Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 10

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Fletcher couldn't help himself. Despite Caleb's warning, he found himself drawn to Seabrook as the herring are drawn back to the creeks to spawn. Profoundly entrenched in him was a yearning to be where he belonged. The feeling wounded him, importuned him until he was powerless against it. One afternoon of the following week, he left a note for Caleb, saddled Whiz and rode off.

They cantered for a distance, horse and rider feeling the warmth of the sun and enjoying the beauty of the cloudless sky. As they drew near to the marker that was the boundary of the property, Fletcher slowed Whiz to a walk. With its vast acreage, Seabrook was more impressive than he remembered. At the end of the pebbled lane was the stately mansion built by Fletcher's ancestors five generations before. He stopped the horse and gazed at the home he had lost.

The manor house, once graced by many famous and influential guests, was a beauty of Georgian design flanked on either side by formal boxwood gardens. As he rode farther, Fletcher could see many of the dependencies—the smoke house, milk house, kitchen, tobacco barn—the places where he had played and laughed as a child. There had been contentment in those days like an idyllic land of Eden and, as soft breezes soothed sweet floral scents across the lush earth, he beheld a land still retentive of charm and grace.

Fletcher had been the chivalrous knight but too headstrong and wild to have concerned himself with the daily management of the plantation. Now, as if from war—his own personal war—he had returned disillusioned and no one's hero. He pushed on to the creek where he and Kyndee had had their fatal crossing. He dismounted and left Whiz to graze.

He walked a distance until he found the place he sought. The tree they had used remained across the water, overgrown and covered with moss. New saplings grew from the trunk, creating the illusion of handles. Anyone could cross now with ease. In his mind's eye, he saw Kyndee with her sun-kissed hair framing her face, standing on the other side. He could still see her captivating smile, her emerald eyes. He had known she could make it. Kyndee had the courage of a lion and the grace of a gazelle. But he made her laugh too heartily. He saw her falling...falling, hitting her head, knew he couldn't save her from the water.

Afterward, Fletcher had never seen his father as angry. He fairly shook with his anger. His mother had pleaded for her son but Samuel Stedman, in a low harsh tone, told Fletcher he had to understand responsibility and foolishness and recognize the difference between them.

Willingly, he had borne the beating because he knew his father was right. On a reckless dare he'd risked Kyndee's life, knowing full well she would not back down. The marks had stayed with him. He wore them proudly and hoped his father in some way knew that he had learned the lesson well.

Fletcher heard a movement behind him and spun to meet the danger. But instead of Buck, it was a manservant. Fletcher judged him to be about his same age, possibly older.

"Is you lost, suh?" said the man. "Ah doan know who you be, but Miste' Stedman ain' gwine ter lak you a ridin' hyah. Dis hyah is Seabrook Plantation an' so is ever'thin' you see—"

Fletcher recognized the man as soon as the first words fell from his mouth. Don't do it, an inner voice told him. You have to keep your identity a secret. But he needed a way into Seabrook. He needed help from the inside. He found that help in the man standing before him.

"You can drop the 'master' talk, Silas. We both know you're putting it on for my benefit," he said with an amused grin. He had grown up with Silas who was exactly one year older than he was—one year to the day. They had been more friends than master and servant, and Fletcher had secretly found it entertaining to watch Silas turn his language on and off.

"Ah is sho Ah doan know what you mean, suh," Silas replied.

Fletcher strode closer to the other man. "Look into my eyes, Silas, and tell me again you 'doan know what Ah mean, suh'."

Silas extended his neck, tentative at first, and gazed into Fletcher's face. He squinted his eyes and looked at him sideways. His lower lip quivered and beads of sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. Then his eyes widened, and he backed away.

"Lak Ah tole you, Ah doan know who you be, an' Ah ain' sho Ah wanna know 'cause you ain' nothin' but a ghost."

Fletcher laughed out loud. "I'm not a ghost, I assure you, Silas. Although certain people have tried their worst to make me one."

