Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (78 page)

She laughed at his naïveté. “How long do you suppose he’d keep his seat if he admitted that? Look, Mr. Calhoun, disagreeing with my father is like stepping into a pile of manure. You can never do it without looking stupid and making a mess. And you’d have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Your advice is so…picturesque.”

“In Congress, you must temper your views in order to advance your issues. You may fancy yourself a sophisticate when it comes to ladies’ fashions, Mr. Calhoun,” she added before he could interrupt. “But if you’re half as smart as you think you are, you’ll listen to me when it comes to politics.”

“I defer to the senator’s daughter,” he agreed.

The women swarmed over her again, chattering and plucking aggressively at her chemise.

“Mr. Calhoun,” she called, “I would like to know what is going on.”

“Relax. They’re saying that you’ve been all but swallowed whole by your petticoats.” He paused, and a puff of cigar smoke wafted upward. “An idea not without its appeal.”

“I think you should go away,” she said.

“Such cumbersome undergarments won’t work with the new mode Madame plans for you.”

It was unorthodox, discussing undergarments with a man—and probably highly immoral.

She felt a firm tug, and her petticoats fell in a pool around her ankles, leaving her standing in nothing but her chemise and bloomers.

Horror washed over her, swift and deadly as a flash flood. “No, please,” she said, snatching at the lace and tulle petticoats. “You mustn’t—” She broke off, knowing they wouldn’t understand her words, but if they were human at all, they’d understand her pleading look. “Please,” she whispered again with a white-knuckled grasp on the voluminous fabric.

Madame took a firm grip on her wrist and murmured something, a question. Then she forced open Abigail’s fingers so the garments dropped. Everyone stared down at her feet.

The specially made boot was an ugly blight in the middle of a froth of lace. Shame burned through Abigail.

“Is everything all right?” called Mr. Calhoun.

“Ne vous fâchez pas,”
Madame Broussard called back. She rapped out an order in imperative French.

“Very well. I’ll take myself off to City Tavern.” The bell over the door jangled as he let himself out.

“Tiens,”
said Madame, stepping away from Abigail. “Now the real
travaille
begins. We work with what we have. It is how Michelangelo sculpted, no? He found the beauty inside the block of marble.” Without missing a beat, she selected a long underskirt from a hanger on the wall and tied the garment around Abigail’s waist. Abigail’s discomfiture faded beneath a growing curiosity.

“I didn’t think you could speak English.”

“I can.” She took the tape measure from around her neck. “I rarely do. But here, I have no choice, for you Americans refuse to master any tongue, even your own.” Her busy hands never rested. “Many women do less than their capabilities allow. Why is that? I wonder.” She shrugged. “Fear, sometimes. Bashfulness. Lack of confidence,
sans doute.
”

Abigail felt shaken. So few were aware of her secret disability, fewer still had actually seen the ugly but functional black shoe she wore. Since she had grown old enough to bathe and dress herself, no one had seen her affliction.

“I was born with a bad foot,” she whispered to the Frenchwoman.

Madame paused in her measuring to pull down her lower lip, showing a decidedly imperfect set of teeth. “And I was born with a gap in my teeth.” She went back to work, calling out measurements to her assistants. “But such a thing would not stop me from opening my mouth, eh?”

She continued working, completely focused on Abigail. “
Chérie,
I will make dresses more beautiful than you could imagine, but the finest gown in all creation will be made ugly by a poor attitude. I need your pledge that when you wear my gowns, you will wear an air of confidence like an invisible mantle. If you wear my dresses with an attitude of defeat, you might as well don a gunnysack.”

After the fitting at the dressmaker’s, Mr. Calhoun took her walking along the Great Mall. A morning rain shower had washed the paths and roadways clean, and groundskeepers swept autumn leaves into piles along the greenswards. The Smithsonian buildings gleamed in the weak afternoon sunlight. A flock of geese arrowed overhead, and a pack of apple-cheeked children played a game of chase across the lawn.

“Did Madame give you an indication of when your dresses will be ready?” he asked.

“No, but she promised them soon. I fear her prices will be hideously high. I was afraid to ask.”

