The Scandalous Miss Howard Read online

  Laurette Howard, although a happy, lovable child, was a handful from the very beginning. As a baby she was bright-eyed and inquisitive, regularly attempting to climb out of her crib. As a child, she was antsy, energetic and full of curiosity. Everything and everyone intrigued her. And, if there was something she didn’t know, couldn’t figure out, she asked Ladd, assuming that he was the authority. Laurette idolized Ladd and wanted to play the kind of games he liked. Games boys played.

  By the time Laurette was six years old, she was unquestionably a tomboy, thanks in part to her close friendship with Ladd. Ladd Dasheroon was all boy. He liked the rough-and-tumble, didn’t mind getting his clothes dirty. He liked to climb trees and take chances, was never afraid of getting hurt.

  Laurette was not to be outdone.

  Anything Ladd challenged her to do, she did. Like him, she loved running, jumping, climbing, shouting, wrestling and executing neat handstands.

  Just like Ladd had taught her.

  On one such occasion, Laurette’s mother came out of the mansion just as Laurette was perfectly balanced on her dirty little hands, slippered feet high in the air, white ruffled pantalets showing for all the world to see.

  Marion was horrified. As soon as her daughter’s feet hit the ground, she called the puzzled Laurette inside, stopping Ladd when he followed.

  “No, Ladd, dear,” Marion said, gently, “you two have played enough for today. It’s time for Laurette’s afternoon nap.”

  Ladd shrugged, nodded and backed away, while Marion, holding her daughter’s thin arm none too gently, ushered Laurette inside and directly up the stairs to her room. There Marion lectured her daughter. And not for the first time.

  Once again she informed Laurette that it was not proper for a young lady to be turning cartwheels and doing handstands. She was to be more prudent in the future. She was never to allow her underclothing to show—not even to Ladd—it was not decent. Marion firmly reminded Laurette that she was a girl, not a boy like Ladd. She couldn’t do everything Ladd did and she would do well to remember it.

  But to no avail.

  Together constantly, the pair were two peas in a pod. They never thought of each other as being of the opposite sex. They were friends, playmates, pals. They got along famously, but they also argued with regularity. The fiery, hot-tempered Laurette had the calm, well-brought-up Ladd at a disadvantage. While he was not averse to shouting at her and occasionally shoving her away, he would never have laid a hand on her in anger.

  Instinctively, Laurette knew it.

  So, once when she was really angry with him, she doubled up her fist and socked him squarely in the nose.

  Blood spurted.

  The minute she saw the bright red blood, Laurette was sorry for what she had done.

  “Oh, Ladd, Ladd, forgive me,” she began to beg. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t. Please, please forgive me.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose and holding his head back, Ladd turned away. He shrugged her hand off when she laid it on his shoulder. She had no right to hit him. She was a spoiled, selfish brat. Angry, Ladd withheld his forgiveness for as long as possible.

  Which hadn’t been very long.

  Laurette, her big, dark eyes filled with genuine remorse, danced nervously around him, saying, “Oh, Ladd, if you’ll just forgive me, I promise I’ll never, ever hurt you again as long as I live!”

  She gave him a hopeful little smile and handed him the lace handkerchief her personal servant, Ruby Lee, had tucked into the sash of her dress. Ladd took it and dabbed at his nose and made a point to ignore her worried pleading. But hard as he tried, he couldn’t stay angry. Not with Laurette. She was, after all, his best friend, always had been and always would be. Besides, she was great fun and she was cute with her snaggletoothed smile and wild blond hair and dirty white dress. And she always seemed to know how to jolly him back into a good mood.

  Astute, Laurette sensed that Ladd was already softening and she gave a great sigh of relief. Then reached out, took his hand, led him around the mansion to the vast terraced back lawn, and straight to an iron lace settee resting beneath a huge shade-giving oak.

  “You sit here and I’ll run inside and get a wet cloth,” she instructed.

  Ladd nodded. She raced away and was back in minutes, carrying a tray with two frosty glasses of lemonade and a clean damp cloth. Ladd lounged back on the settee while Laurette painstakingly cleaned his bloodied nose.

