Healing Grace (7 page)

“Slow down. Casual is key here,” Etienne murmured evenly to Trent. “We’re not confronting them. We suspect nothing. We’re merely thanking them for coming. Got it?”

“Fuck off,” Trent fumed.

Etienne quickened his pace to keep up, rolled his eyes and spoke without moving his lips. He had to. They were close enough to the unexpected funeral guests to require the precaution. “If you want to get the man who killed your father, don’t lose your temper and blow this.”

“Like I said, fuck off,” Trent retorted. “I’m sure you’d feel differently if we were talking about your father.”

“My father was murdered, too. Unlike yours, mine was shot in the back. Remember that, dipshit.” Etienne plastered a smile on his face, not for Trent, but for the men they approached, now within an easy ten yards and closing. At least his comment shut Trent up.

Already, Etienne had perused the unwelcomed guests’ attire. No telltale bulges protruded from under their coats. If they were armed, it could only be at the back, or by one of the newer Colt or Smith and Wesson revolvers, like his own, that were small enough to be easily concealed. Or knives, of course. Knives too, were easy to hide. Etienne kept his old faithful in his boot. Even so, he was fairly certain their visitors weren’t intent on malice. Not now. It wouldn’t fit the profile, nor would it make sense after the way Luther had been gunned down.

It was too late to remind Trent that he’d do the talking. Etienne expected the hotheaded Emerson to start ranting any second. Surprisingly he didn’t. As soon as they were near enough, Stone was the first to speak.

“Colonel Grace, Mr. Emerson.” He bowed graciously, and then as if he could read their minds, or perhaps in response to Trent’s scowl, added, “We didn’t come to cause upset to anyone, and hope that our presence hasn’t done so. We remember Luther fondly, and wanted to offer condolences. He was a good friend.”

“How did you know about the funeral?” Trent demanded.

“Harry sent word,” Stone said. “David and I took the stage up from Pulaski right away.”

Etienne held out a hand and waited for Stone to put his in it. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

“No, we haven’t. Nathanial Stonington.”

“You were a colonel during the war, weren’t you? The legendary Stone?” Etienne asked amicably.

Stone chuckled. “Not so legendary, I’m afraid. But you are, Colonel Grace. Your reputation precedes you. How is your brother, the major, and his family?”

“Mourning, but otherwise well. Thank you for asking. You’ll excuse them for not coming to say hello, I’m sure.”

The pleasantries continued. In turn Etienne shook each of their hands, all the while summing them up. Harry Simpson was timid and overly subdued. David Houser wasn’t quite as bad, but still humble. Edward Murphy was of more interest. Not only because Murphy was a suspect, but because of Sam. It was no wonder Sam wanted nothing to do with his father.

Greeting Edward Murphy was like swallowing rancid milk. You didn’t realize until it was down your throat that something was off. What exactly that was, Etienne couldn’t pinpoint. But the instinct was bitter enough for the skin on his palm to shrivel just from gripping the man’s hand.

“Nithe to meet you,” Murphy intoned, his tongue flicking between missing front teeth. “My thon thpeakth highly of you.”

“As he should,” Etienne countered. Julien was the one who had knocked Murphy’s teeth out, leaving him with the pronounced lisp. So as not to give away his burgeoning humor, Etienne turned to Stone and asked, “Are you in town long, Colonel?”

Stone shook his head and smiled wryly. “No. David and I leave in the morning. The wife’s already mad at me. I have to get home before she hires a locksmith and changes the locks.”

“I understand.” Etienne chuckled. “But at least you have tonight. Funerals are never pleasant, but they do provide an opportunity to connect with old friends and colleagues. I’ll tell you, after being subjected to ladies’ tears all day, I could use a night out in good company. Isn’t there a saloon in town you gentlemen frequent? Luther used to speak of it. Rosie’s, or something like that? Trent, what’s the name of the place again?”

“Rothie’th ith a rethtaurant,” Murphy interjected. “We go to Fithher’th Tavern, by the lumber yard.”

