Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (65 page)

T
he bridal bouquet sailed past a dozen outstretched arms, hitting Abigail Beatrice Cabot smack in the face before it dropped into her unsuspecting hands. Just for a moment she saw stars; her eyes watered and her nose stung from the cloying sweetness of gardenias. She blinked twice, then exploded with a terrific sneeze.

First, a deathlike pall fell over the boisterous crowd of well-wishers. Then titters rose from the young ladies nearby, and a flurry of whispers erupted from the wedding guests gathered in the East Room of the White House.

“I’m allergic to gardenias,” Abigail muttered in an agony of humiliation. Tattered petals drifted down her face and over the front of her dress, leaving behind a powdery yellow residue. A comb dislodged from her hair, and she felt her braid coming undone.

Dropping the bouquet, she didn’t look to see where it landed, but sought escape, shedding the occasional torn flower as she went. A rustle of speculation stalked her across the polished marquetry floor. With each painful step, she tried not to hear the whispers, but couldn’t avoid catching a few all-too-familiar phrases:
What a disgrace to Senator Cabot. His daughter’s always been a little odd, hasn’t she? Must be such a trial to him….

At the moment, her father stood to one side of the room, regarding her with a crushing look of disappointment. Instead of enhancing his image as the senior senator from Virginia, she’d managed to remind everyone in the room that all of his money and power could not buy him a proper daughter. Suddenly, she wanted to die. His expression, the snickering of the guests nearby—it was all too much. In her haste, she nearly stumbled and fell, lurching a little and further undermining the stability of her coiffure.

Everyone passed in a blur: the strapping bridegroom in his military dress uniform and the dainty bride in her pearl-encrusted gown, trying to see what had become of her bouquet; the cluster of gentlemen gathered around the president, vying for his attention; the first lady and her bevy of gossips, avidly discussing the latest disgrace of Senator Cabot’s daughter.

Although the guests parted like the Red Sea before her, Abigail couldn’t avoid the impression that they had all gathered for the sole purpose of witnessing her faux pas. Feeling the darts of a dozen pairs of eyes, she wove an awkward path across the ballroom, hoping to reach the glass doors at the northeast gate before she sneezed again.

She was appalled at making such a spectacle of herself at her friend’s wedding. She hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place, and had raised all the usual protests—she was too plain, too awkward in company, too inept on the dance floor.

But, of course, Father’s insistence had prevailed. Senator Franklin Rush Cabot always got his way, particularly with his younger daughter, who wanted so desperately to please him.

Abigail kept her head down and concentrated on making her escape, navigating a crooked path around wedding guests, potted plants, passing waiters. Feeling another sneeze coming on, she yanked a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and jammed it against her nose. She managed to stifle the explosion, but nearly blew her ears deaf in the process.

Though not deaf enough to avoid the snippets of gossip, which went from group to group like a contagion.
Scandalous, isn’t it? She should have been married off by now. If her mother had lived to see this, she would have been devastated….

This was a White House wedding, Abigail thought, sneaking a glance at her critics. Beautifully dressed, their manners as finely honed as their tongues, they were the elite hostesses of the capital, the wives of senators, cabinet secretaries and industrialists. Couldn’t they find something more interesting than Abigail Cabot for amusement?

She kept her gaze fastened on her goal: escape. The door to the northeast gate stood open to the autumn night, framing a sky as black and deep as eternity, spangled with an endless arch of stars.

She hurried as fast as she dared, but her shuffling pace was too slow. It always was. She didn’t push herself for fear of yet another disgrace, although by now she should be resigned to the prospect. From the time she was very small, she had known she was different. She couldn’t run and skip and play as other children did. But at night, when Abigail swept the sky in search of the stars, she could soar.

The safe emptiness of the east veranda beckoned. She was almost there. Almost free.

