grimaced and shook his head. "Pinguescent quidnuncs? Caleb, if I weren't so damned fond of you, I'd think you were strutting around with your hands behind your back, spouting like some English barrister in order to drive me crazy. I've been there; it wasn't a pleasant trip. Humor this old rascal; what is a pinguescent quidnunc?"
Caleb wore a mischievous grin. "A rather plump gossip monger! And because the Mathew twins thrive on being more informative than the newspaper, my job of introducing you just became remarkably easier. Every mother with a daughter of marriageable age should be after you."
Clicking his tongue, Fletcher frowned. He shunned the idea and slapped the table with his hand. "I want my life, not a wife!"
Caleb slanted across the table. "I've no doubt the Fletcher I know will cause this venture to result in the best of both." He extended his hand, his brown eyes suddenly dark with emotion. "And it is to that end that I, for one, will go to great lengths to stand between you and anyone who attempts to keep that from happening."
Fletcher didn't trust himself to speak, only to grasp the proffered hand between both of his own. He had been away too long from those few left whom he loved and who loved him; the profound rush of sentiment weakened him. It also strengthened his resolve: with few exceptions, never would he allow someone close enough to hurt him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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Fletcher couldn't help himself. Despite Caleb's warning, he found himself drawn to Seabrook as the herring are drawn back to the creeks to spawn. Profoundly entrenched in him was a yearning to be where he belonged. The feeling wounded him, importuned him until he was powerless against it. One afternoon of the following week, he left a note for Caleb, saddled Whiz and rode off.
They cantered for a distance, horse and rider feeling the warmth of the sun and enjoying the beauty of the cloudless sky. As they drew near to the marker that was the boundary of the property, Fletcher slowed Whiz to a walk. With its vast acreage, Seabrook was more impressive than he remembered. At the end of the pebbled lane was the stately mansion built by Fletcher's ancestors five generations before. He stopped the horse and gazed at the home he had lost.
The manor house, once graced by many famous and influential guests, was a beauty of Georgian design flanked on either side by formal boxwood gardens. As he rode farther, Fletcher could see many of the dependencies—the smoke house, milk house, kitchen, tobacco barn—the places where he had played and laughed as a child. There had been contentment in those days like an idyllic land of Eden and, as soft breezes soothed sweet floral scents across the lush earth, he beheld a land still retentive of charm and grace.
Fletcher had been the chivalrous knight but too headstrong and wild to have concerned himself with the daily management of the plantation. Now, as if from war—his own personal war—he had returned disillusioned and no one's hero. He pushed on to the creek where he and Kyndee had had their fatal crossing. He dismounted and left Whiz to graze.
He walked a distance until he found the place he sought. The tree they had used remained across the water, overgrown and covered with moss. New saplings grew from the trunk, creating the illusion of handles. Anyone could cross now with ease. In his mind's eye, he saw Kyndee with her sun-kissed hair framing her face, standing on the other side. He could still see her captivating smile, her emerald eyes. He had known she could make it. Kyndee had the courage of a lion and the grace of a gazelle. But he made her laugh too heartily. He saw her falling...falling, hitting her head, knew he couldn't save her from the water.
Afterward, Fletcher had never seen his father as angry. He fairly shook with his anger. His mother had pleaded for her son but Samuel Stedman, in a low harsh tone, told Fletcher he had to understand responsibility and foolishness and recognize the difference between them.
Willingly, he had borne the beating because he knew his father was right. On a reckless dare he'd risked Kyndee's life, knowing full well she would not back down. The marks had stayed with him. He wore them proudly and hoped his father in some way knew that he had learned the lesson well.
Fletcher heard a movement behind him and spun to meet the danger. But instead of Buck, it was a manservant. Fletcher judged him to be about his same age, possibly older.
"Is you lost, suh?" said the man. "Ah doan know who you be, but Miste' Stedman ain' gwine ter lak you a ridin' hyah. Dis hyah is Seabrook Plantation an' so is ever'thin' you see—"
Fletcher recognized the man as soon as the first words fell from his mouth. Don't do it, an inner voice told him. You have to keep your identity a secret. But he needed a way into Seabrook. He needed help from the inside. He found that help in the man standing before him.
"You can drop the 'master' talk, Silas. We both know you're putting it on for my benefit," he said with an amused grin. He had grown up with Silas who was exactly one year older than he was—one year to the day. They had been more friends than master and servant, and Fletcher had secretly found it entertaining to watch Silas turn his language on and off.
"Ah is sho Ah doan know what you mean, suh," Silas replied.
Fletcher strode closer to the other man. "Look into my eyes, Silas, and tell me again you 'doan know what Ah mean, suh'."
Silas extended his neck, tentative at first, and gazed into Fletcher's face. He squinted his eyes and looked at him sideways. His lower lip quivered and beads of sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. Then his eyes widened, and he backed away.
"Lak Ah tole you, Ah doan know who you be, an' Ah ain' sho Ah wanna know 'cause you ain' nothin' but a ghost."
Fletcher laughed out loud. "I'm not a ghost, I assure you, Silas. Although certain people have tried their worst to make me one."
Silas was not easily reassured apparently. He stepped back and stood with arms akimbo. "Ef you be who you look lak, then tell me de myst'ry of de mare," he said smugly.
Without a moment's hesitation, Fletcher related how he and Caleb had enlisted Silas' help in putting one of the mares to his father's stallion and placing bets on how long it would take him to mount her. The next day they found out that she had been scheduled to be bred to a different stallion from another plantation. Fletcher had sworn them both to secrecy, and they had all hoped the mare's night of frenzy hadn't taken. However, eleven months later, Samuel Stedman scratched his head and wondered how the foal she dropped could possibly have come from the stallion he chose. From Silas' question, Fletcher assumed the mystery had remained a mystery.
"Sweet Jesus! Ah nev’r tole that story to no otha livin’ soul. Only one man would know that secret—Lordy, Miste’ Fletch it is you!"
Fletcher extended a warm hand to his boyhood friend. "Yes, Silas. It's been a long time, but I've come home at last."
"Miste’ Fletch, what in blue blazes happened to you? We heard you was kidnapped, and we never knew what became of you. 'Cept for that scar, that terbull voice and that ol' hairy beard, you don't look none different."
Raising an eyebrow and casting him a grin, Fletcher asked, "If I don't look none different, how come you had to have proof who I was?"
"'Cause I lied. You look like the devil hisself, and I wanted to keep you talking so's I could start runnin'," Silas shot back, laughing.
Fletcher sobered and his face turned to a scowl. "That's because I've been to hell and back."
Silas
