Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (69 page)

For perhaps a tenth of a second Abigail considered mounting an objection. But even before the thought was fully formed, she crushed it. Admitting her feelings for the lieutenant would only confuse a simple matter. And it
was
simple. Butler’s heart belonged to Helena; Father’s expectations had been raised for a suitable marriage. He always got his way—eventually.

Abigail had taught herself long ago to confine her yearnings to things she could control, like her star charts and astronomical observations.

“You must have business with the vice president, then,” she said, her voice neutral.

He pressed his hands against the tabletop. “I’m a believer in making the most of my advantages. My dear, I’ve been a senator longer than you and your sister have been alive. I love my country and have dedicated my life to making it the finest nation in the world. Currently, there is a movement afoot to hobble the railroad expansion right here in Virginia. My task is to win the support of the vice president.”

Abigail couldn’t help wondering what lay at the heart of her father’s desire—a wish for Helena’s happiness, or his need for a political alliance? With the merest hint of censure in her voice, she asked, “Is it possible to do that without sending Helena off to marry a man she’s just met, a man she hardly knows?”

“Anything is possible.”

“Don’t you want me to get married, Abigail?” Helena asked, picking at the biscuit crumbs on her plate.

Abigail measured her reply with the same precision she measured her sugar. “I want you to do whatever makes you happy.”

“Pleasing Papa makes me happy.” Helena covered the biscuit with jam and handed it to him.

“Young Butler is smitten, Abigail,” Father said, taking the biscuit. “Everyone saw that last night. Your sister is in need of a husband. Why not bring the two needs together?”

Because I am in love with Lieutenant Butler, Abigail thought, pressing her teeth into her lip to keep from saying it. She scanned the rest of the newspaper column, noting that the disreputable James Calhoun merited a respectable few inches of gossip. He’d portrayed himself as a country gentleman, but the paper focused on his golden good looks, his suave continental manners, his reputation on the horse-racing circuit. And, of course, on his deliciously unmarried status.

The report made his status as a newly elected congressman seem far less important than his mysterious charm. Lost in thought, Abigail folded the paper exactly down the middle, then folded it again, running her thumb along the crease. She lined up the corner of the paper with the corner of the table. Then she moved the saltcellar to the precise middle of the lace cloth.

Helena observed her with baffled affection. “How on earth did you get so fussy, Abigail?”

Abigail didn’t know, and so she said nothing. In addition to her freakishly sharp vision, she had a keen sense of spatial relations, knowing when she entered her room if some object was the least little bit out of place. A mysterious idiosyncrasy within her demanded order and precision whether it be a folded paper, a saltcellar, books on a shelf or even a floral arrangement. It was one of her many unattractive foibles.

Her father pushed back from the table. “I must be off,” he announced. “I have nothing but committee meetings until the Senate convenes.” He kissed his daughters in distracted fashion, then went to gather his papers for a day of planning for the new legislative session.

“Well,” said Abigail in the wake of his departure. “It seems you’re going into politics.”

“Or perhaps politics will be going into me.” Helena stared at the shock on Abigail’s face, then burst into laughter. “Am I too bawdy for you? Have you never felt the stirrings of desire for a man?”

Abigail could think of no reply, so she said simply, “Really, Helena,” and added another two grams of sugar to her tea.

As Helena nattered away about the wedding reception, Abigail felt a bittersweet ache rise in her chest. How wonderful it would be to fit into the world as her sister did, blithely certain of people’s love, acceptance and esteem.

“…and so I invited him to call on us,” Helena was saying.

Abigail snapped to attention, and her heart lurched. “Lieutenant Butler?”

“Who? Oh, him. No. I was speaking of Mr. Calhoun. If you’d been listening, you would have heard me say that.”

“So you want Mr. Calhoun to court you, too?”

“Didn’t you see the man? Every young lady in the room last night wanted him.”

