Jessie’s head was against James’s shoulder. Thick, tangled red hair billowed against his face, tickling his nose. He hadn’t realized she had so much hair. “Are you still awake?”
She nodded against his neck.
When he tucked her into bed, he spread her hair over the pillow as Old Bess had done so it would dry. “How do you feel?”
“Like a stall that hasn’t been mucked out in a month.”
“Pretty bad, then. Thanks, Jessie, for defending me.”
“I really do detest Allen. Alice made such a mistake marrying him, and now it’s too late. I’ll get Allen if he says anything bad about you, James. I promise.”
“Thank you,” he said again as her eyes closed. Her face was very pale except for the freckles over the bridge of her nose. Dr. Hoolahan appeared in the doorway.
“She’s asleep, Dancy. Let’s just leave her be.” He rose and snuffed out the candle beside the bed. “Tell me what to do for her.”
* * *
The following morning, James stood beside Jessie’s bed, legs spread, hands on his hips. His voice was low and controlled. “Now you will tell me exactly what happened. You will then tell me why you took such a risk for a stupid horse. You were wrong, Jessie, and you nearly got yourself killed to prove it.”
He is furious, she thought, watching the pulse leap in his throat. She wondered where he’d dredged up that iron control he was exhibiting. Usually he yelled his head off if he was mad, as he certainly was now. Why hadn’t he yelled at her last night? She shook her head. He’d been afraid she’d die; that’s why he’d been so calm. But now he knew she’d live, and he was ready to fire his cannons.
“Answer me, damn you. And don’t try to tell me that you’re in too much pain. Any pain you have, you well deserve and you damned well know it.”
“Very well.”
“Very well what?”
“I’ll answer you. I didn’t think at all, really. I saw Sweet Susie, saw my chance when she went after Billy’s horse and was nipping at his rump. He’d already thrown Billy, so I just rode Benjie right in between them. Billy’s horse jumped a ditch and ran off into the field beside the road. I grabbed Sweet Susie’s lead. I’d hoped they’d get Billy’s horse, but they didn’t. The other man came after me alone. He fired twice before he realized that he might hit Sweet Susie, then stopped. That’s all, James. It’s not so much of a story.”
“You’re foolish and brave, and I won’t have it, Jessie. Why did you do it?”
“I told you. I just wanted to save Sweet Susie. It never occurred to me the man would have a gun.”
“You should have come here and told me. I would have taken some men and gone after them.”
She stared at him. The headache, slight until just moments ago, was pounding through her again. “But what would I have told you, James?”
“I don’t know, but you could have taken me back to where you’d seen them.”
“Would you have allowed me to lead you back there? It was raining hard. Wouldn’t you have been scared I would have gotten ill? After all, I’m so delicate. No, I think you would have made me take myself home and you and your damned men would have ridden around blindly, finding nothing but colds. I saved Sweet Susie. Get used to it, James.”
“Jessie, girl, how are you feeling? Bess and I have brought you some breakfast. Dr. Hoolahan told me you’d be starved this morning. Just look at what Bess made for you. Grits and eggs, their yellows all bright, just the way you prefer them, strips of bacon, all crispy and—” Oliver Warfield broke off, staring at his daughter, whose eyes were tightly closed. He glanced at James, who was standing beside her bed, ramrod straight, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as intimidating as hell and madder than the copperhead snake Oliver had ousted off a sun-baked rock the past week.
“What the devil is going on here, James? You’re not yelling at my daughter, are you?”
“I haven’t yelled a single word. I was just very calmly telling Jessie that she was a bloody fool, Oliver. I still can’t believe she just galloped Benjie into the middle of those thieves and played the heroine. It was stupid and ill-advised and—”
“And I succeeded. So just shut up, James.”
“That’s my girl,” Oliver said fondly, stepping into the bedchamber so Bess could come around him with a big silver tray that held enough food for two fat men. “Give him hell, Jessie.”
“A little testy, are we?” James said, moving away so Bess could plump up Jessie’s pillows and pull her to a sitting position.
