Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      4

      Senator George Hathaway straightened the jacket of his immaculate dark suit and pulled from his waistcoat his grand-father’s watch, the one that had kept perfect time since before the Civil War. He eyed it narrowly. Harlan was due here at six o’clock. If his son-in-law knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be late.

      Crossing the somber library lined with several generations’ worth of classics, he settled heavily into his favorite armchair, noting with surprise that his customary copy of the Washington Post was missing. Normally the morning edition was always set, freshly ironed, on the delicate side table. Then he recalled the servants had the day off for a Christmas event at the local Baptist church. George Hathaway encouraged churchgoing. He himself attended Christ Church, the oldest church in Savannah, as did Harlan and Elm.

      But this past Sunday, Harlan had come to services alone.

      At first he’d worried something was wrong with his daughter—Elm had been having strange spells of sickness in recent weeks, and he’d urged her to seek care. But when Harlan admitted that Elm had left Savannah, whereabouts unknown, it raised another disturbing possibility. There were troubling signs that things were deeply wrong in his beloved daughter’s marriage.

      The senator sighed deeply. In all the years Elm had been married to Harlan, he’d always believed her to be happy. Yet over the past few weeks something inexplicable had occurred and the marriage had clearly suffered. Elm had refused to explain. And now she’d gone away right before the holiday season, without an explanation, leaving no phone number, just a letter saying she needed some time and would call him.

      It was irresponsible and selfish behavior, he concluded, shaking his gray head. Surely he’d brought her up to know better? His son-in-law was a fine young man with a promising future in which he himself had invested heavily. Harlan would go far—all the way to the White House, he hoped—but Elm’s inexplicable actions could only serve as a hindrance.

      Perhaps Harlan was right to think Elm’s recent illness was the reason she was acting in a manner so unlike her usual dutiful self. Still, the senator suspected there was likely more to matters than Harlan was willing to admit. He’d heard a couple of rumors, things he’d have preferred not to have heard. Harlan was a handsome young fellow, he reflected, one who held a prominent position in society and a growing political power base, all elements that caused envy and inevitable gossip. They also attracted an inevitable bevy of women. But Harlan was a caring, loving husband. At least he appeared to be. Surely Elm was too bright to be put off by any silly nonsense?

      Letting out a huff, he raised his tall frame from the deep maroon leather chair near the fire, too restless to read yesterday’s copy of Congressional Quarterly and glanced into the hall at the Christmas tree standing forlorn in the corner. Ever since she was a wee thing, Elm had helped decorate it. The only other year the tree had remained bare until just before Christmas was the year Elm turned five and her mother had succumbed to cancer, he recalled with a sigh.

      Checking his pocket watch once more, he noted with gathering impatience that it was one minute past six. At that very moment the doorbell clanged. With a small nod, the senator made his way across the marbled foyer floor and opened up the massive polished mahogany door.

      “Ah. Harlan, m’boy, come on in.”

      “Hello, sir.” Harlan gave him a tight smile.

      Something about Harlan’s attitude made the shrewd senator suddenly afraid that his suspicions were right and that he had somehow bungled things badly. He sent him a bland speculative glance before leading the way under the heavy crystal chandelier imported by the first Hathaway in 1820, and across the wide-planked pine floors of the library.

      “Any news?” he asked, leaning over a silver tray decked with a splendid array of whiskey-filled Waterford decanters that sparkled invitingly. He poured two heavy cut-crystal tumblers of single malt and turned, handing one to Harlan, who stood, face drawn, next to the Adam mantelpiece.

      “We’ve traced her, sir. She’s staying with Gioconda Mancini in Switzerland.”

      “Thank God for that,” the senator sighed, relieved, and sank back into the sagging leather. “I was getting concerned. So unlike her to disappear like this. Very odd.” He sipped thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off his son-in-law.

      “Well, at least now I know she’s safe.” Harlan threw back the whiskey in one shot, obviously deeply affected by his wife’s sudden disappearance. He glanced at his father-in-law. “I just wish I knew why she felt this sudden need to disappear. I—” He looked down at the carpet, shook his head, then sighed. “I don’t understand, sir. I’ve tried to be there for her, be a good husband. If I’d known she was feeling sick again I’d have gone with her to Doc Philips, but she never told me—”

      “Hmm. I don’t understand it myself.”

      “I guess we’ll just have to be patient, give her the time and understanding she needs to get over this…this idea she’s got in her head,” he murmured, lips tight as he stared blindly through the window into the lush garden, past the camellias and the Roman fountain where two starlings perched, eyes fixed on the ivy-covered wall that for nearly two centuries had protected the Hathaways’ privacy.

      “Well. At least if she’s with Gioconda we don’t have to worry she’ll be properly looked after. We should have thought of Gioconda immediately. It was the obvious place for Elm to go, now that I think about it.” The senator eyed Harlan sharply. “You mentioned that she had some idea in her head. What was that, I wonder?”

      “Oh, nothing serious. Just malicious gossip.” Harlan shrugged dismissively. “They chatter too much over at the Tennis League. Unfortunately, sir, Elm appears to have been listening to some pretty outrageous lies.”

      “Hmm.” Senator Hathaway sent his son-in-law another long, speculative glance. So something was up, after all.

      “It was stupid of me not to have thought of Gioconda,” Harlan said quickly. “I haven’t called there, though. I thought—” he looked across at the senator and hesitated “—I thought it would be better to let her take the initiative.”

      “Perhaps.” George Hathaway pondered the matter, not in the least bit fooled by Harlan’s effort to shift the conversation. He didn’t like it, not one little bit. It was so out of character for Elm to act like this. If Harlan had strayed—and it now seemed possible he had—why hadn’t she just talked it over with him, had it out? Maybe sent Harlan to the doghouse for a few weeks, then patched it up, as all women did. And if she was sick, why didn’t she stay close to her family? But as he watched Harlan, it was clear his son-in-law had more to say.

      “There’s another thing, sir.” Harlan shifted, plainly uncomfortable.

      “Go on,” he said dryly.

      “I got a call this morning from Meredith Hunter.”

      “Oh?” Something in the younger man’s tone told him this was deeply serious.

      “Elm’s asked her to file for a divorce.”

      “Divorce?” СКАЧАТЬ