Millicent, Southern Hearts Series, Book One Read online

  Charles knitted his brows together and tapped his forehead. "Just like at home?"

  "Yes. Which puzzles me. Why would the same issues occur in two different states so far apart? I've racked my brain all morning for clues but nothing is coming to me."

  "Perhaps you're asking the wrong questions."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you looking at political issues in the two states? Are you thinking about similar businesses? Are you considering people, families? What are you looking at exactly?"

  Stephen pondered Charles' question and said, "Give me a minute." He grabbed two sheets of paper and a quill and jotted every business in his hometown as well as those he remembered from Bayou Sara. Next, he wrote the surnames of plantation owners. Closing his eyes, he visualized Millie's letters and wrote every detail about people and places he could remember. Finished, he handed two lists to Charles.

  "What do you think?"

  Charles gazed at the pages so long Stephen started to become impatient. When he lifted his head, a wicked grin covered his face. "Did you pay attention to the name of the general stores?"

  "I was too busy trying to remember to really pay attention. Besides, if I did all the work what would be left for you to do?" Stephen smiled and Charles rolled his eyes.

  "Since you've decided to enact your lazy streak, I'll show you what you missed."

  Charles placed the lists side-by-side on the desk. He pointed to one name written on both pieces of paper: Wright's Mercantile.

  Stephen stood and slapped the desk. He started to rush toward the door but Charles grabbed his upper arm.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to tell Henri Beaumont his family friend Chandler Wright is possibly swindling him."

  "And why would he believe you?"

  "Because–"

  "That's right; he won't. You need more proof. You don't even know if Chandler's family owns both stores, or that he knows what's going on."

  Stephen relaxed. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us."

  ****

  Will this afternoon ever end? thought Millie.

  Taking the initiative, she'd led Michael to a comfortable spot in the garden. The enclosed area allowed some privacy for conversation. The place also allowed a clear view of the study window. While Millie twirled her hair around her finger, Michael spoke.

  "My wife died of malaria. When I was a young man we traveled extensively. I took her to the wilds of Africa and to the ruins of Rome. History fascinated her. She wrote all about our travels in journals. One day I might publish them."

  "Interesting."

  "Since we never had children, we found solace in each other's company."

  Millie nodded and gnawed her lip.

  Michael stared straight ahead. "Rissa was the light of my life. From the time we married, we spent every waking moment together." He faced her and bowed his head. "I'm sorry to bore you with my remembrances."

  Guilt assailed her. Could she not be kind and listen for even a moment? Millie grabbed his hands and gazed into his aging face. "I want to hear more about your wife."

  Michael smiled as he talked. Together they laughed about Rissa's antics. "In the mornings, whenever we visited a new town, she would wake, walk onto the balcony, and yell, 'Good morning world.' Rissa was filled with joy and happiness."

  "She sounds like an exciting woman. Where did you meet?"

  "Funny you should ask. We met in a most unusual way. I had traveled from Virginia to meet my betrothed in Texas. Our communication through letters allowed me to fall in love with the young maiden beforehand."

  Michael paused and Millie urged him to continue.

  "You may not believe me. The tale is unusual."

  "Try me."

  Michael's eyes glazed over. "I stopped for a brief respite in Tennessee. Since I'm tall, traveling by coach hampered my need to stretch my legs. I decided to stay a few days in the town of Memphis. Several people at the hotel urged me to walk alongside the Mississippi River. After staring into the raging waters for the first time, I knew I wanted to see them again. So the next day I went back. Near the shore was a young woman. She walked close to the water, keeping her eyes closed. As the waves licked at her feet, I panicked. I ran toward her, grabbed her around the waist, and drew her away. When she opened her eyes she was furious. She claimed she was listening to a song in her head and I'd disrupted the music.

  "I showed her where she'd stood in relation to the river and her mood changed drastically. She claimed I'd saved her from death and assured me I was her soul mate. She said we were meant to be together. Nothing could keep us apart."

  "What about your betrothed who waited in Texas?"

  Michael didn't respond and Millie drew her brows together. He said, "Don't be angry, Millicent. I didn't leave my betrothed."

  "You didn't? I don't understand."

  "Don't you see? Rissa was my betrothed."

  "What?" asked Millie, shocked at the revelation.

  Michael smiled. "I know it sounds too good to be true, but her family had taken a trip to Memphis at the precise time I had traveled across the country to meet her. Of course we didn't know that at first. The little trickster had used a false name when writing her letters to me. She said that in case I wasn't the man for her, it would be easier to elude me. Imagine my surprise when I discovered she was the same person I'd fallen in love with. I couldn't have been happier."

  Millie stood and paced. Several times she looked at the study window, yet Stephen had moved away.

  "Have you ever written to a man before?" asked Michael.

  "No, but I do have a pen pal that I write to. I tell her everything."

  "Such as?"

  "Oh, you know. My favorite color, my favorite flower, my private thoughts. How much Mr. Hughes, my tutor, drives me crazy on a daily basis."

