Camellia’s delighted, “Good evening, Mr. Barclay, and welcome,” did little to ease what seemed to be waves of ill will emanating from several of those present. Like clouds of black ink, only these invisible, thrown off by octopi. “I’m Camellia Forrester, Letty’s oldest sister. I’m very pleased to meet you at last. Won’t you have some coffee with us? And there might be some cake left, if Gabe hasn’t eaten it down to the crumbs.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Despite the fact that his air of chilled aloofness was perplexing, she gave hospitality a game try, anyway. “Then, please do sit down and join us. We’ve only begun—”
“Thank you, ma’am, but not right now. Is your husband around?”
“Why, yes, he’s gone to—”
“We got fresh company, Cam?” Ben, all unsuspecting of the edgy atmosphere that had taken hold of the parlor just within the last minute or so, emerged from his library with whiskey bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
The softened light, at this time of the evening, was dependent upon hearth fire, kerosene lamps, and flickering candle flame. Not the brightest of illumination, to be sure. But enough for all those in the room to see Ben’s rugged face drain of blood and go white under its tan.
“Company, indeed. This is Letty’s young man, Ben. This is—”
“Cole,” said Ben. And the bottle slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.
There might have been no others about, scattered here and there, but these two men and whatever shared history lay between them.
“Cole?” Camellia turned to stare. “No, Ben, darling, you have it wrong. This is Reese Barclay.”
“His name is Cole Reese Forrester,” said Ben in a harsh, clotted voice. “And he’s my brother.”
Chapter Twelve
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN eight o’clock of a crisp October evening; it might have midnight of the same day. Sisters, friends, in-laws and future in-laws: not one person was stirring from his or her seat after the shock of that revelation.
Even Camellia, she of the welcoming warm heart when it came to guests in her home, could not get her throat to open for speech as to whether everyone was comfortable—clearly, no one was; whether anyone wanted more coffee—clearly, no one did. It was more likely that the entire household would soon be taking their turn at that bottle Ben had dropped.
At the moment, only Letitia managed a word. A squeak, actually. “Brother?”
Time stopped, out of mind. This pause, this interlude, where all movement was stilled and all sound was silenced, might have been inserted whole and entire into a bell jar, crystal clear but frozen.
Ben, his voice no longer harsh but husky, had repeated the name: “Cole.”
Those watching were astonished to see the tears in his eyes.
“Cole,” he said again. “And I had thought never to see him again in this lifetime.” And lumbered forward with arms outstretched, to wrap the newcomer in a breath-clenching, lung-crushing bear hug.
At least three of the ladies were weeping quietly but ashamedly into their handkerchiefs. Letitia
alone was too stunned to feel, even to react, as her brain cells attempted to process what had just taken place, and what this astonishing disclosure might mean.
Somewhere, in the depths of her confoundment, came the flash of a mental question. Was this the barrier that had kept—was keeping—the two of them apart? If a confrontation between the brothers were the only obstruction preventing marriage, then hadn’t that problem just been resolved? Why wasn’t Reese sitting here beside her right now, apologizing, explaining, supporting?
Once some of the hullabaloo had died away, and Ben had pulled the younger man down onto a chair for a confab about what he’d been up to, Reese did finally glance her way. It was, oddly enough, a sorrowful, poignant glance whose significance was lost upon her. He had come a long way; he had a long way still to go. And they two, seated barely ten feet apart, might have been separated by the steppes of Siberia in distance and chill.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Camellia could no longer sit quietly and decorously in one area. She rose with alacrity to demand, “Where on earth are my manners?”
“What is it, Cam?” Molly and Hannah asked almost in unison.
“Well, for one thing, any sort of sustenance makes talk easier. And, for another, I do declare, my nerves are just jumping all over the place. I feel like a bug on a hot rock, and I have to move or get swallowed up by some big ole fr
og. This is a night for news!”
“A real celebration,” said an astounded Gabe, who seemed to be barely recovered from the latest volley.
“Come on, girls, let’s get some coffee going. Or tea. Or more of that wine, if we have any left. Reese, you—oh, my word, Ben, I simply can’t imagine where to start. Don’t you say a word until we have some refreshments put out, y’ hear? I want to listen to every detail.”