike gold.”
“It’s not about the medal.” Abigail handed Rowan a file of notes covered in mysterious mathematical symbols. “More work on my comet calculations.”
“A parabolic orbit,” he said. “Well done.”
“Is it?” Her face lit up, and for the first time since he’d met her, Jamie realized she was almost pretty. “The more I learn, the less I trust myself. And the more I compute, the deeper the mystery seems.”
No, she wasn’t pretty, he decided. She had depth and passion, traits he found far more interesting. “How do you know the comet’s there?” he asked.
“It’s a precise science,” she explained. “Blind faith and magic have no place in science.”
“This is the work of a gifted mind,” Rowan assured her, perusing the calculations. “Keep working on it. Keep pulling back the curtain, little by little.”
The three of them had no idea how strange they all were. Abigail and Michael Rowan behaved like slightly befuddled, scholarly colleagues. Helena regarded Rowan with the sort of reverent adoration reserved for fallen gods, but of course the clod didn’t notice. Ironic, thought Jamie. Every man in the capital wanted Helena Cabot, but the one she wanted barely knew she was alive.
“Do you suppose I could see my quarters?” he asked, interrupting the comet discussion.
Rowan blinked behind glasses so thick they magnified his eyes. “Oh. Certainly. Right this way.” With a shambling gait, he crossed the hallway and opened the door to a large but spartan chamber furnished with a bedstead, an armoire, a washstand and fireplace. Rowan frowned and scratched his head. “Odd. I thought I’d ruined this room along with the rest of the house.”
“I sent Dolly over to clean it,” Helena said.
“Oh. Thank you. Good of you.” Rowan pointed to the window. “Look there. A view of both gardens.”
Indeed, the high window looked down into the narrow row gardens behind the houses of Dumbarton Street. Senator Cabot’s garden was adjacent to the one directly below the window, an arrangement Jamie might find quite convenient.
“Excellent. I’ll take it.”
“It’s too perfect.” Helena clasped her hands, beaming at everyone. “I just love it when things work out so neatly.” She touched Rowan’s arm. “Isn’t that so? You need money, Mr. Calhoun needs a home and we need you to stay on as our neighbor. It’s like doing a puzzle, and every single piece fits just right.”
“Those aren’t the sort of puzzles that interest me,” Rowan stated and left the room. Helena followed him, peppering him with conversation that he deflected with a shield of indifference.
Jamie found himself alone in the room with Abigail Cabot.
“Well,” she said with a nervous flutter of her hands. “That was simple enough, I suppose. We’re going to be neighbors, then. How convenient for you.”
He scowled. Was he that obvious? “Convenient in what way?”
“You shall have access to my sister every day. Most of the gentlemen who court her have to travel much farther.”
“Is that why you think I chose these lodgings? To court your sister?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
The fact was, the idea hadn’t crossed Jamie’s mind. Helena Cabot was inordinately beautiful, but so was the
Venus de Milo
at the Louvre, and he didn’t want to court
that.
But let Miss Abigail make what she would of his motives. She’d find out his true objective soon enough.
“I’d best be going,” he said. “I’ll be needing my things brought around.”
“Of course. Helena and I must be on our way as well. Dumbarton Street is an exceedingly pleasant place to live, but it thrives as much on gossip as it does on politics.”
“So does Congress, I’m beginning to understand.” He held the door for her. “Come. I’ll escort you and your sister home.” He grinned. “Gallant of me, isn’t it? Going ten steps out of my way, solely for your sake.”
He spoke briefly with Rowan about the arrangement, then stepped out into the crisp autumn day. Leaves tumbled along the neat brick walkways. A few hacks and cabs stood in the roadway, their wheels angled and blocked against the incline of the hill, horses indolently swishing their tails. Students sat clustered around enameled iron tables at a café down the block, and neatly attired servants went about their errands.
It seemed to Jamie a neighborhood of intimidating self-importance. He’d been to the courts of Europe, to Middle Eastern palaces and to places the people of Washington could not possibly imagine. Yet to him, staid Georgetown, with its brick streets and pastel-painted doorways, its brass knockers, gaslight sconces and wrought-iron garden gates, was more exotic than the palaces of Luxor. Certainly its residents were far more baffling.
He was about to bid the ladies a good day, when a bicycle messenger arrived, puffing with exertion from his climb up the hill from M Street. The youngster wore the deep blue livery of a naval orderly, and when he dismounted the cycle, he came to attention with a smart salute.
“Ensign Clarence Sutherland at your service,” he said. “I have a message for Miss Cabot, from Lieutenant Butler.”
Abigail Cabot was transformed by the expression that brightened her face. Accepting the envelope, the little wren turned into a songbird, her smile fulfilling the promise of her incredible eyes. She was foolishly moonstruck over Butler, and had absolutely no skill at concealing it. This was unfortunate, for she was going to be eaten alive. Jamie had done his best to warn her, but clearly she hadn’t listened.
“Goodbye, Mr. Calhoun,” she said with undue haste. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Come, Helena, let’s go inside.”
Jamie wondered if, for once, he’d read the situation wrong. Could Boyd Butler actually be pursuing Abigail? If so, Jamie would be amazed, and he’d be reluctantly impressed. It took a certain subtlety of taste to appreciate a woman like Abigail Cabot. Perhaps Jamie had underestimated the young naval officer, dismissing him as slow-witted, shallow and unimaginative. More likely to go for the ripe-peach beauty of the sister, Helena. She was a fine enough bundle, but it took more than a first-rate set of breasts to hold a man’s interest beyond the bedchamber.
Which sister was Butler after? The question nagged at Jamie as he watched the two of them, the swan and the wren, step through the heavy, imposing door to their father’s house.
And why did the answer matter to him?