Authors: Veronica Sattler
"Christie, Garrett, this is Georgette Aumont."
"Garrett, so nice to see you again," cooed Georgette, "even if you have been a beast and not kept in touch."
"Oh, so you know each other," said Margaret, innocently oblivious to the obvious. Then, seeing one of the young women she knew Christie to have met the previous summer, she said, "Well, Christie, not to be outdone by your husband, here is someone you know. You remember Sarah Ladson, don't you? Oh, and Hester Rose, too." She reacquainted her niece with Sarah and Hester Rose, who was the daughter of the lecherous old fellow at the stairs, Mr. Tidyman.
But by then Garrett had rescued himself from the attentions of Georgette and was taking Christie's arm, excusing their departure as he guided her to the dance floor. The dance was an old-fashioned minuet which surprised Christie, for she knew Aunt Margaret's fascination with everything current. As Garrett led her through its intricate paces, she found
herself smiling in a helplessly giddy fashion, for she
knew she was happy, unequivocally, ecstatically
happy.
"You must tell me what you're thinking, love," said Garrett, "for I would study it and do all I might to keep that look perpetually on your face."
Several measures of music played before Christie's steps matched his in a manner conducive to her answering him in a quiet tone.
"It's just the pleasure I take in letting the world at large know how I love you," said Christie. "And I hope it also sees how loved I feel. Does it show?"
"It shows." Garrett grinned, his eyes drinking deeply of hers. "Your eyes look as they do after I've just made love to you. Ah, madam, have you no sense of privacy, no shame?"
"None!" His wife grinned, and she tingled to the sound of the low laughter emanating from her husband's throat.
The evening continued this way for some time, with the Randall couple causing just the gossip Belinda had predicted, and more, owing to a host of reasons. They were easily the handsomest couple there, so striking the eyes of most guests followed them constantly as they moved together, like a pair of emerald jewels, across the floor. Those who had not yet met them begged Margaret or Philip for introductions and made notes to put their names on future invitation lists; those who had already met one or the other speculated on the openness of the romance they witnessed between the two, not to mention the mysterious circumstances of their having married. Several were sure the Virginia beauty had been
Garrett's mistress in secret for some time, a clever girl had finally trapped him into marriage by having his child, and if this particular rumor was fanned into being by some of the beauties who had been seen in the green-eyed rogue's company at times in the past, few gave it any heed, for it was far more km to indulge, unhindered by facts, in the juiciest fantasies over such a glamorous pair.
When Francis Marion approached them as they stood near the banquet table, having some cooling bunch after a series of dances in a row, it was this last rumor which had just come to his ear, minus a few of the details. He and Garrett greeted each other warmly and just as the younger man was about to present his wife, the old "Fox," as he had been affectionately called by his men, whispered in the other's ear. "I say, Randall, you are going to introduce me to your mistress, aren't you?"
An amused smile crossed Garrett's countenance as slid an arm about Christie's waist and drew her closer.
"Aye, sir, allow me to present my mistress, Mistress Garrett Randall. Christie, meet Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox himself." Marion's mouth gaped and the old man actually blushed, his color deepening as Christie laughed with obvious pleasure.
"I'm delighted to meet you, sir, Garrett's always spoken highly of you." She curtsied slowly before h
im
.
As the older man beheld the ripe charms her action displayed, his face grew even redder, followed by his ears, his neck, and even his scalp which showed thinly beneath wigless gray hair. Clearing his throat several rimes, he at last bowed deeply and addressed her.
"My—er—my—my dear Madam Randall. The pleasure, I assure you, is entirely mine. I only hope you took no offense—that is—er—I mean, I had no idea Garrett had married!"
"No offense taken, sir." Christie's laugh was bubbly as she glanced gaily from the discomfited old soldier to her husband and back again. "I fear you have become as much the victim of rumor as my husband and I."
"Well, madam," said Marion, his ease greatly restored by the open charm of the young woman before him, "I only hope you will allow me to repair the damage of my tongue's carelessness by taking a turn about the floor with me. Once there, I would— respectfully, of course," he added, casting a glance at his former junior lieutenant, "—properly grace you with words of homage to your beauty."
Christie gave Garrett a questioning look. "Well, sir, I—"
"It's all right, if you're agreeable, love," said Garrett. "I can sit one out." To Marion he said, "I usually reserve every dance for Christie, and she, for me, sir. But your honorable old self, we cannot deny."
"Indeed," said Christie, shooting Garrett a quick smile. "But I warn you, sir, I shall most likely spend all of our time on the floor discussing my husband."
As Garrett watched them move away from him, he heard his name being called in whispered fashion from behind. Turning, he encountered a worried-looking Philip Stanhope.
"Garrett, may I have a word with you in private? I have a problem and I'd like to request your help." Philip adjusted his new spectacles nervously.
Garrett glanced toward the center of the floor where he noticed Christie dancing in a relaxed fashion with a smiling Francis Marion. "Of course," he said. "Where?"
"We had better repair to my study," whispered Philip. "And because of the nature of the business, I'd rather we weren't seen leaving together. If you won't mind leaving first, I'll follow in about five minutes. In the meantime, I'll leave word with Margaret to inform Christie of your whereabouts."
Garrett nodded and headed for the door.
Five minutes later, true to his word, Philip joined him, closing the study door quietly behind him as he entered.
"I thank you for coming," said Philip. His voice appeared strained. As he crossed to his desk, he removed a lace-trimmed handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. "As you may have noticed," he continued, "my son-in-law, Beau, has a drinking problem. What you are not aware of is that he also has another problem. He gambles—heavily. Unfortunately, because of obvious reasons, I find Beau's problems have become my problems." He stopped, noticed Garrett was still standing near the door and indicated a chair.