“Fisher’s, that’s right.” Etienne smiled. “My mind must be failing. I don’t suppose any of you have plans this evening? Would you mind if Trent and I tag along?”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to the tavern tonight,” Murphy said. “Bethides, Thtone don’t drink whithkey.”

“That’s right. I don’t,” Stone said. “David and I are staying at the inn by the train station. We’ll grab a bite there and turn in for the night.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” Etienne shrugged. For now, he’d heard enough. Closing the exchange by thanking them for coming and promising to pass along their sympathies to the rest of the family, he turned and started up the hill. Thankfully Trent followed. At first Etienne hadn’t been sure he would.

Regardless, next steps were already formulating in Etienne’s mind. The strategy would work, as long as Trent and Julien agreed to it. Sam’s connection, though not ideal, was invaluable. And there was someone else in the neighborhood who could be of help. Undoubtedly, as any close family friend should on such a day as this, the schoolteacher would remain at Grace Manor until late this evening. It seemed another escort to the schoolhouse grounds would be in order.

“This is perhaps a bit forward,” Etienne said, as they rode into the small rear yard behind Constance’s house. He was smiling ruefully, though his expression was difficult to see. The overcast skies made the night almost pitch black. “By chance would you have coffee? I need it to keep me from falling asleep on my way back.”

Constance laughed. She certainly hadn’t expected him to offer to accompany her home a second time. Nevertheless, not long after the evening meal following the funeral, he had. They’d been on the way to the parlor when he’d stopped her and said there was something of importance he’d like to speak about. Would she mind if he escorted her home again. They could talk privately on the way.

Oddly, the only conversation they’d had so far involved the schoolhouse and her students. And his questions had been posed out of curiosity. After all, how could lesson plans, recess games and the personalities of her students be of importance? It was interesting though, to learn that his adjutant, Sam, was Archie Murphy’s oldest brother. Etienne told her Sam was estranged from his father. The adjutant had left home years before to join the army. During the time their father had been in prison, Sam had sent money to help his siblings. While speaking of the Murphys, Constance took the opportunity to share her concerns about Archie, and it was relieving to do so. After that, Etienne steered the discussion to another student.

His request for coffee was unexpected, but Constance didn’t mind. She certainly had no reason to question his motives. Last night, as Emily had promised, his manners had been impeccable, helping her brush down Izzy, walking her to the rear door, and politely saying goodnight.

The insinuation that he was tired wasn’t unwarranted, either. With the funeral and everything else, it was understandable. As it was, Constance’s own eyelids were drooping. Unless she wanted to go straight to bed, which she didn’t, a cup of coffee was a welcomed idea.

“I’d be happy to brew some,” she told him just as a raindrop landed on her nose. “Let me see to Izzy first.”

“If you make coffee, I’ll take care of the horses,” Etienne suggested, grinning.

More rain splattered them as Etienne lifted her down from the sidesaddle, but Constance barely noticed the precipitation. By now she should have been used to this—the warmth of his hands encircling her waist, the shadow of his much larger frame, the mist-like scent of leather and morning dew drifting into her senses. The closeness, as it did every time, made her lightheaded. But, as always, an excuse came to mind. His nearness didn’t cause the momentary dizziness. This time the cause was fatigue.

It wasn’t surprising that Etienne finished his tasks with the horses before Constance could complete hers. First she had to go around lighting lamps so she could see, then weariness kept her fingers fumbling at the stove. The water was just beginning to boil when a knuckle tap at the door caused her to jolt.

“Sorry,” Etienne murmured through the screen. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll wait out here on the step.”

“That’s not necessary. You’ll get soaked.” That was true enough. By then, the rain was coming down steadily.

And she trusted him. First, because he was an officer, which meant he adhered to an honor code—or was supposed to, but she wasn’t going to reexamine that piece of her reasoning now. Second, he was related to the Emersons, and knew of her friendship with Emily. Because of that he would never do anything improper. And third—the most comforting of all—they weren’t married. That alone kept her safe.

“Please come in and make yourself at home,” she told him.

And goodness, but he was a big man. He had to duck to keep from bumping the door frame. As it was, he made her ceiling look low.