  “There,” she said when she was finished. “All better.” Then she frowned and asked, “We’re still best friends, aren’t we, Ladd Dasheroon?”

  “I suppose,” he said, then added, “but you have to do everything I ask you to do for a full week.”

  “I will,” she promised. “What shall I do first?”

  Ladd finally grinned. “Hand me a lemonade.”

  She hurried to obey.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “It’s hot out here,” he said, leaning lazily back, stretching his legs out before him. “Fan me, Lollie.”

  Frowning, Laurette looked anxiously about, but could not find anything to use as a fan. So she impulsively yanked up her dress and vigorously fanned him with her full skirts while he drank his lemonade.

  “But, Mother,” said an unhappy seven-year-old Laurette, “I don’t want to take piano lessons. Please don’t make me.”

  Marion Howard sighed heavily. “Laurette, I had hoped that by now you’d be eager to take lessons. I was when I was your age.” Marion shook her head, thoughtfully. “How can you be my daughter and not be musically inclined?”

  Mother and daughter stood in the sun-filled music room before the ornately carved piano. Waiting in one of the double parlors was Miss Jillian Foster, Mobile’s highly acclaimed music teacher. Miss Foster taught piano and voice to a select number of the city’s upper crust. A prim lady in her midtwenties who loved music and children in that order, she immensely enjoyed teaching piano and voice to young people and nothing thrilled her more than to discover a pupil who was truly talented.

  With those gifted few, she cheerfully spent additional time at no extra charge. Jillian Foster was, like Marion Howard, confident that young Laurette would prove to be one of those who possessed musical talent. Why shouldn’t she? Marion Howard played the piano beautifully.

  Smiling at the pleasant prospect of tutoring a naturally gifted pupil, Miss Foster had no idea that an argument was going on between mother and daughter.

  “I will take piano lessons only if Ladd does, too!” stated Laurette emphatically, her face screwed up into a frown of unhappiness.

  “Ladd is a boy!” Marion said, annoyed. “And he is not my boy. He doesn’t have to take lessons. You do.”

  “Yes, he does, if I do,” Laurette reasoned. “It isn’t fair for him to—”

  “Laurette Taylor Howard, I’ve had just about enough of your foolishness,” her mother interrupted. “You are taking piano lessons and that is final. Now I am going to bring Miss Foster in here and you will do exactly as you are told.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said a sullen Laurette, head sagging on her chest. Then she immediately brightened and asked, “If I can get Ladd to agree to take lessons with me, will you say yes?”

  Marion hesitated. “I suppose so, but I don’t think he will….”

  “Yes, he will,” said Laurette and, smiling now, daintily took a seat on the piano bench.

  “No, no, Lollie,” Ladd gently scolded, shaking his dark head and taking a seat beside her on the piano bench. “It goes like this.”

  He brushed her hands away and settled his long, slim fingers on the ivory piano keys. He began to play a familiar and hauntingly beautiful polonaise by Freédéric Chopin. Laurette sat silent, listening, awed. Ladd played the difficult musical masterpiece from beginning to end without striking a single false note. It was perfect. It was divine. It was inspiring.

  The ten-year-old Laurette sighed, defeated.

  For three years she and Ladd had been taking pi
ano lessons—two afternoons a week—from the patient Miss Foster. Within weeks of beginning their lessons, an amazed Miss Foster was praising Ladd, declaring that he had natural talent. A prodigious talent. If, she pointed out, he would faithfully practice each day as she advised, he could, perhaps, become the most accomplished of all the gifted students she’d had the pleasure of teaching.

  But, much to Miss Foster’s dismay, Ladd’s only response had been—and still was—a flippant wink and a teasing smile. He wouldn’t come right out and tell her, but he wasn’t about to spend his afternoons practicing the piano when he could be outdoors doing the things he loved.

  And he had absolutely no interest in learning to play the piano. He had reluctantly agreed to the lessons only because Laurette had pleaded and cajoled and begged and solemnly promised that she’d be ever so nice to him if he would do her this “one little favor.”

  Now, as the eleven-year-old Ladd sat in the Howards’ music room and effortlessly played Chopin’s polonaise with Laurette seated beside him and Miss Foster standing nearby, he smiled as he saw the humor of the situation.

