The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

Mrs. Wyndham was seated on the settee across from Jessie. She looked to be deep in thought.

Glenda ran gracefully across the room to fall on her knees beside James’s chair. “Shouldn’t you have Dr. Hoolahan examine you, James?”

“No,” James said, not looking at her. “He’s doubtless fixing Hackey’s foot. That’s where you shot him, isn’t it, Jessie?”

“I think so. He was sort of dancing around on his left leg. He kicked you with his left foot.”

“He kicked you, too. In the ribs?”

“Yes, but I’m just a bit sore, nothing more.”

“Oliver, are you ready to listen now?”

Oliver Warfield rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know, James. I saw Jessie sprawled out on top of you. I saw her kissing you.”

“She didn’t kiss me.”

“She was sliding her fingers all over your face. Everyone saw that. Oh, all right. Say what you have to say.”

“I was having an argument with Mortimer Hackey. He was threatening to go after Alice Belmonde. He wants her and he wants the stud farm. He wants me to keep my nose out of it. Our argument became rather heated. I hadn’t intended to go out into the garden with him, but I did. There was no reason to cause a scene in the middle of the Blanchards’ ballroom. It would have gotten back to Alice, and she would have been hurt by it. So I went into the garden with him. When he drew a gun on me, I jumped him. The gun went off wildly and we fought. He got the upper hand after I smashed him in the belly. He broke free and he still had the gun. It was then that there was another shot, followed by Jessie hurtling out of the elm tree to fall on top of me. There was nothing more to it than that.”

Oliver Warfield sighed.

Mrs. Warfield said, “I don’t understand why you were there, Jessie. You weren’t going to the Blanchards’ party. Why did you have a gun? Why were you up in that tree?”

Everyone was looking at her, James as well. She stared at her scraped fingers. She wished she could become a peach shade and fade into Mrs. Wyndham’s parlor rug. She looked over at James, and in that instant he knew he didn’t want to know the truth of why she’d been up there in that damned elm tree with a gun, not in front of this group. He said quickly, “I was wondering why there were suddenly so many people in the garden. I heard Glenda calling me. I heard you, Mrs. Warfield, asking Glenda where I was.”

“Ah, well, that was nothing, really,” Mrs. Warfield said, and called out, “I should like some more tea, Wilhelmina.”

“So that’s it,” Wilhelmina Wyndham said slowly, staring at her girlhood friend whom she’d always bullied. “You had told me to come into the garden and bring my friends because you had a wonderful surprise for all of us, me especially. My God, you wanted all of us out there as witnesses. I told Glenda that you schemed and connived well, Portia, but this time it didn’t work. You wanted all of us to see Glenda and James together. It was all a plot, and you didn’t tell me a bit of it.”

“No!”

“Yes, Portia. Just look at Glenda. Her face is all red, and there might as well be a sign on her forehead reading GUILTY. But Hackey and Jessie here botched everything. Now Jessie is ruined, my son looks like a seducer of virgins, and will thus become far more romantic in every silly female’s eyes. I do wish you’d stop trying to deny that you and Glenda plotted between the two of you to trap him into marrying Glenda. If only you’d discussed it with me, I could have helped you foresee all the possible difficulties. But you didn’t, and look what’s come of it.”

Jessie had had enough. She managed to get to her feet without moaning from all her bruises. “This is ridiculous. I’m not ruined. I’m the very last virgin James would attempt to seduce. All of you know it was just a silly mix-up. I’m going home. Father, will you come with me?”

“Your face is scraped,” James said, rising slowly himself. “Be sure to wash it well.”

“I will. Don’t worry about Hackey, James. Tomorrow at the track he’ll be racing that knobby-kneed three-year-old of his and I’ll make sure his jockey winds up in the dirt.”

“Jessie, mind your own business. Now, is everyone quite through with all of this?”

“I want to know what Jessie was doing there,” Mrs. Warfield said, standing now, staring down at her daughter. “Why were you there, Jessie? The truth now.”

James was on his feet in the next instant. “I’m through with all this. I don’t give a good damn why Jessie was hiding up in that elm tree, but I’m glad she was. I fancy she saved my hide because Mortimer was going to shoot me. Now, I’m leaving. Ladies, Oliver, good night.”

“I don’t know, James,” his mother said, “maybe you’d best wait a bit.”

“I’m leaving, Father,” Jessie said, and walked with a limp to the front door, ignoring her mother’s loud voice behind her.

James was there beside her. “Come along, Jessie, I’ll see you home. It?

?s the least I can do in payment for your shooting Mortimer in the foot.”

They rode side by side, down Sharp Street, crossing over to Waterloo Road, then to Calvert Street. It began to rain—heavy, cold sheets of rain. The sky was blacker than a bucket of coal. They both were wearing hats, but it did little good. The rain was coming down sideways, slapping at their coats and their unprotected necks. A sudden gust of wind sent Jessie’s old hat into a ditch and out of sight. She slapped her hands to her head too late. “Oh dear,” she said. “It was the only one I could find in the trunks.”

He handed her his gentleman’s top hat.