Leslie LaFoy (45 page)

“I bought you this and I want you to carry it with you all the time,” he explained. “So you can protect yourself.”

“I've never in my life shot a weapon of any sort,” she countered, shaking her head emphatically. “This is a very bad idea, Jack. I appreciate the concern and confidence behind it, but I'm more likely to shoot you or myself than I am someone who might be menacing us.”

He grinned and rolled his eyes as he slipped off the bed. Putting the pistol on the night table, he said, “You'd be surprised what you can do when you have no other choice, Lindsay. We'll see that you get some practice with it before we head back to New York. You'll do just fine if you ever need to use it.”

No, she wouldn't, but she wasn't going to argue with him. He'd see for himself when he tried to teach her how to
kill and maim. She simply didn't have it in her and no amount of instruction was going to make any difference. “We'll go overland, right? No more sailing?”

“I'd think you'd want to get back to New York as quickly as possible. Going overland is going to take at least a day and a half longer.”

Lindsay knew that. She also knew that the time with Jack was growing short and that she wanted to draw it out for as long as she could. “As Mrs. Beechum pointed out before I left, my being there or not isn't going to change how matters go with Richard. I'd rather take the extra time going back by coach than to sail and have you be so deathly sick. You truly frightened me a time or two on the way here.”

He gave her a chagrined smile and raked his fingers through his hair. “I can't say that I'm looking forward to the possibility of climbing aboard a boat with any sense of glad anticipation.” He stared at the floor for a moment and then lifted his gaze to hers with sigh of resignation. “All right. We'll go by coach. But only if you promise me you'll carry the gun and practice every evening when we stop.”

“It isn't necessary. It truly isn't. No one is the least bit interested in harming me, either deliberately or accidentally.”

He studied her for a long moment and she saw his eyes darken with resolve. “So,” he finally drawled, “you'd rather have me stand over your grave knowing I'm going to regret for the rest of my life that I didn't listen to my instincts.”

Her heart ached and she accepted that she couldn't add to the regrets of his life. “You don't fight fair, Jack.”

His smile was rueful as he softly said, “No, sweetheart, I don't. I fight to win.” Then, slowly, a warmth sparked deep in his dark eyes. He leaned forward and began to unbutton her shirtfront. “But I try to be a gracious winner,” he whispered across her lips.

Lindsay smiled and silently set about ridding him of his clothing, her heart and soul thrilling at the sweet prospect of making love to him. He knew how to touch her, how to make her feel alive and free. And when he filled her, the cares
of her world melted away and there was only Jack and the pureness of the pleasure they gave one another. She always felt warm and safe in his arms, protected from the uncertainty and storms of her life.

She kissed him, softly, reverently, knowing that loving him was a gift she was giving to herself, a gift of peace and contentment, precious and worth the price of its inevitable passing. No matter what the future held, the shadows of the past had been banished. The shame that had been the legacy of Charles Martens was gone. That was Jack's greatest gift to her—and she would cherish it forever.

I
T WAS HARD
for her to hold her eyes open as the rented hack bore them through the city streets toward MacPhaull House. Of one thing she was absolutely certain; as fondly as she'd remember the days she'd spent with Jack in Boston, she'd forever cringe when remembering the journey back to New York. Who would have thought that simply keeping your seat in a coach would be such an exhausting physical endeavor? She'd barely had the strength to stand when they'd stopped each night.

And then there had been the pistol-shooting practice Jack had insisted upon after dinner. Invariably it had drawn a crowd of fellow passengers and led to spirited contests at which Jack had confidently excelled and she'd failed miserably. She'd fallen into bed every night too mentally and physically tired to care that the food had been awful and that the mattress was lumpy. No exhaustion was too deep, though, to have kept her from missing the comfort of falling asleep and waking in the circle of Jack's embrace. The extra time she'd thought to have with him hadn't been enough and her chest ached with the loss.