  With little practice, he could, Ladd realized, play quite well. Laurette, bless her, despite the hours of torturous practice demanded by her mother, couldn’t compete. They had been working on this same composition for several months and Laurette still could not execute it correctly.

  Ladd finished and Miss Foster opened her eyes and beamed proudly at him.

  “Bravo, bravo,” the pleased music teacher praised.

  “Now, you try it again, Lollie,” said Ladd. “You’ll get it this time.”

  Nervous, Laurette nodded, took a deep breath and began to play. Halfway through the piece she was biting her lower lip and her forehead was perspiring. She struck several false, ear-punishing chords. Miss Foster made a face and cast her eyes skyward. Ladd shook his head and rose from the bench.

  “I have to go,” he announced, giving Laurette’s blond hair a playful tug.

  Laurette immediately stopped playing. She twisted around on the bench and said, “Wait, I’m going with you.”

  “You can’t, you haven’t finished with your lesson,” he said. “Besides, we’re having company this afternoon.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “His name is Tigart. A Mister Darcy Tigart,” Ladd said. “That’s all I know. We haven’t met him yet.”

  “Why would you invite a stranger to visit?”

  “Father’s been hunting for a new overseer for River Plantation since Brady left unexpectedly. Yesterday, Colonel Ivy told him about Darcy Tigart.”

  “So? What does that have to do with you?” asked Laurette, ignoring Miss Foster’s stern look and gestures for her to resume playing.

  “Mr. Tigart has a son about my age. He’s coming along and I want to meet him,” Ladd explained. He yawned suddenly, stretched, rose up on tiptoe with his arms raised above his head. Laurette jumped up from the piano bench and tugged on Ladd’s shirtfront. He came back down on his heels.

  “I want to meet him, too!” Laurette exclaimed.

  “I’m sure you will,” Ladd replied, freeing his shirt from her clutches, “but not this afternoon. I think you’d better spend more time practicing. Don’t you agree, Miss Foster?”

  “I most certainly do,” said the exasperated music teacher.

  Laurette frowned meanly at Ladd. He laughed and said, “Better be careful, Lollie, your face might freeze like that.”

  Four

  The thin, sallow-skinned Darcy Tigart and his tall, sandy-haired thirteen-year-old son, Jimmy, arrived at the Dasheroon home on Dauphin Street at four o’clock that balmy March afternoon.

  Young Jimmy, his hazel eyes wide with awe at the mansion’s size and splendor, nervously lifted the heavy brass door knocker. He gave it a couple of heavy thunks, then stood back and waited.

  Inside, Ladd shouted to Delson, the Dasheroon’s smartly uniformed butler, “I’ll get it, Delson!” Ladd raced through the house, yanked both double doors open wide and graciously offered his hand to the pair standing on the shaded veranda. “Mr. Tigart, Jimmy, welcome to Mobile.” Both nodded. “I’m Ladd Dasheroon,” Ladd said, eyeing Jimmy Tigart, sizing him up, noting with no small degree of disappointment that Jimmy was a good half a head taller than he. “Won’t you please come inside? Father is waiting in the library.”

  The Tigarts followed Ladd into the richly paneled library—Darcy Tigart nervously twisting his battered hat in his gnarled hands, Jimmy eagerly taking everything in.

  “Father,” Ladd said as they stepped into the library, “This is Mr. Darcy Tigart and his son, Jimmy.”

  Douglas Dasheroon, seated behind his mahogany desk, immediately rose to his feet, came around the desk and offered an outstretched hand to the elder Tigart.

  “Douglas Dasheroon, Mr. Tigart,” he said with a smile and firm handshake. “Thank you both for coming.”

  “Thanks for inviting us,” said Darcy Tigart, looking tense and uneasy.

  Douglas’s attention swiftly shifted to the sandy-haired youth standing beside his father. “Welcome to our home, Jimmy,” he said, and shook the boy’s hand.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Jimmy replied shyly.

  “Ladd,” said Douglas, releasing the boy’s hand and turning to his own son, “why don’t you and Jimmy get acquainted while Mr. Tigart and I have a talk?”