Silas was not easily reassured apparently. He stepped back and stood with arms akimbo. "Ef you be who you look lak, then tell me de myst'ry of de mare," he said smugly.

Without a moment's hesitation, Fletcher related how he and Caleb had enlisted Silas' help in putting one of the mares to his father's stallion and placing bets on how long it would take him to mount her. The next day they found out that she had been scheduled to be bred to a different stallion from another plantation. Fletcher had sworn them both to secrecy, and they had all hoped the mare's night of frenzy hadn't taken. However, eleven months later, Samuel Stedman scratched his head and wondered how the foal she dropped could possibly have come from the stallion he chose. From Silas' question, Fletcher assumed the mystery had remained a mystery.

"Sweet Jesus! Ah nev’r tole that story to no otha livin’ soul. Only one man would know that secret—Lordy, Miste’ Fletch it is you!"

Fletcher extended a warm hand to his boyhood friend. "Yes, Silas. It's been a long time, but I've come home at last."

"Miste’ Fletch, what in blue blazes happened to you? We heard you was kidnapped, and we never knew what became of you. 'Cept for that scar, that terbull voice and that ol' hairy beard, you don't look none different."

Raising an eyebrow and casting him a grin, Fletcher asked, "If I don't look none different, how come you had to have proof who I was?"

"'Cause I lied. You look like the devil hisself, and I wanted to keep you talking so's I could start runnin'," Silas shot back, laughing.

Fletcher sobered and his face turned to a scowl. "That's because I've been to hell and back."

Silas came closer. "What did happen to you, Miste’ Fletch? We all was real sad afterward."

"It's a very long story and I'd rather not speak of it now." Fletcher moved to the trees, sat down and leaned his back against the trunk. Resting his arm on one raised knee, he glanced up at Silas. "Tell me what happened here since I've been gone, Silas. Tell me about my parents."

Silas approached him and positioned himself close by. "It was a bad time here after then. Your mama and papa almost lost their minds. My daddy kept things runnin' 'cause Miste’ Sam and the Missus was off lookin' for you day after day. Miste’ Buck, he stayed in bed mostly, saying he was tired from fightin' off them kidnappers."

Fletcher clenched his fists and his jaw tightened at the lie. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree.

"When they came back without you, and the days went by with no word, this ol' house was like it died with you. Nobody laughed or made noise. Your mama cried so hard I 'spect she would die of a broken heart. And your papa didn't have interest in runnin' this plantation no more. He gave the runnin' over to Miste’ Buck, and then he up and adopts him so's the place will be his."

Fletcher listened intently to Silas' words while he picked a dried weed from the ground and crushed it with grinding fingers.

"'Cuse my saying so, Miste’ Fletch, but Miste’ Buck is a hard man. This place's been mighty different since your papa's been gone. Are you goin' to take over here now that you're back?"

"No one can know I'm back, Silas. Understand?" Fletcher leaned closer to his boyhood friend. "This meeting has to remain a secret. I've things to do before anyone knows my true identity. To everyone here, I'm Zachary Brown, a friend of Caleb Jenkins."

The black man grinned and gave a terse nod. "You can count on me, Miste’ Fletch. You stood up for me and saved my life long ago, and I ain't forgettin' it."

"You can start by telling me their schedules. I want to come and see my mother, and I've haven't quite planned a way to do that."

Again the broad grin flashed. "No plannin' needed, Miste’ Fletch. Miste’ Buck and the Missus are in town for the day. Miss Adeline is a’sittin' under that big ol' shade tree by herself. You could go see her right now. I'll keep watch on the road and let you know if anyone is a’comin'."

Wanting to go to her and yet being afraid to see her, Fletcher remained affixed to the ground. It had been so long, and not expecting to see her today, he hadn't planned what he would say to her.

Silas had risen and was standing in front of him, his hand extended. Looking into the friendly face, Fletcher grasped the hand and pulled himself up.

"Go to her, Miste’ Fletch. I know what you're thinkin', but she's still the same fine woman she's always been—to her family and to all of us."

"Thank you, Silas." He clasped the other's hand and left.

