Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (8 page)

“She just thinks we're all too incompetent to take care of ourselves,” Tom replied. “And she's been right often enough to make her scolding worth listening to.” He knelt and adjusted the way Joseph was holding the stick, then guided his other hand through a few cuts. “This way's better, see? The knife cuts the wood better, and it can't cut your thumb. And don't you think it's about time Jason had a turn?”

“No!” Joseph answered in a piping voice. “I'm whittlin'.”

Tom let him make another few cuts and then gently took the knife and branch away from him. “I know you're whittling, but it's Jason's turn.”

Joseph's bottom lip started to quiver.

“I don't want you crying about this, Joseph,” Tom told him sternly. “Fair's fair, and it's nothing to cry about.”

“I don't care,” Jason said. “I can whittle later.”

Tom looked back and forth between the twins, then shrugged. “All right.” He handed the knife and branch back to Joseph. “Here you go, son.”

Straightening, he continued to watch the boys, as he had promised Lavinia he would. “There's something about teaching your sons to use a knife …” he observed, almost dreamily.

“You got a couple of fine cubs there,” Leakey rumbled. “Take after their ol' pappy, they do.”

“Joseph does, anyway,” Tom answered in a low voice. “Jason's more like Jenny.”

There was no great difficulty in telling the twins apart. Everyone had thought they were identical when they were born, but each passing month had revealed new differences. From an early neutral brown, Joseph's hair had become almost black, while Jason's had turned fairer. Joseph was bigger and stronger and more aggressive, while Jason was quicker of mind, naturally curious, and more sensitive. Now that Jenny was gone, Jason was more dependent than ever on Tom, more needful of being assured that he was still loved and that everything would be all right. It helped the twins that their grandparents lived in Brandborough and saw them often. The boys dearly loved staying with Grandpa Jason and Grandma Colleen. Frequent family visits also got the boys out of the way when work backed up at the plantation and Tom didn't have time to give them the attention they needed. Later on that day, in fact, he planned to take them to their grandparents' for Sunday dinner, after which they would remain in town for the next week, conveniently out from underfoot during the busiest week of the harvest.

One of Jenny's fondest dreams had been to be reconciled with her parents. She never ceased to hope that they would accept Tom and, someday, meet and love the twins. She had written frequently over the years—every Paxton ship that sailed for England carried at least one letter to them—but they had never responded. Nor had Tom fared better when he wrote to inform them of Jenny's death. The damnable part was that it was the boys who would suffer the most, and all Tom could do was try to think up a logical story for them when they finally asked.

“Well, I guess I'll eat something and then get ready to leave. You coming with us? There'll be plenty of food. You don't have to worry about going hungry.”

“Your mama expecting me?”

“Not that I know of, but—”

“Naaah. We got an agreement that I send word ahead of time so she can have the cook make plenty extra. 'Sides, I don't feel too comfortable with all them buildings around. When you been away from civilization for a while, it gets awful stifling. Tell you what I will do, though. You tell your mama I'll come in next Sunday when you go to fetch the boys home. It's been too long. It'll be good to see her and Jase again. He still hell throwing a tomahawk?”

“He can still beat me.”

A wolfish grin spread across Leakey's face. “Then you can tell him something, too: he better practice up, 'cause this time ol' Maurice is gonna beat him so bad he'll want to hide his head in a tow sack. And tell him to tune up that pianoforte, too. It's been a long time since I heard such pretty music as that man plays.”

Neither spoke then. The two men stood together enjoying the shade and the lazy morning, and remembering, perhaps, that they too had once been boys for whom there was nothing in the world more important than learning how to whittle.

CHAPTER IV

Tom kept the team moving at an easy, sedate pace, the gait to which they were best suited. There'd been a time, before the path had been broadened to accommodate the heavy wagons necessary to freight supplies in and cotton and tobacco and other products out, when the way had been precarious and required a man's full attention. Now, though, the trip was nothing more than a leisurely Sunday drive that was occasionally disturbed by a snake and, when the weather was right, by hordes of mosquito hawks or other insects. Joseph and Jason sat beside their father on the seat. Tom's saddle horse, the clay-colored mare, trailed along behind, at peace with the line that tethered her to the rear gate. In the uncovered bed, two bundles containing the boys' clothing for their week's stay in Brandborough bounced lightly from side to side. As usual, Tom took advantage of the trip to further the boys' education.