“Now, little honey, it’s time for you to eat and ignore these men. What do men know, anyhow? All they do is strut around and give orders and expect a little girl like you to wither away and do nothing. You keep talking, Jessie. You jest snap like a turtle. Mr. James, he ain’t used to no snapping, so you do it.”
“You order me around all the time, Bess,” James said. “Don’t give this one any advice. She already does everything she shouldn’t do, and more. You call her ‘little honey’? That’s enough to make a man puke.”
“I like ‘little honey.’ Be quiet, James. You’re just mad because I saved Sweet Susie and you didn’t. Your wounded vanity is becoming tedious.”
“Damn you, Jessie. That has nothing to do with my wounded vanity and you well know it.”
“Now that’s enough, Mr. James. I don’t want the child to come down with a fever.”
“No, you want her to eat so much she’ll be too fat to get through the door and then she’ll be forced to stay here and complain about everything. You see anything else that needs fixing, Jessie? There’s not much wrong with this wallpaper, dammit.”
Old Bess arranged the tray on Jessie’s lap, then beamed down at her. “Now, you just eat all I brung you, Jessie. It’ll make your head feel like a plump healthy raisin in no time a’ t’all.”
“A plump raisin with a bald spot,” James said.
“You need fixing, James. I’m sorry, Bess, but I’m not very hungry.”
“You would be if Mr. James weren’t here twitting you. Out with you, both of you.”
James said over his shoulder as he walked through the door after Oliver Warfield, “Eat, Jessie. I’d rather have you fat than a skinny little brat who presses her nose against windows.”
“What’s that you say, James?” Oliver Warfield said.
Jessie closed her eyes, her fingers crumbling a slice of bacon. She heard James say, “Actually I was referring to the ceiling of your office in the stables, not windows. I was referring to her ears, not her nose.”
“Oh,” Oliver said. “That was strange how far afield you got.”
When Mrs. Warfield, Glenda, and the carriage arrived to take Jessie home, James had planned to be gone. He had a warning system in place. Gypsom, Oslow’s assistant, was supposed to whistle twice, and James would mount Tinpin and ride like the wind. But the plan didn’t come off as it should have. James froze on the first step of the stairs as Thomas opened the door to greet Mrs. Warfield and Glenda. What the devil had happened to Gypsom and his plan?
“Mrs. Warfield,” he said, pulling himself together. “A pleasure, ma’am. Glenda. I was just bringing Jessie some tea. Where’s Oliver?”
“We are your saviors, James,” Glenda said, sweeping toward him, her delicious bosom leading the way. “We’ve come to relieve you of Jessie. Has she been complaining much? She usually does. I’m sure it’s been difficult for you.”
“No difficulties. Jessie’s feeling much better today. Would you like to accompany me or perhaps wait here in the parlor?”
“Oh, we’ll come,” Glenda said, and walked toward him, her eyes on his crotch. She stood beside him on that bottom step, her breasts brushing his arm. Mrs. Warfield just beamed at the two of them. “Yes,” she said, “let’s go see dear Jessie.”
Dear Jessie was feeling very low. Her head ached viciously. James wouldn’t let her read the Federal Gazette, telling her it would just make her head hurt more. She was bored. She wanted James here
so they could argue—that or she could just look at him. When he suddenly appeared in the doorway, she felt as if the sun had just burst through black clouds. She gave him a big smile. Then she saw Glenda and her mother sweeping past him, bearing down on her, and her smile dissolved into the wainscotting.
“Ah, my dearest Jessie,” said Mrs. Warfield, frowning at her daughter.
“Well, sister, don’t you look ugly with your hair all frazzled and that silly bandage around your forehead.”
James briefly closed his eyes.
“Hello, Mother, Glenda. I’m fine, I just look bad. Where’s Papa?”
“Your dear papa didn’t have the time to come to get you. You put him out sorely, Jessie, what with that latest exploit of yours. Your poor papa had to sleep in a strange bed just to keep your reputation from being ruined.”
But her papa had told her he’d come back to get her himself, and then he’d winked at her, and she knew he would spare her a visit by her mother. But he’d failed. Jessie sighed, looking longingly at the teapot James was carrying and said, “I think Papa liked staying here last night, Mama. He was telling James all sorts of things he needed to do to make the house better.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Warfield. Your husband isn’t shy, and he much enjoyed himself.” And my brandy, James thought.