“You’re probably correct. Her clients include Mrs. Vandivert, the first lady and all of the president’s daughters.”

“I’ve committed a shocking extravagance, then,” she said.

“According to your sister, you’ll be able to manage it quite well.”

“What exactly did Helena tell you?”

“She claims you’ve hardly touched your clothing allowance in at least five years.”

“It wasn’t her business to tell you that.”

“Actually, she didn’t.”

Abigail eyed him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “She didn’t?”

“No. Your sister’s a twit but she knows better than to reveal such personal information.”

“Then how did you—”

“I took a guess.” His laughter was both gentle and knowing. “Everything I’ve seen you wear is approximately five years old.”

She hesitated, then looked everywhere but at him, trying to decide exactly what she thought of him. Few men knew ladies’ fashion well enough to judge the age of a garment, but then again, few men greeted Frenchwomen with the familiarity of former lovers. “You are a terrible, manipulative person.”

“We established that the night we met.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that I hold this opinion?”

“Of course it does, Abby. I want your esteem.”

She knew he only courted her good opinion for the sake of her father, and was vexed at herself for feeling drawn to him. “Well, you won’t get it by playing with my life and pretending to care about me.”

“Who says I’m pretending?”

“I say.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To worm your way into my father’s good graces.”

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted. “Is it working?”

“It might, actually. Father will be grateful to see me in some new clothing.” That was something, at least. Occasionally, he made pointed references to the fact that she had a generous clothing allowance she never touched—except for things like telescopic equipment.

A whistle blew, then a rhythmic clanging drew her attention to a busy construction area. The Baltimore and Potomac Railroad was laying tracks north to south across the Mall. Abigail glanced at Mr. Calhoun to see him contemplating the torn-up blight. “I suppose you’re wondering if he’ll be grateful enough to lend his support to your cause,” she said.

“I do want your father to notice my kindnesses to you.” He mocked her earlier tone. “Is that so bad?”

“It’s politics, I suppose. In fact, I’m enjoying the attention. I’ve never had my own personal sycophant before.” She ducked her head to hide a secret thrill. Half of her wished he was truly interested in her, the other half clung loyally to the dream of Lieutenant Butler.

“No need to be sarcastic,” said Mr. Calhoun. “Currying favor is the key to success in Washington. In fact, I’ve devised a plan to present my case to your father.”

“And what is that?”

“Your entire family will spend the Thanksgiving holiday as guests at Albion Plantation.”

She eyed him warily. “We will?”

“Helena and I have already discussed it. Professor Rowan will join us, too.”

The plan didn’t sit well with Abigail, but she was fast learning that her opinion didn’t count for much with this man. Setting her jaw, she continued walking with her eyes straight ahead. She nearly collided with a speeding child who crossed their path, chasing a hoop with a stick. As Mr. Calhoun put a steadying hand beneath her elbow, the boy neither slowed his headlong pursuit nor acknowledged the sedate pedestrians.

“There’s something admirable in that,” Abigail commented with a laugh. “In going after something with such single-minded determination.”

“He’ll probably grow up to be president,” said Mr. Calhoun.

The shouts and whistles of draymen, the clop of horses’ hooves and a babel of foreign tongues filled the air. A cluster of well-dressed ladies, out for their daily constitutional, passed by. Abigail recognized the wives of Senator Moreland and the secretary of war among them. The ladies’ greeting was restrained as they swept past, then they huddled together to whisper about the encounter.

“Are we creating a scandal, walking without an escort?” he inquired.

“Does that matter to you?”

“What do you think?” He laughed and took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her wrist. “Abby, believe me, if you and I ever create a scandal, it’ll be caused by more than a walk in the park.”

D
aily letters arrived from Annapolis, their admiration and ardor increasing and intensifying. Abigail found herself barely able to eat or sleep, and often paced the floor until the wee hours. Close to despair, she sought out Helena in her room and found her seated at the dressing table.

“Abigail, I didn’t hear you come in.” Helena quickly shut a box on the table and shoved it aside. “Is everything all right?”

