Halfway Home, page 12
Both men managed to get to their feet. Neither of them spoke. Jericho wasn’t certain the second man could—he was barely able to stand. “You arrange for a burying man?” Smithers called out, the smirk on his pretty features looking somehow obscene in the harsh morning sunlight.
“Physician’ll be along most any minute now,” replied Turbyfill, his usual drawl clipped with distaste. “There’s no wind to speak of, so we’ll quarter the sun. Rico, you’ll face yonder big cypress, sun on your left shoulder. Smithers, you take the sun on your right. Last chance to beg off, no honor lost.” One of the duties of the second was to settle without bloodshed where there existed a possibility.
There existed none. Before either man could reach his appointed position, the physician arrived, his dusty black carryall rattling to a halt at the edge of the clearing. He stumbled from the buggy and Turbyfill swore roundly. “Is it too frigging much,” he muttered, “to hope for just one sober man in this damned affair?”
Titus’s second, a tavern tender by the unlikely name of Ladymore, staggered forward and began to speak. “Ten pastes—paches—shteps for’ard, fire in count o’ three. Where’s m’ jug?”
“That isn’t the way it goes, you old fool,” Smithers said fiercely.
Rafe stepped forward and waved a hand for silence. “Center of the clearing, foot-to-foot, one hand only, at the count of three, commence to fight. Fight ends at first blood drawn.”
Titus’s face was as guileless as a hangman’s smile. Running a thumb along the edge of his blade, he said, “As the challenged party, I choose the weapons. Man that chooses the weapons sets the rules, and s’ far as I know, there ain’t no set rules for knives. Reck’n we’ll just have to make do with the reg’lar rules, which is, ten paces, weapons up, then turn, take aim, and cut loose.”
“God in heaven,” Rafe whispered. “He means to throw on you, Rico. Get ready to drop at the count of nine. No—better make that eight.”
There was no pretense of examining the weapons. A knife was a knife. It could kill but once in a single throw. At a nod from Turbyfill, both men made their way to the center of the clearing. The sun had just topped the level of the surrounding trees. The smell of smoke hung heavy, but the air was clear enough.
Back-to-back they stood, each man intent only on killing his opponent. Jericho had fought before, more times than he could recall, but seldom with a knife and never with the intent to kill in cold blood.
The count began. In measured tones, both seconds called out the numbers, Ladymore’s count slurred, Turbyfill’s crisp and angry.
At the count of four, Jericho felt the muscles in his right arm begin to tense. At the call of six, he took a deep breath and flexed his throwing arm. At the call of eight he felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, and then Rafe shouted, and then someone else cried out—the physician, as it later turned out.
Before either cry had faded, he felt a bolt of lightning strike him in the back.
“No, damn you—no!” someone screamed.
Turning, Jericho staggered. On his knees, feeling strangely calm, he lifted his right arm, holding the knife by the tip of the blade, and let fly the instant before he collapsed. End over end the knife spun in the general direction, but wide of its intended target, falling a foot for every three it sped forward.
Titus stared in dumb paralysis as the tumbling blade came toward him. Not until it was almost too late did he jump to one side, which was probably why the thing caught him in the belly instead of missing him altogether.
Staring down in disbelief as blood gushed from the front of his well-cut buckskins, he commenced screaming obscenities. Twenty feet away, Jericho lay sprawled on his face in the rich, alluvial dirt. His last conscious thought was of Sara.
*
Jericho’s first conscious thought was of Sara. It was followed by the surprising awareness that hell was somewhat cooler that he’d expected. “Water,” he mumbled.
Someone lifted his head, and he cried out as pain shot through his upper body. He felt a tumbler pressed against his lower lip. Water dribbled down his chin and was tenderly wiped away.
He tried to say his thanks, but gave up and allowed blessed unconsciousness to claim him again.
Voices? Then he wasn’t the only resident of hell. Although why he should have expected his own private quarters in the fiery region was beyond him. He’d never been particularly bad . . . but then, he’d never been particularly good, either.
