The Valentine Legacy (7 page)

“What the devil is going on here, James? You're not yelling at my daughter, are you?”

“I haven't yelled a single word. I was just very calmly telling Jessie that she was a bloody fool, Oliver. I still can't believe she just galloped Benjie into the middle of those thieves and played the heroine. It was stupid and ill-advised and—”

“And I succeeded. So just shut up, James.”

“That's my girl,” Oliver said fondly, stepping into the bedchamber so Bess could come around him with a big silver tray that held enough food for two fat men. “Give him hell, Jessie.”

“A little testy, are we?” James said, moving away so
Bess could plump up Jessie's pillows and pull her to a sitting position.

“Now, little honey, it's time for you to eat and ignore these men. What do men know, anyhow? All they do is strut around and give orders and expect a little girl like you to wither away and do nothing. You keep talking, Jessie. You jest snap like a turtle. Mr. James, he ain't used to no snapping, so you do it.”

“You order me around all the time, Bess,” James said. “Don't give this one any advice. She already does everything she shouldn't do, and more. You call her ‘little honey'? That's enough to make a man puke.”

“I like ‘little honey.' Be quiet, James. You're just mad because I saved Sweet Susie and you didn't. Your wounded vanity is becoming tedious.”

“Damn you, Jessie. That has nothing to do with my wounded vanity and you well know it.”

“Now that's enough, Mr. James. I don't want the child to come down with a fever.”

“No, you want her to eat so much she'll be too fat to get through the door and then she'll be forced to stay here and complain about everything. You see anything else that needs fixing, Jessie? There's not much wrong with this wallpaper, dammit.”

Old Bess arranged the tray on Jessie's lap, then beamed down at her. “Now, you just eat all I brung you, Jessie. It'll make your head feel like a plump healthy raisin in no time a' t'all.”

“A plump raisin with a bald spot,” James said.

“You need fixing, James. I'm sorry, Bess, but I'm not very hungry.”

“You would be if Mr. James weren't here twitting you. Out with you, both of you.”

James said over his shoulder as he walked through the
door after Oliver Warfield, “Eat, Jessie. I'd rather have you fat than a skinny little brat who presses her nose against windows.”

“What's that you say, James?” Oliver Warfield said.

Jessie closed her eyes, her fingers crumbling a slice of bacon. She heard James say, “Actually I was referring to the ceiling of your office in the stables, not windows. I was referring to her ears, not her nose.”

“Oh,” Oliver said. “That was strange how far afield you got.”

 

When Mrs. Warfield, Glenda, and the carriage arrived to take Jessie home, James had planned to be gone. He had a warning system in place. Gypsom, Oslow's assistant, was supposed to whistle twice, and James would mount Tinpin and ride like the wind. But the plan didn't come off as it should have. James froze on the first step of the stairs as Thomas opened the door to greet Mrs. Warfield and Glenda. What the devil had happened to Gypsom and his plan?

“Mrs. Warfield,” he said, pulling himself together. “A pleasure, ma'am. Glenda. I was just bringing Jessie some tea. Where's Oliver?”

“We are your saviors, James,” Glenda said, sweeping toward him, her delicious bosom leading the way. “We've come to relieve you of Jessie. Has she been complaining much? She usually does. I'm sure it's been difficult for you.”

“No difficulties. Jessie's feeling much better today. Would you like to accompany me or perhaps wait here in the parlor?”

“Oh, we'll come,” Glenda said, and walked toward him, her eyes on his crotch. She stood beside him on that bottom step, her breasts brushing his arm. Mrs. Warfield just beamed at the two of them. “Yes,” she said, “let's go see dear Jessie.”

Dear Jessie was feeling very low. Her head ached viciously. James wouldn't let her read the
Federal Gazette
, telling her it would just make her head hurt more. She was bored. She wanted James here so they could argue—that or she could just look at him. When he suddenly appeared in the doorway, she felt as if the sun had just burst through black clouds. She gave him a big smile. Then she saw Glenda and her mother sweeping past him, bearing down on her, and her smile dissolved into the wainscotting.

“Ah, my dearest Jessie,” said Mrs. Warfield, frowning at her daughter.

