RESTLESS SPIRITS
By Alice Duncan
(Writing as Rachel Wilson)
Restless Spirits
Copyright © 1998 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Published 1998 by Berkley Publishing Corporation
Jove Haunting Hearts
Smashwords Edition September 3, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
By the way, I wanted to call this book The Soul of Chester Pease, but was overruled. The world of publishing is cruel indeed).
P.S. This book is the first published Harry Potter book. Unfortunately, it didn’t do as well as J.K. Rowling’s books, dang it.
Prologue
Chester Pease’s mother used to say that the company he kept would be the ruination of Chester. His aunt generally countered that for something to go bad, it had to be good in the first place. Invariably, she went on to say Chester didn’t qualify.
Probably John Wesley Hardin best expressed most folks’ opinions of Chester. In April of 1877, right before he plugged Chester in the heart after a poker game in Cimarron, New Mexico Territory, John Wesley said, “You’re a low-down, snake-eyed, cheatin’ son of a bitch, Chester Pease.” Nobody argued.
Thus it was that in his twenty-first year of life, Chester Pease, who had behaved very badly during those years, died. That would have been the end of him but for a twist of fate. . . .
Chapter One
Penelope Potter tried to remember to behave in a ladylike manner and not allow her excitement to express itself in exuberance as she clutched her brother’s coat sleeve. Such restraint was difficult for her at the dullest of times. Today, when she was about to embark upon the most exciting adventure of her life, Penny forgot herself at her first glimpse of England’s foggy shore and commenced jumping up and down.
“Oh, Harry!” She clapped her free hand to her large-brimmed hat so that it wouldn’t sail off of her head and into the Atlantic Ocean, “Look! Isn’t that Arth—er, Mr. Collingsworth?”
Her brother laughed. Harry always laughed at her when she tried and failed to behave herself. “Now, how can you expect me to see that far if you can’t, Pen?”
Penelope laughed, too, because she couldn’t help it. “I was hoping your eyes were better than mine.”
She was absolutely delighted to be visiting England for the first time. Her anticipation about touring England, however, was nothing to her joy at the prospect of renewing her acquaintance with Mr. Arthur Collingsworth, upon whom she’d had a crush for four years, ever since he visited her parents’ Montana Territory ranch. In fact she was so thrilled, she could barely contain herself.
Not that being unable to contain herself was an unusual circumstance for Penny. Miss Quilling, headmistress of the exclusive Boston academy for young ladies from which Penny had barely graduated last June, used to despair of ever getting Penny to comport herself with propriety.
The huge ocean liner seemed to crawl toward the dock. Harry had to grasp his sister around the waist and haul her back as she leaned over the railing. “Penny! Art won’t be impressed if you fall overboard before we even land, you know.”
Her brother’s good-humored admonition recalled Penny to her manners, and she straightened, striving for a dignity as foreign to her as England. Her heart seemed to have taken on a life of its own, though, and rocketed inside her breast like a Fourth-of-July firecracker.
She hoped she looked presentable. Actually, she hoped she looked pretty. She’d had this suit especially made by the best dressmaker she could find in Butte. It had been crafted out of an expensive, soft woolen worsted she’d ordered all the way from Boston. She thought she looked good in it, although Penny was about as far from vain as a young woman could be and didn’t consider herself the best judge of beauty. The suit’s color, a deep rust-brown, complemented her red hair better than most colors did. Unfortunately, there weren’t too many colors one could wear well if one’s hair was as coppery as Penny’s.
Not for the first time she wondered why she couldn’t have been blessed with Harry’s coloring and he cursed with hers. Nobody thought twice about a man with red hair and green eyes. She knew she’d look much more dignified if she had dark curly hair and dark brown eyes like Harry’s instead of the garish hair and sprightly greenish-hazel eyes she’d ended up with. Even when she managed to throttle her expansive personality into sobriety, her eyes invariably gave away her natural gaiety. According to Miss Quilling, gaiety was a quality much to be deplored in a female.
As a rule, Penny didn’t give much thought to her appearance. She prided herself on her rugged, independent Western ways, and had been taught from the cradle that surface appearances didn’t matter much. When one ranched in Montana Territory, other attributes—such as stamina, fortitude, and character—mattered far more than beauty.
Today was different. Today she wanted to make a good impression on Art. Rather, she wanted to correct the impression she feared she’d already made on him. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and recalled his visit to the ranch during the summer of 1882.
“Do you think Mr. Collingsworth bears a scar from that horsewhip, Harry?” Oh, she hoped he didn’t. If he did, she’d be mortified.
Her brother laughed at her again. “I don’t know, Penny, but I suspect he’ll let us know soon enough.”
That’s what Penny was afraid of. She frowned and stared hard into the throng of people awaiting the arrival of their liner. “Do you suppose he remembers that camping trip?” She didn’t mention her real worry: That he might resent her for the burn he’d sustained when she’d dropped a smoldering log on his hand.
“How could he possibly forget?” her brother asked with a chuckle. “You practically burned him alive.”
Oh, dear. Penny added hand-wringing to lip-nibbling and frowning to her repertoire of unladylike behaviors. “I wonder if he still limps,” she muttered, more to herself than to Harry.
She really hadn’t meant to startle Art’s horse into throwing him, and she’d been truly sorry when he’d broken his ankle. Although, it must be admitted, she’d been glad when he’d had to delay his departure from the ranch. She’d enjoyed waiting on him, even though she now regretted having entertained him by teaching him card tricks. She recognized today that demonstrating her ability to cheat at cards hadn’t been very feminine behavior on her part.
Not that it would make a particle of difference if Art bore scars from her buoyant childhood accidents or not. It’s not as if he would ever consider her appropriate wife material. And she didn’t want him to, anyway. Not really. Penny huffed impatiently, wishing her heart and her head would coordinate their desires with greater facility. She lectured her heart sternly, which did about as much good as it ever did.
Harry patted her on the shoulder. She appreciated the gesture, even though she knew Harry didn’t understand the true source of her distress.