* * *

His mother sat demurely in a rustic chair on the lush slopping lawn of Seabrook where, for years, she had enjoyed juleps and welcomed guests in the days before their lives were irrevocably changed. Her feet dangled amid the delicate buttercups, her skin protected from the sun by the enormous shade trees. Adeline Stedman was knitting, her fingers busy in a manner that did not require her eyes to oversee. Physically, she appeared not to have aged much. Her hair was a rich cocoa brown, streaked a bit with gray. Her skin was still flawless and not ravaged by time. The soft radiance he remembered was there in her unseeing eyes.

Fletcher glanced at the empty wooden chair beside his mother. Here was where his father would have sat, his father whom he had respected more than anyone, his father who had taught him to ride and shoot, his father who had bantered with him and grown nettled by his recklessness, his beloved father whose loss brought a knot to his throat.

"Is someone there?" Adeline asked, turning her head in his direction. Her voice set his heart to pounding.

"Yes, Mrs. Stedman. My apologies for startling you. My name is—Zachary Brown. I don't mean to intrude, but I've come with a greeting to you from your great uncle, Jeffrey Dawson. I've recently been in Atlanta visiting with my—my parents, who are friends of Mr. Dawson. I was introduced to him and when I told him of my impending visit here, he implored me to convey his love to you."

"Come closer, Mr. Brown. Sit here with me for a while. I am delighted with your greeting, and my fingers are in need of a respite from my needlework. Would you mind?" Adeline Stedman had placed her knitting in her lap and extended a hand to the chair beside her.

"No indeed, Mrs. Stedman. I would be honored to sit with you." Fletcher neared her and settled himself in his father's chair.

"Is Jeffrey well?"

"Seemed quite well when we left," he said, hoping the crusty old man hadn't died during Fletcher's ten-year absence.

"How I do wish he would be able to visit Seabrook again. Our times together are fond memories for me," she said.

"Also for him," replied Fletcher. "He described for us a number of the delightful times he spent here."

"Did he really? Must have been most entertaining. Jeffrey has a talent for storytelling."

"Most definitely! He reminisced of one particular ball attended by many Washington dignitaries." Fletcher watched a smirk and a giggle erupt from his mother as she recalled the ball in question.

"Yes, I do remember. It was quite an event," she said.

Placing his hands on his knees, Fletcher leaned toward his mother. "Apparently, amid the brandy and cigars, a heated political discussion broke out with many raised voices and much fist-banging on the mantelpiece? As Mr. Dawson related, one of your finest figurines was smashed, and a heated defendant challenged the culprit to a duel. I was told this is where your late husband stepped in, making certain the goblets were kept brimming until no one was steady enough to hold a pistol. In the morning, their heads under soaked cloths and sipping ginger tea, neither of the two gentlemen in question remembered the challenge, and a near disaster was avoided."

Fletcher, of course, remembered the evening well, having taken a walk in the moonlight with lovely Miss Elizabeth and won a bet with Caleb that he could steal a kiss from her without being slapped. He smiled to himself because he had won more than the bet.

Adeline Stedman was laughing and clapping. Her unseeing eyes twinkled with a mischievous delight while the faint breeze lifted a stray lock of her hair.

"I don't approve of indulging in large amounts of strong drink," she said, "but it was somehow fine that evening to use it as a means to an end." She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and sighed as her giggling left her. "I'm surprised Jeffrey, himself, remembers much of that evening."

Fletcher raised his eyebrows and added, "He did tell me that some of his recollections were hearsay from the following morning."

"I'm thankful nothing that affected the fate of the nation was decided that evening," said his mother. She paused and furrowed her brows as if recalling another humorous past event. "Mr. Brown, did Jeffrey tell you about the year we lost our Thanksgiving turkey?"

"Are you speaking of the time the dog, James The First, stole the whole turkey from the sideboard, ran to the front of the house and devoured it in full view of the astonished family? Yes, he did happen to mention something about it," said Fletcher, chuckling as he recalled watching his father trying to wrestle the turkey from the hound but laughing too hard to succeed. Amidst the plentitude on the sideboard the lack of a turkey went unnoticed, and the incident had been a favorite family story to be told and retold at holiday meals for years afterward. James The First had proclaimed himself a legend.