“Well, sister, don't you look ugly with your hair all frazzled and that silly bandage around your forehead.”

James briefly closed his eyes.

“Hello, Mother, Glenda. I'm fine, I just look bad. Where's Papa?”

“Your dear papa didn't have the time to come to get you. You put him out sorely, Jessie, what with that latest exploit of yours. Your poor papa had to sleep in a strange bed just to keep your reputation from being ruined.”

But her papa had told her he'd come back to get her himself, and then he'd winked at her, and she knew he would spare her a visit by her mother. But he'd failed. Jessie sighed, looking longingly at the teapot James was carrying and said, “I think Papa liked staying here last night, Mama. He was telling James all sorts of things he needed to do to make the house better.”

“That's right, Mrs. Warfield. Your husband isn't shy, and he much enjoyed himself.”
And my brandy
, James thought.

Glenda was walking around the small bedchamber, looking at nothing in particular. James couldn't figure out what she was doing. Finally it hit him that she was showing herself off to him—from all angles. Not a bad sight. She turned then and smiled sweetly at him. “Why don't you and I go downstairs, James, and let Mama help Jessie dress?”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Warfield said. “I forgot clothes, Jessie. Oh well, I suppose you'll just have to wear the gown you had on last night.”

Jessie thought of her breeches and paled.

James said easily as he set down the tray, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Warfield, but Jessie's gown was ruined from the rain last night. Old Bess tried to save it, but it wasn't possible.”

“Your papa never did tell me why you were out riding around in the rain, Jessie. If I've told you once, I've told you countless times, that you must stop acting so strangely. Now what are we to do?”

“If James will lend me this nightshirt and a robe, then I can go home like this.”

“My nightshirt is yours, Jessie,” James said, giving her a slight bow.

“Shall we go downstairs, James?” Glenda asked, coming to stand very close to him. He could smell her rose perfume. He wanted to sneeze.

“I don't think we have to do that, Glenda,” he said. “Here, Mrs. Warfield, let me carry Jessie downstairs. Ah, first, let me fetch a robe for her. Jessie, don't move. I'll be back in a moment.”

Glenda watched James leave the bedchamber to get a robe. She turned to Jessie. “James is so handsome. Did he ask you about me?”

“I don't recall that he did,” Jessie said.

“Surely he must have. Why, I danced with him at the Poppletons' ball. He was leaning over my hand before I even noticed him. He couldn't take his eyes off me. He told me how gracefully I danced.”

Jessie just shook her head.

Glenda twitched her skirt away from a water stain on the wall. “I know you, Jessie. You forced him to pay attention to you, didn't you? You pretended you didn't feel well, and he was obliged to let you stay here. I'll bet you even moaned
and carried on so he wouldn't leave you. He held your hand, didn't he? He didn't want to, Jessie. He doesn't even think of you as a female—you know that.”

“That's enough, Glenda,” Mrs. Warfield said, looking nervously over her shoulder.

“And now you're forcing him to carry you downstairs. Carry you. That's shameful, Jessie. I'll just bet you ruined that gown of yours on purpose.”

“That's enough, Glenda,” Mrs. Warfield said again, seeing that Jessie was alarmingly pale. “Perhaps your sister truly isn't all that well. Leave her be. That's right, go look out the window, dearest. Ah, James, here you are again.”

Without thinking, he walked to the bed and was going to put Jessie into the robe when Mrs. Warfield gasped. “Oh no, James, how improper. No, dear boy, take dear Glenda outside for a moment and I'll see to Jessie. That's right, Glenda, go with James.”

James carried Jessie downstairs. She was stiff in his arms, withdrawn from him; he could feel it. He'd overheard most of what had been said to her, and it made him feel guilty for making her leave. He couldn't imagine that her life at Warfield farm was all that pleasant. No wonder she spent all her time with the horses. She mucked out stalls. She mended bridles. She rode and raced. She beat him regularly. So surely she was well able to handle her mother and her disconcerting sister and if she couldn't, well, she could always escape.

He carried her to the carriage and set her on the seat inside. “There you are, Jessie. I'll be by tomorrow to see how you're getting along. Take care.”