At last she ducked out the French doors and found herself on a blissfully deserted patio. Black shadows shrouded the flagstones and walkways. A late-autumn chill sharpened the air. Letting out a long, tense breath she hadn’t known she was holding, Abigail pressed her hands against the figured concrete rail. She was probably soiling her gloves, but that didn’t matter now. She’d be hard-pressed to find a dance partner or anyone else to hold her hand tonight.

As she had on so many other previous occasions, Abigail had tucked her pathetically empty dance program into her sash and forgotten about it. She had never filled one, nor could ever hope to.

Plucking the loose comb from her hair, she used it to re-anchor her coiled braid. Then she moved along the rail, her petticoats making a discontented
swish
around her legs. The breeze cooled her throat, and the night sky worked its calming effect on her. Often, the sea fog and city lights interfered with the view, but tonight was unusually clear. There was Andromeda, the Chained Princess, suspended in eternal captivity. The great winged horse, Pegasus, rode high in the south. Saturn was on the rise; a month from now it would be Jupiter’s turn. The slow, infinite spinning of the stars swept Abigail away from her moment of ignominy. The sky in all its glory never glared down in judgment at insignificant, earthbound creatures who made a habit of disgracing themselves.

But then, inevitably, pedestrian concerns intruded. She was neglecting her duties, hiding out here like a coward. This was not just any wedding. It was a wedding hosted by the president and first lady. She and the bride, Nancy Kerry Wilkes, had attended Miss Blanding’s Lyceum together.

She had come with such high hopes of pleasing Father. So far, all she’d done was get hit with a bouquet and suffer a very public attack of allergies. But the night was still young, Abigail reminded herself, stiffening her spine and squaring her shoulders. Like a prisoner about to face a firing squad, she turned back to the ballroom and advanced toward the French doors.

Velvet draperies with gold cords and tassels framed the glittering reception. Refracted gaslight turned the crystal shades of the sconces to diamonds. During his administration, President Grant had done up the room like a ghastly gothic steamboat. Not to be outdone, President Arthur had hired Louis Comfort Tiffany to cover the ceiling in silver and create jungles of palm plants in each quadrant. She couldn’t imagine what the current administration would come up with.

In the forgiving light of the Baccarat chandeliers, the scene resembled a beautiful painting come to life. Ladies spun like ballerinas in their pastel gowns, contrasting with the gentlemen in their fine black tuxedos. The military men were even more impressive in full dress uniform—deep navy for the Annapolis men, crisp dress greys for West Pointers, military blue for the corps de garde. Everyone looked so polished as they wove through the kaleidoscope pattern of the dance set, glittering parts of a grand design. All were satellites to the incandescent bride and groom, who moved with joyous precision through the steps of a lively waltz. Everything kept turning, cogs in a greased wheel. Mercifully, the world had forgotten Abigail.

Like a fairy-tale princess, Nancy Kerry had married a handsome West Point graduate whose pedigree was as impeccable as his military manners. The glowing couple made it look so easy to be perfect. They made it look so easy to be happy.

Abigail’s father stood near the punch buffet, deep in conversation with Vice President Butler. In their swallowtail frock coats and gleaming spats, they resembled a pair of large, earnest beetles.

She searched for her sister, but Helena was nowhere to be found. She was probably off somewhere being gorgeous and outrageous. Those were the two things Helena did best. At any rate, it was just as well Helena had made herself scarce for the time being. It was bad form at a wedding to outshine the bride.

As usual, it was left to Abigail to do what was right, what was expected. Never mind that she wasn’t any good at it. Being the best person for the job was less important than actually doing the job.

As the elder sister by three years, Helena should be the one playing the dutiful daughter, Abigail thought with a twinge of resentment. But that, of course, would require Helena to care about propriety.

No one cared more than Abigail. She gave herself a stern, silent lecture—she was a grown woman now. She must push past her paralyzing reluctance, go back into the ballroom and redeem herself.

But just as she closed her fingers around the door handle, a flicker of movement caught her eye.

