Wild Star

  “I can’t imagine that your young wife has any intention of dying,” James Milsom said.

  “I can’t imagine that my mother did either.”

  Milsom frowned as he leaned back in his chair. “I believe it’s time to cease this spate of guilt, Brent. I certainly don’t blame you, and your father ceased to very shortly after you left.” He paused a moment, carefully choosing his words. “I do not believe it is wise for a man or a woman to marry outside his generation. Your father realized his mistake very quickly. It’s just that he couldn’t admit it to himself until after he found you in bed with Laurel. He never approached her as his wife after that.”

  “Why? Because I’d defiled her?”

  “No, because he was sick at his own foolishness, his own blindness. Listen to me, Brent. Your father didn’t spend those last years alone. He found someone, and he was happy.”

  Brent started forward in his chair.

  “I won’t tell you the lady’s name. Suffice it to say that he was discreet, and again, I am the only person who was in your father’s confidence.”

  “I am relieved,” Brent said. “Lord knows he deserved it. If only I hadn’t been such a selfish little bastard, if only I’d understood.”

  “I haven’t met any young men of eighteen who were saints, Brent. Now, I have something else to tell you. I was with your father just before he died. He wanted to write you a letter to relieve his own conscience and yours, I believe. But there wasn’t time. A pity. As to his will, he did disinherit you, but only briefly. It was changed back some eight years ago.”

  A letter. Yes, Brent thought, clenching his hands, it was a pity. “Had I been my father, I should have made Drew my heir.”

  “Your brother cares only for his painting—you know that. As for Laurel, I find it quite interesting that he left her in your hands, so to speak.”

  “A problem I haven’t yet resolved.” Brent paused a moment, then said carefully. “There’s another reason why I’m here, sir. It’s about Frank Paxton.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  “I believe Wakehurst’s overseer has been lining his pockets over the years, particularly after my father became ill.”

  “It’s probably true, but I have no proof. An ill master or an absentee master allows for that sort of thing, you know. Were I you, Brent, I’d simply fire the fellow.”

  Then who would run Wakehurst?

  “I’d rather wring his neck first. Does Paxton bank with you, sir?”

  “No, he’s not stupid. Is your new wife a Southern lady?”

  Nor am I stupid, Brent thought, realizing well what Mr. Milsom was getting at. “She spent her formative years in Boston, then returned to California last year.”

  “Then she doesn’t understand our ways.”

  “No, not at all. But as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t either, not anymore. To be perfectly frank, I don’t know what to do.”

  “About Wakehurst?”

  “Wakehurst and Laurel, as I mentioned.”

  “I can certainly assist you to find a new overseer.”

  “No, it’s not that. As I said, I think I’ve become something of an abolitionist. You know, of course, that California entered the union as a free state. I can no longer abide the way things are here.”

  “You know as well as I, Brent, that there will be no real change until the economics of the situation shift completely. It’s really that simple. The South can’t exist economically without slavery.”

  “I will not be a party to it.”

  “This is a problem indeed. What do you intend to do with your inheritance?”

  Brent shook his head, smiling a bit ruefully. “I can just see myself returning to California, leading five hundred freed Negroes.”

  “It does present a problem. I don’t know what to advise you, son. As a banker, my assets aren’t directly tied to slavery, thus I won’t rant and rave about what you owe to your birthright and your fellow plantation owners. Perhaps if you sold the plantation?”

  “The Negroes wouldn’t be any better off, would they?”

  “Have you spoken to Laurel about this?”

  Brent shook his head as he rose. “I have a lot of thinking to do. Thank you, sir, for seeing me.”

  James Milsom shook the younger man’s hand warmly. “If you wish to speak to me again, Brent, I will be here.”

  Brent rode thoughtfully out of the city, guiding his stallion closer to the high bluffs that overlooked the Mississippi. At a deserted spot he reined in and tied his stallion to the low branch of an oak tree. Slowly he walked to the edge of the bluffs and stared down into the swirling brown water. He sat down, his back against an ancient elm tree, and stretched out his legs.

