The Roswell Legacy Read online

  The fact that she was late in arriving home worked in her favor. Allison dashed up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Rad was struggling with the studs of his shirt.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, turning her face upward for a quick kiss. “I’m sorry I let the afternoon get away from me.”

  “We were beginning to get worried about you.”

  “So Jonathan told me.”

  “Well, no harm’s done. Unless you take an hour to get dressed for dinner,” Rad teased. “I just got home a few minutes ago myself.”

  Allison walked toward the bath, but as she reached the door, she had a desperate need to stop and look back into the bedroom, to watch Rad as he casually ran the silver brush through his dark hair. He was gray at the temples now, and only slightly heavier than on that day he’d ridden home from the war.

  As he turned around, their eyes met. “What’s this? Something wrong with my evening suit?”

  “Have I told you lately, Major Meadors, what a fine-looking man you are?”

  He grinned as she disappeared into the bath. But once she was out of the room, the mirror reflected a sober, thoughtful Rad. He was much more perceptive than he let on. Only this time, he didn’t guess the new disaster that had shattered Allison that day. It was July again. For him, that was reason enough.

  By the time Allison came out of the bath, Rad had gone downstairs, and Maggie, a young Irish girl, was waiting to help her dress.

  “It’s raining so hard, ma’am,” Maggie said, “would ye be wantin’ to wear your rainy daisy instead of your longer skirt?”

  Allison had hardly noticed the rain until the girl mentioned it. “No, Maggie. I’ll wear whatever you’ve already laid out for me.”

  Allison was like a doll being dressed. She held her arms up so that the gown slid over her head. She was only vaguely aware of its color—pale yellow lace, with satin ribbons tied at the cinched waist and the fluffy jupons falling in graceful folds at the back. Still wooden, she sat at the dressing table while Maggie repaired her hairstyle, finishing it by clipping on an evening ornament of jewels and small feathers.

  When the carriage appeared in the porte cochere, Allison’s dress was covered by a light cape to ward off the rain, which showed no signs of abating. With Rad at her elbow, she stepped gingerly over the small puddles and climbed into the carriage. She felt the chain of the small yellow lace evening bag on her arm. Maggie had seen to that, too.

  Allison didn’t know when she’d paid less attention to the way she looked. If it hadn’t been for Maggie that night, she more than likely would have been an embarrassment both to herself and to Rad.

  “I’m glad you’re here in Washington with me, Allison. Official dinners can be so boring, even at the Drakes’s.”

  Rad’s words sounded as if they were coming from far away, through some tunnel.

  “I don’t relish this night, Allison,” he confided. “All of the vultures will be there, looking at me and wondering how much of the carcass they’ll get to keep once the committee has finished with it.”

  “Surely it won’t be as serious as that.”

  “Not during dinner. But once you ladies retire and the cigars and brandy are handed out, all hell will break loose. A pity you’re not in a delicate condition, Allison. That way I’d have an excuse to leave early.”

  “Well, actually, I am beginning to have a headache. Would that be a suitable excuse?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Not for Peggy, or Tripp, either. We’ll just have to stick it out, Allison, however unpleasant it gets.”

  Allison turned her face away. The fear and despair that had come upon her that afternoon began to weigh even more heavily. But for Rad’s sake, she would have to maintain a semblance of composure. She could not come apart in front of his colleagues. And because of that, Allison knew that the evening would be one of the worst she would ever have to live through.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Charles Forsyte had long ago ceased to think of himself as Coin. That part of his life had been put aside, a gate locked—with no desire on his part to look beyond it.

  But the legacy of the past had finally caught up with him, forcing him to tear down the decades-old barrier he’d set up. Now he would have to deal with the old hurts, the sense of anger he’d felt on that day when he’d finally found Allison. From a distance, he’d watched her, standing in the winner’s circle at the Saratoga racetrack with another man.

  He’d wanted to call out to her from the crowd, to tell her what he had been through for two whole years. That it wasn’t fair for her to make a new life for herself, even if he had been reported dead. He was alive, and now that he’d finally found them, he wanted his wife and daughter back. They were a part of the dream that had sustained him.

  Then he’d seen her servant, Rebecca, on the green, tending to Allison’s new son, Jonathan. And he knew then that the dream was gone. He had found Allison too late.

  With Rebecca sworn to secrecy, he’d left for Canada, never intending to return from that wilderness. For Allison’s sake, he would remain dead, a victim of the carnage between North and South.

  Now his past was finally reaching out to snare another victim: his daughter Ginna.

  Through the years, the child had helped to ease the pain of his unhappy marriage to Araminta, as well as the pain of losing Morrow, his daughter by Allison.

  He had seen Morrow only once—with Rebecca, that same day at Saratoga. The war had kept him from being present at her birth. And in the end, it was the war that had parted them for a lifetime.

  Yes, Ginna had received not only her own share of a father’s love but the portion that Morrow would have received, too. Until Araminta had guessed her vulnerability and begun to use Ginna as a means of striking back at Charles. Fortunately, Nathan had fared better.