  Michael laughed. "You can't know how much I wish Rissa and I would have had a daughter. You remind me a lot of my dear wife."

  Millie sat beside him and clasped her hands in her lap. "You know Michael, this will not work."

  Michael drew his lips downward. "I know. I guess I just wanted someone to talk to. Thanks for sharing my memories."

  "You're welcome."

  Michael stood. "I know my time isn't over, but I think I would like to go inside."

  "Of course."

  "Again, thank you."

  Millie nodded. She didn't move from her spot. Something about Michael's story struck a chord and she struggled to place her finger on it.

  "Millie, did Michael leave early?" asked her father as he joined her on the stone bench.

  "Yes."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. Poor Michael. When Rissa died it's like he lost everything."

  "That's why I've always been so happy to have three beautiful daughters. If anything ever happened to your mother–" He sniffed.

  "Father, let's not think of such things."

  "Of course, this is not a time for sadness."

  "Has Stephen discovered where all our money has disappeared to?"

  Henri sighed. "I don't think so, my little dove. But I'm sure he will."

  Millie jumped from her seat. Sunshine, my lady, he'd called her, yet never once had Stephen called her my little dove.

  You know how sometimes you wish you could change something. Well, I wish I could change the name my father calls me. Little dove. Seriously, why did he have to pick something like a bird as my nickname?

  Recently I learned female doves are brown and ugly. Only the male bird is white and beautiful, so what does that say about me?

  Stephenie was the only person who knew how much Millie hated being called little dove.

  "Millie, dear, what is it? You're as white as a sheet."

  "I'm fine father. I just need to do something."

  Henri stared at her as she ran toward the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "I tell you he knows. I don't know how he knows, but he does. He
brought me a rose right before Chandler burst into my room spouting his nonsense about orchids.

  "And then all the unique pet names. Why not call me little dove like father? Father uses it all the time and everyone believes I like it."

  "Don't you like it?" asked Amelia.

  "Of course, I don't! What is there to like about being called an ugly bird."

  "But father said they were white, and pure, and beautiful, and–"

  "I know, I know, they remind him of me. I've heard all of this before. But I would rather be like you; his little flower, or like Cora, his petite squirrel. At least a squirrel is soft and cute."

  "And from the rodent family," said Amelia.

  "Don't change the subject." Millie stood and walked to her bedroom door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to confront Stephen. I know he's read my letters to Stephenie and I'm going to find out how and why. Those are my private thoughts. He had no right."

  Amelia grabbed her upper arm. "Millie, slow down. You can't just run into the den and accuse him of reading your letters. What if he doesn't have a clue as to what you're talking about and then you have to explain it to him? What then?"

  Millie shook free. "What do you suggest I do? Just sit around and wait until he reveals my personal life to everyone."

  "If you're correct and he knows things about you, he must not intend to share them."

  "And why do you think that?"

  "Because he hasn't already done so. There have been a plethora of opportunities to slander you or make you look bad. And–"

  "Thanks."

  Amelia cleared her throat and arched her brow. "As I was saying, if he knows something about you, perhaps he has another purpose for coming. You should follow him, investigate him, find out more before taking action."

  "You're saying I need proof."

  "Exactly."

  Amelia left and Millie forced herself to relax. She knew her sister was right. Somehow Stephen had read Stephenie's letters. Now she just had to figure out how and prove it.

  ****

  Stephen knew he was right. Somehow Chandler had scammed money not only from his family in South Carolina but from the Beaumonts as well. Now he just had to prove it.

  "Might I make a suggestion?" asked Charles.

  "No, thank you. Stopping me from talking with Henri Beaumont was quite enough."

  Charles shrugged. "I did it for you. If you want to marry Millicent, then you must go about this in the correct manner."

  "Always the reasonable one."

  "I try," said Charles, settling on the velvet settee. He crossed his legs, lengthened his arm along the back of the couch, drew his head back, and gazed at the ceiling. "While I was in Bayou Sara I intercepted a message from home."

  "You did?

  Charles gazed at him. "It seems I was wrong about my uncle not causing trouble."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No. I've wired your father and asked for his help. For now, that's all I can do. But that begs the question, when are we leaving?"

  "My time with Millicent starts tomorrow afternoon."

  "And you believe your competition comes from only one person?"

  "Yes…Chandler Wright."

  "Very well, Stephen. I leave our departure time in your hands, but know it must be soon."

  Stephen acknowledged Charles with a nod and Charles left the den. Stephen headed for the kitchen. The servants had come to trust him and conversed freely around him. The chaperones assigned to Michael and Millie gossiped about the doomed relationship. However, they beamed with pride when telling how their mistress had responded to Michael's sadness.

  The conversations then turned to talk of Chandler Wright becoming a family member. Several of the women, former slaves, remembered living next to his family in New Orleans. They spoke with disdain of the harsh treatment of the Wrights' slaves.

  Stephen knew Millie would never marry someone who acted contrary to her principals. But what if she didn't know they held different ideals? What if Chandler passed himself off as a Christian with high morals and Millie discovered the deceit too late?