“Don’t worry, Penny. Art specifically asked that you accompany me to England. He wouldn’t have done that if he harbored malice towards you.” He chuckled again. “Unless he wanted you here so he could get even, of course.”
Penny glared at her brother. “Harry! Mr. Collingsworth is a gentleman. He wouldn’t be base enough to seek revenge just because I had a couple of accidents around him when he visited us back home.”
“A couple of accidents? Lord, Pen, you marked the poor man for life!” This time, Harry threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Penny’s scowl deepened. “I was only a girl, Harry,” she muttered, her feelings wounded.
Harry snatched his snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and proceeded to mop his eyes with it. “Oh, mercy,” he gasped. Then he seemed to take note of Penny’s worried expression, and he patted her arm again.
“Don’t worry, Pen. I’ve known Art for fifteen years, and I’ve never known him to nurse a grudge.” His laughter bubbled up again and he doubled over, helpless with it.
Penelope Potter rarely thought ill of her brother, whom she loved more dearly than anyone on earth save their parents, but she’d gladly have shoved him over the liner’s railing and into the ocean at that moment. “It’s not funny, Harry.”
Harry was gasping for breath by this time. “Of course not,” he managed to choke out. “Of course, it’s not funny.”
They were close enough to the dock now that Penny could make out individual facial characteristics among the mob of people gathered there. She decided it was useless to attempt to reason with her brother and instead took to scanning the crowd for Art Collingsworth.
“There are so many people . . .”
All at once her breath caught, and her hand flew to the cameo brooch pinned to the decorously high collar of her white shirtwaist. There he was!
If Penny’s sturdy nature allowed for such feminine idiocies as swooning, she might well have swooned right there on the deck of the ship. There he was! Mr. Arthur Collingsworth, great-great-nephew of the Duke of Plumpstead, and the most handsome, gracious, glorious, wonderful man Penelope Helen Potter had ever met in her entire life.
Her fingers had tightened of their own accord on her brother’s arm, and Harry seemed to take note of them at last. He ceased laughing at his sister’s expense, wiped his eyes once more, and glanced toward the crowd where Penny’s gaze had fastened.
“What is it, Pen? Do you see Art?”
All of Penny’s breath was occupied in keeping her body upright and conscious at the moment, so she had none left to use on words. She jerked her head in a brief nod and remained with her gaze fixed on Art Collingsworth’s magnificent face. The wind gusted, lifting the brim of her hat, and she clapped her hand on it again unconsciously, never removing her gaze from that dear countenance.
She’d never seen anything to match Art Collingsworth’s face. She’d grown up on a ranch in Montana Territory in the heart of the wild West, among men whom the dime novelists described with romantic words and artists painted with affectionate strokes of their brushes, yet she’d remained completely unmoved by any of those rugged frontiersmen’s charms. The moment she’d clapped eyes on her brother’s adventurous friend Art Collingsworth, however, she’d been smitten. It had happened four years ago, and she hadn’t recovered yet. Seeing him in that throng of waiting people, in fact, rejuvenated her ardor.
His features were refined and aristocratic—indeed, even slightly arrogant. His hair was thick and blond, and Penny remembered watching it gleam under the glare of Montana’s sun and thinking she’d never seen anything so pretty as Art’s hair. Since he stood at least a head taller than most of the other men in the crowd, she could observe him at her leisure, so she did. Her sigh gusted out before she recalled her determination to behave as a lady, but it didn’t matter. Her brother was too busy waving madly at Art to notice. Even if he’d heard her, he wouldn’t think anything of it. Harry was used to Penny’s ways, a fact Penny sometimes appreciated and sometimes deplored. If he were more of a stickler himself, Harry might have had a more edifying effect on her own manners.
No sooner did the selfish thought enter her head than Penny rued it. As she watched Art, she knew deportment was important—especially in England—and that, if she expected to be treated like a lady, it was up to her to act like one.
Art hadn’t caught sight of them yet. Penny saw him anxiously searching the people thronging the ocean liner’s railing, and wanted to scream at her fellow passengers to go away and leave her and Harry alone. She wanted Art to see her: to see her now, as she was today. She wanted him to take one look at her and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was no longer the gangly, feckless girl of four summers gone, but a young lady. A woman grown. A woman who had at least a small claim to attractiveness.
Oh, Penny knew good and well she’d never pass for one of the fragile, delicate beauties with whom she’d attended Miss Quilling’s Select Academy in Boston. She stood, after all, almost five feet seven inches tall, too large to aspire even to a pretense of fragility. And she had all that deplorable red hair, too, braided up today and knotted into a discreet coil at the nape of her neck.
She sported a nose sprinkled with freckles, as well. Those freckles were the product of a childhood spent running free in Montana. Penny had never cottoned to sunbonnets; indeed, as a girl wearing her brother’s britches and riding astride her huge bay gelding, she’d scorned them. Today, she wished she could speak to the little girl she used to be. After a good hot lecture, she’d paddle her soundly for ruining an otherwise fine complexion with those stupid cinnamon-colored dots.
Nevertheless, Penny could and did take pride in a slender figure, complete with all the attributes men claimed to admire. Unwilling to make herself miserable with tightly laced corset stays, she could yet boast a small waist, if not the wasp-like one favored in fashion periodicals. Not even for Art Collingsworth would Penny lace her corset so tightly as to make her faint if she took a deep breath. Her posture was straight, her bosom plump, her legs slim and long.
She used Mrs. Minnie’s Fading Cream religiously every day in an effort to make her freckles disappear, although this morning she’d taken refuge in a light dusting of face powder. Still, she didn’t think her freckles were too unattractive. She’d even gone so far as to ask Harry what he thought about them before the ship entered port.
“Freckles?” he’d said, as if he’d never heard the word before. “Do you have freckles, Pen?”
Penny had cast her glance heavenward and given up. It was useless to ask her brother questions about her appearance. She knew it, and had only done so out of nervousness.