Abigail held out Lieutenant Butler’s precious letters. Like hers to him, they were filled with hopes and dreams, declarations of affection, promises that made her heart soar. But they couldn’t go on like this. The daily letters had come to mean everything to her, and she suspected hers had the same effect on him. “We have to stop this, Helena. It’s gone too far.”

Helena frowned at the papers. “Oh, the lieutenant’s letters. Are they terribly boring?”

“I’ve read each one to you. Do you think they’re boring?”

“No, they’re rather lovely.”

“What we’re doing is simply wrong,” Abigail said. “He’s replying to letters from me, but he thinks they’re from you.”

Helena picked up a silver-backed brush and drew it through her coppery hair. “You’re so good to do this, Abigail. It’s working out so well. Papa’s simply thrilled with the way the courtship is going.”

Abigail held on to the bedpost, needing support. “Suppose Lieutenant Butler were to…suppose he lost interest in you.”

“No man has ever lost interest in me,” Helena said without vanity. It was the simple truth, and they both knew it.

“But if he did, would it bother you?”

She gave a hollow laugh. “I should admire the man for aiming higher.”

“Never speak of yourself that way,” Abigail said, alarmed.

Helena crossed the room and hugged Abigail. “Don’t worry about me. You must answer his letters, dear. Say whatever you will to the man. You’re such a brilliant wordsmith. Just keep reminding yourself how much it means to Papa.”

Almost against her will, Abigail found herself writing to Lieutenant Butler with pathetic regularity, and awaiting his replies like a child on Christmas morning. She was as bad as Jamie Calhoun. Worse, because she was not taking part in this deception for political gain, but for personal pleasure.

Yet each time she resolved to stop, to inform Lieutenant Butler that she no longer wished to carry on their correspondence, she would read back over his letters.

Oh, how could she resist such persuasion? Yet how could she go on?

Troubled by guilt, she made her way to the rooftop one night, intending to formulate a plan to extricate herself from her dilemma.

She wasn’t surprised to see Jamie Calhoun waiting for her, relaxing on one of the wooden chairs set up for viewing the sky. He’d taken to meeting her on the roof at night, sitting and talking to her while she studied the sky and recorded her observations.

“There you are, my stargazer,” he said expansively. He held a snifter of brandy in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other, and a candle to read by flickered in the breeze. “I was just reading Sir Galahad’s latest letter.”

“Give me that.” She snatched it away. “Honestly, can you allow me no privacy whatsoever?”

“We agreed that you’d share the letters,” he reminded her. “It helps me to plan strategy.”

“You needn’t bother. I’m going to stop writing to Lieutenant Butler,” Abigail informed him, tucking the letter into her pocket.

“You’ve got him on the line, ready to reel in. Why would you let him go now?” His breath made light puffs of mist in the chilly air.

“Because he thinks I’m my sister.”

“Nonsense. He thinks you’re his destiny. Didn’t you read the letter? You must keep at it.” He indicated the telescope, its round eye poking out of the observatory dome. “How long have you been sweeping the sky for a comet?”

“More than two years.”

“Would you abandon the vigil now?”

“Of course not.”

“You mustn’t abandon your correspondence with Butler, either. He’s all but declared his heart.”

In spite of herself, she shuddered with anticipation. “But it’s dishonest. I’m misleading him.”

“You’re afraid, Abby.”

“He’ll find me lacking.”

“Lacking what?”

“My sister’s beauty.”

“He would be right, then. You do lack your sister’s beauty.”

She bristled. “Kind of you to point that out.”

“Abby, you have your own appeal. If you tried to mimic your sister, it would simply be odd.”

She frowned, uncertain. He hadn’t called her beautiful—that would have been a lie. Still, he’d complimented her. Hadn’t he? And why did his admiration make her feel so strange inside? Why did it make her imagine his hands on her, his lips?

“It’s not just the way I look,” she said. “It’s…all of me. I’m all wrong.”

He gulped back the brandy. “Christ. How did you learn to doubt yourself at every turn?”