“Poor devil, he’ll not last the night, I’m afraid.”
The devil was dying? Then who the hell was going to run his kingdom?
“Don’t relish having to tell his wife.”
Devil’s wife? No, Sara. I never even got to try you, did I, sweetheart? Prob’ly a good thing—might’ve liked it a bit too much . . .
“Does he leave an heir?” Jericho didn’t recognize that voice.
And then a voice he did recognize replied, “Not to my knowledge, only a wife, and her brand-new from what I understand.”
Jesus. Rickett’s brat would inherit Wilde Oaks? “Over m’dead body,” groaned the pale figure on the bed. But then, Rickett’s brat was Sara’s, too. He couldn’t begrudge a child of Sara’s anything.
Jericho felt as if he were hovering somewhere near the ceiling, gazing down on the three men in the room. His words were barely audible, but they had an electrifying effect.
“Rico? Can you hear me? God, man, don’t try to talk, just listen!”
“ ‘S all yours,” the figure on the bed mumbled. “Sara, too. Good woman. Promise me, Tubby, take care of her’n Rickett’s brat, y’hear?”
“Mind’s wandering,” said the elder of the two men.
“Laudanum?”
The physician, as nearly sober as he’d been in years, shook his head sadly. “Wore off by now. Takes ‘em this way sometimes. Man just plum hates to die and leave loose ends. Sounds to me like you just inherited yourself a house and a woman. Not sure what a ricket sprat is, but it sounds to me like he wants you to have it.”
Turbyfill shook his head impatiently. After watching over his friend for a day and a night, waiting for him to die, he looked as if he’d been on one of his own well-lubricated house parties, known far and wide for the high-stakes gambling, rough track racing, and the choicest light skirts in a three-state area.
“What about Smithers?” he inquired.
“Ladymore carted him off to his ma. Lad’ll not last out the day. Belly wounds always putrify.”
Considering Wilde might have the barest chance of surviving, as his heart was still beating and the blood was oozing rather than bubbling from the wound, the doctor had left the gut-stabbed man in the field while Jericho was driven to the hotel. Rafe had bribed two old women out of their room and had it set up as a sickroom.
“Hotel manager’s found a woman to sit with Wilde.”
“Hope she ain’t plannin’ to make a career of it,” the physician retorted. “Boy’s in a bad way, a real bad way. He could go most any minute.”
Rafe concurred. They had not been close in years, but for old-times’ sake, he was torn between staying to see Jericho off on his final journey and heading south to break the sad news to his widow.
Before he could make up his mind, the door burst open and a stout black woman carrying a red kerchief-wrapped bundle stepped inside. One hand on her hip, her feet planted firmly and widely apart, she looked from one man to the other and then directed her remarks to Turbyfill. “I be Princess Anne County. I’s free as de rain, I’s come t’rough de cholera, didn’t take no part in de uprisin’, I gets ten-cent a day for my nursin’, and I don’ take no orders from no buckras.”
Goggle-eyed, Rafe looked to the physician, who nodded. “She’ll do you fair and well. Miss County’s about the best nurse around these parts, long’s you don’t ask what she’s a-totin’ in that sack o’ hers.”
Chapter Ten
At her first glimpse of Wilde Oaks, Sara murmured, “Mercy, and I thought Papa’s house was fine. This place is a regular wedding cake!”
It was late in the afternoon. A hazy pink sunset cast a flattering glow over a large white house surrounded by enormous water oaks. In the distance, beyond acres of lush farmland, a wall of somber pines was accented here and there by wine-colored gum trees. Most of the vast, rich fields were presently overgrown with weeds, as if they hadn’t been planted in several years. A few tattered cornstalks stood brokenly in the field directly behind the house; the rest, unharvested, obviously trampled by marauding animals. How sad. But then, Jericho had said he had hired a new overseer. Perhaps things would soon improve.
Sara’s gaze returned to the impressive house, and she quickly forgot the disturbing signs of neglect. At this point she would have welcomed the sight of a one-room cabin if it meant she could finally take off her bonnet, corset, and slippers and settle down for a spell.