At least the captain and first mate had seemed to find her appealing. Never of a flirtatious bent, Penny had nonetheless been thrilled by the attention the two men had lavished upon her. She had, in fact, used them to practice on, thinking that if she rehearsed with the two robust seafarers, she’d be well-equipped to deal with Art.
Not that it would make any difference. Her fluttering heart reeled and began to throb when she recalled the purpose of her visit to England. She and Harry were here to attend Art’s nuptials. The thought made Penny suck in a deep, painful breath, even as she squared her shoulders and reminded herself that the life she’d planned for herself held no room for a husband, not even one as appealing as Arthur Collingsworth.
“I wonder if that’s Art’s fiancée standing there beside him,” Harry murmured, saying aloud what Penny had been thinking, and making her heart hurt harder.
“I don’t know,” she murmured back and wished, if that pallid creature standing beside Art was his bride-to-be, she’d fall off the end of the pier and drown. Immediately she scolded herself for the wicked thought.
“No,” Harry said after a minute spent squinting at his old friend. “She’s with that other party. It looks like Art’s alone to greet us.”
Good, Penny thought, her mood lightening. Then there was no more time to worry. To a loud cheering from both ship and shore, the liner came to rest at the dock. The gangplank was lowered, and people began to disembark.
It seemed to Penny as though a huge mass of humanity swarmed down the gangway and was swallowed up, in little groups, by the huge mass of humanity seething in wait for it. She saw people embrace each other, tears flowing freely even as smiles blossomed, and she and Harry were jostled about. The first mate shook her hand warmly and looked as if he’d like to kiss her cheek, but the swarm of people came between them. Penny wasn’t sorry, although she relished the look of disappointment on the first mate’s face.
Then Art was there. Out of the crowd of people he seemed to appear by magic, making Penny’s heart soar like one of the pelicans that used to fly over their ship’s deck. Harry met him in a bear hug that Penny wished she could share, even though she knew the thought to be inappropriate. After all, she was an unmarried lady, and Arthur Collingsworth was a single gentleman. And, what’s more, he was engaged to be married to another woman.
“God, it’s good to see you again, Art!” Harry said when he caught his breath. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“Nor have you,” Art said, laughing, his sky-blue eyes alight with merriment.
Penny caught herself grinning like an American, and primmed her lips, striving for the ladyship that always managed to elude her. “Good morning, Mr. Collingsworth,” she said when he let go of her brother and glanced at her.
“Good Lord!” Art took a step back, as if shocked, and slammed a hand to his chest melodramatically. “This can’t be little Penny, can it?”
Penny fought her frown. Little Penny? Good heavens! That Art could think of her as “Little Penny” made her heart ache. She wanted to give him a stern lecture about proper manners and appropriate modes of address.
Instead, she held out a gloved hand, and murmured in a voice Miss Quilling would have been as proud of as she was astonished at, “How do you do, Mr. Collingsworth?”
He ignored her outstretched hand, clasped her shoulders with his two large hands, and stood back to observe her, sending a thrill coursing through her. She tried to hide it, although she feared the excitement in her eyes would surely betray her. Her eyes always gave her away.
“Good Lord,” Art exclaimed again. “I can’t believe how you’ve grown, Penny.” He laughed heartily. “I suppose I should call you Miss Potter now, shouldn’t I, since you’re such a grown-up miss?”
Penny wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that. Or even if Art expected an answer. It didn’t matter in the long run, because he let go of her shoulders and grabbed her in a hug as warm as the one he’d just given her brother. She guessed she appreciated it, although she was too stunned to take in all the sensations rioting in her. He almost sent her reeling when he suddenly released her.
“Well, come on, you two,” Art said in a hearty voice. “My carriage awaits. I wish you’d reconsider staying at the Clarendon and come to stay at my flat, Harry.”
Harry shook his head. “Can’t do it, Art. You know as well as I do that your stuffy British countrymen would look askance at a young lady lodging with a gentleman or staying alone at a hotel.”
“Your sister could stay with my parents, Harry. You know that.”
Penny caught herself frowning again, but this time she didn’t cease the unladylike activity. She hated it when people talked about her as if she weren’t there. In order to remind both of these rude men that she existed, she said rather loudly, “I prefer staying at an hotel, thank you very much. And I certainly do not mind lodging there alone, should you care to stay with Mr. Collingsworth, Harry. I,” she said in a stately voice, and angling her chin at a depressing angle, “am a grown American woman, after all.”
Both Art and Harry laughed, crumpling Penny’s dignity even before it had a chance to solidify. This time it was Art who patted her shoulder. “It’s all right, Miss Potter. We’ll take you and Harry to the Clarendon as planned. Sorry I mentioned it.”
Her frown deepened. Penny wished she could sort her feelings out. She longed to be considered a lady, but every time she tried to behave in the manner prescribed by Miss Quilling, her independent American spirit rebelled. And, while she loved the easy-going affection Harry showed her, she absolutely hated Art treating her like a kid sister. She was a woman grown, for heaven’s sake! And even a rather pretty one.
Lifting her chin again, she decided that smacking Art back would not be the best way to demonstrate her newly achieved womanhood. She merely nodded in as regal a manner as she could, and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Collingsworth.”
Art looked slightly taken aback, and Penny experienced a rush of inner satisfaction. Then Harry went and spoiled her whole effect by saying, “Don’t mind her, Art. Pen’s only putting on airs to be interesting. She’s still as rowdy as ever underneath.”
Penny could have pummeled him.
# # #
“I don’t know what you’re so mad about, Pen,” Harry exclaimed.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what I’m so mad about, Harry Potter? You treated me like a child!”
“Aw, Pen, you’re being too sensitive. Art’s a good fellow. He didn’t think anything of it.”
Exactly what she feared. Penny jammed her lacy nightgown into the drawer and then slammed the drawer shut. At once she regretted her show of temper. A lady never showed her temper in this unseemly manner. Miss Quilling had told her so; over and over and over again.
