Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“How odd it is, to be sure,” Drew said in a sardonic voice. “If you had your way, Lizzie would have a baby within a year and be a grandmother by the time she was thirty. How would you like to be a gra

ndmother, Laurel? After all, you are well past thirty, are you not?”

Laurel shuddered, but her voice was hard. “Spare me your European sensibilities, if you please, Drew, and I am not well past thirty.”

“I have been home for two years now, and you haven’t celebrated a single birthday.”

“Drew, why don’t you go visit New Orleans?”

“All right, Laurel, I’ll cease and desist. It’s going to get hot soon. I don’t know how you ladies can bear all those heavy clothes.”

“To be quite honest, it is very uncomfortable. But what is one to do? I can’t very well stroll about in breeches and an open linen shirt as you do.”

He laughed. “A sight to boggle the mind.”

They were drinking lemonade under the shade of a huge cedar when Mammy Bath, wheezing and yelling all at the same time, came dashing into the garden. “Missis. It’s the massa. He’s home, my little boy is home.”

Laurel grew very still. “Your premonition, Drew.”

“It would appear that I do possess powers of which I was unaware. Well, my dear, it’s been nine years, hasn’t it? My wandering, wild brother, home at last.”

“I suppose it’s time for me to face my trustee,” Laurel said. What is he like? she wondered yet again. Will he still find me beautiful? Of course he would. There would be no problem, she would see to it. And if there were—

Byrony allowed Brent to assist her from the open carriage. “Wakehurst,” he said.

“It’s beautiful, and just as you described it. But the trees and flowers, Brent. I couldn’t have imagined anything so old or so glorious. Those are azaleas, are they not? And magnolia trees? And gardenias? Everything is so green, so lush.”

Brent smiled at her excitement. “Yes, yes, and yes, and I agree,” he said. “Now, are you ready to meet the inhabitants?”

The first inhabitant was Mammy Bath. She flew down the deep steps of the mansion and into Brent’s arms. “My baby. Lordy, my baby is home. Oh, you handsome boy. And so big.” Her gnarled black hands explored every inch of his face, her smile huge and unwavering, her teeth as white and healthy as Brent remembered as a child.

“Mammy, come now, you’ll make this lovely lady jealous. I want you to meet my wife, Byrony Hammond.”

“Mercy, mercy, you’ve got yerself a missis! Look at that little alabaster face. Where did you find this sweet baby?”

Byrony was too taken aback to move or say a word. She was hugged tightly by the scrawny little woman and examined just as Brent had been.

“Mammy’s an institution,” Brent said once the old slave had ceased her wild chatter. He looked up at that moment, and his eyes met Laurel’s. God, but she’s beautiful, was his first reaction. He supposed that he’d imagined she would be an old, tired crone after the passage of nine years. And Drew. A man now. Brent broke away from Mammy Bath, his stride firm, his eyes intent.

The two men met on the bottom step of the veranda.

“Brent,” Drew said. “As I live and breathe, you do exist. Lord, but you’re big.”

“And you’re all grown up. I remember a skinny little kid who was always covered with blobs of paint.”

They embraced. Laughed. Embraced again.

Laurel stood stiffly quiet, her eyes not on the two brothers, but on the woman who remained in the drive beside Mammy Bath. Brent’s wife. Byrony’s face was shadowed by her bonnet. Her clothes were wrinkled and travel-stained, and her hands were clutched in front of her like a nun. She looked like a nonentity. Laurel smiled, and gracefully made her way down the steps. First things first, she thought, and waved.

“Welcome to Wakehurst,” she called out. She hugged Brent’s wife.

“How tired you look, you poor creature. May I call you Byrony? Thank you. Please call me Laurel. After all, not many years separate us. What a terribly long trip you’ve had, no doubt. All the way from San Francisco. Did you spend some time in New Orleans? Ah, what a lovely city, so unusual. And your riverboat trip up the Mississippi? A week was all, isn’t that right?”

Byrony felt dull-witted. All she was required to do was nod or shake her head.

“Brent,” Laurel called. “Come, your wife is ready to sink to the ground with fatigue. You and Drew can reminisce and joke and insult each other to your heart’s content, but later. Othello. Lloyd. Come out here and get the master’s luggage. Mammy, why don’t you see to Brent’s little wife. Would you like your own room, dear? No? How odd, well, no matter. Mammy, take her to the master’s suite. I vacated it, of course, after my dear husband passed away.” She felt a slight frisson even as she said the words. She couldn’t wait to be gone from that dreadful, dark room with its smell of sickness. “It’s Brent’s now. Come along.”

“Thank you,” Byrony finally managed to say, and trailed after the beautiful woman.