She peered into the shadows at the edge of the patio. A gravel path, flanked by stone benches, meandered into the darkness of the White House gardens. And upon one of the benches, surrounded by fall-flowering spider lilies and autumn crocus, sat an embracing couple.

Abigail pressed the handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Oblivious to her presence, the couple had their arms wound around one another, their mouths glued together in a passionate kiss. Some perverse impulse drew Abigail across the patio and into the shadows so she could get a closer look.

Sweet heaven, he had his hand all the way up the woman’s skirt. Her leg lay draped across his lap, revealing the dark ribbon of a garter banded around her thigh. Abigail’s fascination rose as the woman moaned and dropped her head back, exposing her décolletage, her breasts as pale and smooth as twin moons. The man kissed the shadowy cleft between them, and Abigail felt a terrible tug of heat she had no name for.

Sagging against the rail, she imagined what it would be like to have a man kiss her like that, touch her the way the bold stranger was touching the woman, hold her in a way that suggested he’d never let her go.

“Oh…” The woman moaned again, her voice rich with passion. “Oh, Jamie, Jamie…” Leaning back even more, she turned slightly, so that the faint starlight outlined her face.

Abigail edged forward, riveted by the scene. A pale branch of autumn trumpet lily brushed across her face, and she pushed it out of the way for a better view of the woman who now lay with her head dropped back, her eyes closed, her mouth half-open in ecstasy. She had slender hands and a pale, beguiling—and exceedingly familiar—face. Recognizing her, Abigail nearly choked. Heaven above, it was Mrs. Caroline Fortenay, the president’s sister. His widowed sister.

An ominous tickle stung Abigail’s nose. No, oh, please, no, she thought, holding the handkerchief to her nose and moving away from the floral hedge. But despite her terrified efforts, she could not quite manage to stifle the next giant sneeze. It erupted with volcanic force, racking her whole body.

The couple on the bench broke apart. The man said a word Abigail had never heard before, though his furious tone made her blush.

With less than a second to act, she pushed away from the wall and crossed the patio, heading for the doorway. The handkerchief flew from her hand and drifted to the ground. Without stopping to pick it up, she ducked into the ballroom.

Praying no one had seen her hasty entrance, she smashed herself against the wall, shut her eyes and tried to catch her breath. When she opened her eyes, the party went on uninterrupted. Glassware clinked in accompaniment to laughter and conversation, and no one seemed to mark her presence. She let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Heavens, who would have thought a sneeze could get her in so much trouble?

Perhaps something to drink would calm her nerves. As she wandered toward the refreshments table, she brushed her gloved hands over her skirts. She wished she’d listened to Helena and ordered a new gown rather than adding a bit of tired lace to her one good dress. She’d always found better uses for her money and her time, and had no head for fashion. But now that she was in the midst of the social whirl, she knew she’d been mistaken. She looked like someone’s poor relation—a spinster aunt from the country.

“Miss, you dropped something.”

The resonant male voice froze Abigail in her tracks. Her shoulders tensed, and a terrible heat prickled the back of her neck. Slowly, her chest filling with dread, she turned.

She found herself facing a very tall stranger. A humiliated glance at his face gave her a swift impression of ice-gray eyes, sun-gold hair, a face shaped by hard experience and a mouth lifted in the most mocking grin she had ever seen.

It was him. The man from the garden.
Oh, Jamie, Jamie…
The man who had seduced the president’s sister was holding out Abigail’s handkerchief as though it were a dead bird.

Flushing to the roots of her ruthlessly ironed and lacquered hair, Abigail snatched the wisp of fabric. “Thank you,” she muttered, wishing she could hide.

“You’re quite welcome,” he replied in a deep, easy voice, so rich it lulled her senses.

Oh, Jamie, Jamie…

“Indeed,” she said, her mouth dry, her cheeks on fire. Casual conversation was hard enough with a stranger, let alone a stranger she’d just seen making love to the president’s sister. “I, um, I’d wondered where that had gone.”