“A woman like me has plenty of opportunities, Mr. Calhoun. Don’t you remember the night we met? I was so graceless, and you saw what Lieutenant Butler wrote about Helena in his second letter. When she dances, she moves like a summer cloud. I, on the other hand, move like a coal tumbrel backing into a dark alley.”

He laughed.

“That’s it.” She marched toward the door to the attic steps. “I’m putting a stop to this right now.”

“I’m not laughing at you. Well, I am, but not maliciously. Look, your skill at dancing is just that. A skill. It can be practiced, improved.” Setting down the letter, he crossed the roof in a few strides, the gravel crunching beneath gleaming riding boots. He positioned himself in front of her and made a formal bow.

“May I?”

“No.”

He maneuvered himself in front of the door, barring her escape. “You rejected me the last time I asked you to dance, too. I won’t accept no from you this time.” Without giving her a chance to reply, he slipped a hand around her waist, hugging her close. Then he captured her other hand. “One-two-three, one-two-three…”

Against her will, he pulled her into the steps of a slow waltz. Here in his arms, with no one but the stars to see her, Abigail wasn’t plagued by her usual self-consciousness. For a few minutes, she allowed him to sweep her along, feeling the rhythm of their dance steps pulse through her.

She tried to fantasize about dancing with Lieutenant Butler. Yet for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone but Jamie Calhoun. He embraced her with a firmness that brooked no protest, and despite the unorthodox situation, she liked the feeling of closeness and intimacy. She even—and Lord forgive her—liked feeling warmth in improper places.

The thought caused her to stumble, then pull herself up stiffly, breaking the flow of their movements. She awaited a scolding, but instead, Mr. Calhoun simply stood gazing down at her. “I know what your problem is.”

She gasped, certain he read the dilemma in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t know how to let go.”

“Let go of what?”

“Of…I don’t know how to describe it. Of yourself. Your inhibitions. If you simply surrender yourself to your partner’s rhythm, it’ll go much easier for you. Trust me, I know these things. Now. One-two-three, one-two-three…” Pulling her along, he started up again.

Abigail made a conscious effort to relax, to follow his lead. To her surprise, she did indeed find it a little easier.

“Was I right?” He grinned at her. “I was.”

She tightened her mouth against a smile. “Perhaps. But I’ve often wondered, why does the woman always have to go backward?”

“Because men are too clumsy to do it. But you’re not supposed to know that.”

Something was on Helena’s mind, Abigail could tell the moment she came down to breakfast the next morning. Helena’s whole being seemed to glow with an inner light, yet it wasn’t a calming force. She drummed her fingers on the table until their father scowled her into silence. She jiggled her foot until her knee hit the call bell on the table leg, summoning Dolly.

Finally, Father asked, “Good God, Helena. What is the matter?”

“I’m excited, is all,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve spent a holiday in the country.”

“Who said anything about a holiday?” asked the senator.

“Oh, didn’t we tell you?” Under the table, Helena grabbed Abigail’s wrist and squeezed hard to warn her sister to keep silent. “We’ve had an invitation to the seashore.”

Mr. Calhoun had set it up with diabolical precision. Knowing Helena would follow Professor Rowan anywhere, he’d included him in the plans. And Helena had a way of getting what she wanted.

“The Calhoun family would like us all to come,” she said. “They have a place called Albion. A Thoroughbred farm. Please say we can go, Father. Please.”

Abigail twisted her wrist free. She already knew she’d be given no say in this.

“It’s important to your Senate position,” Helena pointed out. “The Calhouns are rich.”

“So are we,” he said.

“You’re up for reelection next year. A donation from the Calhouns would certainly help your campaign.” She took a dainty sip of her coffee. “Mr. Calhoun’s father plays golf with the chief justice of the Supreme Court. Did you know that?”

Abigail couldn’t help but admire her sister’s acumen. When it came to domestic drama or matters of politics, she was like a skilled river pilot at the tiller, navigating rocky shoals and hidden undercurrents.

Very well, Abigail thought. A visit to the seashore with the Calhouns. By now, she should be accustomed to being pushed around by Jamie Calhoun. Maybe too accustomed.