The Roswell Legacy Frances Statham (mini ebook reader .txt) 📖

He took her hand and kissed it. “Tomorrow,” he whispered, and hurried out the door.

“Move over, Browne,” he said. “I don’t know about the horses, but I certainly need another run to clear my head.”

“Mr. Jonathan, the sooner you get back to Kentucky with that little gal, the safer it’ll be for everybody in Washington.”

Jonathan did not follow his advice to Ginna. Far from ignoring the travesty done to her, he was furious. Angel sensed his unrest, breaking into a fast stride before the carriage had disappeared down the street.

Like the wind they traveled, leaving the more sedate carriages behind in a trail of dust, while Browne once again held on to the box and wondered if he would live to see his wife, Crete, again.

“Nathan, one more time of staying away all day without letting me know where you are, and I vow I’ll pack you off even before the school term begins.”

Araminta’s day had not been a good one. By midmorning, she had given up trying to remove the stain from her thumb. She had been forced to wrap it in a bandage. But that was not a good idea, either. Especially if Charles demanded to look at the bogus wound. She had even contemplated cutting her finger, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And then to be faced with a runaway eleven-year-old …

Nathan hugged the jam jar, now filled with tadpoles instead of jam. He glanced sideways at his mother. And he knew he’d better keep quiet.

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I lost track of the time. Pinky and I—”

“I don’t want to hear that boy’s name. He’s a bad influence on you, Nathan. And you’re not to see him again. Ever. Is that understood?”

“But, Mama—”

“There’ll be no arguing with me, young man. I’m going to see that your father gives you a good hiding when he gets home.”

A miserable Nathan hugged the jar even closer to his chest as he edged toward the side of the carriage. His mother’s bulk had taken up his share of the seat, too. It wasn’t that she was that large. She just seemed so when she was angry. And during those times, Nathan had a feeling that he might smother if the carriage happened to lean too far in his direction.

“Stop fidgeting, Nathan. You’re going to spill that creek water all over me if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll be careful, Mama.”

Barge whistled to the horses, slowing them down as they pulled into the alleyway. He finally drew up at the rear entrance of the brownstone and hopped down to help his mistress from the carriage.

“You’d better start out for the clinic immediately, Barge. Dr. Forsyte will be waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mama, may I ride with Barge?”

“No, Nathan. You’re to come inside and clean up.”

A sympathetic Barge glanced at the boy and then quickly became absorbed in adjusting the horse’s bridle until Araminta turned her back to go inside.

“You better put those tads in the pond right away, Nathan,” Barge whispered. “They had a rough trip home.”

“I know. I think one’s already dead. He’s floating at the top.”

“Nathan!”

“I’m coming, Mama. Just as soon as I find my wet stockings.”

Nathan ran around to the side yard, hurriedly emptied the contents of the jam jar into the small garden pool, and was back by the time Barge pulled out of the alleyway again.

An hour later, a quiet Forsyte family sat down to supper. Charles looked at Araminta and then at his two children.

“I trust everyone had a pleasant day,” he said.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Not everyone, Charles. I certainly didn’t. But I’ll wait until after the meal to discuss it. I don’t believe in airing problems at the table, as you well know.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, Araminta.” Charles was also aware that it was Araminta’s way of spoiling the family meal—the promise of some insignificant problem, blown out of all proportion, hanging over their heads like a sword—a sure deterrent to good digestion.

Ginna began to eat in the English manner, with the fork in her left hand. As she lifted the fork to her mouth, the light caught the sparkle of the ring.

Charles said, “What’s this, Ginna, that I see on your finger?”

“My engagement ring, Papa. Jonathan gave it to me this afternoon.”

Charles laughed. “So that’s why you’ve been sitting there as quiet as a little mouse. Just waiting for someone to notice it.”

“The ring belonged to Jonathan’s grandmother,” Ginna explained. She held her hand out for her mother to see. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Mummy?”

Araminta frowned. “Personally, I’ve never cared for emeralds.”

Before Charles had a chance, Nathan defended the ring. “Green is my favorite color, Ginna. Golly, your ring is almost as pretty as Green Boy.”

Ginna laughed. “Thank you, Nathan. To be compared with your favorite frog, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Well, it might be even prettier,” Nathan conceded grudgingly. “Green Boy isn’t studded with diamonds.”

Charles smiled at his two children, while Araminta looked decidedly sour. Her opinion had been completely ignored. It was almost as if she were not even at the table.

Her mild twinge of guilt about her behavior in the attic studio vanished, and her eyes narrowed as she watched Charles with his children. Even Nathan was growing away from her.

Cassie was right. The only way Araminta could ever hurt Charles would be through Nathan or Ginna.

CHAPTER

17

A pall of heat, heavy and stifling, lay across Washington, with no sign of rain to bring relief. Along the avenues, even the trees with their parched leaves curled tight seemed to have given up all hope for respite from the summer heat.

In the White House, on that early August afternoon, the ceiling fan droned overhead in the presidential bedroom as a recovered President Cleveland sat up on the edge of the Lincoln bed and began putting on his shirt.

“You’re progressing quite nicely, Mr. President,” Charles Forsyte said. “The sutures have healed well and your