Glenda was walking around the small bedchamber, looking at nothing in particular. James couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Finally it hit him that she was showing herself off to him—from all angles. Not a bad sight. She turned then and smiled sweetly at him. “Why don’t you and I go downstairs, James, and let Mama help Jessie dress?”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Warfield said. “I forgot clothes, Jessie. Oh well, I suppose you’ll just have to wear the gown you had on last night.”
Jessie thought of her breeches and paled.
James said easily as he set down the tray, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Warfield, but Jessie’s gown was ruined from the rain last night. Old Bess tried to save it, but it wasn’t possible.”
“Your papa never did tell me why you were out riding around in the rain, Jessie. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you countless times, that you must stop acting so strangely. Now what are we to do?”
“If James will lend me this nightshirt and a robe, then I can go home like this.”
“My nightshirt is yours, Jessie,” James said, giving her a slight bow.
“Shall we go downstairs, James?” Glenda asked, coming to stand very close to him. He could smell her rose perfume. He wanted to sneeze.
“I don’t think we have to do that, Glenda,” he said. “Here, Mrs. Warfield, let me carry Jessie downstairs. Ah, first, let me fetch a robe for her. Jessie, don’t move. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Glenda watched James leave the bedchamber to get a robe. She turned to Jessie. “James is so handsome. Did he ask you about me?”
“I don’t recall that he did,” Jessie said.
“Surely he must have. Why, I danced with him at the Poppletons’ ball. He was leaning over my hand before I even noticed him. He couldn’t take his eyes off me. He told me how gracefully I danced.”
Jessie just shook her head.
Glenda twitched her skirt away from a water stain on the wall. “I know you, Jessie. You forced him to pay attention to you, didn’t you? You pretended you didn’t feel well, and he was obliged to let you stay here. I’ll bet you even moaned and carried on so he wouldn’t leave you. He held your hand, didn’t he? He didn’t want to, Jessie. He doesn’t even think of you as a female—you know that.”
“That’s enough, Glenda,” Mrs. Warfield said, looking nervously over her shoulder.
“And now you’re forcing him to carry you downstairs. Carry you. That’s shameful, Jessie. I’ll just bet you ruined that gown of yours on purpose.”
“That’s enough, Glenda,” Mrs. Warfield said again, seeing that Jessie was alarmingly pale. “Perhaps your sister truly isn’t all that well. Leave her be. That’s right, go look out the window, dearest. Ah, James, here you are again.”
Without thinking, he walked to the bed and was going to put Jessie into the robe when Mrs. Warfield gasped. “Oh no, James, how improper. No, dear boy, take dear Glenda outside for a moment and I’ll see to Jessie. That’s right, Glenda, go with James.”
James carried Jessie downstairs. She was stiff in his arms, withdrawn from him; he could feel it. He’d overheard most of what had been said to her, and it made him feel guilty for making her leave. He couldn’t imagine that her life at Warfield farm was all that pleasant. No wonder she spent all her time with the horses. She mucked out stalls. She mended bridles. She rode and raced. She beat him regularly. So surely she was well able to handle her mother and her disconcerting sister and if she couldn’t, well, she could always escape.
He carried her to the carriage and set her on the seat inside. “There you are, Jessie. I’ll be by tomorrow to see how you’re getting along. Take care.”
He smiled down at Mrs. Warfield and Glenda. “Ladies, take good care of Jessie. She had a rather rough night of it.”
“I don’t see how,” Glenda said, and stared at his crotch.
“We’ll find out,” Mrs. Warfield said, and allowed James to assist her into the carriage.
“Move over, Jessie,” she said, as she turned and smiled at James. “Thank you for taking her in.”
As if I were a drowning puppy and he had found me, Jessie thought.
James stood quietly, watching the carriage wind down the long drive of Marathon. There were weeds coming up through the gravel on the drive. He’d have to send someone out here to pull them up and smooth down the gravel. Everything looked bare, too. He needed to plant more trees, he thought: some oaks and more elms. He wanted Marathon to look lush, to look rich. Jessie was right, curse her. There was so much that needed fixing.
