by Tamara Allen
“Rose is only a friend—”
“Well, you certainly could have invited me as a friend, if you’d wanted to.”
“I didn’t invite Rose to anything—”
“You invited her to the opera.”
“That was Miss Donnett’s doing.” Will folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Honestly, Vi, you know I don’t even care for parties and balls. And you know I think the society columns are rubbish. But it’s rubbish readers like and I’m being well paid to write it.” Rising, he moved to sit beside her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it earlier. Truly.”
She drew the shawl more closely around her shoulders. “How much longer is this to go on?”
“Mr. Holloway wants it to go on through the season, but I’ve decided to end it just after Thanksgiving. I’ve had my fill of gossip.”
“Just after Thanksgiving? So you do mean to attend more parties?”
“Likely only one, to provide a column or two before Christmas.”
“Which you will attend with Miss Mayhew?”
“Which I will attend with Mr. Kohlbeck.”
“But she will be there?”
“I daresay—”
“Thus the reason I am not invited.”
“Vi—”
“I believe that satisfies my curiosity.” She rose, removing the newspaper from her tea table as one might remove a dead rodent.
Will stood, catching her hand before she could go. “Won’t you come to tea? Miss Donnett would welcome you, and she’ll confirm I’ve told you only the truth.”
Violet looked at him then, in disbelief. “Our reputations are already tarnished. When you’re done with this rubbish, as you term it, you may call again. But not until then, if there’s a possibility you’ll be the object of further gossip.”
“Now, Vi—”
“Oh, I don’t fault you entirely. I’ve no doubt Mr. Kohlbeck is to blame—”
“Charlie has apologized more than once. I’ve told him he must make peace with you, and I hope you’ll allow him the chance.”
Violet looked only more troubled. “Why are you so easily led by this fellow?”
“That’s not fair. You don’t know him.”
She searched his face. “I’m beginning to wonder if I know you.” Her smile was small and fleeting as she turned away. “Or you, me.”
“We’ve weathered disagreements before, Vi. Ten years’ worth,” he added teasingly.
“Is this only a disagreement?”
“It need be only that, if you will trust me as you always have.”
Violet tucked the paper under her arm, a rueful weariness in her profile. “I’ve an engagement tonight and I may well dance and flirt and gossip. That won’t trouble you, will it?”
He had the distinct feeling she hoped it would. “You know I trust you.”
Violet laughed and looked at him, her eyes bright. There was affection there, but it was too weighted with something else to ease his worry. She drew the shawl tight. “You’re the better man. Go on, let Mr. Kohlbeck steal you away, write your rubbish, and I shall see you in December. I’m going home in the morning. A little more time apart may be the thing we need.”
“Will you forgive me then?” Will asked quietly.
She turned away. “It may be time for forgiveness all around.”
He didn’t like to let her go in such a frame of mind, but she gave him no chance to argue further. When she’d gone, the butler came with his hat and coat, and Will made his way back to the newspaper with little awareness that he’d done so until he was sitting at his desk, staring at a pile of copy with eyes that could see only a jumble of unintelligible words. He hadn’t told Violet the entire truth, but she might well inadvertently find it out on her own. Whether she could forgive that…
“In already? I thought you’d be gone a while.” Charlie perched on a corner of the desk and sifted idly through the pile of unedited work. “Lose your pencil?”
“Not my pencil, no.”
“Oh. Then she’s still upset?”
“Have you seen the Sun?”
Charlie’s brows rose. “Garber printed a story?”
“Worse. A photograph.”
“Of you—”
“Not just me. Rose, Belcourt, and the Whitmores. Garber only mentioned Belcourt by name, but the photo was more than adequate.”
“Violet reads the Sun?”
“She reads the society pages in all the papers.”
“So… She was upset you went to the opera without her?”
“Not so much that I went, but that Rose went, too.”
“She thinks you and Rose…” Charlie snorted. “Did you tell her she was being ridiculous?”
“I didn’t happen to mention it.” Will slumped back. “Certainly I’m ridiculous. I couldn’t have wrecked everything more thoroughly than if I’d gone into it with the intention of doing just that.”