  He had to do something. Two options came to mind. Tell her the truth about his identity or find out the truth about Chandler Wright. He settled on the latter.

  Going back to the den, he closed the door and also the curtains. Dim light filtered through the room and he lit candles for additional light.

  He'd previously studied the books for hours, but found no connection between Chandler and the disappearing money. For all intents and purposes, the Beaumont Plantation bought supplies from Wright Mercantile and received legitimate delivery receipts. What he needed to prove was that they never received the supplies. The task seemed impossible because Millicent Beaumont's signature was on the receipts. Millicent denied signing, which seemed logical to him. Why would the owner's daughter sign for supplies? No, someone else had done so.

  Henri Beaumont paid his bill on a regular basis which was reflected in the books. Comparing the purchase orders to the payments collected by the Mercantile, he frowned. Why were the payments listed so much higher than the products' purchase prices?

  He needed to speak with Henri. Pushing his chair back, he took long strides toward the door. It opened before he reached it and he came face to face with Chandler.

  "What are you doing in here?" asked Chandler.

  "I could ask you the same question," said Stephen.

  "I'm looking for Henri."

  "Well, he isn't here. I was going to look for him myself. If you will excuse me, when I find him, I'll make sure he knows you're searching for him."

  Chandler blocked his path. "Why do you want him? Did you find something?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Chandler crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course you do. The rumor mills are in full swing. Everyone knows you found a problem with the books and if it isn't fixed soon, the Beaumonts stand to lose a great deal. So what did you find? Maybe I can help you."

  "I don't think so. Now step aside."

  "No."

  Stephen narrowed his gaze. "No?"

  Chandler closed the door and stepped forward. Irritated, Stephen stood his ground Chandler said with hostility, "I don't intend on going anywhere. You, however, will be leaving."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yes, it is."

  An unexpected fist connected with Stephen's jaw. Dazed, he was unable to stop the vase as it came crashing down on his head. The world went black.

  Chapter Thirty

  The next morning at breakfast, Charles asked, "Has anyone seen Stephen?"

  Millie heard the concern in his tone.

  "Miss Beaumont?"

  She lifted her eyes to meet his stare.

  "Have you seen Stephen? I know he was here last night, but he never returned to our room in the stables."

  "I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

  "Thank you. If you do see him–"

  "I'll let him know you're looking for him."

  Charles nodded.

  After he left the room, Amelia whispered to Millie, "What was that about? Charles seemed worried."

  "Charles, is it?" said, Millicent. Amelia blushed.

  "Please, Millie, be serious. He's concerned. Don't you think we should say something to father."

  Millie pushed her chair back. Contrary to her appearance, nervousness twisted her stomach and her pulse pounded. Had something happened to Stephen? Her feelings for him had deepened since their first meeting in New Orleans. She had to find him.

  Lifting her skirts, she ran along the hallway, skidding to a halt in front of the den. She cracked the door and peeked inside. Her father sat behind his desk with papers scattered haphazardly across the surface.

  "Father?"

  He looked up and motioned her inside. "I've stared at these pages since the rooster crowed this morning and I still can't figure out what Stephen found before he left."

&nb
sp; "Left?" Millie's breath whooshed on the word.

  "Yes. Chandler said he had a family emergency and departed early this morning. Why he would do such a thing without telling me about his discovery is beyond me."

  "He didn't tell his traveling companion he was leaving, either."

  "He didn't?"

  "No. Charles, I mean, Mr. Vincent, asked at breakfast if anyone had seen Mr. Green."

  Henri leaned back in his chair and tapped his finger to his head. "Curious."

  "Can I look at the papers?"

  "Of course." Henri stood and walked to the window.

  Millie studied the sheets. One set was the plantation's figures written by her father, the other was listings of businesses and people probably written by Stephen. She widened her eyes.

  "Do you see something?" asked Henri.

  She looked at him and then back at the papers. The words, Wright Mercantile, jumped out at her. They were written on two different lists and she pointed them out to her father.

  "What does it mean?" she asked.

  "I don't know. We've been getting our supplies from Chandler's family for years and we've never had any issues."

  "Until last summer," whispered Millie.

  "What?"

  "Don't you remember? Mr. Wright visited and said he was handing part of his business operation over to Chandler." A nagging suspicion caused Millie to pause.

  "Keep going, child."

  "He told you that Chandler was taking over the business in Bayou Sara. I remember you were happy because you thought his youth would make him work hard to keep the mercantile stocked."

  "I remember."

  "But after that visit, the supplies dwindled. You paid our bill monthly, but often Mother would order from other sources."

  "She did what?"

  With sudden insight, Millie said, "That's it!"

  Henri walked to the front of the desk. "Explain it to me, my little dove."

  Millie sighed at the term of affection. "It's really quite simple. We have a standing monthly order with Wright's Mercantile that you always pay on time. Mother didn't realize this. All she knew was that supplies were low, so she placed another order. When those supplies came from another mercantile, she paid for them, gave you the receipt and you placed it in the book, creating a double listing."