“The sitting room is through the hallway. I’ll bring the coffee as soon as it’s ready,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Further evidence that his request was sincere came from the crescent-shaped hollows beneath his eyes. Perhaps it was the dim lamp light, but the bruised circles were prevalent. In the darkness she hadn’t noticed, but how had she not at Grace Manor? The modern estate, with its gas lamps throughout, was as bright in the evenings as it was in the middle of sunny summer days.

Etienne moved past her into the hallway and shivers fishtailed down her spine. From the back, with his hat off, he was indeed the spitting image of George. Except Etienne was taller.

Constance’s house was small, so even though she could no longer see him, she could hear his footsteps. He was meandering around. By the creak in the floorboards, she knew when he stopped in front of the bookshelves. He stayed there for a while, perusing her books perhaps, or the trinkets she had on display. After that she wasn’t sure where he went, because everything became silent. When finally she carried the tray complete with coffee, cream, sugar, bread and cinnamon butter—her favorite treat—through the hallway, she had no idea where he might be.

She came into the sitting room and stopped short. He was slouched on the sofa, long fingers dangling off the arm, head angled into the corner, eyes lightly closed. In the few short minutes since he’d sat down, he’d fallen asleep.

Constance tiptoed, carefully overstepping the spots in the floorboards that creaked the loudest, set the tray on the table and sat in the chair across from him. From there she had an ideal view. Indeed he was a handsome man, more attractive by far, than George had been. For a moment her eyes settled on his mouth, the fullness of his bottom lip, then the hint of whiskers above the thinner upper one. A similar shade dusted his chin and the pronounced line of his jaw. Next she took in the arched brows and long lashes casting faint shadows beneath them. Eventually her gaze came to rest on a strand of curly hair falling over his brow. It was the only part of his appearance that wasn’t perfect. Although she knew him to be older by several years, that one disruptive curl made him seem younger, and it made her smile.

How long she sat regarding him—or scrutinizing—she didn’t know, but it was a while because when she reached for it, the coffee was no longer steaming. Embarrassed, she busied herself pouring and doctoring her cup with cream and sugar. To go along with the coffee, she spread the slices of bread with cinnamon butter, all the while refusing to let her eyes stray toward her guest.

She was concentrating on the warmth of the mug between her fingers and the sweet cinnamon on her tongue, when his deep voice startled her so badly she jumped and almost choked.

“Do you play chess?” he asked. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open. “You have a set over there, on your shelves.”

Constance had to swallow before she could speak. “Yes, I play. I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was.”

He sat up and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Constance poured for him. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black,” he said smiling, and took the plate with bread she handed him. “I don’t suppose you would consider a match at this hour?”

Constance watched him drink, then sample the bread. “I don’t know. It’s rather late…” she hemmed.

“Did you make this bread? It’s fantastic. And so is this coffee. I needed it,” he said. “Please. Just one game? I can’t remember the last time I had a decent opponent. Sam is…
er
… terrible.”

Chuckling, Constance couldn’t say no.

Soon enough they were seated across from each other at the small dining table, the chess board and all its figures set up between them. Whether it was the refueling effects of the coffee, or the way Etienne outsmarted her within five moves, or even the way he grinned and teased, “Gotcha!” Constance wasn’t sure, but she was determined to prove she wasn’t that poor a strategist.

They weren’t long into the second match when she was sure she’d figured him out. Etienne’s little quips about her moves, some complimentary, others constructive, and still others prying, weren’t solely intended to amuse. He wasn’t trying to engage in dialogue when he went off topic, either. His questions were about random things, like how she learnt to bake bread, which book out of her excessive collection was her favorite, had she really read Voltaire in its original French, who had taught her to play chess so well? At one point he went off on a tangent, telling laughable stories about cadets at the military academy. These weren’t meant to entertain. They were ploys to distract her, to throw her off guard, so he could sneak right by and win.

Constance wasn’t about to let him get away with it. Not this time. She gave as good as she got. Her brother had taught her to play when she was young, and her brother was a master. And yes, she had read Voltaire. Even though she couldn’t speak French well—unlike him, who only knew the language because of his mother—at least she could read it. She got him to admit he couldn’t read a lick of it. With tales of her students’ pranks and foibles, she had him laughing, too.