Deep inside, she knew that it was a harbinger of the pain she was going to feel when he returned to Texas. For the last two nights, in the unguarded moments just before she fell asleep, her last thought had been a whispered prayer that he would decide to stay with her. In the light of day, though, she set aside those hopes for another, more practical and necessary one—that she would be able to keep her composure when she had to tell him good-bye.

“Are you awake?” Jack asked quietly, reaching across the carriage to lay his hand gently over hers. When she managed a nod, he added, “You're home.”

Lindsay realized only then that the carriage had stopped. She nodded again, thinking that her return should spark some sense of happiness or comfort within her. It didn't. In MacPhaull House were all the memories, obligations, and turmoil of all the years of her life. She didn't want to be here anymore. It wasn't a home. It was a two-story brick box stuffed full of dark furniture and even darker failure. She was going to sell it just as soon as she could. She'd move to Mrs. Theorosa's house and begin her life all over again.

“Damn.”

It took some effort, but Lindsay focused her vision and her awareness on the present. Jack stood just outside the carriage door, his back to her, his shoulders tense and his chin raised. Slowly he turned and offered her his hand. His eyes were dark and soft with regret and sadness.

“Bad news awaits you, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Lean on me if you need to. I'll be right beside you.”

She knew even before she stepped out that Richard had died. The front door of the house was draped in black crepe and she stood looking at it, holding Jack's hand tightly and swaying slightly on her feet. For a brief instant she felt a stab of grief and denial, and then a blessed numbness mercifully dropped over her. Feeling nothing, her mind incapable of coherent thought, she allowed him to guide her up the front walk. She vaguely heard Jack speak to the hack driver before he sent him on his way, and just as vaguely heard him call out to Mrs. Beechum when they reached the front door.

Jack was gently untying her bonnet ribbons when Mrs. Beechum came from the dining room into the foyer. Lindsay
blinked at her, trying to focus on the familiar face, a face that was thinner than she remembered and hollowed by grief.

“Miss Lindsay, I'm so sorry that you've had to come home to crepe,” the housekeeper said, coming to a stop, her skirts swirling for a second around her ankles. “Richard passed the day after you left and we tried to delay the services for as long as we could in the hope that you'd return in time to attend them. We didn't know where you'd gone and so we couldn't send a message to bring you home.”

“We were in Boston,” Lindsay heard herself say. Why? she wondered. It didn't matter where she'd gone. She hadn't been here to pay her last public respects to the man who had been like a father to her.

“It was a lovely service, Miss Lindsay. Truly lovely,” Abigail went on consolingly. “Richard had all of the details of it specified in his Will. So many people were in attendance. You would have been pleased. I've saved the obituary for you. It's on the desk in the study, along with all the mail that's arrived in your absence. Ben has been bringing it to the house each evening.”

She nodded, wondering if the letter from the imaginary Percival Little had arrived yet.
Better now than later
, Lindsay thought.
Better to know, than not. And I'm too tired for it to hurt.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beechum,” she heard herself say. She cleared her throat softly and then found the wherewithal to add, “When we were in Boston we met Tiny.”

The housekeeper knitted her brows. “Who is Tiny?”

Lindsay straightened her shoulders, but suddenly it was all that she could do beyond hoping that Jack would pick up the thread and do the unraveling. She was too emotionally battered to do anything more than remain upright and watch her housekeeper in dazed silence.

“Joseph Mallory,” Jack clarified. “His friends call him Tiny.”

Lindsay recognized first puzzlement and then shock in her housekeeper's eyes. And then the woman sighed and said, “I understand that he's a simple child. Although I suppose that he's really no longer a child. It's been so many years. I do so hope that Richard made provisions in his Will for him and the other three young men.”

Three? Oh, yes, Lindsay remembered. The other companies in other cities.

“We need to know,” Jack pressed, slipping his arm around Lindsay's waist, “how you became involved in sending them money every week.”