“What kind of bird is that, Jason?” he asked at one point, indicating an ungainly-looking creature with spindly legs and a long, pointed beak.

Always desperate to please his father, Jason peered at the bird that waited patiently for the opportunity to spear an unsuspecting fish, then up at Tom. “A heron?” he asked.

“That's right. What kind of heron?”

“A blue heron!” he cried, startling the lanky, regal creature into an awkward run and, moments later, graceful flight. “Green heron's smaller, and greener.”

“That's right,” Tom said, ruffling his hair. “What are you looking at, Joseph?”

Joseph already knew which of the swamp denizens to avoid, and could identify most of the others. “Water moccasin,” he answered laconically, pointing to a snarl of logs poking out of the water at the side of the road.

“Where? Oh, yes.” Tom pointed so Jason could sight along his arm to a spot of sun that filtered through the trees. “Old moccasin taking a sunbath. Getting ready to shed, looks like. See how dull and gray his skin is?”

It was a wonder how two boys born within a half hour of each other from the same mother could have such different natures. The contrast between Joseph and Jason hadn't seemed so obvious to Tom when Jenny was alive because he'd left the business of raising them to her and spent relatively little time with them himself. Since her death, though, he'd arranged to do less of the work at Solitary so he'd have extra time for the boys—time to teach them and love them enough for two parents now that there was only one. Running a plantation and being a father and mother for a rambunctious set of twins was no easy job, even with their grandparents and Lavinia to help; but, outside of missing Jenny so damned much, it was a role he had quickly come to relish.

Five miles west of Brandborough, the land rose out of the swamp and the road intersected another wagon trail that headed north to Brandborough and Charleston. One crack of the whip, and the mares broke into a brisk trot. “I wanta see Grandpa,” Joseph said as he jolted against his brother.

“You will,” Tom answered. “He and Grandma will be waiting for us on the front porch, I'll bet.”

“Where's Uncle Maurice?”

“He's staying at home. Too many buildings and people in Brandborough. Not enough elbow room makes a man like Uncle Maurice nervous.”

“What's elbow room?” Joseph asked.

“Well … space, I guess. He likes a lot of space around him.”

“Why?” Jason asked.

“'Cause he's used to it, I guess.”

“Why?” he asked again.

“Well.… Because, damn it,” he snapped, exasperated as usual by Jason's string of
why
's that had a tendency to go on forever. “Get along!” he called to the horses, flicking the reins. “Move, Julie. Move, Ruth. Get along, now!”

The road rose to follow the crest of a long low ridge that paralleled the ocean, then angled off to the east toward Brandborough. The sun beat down on the treeless land. Questions, questions, questions. But why else did a boy exist if not to ask questions? Tom glanced down at his sons, pride lighting his eyes. Lulled by the heat and the motion of the wagon, Joseph had begun to nod. Jason, his mind full of unanswered questions, tried to fight off the drowsiness. Reins in one hand, Tom slipped his free arm around them both. They were handsome lads, he thought, a little drowsy himself. Fine lads. A man couldn't ask for better sons. “You did a fine job, Jenny,” he said quietly, talking to her as he sometimes did.

“What?” Jason asked, half-asleep.

“Just talking to myself.”

“Why?”

“Just because,” Tom said. Along with the memories, the twins were all that was left of Jenny. Without them, his life would be a desolate wasteland. “Just because, son.”

Sweat trickled from under the brown floppy-brimmed hat that shaded his face. He'd left Solitary without changing clothes, and his shirt was damp, his feet hot inside his boots. Their faces flushed with the heat, the boys were more asleep than awake by the time they drove past the first house that signaled the outskirts of Brandborough. Soon they were moving onto the broad hard-packed main street.

