Chapter Eighty-Seven
Thomas liked his son-in-law, and he was grateful his daughter’s marriage gave him the opportunity to know the boy’s parents. Until that occasion, Curt and Anne McCord had been mere acquaintances. They lived on a large cattle ranch in a sprawling house with unmarried twin boys a few years younger than their older son, Tyler. Even Priscilla was delighted with the family into which her daughter had married. Besides being wealthy and highly respected, the McCords loved and treated Regina like the daughter and sister they’d always wanted but never had. Tyler and Regina’s living quarters had been reconstituted from a barn on the grounds into an enchanting cottage under the artistic direction of Armand DuMont’s home designer. Thomas loved the open, airy feel of both his daughter’s and her in-laws’ houses with their spacious screened-in back porches that allowed a view of the green expanse of the ranch without the annoyance of flies and mosquitoes.
At the McCords’, Thomas felt at home. Today, his family had been invited to a Sunday afternoon barbecue at the ranch. It was April 1887, and his first grandchild was expected within the month. The afternoon’s gathering would probably be the last without the addition of a baby in their midst. Jeremy Warwick Sr. and Bess DuMont had been invited as well. The McCords’ courtesy in including them—the Tolivers’ extended family—in the party was another of the many reasons Thomas appreciated and liked them. Every day he offered a prayer of thanksgiving for his daughter’s fortunate marriage and happiness. For Regina he had no worries. The same was not true for Vernon.
After dressing, Thomas walked down the hall to his son’s room. Vernon, too, enjoyed the outings at the McCord ranch. It was never a struggle for his parents to get him away from Somerset as it was for other events.
“Thomas, the boy is growing cotton out of his ears,” Priscilla told him. “We’ve got to do something—entice him with something—to get him interested in a diversion outside that damned plantation!”
Thomas agreed but did not remind his wife that “that damned plantation” paid for her extravagances she felt it his duty to indulge as fair compensation for other lacks in her life. Vernon opened the door at his knock. What a fine-looking lad he was! Vernon resembled his grandfather more than he did. Thomas could see legacies of the Toliver line in himself—the Duke of Somerset’s green eyes, black hair, the shadow of a dimple in the center of his chin—but he was shorter and of less elegant build than the svelte figure in the hall painting to whom Silas Toliver had been and now his grandson was almost a spitting image.
“About ready?” Thomas said but saw that he needn’t have asked. Vernon was dressed for riding with the McCord twins, who were close to his age of twenty-two. They’d take a canter about the ranch before the meal was served, a good social distraction for Vernon. The boy was lonely. He’d been especially close to his siblings and now his brother was dead and his sister married. He had little time to be with his Warwick and DuMont cohorts, and he’d dropped the dairy farmer’s daughter after he and his father had talked at the plantation last November.
“Yes sir,” Vernon said. “I’m ready. Everybody downstairs?”
“All but us. Jeremy and Bess have arrived, and the carriage is out front. I thought you and I could ride behind. I’ve had your horse saddled.”
“That must mean you want to talk to me.”
“It’s been a while.”
His son had not mentioned the confrontation between his parents he’d happened upon that afternoon last November. It was like him not to. Vernon never minded anybody’s business but his own. Thomas and Priscilla had both stood frozen, wondering how much their son had overheard. Priscilla had tried to smile. “We…weren’t expecting you this early,” she’d stammered.
“Apparently not,” Vernon had said and simply turned and gone up to his room. They’d had supper together, a strained affair, and the next morning Vernon was gone before Thomas came down for coffee. But today he meant to broach the subject of Jacqueline Chastain and clear the air of any thought his son might have of his father having an affair with her.
After that terrible afternoon, Thomas had reconsidered the circumspection of even the brief trade of words he enjoyed with Mrs. Chastain. Others, besides Priscilla’s spy, might notice and speculations would fly. He must think of her reputation, but he simply could not discontinue their Wednesday exchanges without a word of explanation. He considered one last stop by her counter or a note sent to her house, but what if he said or wrote something that made more of their conversation than she’d intended? He had presumed she felt as he did, but what if he was wrong? He had no talent to finesse the truth of her feelings, and what could they do about them if hers were the same as his? He was a married man and Jacqueline Chastain a vulnerable woman alone in a town all too willing to pounce on her for the slightest suspected impropriety.
So he’d done nothing. He’d started meeting Armand at the Fairfax, and he had not seen Mrs. Chastain since.
With Jessica, Jeremy, Bess, and Priscilla ensconced in the carriage, Barnabas driving, Thomas and Vernon on horseback in the rear, they set off. It was an impressive little cavalcade. At Priscilla’s insistence, Barnabas wore livery, a red uniform piped in black and set off with a cravat of fluffy white lace. Two high-tailed, head-tossing black stallions pulled the shiny black coach trimmed in gold. Again, due to another of Priscilla’s unyielding proposals, its doors bore the Toliver coat of arms, a red rose intertwined with instruments of war imposed on a dark green background.
It was a fine Sunday afternoon. They’d attended church services together that morning and Thomas was remembering the minister’s reading from Proverbs: Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.
Vernon was proof of the Scriptures. All the ills of farming—the back-breaking work, crop failures, worry over weather and money—were not enough to make his son consider another occupation like so many other sons of the area’s farmers. Many had been unwilling to work the land of their fathers and had given in to the lure of jobs in the cities or gone off to college to pursue professional careers. But in some ways, Thomas did not wish his example to instruct his son. He must caution Vernon to be careful of the sacrifices he made for the plantation. Vernon must do nothing to tempt the shadow his grandfather—and even Thomas, in weak moments as he’d gotten older—believed hovered over Somerset.
But that was a subject for another time. This afternoon, Thomas wanted to sound Vernon out on the topic of how much of his mother’s tirade he’d overheard and if he were curious about her threats. Priscilla had been drunk, but not so much that her harangue had not carried the weight of belief in what she was saying. Her warnings had left Thomas puzzled. He would not dignify them by demanding Priscilla explain herself, but what things did she know about his family that would singe the hair on every single head in the county? In what way could she hurt him beyond belief, beyond his endurance?
Vernon smiled over at him. “So, shall we talk?” he invited.
Thomas drew his horse out of hearing range of those in the coach. “Son, about that argument you overheard between your mother and me…”
“None of my business, Daddy.”
“It’s your business to know that your father—”
The rapid approach of hooves behind them interrupted his speech. Their horses registered the disturbance and attempted to rear, and Barnabas directed his team a little over to the side of the road.
“What in thunder is their hurry on a Sunday afternoon?” Thomas exclaimed. Nearing them at top speed on their horses were a man and a woman riding abreast. Thomas recognized them as the late Dr. Woodward’s replacement and a local midwife.
The doctor identified the coach and reined to a sharp stop while the midwife thundered on by. “Mr. Toliver, you might want to come with me,” he said, “but hurry.”
“Why?” Thomas asked, suddenly gripped by a terrifying premonition.
“It’s your daughter. The McCords sent word she’s having her baby and a hard time of it. I’m on my way to their ranch now.” Without waiting for a response, the doctor flicked his reins over his horse’s shoulders and sped off in a cloud of dust.
Priscilla had poked her head out of the coach, blue eyes dilated in alarm. “Thomas, did I hear right? It’s Regina?”
“You heard right,” Thomas said, his tone clipped. “Vernon, stay with your mother. Barnabas, be careful of the road in your haste.” He gave the sides of his horse a swift kick and raced off after the doctor, a rush of foreboding like a great wind filling his ears.