  But now Ginna was more vulnerable than ever, and there was little Charles could do to protect her. Out of all the people in the world, how had Ginna managed to meet the one young man who could bring such discord into their lives? He blamed himself for sending her to Washington a full three months before he and Araminta had left England.

  For the past half hour Charles had ridden along in the carriage with little thought of the other doctor, Bennett Jamison, seated opposite him.

  Finally, the man cleared his throat and spoke. “I suppose the others are already in New York.”

  “More than likely.”

  “I have an uneasy feeling, Charles. I realize the need for secrecy, but the president should be operated on in a decent hospital, not on a yacht sailing the East River.”

  For the first time, Charles took a hard look at his colleague. “What, precisely, bothers you, Bennett?”

  “The instability of water, for one thing. What if the boat hits something or the water suddenly swells just as the scalpel is—”

  “Do you usually get motion sickness?”

  Bennett gave a start. “How did you know?”

  Charles smiled. “You’re beginning to turn a little green around the gills.”

  “I don’t believe anything escapes you, Charles.”

  “You’re quite wrong, Bennett. Sometimes I even think the more apparent things are to other people, the more obscure they seem to me.”

  Bennett laughed despite his discomfort.

  “The yacht will have a lot less motion than this carriage, I assure you,” Charles went on.

  “Then perhaps I’ll survive,” Bennett answered.

  The two looked at each other but said nothing more. The last word used by Bennett prompted Charles to think of the president’s chances of survival. Cancer was a dreadful disease in any part of the body. But cancer of the mouth was particularly dangerous, with the chance of gross disfigurement even if the patient survived.

  It was merely intuition on Charles’s part, yet he couldn’t help but feel that Cleveland’s love of cigars had played a role in the disease. He had seen it in England with men who smoked excessively-—whether cigar
s, pipe, or opium. The clinics had been filled with them.

  The carriage wheeled its way through the countryside, slowing down for a stray cow or pig in the road and then regaining its speed. As the wind began to rise, Charles watched the boats, tiny specks upon the watery horizon, trim their sails and head for home. But by the time the carriage arrived at the basin, few had reached the safety of the boat slips.

  All around him, the air was alive with the vibration of halyards, thumping like some out-of-control bass fiddle. And from the sound Charles knew that their trip on the water would not be a placid one. For himself, he did not mind. But like Araminta, Bennett would not be the best of passengers.

  Because of the rough trip from England, Araminta had not been interested in getting on the water again, however hot it was on land. And so the previous week he had taken only Ginna and Nathan on the excursion down the Potomac to Mount Vernon, to give them a history lesson of their own country, which they’d never before seen.

  That day had been so perfect, with Araminta unable to spoil their enjoyment. Now, as Charles and Bennett arrived at the marina, he was once again glad to leave Araminta behind, even for a few days.

  In the low, sloped curve of the basin, a special white yacht, its polished brass catching an occasional glint of sun, sat unobtrusively in the water. It was a replica of the others usually berthed at the marina. Only the flag was different—green and yellow, with a small white crescent in the upper left quadrant. Standing guard were two burly-looking characters in deckhand clothing, a suitable disguise, Charles thought, for the president’s men.

  The carriage did not go directly to the waiting boat. Instead, it drew up behind a tackle shop, where the two doctors were quickly ushered into a small room with its single window obscured by layers of dust.

  “You will please change clothes in here.”

  Outside, a dog barked, while the odor of bait, trapped in the afternoon heat, permeated the dingy backroom. An old gray tarpaulin had been spread on the floor, and hanging on two hooks were two suits: cleanly pressed white duck trousers, shirts, and navy coats with gold buttons. Each suit was carefully labeled with the initials of one of the doctors.

  When Charles saw the costumes, he laughed. “If the aides wanted anonymity, they should have provided simpler clothes. I’ll feel like a riverboat captain on the Mississippi in this outfit.”

  “It’s really a good disguise, Charles. This is the official dress of the Georgetown yacht club. We’re right in style. But, of course, you wouldn’t know that, being from England.”

  Charles started to say something but changed his mind.

  Within a few minutes, the two men had stripped themselves of their street clothes and put on the others provided for them. By the time they emerged from the tackle shop, carrying fishing gear, also provided for them, the carriage they had ridden in was gone. In its place was a second carriage.

  “Damn!”

  “What is it, Charles?” Bennett whispered.

  “Our bags, my medical kit … They’re in the other carriage.”

  There was nothing to do but go to the boat and tell the president’s men they couldn’t leave until they chased down the bags. And so, with Bennett, a chagrined Charles, blaming himself for letting his medical kit out of his sight, climbed into the second carriage for the short ride the rest of the way.

  As the carriage pulled alongside the boat slip, one of the men stepped forward to open the carriage door. “Dr. Forsyte?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Dr. Jamison?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will please come aboard quickly.”

  “We can’t leave yet,” Charles responded. “Our suitcases were left in the other carriage—”

  “They’re already in your quarters.”

  “The medical kit, too?”

  “Everything. Now I’ll take your fishing gear for you, if you’d like.”