A huge sigh gusted from her lips. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
Her brother shrugged. “That’s all right, Pen. But you’re sure touchy lately. Is it that time of the month?”
Heat scorched Penny’s cheeks and fury bloomed anew in her breast. “Harry! How on earth can you even think anything so indelicate, much less say it?”
Another shrug lifted Harry’s shoulders, this one more helpless than the last. “Shoot, Pen, you always used to complain about feeling puny when the curse was on you. And you never used to be so missish in Montana, either.”
Penny opened another drawer and slammed it just because the racket thus produced suited her mood. “This isn’t Montana, Harry Potter, in case you hadn’t noticed. This is England!”
Harry stared at her for a moment, his mouth open, as if an incredible thought had just occurred to him. Then he said dubiously, “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re actually going to try to behave yourself are you, Pen? Good Lord!”
Penny resented the grin spreading over her brother’s face every bit as much as she resented his words. Her cheeks still felt as hot as a lit match. “I went to Miss Quilling’s Select Academy in Boston, Harry. I know how to behave properly in society.”
Harry’s grin broadened. “I’m sure you do, Pen, but I’ve never seen you actually do it before.”
Her brother’s words stung Penny to the quick. Forgetting herself entirely, she heaved her hairbrush at him, barely missing his head, and then only because he was quick enough to duck. “You just watch me, Harry Potter! You just watch me! I can behave as properly as any stupid old English lady!”
Going off in a gale of laughter, Harry picked up her hairbrush. He held it until he’d made it to the door of her hotel room. “I’ll watch you, Pen,” he called to her as nipped out the door.
Right before the door closed, he set the brush on a table. Penny knew it was because he feared she’d snatch it up and fling it at him again. She felt a sense of terrible failure when the door closed behind her brother.
“Who are you trying to fool, Penelope Helen Potter?” she asked aloud, her mood fading from angry to glum. “You couldn’t behave like a lady if you tried for the rest of your life.”
Upon that pessimistic note, Penny settled a pretty flowered hat on her glossy hair, tied the bonnet strings under her ear at a dashing angle, and sallied forth to eat her dinner. Alone. In the restaurant in the Clarendon Hotel. She held her head high, knowing she was defying convention by dining alone and, thus, foiling yet again her determination to behave as a lady should behave.
A true lady, when faced with the prospect of dining alone at an hotel, would have made arrangements to do so in the privacy of her room, tucked away from the curious eyes of society. A true lady would never dine by herself in a public restaurant, no matter how eager she was to look about her new surroundings, and no matter how many notes she planned to jot down about those surroundings so she could write an article about England for publication in her former school’s literary journal.
She told herself she didn’t care, and knew she was lying.
Chapter Two
“It’s great to see you again, Art. God, it’s been years!”
“Too many years,” agreed Art Collingsworth, clapping his old pal Harry Potter on the back. “Too damned many years. But I feel a little guilty about you having to leave your sister all alone on your first evening in Britain, Harry.”
“Don’t worry about Pen, Art. You of all people must remember that Penny can take care of herself.”
Art remembered. All too well. Yet even as he glanced at the puckered scar on the back of his hand and grinned, his gentlemanly feelings troubled him. “Well, but still . . .”
“It’s all right, Art. Honest. Penny doesn’t mind at all. She told me so.” Harry tossed his hat onto the rack in the corner and shucked off his coat. As he did so, he seemed to shed any concerns he might have harbored about abandoning his sister to her own devices so soon after their arrival in a foreign country. “Lord, didn’t we have some times, though!”
Art decided that if Harry wasn’t worried about Penny, he shouldn’t worry either, although he continued to nurse a vague feeling of disquiet. He chalked it up to his stuffy British-ness, and endeavored to forget it. “I’ll certainly never forget them. Wish we were heading out on another adventure, Harry. I’d rather be traveling up the Amazon or camping by that big geyser in Wyoming with you than getting married, I’ll tell you.”
Art wasn’t surprised when Harry lifted his eyebrow in query. He sighed heavily. “Getting married wasn’t exactly on my agenda at this point in my life, Harry.”
“No?” Harry cocked his head. “I don’t understand, Art. I figured you’d fallen madly in love with some beautiful British lady.” He shuddered eloquently. “Why else would a fellow sacrifice his freedom?”
Why, indeed? In order to combat the heaviness in his chest, Art donned a big smile and reached into the upper shelf of a cupboard, feeling around for the ears of the jug he’d been saving for a special occasion. “It’s a long story, Harry. Let’s have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it before the others arrive.”
Art had planned this wake—rather, he had planned this celebration to coincide with his friend’s arrival from the United States. Although he’d anticipated Harry’s visit with eagerness, he’d been surprised by how extremely glad he was to see the American fellow he liked so well. He realized he’d begun to look upon Harry Potter almost as a brother.
He’d also been surprised by how well Harry’s sister Penny had grown up. His chest ached again when he contemplated being shackled to Miss Juliette Griffin for the rest of his life. He had a sinking feeling he’d have a happier sensation in his middle if he were about to be wed to the delightful, albeit somewhat lively, Miss Penelope Potter, even if she was an American. He lifted the jug down from the shelf.
Harry exclaimed, “Where on earth did you get that, Art? Why, it looks like a jug of the corn whiskey my uncle Albert used to put up in Missouri.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” said Art, uncorking the jug. “Or, rather, it’s a jug of corn whiskey. I don’t think the fellow who sold it to me was your uncle Albert, though. I bought this in a little town called Cimarron, in the New Mexico Territory, not long after I departed from your ranch.”
“I remember you were still limping when you left us.”
Art laughed. “I’ll never forget that, believe me. My ankle still hurts in cold weather.”
“I’ll bet it does.” Harry chuckled, too. “Say, I’ve heard of Cimarron, Art. You managed to find yourself in some pretty rough places while you toured America, didn’t you?”