  What was he going to do?

  He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the horse or the rider until they were upon him. He looked up to see the swirl of blue velvet riding habit and charmingly tousled auburn curls beneath a jaunty riding hat.

  “Well,” he said lazily, not bothering to rise, “my dear Laurel. How ever did you find me?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Laurel stared down at him from her mare’s back, and felt that same almost overpowering pull she’d experienced again the moment she’d seen him arrive at Wakehurst. No, she corrected herself, it wasn’t overpowering; she could control it this time. Still, she continued to look at him, saying nothing. His black boots, as glossy as his tousled hair, came nearly to his knees. He drew her like a magnet. Finally she met his eyes, and flinched at the amused sarcasm she read there. Slowly she dismounted, tying her mare beside Brent’s stallion.

  Couldn’t he at least rise? All the gentlemen she knew would by this time have been filling her ears with pretty compliments. She walked gracefully to him, flicking her riding crop against her shirt.

  “I don’t know if I’d tie the mare right next to him, Laurel,” he said lazily. “She’s a pretty filly, and he, well—”

  “I saw your horse,” she said “And stopped. You went to Natchez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He cocked a brow at her. “Is this an inquisition?”

  “Ah, did you go to see a woman, then? And you’re afraid I’ll tell your little wife?”

  “Do you know someone who would please me, Laurel?”

  “Oh, stop it, Brent.”

  “Actually,” he said after a moment, “I went to see Mr. Milsom. He told me many interesting things.”

  “I’ll just bet he did. If I were you, Brent, I wouldn’t heed that old man. Your father distrusted him mightily—indeed, they scarcely spoke to each other the last several years.”

  Brent wondered why she was lying about James Milsom. Hadn’t he been one of the fools sniffing about her? “My, but you’re vehement, aren’t you? You needn’t worry, Laurel. Mr. Milsom is a gentleman, and a gentleman never speaks unkindly of a lady.”

  “Unlike you?”

  “Unlike me. Did you want to speak to me about something, Laurel? Or do you wish to continue your ride?”

  Laurel paused a moment, aware that his eyes had fallen to her bosom. He still admires me, she thought, he still wants me. She wanted him too, had always wanted him, but this time she must go carefully. She’d always used her beauty and her body to get what she wanted. What else could a woman do? She said, “Actually, we’ve had no time alone together. To talk.”

  “I see,” Brent said.

  “I left Byrony posing for Drew, so I came out riding.”

  Brent briefly remembered telling Byrony how he would pose her, naked. He felt himself tensing and was annoyed with himself. “What do you want to talk about, Laurel?” he asked. “Are you going to keep standing over me, or will you sit down?”

  She sat gracefully beside him, arranging her voluminous skirts about her.

  He said, “You know, I thought you’d look old. After all, I was only eighteen when I left, and it has been nine years. You’re probably more beautiful now than you were then.”

  ?
??Thank you.”

  He wondered silently if Byrony would be more beautiful in nine years than she was now. It didn’t seem possible to him.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked again.

  She shrugged, but her eyes were intent upon his face. “I’m worried about the future, of course. My future. Your father left everything in such an odd way. I want to know what you intend to do.”

  “That’s straight speaking,” he said. He looked out over the calm waters of the river. “I used to come here when I was a boy, particularly after my mother died. I missed her very much.”

  Laurel was wise enough to say nothing.

  He turned to face her. “I will tell you the truth, Laurel. I haven’t decided yet what I shall do.”

  “You could of course stay here. It is where you were born and raised. It’s what your father wanted and expected.”

  I wonder, Brent thought, remembering James Milsom’s words about his father being pleased at his purchase of the saloon, his finally coming to terms with himself. If his father had truly believed that, then why had he left him his heir? He must have known that Brent would have to return.