“With Richard gone, I suppose that keeping it a secret doesn't matter anymore.” She stood taller and took a deep breath before she began. “It was what brought us together for the first time. It seems so very long ago. It was a Christmas fund-raising event sponsored by the Ladies Charitable Association. I was a member in those days. Otis Vanderhagen brought Richard with him that evening and, in the course of it, Richard and I found ourselves in conversation. He told me about the letters he frequently received asking for donations. He said that four had caught his attention as being especially deserving, but he felt that responding to them would open the floodgates of requests. He asked me if I'd be willing to help him secretly help these poor souls. How could I refuse?”

It sounded logical to Lindsay. An act of kindness. So Richard. So Abigail. And Otis Vanderhagen had probably written the requests for charity, duping them both. It was all explained and there was nothing sinister about Abigail's involvement. If she'd have been capable of it, Lindsay would have smiled in relief.

“How long ago was this?” Jack inquired.

“It will be twenty-one years ago this next Christmas, Mr. Stennett.”

“So what exactly did you do?”

“I sent them money every week with which to pay their rents and provide for their other needs.”

“Richard's money?” Jack asked.

“Yes, of course,” Abigail answered, looking at him like it was the most ridiculous question she'd ever heard. “But Richard's involvement was never disclosed. It was the way he wanted it.”

“And how did you get the money to send?”

“When we first began, Richard would bring it to me himself and then take me to the post office to send the packets on their way. It was those weekly meetings and car-
riage rides that led to the development of our more personal relationship.” She blushed slightly, cleared her throat, and then took another deep breath. “After the accident, after my convalescence, arrangements were made so that I would find the money every Monday morning here at MacPhaull House, tucked inside four packets and stuck between the jamb and the outside kitchen door. All I had to do was address the packets and take them to the post office while I was out running other errands.”

“Who and where are the other three recipients of Richard's charity?”

“There's Waldo Jones in Philadelphia, George Slater in Richmond, and Israel Boniface in Charleston,” Abigail supplied crisply. “I do so hope Richard provided for them. I can't bear to think what might happen to them if he didn't.”

“I gather his Will hasn't been publically read yet?”

“No, of course not. Except for the provisions regarding his funeral preferences. Mr. Vanderhagen insisted that Miss Lindsay be present before he made Richard's other wishes known. He's asked me to request that you notify him of your return.”

Lindsay closed her eyes. God, the reading of the Will. There was something about the division of property that always made death so undeniable. Until then you could believe that it was just a bad dream and that everything would be all right when the sun rose and you could wake up.

“Tomorrow morning will be soon enough,” Jack said, drawing Lindsay closer to his side. “Have you sent the rent money this week?”

“Yes. Whoever brings it to the house on Richard's behalf must have the same sense of concern I do, because despite Richard's passing, the money was there this past Monday morning.”

“Who do you think brings it?”

“I've always assumed that it's Havers. He would be the most logical person, don't you think?”

“If it's not there next Monday morning, let me know and I'll see that you have it.”

Again, Lindsay wished that she was capable of the effort it took to smile.

“You're a very good man, Mr. Stennett. Thank you.” Abigail paused and then said tentatively, “May I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“How did you find out about all this? Was I clumsy in handling the transaction?”

“No, not at all,” Jack assured her. “We were following another trail and stumbled across Richard's charitable efforts quite by accident.”

Yes, a good man. He wasn't going to taint Abigail's illusions of Richard with his suspicions. She'd have to remember to thank him later for the kindness.

“I assume that you haven't yet had your evening meal,” Abigail said. “I'll see that Primrose and Emile prepare something immediately.”

“Emile is still here?”

“Yes, sir. As is Havers. I didn't know precisely how to handle the situation of Richard's employees after his passing, so I discussed it with Mr. Vanderhagen. He suggested that they remain here until after the reading of Richard's Will and that Miss Lindsay could make decisions regarding them after that. I formed the impression that while Richard made them bequeaths, he was hopeful that Miss Lindsay would bring them into her household staff.”

“And how would you feel about that, Mrs. Beechum?” Jack asked.

“I think that if Miss Lindsay were to let Emile go, Primrose would follow him. Aside from that, he's a very good cook. I wouldn't be opposed to having him around.”