“Not this young lady.” Abigail pictured the golden hair, the blatantly sensual features, the icy gray eyes that could slice a person to ribbons with nothing more than a look. There was something dangerous, possibly predatory about the man. He seemed to find the world entirely too amusing, yet at the heart of his mirth was a chill, shadowy darkness. He didn’t seem to her to be a man capable of being happy.

“Well, of course I didn’t invite him to come courting,” Helena went on, her conversation flitting madly, a hummingbird in search of nectar. “He’s coming to board with Professor Rowan.” Helena folded her dainty hands beneath her chin, framing a slightly mysterious smile. “You see, it’s too perfect. Poor Professor Rowan is rattling around in that huge old house next door. He has all the room in the world and no one to share it with.”

Abigail felt a surge of affection for her sister. Dear Helena, always trying to manage people, to weave them together like threads in a tapestry. “And have you informed Professor Rowan that he’s about to become host to a freshman congressman?”

“I sent Dolly over to set his house in order first thing this morning,” Helena said. “Professor Rowan will be ever so grateful, won’t he?”

Probably not, but like everyone else in the world, he was biologically incapable of saying
no
to Helena.

“About the courting,” Abigail said, keeping her voice casual. “Do you mean to let Lieutenant Butler pursue you, or were you only saying that to please Father?” She held her breath, waiting for her sister’s answer.

“He asked permission to write me from Annapolis, and of course I agreed.” Helena sighed. “He pleases me, too.”

“But do you love the man?”

Helena added an extra dollop of cream to her coffee. “I haven’t decided yet. I just met him.”

Abigail’s secret desires pressed at her, seeking escape like bubbles in a bottle. With a stern will, she kept them inside. Yes, she loved Lieutenant Butler. Her heart told her that. Yet her far more reliable mind convinced her that Boyd Butler was out of reach. She loved navel oranges from Jaffa, too, but that didn’t mean she could have them anytime she wanted. They simply weren’t available.

Abigail would never tell Helena how she felt about Boyd Butler. She would never make Helena feel guilty simply for being Helena. It wasn’t her fault for being what she was, no more than it was the fault of a perfect magnolia blossom for attracting bees.

Last night the lieutenant had confessed his yearning for romance and poetry, but what he really wanted was Helena, and who could blame him? She was beautiful and charming. She had her secrets, but so did everyone.

“I don’t have to decide today, do I?” Helena asked with a brilliant smile.

“Of course not.”

“I abhor making decisions,” Helena said, using the tip of her finger to gather up the crumbs on her plate. “Don’t you?”

Abigail couldn’t help laughing. “Actually, no. I like deciding what’s to come next, and then making it happen.”

“I don’t,” Helena declared. “How tedious. If I never make up my mind about anything, then every day comes as a surprise.”

Shaking her head, Abigail finished her tea. She wished she’d planned a busier day to keep herself occupied. But it was not to be; the calibration would not take place until late afternoon. She had no proper occupation, although astronomy was her vocation. Three days a week, she worked for Professor Drabble at the university, computing star charts and studying astronomy.

She was content with the work, and preferred a classroom to a ballroom. For her, a gala party was rife with lethal hazards—flying bouquets, fast dance sets, breakable objects placed in the path of a clumsy woman.

By contrast, no one at the university seemed to know or care that she was different. In the laboratory or observatory, she was known for her keen mind and sharp eye, not criticized for her unkempt looks and argumentative manner. She dreamed of mountaintops under crystal skies, islands in the middle of vast oceans—places far from the crowded fishbowl of the capital city and the insular snobbishness of Georgetown.

As she and Helena prepared to go their separate ways, Dolly came in with a printed card on a silver tray. “A gentleman has come to call, miss.” The housekeeper set the tray in front of Helena.

“Goodness,” Helena exclaimed, not even looking at the card. “He wasted no time getting here. Please show him to the front parlor.”

“Yes, miss.”

Helena beamed across the table. “Oh, this is going to be fun, isn’t it, Abigail dear?”