She had been met the previous day at the packet landing in Elizabeth City by a clerk from a Mr. Kinfield’s office, who said Captain Wilde had sent word ahead of her arrival. She didn’t envy the messenger. The distance from the Halfway Hotel to the small riverside town was some twenty-odd miles over roads that made slower travel by way of the canal a blessing.
Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, Sara had allowed as how she was glad to be met.
“I took the liberty of securing you a room at the Indian Queen Hotel, Miss—Mrs. Wilde,” the unctuous attorney had informed her a few minutes later in his office one block off the riverfront. “I assure you it’s the finest establishment in our fair city.”
“Oh, but—”
“At Captain Wilde’s suggestion, I made an appointment with his man of business for ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’re to meet right here in my office, and then when we’re done with business, it was the captain’s notion that you might want to do a bit of shopping while you’re in town. There’ll be a carriage ready to take you out to Wilde Oaks whenever you’re ready to leave.”
After a delicious evening meal at the hotel, which she barely touched, and a restless and largely sleepless night, Sara had been determined to set aside her worries and follow Jericho’s instructions to the letter. It was the very least she could do.
But oh, how she had ached to know what had happened. At that very moment he might have been lying—
No. She refused to believe it. He had to survive. Even if she never saw him again—even if he boarded a ship and set sail for China and never came home again, God simply would not allow a man as decent and fine as Jericho Jefferson Wilde to be murdered by a mealy worm like Titus Smithers.
Arriving at the appointed time and place the following morning, Sara had been introduced by Mr. Kin-field, the attorney, to Mr. Willis, the banker. Between the two men she had learned the extent of her husband’s wealth, most of it in land, but a considerable sum resulting from the recent sale of his ship. At her husband’s direction, according to the banker, she was to have a quarterly allowance for her own personal use and another account from which to pay the servants and operate the household.
The management of the farm, according to the attorney, was to be left to a Mr. Hiram Moyer, who, along with his wife and a spinster sister, had recently taken up residence in the overseer’s house.
When asked if she had any questions, Sara had thought it best to lay her own cards on the table. Briefly, she had explained her circumstances prior to her marriage to Jericho Wilde, leaving out the part Archibald had played and the troublesome business between her new husband and her stepbrother. Whatever the outcome, they would learn of it soon enough.
Poor Mr. Kinfield had swallowed so hard he’d nearly dislodged his necktie. “Do you mean to tell me, Miss—uh, Mrs. Wilde, that you have, er—that is, that you are—”
“An heiress,” Sara had informed them grandly, looking from one nonplussed gentleman to the other. But then she had grinned, quite spoiling the effect. “Yes, indeed, sir, that I am, thanks to a grandfather I never even met. I’ll not be dressing in diamonds and ermine, but at least I won’t be having to peddle vegetables at the roadside.”
Obviously, neither man had known what to make of that. She suspected they had thought her an adventuress, out to feather her own nest. Which she supposed in a way she was, only she never set out to marry a rich man for his money.
“I do have one very particular request, however. There are two servants at my father’s home who need to be brought down to Wilde Oaks as quickly as possible. My, um—stepfamily may kick up a fuss, but Maulsie and Big Simon are free to go when and where they please.”
Mr. Kinfield had promised to make arrangements that very morning, and then Mr. Willis had offered to drop her off at the shop of her choice on his way back to the bank. Not that there were many to choose from.
But Sara, after casting one longing look at a dressmaker’s establishment on Main Street, had declined his offer. An hour later in front of the Indian Queen Hotel, she had followed her shabby luggage into the hired conveyance and set out on the last leg of her journey to her new home.
And now here she was. “Mercy, it’s grand, isn’t it?” she whispered, feeling just a tad intimidated by the two-story, square, hip-roofed, porticoed dwelling set at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway. The house, she was later to learn, had been built by a much earlier Wilde and elaborated on by succeeding generations.