Memories flooded Art’s mind, and he smiled wistfully. “I certainly did, Harry. That was the best trip I’ve ever taken.”
“Better than Egypt or Arabia?”
“More fun than Egypt, Arabia, and Africa all rolled into one.” He sighed and set the cork beside the jug. “I guess we’d better let this breathe for a while. I’ll pour it out when the other fellows arrive.”
Harry threw his head back and laughed, making Art smile. He did love Americans. They were so free with their emotions. They weren’t all bottled up like Art and his fellow Englishmen were. Not to mention English ladies like Juliette Griffin. The thought of his fiancée made a shiver dance down his spine. He poured out two stiff whiskeys and handed one to Harry.
“Bottoms up,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Here’s mud in your eye,” Harry countered, lifting his also.
The two men’s gazes met as their glasses clinked, then they drank deeply.
“All right, Art, now tell me why you’re getting married if you don’t want to get married,” Harry said after he recovered from the jolt of his whiskey.
Art sighed again. “It’s a long story, Harry, but not an uncommon one. At least it’s not uncommon over here among the people in my set.”
“Your set?” Harry lifted his eyebrow again, and Art grinned.
“The aristocracy, dear boy. That’s my set.” He added darkly, “Unfortunately.”
Harry took a smaller sip of his whiskey. “I reckon we don’t have much of that in America.”
“Don’t reckon you do.” Art knew his smile had gone lopsided. “You see, my father has suffered severe reverses on the stock exchange.”
“There’s a lot of that going around, too, even in the United States,” Harry murmured. “We had some awful times on the ranch. First there was a long drought, then a couple of severe winters. Cattle prices hit the skids, feed prices skyrocketed, and life was pretty rough there for awhile. It’s a good thing the ranch was already well established, or my folks might have lost it.”
“Too bad,” said Art, meaning it. He’d never had as good a time in his life as he’d had on the Potter Ranch in Montana Territory. Even with Penny Potter dropping burning logs on him, slashing him with bullwhips, and breaking his bones, the trip held a special, golden place in his memory. He smiled as he, too, sipped his whiskey.
“Things are improving,” said Harry nonchalantly. “The market’s up and the weather’s better. Can’t keep us Americans down for long, you know.”
“I know.” Art’s smile warmed, and he tipped his glass toward Harry in a salute. “At any rate, my father pretty much lost his shirt, as you Americans might say, and the family’s turned to me to get ‘em out of the soup.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“By marrying money,” Art said bluntly, and winced when he heard himself. Americans were blunt. British gentlemen softened hard truths with fancy words and pretended the truth was something else entirely.
Thank God for Harry Potter, the only man on earth with whom Art had ever felt he could speak freely. He was glad now that Penny hadn’t accompanied her brother, because he’d have watched his tongue if she were here, whether necessity dictated or not. He had a sneaking suspicion Penny wouldn’t flinch from home truths any more than Harry did. Art, however, had been bred in an entirely different set of circumstances than the bright and breezy Potter siblings.
Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Rich girl, is she, your fiancée?”
“Rolling in it.” Art took a large swallow of his drink and shuddered. “And, as my parents were kind enough to indulge my wanderlust for so many years—which, I fear, did as much as anything to drain the family coffers—I feel obliged to help them out in this instance. It’s the least I can do. I owe them this, Harry.”
Eyeing him thoughtfully, Harry murmured, “Do you love her?” Love was apparently too mushy a word for the peppery American to tolerate with equanimity, so he amended it. “That is, do you care for her?”
Did he care for her? Art suppressed yet another shudder. How on earth could somebody care for Juliette Griffin? “She’s—she’s determined to be a credit to my name,” he said carefully.
His care didn’t fool Harry, who watched Art keenly. “Is she a nice girl, though, Art?”
“Nice?” Art thought about asking what nice had to do with it, but understood—because he’d lived and traveled for five years in the United States—that Harry wouldn’t understand. “She’s nice enough,” he said at last, keeping his tone noncommittal.
In truth, “nice” wasn’t a word Art had ever even considered in connection with Juliette Griffin. Proper. Well-mannered. Poised, assuredly. Ambitious to be accepted among well-bred, long-established names at the top of London’s elite social ladder. She knew her worth; that was certain. But nice? Spending time with Juliette Griffin put Art rather in mind of spending time with a block of ice. Or a hedgehog.
He cocked his head to one side and muttered, “She’s . . . worthy.”
Harry lifted his expressive eyebrow again. Art wondered how on earth he did that. Harry could say more with his eyebrows than most people could say using any number of words. He grinned in spite of the ache in his chest and nodded, repeating, “She’s definitely worthy.”
“Worthy?” Harry asked, his tone clearly conveying his doubt.
“Excessively worthy.” Art finished off his drink and poured another one, bigger this time. He was going to get good and drunk tonight. He figured he owed it to himself. The good Lord knew when he’d ever get a chance to tie one on after Juliette had the keeping of him.
Harry set his glass down with a clunk. “All right, Art,” he said, his voice gone serious. “We’ve known each other for a long time, ever since my folks sent me here to school when we were both kids. Come clean with me. You don’t want to marry this girl, do you?”
Art hesitated, considered lying, and gave it up. This might be the last time in his life he had the opportunity to tell anybody the truth. “No,” he said softly. “No, I can’t stand the girl, and I don’t want to marry her. She’s promised to produce an heir and a spare, and to be a tolerant wife who will not give me grief if I should seek greener pastures after that—as long as I do it discreetly.”
He sighed deeply, noticed the expression of shock on Harry’s face, and grinned again. “It’s a common arrangement in these parts, old man. I hate it, though. Reckon I spent too much time amongst you wild and free-spirited Americans. The idea of marrying a stuffy, strait-laced British lady with sleet running in her veins gives me the willies. She’s about as warm as a polar icecap, and as starchy as new laundry. She’s got as much animation as a marble statue, and—and the very idea of bedding her makes my stomach turn.”