Of course it wasn’t going to be fun. Not for Abigail. Helena loved to play with people as though they were fashion dolls, dressing them up, sending them out on adventures together and watching what happened. Perhaps social meddling was a science of sorts, but quite a different science from astronomy.

When they descended to the parlor, their visitor stood with his back to them, hands on his slim hips as he looked out the window. Filling the tidy, well-appointed parlor with his assertive presence, he stood one hundred ninety centimeters tall in his polished fashionable shoes. He was exactly five centimeters taller than Lieutenant Butler, Abigail noted.

“Good morning, Mr. Calhoun,” Helena said, gliding across the room as though she wore ice skates. “How good of you to come.”

Abigail approached him more slowly. She could not have glided unless she was in a gondola on a calm sea.

He turned, sending her a dazzling smile that did odd and unexpected things inside Abigail. “On the contrary, it’s good of you to have me. You both look quite recovered from last night’s festivities.”

“We mustn’t waste a minute,” Helena said. “I cannot wait for you to meet Professor Rowan.”

“Your father’s not at home?”

Abigail felt a sting of suspicion. Typical politician. Always looking for the advantage. “If you meant to call on our father, you should have arrived earlier,” she said.

“What, and rob myself of the charm of your company?” He lifted an eyebrow, mocking her.

“Something tells me you don’t need any more women in your life.” Abigail couldn’t resist the veiled reminder of what she’d witnessed in the White House garden.

“My dear, any man will tell you, there’s no such thing as having too many women in one’s life.”

“Never bicker with my sister,” Helena broke in.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll lose.” She took Abigail’s hand. “My sister can outbicker anyone.”

His grin was devilish, yet seemed filled with unfeigned delight. “Perhaps she’s met her match.”

“Doubtful. You don’t know Abigail, Mr. Calhoun.”

“Helena, please.” Abigail squeezed her hand. Perhaps her sister was right, but Abigail’s argumentative nature was a defense. She kept the hard shell of her intellect in place to cover the softer underbelly of her vulnerability. “Mr. Calhoun didn’t come all the way across the city to hear about me.”

“She’s a first-order scholar at the university,” Helena said, ignoring Abigail’s discomfiture. “My sister is the most distinguished student in the department of mathematics, and one of her specialties is in deductive logic. She has a deadly way of arguing. The wise man gives in without a fight.”

He gave a low whistle, and his gaze feathered over Abigail with a subtle insolence. “I’ll keep that in mind. But you understand, I’ve never been one to shy away from a good fight.”

“That attitude will stand you in good stead in Congress,” Abigail said, hoping to change the subject. This man disturbed her. Memories of his garden seduction kept flashing through her mind. If she didn’t know better, she might mistake curiosity for attraction.

But no, she thought. That was what she felt for Lieutenant Butler. Mr. Calhoun inspired a different sort of fascination. He was a sight to look at, his shadowy gray eyes burning deep, his body honed like an athlete’s, his hands looking less pampered than they should for a gentleman. When she studied James Calhoun, she had an overwhelming perception of danger. He didn’t threaten her in any physical way, but in a deeper sense. He challenged and provoked her, and outside of academia, she disliked being challenged and provoked. It made her uncomfortable.

“Let’s go, then,” Helena said, leading the way into the light-filled stairway that angled up through the tall, narrow town house. It was one of the finest features of the house, open from top to bottom with oriel windows at each landing.

Abigail fetched her latest batch of notes and calculations to show the professor. Then they descended to street level, pausing at the cloakroom to don fringed shawls and bonnets. Professor Rowan lived next door, but the autumn air was brisk, and manners in Georgetown restrained. No lady ever left the house without a wrap and hat. Even the Cabot sisters had not excused themselves from that rule. So far.

As they stepped outside, Abigail stole a look at Mr. Calhoun. The breeze toyed with his too-long hair, and the sunshine glinted in his mirrorlike eyes. What would it mean to have this handsome devil living right next door to them? And what on earth would he think of Professor Rowan?