  She reached out her hand and lightly touched his sleeve. “There could be a lot for you here, Brent.”

  He would have had to be a blind man not to see the offer in her eyes. He thought of Byrony, posing for Drew, laughing with Drew.

  “You’re doubtless right,” he said, and quickly rose. “Shall I accompany you back to Wakehurst?”

  She nodded and accepted his hand to help her rise. He released her immediately. She looked up at him and said very quietly, “I was very young nine years ago too, Brent. Young and foolish, just as you were.”

  Brent said nothing. He lifted her into the saddle.

  Byrony and Drew were seated on the veranda drinking Mammy Bath’s special mint julep when Brent and Laurel cantered up the drive. Byrony saw Brent lean closer to Laurel as she spoke, then throw back his head and laugh. If she’d had a rifle, she would have shot him. She turned to speak to Drew. She’d said two words when Laurel interrupted. “Have you two finished working for the day?”

  Before Byrony could speak, Drew said easily, “Ah yes. It’s too lovely a day to be cooped up inside. You must see the sketch I’ve made of Byrony, Brent. See what you think.”

  Brent gave Byrony a look that made her turn red to her hairline. She jumped to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Yes, why don’t you? I believe I shall change and go riding.” She paused a moment, her chin going up a good inch, as she looked at her husband. “I’m taking food and more clothes to the field slaves.”

  “No,” Brent said quietly, “no, you aren’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, dear, it’s a ridiculous waste of money, just as I told you,” Laurel said.

  Brent couldn’t help himself; he grinned widely at his stiff-backed wife. She looked ready to tear his ear off. “Tell you what, Byrony, why don’t you change, then I’ll ride with you and we’ll discuss your plans.”

  He loves to toy with me, she thought as she stomped up the stairs. Lizzie was there waiting to help her change. The girl seemed quiet, something very unusual. Usually Lizzie chattered like a parrot as her small deft fingers fastened buttons, twitching out wrinkles. But Byrony’s mind was whirling, and she said nothing.

  When she returned to the veranda, Brent was seated close to Laurel, a mint julep in his hand.

  “I’m ready, Brent.”

  “Already?” he said in his affected drawl. “Well, then, it would be most impolite for me to keep a lady waiting, particularly my wife.”

  Some fifteen minutes later, they were riding side by side toward the fields. Byrony turned suddenly in the saddle and said, “You asked me last night what I wanted, Brent.”

  “I did, didn’t I? It was probably most foolish of me. Well, what is it? You wish to return to Boston? With jewels and lots of money? Lots of my money, I should say.”

  Her hands tightened on the reins, and her mare skittered a bit. It took her several minutes to calm the horse.

  “No,” she said, not looking at him. “I want food and more clothes for the slaves.”

  “My selfless little wife,” he began, his drawl even more pronounced than before.

  “Brent,” she said, “enough of this foolishness.”

  “What foolishness?” he asked, but she saw that she’d taken him aback. She wasn’t going to let him bait her, not anymore.

  “Why,” she said, quite calmly, “don’t we talk about those demons that are driving you?”

  His eyes narrowed on her face.

  “Maggie told me once that it took a bit extra to get some men’s attention. That’s why I bought the whip.”

  “I think it’s time we went back to the house,” Brent said.

  “Oh no, not yet. Do you truly believe that all women are dishonest and conniving? That all women want something?”

  “That’s enough, Byrony.”

  “Is it? Nine years of encouraging yourself to think like that is more than enough, Brent. If Laurel only realized how much influence she’s had over you, she’d probably be speechless. She seduced a healthy young boy and turned him into a distrustful, bitter man.”

  He cursed.

  “Brent, listen to me, please. Maggie is a woman and she’s your friend, isn’t she? Don’t you trust her?”

  “Shut up, Byrony. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Just maybe I do,” she said, her eyes searching his face. “I think you’re afraid to be nice to me, afraid that you might come to care for me, afraid that I’ll hurt you if you do.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  He shook off her hand, and tightened his hands on his stallion’s reins.

