Paxton's War (5 page)

“I know how you feel.” Her back to her father, Colleen stood in front of her desk as she struggled for composure. At the very least, she was relieved that he hadn't discovered the revolutionary poetry written by her own hand. “I understand, I do, Father, but I was born in this country, not in Scotland, and I see it all differently. My own attitude …”

“Attitude? You're a woman, and women need not have attitudes when it comes to matters of the world.”

“I read, I think. I can't help but form opinions. Did not God give women brains?”

“God gave women obedience, that's what, missy. You'll forget your Mr. Paine and you'll also forget your Jason Paxton. His return to Brandborough is of no concern to you. Why, his own father will have naught to do with him. He's a man without station or hope of prosperity, and politically dangerous to boot. The farther you stay away from him or any of the Paxtons, the better off you'll be.”

Colleen turned to face her father. She wanted to show him the patriotic verses she had written—not to spite him, but to make him proud. Yet she knew it was impossible to change his views. He was convinced the Paxtons were political poison, and he was inflicted with an irrationally unassuageable fear of the English. No matter what she said, he wouldn't in a thousand years understand the frustration she felt as a woman committed to a cause in which she believed so fervently. Instead, she remembered the way he'd stayed awake all night a week earlier to save the life of a baby lamb. She remembered how he'd cried when, at daybreak, the tiny creature had died. As she looked at her father, a wave of compassion crossed her face.

Roy saw her concern and responded by lowering his voice as he sat on the edge of her bed. “You're a bonnie lass, Colleen, and I want you to enjoy a long, healthy life filled with peace and joy. The thought of you in grave peril is enough to make my heart stop beating. I wish nothing more than for this war to leave us alone. I profess nothing but neutrality, though it's clear that the advantage rests with the Crown. If that be the case, why fight the advantage? Am I wrong when I say that my fondest wish is to see you a great lady? The Somersets are aristocracy, my love. One of the most eminent, strong, and powerful families in the colony. Their holdings vastly exceed those of the Paxtons, and they're more sensible people, more practical. They understand who governs here and are content to work with the Crown. Young Buckley is the heir to the fortune and he, too, is a practical man. His feelings for you are strong, Colleen. Strong enough”—he hesitated, then plunged on as he knew he should have days earlier—“to ask for your hand. I—”

“What?” Colleen asked, shocked. “What?”

He had anticipated her reaction, but was determined to press ahead boldly. “You heard me, lass. He asked for your hand. Last week on the Commons in Brandborough.”

“Surely you—”

“I told him he has my blessing.”

“Father!”

“As long as you agree, of course,” he amended hastily.

“I'd never—”

“Listen to me, Colleen. Just once, listen to me. You don't have to say yes this instant, but I beg you not to say no, either. Think about it, lass. Think about it and ask yourself if you want to deny me the pleasure of seeing my grandchildren grow up on a fine plantation so I might visit them in the evenings and kiss their sweet brows. Is that asking too much? Is it wrong for me to seek that solace for my old age?”

Collen chose her words carefully. “I understand what you're saying, Father, but I also must be true to what I feel in my own heart.”

“Poetry! Drivel! Nonsense!” He was off the bed again, his hands shaking, his voice exploding with renewed anger. “Words your mother might have spoken before she ran off with that wild, drunken woodsman. How in the name of a merciful God she could have left a five-year-old child, and why”—he eyed the miniature music box that rested on her desk—“why you keep anything of hers is something I'll never fathom.”

“It's all I have of her,” Colleen said in a whisper.

“A wanton—that's what she was. A wanton and a witch.”

Every time this discussion occurred—and it had come up dozens of times over the years—Colleen felt inexplicably moved to defend her mother, even though there was no reasonable defense to be made. Once again, she wanted to argue, but this time she stopped herself because his face had turned beet red and she feared for his health. “Yes, Father,” she said at last, knowing her subdued tone would calm him.

“There. You see?” Mercurial as ever, Roy's mood changed rapidly, and his rage was soon replaced by a kindly smile. “A little loyalty isn't so difficult after all, eh?” His shaking having stopped, he walked to Colleen and embraced her warmly. “Now get dressed, child, and behave yourself. Trust your old papa. Believe him when he says he loves you. Believe him when he says he wants no harm to come to you. Only happiness for the rest of your days.”

