Enchanted Afternoon Read online

  Book 4 of the Calhoun Chronicles by #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs.

  New York, 1880s

  Beautiful, charming and respected as the wife of an ambitious senator, Helena Cabot Barnes is the leading lady of Saratoga Springs. But beneath the facade lies a terrible deception. Helena married for all the wrong reasons—and discovered too late that her husband is a dangerous man. Fearing for her safety, she ends her marriage and flees to legendary Moon Lake Lodge, where she creates a refuge for other women in need of a safe haven. And there she finds the courage within to become the woman she was meant to be.

  But Helena can’t outrun her past. In desperation, she turns to Michael Rowan, a man she once loved, a man who broke her heart. A brilliant inventor, Michael is still ruggedly handsome, still defiantly unconventional. For Helena, the road to trusting Michael again is long and hard. And danger lies ahead. But Michael has just discovered a shattering truth…and a reason to stay and fight for the woman he once lost.

  With a deft hand and a unique voice, acclaimed author Susan Wiggs creates an enchanting story that will take your breath away as it reaffirms the power of love and the magic of forgiveness.

  A historical romance.

  Praise for the novels of

  SUSAN WIGGS

  HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

  “Wiggs’ writing shimmers…. Her flair for crafting intelligent characters and the sheer joy of the verbal sparring between them make for a delightful story you’ll want to devour at once.”

  —BookPage on Halfway to Heaven

  THE FIREBRAND

  “With this final installment of Wiggs’s Chicago Fire trilogy, she has created a quiet page-turner that will hold readers spellbound….”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE MISTRESS

  “Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’ hearts and motivations to touch our own.”

  —Romantic Times

  THE HOSTAGE

  “Once more, Ms. Wiggs demonstrates her ability to bring readers a story to savor that has them impatiently awaiting each new novel.”

  —Romantic Times

  THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

  “In poetic prose, Wiggs evocatively captures the Old South and creates an intense, believable relationship between the lovers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE CHARM SCHOOL

  “The Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.”

  —Costa Mesa Sunday Times

  Also available from MIRA Books and

  SUSAN WIGGS

  HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

  THE FIREBRAND

  THE MISTRESS

  THE HOSTAGE

  THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

  THE CHARM SCHOOL

  THE DRIFTER

  THE LIGHTKEEPER

  Watch for Susan’s newest novel

  HOME BEFORE DARK

  SUSAN WIGGS

  ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

  To H.P.R., who survived.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Historical Society of Saratoga Springs provided invaluable information for my research. Although Vandam Square and Moon Lake Lodge are my inventions, they were very much inspired by their real counterparts in this unique and beautiful historic city. Dramatic liberties have been taken with the town’s layout, and fictional characters are, of course, my own invention. Many thanks as always to Joyce, Barb, P.J., Rose Marie, Janine, Lois, Kate and Anjali. Thanks for being first readers, mentors and friends. And finally, thanks to H.P.R., who kept her promise.

  “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

  —William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  Saratoga Springs in the Gilded Age was a special world, an appropriate setting for the unusual romance of Helena and Michael. Eventually, however, the unregulated tapping of mineral springs nearly depleted the area of its rare treasure. By the early 1900s, the State of New York shut down all but nineteen of the springs, and today visitors can still enjoy them. In addition to being the premier resort in America, this beautiful city was indeed the birthplace of the potato chip, created and served by Native American chef George Crum at the real Moon Lake Lodge.

  Although Helena and Michael are on their way to wedded bliss, Isabel Fish-Wooten’s travels are far from over. A dangerous voyage in the company of thieves brings her together with Blue Calhoun, the troubled son from The Horsemaster’s Daughter. Now a successful physician, Blue finds himself struggling with an unthinkable tragedy, a family crisis and suddenly, an unconventional lady adventurer who turns his life upside-down. Isabel, with her light fingers and big heart, might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Please look for Blue and Isabel’s story in August 2003, from MIRA Books. And watch for my first contemporary hardcover release, Home Before Dark, coming April 2003.

  Happy reading,

  Susan Wiggs

  www.susanwiggs.com

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  CHAPTER ONE

  She wore long sleeves to cover the bruises. Although the July sun burned like hellfire and damnation through the soundless house—even the French voile curtains in the parlor windows didn’t dare to stir—she kept herself covered in the very height of fashion.

  That, after all, was what people expected of a senator’s wife. Or, she thought with a dizzying leap of hope, his former wife. But that hope would be fulfilled only if she managed to get what she wanted out of this meeting.