She shifted her position in the chair. "There were many who told Mr. Stedman to shoot that old hound for his behavior, but my husband wouldn't hear of it. The hound was his favorite. Now James The Second was another matter. He was reckless, wild and unruly—" Her face conveyed a wistful memory. "—like someone else I knew." The expression disappeared. "James The Second thought Aunt Bettina was hurting Fletcher—that was my son—when she was only teasing and tickling him. Well, James came right up behind her and took a bite of her—" Adeline put her hand to her mouth, chortling. "—her...derriere, and she set to screaming as loud as I've ever heard." His mother's face grew serious. "It was rare for Samuel to lose his temper, but he beat that hound. To my husband, wild and reckless was fine, but not when it bordered on stupidity, and biting Aunt Bettina was sheer stupidity." His mother giggled again and shook her head. "Especially if you knew Aunt Bettina."

Fletcher sat back in his chair and rested his head on the round back. Yes, he knew Aunt Bettina, all two hundred fifty pounds of her. The poor hound was lucky she didn't fall on him because he would have been crushed to death. Fletcher glanced sideways at his mother. She had crossed her palms over her chest, lowered her head and closed her eyes. Concerned, he immediately sobered. "Mrs. Stedman, are you ill?"

"Oh no," she replied, looking up toward the sound of his voice. "I'm just thinking I shouldn't talk unfavorably of the dead because Aunt Bettina was a dear, dear woman. But I do remember having a terrible time smothering my giggles later when I had to—” She burst into wheezes of merriment, stamping her foot for extra emphasis. “—dress her bruises.”

He laughed with her as he had in another lifetime when the three of them—his mother, his father and he—had sat in these chairs and enjoyed afternoons together. The laughter was familiar and comfortable and by right he should be there. From his perch, he gazed at the sloping lawns of the graceful scene before him. It had all been his, and he'd taken it for granted as he had the air he breathed and the ground under his feet. He was going to fight to have it back.

"Yes. Those were wonderful times, but now the great hall has not the laughter of those days, and Buck is saddled with a blind and helpless old woman," Adeline added.

Fletcher bristled at the remark. "You may be blind, Mrs. Stedman, but I'll wager by no means helpless. Mr. Dawson told many stories of you and your family, all of which convinced me that while you may have let your family think you a fragile female, you ruled your kingdom with love and fairness. He thinks of you quite highly." His mother blossomed under the praise.

He couldn't help himself; he had to ask. "Mr. Dawson also spoke of your son. You said his name was Fletcher?" He saw a shadow cross his mother's face, and her smile faded.

"A mother never recovers from such a loss," she noted. "Fletcher was the most precious gift in my life."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distress you," Fletcher said with heartfelt sincerity.

Adeline Stedman shook her head. "On the contrary, it comforts me to speak of him. After he was gone, everyone refused to speak his name for fear of upsetting me. It was almost as if he had never existed. They thought I had lost my mind when I lit my candle."

"Candle?"

"Yes. Can you see the lamp in my window?" She pointed toward the house. "It's for him, for Fletcher. It burns day and night so that one day he will find his way home."

Fletcher straightened his back. He wondered if perhaps his mother had indeed lost her mind. "You think he's coming back? You don't think he's dead?"

She shook her head. "I knew my son's mind better than he did. I always knew what he was thinking. If he had died, somehow I would have known. I'll never give up hope." She shifted her position again, and her knitting fell to the ground. Fletcher retrieved her work and handed it to her. As she took it, their hands touched. She ran her fingers over his palm.

"You've worked a great deal," she observed. "This is not the hand of an idle man."

Fletcher felt his face grow hot, and he tried to withdraw his hand. "You should not chafe your tender hands with mine."