Poor Jessie, he thought, then laughed at himself. He’d feel sorry for her . . . until the next time they raced.
7
THE SUN WAS shining brightly on that Tuesday morning as James walked down Calvert Street past innumerable publishers and bookstores to Number 27. He’d been coming to Compton Fielding’s bookstore since he’d been a small boy. He walked into the shop with its narrow spaces and dark wood and its walls covered from floor to ceiling with books, many in disordered stacks—Mason’s astute book on water drainage sitting on top of Richardson’s Pamela—but Fielding knew where every single tome was. It appeared to be a slow morning. James didn’t see anyone else, and that was good because he’d heard from Fielding the previous day that his Corneille plays had arrived from Paris. He was excited. He wanted to talk to Fielding about it.
He rounded a corner and stopped cold. There was Jessie Warfield in deep conversation with Compton. What the devil was she doing here? Surely she didn’t read, did she? Surely all she did was horsey things.
He grinned at himself and went a bit closer to listen. If she could eavesdrop, so could he.
“Mr. Fielding, this is the third time you’ve wanted me to read old diaries. What’s this one all about?”
Compton Fielding, a scholarly fixture in Baltimore, a fine violinist who played at civic affairs, a man with wide knowledge of many subjects, gently opened the fragile pages. “See, Jessie, it’s well over a hundred years old, from around the turn of the eighteenth century, I’d say. I wish the fellow had dated it, but he neglected to. Old Elisha Bentworth told me I should find old calendars and match days with dates and that would tell me the years, but who has the time? Now, this precious diary covers a span of some three years, most of it spent in the Caribbean. What do you know of those times in the Caribbean, Jessie?”
“Not a blessed thing, Mr. Fielding, but if you want me to, I’ll read it. I did enjoy reading the other two, but deciphering some of the words was mighty difficult.”
“But worth it?”
“Oh yes, particularly the one set in Charleston in the early Colonial days.”
“Ah, Mr. Nestor’s memoirs. An odd duck
, that Mr. Nestor, but I thought you’d like it. Since you’re not all that certain you’ll like tales of the Caribbean, why don’t you take the diary home and read it over. If you want to keep it, just come back and pay me for it.”
Jessie was already thumbing carefully through the diary. “Oh, listen to this, Mr. Fielding. ‘We came to Jamaica to find miserable rain and a sour rum that fires the bowels. I had to split my sword in Davie’s guts, the little bastard.’ She raised a shining face. “Is this about pirates? Goodness, how bloodthirsty they sound.”
“I think the rum merchant’s brother might have been a pirate, or known some of those men,” Compton Fielding said thoughtfully, taking the diary from her. “You’re right. It just might be too bloodthirsty for a young lady.”
“I’ll take it,” Jessie said, and James nearly laughed aloud.
“Well then, if you’re sure. You read it through and tell me.”
James came around the corner and said, “Good morning, Jessie, Compton. What’s all this miserable rain and a sour rum business? What do you have there?”
“You were eavesdropping,” she said, then had the grace to look at the toes of her shoes.
“Yes, but I’m still in one piece,” James said.
“What she has, James, is a diary from about one hundred years ago. I don’t really know what it’s about. Jessie will read it through and tell me.”
“I didn’t know you even read,” he said to her.
“Just what do you mean by that, James Wyndham? Do you think I’m ignorant?”
“I’ve never seen you with a book before. I’ve never seen you in here before.”
“The same is true of you. Now, what are you doing here, James? I would have thought that all you did was ride your acres, break colts, and give orders to all your stable lads.”
Since he’d thought the same thing about her, he didn’t say what he would have liked to. “I’ve frequented Compton’s bookshop since I was a boy. He introduced me to French novels and plays.”
Mr. Fielding was noted for the immense collection of French works he had in his shop, but Jessie, not knowing a single utterance in French, had never really paid much attention. She’d read every novel he had until just recently when he’d begun introducing her to diaries. They were, she had to admit, rather interesting, but thin on plot. There were no handsome gentlemen to sweep a girl off her feet. Oh yes, she adored lots of plot.