He smiled down at Mrs. Warfield and Glenda. “Ladies, take good care of Jessie. She had a rather rough night of it.”

“I don't see how,” Glenda said, and stared at his crotch.

“We'll find out,” Mrs. Warfield said, and allowed James to assist her into the carriage.

“Move over, Jessie,” she said, as she turned and smiled at James. “Thank you for taking her in.”

As if I were a drowning puppy and he had found me
, Jessie thought.

James stood quietly, watching the carriage wind down the long drive of Marathon. There were weeds coming up through the gravel on the drive. He'd have to send someone out here to pull them up and smooth down the gravel. Everything looked bare, too. He needed to plant more trees, he thought: some oaks and more elms. He wanted Marathon to look lush, to look rich. Jessie was right, curse her. There was so much that needed fixing.

Poor Jessie
, he thought, then laughed at himself. He'd feel sorry for her . . . until the next time they raced.

T
HE SUN WAS
shining brightly on that Tuesday morning as James walked down Calvert Street past innumerable publishers and bookstores to Number 27. He'd been coming to Compton Fielding's bookstore since he'd been a small boy. He walked into the shop with its narrow spaces and dark wood and its walls covered from floor to ceiling with books, many in disordered stacks—Mason's astute book on water drainage sitting on top of Richardson's
Pamela
—but Fielding knew where every single tome was. It appeared to be a slow morning. James didn't see anyone else, and that was good because he'd heard from Fielding the previous day that his Corneille plays had arrived from Paris. He was excited. He wanted to talk to Fielding about it.

He rounded a corner and stopped cold. There was Jessie Warfield in deep conversation with Compton. What the devil was she doing here? Surely she didn't read, did she? Surely all she did was horsey things.

He grinned at himself and went a bit closer to listen. If she could eavesdrop, so could he.

“Mr. Fielding, this is the third time you've wanted me to read old diaries. What's this one all about?”

Compton Fielding, a scholarly fixture in Baltimore, a fine violinist who played at civic affairs, a man with wide knowledge of many subjects, gently opened the fragile pages. “See, Jessie, it's well over a hundred years old, from around
the turn of the eighteenth century, I'd say. I wish the fellow had dated it, but he neglected to. Old Elisha Bentworth told me I should find old calendars and match days with dates and that would tell me the years, but who has the time? Now, this precious diary covers a span of some three years, most of it spent in the Caribbean. What do you know of those times in the Caribbean, Jessie?”

“Not a blessed thing, Mr. Fielding, but if you want me to, I'll read it. I did enjoy reading the other two, but deciphering some of the words was mighty difficult.”

“But worth it?”

“Oh yes, particularly the one set in Charleston in the early Colonial days.”

“Ah, Mr. Nestor's memoirs. An odd duck, that Mr. Nestor, but I thought you'd like it. Since you're not all that certain you'll like tales of the Caribbean, why don't you take the diary home and read it over. If you want to keep it, just come back and pay me for it.”

Jessie was already thumbing carefully through the diary. “Oh, listen to this, Mr. Fielding.
‘We came to Jamaica to find miserable rain and a sour rum that fires the bowels. I had to split my sword in Davie's guts, the little bastard.'
She raised a shining face. “Is this about pirates? Goodness, how bloodthirsty they sound.”

“I think the rum merchant's brother might have been a pirate, or known some of those men,” Compton Fielding said thoughtfully, taking the diary from her. “You're right. It just might be too bloodthirsty for a young lady.”

“I'll take it,” Jessie said, and James nearly laughed aloud.

“Well then, if you're sure. You read it through and tell me.”

James came around the corner and said, “Good morning, Jessie, Compton. What's all this miserable rain and a sour rum business? What do you have there?”

“You were eavesdropping,” she said, then had the grace to look at the toes of her shoes.

“Yes, but I'm still in one piece,” James said.

“What she has, James, is a diary from about one hundred years ago. I don't really know what it's about. Jessie will read it through and tell me.”

“I didn't know you even read,” he said to her.

“Just what do you mean by that, James Wyndham? Do you think I'm ignorant?”

“I've never seen you with a book before. I've never seen you in here before.”