Everything was going well and she truly was enjoying herself. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a good time, or participated in such enlivening repartee. That is, until Etienne said something that rattled her.

“So, your beau came to the funeral today? I gather you didn’t know he was going to be there?”

“My…my beau?” Constance stuttered, but she knew who he meant.

“Emily says Harry Simpson’s been calling on you. You had dinner with him the other night.”

Constance stared at her bishop, unable to remember for the life of her, the move she’d intended. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Do you like him?”

“He…he’s been kind, but…”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Etienne said. Constance supposed her startle must have shown, because he added, “That move you’re about to make.” With nary a change in inflection, he went on, “But you’re having second thoughts about Harry? Because of Trent’s insistence that you stop seeing him? Or because of what Trent and Julien believe he did?”

“I don’t know what to think about Harry.”

“Told you, bad move,” Etienne said. His long fingers skittered over the pieces, picked a bishop and slid it quickly across the board. “Check.”

“Phooey!”

Etienne chuckled. “Sorry. But all is not lost. You can pull out of this. If it’s any consolation, I think Trent and Julien are wrong. I don’t think Harry’s responsible for Luther’s death.”

“You don’t?” Constance looked up, once more completely diverted from the game.

“No, I don’t. And if you enjoy his company, you shouldn’t worry about what others think. Emily and Trent will come around.”

“How can you be so sure? About Harry, I mean?”

“Because Trent and Julien’s theory is wrong. These men were just released from prison. Why would they risk committing a crime that would send them right back?” He paused. “We know Luther’s death was orchestrated by the Klan. What no one is considering is that Luther was an unfortunate pawn.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Luther’s death was the Klan’s means to another end. Luther wasn’t their target. Someone else is.”

“Who?” Constance moved a pawn—one of the few she had left—a purely defensive move, to shield her king. She was too struck by the turn of the conversation to do anything else.

“My brother,” Etienne said. He wasn’t looking at the board. His eyes were locked on hers. “Julien is the target. The Klan wants Julien.”

Constance was speechless. All she could recall was earlier at the funeral when Etienne had gone down the hill to talk to the four men. He’d taken Trent with him, and told his brother to go nowhere. He’d told his adjutant, if Julien moved, to shoot him in the foot. At the time Constance had thought Etienne was joking. His goal had been solely to ease the tension. Apparently she’d been wrong.

“You know what Julien did to the Klan a decade ago,” Etienne said. “They consider him their greatest enemy. And Luther became his father-in-law. What better way to ensure Julien would come to Tennessee? What kind of son-in-law wouldn’t attend his father-in-law’s funeral?”

“So, what you’re saying is the Klan killed Luther to lure Julien here. And now that he’s here, you believe they’re plotting to…to murder him, too?”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Then Julien should leave. He should take his family and return to Washington right away.”

“Good advice,” Etienne said. “Unfortunately my brother’s stubborn. He won’t leave until Luther’s killer is caught.”

“Well then, we need to figure out what the Klan is planning, and in what manner they intend to go after Julien. It’s the only way to prevent… another tragedy.”

“Yes.”

“What about Grace Manor? Will Julien and everyone else be safe there? What about the children?”

“If you’re wondering whether the estate is secure, it isn’t. It’s not gated or fenced. Property lines can be crossed from almost every direction. But I don’t think the Klan will go there. Grace Manor is Trent’s property. They may not like Trent, but their vendetta isn’t with him. They’ll corner Julien while he’s out.”

“Well then, he shouldn’t go out,” Constance stated.

“Easier said than done. I’ve convinced him to stay put for now. The problem is the longer they’re kept waiting, the more antsy the Klan will become.”

“Then time is of the essence,” Constance said resolutely. “I’ll talk to Harry. I’ll find out what I can about the Klan. He was part of them at one time, so he may have connections. He’ll be a good source to find out who’s involved and what their plans are. It’s the least I can do.”