Charlie gathered up the scattered copy and stacked it neatly. “Did she…” He cleared his throat. “She didn’t break it off with you?”
“Not yet. That will likely come when she discovers I still haven’t told her the entire truth.”
“Why don’t you? Listen here, you tell her this was all my doing. It was, after all. Tell her you didn’t have a choice if you wanted to keep your job. You went to a handful of parties under a false identity, but now your conscience has got you and you’re giving it up, despite the money. Hell, you can even tell her you’ve given me a stern talking-to.”
“I’ve already told her she ought to make peace with you, just as I told you.”
“Did you?” Charlie seemed pleased to hear it. “Here, I’ve got an even better idea. I’m going to visit some friends on Thursday. Come with me and you can go ’round and talk to Violet. Bring roses and chocolates and get down on your knees, if you have to. Girls like to be chased after by penitent fellows.”
Despite the worry dogging him, Will wanted to laugh. “You mean to say if I appeared on your doorstep, admitted my deceptions, and apologized, you’d forgive me?”
Charlie’s smile faded, but the light of it was still in his gaze. “Before you could ask.”
“Well…” Maybe it wasn’t such a far-fetched notion. Certainly he had no other plan to fall back on. Promising to think about it, Will knew he’d already decided when Thursday came and he found himself anticipating the trip home and a chance to make things right with Violet. After several days blissfully free of the need to stuff himself into evening dress, he put on his best Sunday suit, the brown frock coat he’d worn to his interview, nearly three weeks ago to the day…
Had it been only three weeks? It seemed something nearer a lifetime.
Charlie was already downstairs in his dark blue wool, the first suit, he’d once mentioned, he’d ever purchased new. If it was starting to show signs of wear, he looked well in it, and was wiser choosing it if he intended to go to the shore. He grinned as Will came down, and motioned him to the doorway. A cab was waiting, but Charlie stayed him a minute.
“I’ve just the thing for you.” He produced a violet and a white rosebud he’d no doubt appropriated from two of Caroline’s house plants, now fashioned into a boutonniere. “It should survive the ferry trip. Try not to mash it up too much in your coat.”
Touched that Charlie had gone to the trouble, Will clapped his shoulder. “I don’t know if Violet will notice it, but I do feel cheerier.”
“She’ll notice that,” Charlie said. “Where’s your scarf? You know how windy it’ll be.”
Will snorted. “You think me an old biddy.”
“Of course I do. You’re always so set on being sensible.”
“If you must know, I misplaced my scarf—”
“You misplaced something?” Charlie was laughing as he unwound his own scarf and tied it around Will’s neck. “Take mine and I’ll borrow Archie’s. He owns a pile of them, poor fellow.”
“Be quick, then, or we’ll spend our last penny on this cab.”
>
A late morning wind with the crisp flavor of winter made for a chilly ferry ride to St. George. After plying Will with all sorts of advice regarding Violet—advice, Will mused, that might have been as handily solicited from any twelve-year-old boy—Charlie bid him good luck at the station before boarding the train for Midland Beach.
Without Charlie’s buoying presence, Will felt a little lonely and out of place, despite the familiar surroundings. The cab ride down a road he’d traveled many times seemed shorter than he remembered. The tulip poplars that hid Violet’s home from the road had begun to shed their autumn foliage, and bright gold leaves carpeted the path that ran uphill toward the gates. The wind had picked up, sending more leaves tumbling from their branches and bringing in storm clouds to hide the sun. Up the carriage path, guests were arriving, and Will wondered if they, too, had seen the photograph in the newspaper. Second thoughts assailed him about the wisdom of coming by unannounced while the Chapins were busy with Thanksgiving preparations. He would not be welcome and he couldn’t ask Violet to come outside and talk to him in the midst of a threatening storm.
As he reached the catbrier thicket near the front drive, he stood a long minute, debating whether he might find Violet more willing to talk to him in a day or two. He couldn’t make his case now, not when she was probably entertaining visiting aunts and cousins at the tea table.