  She waited in the summer parlor, where the tall mantelpiece mirror was draped in mourning black. Though she’d lived in the handsome house in Vandam Square for years, a fine edge of terror and panic sharpened her perceptions. She noticed all the elegant details and art treasures in the room as though for the first time—the Italianate plaster wainscoting, the Meissen porcelain vase atop a Sheridan table, the ormolu clock on the mantel, the German-made harp in the corner, a series of boring, expensive pastoral scenes of lakes and forests and fox hunts hanging on the walls.

  On a wall all to itself hung the strange new painting she had chosen on her own, just last season. It was the only thing in the room she didn’t find boring, the only thing she had acquired without consulting her husband.

  It was a scene called Woman at Bath by an obscure French painter named Hilaire Germain Edgar Degas. Unlike the bucolic scenes that graced the halls of the vast mansion, this particular painting of a decidedly unglamorous nude drying her abundant body tended to shock everyone, even though it interested and excited her. In the bold distortions of water and light, she could see something special. The intimate, sensuous portrait depicted a woman comfo
rtable in her own skin, and she felt like a different person looking at that painting. For that reason, she loved it. Because she so dearly wanted to be a different person—someone, anyone else.

  There was another reason she loved the strange, light-washed picture.

  Her husband hated it.

  The only reason he let her keep it was that she’d told him it had been a gift from the Vanderbilts. That wasn’t true, of course, but it was the least of the lies she’d told him over the course of their nine-year marriage.

  The faint jingle of harness outside the open window startled her, even though she was expecting it. She heard the footsteps of Archie Soames, the butler, as he went to the door. She moved to the window, which was veiled by sheer curtains. The wispy fabric exuded a hot smell, like fresh ironing. Because the curtains diffused the view of the driveway, the arriving vehicle appeared like something out of a dream.

  With one finger, she pushed aside the crisp white curtain, bringing the view into sharp focus. The black enameled side of the open carriage bore curlicue letters arranged in an arch over a rising, stylized sun—the symbol of the Hudson Valley Institute for Innovation. A tall man stepped down from the vehicle, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

  Instinctively, she stepped away from the heat and light of the window. But she couldn’t resist watching through a gap in the curtains as he spoke briefly to the driver and then headed up the walkway toward the house. He wore green-tinted celluloid sunglasses, all the rage among cyclists and drivers these days, and his clothes were rumpled, as though he had picked them up from a heap on the floor.

  She wasn’t prepared for the effect he still had on her, after all this time. Yes, she felt bitter resentment—that was to be expected, given the way he’d treated her. But like a current beneath the surface of a calm lake, she sensed something else. Something as forbidden and as undeniable as the passion she had felt when she first met him, nearly a decade before.

  She resisted the urge to push aside the shroud that draped the mantel mirror and study her reflection. Instead, she checked and double checked the fitted bombazine sleeves of her black mourning gown, neatly fastened at the wrists with a row of obsidian buttons. Appearances were everything. It was perhaps the first lesson she could remember learning, drummed into her by a stern-faced nanny dressing her at the age of three for her mother’s funeral.

  Should she be seated? No, that would wrinkle the gown. She positioned herself on the Persian silk hearth rug in the middle of the parlor, posing like one of the concrete statues in Congress Spring Park. Glaring light from the window made her skin prickle with heat. She wore her copper-colored curls swept up, though a trickle of perspiration rolled down the back of her neck. She tried to arrange her face into an expression of serenity—not out of vanity but habit. Her looks had brought her nothing but trouble. Yet she knew of no other way to present herself.

  Besides, some perverse part of her wanted him to feel the same waves of nostalgic longing that were coursing through her now.

  With a flourish, Archie opened both parlor doors. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am.” The butler’s voice rasped with the roughness of a summer cold, and his slight emphasis on the term gentleman added a note of skepticism.

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  The butler melted back into the foyer and her visitor strode into the room, removing his tinted spectacles and setting them on a side table. His fathomless eyes were even bluer than memory allowed. He took one look at her, and the expression on his face was everything she had anticipated—curiosity and wonder, shaded with suspicion and perhaps regret.

  They stared at each other, the air between them heavy and palpable with memories.

  “Helena.” He said her name in a low voice that reverberated through her like a lingering caress.

  “Hello, Professor Rowan,” she said, deliberately using his formal title. “Thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink?” She gestured at the carved mahogany sideboard in the corner, laden with a sweating pitcher of lemonade and a silver bowl of chipped ice.

  “Yes, please.”