Brandborough had grown considerably from the original four cabins erected a century earlier when Marie Ravenne and Jason Brand and their crew had first settled there. Expansion had been slow but steady until the War for Independence, after which, fueled by Paxton enterprise, the town had grown by leaps and bounds. The Paxton Cotton Company, housed in a sturdy whitewashed building with large gilt-embellished letters on the front window, brokered cotton from as far as fifty miles inland. The Paxton Tobacco Company, three doors down the street, served a similar function for local tobacco growers. The Paxtons' prime horses were all raised at Solitary, but buyers and traders gathered at the Paxton Auction House on the fairgrounds. The Paxton warehouses and ship's chandlery were in Charleston, from which harbor the family's ships set sail to ports all over the world—but the profits eventually found their way back to Brandborough. As a result, clapboard buildings lined a good hundred yards of the main street where over thirty merchants, from liverymen to milliners to gunsmiths, did business. Walks made of wide planks, a necessity during the winter when rain turned the street into a quagmire, ran in front of the buildings.

Wealth and influence had their drawbacks, however, so it was no surprise to Tom that not everyone in Brandborough held the Paxtons in favor. Some disliked the founding family because it was the founding family; others were jealous of wealth and influence in any form. No one on the sparsely populated Sabbath street, however, failed to exchange greetings with Tom as he rode through town: the Paxtons weren't a vindictive lot, but one never knew, and no one wanted to be the first to put them to the test.

Jason Behan Paxton and his wife, Colleen, lived in a large two-story whitewashed house on the north edge of town where they could take their ease on the porch and gaze across a well-kept lawn and colorful beds of flowers to the sparkling blue bay and, in the distance, the Atlantic. The house had been built only ten years earlier, when Jason and Colleen had first started thinking about moving back to town from Solitary. Built on a site less than a hundred yards from the original Paxton cabin, their home had no rival in Brandborough. A drive of crushed shell led from the road to the front door. Boxed hedges, always neatly trimmed, gave the house and grounds a formal appearance that was mitigated by the cozy good cheer of open bright-blue shutters. Hickories, live oaks, and magnolias surrounded the house and shielded it with deep shade that, combined with the Atlantic breezes, kept the interior cool on the hottest day in the summer. Tom had seen, visited, and lived in houses in a half-dozen countries around the world. Some had been larger, some more elegant, but not a one, with the possible exception of Solitary, was as pleasant or comfortable.

“Wake up, boys,” Tom said as the team turned onto the drive that led to the house. “Almost there. Shake a leg.”

Joseph rubbed his eyes and looked around. “Can we go in the boat, Daddy?” he asked the second he realized where he was.

“You'll have to ask your grandpa. It's his. Well, damn.”

“What?” Jason asked. Then, remembering the responsibility Colleen had charged him with, he added, “Grandma says you shouldn't say bad words.”

A figure dressed in black was descending the front steps. Tom's mood turned sour and he ignored Jason's admonition. “Damn the luck, Reverend Caldwell Lewis is there. Now, you two be polite, you hear?”

With the journey nearly over, the twins were more interested in getting out of the wagon than in being polite. Jason tried to climb over Joseph, but Joseph pushed him back.

“You hear what I said?” Tom asked, grabbing a pair of arms and pulling both boys down to the seat.

“Yes, sir,” the twins chimed in unison.

“Good. Whoa!” He hauled on the reins and brought the team to a stop. “Reverend,” he said, touching his hat in greeting.

Dressed in black shoes, hose, breeches, coat, and tricorn, the Reverend Mr. Lewis stopped on the bottom step. “Good afternoon, Thomas,” he said in the deep, stentorian voice that had earned him his job in Brand-borough. “Jason, Joseph. Good lads.”

Tom still had hold of the boys' arms, and he shoved them to their feet.

“Good afternoon, sir,” they said, with Jason adding, in the same breath, “Can we go now?”

“Yes. Just don't both of you jump on your grandma at the same time. Take turns.”

“Yes, sir!” There was no holding them. The words barely out of their mouths, the twins were scrambling down from the wagon and running past the Reverend Mr. Lewis onto the porch and into the house.

With an indulgent smile, Lewis stepped aside to let them pass. “A healthy-looking pair, Thomas,” he said, a little too jovially. He waited in silence while Tom climbed out of the wagon and hitched the horses.