Turning, Will started away—only to stop again in surprise at the sound of girlish laughter coming from a sheltering copse of old hickory. Red-cheeked and beaming, Violet emerged at a run, one hand keeping her hat in place, the other holding her skirts. Elliot came well behind, but caught up, and seizing her hand, pulled her close. She fell, laughing, into his arms and he bent toward her—and kissed her. It was tender and assured, as if he’d done it many times before, and she slipped her hands over his shoulders, encouraging him to crush her close as the kiss deepened. When he drew back, they were both gasping for breath and smiling at each other like the most enviable pair of fools.
Elliot grabbed her hat as it began to slip and she darted away from him, turning to race up the grassy slope. Her gaze fell on Will and her eyes went wide. She stumbled, then retreated as if a chasm had opened up before her. Will stared back, taking in the sight of a woman he didn’t know; her skirts rumpled, her velvet cloak hanging off her shoulders, her hair loose to her waist, she’d never looked so impossibly…
Happy.
If he’d had the presence of mind to walk away before she saw him, he would have. The sight of her with Elliot had all but turned him to stone; and now with her wide eyes on him, he still couldn’t seem to move or speak… Which was just as well, since he hadn’t the first notion of what he might say.
Violet filled the silence for him. “Will, you—oh, heavens, Will. Why…” Her eyes suddenly brightened and she pressed a hand to her lips. Elliot came up behind her, hands falling lightly on her shoulders. She shook her head. “I must talk to Will.”
Elliot looked at Will as if trying to judge whether shock was yielding to anger. “Violet, I don’t know that it’s best—”
“Allow us a few minutes.” Violet seemed to have gained some measure of calm. “Please.”
She had given him permission to stay within eyesight, if not earshot. Elliot returned her hat and the hatpin he’d appropriated—possibly in case she needed it—and did as she asked. Violet made a half-hearted attempt to pull her hair back into its ordinarily tidy bun, avoiding Will’s gaze for a long minute before finally raising tear-filled eyes to meet his. She looked so young, so free, as she had ten years ago or even five. So much had changed and he’d never even realized it.
She came nearer, grasping in a self-conscious way at the edges of her cloak, and her lips parted, another long moment passing before she found her voice. “I wanted to explain this to you last week and… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to begin. How to make sense of it so you’d understand. I don’t know how to explain it now, even after you’ve seen…” She shook her head helplessly. “What I feel—oh, Will, I didn’t plan it. I swear to you.” Her face crumpled, tears coursing down cheeks still flush, and she drew a gasping breath. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could tell you. There’s so much to tell you. But you’ll never understand—”
“You’re wrong, Vi.” Strangely, he wanted to comfort her. His shock had eased, but only sympathy rose to take its place. “I do understand. You and I have been friends so long. We’d pictured a life together that was steady, congenial… Invulnerable, really.” Will exhaled, a wry laugh riding on it. “I’m sure you didn’t think of Elliot as someone you’d ever fall for. You spent time around him and it was all very innocent and ordinary. You counted him a friend and that was perfectly respectable, until you began to notice how ridiculously glad you were to see him… And how lonely and lost you felt after parting. Now something about him—it pulls you. He only has to smile at you, and you’re no longer crawling…” His throat tightened. “You’re flying. And it’s…it’s…”
“Everything.” Violet dipped her head in a soft nod, her gaze wide, elated. “Are you in love with her? Rose Mayhew?”
Will couldn’t tell her the whole truth after all. “I’m not in love with Miss Mayhew. But really, I don’t need to imagine how you feel. It’s right here, in your face.” He caressed her cheek lightly. He’d never seen her eyes shine like that. “I think we’ve narrowly avoided breaking a number of hearts.”
She looked stricken. “Will, I never meant it to happen like this. I’ve been so harsh with you, I know, but I’ve felt so guilty… I didn’t want to lose your friendship, but I couldn’t seem to stop pushing you away once I began to care for Elliot. And I never intended to fall—”
“I hear it works rather better if you don’t intend it.” Will smiled. “That may be where we went wrong.”