There. Art felt a curious combination of triumph for having at last admitted the truth and, at the same time, tremendous guilt for it. Poor Juliette wasn’t to blame for being what her family and society’s dictates had made of her, no matter how unappealing the result of such training was to Art. He sighed again, feeling utterly forlorn.
Harry sat silent for a moment, watching Art and rolling his glass between his palms. At last he said, “Isn’t there an alternative, Art? It seems a shame to marry somebody you don’t like, just for money.”
Art laughed in genuine amusement this time. Ah, Harry, I do so love you Americans. You’re such an honest race.” He swallowed the last of his second drink, already feeling slightly woozy from the booze. “No, I have no alternative. I’ve looked into ‘em all. In order to rescue my family, I have to marry Juliette.”
“But why?” Harry’s puzzlement was as genuine as Art’s humor.
“Because, my dear lad, the family has a Name. Juliette’s family not only has scads and scads of money, but they want a Name. By marrying me, the Griffins will not merely be rescuing my family from financial ruin, but achieving their ambitions as well. I’m as close to a title as they can get, I fear, Juliette being their only child and her birth rather humble. Their fortune was made in trade, you know. And Juliette’s the only female of my acquaintance who possesses the wherewithal to rescue my family—well, the only one with the wherewithal and the willingness. God knows, there are lots of rich women in London. None of ‘em would have me, though, because I have no money in spite of my name. They all already know my family’s in the suds.”
Harry sipped thoughtfully for another moment before he said, “I see. At least, I think I do.”
All at once the enormity of the sacrifice he was about to make for his family struck Art like a fist in his guts. He shook his head, close to tears. “It’s a shame, Harry. A real shame. I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. I wish there were an alternative, but I can’t see one. I can’t do anything else.” He shrugged helplessly. “My family’s depending on me. I owe them this for having supported my whims for so many years.”
If anybody on earth should be able to understand Art’s sacrificing his future happiness for his family, it was Harry Potter. Art and Harry had spent countless hours in school and in various jungles, roasting horrible things like grubs and termites over campfires, and talking about subjects that mattered to them. They were subjects men never discussed except in extraordinary circumstances. Art had never known anybody as loyal to his family as Harry. After having met Harry’s family, Art didn’t blame him.
After another few moments, Harry said gruffly, “I do understand, Art. And I’m sorry.” He got up and butted Art’s shoulder with his fist, the most tender gesture he’d allow himself to express to another man.
Art knew Harry understood. And He appreciated Harry’s friendship in that moment more than he could possibly express.
The rest of his guests arrived shortly after Art’s revelations. Art greeted them warmly, introducing Harry, who was accepted with much hand-shaking and back-slapping. Art poured out the corn liquor he’d brought home to England from America and felt as though his last link to freedom were being decanted into the goblets along with the golden liquid. He gave the first glass to Harry, and distributed the rest among his other friends, saving the last for himself.
“To my last days of freedom!” he cried in a gallant attempt at jollity.
“To freedom!” the men responded. Art had the sensation most of them understood his situation, too, at least a little—although they’d never appreciate liberty the way an American did—and he was touched. He guessed he wasn’t the first man to have to sacrifice his freedom on the altar of matrimony for so crass a commodity as money. Or woman, either, for that matter.
The party degenerated from there.
# # #
The next morning—or maybe it was afternoon; he didn’t know—Art groaned miserably when he heard a terrible pounding coming from his front door. He didn’t recall going to bed. Then he realized he wasn’t in bed.
Vague memories stomped through his tender head, and felt as though they were clad in steel-toed army boots. They were disquieting memories, too. Could Harry Potter actually have tried to steal Snuffy Wilkinson’s diamond stick-pin? And Art’s own carved ivory collar-stud box? Such behavior seemed atypical of the happy-go-lucky, honest-as-the-day-is-long American chap. Yet Art was sure those memories weren’t figments. At least, he was almost sure. If the steel-toed boots would stop trying to kick out the sides of his skull from the inside, he might be able to contemplate them and come to a conclusion.
In truth, he wasn’t sure about much of anything except that it wasn’t yet time for him to awaken and face the day. Unless he wanted that dreadful fist to continue battering at his door, however, he guessed he’d have to.
He frowned as he stumbled toward the door, then stopped frowning because it hurt. He realized unhappily that everything hurt. Even standing still, which he did for a full minute in front of the door while he tried to convince his stomach to cease heaving, hurt. Horribly. He wished he hadn’t told Tipton, his man, not to come in until the afternoon, although he’d done so because he knew he’d be hung over. Now, though, he wished Tipton were here to open this miserable door, which had begun to shudder again under the blows being rained upon it from the other side. And make him a pot of strong coffee. Art needed coffee.
He wondered what time it was when he yanked the door open. How could any well-meaning person in his right mind disturb a fellow at this ungodly hour of the day?
“What?” he barked, angered by the uncivil interruption of his morning-after misery.
Penelope Potter stood before him, bright as a new day. Indeed, she was glorious in her brightness. She was so bright, in fact, that she made Art’s eyeballs ache, and he lifted a hand to shield them from her.
What are you doing here? he wanted to whimper. Good breeding, the ineffable something that was as much a part of Art as his skin and bones, prevented the surly words from sneaking past his lips. His lips hurt, too. They managed to form the words, “H’lo, Miz Poh-er.”
“Well!”
The one word sliced through Art’s head like a hot knife through butter, and he winced. His hand still covering his eyes, he separated his first and middle fingers and squinted through them at Penny. She looked angry. Actually, she looked like she wanted to haul back and hit him.
He didn’t know what to do. Should he ask her in? Turning his head—an activity that made that portion of his anatomy feel as though it were being wrenched by enormous pincer-like hands—he peered into his front room. The sight that greeted his aching eyes was not one to soothe his tattered spirits. Bottles and glasses tumbled here and there; papers were strewn everywhere. He had a vague recollection of his friends making paper aero-dynamic flying machines and having a contest to determine whose machine could soar the farthest.