More than anything, Colleen wished she could reassure him that she would respect his wishes and obey his commands, but her tongue choked on the words.

“Eh?” Roy asked, his hands on her shoulders. “Eh?”

Nothing had changed, and it never would. Tired of the argument, Colleen found a smile. “I understand, Papa,” she said noncommittally. “I believe you.”

“Good. Good! Now, where's Portia?” Enlivened, he hurried to the door. “Portia!”

“Right here, suh,” came the maid's voice from the kitchen.

“My daughter needs dressing,” he bellowed, winking at Colleen as he left. “Must she wait all day?”

Portia entered and, sensing the terrible tension, said nothing as she helped Colleen dress. A long gown of yellow gauze—a scarce commodity since the beginning of the war—had been embroidered by Rianne with whirls of lavender and green. It was Colleen's happiest gown; and yet, looking at it, her mood remained melancholy. The sadness she felt thinking of her father—his narrow-mindedness, his intolerance, his warped view of the war and women—couldn't be expressed. One way or another, she had to live with him. To abandon him in any form or fashion would be to repeat the act of her mother, and she was afraid he wouldn't survive another blow like that.

She stood perfectly still as Portia placed the gown over her head, then closed her eyes as the maid combed and collected her hair in two long rolls that fell symmetrically on either side of her head and covered her small, delicate ears. Since pins were scarce, the coiffeur was secured by long, slender thorns that, in Colleen's eyes, became symbols of her own pain.

“I's hearin' horses,” Portia said. “That's a sure 'nough carriage comin' for ya. Now, girl, ya mind yo' papa an' be nice to that man,” she urged, understanding her mistress's independent ways.

Gazing out her bedroom window, Colleen could no longer see the ship. Perhaps it was so close it had already slipped into the far side of Brandborough Bay and out of view. But how could she know that Jason was aboard? She began to doubt. Where was the melody? The thundering sound of hooves had muffled the song. The music was lost, and Colleen sat there, angry at herself, confused by her ties of sentiment and loyalty, irritated at the fact that her escort-to-be was a preposterous prig and profoundly boring. For a while, a note of defiance rang through her head. Instead of completing her preparations and tending to the application of her perfumes and modest jewelry, she excused Portia and thanked her for the help. For the next several moments, Colleen sat motionless, all the while knowing that Buckley Somerset was waiting, all the while wishing that the lost melody would somehow return.

Buckley Somerset's wig, snow white in contrast to his deep olive complexion, had been fashioned in London. He sat in his ornate carriage—crafted in Paris and assembled in Charleston—and inspected the lay of the land rolling by. Much of the land he'd driven through was his, even though, of the three Somerset holdings in South Carolina, his four-section plantation was the most modest. Marble Manor, overseen by his father and lying halfway between Brandborough and Charleston, was considerably larger, and Somerset itself, certainly one of the half dozen or so most grandiose plantations in the South, belonged to his grandparents and sat just outside Charleston. Yet Buckley couldn't complain. The time was rapidly approaching when he'd control all three.

Buckley rode at peace with himself and with his place in a world that had been made for him and men of his class and station. As if God himself had planned it, the usually drab drive was actually pleasant. The horses moved swiftly and easily along the path. High above him, hanging on the thermals over the coastline, an eagle soared majestically to remind him of his own aristocratic heritage. Even the swamp itself, which for much of the year exuded an odor of putrid humidity, had been turned sweet-smelling by the grace of spring.

Buckley was a handsome man, in his own demanding way. His eyes were a fierce gun-metal gray, his face unusually, aggressively masculine. His strong features—large lips, even teeth, jutting chin, and sweeping eyebrows were contradicted only by a noticeable, badly healed break in the bridge of his nose, which, from time to time, he touched out of nervous habit.