“Then…” She seemed relieved. “You aren’t in love with me?”
He brushed back the curls blowing gently into her face and kissed her cheek. “I do love you. But…” He cast a glance toward Elliot at the catbrier patch, waiting for Violet. Worried for her. “I think he has me beat.”
“He’s…” Her eyes brightened.
“Yes, he is. And you’d best go to him before he frets himself into a tangle in those bushes and ends up covered in thorns.”
“Oh, dear.” The fond exasperation Violet threw in Elliot’s direction was familiar. It had turned to regret when she faced Will again. “I should ask you in—”
“Nonsense. One can’t have an old beau and a new one at the same supper table, my dear. It just isn’t done.” He couldn’t contain a grin; Charlie’s wicked influence.
Violet’s smile bloomed all at once. “William Nesmith! You are sentimental after all.”
She kissed him and raced across the lawn in glorious dishabille, ribbons fluttering and skirts billowing in the wind until Will thought she might rise from the earth and fly. It took her straight into Elliot’s arms and a little pang of envy struck Will, then. He wished he were going home to open arms and a kiss like that… He supposed it was his own fault he wasn’t. He’d discouraged Charlie’s seeming attraction and now Charlie was off having a fine hotel supper with friends… Or only one good friend in particular, perhaps.
Will forewent the trouble of looking for a cab and walked to the station despite the threatening weather. Tired and hungry when he arrived, he pondered going to New Brighton for a few hours. But everyone he knew would be at supper with friends or family, leaving him on his own. Not in the frame of mind for that, he wasn’t any more eager to go back to Manhattan. Caroline and Archie had accepted an invitation to supper from the Mayhews, and the other fellows were away. An empty house would feel even emptier on Thanksgiving.
Standing on the platform, musing over the schedules, he had to laugh at his own foolishness. He’d felt confident on the trip over that he would win Violet’s forgiveness; so confident that he’d made no other plans. Perhaps Mr. Holloway had some use for him. There was always copy wanting editing…
First, maybe, he could take a jaunt down to Midland and just let Charlie know he was returning to Manhattan. He wouldn’t interrupt Charlie’s supper, but simply leave him a message as a courtesy. Afterward, he might take a stroll on the beach, if it wasn’t raining.
Not until he was on the train to Midland did he admit to himself that he was making the trip for his own sake. Charlie was likely having a grand time and would probably only wonder about him in passing, if at all. It was not as if they’d agreed to meet again for the ferry ride back.
Will pressed a hand against the cold window as a light rain began to patter on the glass. Walking on the beach seemed a less agreeable adventure and he had no supper reservation. He thought ruefully back to the days when he’d been a more sensible person who’d considered situations before jumping in, and very seldom—really, never at all—had to stoop to consorting with noblemen, fainting in public, or chasing after people he thought he might be in love with.
Granted, the terrible, aching need to spend even five minutes in Charlie’s company before the day ended… That seemed to indicate he’d succumbed to the same madness that had overtaken Violet.
He hoped so. He didn’t like to think he’d lost every crumb of common sense for naught.
Chapter Fourteen
At the long bar in the nearly deserted saloon, Charlie lingered over a beer without much enthusiasm for either the beer or the supper awaiting him. Not that he wasn’t happy to see sights he’d not laid eyes on since summer. The old saloon was much the same; dim, cool, and creaking with every sea breeze. Behind the bar, Perkins still poured drinks. Rumbelow still made pies, sandwiches, and crab cakes—and whenever business was slow, walked the bar and porch with his broom in a diligent effort to sweep the sand back out where it belonged.
Charlie could still hear his mother laughing about it and blessing Rum for keeping them all from being buried alive.
Perk, as far as Charlie could remember, had never swept the saloon. Nor did he cook. Where Rum always had a broom or frying pan in hand, Perk had a dishcloth and a row of spotless glasses to show for it. There were no cleaner glasses at any restaurant on the island; maybe not even in Manhattan.