Clothing lay scattered about all over. God alone knew to whom it belonged or why it had been shed during the course of the prior evening’s debauches. Had there been women here? Art didn’t think so, although he wouldn’t have put it past Snuffy to sneak in a whore or two out of sympathy. Snuffy lived in constant dread of having to sacrifice himself for his family as Art was doing.
Penny said, “Well!” again, and Art knew he had to do something. He guessed that in the circumstances he couldn’t help what she thought of him, although the knowledge made his insides hurt even more than they were already hurting, a result that would have seemed impossible before it happened.
Lurching backwards—he hoped his balance would return soon even if he never recovered the use of his head—he opened the door wider.
“C’m in,” he slurred. The door had a mind of its own—or perhaps he’d jerked it too hard. Whatever the truth was, the door slammed Art into the wall at his back. His head, which already felt as though leprechauns had taken up rolling sharply pointed ten-pins about in it, banged against the wall, and he groaned piteously. If he didn’t know he was the only man present, he wouldn’t have believed it was his voice.
“Well!” Penny said again, and she stalked into the room. Her freckled nose wrinkled up when she glanced about, as though she smelled something foul. Art wasn’t surprised. He suspected she did smell something foul. He probably would, too, if his nose worked.
“Sorry f’the mess,” he mumbled.
“Men!” Penny exclaimed in evident disgust.
Art thought that pretty much summed everything up, and quite concisely. He appreciated her brevity and would have nodded except that he didn’t dare jar his head again so soon after its encounter with the wall.
Penny ripped the gloves from her slender fingers, then reached up to unpin the hat from her head. Her glorious hair shone almost as much as the rest of her, and it made Art blink. Since his eyelashes had taken to throbbing, he wished it hadn’t.
Then she swirled around to face him. Startled, he staggered backwards. The look of contempt on her face would have shamed him if he’d been in any condition to be shamed.
“I suppose you have a kitchen somewhere in this chaos?”
After the moment it took him to process her surprising question, Art whimpered, “Yes.”
“Very well.” She nodded regally. “Then you sit there, and I shall make you some coffee.” She pointed to the sofa from which Art had lately risen, her finger quivering with wrath. “After you’ve recovered your senses, I shall wish to speak to you.”
The latter part of Penny’s declaration didn’t appeal to Art, but the first part—the part about coffee—settled into his swollen, throbbing brain like a benediction. If his face hadn’t hurt so badly, he might have smiled.
As meekly as a kitten, he sank back down onto the sofa and whispered, “Thank you.”
Penny huffed her irritation and strode like a queen out of the room. She didn’t go through the door into the hallway leading to the kitchen, but Art made no protest. He knew her to be an enterprising girl. She’d find the stove eventually. And make him coffee. In that moment, Art loved her.
# # #
Glaring at the mess of bottles, overturned glasses, mangled ham, shredded Stilton cheese, mashed grapes, crumbled crackers and biscuits, spilled marmalade, and melted butter cluttering up the kitchen, Penny huffed “Men!” again. Then, tearing an apron from a hook in the butler’s pantry, she added, “More like babies.”
She’d delivered Art a mug of hot, sweet coffee and a hotter scowl, and was up to her elbows in soapsuds when Art’s man, Tipton, arrived. He glided silently through the kitchen door and stopped short, startling a tiny scream out of Penny. She heard Art groan miserably in the front room, and would have smiled if she hadn’t been so annoyed.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Who are you?” Tipton demanded in the same instant.
Penny felt her cheeks get warm when she recognized the man’s expression as one of shocked contempt. It was a look he might have used on a London tart. Why, he was eyeing her up and down as if he expected her to present a bill for services rendered. Not, she guessed, that she blamed him much. After all, she was a lone female, and she was presently in a gentleman’s living quarters, washing up after an obvious revel.
To make up for her embarrassment, she drew herself up as tall as she could and said in a imperious tone, “I, my good man, am Miss Penelope Potter, from the United States. And who might you be?”
“Tipton, ma’am. Mr. Arthur’s man.” A spark of recognition seemed to light the fellow’s countenance, although his expression remained austere. He added, “Are ye related to Mr. Harry Potter, then, miss?”
“I am Mr. Potter’s sister.” Penny kept her tone haughty, and was glad for once for her unladylike inches. It was much easier to carry off a regal air when one was tall.
The man gave a brief nod and said nothing. He stood stiff as a statue in the doorway, as if uncertain what he should do now. Penny decided she might as well divulge the purpose of her unconventional visit, since she didn’t want this fellow thinking what he obviously thought another second longer.
“My brother attended a bachelor party here last evening, sir, and—and—something happened to him.” That was an understatement if she’d ever uttered one, but she didn’t think she wanted anybody but Art to know exactly what had happened regarding Harry. “I came here this morning to get to the bottom of the matter.”
She recalled the state in which she’d discovered Art Collingsworth and frowned severely. “Mr. Collingsworth was in no fit condition to discuss the matter with me, and his rooms were certainly in no condition to receive guests. I prepared some coffee for him and left him to recover himself in the parlor while I clean up this dreadful mess.”
Her plain speaking seemed to appeal to something deep within the man standing in the doorway. After another moment, during which he remained undecided, he evidently came to the conclusion that she could be trusted. He walked the rest of the way into the kitchen, shut the door softly behind him, hung up his coat and hat, and advanced to the sink. There he reached into a drawer and withdrew another apron.
“Aye,” he muttered as he tied the apron strings, “I figured it’d be a spree. Mr. Arthur ain’t been best pleased latterly.”
“No?” Penny gladly relinquished her position in front the sudsy water to Tipton. She took up a pristine white dish towel and began wiping dry the dishes she’d just washed. She’d already tidied the food into some semblance of order. It was all covered up and ready to be placed into whatever cupboards or ice boxes this man, who seemed to know his way around Art’s kitchen, decreed.