  She spooned ice into a crystal goblet, then poured the lemonade. Nerves made her hands unsteady. Had she been mistaken in asking him to come? Perhaps so, but she didn’t know what else to do. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, she would turn anywhere, do anything to escape, even if running away wounded her worse than staying put. She would do anything to reclaim her safety, even turn to the one man she thought she would never see again.

  Terror was a new sensation to her. It clutched at her spine with icy fingers, pressed at her chest until she couldn’t breathe, making her dizzy with its power. She refused to live like this, frozen from the inside out. She wasn’t rational; she knew that. Fear kept her from thinking clearly. And in that moment of madness, she had sent for Michael Rowan.

  Convincing him to help her was a long shot, but she was desperate. Perhaps it was callous, this imperious summons, but she didn’t really care. Years ago, Michael Rowan had used her in the worst possible way, then he’d left without even a by-your-leave. So she should not feel the least bit guilty about using him now.

  When she turned, there he stood, only inches from her. Flustered, she pushed the glass into his hand. Lemonade sloshed over the side.

  “Oh, I—”

  “Not to worry.” He set the glass on the silver tray. Good glory, how could such an unkempt man be so appealing? His hair was too long, curling several inches over the back of his collar. He needed a shave. His clothes were a disgrace. And yet there was something about him that mesmerized and haunted her. Regardless of the passage of time, that aspect of him hadn’t changed.

  As unbidden thoughts nagged at her, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and licked the lemonade from them with a methodical, insolent sensuality she wished she didn’t remember.

  “Delicious,” he said, even as she averted her stare. “Though I daresay a touch of tequila would improve it. You’ll recall it improved our spirits one evening, long ago.”

  She picked up a linen napkin and shoved it at him. How dare he remind her of that? Yet once he planted the seed of remembrance, it took root deep inside. Long ago, he had introduced her to the narcotic liquor called tequila, and later that night, suffused by its numbing heat, she had—

  Helena stopped the thought and lifted her chin in disdain. “So is that still your solution for everything, Professor? A dose of tequila?”

  “Have you found a better answer?”

  “Perhaps I’m too optimistic, but I always assumed you would mature with age.” Taking refuge in cold haughtiness, she brushed past him and went to stand in front of the mantel of Carrera marble.

  He drank down the lemonade in a long, sensual gulp. Watching him, she noted that his shirt was buttoned wrong and his left hand was stained with smudges of ink. Beneath a frock coat with frayed elbows, he wore his waistcoat inside out. He had not changed one whit.

  And yet he had. A part of her was forced to admit that. When she had known him before, he’d been intimidatingly brilliant, unapologetically carnal and artlessly attractive in the way of all men who neither recognize nor cultivate their good looks.

  Professor Michael Rowan was all of those things now, but the years had added something else, some indefinable aspect of character that was perhaps a shade darker, a level deeper than the Michael Rowan she had known so briefly and loved so foolishly.

  “Yes, well,” she said, forcing herself not to dawdle any longer. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you to call.”

  “So that’s what it was.” He fished a wrinkled card from his pocket and held it out. “‘Mrs. Helena Cabot Barnes desires a meeting with you on Tuesday at three o’clock in the afternoon.’ Your secretary has excellent penmanship, although the wording’s a bit terse.”

  Helena hadn’t wanted to disclose her purpose to anyone, least of all Edith Vickery, who, like all the hired help, was loyal to her husband. It was possible the secretary had already alerted
the senator to the impending visit from Michael. Yet in her panic, Helena hadn’t paused to reason things out. “But you came,” she reminded him.

  “My dear, one ignores a summons from the wife of Senator Troy Barnes at one’s peril.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, please. Tell me you’re worried about political appearances.”

  He gestured at the window, open to a view of his carriage parked in the shade of the horse chestnut tree in the yard. “My entire enterprise owes itself to your husband’s support. Didn’t you know that?”

  Now it was her turn to be surprised. “So that’s how Troy got rid of you. How clever of him.” A frightening thought, that. She had always taken full advantage of his spinelessness and arrogance. But the fact that he had found a way to separate her from the man she loved meant he was more aware than she gave him credit for.

  “I should think it takes some measure of cleverness to be a United States senator. Isn’t he up for reelection soon?”

  “This November.” Helena turned the subject back to Michael’s worrisome revelation. “So you’re saying the Institute is funded thanks to my husband.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I thought you had more pride than that, Michael.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t blink. Yet she could feel his bitterness as though he’d slung it at her in icy sheets. “Not everyone has the luxury of pride,” he said simply, then appeared to lose interest in the conversation. He turned his attention to the gallery of paintings along the wall.