"Despite your easy laughter, I feel a great emotional turmoil in you, Mr. Brown. Perhaps sorrow? Perhaps hate? Perhaps a mixture of the two?"

Fletcher emitted an agitated chuckle and lowered his head.

"May I intrude on your privacy and inquire as to how you lost your voice?"

He attempted to parry the question. "I've been speaking to you, Mrs. Stedman. Clearly I have not lost my voice."

She finally released his hand and sat back in her chair. "Do you wish me to believe that harshness is your God-given tone?" She stared toward the sound of his voice with the same dark eyes that years before had rendered him powerless. He had never lied to her.

"I had an...accident many years ago. My voice has remained this way since," he answered, divulging as little as possible.

In the quiet afternoon, Adeline Stedman sat upon her rustic thrown as regal as a dowager duchess, her hands folded as in prayer, her fingertips pressed to her lips.

"Be careful, Mr. Brown. Hate forces love away and allows evil to prosper. If hate eats too much of your heart there will be nothing left, and you will become that which you hate—empty and incapable of giving or receiving love—and you will die. Not physically, of course, but you will die nonetheless. People think I'm a lonely old woman. They don't realize I had splendid years with a wonderful husband, and seventeen years with a precious son." She placed her hand over her heart. "They are here with me—inside. How can I possibly be lonely with such an overabundance of love?" She paused. "Will you indulge an old woman?"

"Anything I can do for you, you need only ask."

"Kneel down and let me see you—see you with my hands."

Fletcher reluctantly knelt. Her hands explored his forehead, eyebrows, eyelids and temples.

"What color are your eyes?" It was fortunate her probing eyes were closed when she asked her question.

He shut his eyes. It hurt to lie to her. One more lie added to the never-ending web. "Brown."

She took several long breaths before answering. "My son's eyes were blue. They were the same color as the sapphire my husband gave me the day Fletcher was born." She touched his hair. With her thumbs, she traced along the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. As he opened his eyes, his mother's hand traced the scar on his right cheek that extended past the line of his beard. "This was a jagged wound. Would you tell me about it?" She regarded him obliquely. "You're trembling."

"This position makes me dizzy when I stay in it overly long," he replied, using the chair for balance.

She immediately released him. "Forgive me. I don't want to cause you discomfort. Not when you have been so kind to me."

Fletcher slid into the chair, lowered his head and blinked hard, trying to clear his head. A movement caught his eye. In the distance, he saw Silas signaling to him; it was time. He rose.

"Mrs. Stedman, I must say good-bye."

His mother extended her hand. "I thank you for bringing me Jeffrey's greeting. It was most kind of you. Will you come again for a visit?"

Despite knowing she couldn't see it, Fletcher smiled at his mother. "If you wish it, you need only to send for me."

Her pale cheeks immediately colored. "I realize a young man has no interest with an old woman, but your visit has cheered me greatly. With whom are you staying?"

"Caleb Jenkins."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You know Caleb?"

Fletcher fumbled for an answer. "Not really. His parents are family friends. They invited me to stay with them during my visit."

His mother shook her head. "Caleb can be quite trying at times."

"So I'm finding out," replied Fletcher, hoping to add credence to his story.

"He and Fletcher were into more trouble—but enough of my ramblings. You are a true gentleman, Mr. Zachary Brown. I do hope we meet again."

Fletcher brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "And you, Mrs. Stedman, are a very great lady."

He disappeared into the woods, turning in time to see the Stedman carriage approaching the house. Fletcher watched the present master of Seabrook alight from the carriage and imperiously usher his wife through the front door. Fletcher bristled, and an angry shudder shot through him. Although too far from the house to notice clear details, it appeared that being a plantation owner had agreed with his black-hearted cousin. He found Whiz and mounted, cantering a brisk pace toward town. At the property marker he halted. His breathing was heavy and harsh. Instead of being cathartic as he had hoped, the journey here had enraged him.

In the aging afternoon, he renewed his promise to himself. This was Seabrook Plantation, home of the Stedmans for five generations. He was Fletcher Stedman, and he would not allow a usurper to take his heritage from him.