  As soon as they set foot on deck, a third man was waiting for them. He was another burly, mustached fellow, tanned from his life on the sea. “I’ll show you to your quarters. I’m afraid you’ll have to remain belowdecks until we’re safely out of the harbor. We hadn’t counted on all the boats returning so soon. But once we’re on the waterway, you may come up on deck at any time.”

  “I daresay you won’t be seeing me until we reach our destination,” Bennett said. “I plan to spend the entire journey on my back.”

  When Charles reached his quarters, he saw his medical kit with his suitcase. But he would not be satisfied until he opened it and made sure all of his equipment was safe.

  His medical instruments were made of the finest English steel, a sacrifice on his part when he’d purchased them. But now they were an extension of him, fitting his hands perfectly, never disappointing him in what he required, however intricate and delicate.

  They were all there, none the worse for his brief lapse of stewardship. Satisfied, he closed the case and set it beside his luggage.

  Charles’s image was reflected in the opposite mirror, the same round shape as the small, open porthole, where the stiff breeze was beginning to penetrate the cabin. Except for the lines marking his forehead and the slight, almost imperceptible slackening of his jawline—both natural signs of getting older—his face was still that of the young man who’d fought on the losing side in the war. He parted his sandy hair on the left, not in the middle. His shoulders were still straight, his body still of medium height and weight. But nevertheless he was a totally different man. Too much had happened in the after years for him to remain the same.

  The metamorphosis had begun in Canada in the logging camp. With such hurt knotted in his gut, Charles had welcomed the physical labor that allowed him to strike out at the trees.

  With the starting up of the yacht’s engine, there was nothing for Charles to do but wait until the boat was out of the marina. He took off the navy-blue coat with its gold buttons and hung it up. Then he lay down on the bunk, and with the steady, soothing hum of the engines, the movement of the boat slicing through the water, Charles closed his eyes.

  Long-ago images flashed through his mind: the great Canadian wilderness, with trees that reached toward the sky; logs floating in steady convoy downriver; logs jammed, the walking-across floats, the path cleared, and the small boy, struggling in the water while ten tons of wood rushed downstream toward him …

  “Hey, Reb, clear out fast,” a voice shouted. “The sluice gate’s open.”

  That was the warning that struck fear in every logger’s heart, especially the troubleshooters who rode the floats. But for Charles, it was an everyday occurrence, just a part of the new job he’d taken on. He was the man with nerves of steel. For him, the extra money meant little. Rather, it was a game, challenging fate since he had nothing more to lose but his life.

  Barely in time, he crossed one section of logs, balancing himself with the logger’s pole. Directly behind him, the telltale roar of water announced the approach of virgin timber felled from the high country. It was a massive migration to the sawmills, like salmon rushing relentlessly to their spawning grounds.

  Just as he was ready to jump clear, he heard a man’s cry. “My boy! My boy! Somebody save him!”

  Downstream, directly in the path of the logs, a child’s head, encased in a red toboggan cap, bobbed up and down in the water. The anguish in the man’s voice was the same deep anguish Charles had felt on the day at Saratoga when he’d given up his own wife and child as if they were dead.

  The boy had one slim chance of survival. And it depended on the man riding the logs.

  Charles remained on the float, balancing himself with the pole. A sudden jolt knocked his feet out from under him and wrenched the pole from his hands, sending it into the water like a swift harpoon. The new timber had taken its place behind him.

  The current was running swift because of the melting lakes of snow in the spring. Charles struggled to his knees on the slippery logs.

  “Save him! Save my boy!” t
he voice cried again.

  With the second cry, the wooded banks along the water began to fill with loggers, who put down their axes to watch the tragedy unfold. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw only blurs of red woolen plaid dotted among the trees, for his attention was aimed at the small blob of red almost directly in front of him.

  With one, and only one, try allotted him, a wet and cold Charles poised to scoop the child from the water.

  In a rapid movement, Charles grabbed the child and rolled backward immediately to keep them both from disappearing underwater as the first logs divided.

  For a moment, Charles panted hard to get his breath back, while the child in his arms coughed up water. The easy part had been accomplished.

  They were now in the middle of the flotilla heading mercilessly downstream, the logs ramming and annihilating everything in their path.

  Charles had never ridden the logs this far downstream before. The river was much wider now, presenting an acute logistics problem in his getting to shore. As Charles debated how much longer to ride the logs before attempting it, the distant roar of a waterfall ahead decided it for him.

  “Climb on my back, son,” he ordered, “and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  The child was too scared to do anything else but obey. His arms went around Charles’s neck in a near stranglehold.

  Charles’s first attempt at standing was not successful. He went to his knees again as the logs shifted. Then, on the second try, he came up quickly and took a balancing step. The step was followed by another and still another, as Charles carefully wove his way across the logs to the bank.

  But the bank had changed drastically in the past several hundred yards. No longer on a level with the water, it formed a ragged bluff, with the stream cutting deeper into the wilderness. A rainbow of mist caught in the filtered sunlight, announcing the peril of the falls beyond.

  The few remaining logs separating Charles from the bluff gave way, and man and child plunged into the icy water. A parting blow from a log struck Charles in the side, but it was not severe enough to pry the child from his back.