  Ladd looked at Jimmy. “Want to go outside?”

  Jimmy nodded almost imperceptibly. He and Ladd exited into the long, wide corridor, fell into step and walked unhurriedly through the mansion. Jimmy managed to appropriately utter yes or no to each question Ladd asked, but he was not really listening. He was far too distracted by the grandeur of his surroundings. Never in all his life had he been inside such a magnificent mansion and he was overwhelmed by what he saw. The high, frescoed ceilings. The deep, lush carpets. The heavy, handsome furniture.

  Jimmy had only enough time for quick, appraising glances at the spacious rooms they passed. But he saw enough to realize that the Dasheroon family lived very differently from his own.

  He envied this gangly, talkative boy walking beside him and wondered why he couldn’t have been born into the great wealth and lofty status that this Ladd Dasheroon likely took for granted. Jimmy gritted his teeth and his hazel eyes narrowed at the unfairness of fate.

  When the boys stepped out onto the wide back veranda and walked down the steps, Jimmy gazed at the rolling green lawns and well-tended gardens and tall oak trees. It was easy to imagine himself living here, playing croquet with guests, sipping lemonade from crystal tumblers, strolling arm-in-arm through the grounds with a beautiful, wealthy young girl.

  “…and if your father, Mr. Tigart, should become our overseer, you’ll live less than a mile away,” Ladd said, intruding into Jimmy’s pleasant daydreams.

  Jimmy smiled, nodded and sat down on a bench. “That would be nice,” he said.

  Jimmy generally didn’t have anything to do with someone younger than he. He felt older than his thirteen years and preferred the company of fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds. But this was different. Ladd Dasheroon had the kind of life—and probably the kind of friends—Jimmy wanted to have.

  “And perhaps I could come here to your home to visit you now and then?” Jimmy suggested, with a disarming smile.

  “Of course, you could,” Ladd was enthusiastic, flattered that the older boy would want to be his friend. “We’ll be at school together, too, and I can introduce you to everyone. Next time you’re here, you’ll meet my friend, Laurette Howard. She’s a girl who lives just across Dauphin.” Explaining that he felt obligated to keep a eye on Laurette, Ladd grinned and admitted, “She’s a pest sometimes, but she’s like a little sister to me, so I have to look after her.”

  “I have nothing against girls,” said Jimmy. “Especially if they’re pretty.”

  Ladd shrugged narrow shoulders. “She’s pretty, I guess. I never noticed.”

  “You, my love,” said Carrie Dasheroon to her husban
d, “are an exceptionally kind, compassionate man.”

  Douglas Dasheroon smiled boyishly. “You are just now learning that?”

  “No, I’ve always known it,” said Carrie, as she stepped closer, and put her arms around her husband’s neck. “That’s why I love you so much.”

  It was nearing midnight and the pair were finally alone in their upstairs bedchamber, preparing to retire for the evening. Earlier in the day, Douglas had told his wife that, after verifying several references, he had offered the overseer’s position to Darcy Tigart. Tigart had eagerly accepted.

  Carrie had briefly met the man and had known right away—as Douglas surely had—that Darcy Tigart was not well. He was not strong and robust as a plantation overseer should be. He was, obviously, in failing health.

  Who but her dear, noble, tenderhearted husband would have given Darcy Tigart the overseer’s position at River Plantation? No one. Carrie smiled now as her big, handsome husband felt the need to continue to explain his dubious decision to hire Tigart.

  “I suppose I could have found someone better suited to the job,” Douglas said, as he kissed Carrie’s temple, then disengaged himself from her, “but the poor fellow came to Mobile from Kentucky believing he had a position at the Battersly paper mill. The Colonel told me that when Tigart arrived, he found there was no job for him.” Unbuttoning his shirt, Douglas sat down on the bed and began removing his shoes as he spoke. “As you well know, I need someone right away. And young Jimmy can be of assistance.”

  “Yes, of course,” Carrie said, nodding. She sat down beside her husband.

  “Darcy Tigart can start as early as tomorrow, and that is certainly in his favor,” Douglas pointed out. “Brady’s been gone little more than a week, but the place is already going to seed. I need a man out there to…”