Free The Valentine Legacy by Catherine Coulter Page B

stiff in his arms, withdrawn from him; he could feel it. He’d overheard most of what had been said to her, and it made him feel guilty for making her leave. He couldn’t imagine that her life at Warfield farm was all that pleasant. No wonder she spent all her time with the horses. She mucked out stalls. She mended bridles. She rode and raced. She beat him regularly. So surely she was well able to handle her mother and her disconcerting sister and if she couldn’t, well, she could always escape.
    He carried her to the carriage and set her on the seat inside. “There you are, Jessie. I’ll be by tomorrow to see how you’re getting along. Take care.”
    He smiled down at Mrs. Warfield and Glenda. “Ladies, take good care of Jessie. She had a rather rough night of it.”
    â€œI don’t see how,” Glenda said, and stared at his crotch.
    â€œWe’ll find out,” Mrs. Warfield said, and allowed James to assist her into the carriage.
    â€œMove over, Jessie,” she said, as she turned and smiled at James. “Thank you for taking her in.”
    As if I were a drowning puppy and he had found me , Jessie thought.
    James stood quietly, watching the carriage wind down the long drive of Marathon. There were weeds coming up through the gravel on the drive. He’d have to send someone out here to pull them up and smooth down the gravel. Everything looked bare, too. He needed to plant more trees, he thought: some oaks and more elms. He wanted Marathon to look lush, to look rich. Jessie was right, curse her. There was so much that needed fixing.
    Poor Jessie , he thought, then laughed at himself. He’d feel sorry for her . . . until the next time they raced.

7
    T HE SUN WAS shining brightly on that Tuesday morning as James walked down Calvert Street past innumerable publishers and bookstores to Number 27. He’d been coming to Compton Fielding’s bookstore since he’d been a small boy. He walked into the shop with its narrow spaces and dark wood and its walls covered from floor to ceiling with books, many in disordered stacks—Mason’s astute book on water drainage sitting on top of Richardson’s Pamela —but Fielding knew where every single tome was. It appeared to be a slow morning. James didn’t see anyone else, and that was good because he’d heard from Fielding the previous day that his Corneille plays had arrived from Paris. He was excited. He wanted to talk to Fielding about it.
    He rounded a corner and stopped cold. There was Jessie Warfield in deep conversation with Compton. What the devil was she doing here? Surely she didn’t read, did she? Surely all she did was horsey things.
    He grinned at himself and went a bit closer to listen. If she could eavesdrop, so could he.
    â€œMr. Fielding, this is the third time you’ve wanted me to read old diaries. What’s this one all about?”
    Compton Fielding, a scholarly fixture in Baltimore, a fine violinist who played at civic affairs, a man with wide knowledge of many subjects, gently opened the fragile pages. “See, Jessie, it’s well over a hundred years old, from aroundthe turn of the eighteenth century, I’d say. I wish the fellow had dated it, but he neglected to. Old Elisha Bentworth told me I should find old calendars and match days with dates and that would tell me the years, but who has the time? Now, this precious diary covers a span of some three years, most of it spent in the Caribbean. What do you know of those times in the Caribbean, Jessie?”
    â€œNot a blessed thing, Mr. Fielding, but if you want me to, I’ll read it. I did enjoy reading the other two, but deciphering some of the words was mighty difficult.”
    â€œBut worth it?”
    â€œOh yes, particularly the one set in Charleston in the early Colonial days.”
    â€œAh, Mr. Nestor’s memoirs. An odd duck, that Mr. Nestor, but I thought you’d like it.