Evidently, her arrival had been expected. As the carriage pulled up before the wide front steps, a young woman came outside and stood waiting.
The housekeeper? Sara wondered. The woman didn’t resemble any housekeeper Sara had ever seen. Although she supposed there was no rule that said housekeepers, could not be tall and willowy, with shining blond hair and a face right off a cameo brooch.
At closer range, the house appeared somewhat rundown, the housekeeper even more beautiful. Sara, in her brown serge with her green and yellow coal-scuttle bonnet, felt rumpled and out of fashion, even though her outfit was scarcely a month old.
Feeling like a turnip in a rose garden, she wished now she had taken time to purchase a new trunk, a new pair of shoes, and to have a few more gowns made up before she had run away to marry Archibald.
“Mrs. Renegar?” she inquired timidly as the driver set off down the dusty driveway.
“I happen to be Miss Ivadelle Moyer, madam, and just who might you be?” It was plain as day the woman was on the verge of sending her around to the back door.
Well. Sara hadn’t dealt with Noreen all these years without learning a thing or two about holding her own. “I,” she announced in even loftier accents, “happen to be Mrs. Captain Jericho Wilde. Would you please be so good as to have someone collect my bags?”
Even while she was asking herself who in heaven’s name Ivadelle Moyer was, Sara couldn’t help but be pleased at the effect of her statement.
“But Mr.—that is, Captain Wilde—that is, madam, you must be mistaken. Captain Wilde is unmarried. Now, if you’ll state your business?”
The door behind the self-proclaimed Miss Ivadelle Moyer opened silently. The woman who emerged was every inch the proper housekeeper, from her plain gray chemise under the enveloping white apron, to her stiff white house bonnet. “Miss—that is, ma’am, I just this morning got word you was coming. It’ll take a few minutes to set your room to rights, but if you’d like a cup of something hot to drink, I’ll see to it right away.”
“Then you must be Miss Renegar,” said Sara, relieved. She picked up the valise, only to have the older woman hurry down the steps and take it from her.
Here, now, you’re just a little thing, ain’t you? What was that boy thinking about, sending you down here all by yourself?” The woman’s face fell a mile. “Lordy, don’t tell me—he’s gone and got hisself hurt, ain’t he?”
“Oh, no! He was just fine when I saw him last.” Sara scampered up the front steps after the tall, beanstalk-thin housekeeper, wondering how she could reassure her when she was filled with dread herself.
They brushed past Miss Ivadelle Moyer, who looked considerably less lovely with her jaw hanging halfway down her gimp-edged collar. “The captain,” she hissed, “was not married when he engaged my brother. If you’re truly married to him, then where is he? Enjoying a honeymoon for one?”
Sara froze in her patent leather boots. Assuming her haughtiest attitude, she turned and said sweetly, “If you will forgive me for not answering that question, Miss Mouser, I will forgive you for asking it.”
“It’s Moyer!”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Sara knew she was being childish, not to mention mean-spirited, but she was just too tired to deal with another Noreen at the moment. “If you must know, my husband is presently engaged in a—a business affair.”
* * *
The house was gloomy. Quite lovely, with all the dark paneling and dark wood floors, but gloomy. There was no other word for it. The first thing Sara did after being shown to her room was to unpack her mother’s embroidered dresser scarf and spread it over the marble-topped dresser. Next she carefully positioned her brush and mirror, with the blue-glass pin tray and the matching scent bottle just so between them. And then she propped her framed pictures on a shelf, not quite daring to hang them on the walls.
Having settled in, she sought out the housekeeper, asked instructions to the family burying ground, and set out to pay her respects to Miss Louisa Wilde. If it weren’t for that poor, unfortunate woman, she wouldn’t even be here.
“And, if it weren’t for my wicked stepbrother,” she whispered to the freshly turned earth beside a cluster of markers on a low rise near a grove of pine and hardwoods, “you wouldn’t be lying there. Oh, my dear, I’m so very sorry. If I can make it up to you somehow, rest assured I will.”