The fellow eyed her for another moment or two, then gave up all pretense at formality. As if he’d been longing for the opportunity to unburden himself for a long, long time, he did so. While Penny listened avidly and helped him clean up the mayhem Art’s party had wrought in Art’s lodgings, Tipton poured all of his worries and frets into Penny’s eager ears.
# # #
“My goodness, Mr. Tipton, I’m so sorry you’ve been subjected to such rough treatment.” Penny’s head was buzzing with the gossip poor old Tipton had filled it with as they’d tidied the kitchen.
“Ain’t Mr. Arthur’s fault, Miss,” Tipton declared loyally. “‘Tis that woman he’s to marry. Miss Juliette Griffin be a griffin, all right.”
In spite of the solemnity of Tipton’s pronouncement, Penny found herself having to stifle a giggle. Unused to servants who considered themselves to have been born to service, she found Tipton’s interest in Art touching. Why, Tipton talked about his master as if he were a well-loved nephew or something.
“Aye,” Tipton added in mournful accents, “‘Tis been a right sad time of it for us both these days.”
“And just what have you been telling my guest, Tipton?”
Penny jumped a yard in the air and squeaked. Tipton’s withered cheeks bloomed two bright red splotches. Both miscreants turned to espy Art standing at the kitchen door. He looked decidedly green to Penny, but not quite as ill as he’d appeared when she’d first arrived. He held his empty coffee mug in both hands, as though afraid he’d drop it if he tried to manage it with only one.
Chapter Three
“So you decided to show up at last, I see,” Art growled at Tipton, a frown creasing his brow.
“Ye told me not to show my front in your rooms until after lunch-time, Mister Arthur,” Tipton replied, reproach dripping from his words. Art had the grace to look guilty.
Penny had seen Arthur Collingsworth in rough frontier garb and, as she’d seen him yesterday, in all the frills and fobs of a gentleman. She’d even seen him rumpled and hung-over.
Until this minute, she’d never glimpsed him as he might look on a typical morning, having just risen from, say, his wife’s bed. The thought that it was to be Miss Juliette Griffin, a female whom Tipton had described as a right regular Tartar, who was to see him thus for the rest of Art’s natural life brought a flush to Penny’s cheeks. Or perhaps the flush was caused by the indelicate thoughts dancing around the edges of the other one.
Whatever thought produced the blush, blush she did. Attempting to recover her composure, she said, “I should think you’d be thanking Mr. Tipton rather than criticizing him for adhering to your dictates, Mr. Collingsworth.” She pitched her voice to sound as cold as possible to make up for the heat in her cheeks.
Art transferred his glare from Tipton to her. Almost immediately, his look softened. Penny’s heart thundered in reaction. Oh, my, he was such an attractive man! She’d give her eye teeth to be in Juliette Griffin’s shoes.
At once she took herself to task. She did not wish to be in Miss Griffin’s shoes. Penelope Potter had plans for her future, and they didn’t include Art Collingsworth or any other man. She was going to travel the world and write stirring travelogues about her journeys, which were then going to be published world-wide. At least she was going to make every attempt to do so. And there wasn’t a man alive who would tolerate such freedom in his spouse; Penny had it on the best authority Miss Quilling’s Select Academy could offer.
Therefore she did not wish to be marrying Art, even though she couldn’t find it in her heart not to be jealous of Miss Juliette Griffin because she would be doing so.
“You’re right, of course, Miss Potter,” Art said.
His voice still sounded slightly foggy and brought to Penny’s mind visions of lonely, windswept moors. Not that she’d ever seen a lonely, windswept moor, but she was an avid reader and could dream as well as any young woman possessed of a somewhat romantic nature, a passionate soul, and a lively imagination.
She thrust those unprofitable thoughts aside. “I need to speak to you, Mr. Collingsworth. Are you well enough to hold a coherent conversation?” She spoke severely, because no matter how much she admired him, she had been quite dismayed to discover him in such a deplorable state this morning. As her purpose in coming here today was a serious one indeed, this was particularly so.
He shut his eyes for a moment, and Penny got the impression he was gathering his strength. A momentary pang of sympathy was ruthlessly banished. Harry was in trouble. That trouble had started here, at Art Collingsworth’s party, last night, and Penny was going to get to the bottom of it. Today. Here and now. Hangover or no hangover. She sniffed disdainfully because she couldn’t help it.
Men and their drink. She’d never understand either one of them. A tiny ache of loss smote her when she realized that if she stuck to the course she’d plotted for herself, she’d never even have the opportunity. She quashed the stray thought without mercy.
“Let me get another cup of coffee, Miss Potter, and I’ll be right with you.”
He walked like a man in pain, and Penny decided to give him a little more time. She’d been gathering all sorts of fascinating information from Tipton about Art. She supposed she could go on doing so for a while. To assuage her conscience, she told herself she was gathering the intelligence for the sake of research. She didn’t believe it for a minute.
“Please, Mr. Collingsworth,” she said as graciously as any fine English lady ever born, “take all the time you need.”
She thought she heard him mumble, “Impossible,” but wasn’t sure.
# # #
An hour later, Art was ready. At least, he hoped he was. He’d bathed and dressed, at any rate, and while he hadn’t shaved because his hands shook too much, at least he’d done so before his guests arrived last night and his beard wasn’t too unsightly at present. Since he had no idea what Penelope Potter’s purpose could be in visiting him this morning—rather, this afternoon—however, he wasn’t sure if “ready” accurately described his condition.
He was well enough to frown when he considered what his neighbors must be thinking. An unmarried lady visiting an unmarried gentleman without benefit of escort was enough to generate thought, if not outright scandal. Oh, Lord, he hoped Juliette didn’t hear about this.
He tried to hold his uncertain temper at bay. Penny was an American. That alone would excuse him from impropriety, whatever it did for her. No British lady or gentleman of his acquaintance would convict Art of misbehaving when they understood he was up against an American.
And to think that last night he’d been having fond thoughts about Americans. This morning—or, rather, this afternoon—Art would gladly have turned this one over his knee and paddled her, if his state of health allowed.