But lately, her brother had seemed to acquire a startling maturity. Fern had thought she’d liked it. Until now.
She left through the front door, something she rarely did. The lawns out back were more private, and that was where she usually took the sun and fresh air. These dinners were always lengthy affairs, running toward midnight on most occasions. It had become habit for her to keep an eye, first, on the mantel clock in the Gold Room, second, on the tall case clock in the dining room, and third, on the wall clock with Roman numerals in the White Room.
Tonight, however, she’d ignored the clocks all evening. She could only guess it was half past ten or so as she closed the heavy front door and took the flagstone steps down onto the front lawn.A flat-topped, stone wall and perfectly spaced and trimmed hedges blocked most of the lawn from the adjacent sidewalk. The wide drive, lined tonight with black Studebakers and Plymouths, cut along the side of the house.
The cigarette paper grew damp in her palm the more she rolled it between thumb and forefinger. There was no reason to smoke it out here, and yet she didn’t want to toss it to the grass for the gardener to stumble upon Monday morning. She must have looked completely ridiculous puffing away if Mr. Black had felt the need to command Buchanan to teach her how to smoke.
Childish. Embarrassing.She’d wanted to show everyone that she wasn’t who they thought she was, when the truth was …Ferndidn’t even know who she was. Yes, she preferred solitude, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed being a complete recluse or thought of as one.
She made a meandering circuit around the front lawn. The lights pouring through the house windows created elongated rectangles across the newly clipped grass.
Mr. Black had either ruined her attempt at rebellion or saved her from it. All Fern knew was that he’d intrigued her like no one else ever had. He’d looked her in the eye and held her stare; he’d spoken to her, and not just about the weather or news headlines. He’d dared to be rude to her.
Judge Adair’s study was on the ground floor, just around the corner of the house. He had two tall windows and a pair of French doors that led to a side portico. Curiosity begged her to slink around the corner and try her luck at eavesdropping. Buchanan’s reprimand aboutbeing childish, however, stopped her. No poised, sophisticated young woman would allow herself to creep around windows at night like some Peeping Tom. So instead, she continued toward the front stone wall and shrubbery lining the sidewalk.
A part of her knew that once Mr. Black left, he would not be permitted back. Some sort of mistake had occurred tonight, possibly by Tate, or more likely by the hired staff trained to open the door for Saturday evening guests each week.
Mr. Black had offered up more excitement and intrigue than the Adair home had experienced in a long while, and Fern didn’t want it to end.
The study doors leading onto the portico clicked and squealed slightly as they opened, and her father’s voice cut through the dark. She sank back into a corner of the lawn where the stone wall met a hedge of lilacs shared with the neighbors. The light from his study created rippling shadows of the judge and Mr. Black.
Their voices weren’t all that clear, but the sharp gestures her father made with his arms and the tilt of his head revealed his anger. He always cocked his head and peered at people like they were strange specimens under a microscope when he was angry. In contrast, Mr. Black stood with his arms crossed, legs apart, the smoking tip of his cigarette fogging the air around him. Cool as a cucumber, Fern’s mother would have said.
Judge Adair abruptly turned, reentered the study, and closed the doors, leaving his unwanted guest on the portico.Good night, Mr. Black,she imagined her father’s meaning.You aren’t even worthy of a decent departurethrough our front door.After another drag on his cigarette, Mr. Black tossed the butt on the portico flagstones, crushed it with his heel, and walked onto the lawn.
She drew closer to the lilacs, the branches poking her shoulder, the leaves tickling the backs of her ears. An automobile drove by, its headlights brightening the wrought iron gate that centered the front stone wall. It was never locked, and Mr. Black could have opened it easily. Instead, he jumped the low gate and began walking along the sidewalk. He’d come on foot, then. But from where? South Woodlawn was far from downtown, where her instinct said this man spent most of his time.
Stay where you are,the little voice of reason hissed in her ear.Do not follow him. But it was so easy to defy rational thought when one was standing in the dark.
She waited until Mr. Black passed the line of lilacs before quick stepping to the gate and opening it. The well-oiled hinges didn’t make a sound. There was no thought in her head, no reason or excuse, as she sighted Mr. Black’s retreating figure on the sidewalk and started to follow him. She wouldn’t go far…just down the avenue a bit to see where he went.
Streetlamps lit the sidewalk in intervals, and a few passing autos driving south blinded her. But then, a stretch of no traffic darkened the road. So long as she stayed in the shadows, Mr. Black wouldn’t see her. Did he live so close that he could walk to their home? Or perhaps he was headed toward a cabstand. Fern shouldn’t have been so interested in where he was going. Or maybe she just didn’t want to turn back and face her parents and brother.
His easy stride began to outpace hers. She sped up, careful not to let her heels slap loudly on the paved sidewalk. The stretches between the streetlamps began to lengthen, leaving wider pockets of darkness between them. She’d gone a half dozen houses down from her own, but it was a long road, and she couldn’t follow this stranger all night. Truly, what had she thought to gain, other than one last glimpse of the most interesting man she’d ever met?Now would be a good time to stop,the voice of reason whispered.
She let out a slow breath and listened to it. Her feet came to a standstill. Last week, it had been Mr. Clifton who’d captured her imagination, and look how that had ended.
She felt exposed and stupid, what with her coat and hat back at home, along with any sense of pride. She couldn’t even see Mr. Black any longer. He’d gone too far ahead. That was good, she supposed. The temptation to continue following him had dissolved completely. Fern turned around, her good sense reclaiming its hold, and stepped out of the light of a streetlamp, into a stretch of darkness.
That was when a hand closed around her arm.
4
Mr. Black’s darkened figure filled the space before her.
“Did anyone see you leave?” he demanded.
His self-possessed demeanor had vanished. His hand became a manacle around Fern’s elbow.
“Answer me,” he growled. Only a simpleton would have ignored such a harsh command.
“No. I don’t think so, anyway.”
“Why did you follow me?” He kept his grip on her arm, the pressure of his thumb beginning to ache.
“I…I don’t know,” she replied shakily. She was glad she’d chosen the truth rather than a lie. Something told her Mr. Black could easily sniff those out.
“Stupid. Reckless,” he hissed, at last tossing her arm away from him. “Go home.Now.”