  “Brent, wait. What about the clothing and food for the slaves?”

  “As you said, Byrony, all women want something. Today you appear to be the selfless little lady of the manor. But tomorrow? I wonder.”

  “Brent, please!”

  “Why don’t you sell Ira Butler’s necklace? It would bring you enough to play lady bountiful.”

  He wheeled the stallion about and was soon gone from her sight.

  Byrony stood very still, staring after him. She’d been right, of course. She just hadn’t realized the extent of the boy’s guilt, the boy’s betrayal, and the woman’s part in that betrayal. She never would have realized it, she thought, if they hadn’t come back here to Wakehurst. He was so damned closemouthed. And stubborn. And he became absolutely impossible when she got too close. She straightened her shoulders and urged her mare back to the house.

  What would her husband do now?

  She saw what her husband was going to do over dinner that evening. He was at his most urbane. And closed off from her, Byrony thought as she chewed on a bite of baked ham.

  “The fried okra is delicious,” she heard Brent say. “I’d forgotten how marvelously different Southern cooking is.”

  “You’re right,” Byrony said, smiling brightly at everyone. “In Boston all we consumed was fish. By the time I was fifteen, I was certain that I would begin growing gills at any time.”

  “Didn’t your Aunt Ida tell you the facts of life?” Brent said, turning his attention and that drawl of his on her. “At fifteen I’m certain you were growing far more interesting sorts of things than fish gills.”

  For a moment she wanted to hurl her lima beans at him. Instead, she said, “Aunt Ida was never married. She didn’t speak—” She broke off at the sound of Laurel’s laughter.

  “You are amusing, Byrony,” Laurel said, lightly wiping her lips with her linen napkin. “I suppose every girl has a female relation like that.”

  “Unmarried and ignorant and prudish?” Brent said.

  “You were unmarried until very recently, Brent,” Drew said, “but somehow I can’t imagine applying the same words to you.”

  “I can’t imagine applying those words to most women,” Brent said. “Of cour
se, if a woman doesn’t have the face and the form to attract a man, I suppose she must make do with charities and good works. The ladies at this table are fortunate, don’t you agree, Drew?”

  “And I suppose if a man doesn’t have the face or form to attract a woman, he must make do also?”

  Brent said easily, “Oh no, my dear, if he has the money, he can simply purchase what he wants.”

  “If women had any power at all, it wouldn’t be that way,” Laurel said.

  “Thank God, women don’t have men’s power,” Brent said, shaking his head. “All of us poor mortal males would become lapdogs, begging for favors.”

  Byrony cast a quick glance at Laurel. She was right, of course. If Laurel had had power—and money was power—would she have married Brent’s father? If I had had money, I never would have married Ira.

  And Brent? She’d wanted him, she’d been drawn to him. But then again, she’d had no choice, not really. She heard him say in that damned bored drawl of his, “I wonder how many ladies would succumb to us poor men if they weren’t constrained to by circumstance?”

  He’s thinking about us, Byrony thought. Or perhaps all the women he’s paid. His mistresses.

  “Come now,” Drew said, “don’t be so bloody cynical. There is such a thing as love, you know. A rather far-flung emotional state.”

  “Love, Drew? I think you mean unrequited lust. Once requited, well, what is there then?” He shrugged.

  “Caring? Trust? Children?” The words came out of Byrony’s mouth before she could stop them.

  Brent laughed. “Well, children certainly keep a man tied in one place. Clip his wings and all that.”

  Byrony closed her eyes a moment. She lightly touched her hand to her stomach. Why wouldn’t the wretched man face himself?

  “Then why do you suppose a man gets married?” Laurel asked lightly. “Your precious theory of unrequited lust again?”

  Brent was silent a moment. He drank some of his wine, then carefully set the crystal glass down again. “That or he finds himself in a situation where he has no choice.”

  “You mean like seducing a lady?”