“James! Where are you?” It was Glenda.
James didn’t move. Hackey’s attention wavered a bit. James yelled, “Stay away, Glenda!”
Hackey brought the pistol back and laughed. “You little bastard, I—”
Jessie aimed her pistol and fired it. She heard a yelp of surprise followed by a groan. The gun recoiled, spinning her backward. She grabbed madly at the branch and only succeeded in scraping her fingers. She cried out as she plummeted to the ground.
James only had time to look upward in the direction of the unexpected shot before Jessie came hurtling down, knocking him flat on his back. She landed on top of him, her arms and legs sprawled out.
Mortimer Hackey stood over them, his pistol loose in his hand. “Dear God, Jessie Warfield! You tried to kill me, you miserable little girl. You shot me in my damned foot. Why, what you need is—”
James was nearly unconscious, but he held on. He saw Hackey standing over them. He was terrified that Hackey would shoot Jessie. He prepared to roll over on top of Jessie. Then he heard Glenda call out again, “James!”
Then he heard Mrs. Warfield, loudly scolding, saying, “Now, my dearest, you mustn’t come out here with dear James. Why, do you know what everyone is already saying? You know what this will mean, don’t you? Wait a moment, Glenda. Something isn’t quite right here. Where is dear James?”
They were just feet away. Jessie was shaking her head to clear it. James was breathing beneath her, but he was lying very still. She was afraid she’d knocked him out. She managed to gasp, “Mr. Hac
key, you’d best get out of here. You can’t kill both of us. There are other people coming. I didn’t mean to shoot you in the foot. Actually I was aiming for your arm.”
Mortimer Hackey cursed fluently, kicked James’s leg, kicked Jessie in the ribs, and took himself off through the rear of the garden.
Jessie reared up a bit and began to pat James’s face. “Come on, James, wake up. I’m sorry I landed on you. Please, wake up. Don’t be hurt, please.”
James blinked and opened his eyes. Jessie was lying on top of him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his, spread wide. Her face was so close to his he felt her breath warm on his mouth. If it hadn’t been so dark, he could have counted the freckles across her nose.
“You killed me,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Just a bit shaken, I think. Give me a minute and I’ll get off you.”
“Take your time,” he said, and brought his arms around to gently push her over a bit. His right leg hurt, and a lot of her weight was on it.
“You feel female, Jessie.”
“Well, I am a female. Oh dear, I see what you mean, that is, goodness—”
“No, don’t go all maidenly on me. Catch your breath, then just slide off.”
“I heard Glenda and my mother.”
James didn’t have time to shove Jessie an inch either way, much less shove her off him and out of the garden.
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Warfield bellowed. “Glenda, it’s your sister with James, not you. Dear heavens, she’s lying on him. How could this have happened?”
Another bellowing voice rained down on them. “James, my dear boy, what are you doing with Jessie on top of you, kissing you, stroking you?”
James couldn’t believe it. It was his mother. He heard other voices behind them. At least half a dozen. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe this.
Glenda yelled, “Jessie Warfield, you’re a wretched bitch. You get off James. He’s mine. You’ll not have him. I can’t believe you’re letting him have you right here in the garden. You’re not even dressed in a gown.”
“Well,” Portia Warfield said, hands on her hips, “it seems that this is a muddle of major proportions. But don’t worry, Glenda dear, it will work out.”
“Oh God,” James said.
Jessie was sore and bruised, but not, she thought, as sore and bruised as James was. She held a cup of tea between her hands, sipping slowly, trying to warm herself. James wasn’t drinking tea. He was drinking brandy. He was staring off at nothing in particular.
They were seated in Mrs. Wyndham’s parlor, a very nice parlor, Jessie thought, but it jarred her, what with all the shades of peach. Pale peach brocade on the settees, dark peach silk on the chairs. Peach everywhere. Mrs. Wyndham’s town house was next to the Blanchards’ and thus the obvious place for everyone to gather. She wanted to die. She looked at James again. He was staring at the mantelpiece as if he wanted to eat it or perhaps just chew on it and spit it out at someone—probably at her.
Her father, her mother, and Glenda were there, now blessedly silent for the moment.