“The same is true of you. Now, what are you doing here, James? I would have thought that all you did was ride your acres, break colts, and give orders to all your stable lads.”

Since he'd thought the same thing about her, he didn't say what he would have liked to. “I've frequented Compton's bookshop since I was a boy. He introduced me to French novels and plays.”

Mr. Fielding was noted for the immense collection of French works he had in his shop, but Jessie, not knowing a single utterance in French, had never really paid much attention. She'd read every novel he had until just recently when he'd begun introducing her to diaries. They were, she had to admit, rather interesting, but thin on plot. There were no handsome gentlemen to sweep a girl off her feet. Oh yes, she adored lots of plot.

“You are a horse breeder and racer, James. You couldn't possibly speak French.”

“Well, I do. In fact, I've spent a good deal of time in France.” He eyed her up and down. “You're wearing a gown. Where the devil did you get it? It's too short and quite an ugly color of yellow, and it bags in the bosom. Ah, I know. It must be one of Nelda's or Glenda's castaways. Would you like to borrow a pair of my socks to stuff down the front?”

Compton Fielding cleared his throat. “James, would you like to come see the collection of Corneille's plays I just received? You particularly wanted to read
Le Cid
. The collection also has
Cinna
and
La Mort de Pompée
. I myself prefer
Le Cid
. The others are a bit tedious in that pompous classical sort of way.”

James gave Jessie a final look of acute dislike and followed Compton Fielding to his small desk at the rear of the store. The air was so heavy with the smell of wood, books, and rag dust that James wondered how Fielding could breathe after a couple of hours in the bowels of the shop.

When he held the Corneille plays in his hands, he gently opened the pages to
Le Cid
. He began reading the first scene between Elvire and Chimene.

“You can really understand that?” Jessie had wandered up and was standing at his elbow, staring down at the page. “It looks like gibberish.”

“Yes, of course. Why would I want to buy it if I couldn't even read it?”

“Perhaps just to put me in my place. Me and all the other ragtag Colonists. That's it, isn't it, James? You think we're all ignorant buffoons.”

“I've never thought you the least bit ignorant, Jessie, and how could I, given what you're buying? Here you are reading a diary—something of historical interest. I'm impressed.”

“Before I got her on the diaries, she read every gothic tale I could find her.”

“I'm not surprised,” James said, and laughed. She looked as if she wanted to peel a layer of skin off him, but she kept her mouth shut, which surprised him.

Feeling a touch guilty, James thought he'd try to make it up to her. “Come on, Jessie, I'll buy you an ice cream over on Baltimore Street. Would you like that?”

She glowed with pleasure. “Perhaps I'd like it, just a little bit.”

James paid Compton Fielding for the Corneille and escorted Jessie and her diary down Calvert Street. He was stunned to see she even had a parasol, a flowered confection that she held like a club. Her red hair was pulled too tightly back from her face and tied with a black velvet ribbon at her neck.

“We're going to Balboney's?”

“That's right. Mr. Balboney's son, Gray, wants to learn stud management. I'm thinking of taking him on.”

“Oh dear.”

“‘Oh dear' what?”

“There's your mistress, James, Mrs. Maxwell. She's waving at you.”

Sure enough, Connie Maxwell was just across the street standing in front of Hezekiah Niles's newspaper office, waving frantically at him. He waved back, motioning her to wait for him. He turned back to Jessie. “For God's sake, you're not supposed to know anything about mistresses.”

“Perhaps not, but Glenda knows all about her. I heard her discussing Mrs. Maxwell with Mama. Glenda's afraid you'll marry Mrs. Maxwell and not her, but Mama said that wouldn't happen. Mrs. Maxwell is too old for you and you'll want sons, and she is too old for that as well. She said you'd want a young virgin, a lady who is malleable and submissive and sweet, someone who would bring you money, someone just like Glenda. She did allow, though, that Mrs. Maxwell was very fine-looking, which she is. She's lovely. She doesn't look at all old.”

James stared at her, fascinated by what was coming so guilelessly out of that mouth of hers. “Jessie, I have no intention of marrying your sister.”

“You don't?”

There it was: that hopeful look, as wistful as that of a child being offered a Christmas cookie.

“No. Were you eavesdropping again?”

