Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
the distance, the whistle of the train spooked Whiz causing him to prance and jig, but Fletcher quieted him with a gentle hand and a soothing word. He remembered how unsettled he had been the first day he'd heard the whistle of the train that brought his cousin, Buck, to live with them. Buck's parents had been burned to death in a tragic fire which had claimed their home in western Virginia as well. Being his closest relatives, Fletcher's parents had offered to give him a home.
Though the same age of twelve, much to everyone's surprise, there had been an instant animosity between the boys. To please his parents, Fletcher made several offers of friendship, but Buck had scoffed him again and again, preferring to remain with the older generation and win their praise. Refusing to make further attempts, Fletcher had gone on with his life, treating Buck's presence as nothing more than a mere inconvenience.
As he rode past the silversmith and the jeweler, he thought of browsing for a gift for his mother, but he resisted, deciding he could wait until he was settled. The confectionery was tempting; he had not had good chocolate bonbons in years.
Bonbons. Lady Bonbon. Kyndee.
His brows furrowed with the feelings that coursed through his veins, and he shook his head. Best to move on quickly. He chirruped, and Whiz broke into a trot.
The first person he was going to see was his boyhood friend, Caleb Jenkins. He chuckled to himself when he thought of him, for Caleb had been as reckless and wild as he. Together they'd been in and out of more scrapes, covered for each other more often, and told more tall tales than any two red-blooded youths had a right to. But in those days they were young and dauntless and had terrorized and exasperated their respective parents as well as the county at large.
He turned off tree-lined Kynlyn Street and started winding his way through the many side streets. On his right he viewed the elegant home of the pompous and somber Mr. Lowell Geddy. The stodgy old dolt had scared the wits from Caleb and Fletcher as they were coming home from a delicious evening, having spent it in the company of two vixens from Madam Louisa's House of Ladies.
The fact that they'd had to bribe their way in had added an extra bit of spice to a truly lascivious night. Of course he'd had to convince Caleb to accompany him, but once Fletcher had shoved a large roll of bills into the bodice of Madam Louisa's meager shift, Caleb had lost everything: his clothes, his inhibitions and his innocence, in that order.
Later, Fletcher had grasped Caleb by the shoulders and was attempting to usher him home lest he should be seen in his condition, when Mr. Geddy walked up behind them. The older man had been outraged by their appearance and their state of intoxication, declaring he would be sure to mention it to their fathers.
Caleb had been too embarrassed to speak. He had simply stood in seemingly silent agony, gripping Fletcher's shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep from falling and lending truth to Mr. Geddy's accusations.
Fletcher had had enough lucidity and audacity to mutter a cockalane, ending it with a greeting from Madam Louisa to Mr. Geddy himself. The man's instantly stiff scarlet mien assured Fletcher the bluff had hit its mark: he and Caleb could sleep well that night and, casting him a devilish grin, Fletcher bade the corpulent Mr. Lowell Geddy do the same.
Fletcher drew the gelding to a halt. He stretched and shifted in the saddle. He had changed to the flat English tack when he entered Virginia. Whiz fought the different feel of the new bridle and saddle but graciously accepted the difference in weight. Glancing in every direction, Fletcher tried to get a bearing on exactly where he was and where he wanted to go. He was heading more by instinct than by memory.
Despite how close they had been, it was not without trepidation that Fletcher Stedman approached the door of the Jenkins' home. He was about to lift the knocker when the door swished opened and, without warning, he was face to face with Caleb himself.
"Yes, sir. May I help you?"
He was the same Caleb, a little older, a little more polite but his chestnut hair was still slightly tousled, the knot in his neck cloth not quite perfect, and his nose a trifle to the left side of his face from having broken it at least five times.
Fletcher stood speechless. In the powerful silence, the clever remarks he was going to make, the teasing he was going to do when Caleb didn't recognize him, even the mundane hello he was going to use if all else failed, were frozen inside his head. He could not force them through his brain and out over his lips. He simply stood mute.
"Sir, are you all right? May I help you? Direct you somewhere perhaps?"
Fletcher overcame the urge to embrace him. "Caleb?"
"Yes? Do I know you, sir?"
"Caleb...it's...I'm...I'm 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