It was a strange passion he felt for the simple country girl, Colleen, Buckley reflected, and one he was hard put to explain. There were other women, dozens, in fact, who flirted freely with him and offered him their most succulent treasures for the mere asking. His appetite was large and he'd indulged himself freely. At twenty-six, he'd tasted a wide variety of female fare, from ladies of breeding to bawdy beauties in houses of ill repute. Why, then, was he obsessed with this daughter of a Scottish doctor? Why Colleen McClagan? Her breasts weren't large. She eschewed the fashions of the day and dressed rather modestly. She spoke plainly and simply, with no attempt at wit or conversational brilliance. And yet …

And yet. Buckley had but to close his eyes in order to see her standing before him like a recurring dream he couldn't shake no matter how many other women he took. Her long, shining blond hair and bright, amber eyes were alluring in the extreme. Her chasteness—and, he was sure, underlying sensuality—fascinated him and provoked him to wild fantasies. She moved with the sudden, enticing energy and fluid motion of a colt as yet unbroken. Neither frivolous nor cloying, as opposed to the silly women who threw themselves at him with their fawning flattery, she was mysteriously and deeply private, and no matter what presents he had given her or to what balls and outings he had escorted her, she held herself aloof from him. His pursuit of a woman he had yet to kiss was ironic, but his mind was set: he had to have her. Of all the women in the colony, it was his fate to want the one who showed the least interest in him.

The father was waiting on the porch as usual when the carriage pulled to a stop and the black coachman jumped down to open the door. “Wait here,” Buckley commanded, stepping down. “Good to see you again, McClagan. Colleen's ready, I trust?”

Roy glanced nervously behind him. “Almost, sir. Almost.” He gestured for his guest to enter, and followed hard on his heels. “No more than a minute. If you'd be so good as to come in, I assure you that my daughter will be ready in no time. Meanwhile, I trust you'll join me for a spot of sherry.”

There was nothing Buckley wanted less than to spend time drinking with McClagan. “I think not, than you,” he replied shortly.

“Of course. Of course,” Roy stammered. Flustered, he pushed a chair forward. “Perhaps you'll sit? I'm sure your trip—”

“I'll stand, thank you.”

“Of course. Exactly. Well!”

Spring had renewed the countryside, but not the interior of McClagan's house. Everywhere Buckley looked there was the usual dust and clutter, books strewn about, and, God save his soul, collections of bones and bottles filled with obscene-looking pieces of flesh. The place was quite simply appalling, and why the poor girl had chosen to remain there so long escaped him. Loyalty to her poor, cringing, cowering fool of a father, no doubt, as well as a lack of adequate contact with the better things of life. A faint smile played over his face. How much more loyal would she be to him, who could remove her from her distressing circumstances! How much more—

“Something … amusing, sir?” Roy ventured cautiously.

Buckley didn't like people interrupting his thoughts. “I beg your pardon?” he asked archly.

Roy blushed furiously, wished he'd had Portia clean up better, wished Colleen would appear, wished that he could think of something, anything, to say. “Well!” he virtually exploded, blurting out with false joviality the first thing that came to mind. “I understand that General Cornwallis himself was a guest at your house last week.”

Buckley smiled condescendingly. His black velvet suit and plum-colored crepe blouse spoke of wealth and impeccable taste. Standing several inches over six feet, he towered above the stoop-shouldered doctor. “Yes,” he drawled, “I'm afraid I trounced him rather severely at whist. But that's another story. Do you think you might suggest that she hurry along?”

“And may I suggest that that won't be necessary?”

Startled, both men looked around to see the very picture of beauty itself standing in the open door to her bedroom. Roy beamed with pride and heaved a sigh of relief. “Dear God!” Buckley exclaimed, inhaling sharply.

“Mr. Somerset,” Colleen said, curtseying shallowly, “welcome again to our humble home.”

Her walk was exquisite, her simplicity dazzling. The sight of her slender, graceful neck, the shape of her sensuous mouth, and the incredible amber of her eyes filled Buckley with wonder. His heart beating wildly, feeling as clumsy and awkward as a country bumpkin, he went to her and kissed her hand. “No house graced by your presence,” he murmured, “could ever be called humble.”

All was ready. Portia handed Colleen a veiled bonnet in case, later, the mosquitoes swarmed, then fetched a basket of fried chicken, cucumber-and-onion salad, and cinnamon rolls from the kitchen.