“Oh, no. Well, maybe. Sometimes they talk in front of me. It's as if I'm not there.”

“But this time they didn't? You eavesdropped?”

“Yes. At least I didn't fall through the door or make any noise.”

“Jessie, do you know what a mistress is?”

“She's someone you mount whenever you want to.”

“Horses mount. Humans have sex. Do you know what sex is all about?”

“I suppose it's a lot like the stallions and the mares, regardless of what you say. All very loud and messy and painful.”

“Painful?”

“The mares are always screaming and thrashing around, and the stallions bite their necks and rumps. But they keep doing it, so I suppose it must please them. Sweet Susie was eager for any stallion available, even poor old Benjie. When we were racing away from those men, I told Benjie to promise Sweet Susie that he'd give her anything she wanted just as long as she ran as fast as she could. She did run fast, James.”

“Jessie, I can't believe this conversation. Now, I want you to go to Balboney's. I'll join you in just a few minutes, all right?”

“All right. Oh, James, I like Mrs. Maxwell. She's ever so pretty and she laughs a lot. She's always been very nice to me. She always bets on me, too.”

“I know, she told me. You're right. She is very nice. Wait for me, Jessie.”

She watched him make his way through the drays, the horses, the carriages, and the beer wagon to get to the other side of the street. She watched him greet Mrs. Maxwell and
saw the lady smile up at him, her gloved hand on his forearm. He leaned down to hear what she was saying. Mrs. Maxwell was very small, barely coming to James's shoulder. Jessie turned away, twisting the handle of her parasol with such violence that it split apart. “Well, damn,” she said, and walked to Balboney's Ice Cream Emporium on Baltimore Street.

Jessie was eating a vanilla ice cream out of a small blue bowl when James strode into the shop not five minutes later. He sat opposite her, ordered himself an ice cream, and said, “Connie says hello. She also said my taste is improving. I told her she needed spectacles. She said I should ask you nicely to give me some pointers on racing.”

“I could give you lots of pointers, James, but I doubt you'd listen. You'd box my ears even if I managed to make gentle suggestions, wouldn't you? Besides, you don't really need all that many pointers. The fact is, you're just too big to ride in races. I'm sorry for you, it's too bad, but you're just going to have to face up to it. Besides, you wouldn't be able to swagger around the way you do if you were a real jockey who weighed one hundred pounds. How's Redcoat? Will he be able to ride at the Axminster Races Saturday?”

“No, it's me again. Redcoat's leg won't be healed properly for another couple of months, at least. I've been training Peter, but the lad's not ready yet. You'd eat him alive. The male jockeys would toss him off his horse's back and into a ditch without even breaking stride. No, he needs more time so I can make him mean. You've got me as an opponent on Saturday, Jessie. Are you going to ride Rialto?”

“No, he has a sore hock. I don't know what happened, but I suspect his stable lad wasn't all that careful with him. No, since it's quarter-horse racing, I'll be on Jigg and Bonny Black. They can run faster than the wind for that quarter mile. How about you?”

“Tinpin. He'll beat you this time, Jessie. You haven't got a chance. I've been speaking to him privately all week, offering him bribes, telling him that you're just a twit female and that if he lets you beat him again, he'll have to retire in ignominy. He's ready. He'll be out for blood.”

“Just you stay away from me, James. No pushing me into a tree or a ditch. Do ride Console, too. He's got more heart than any horse I've ever seen.”

He shouldn't be surprised. He said slowly, “You're right. Console is a bit too long in the back, but he does have heart. I'm always afraid that if I race him for longer than a quarter mile, his heart will burst because he'll push himself so hard.”

“You wouldn't push him. That's why you're an excellent horseman. Not as good as my father or I, but you're good nonetheless. Now, I've been thinking about this, James. I've decided that Connie Maxwell isn't really your mistress.”

“You're quite right. She's a friend and I like her and she likes me and we enjoy each other. A man pays a woman to be a mistress. Connie is independent. She can order me out of her life whenever she tires of me. Now, Jessie, you're unmarried, a virgin, and this sort of talk isn't right. It wouldn't fluster Glenda, but with you, no, it's just not right. Eat your ice cream.”