Fletcher," was the most he could force out.
The warm welcome he expected was not forthcoming. Caleb appeared indignant. He slapped his gloves on his hands and straightened his back. "How dare you, sir!"
"How dare I what? Use my own name after having another forced on me for ten years?"
"Sir, I don't know who you are or what you want. But it is a cruel jest you make, and I must ask you to leave immediately."
Fletcher reached out his hand to his friend, "It's no jest, Caleb."
The other man slapped away the proffered hand. There was a flash of anger in his face as he answered. "Not that it is any business of yours, sir, but Fletcher Stedman was my closest and dearest friend. When he disappeared ten years ago, I mourned him as one would a brother. Surely I would know him again should he come upon my door. Now be gone from here before I call the authorities."
Call the authorities, would he? "And when the authorities come should I tell them of the cat you buried under the arbor so you wouldn't have to explain to Mrs. Bonner's daughter that you mistook it for a squirrel and shot it?" Some of his tension had eased, and Fletcher was grinning.
Caleb studied him with a fierce scrutiny as though not willing to believe what his brain told him might possibly be true. It was Caleb’s turn to be tense. "You could have found out about that through dozens of people," he protested, his voice taut as a strung bow.
"Then perhaps I should tell them how you rode your father's stallion without permission and that your broken arm was caused by your unscheduled flight from his back and not from the river as we'd claimed. Or perhaps I should tell them—"
Caleb's mouth dropped, his eyes opened wide, and his eyebrows squeezed together. "It’s not possible.” His face paled. “No!” He shook his head and stepped back. “No. This is a cruel game you’re playing, and I demand you leave, sir!”
Fletcher’s grin disappeared and his heart sank. He scoured his memory for another shred of proof, any shred. He yanked the thought from the back of his mind just as Caleb stepped inside and attempted to shut the door. “What if I tell you the mystery of the mare?”
His friend stopped short, visibly shaken. “The mystery of the—? No one...only...my God...Fletcher? You old rascal, take off your hat. I want to see your face." He took Fletcher by the shoulders and stared intently into his eyes. "It can't be!"
"Have I really changed that much?"
Caleb blinked his eyes hard, shook his head. "Frankly, yes! Your voice is so different, so raspy." He brought his face closer and peered into Fletcher's eyes again. "Dear God, Rasc, is it really you? You've got so much hair on your head and your face, it's hard to tell who's in there."
Fletcher was heartily laughing now. "I remember when you once told me you were jealous that I had something to shave and you didn't."
"Rascal!" Caleb shouted and threw his arms around him, pounding him on the back with his hands. "How? Why? Damn it, what happened to you? It was horrible when the word came that you'd been kidnapped—"
Passersby were staring at the commotion, and Fletcher indicated the door. "It's a long story, a very long story. But I'd rather not start it here on the street. I want to keep my return a secret, at least for now. Am I invited in?"
"Of course, of course. After you, old boy." He beat Fletcher on the back and playfully shoved him.
Fletcher arched his eyebrow. "Old? You always did take that two month difference in our ages too seriously. Well then, stand aside and allow this tottering old man to reap the privileges of his station."
The two of them walked through the entryway of the Jenkins' home and into the paneled library. Although sizable and elegant, the room was warm and comfortable. Gracing the library was an oversized desk of darkest mahogany. With the exception of the fireplace, the entire room was filled with shelves and shelves of books.
Fletcher remembered this room. It felt familiar and natural to be here—where they had first been tosspots on Mr. Jenkins' brandy, where they'd tried their first cigars and coughed until their throats were raw, where being young and cavalier, they'd planned their strategies as to how they were going to talk Kyndee into dancing every waltz with them at the next social gathering.
When he entered the room, Caleb sank into the nearest chair as though exhausted by Fletcher's sudden reappearance. "Rasc, I don't understand this. What happened to your voice? The rasp...it’s so damn—” He cleared his throat. “Where have you been all this time? There was no word. We gave up hope years ago. Have you been to Seabrook? God, Rasc, do you know about—" He stopped and sucked in an anxious breath. "Do you know about your father?" he asked, visibly sorry he had to be the one to break the terrible news.
"Yes, I know," Fletcher said with bitterness. He walked to the fireplace, leaned his arm on the mantel and rested his chin on his hand. "I know about my mother's blindness, too."
"I'm sorry, Rasc," Caleb said, his voice heavy with compassion. "I know how much you loved your father and how much he loved you. He tried everything to find you. Must have been horrible for you to hear that after coming back from— Where the hell were you anyway?"
Fletcher groaned and ran his hand across his eyes. "Let me pour myself a glass of sherry and get comfortable. It's been a long ride and an even longer ten years." He pointed to the tray. "May I?" He poured them both a glass from the decanter and held up his glass to toast his friend. "God, it's good to see you, Caleb, and it's good to be home."
* * *
It was late into the evening before Fletcher finished his tale, and Caleb finished his questions.
"That bastard!" the sandy-haired man shouted as he shot from his chair and paced the room. His brown eyes darkened; his face wore a black scowl. "How could he have had the nerve to weep as he told the tale of your kidnapping, as he begged forgiveness of your parents for coming back alive when their precious Fletcher had been taken." He shook his head in distinct disbelief. "The son of a bitch kept saying over and over, 'It should have been me; it should have been me'." Caleb snorted in disgust. "I remember how your distraught parents had comforted him as he had clung to them like a frightened child. What an actor! When all the while it was him—plotting and scheming." He smacked his fist into the other palm. "I want to kill him!"
"I know, Caleb, I know," Fletcher said, quiet and pushing back deeper into the Chippendale chair. He pressed his glass to the side of his face because exhaustion suddenly wearied him. He had forced himself to tell Caleb everything, at least almost everything—some parts he could never tell, not ever. But having finally shared those hellish years with someone who understood him, having shared the heavy burden of his hate, he experienced a long sought after yet fragile and fleeting moment of peace and drank it in like nectar. "Would it be possible to stay here with you for a few days? Sorry I didn't give you any advance notice," he chuckled, "but it didn't seem quite the thing to do under the circumstances."
Caleb pushed the hair from his forehead. "Blasted! Of course, you old rascal; stay as long as you want. There's plenty of room, and anyway we've a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about what's been happening around here while you've been gone." He grunted. "The political folderol and hand-dipping are enough to make you madder than a hornet, but I can see by your face that you're beyond rational thought."
"That I am," Fletcher answered. His close friend, and a glass of fine sherry...yes, it felt good to be there. Closing his eyes