Garrett declined by a shake of his head and Philip continued. "You may have also noticed that young Mr. Richardson has been conspicuously absent for most of the festivities this evening." Philip paused to mop his pale forehead another time. "I have just received word as to where he is. You've heard of the Golden Gate Tavern's upstairs rooms?"
Garrett nodded again. He had frequented the plush "secret" gambling rooms himself on occasion. Open only to gentlemen of "quality and breeding,"
the establishment was really no secret to most in the area. Because of the prominence of those who visited it, even the authorities who knew of it left it alone. Those who gambled there usually could afford to lose and there was rarely any trouble, although the stakes were always high. If Beau was a regular at those premises, and losing, he could easily be over his head by a good-sized fortune, for credit for a man of his family background would be easy to come by.
"Well," said Philip, "he's been there for most of the evening, and according to my man, the amount of his losses is only matched by the amount of brandy he's consumed. Garrett, perhaps I have no right to ask this of you, but you're the only one I can think of, trust, to lend a hand."
"Go on," said Garrett.
"If I were able to leave the ball, I'd fetch him myself, though I fear the scene it would create, considering the—er—difficulties between me and the lad, could be grossly unpleasant. That's why I'm asking you to go for him. I saw how easily you were able to remove him from the dining room last night. Believe me, had it been I who attempted to move him upstairs, the results would have been quite different! He seems to respect you, even though you've barely met." Philip removed his spectacles and looked at Garrett. "Will you go?"
Garrett had already considered the question as he saw it coming. He was, by virtue of his marriage, a family member in an age when such ties were greatly significant. He didn't particularly fancy himself in the role of Beau's watchdog, but he couldn't see any way to refuse, either. To do so would be an affront which could ultimately reflect on his own name and
therefore touch Christie.
"I will," he said, already turning toward the door. "You'll explain to my wife?"
"Ah, thank you, sir. You have no idea how your answer eases my distraught state. Yes, of course, I'll leave to find Christie immediately—er—when you have him in your charge, bring him to me in this room, will you? My butler will alert me to meet you here the moment he sees your horses returning up the drive."
When he had watched Garrett disappear, Philip foraged in the main drawer of his desk until he found a large piece of folded paper. This he placed carefully on top of the opened leaf, whose surface was, otherwise bare. He stood and walked toward the door, then turned to look at the desk. The letters on the paper's folded surface were large and conspicuous. They read, "GARRETT RANDALL." Then he turned and went toward the ballroom. Once there, he searched out his butler and they spoke a few words. Then he left.
Christie and Francis Marion had just finished their dance and were standing together, talking quietly, when she saw the butler approach.
"Scuze me, Miz Randall," said the old black, "but ah's got a message fo' you—it's prahvit," he added, throwing Marion an apologetic glance.
"That's quite all right, my good fellow," said Marion. "Madam Randall, it has been a pleasure. And please tell that rascal you married he will find it difficult to hide you away in the country from now on, if I have anything to say on it. I look forward to some time in the near future when the two of you will visit me at my home. Although," he chuckled, "I
imagine, now that all of genteel Carolina society has seen you, it'll be difficult enough for me to find an open date on your social calendar."
Christie threw the old soldier a smile that made him flush while at the same time causing him to wish he were at least twenty years younger. "It has, indeed, been my pleasure, sir. And you can be sure, when your invitation comes, it will find priority on our time."
She watched the old man move out of hearing range and then turned her attention to the patiently waiting servant.
"The message?"
"Yas'm. Y'all is needed in yo' chambuh. It done got sumpfin' t' do wif yo' husbin'."
"My husband?" said Christie. She had just begun to wonder where Garrett had disappeared to. "Is something amiss? He's not ill, is he?"
"Oh, lankly not, ma'am. But ah cain't rahtly say fo' sho'. Y'all bettah go 'n see fo' yo'se'f."
Already acting on such an inclination, Christie moved gracefully toward the stairs. Over her shoulder, she called to the black servant.
"Thank you for the message. Should my aunt or uncle inquire of me, please inform them of where I've gone."
Then she was up the stairs, hurrying toward the guest chambers. When she reached the door to the room which was hers and Garrett's, she paused only a moment, swallowing hard as she murmured a quick, silent prayer that he was free from harm, at the same time wondering why she should be worrying this way, but for some reason, an uneasy feeling nibbled at the back of her mind and she could not shake it off.
Opening the door, she noticed there were no lights lit in the room and this added to her feeling of uneasiness.
"Garrett?"
"Come in, my dear," said the last voice she had expected to hear in this chamber.
Turning to its source behind the door she was now closing, she looked into the pale blue eyes of her uncle and, as she glanced lower, into the end of the shiny barrel of a dueling pistol he held—trained directly on her.
"U-Uncle, what—?" she stammered, bewilderment fogging her mind, refusing to let her comprehend what she saw.
Then, as her eyes began to grow accustomed to the dimness of the room, lit only by a narrow strip of moonlight which filtered through one of the draped windows, she glimpsed a sight that shot a wave of fear through her body, making her heart feel like a leaden weight in her breast. There on the bed lay Lula, gagged and bound, hand and foot, and beside her in a large basket, Adam lay sleeping. Numbly, like a somnambulant in a sleepwalk, she turned to Philip; then, finding her voice, she could barely control her rage. "What is the meaning of this, Uncle. I—
oh, my God!"
The last words were spoken in an incredulous whisper. "It—it was
you!"
Somehow, despite all the voices rushing about her brain, telling her it couldn't be, she knew.
"You
are the one Garrett's been searching for!"
Philip's voice came to her as if in a dream, a nightmarish dream, she told herself, from which she would soon awake, finding herself in Garrett's arms, with the world quickly set right again.