No Other Love

by Isabel Morin

  When she opened her eyes he was above her, his arms braced on either side of her head as he filled her in one smooth thrust. Holding on to him she savored the feel of him all around her, claiming her for his own. His breathing came fast and hard, his muscles working beneath his linen shirt. With one final thrust he called out her name and collapsed on top of her.

  Long moments passed before either could speak.

  “Three weeks was an eternity without holding you in my arms at night.”

  The hand that had been softly caressing Luke’s hair froze at his drowsy declaration, so like what he’d written in his letter to Catherine: I don’t know how I’ll survive two more months without holding you in my arms.

  A wave of despair crashed over her, deadening her to the joy and blissful satisfaction he’d brought her. Luke rose up on his elbow, puzzled by her silence.

  “Rose? Is something wrong?”

  How she wished she could confess and receive his reassurances. But it was no use. He didn’t love her, not yet, else he’d have said so by now. And she had no right to read his most private correspondence and then make demands of him.

  She gave him a shaky smile and blinked away the tears that threatened. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just overwhelmed. And I missed you.”

  He smiled, kissing her once more before swinging out of bed. “I daresay our hour’s nearly up,” he said, rearranging his trousers and tucking in his shirt. “We don’t want Mrs. Williamson’s hard work to end up a cold, toughened goose.”

  Rose climbed slowly out of bed and straightened her clothing. Walking over to the looking-glass on the wall, she saw that her face was flushed, her hair in disarray.

  One by one she took the pins from her hair until it fell loose around her shoulders and down her back. Gathering it over her shoulder she began brushing it out, her eyes meeting Luke’s in the glass. He stood near the bed, frozen in the act of buttoning his collar, his eyes following her every move.

  He came up behind her until he was pressed against her back, his arms wrapping around her. “You take my breath away,” he murmured, kissing her neck in the spot that sent shivers along her spine.

  The way he looked at her, she could almost believe he might love her. But what if it was only desire, and never anything more? Desire was potent, she knew that well enough, but she wanted more. So much more.

  “What will happen when I grow old and wrinkled?” she asked, looking at him through the glass. “I won’t take your breath away then.”

  Luke looked up and frowned at her, as if unsure what she wanted from him. “I should hope you age like the rest of us,” he said, pulling away from her. “I don’t know if I can take an entire lifetime lusting after you as I do. It might very well kill me.”

  Rose looked away from him and began plaiting her hair until it hung in one long braid over her shoulder. They had just been as close as two people could be, and yet now she felt as if there were miles between them.

  She turned and gave him a brief, forced smile. Luke looked at her warily, as if sensing that something were not quite right. But he said nothing. Silently, without touching, they descended the staircase for supper.

  A week of chill rain and dark skies kept Rose indoors and only added to her growing despair. All over the house, swatches of material lay draped over furniture, waiting for her to decide on the décor of each room, but she couldn’t make herself care what color the walls were papered. She could barely rouse herself to care about what they ate each night. After all, Mrs. Williamson was perfectly capable of feeding them.

  The activities with which she was expected to fill her days all seemed so frivolous, just a way of keeping a bored woman busy to no one else’s benefit. She was sitting at the dining room table, listlessly looking at possible recipes for their Thanksgiving meal, when Mrs. Williamson gave her a letter from Lydia.

  It was the first letter she’d received from her friend, though she’d written weeks before. No doubt Lydia had been hurt that Rose hadn’t told her the truth about her and Luke. Lydia’s naturally cheerful disposition and genuine affection seemed to have overcome her hard feelings, however, as the letter was lively and filled with the latest news from Cider Hill.

  The letter painted a vivid portrait of the estate in the midst of brewing their famous cider, not to mention the effect it had on the staff, who were all being given a decent share of the beverage. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits. With Mrs. Fletcher and Mr. Byrne no longer around, things were much more relaxed and the pace of life had slowed considerably.

  Though things had improved for everyone, Rose couldn’t help feeling badly about how abruptly the reading and writing lessons had ended. Dottie in particular had only just begun to read, and she needed considerable help to get through even a paragraph.

  In the midst of her remorse it occurred to her that there might be a way to continue them. After all, she had more than enough time on her hands, and a carriage and horses for her own use. Full of renewed purpose and excitement, she sat down and wrote to her friend.

  Within the week it had been arranged. Matthew Brewster, one of the farm laborers she’d been teaching, offered his home for the use of lessons. Two evenings a week, weather permitting, Rose would drive the phaeton to his home near Cider Hill and anyone who wanted could come learn to read and write.

  Rose threw herself into her teaching, spending part of each day working out lessons for the varying abilities of the students. It was a task she found deeply satisfying, particularly as she now had access to an extensive library. Best of all, she was now able to visit with Lydia and Dottie for short periods of time afterwards.

  “Everyone talks about you as if you were living a fairly tale,” Lydia said one day as Rose drove her back to Cider Hill. “As soon as I get back tonight they’ll be asking me all sorts of questions about your new life. Abigail will be quite desperate to know what were you wearing.”

  “I suppose it does seem like a fairy tale, when you look at it from a distance,” Rose said, not realizing until the words were out how she sounded.

  Lydia gave her a sharp look. “Only from a distance?”

  Rose laughed, hating the forced sound of it. “I’m not complaining. I only meant to suggest that life isn’t perfect, nor should we expect it to be or we’ll only be disappointed. Fairy tales are for children, not married women.”

  Lydia frowned at her, a concerned look on her face, and Rose feared her friend would ask questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

  “It’s close enough to a fairy tale when you’re working for Mrs. Fletcher,” Lydia observed instead, sounding a good deal like Dottie.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” said Rose, and they left it at that.

  ***

  “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” Jonas said, settling into a chair in Luke’s study.

  It was a raw Saturday afternoon in late November, not the sort of day people tended to call on one another. But then his father wasn’t just anybody.

  “Not at all. Rose is at Miss March’s and I was just catching up on some correspondence. What brings you here?”

  His father grimaced. “I could use some easy company, that’s the long and short of it. Maybe a drink as well,” he said, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at Luke.

  “Of course. I’ll join you,” Luke said, happy as always to drink with his father. He poured them each a generous glass of whiskey and then sat down opposite Jonas. There was no mistaking his father looked weary and troubled.

  “I take it Charlotte is not yet reconciled to my marriage?”

  “That’s correct, but you needn’t apologize again for causing me trouble. The truth is that I’m dealing with the fallout from marrying Charlotte, not just the repercussions of your marriage. Suffice it to say she and I are equally disappointed in each other. But I’ll not go into all of that. I’d much rather enjoy the afternoon.”

  “I did have something I wanted to discuss with you,” Luke said. “I’m afraid you won�
�t be pleased by it though.”

  “Oh?”

  Luke stood and walked to the window, looking out at the cobbled street, the houses on all sides. He turned back to his father.

  “I confess I’m more restless than I anticipated when I told you I’d be staying in Boston. Working in the office so much of the time has got me itching to be outside, away from all the people and noise. I can’t live in town if I’m to keep my sanity.”

  “Do memories of Catherine play any part in your desire to get away?” his father asked, ever calm as he watched Luke begin to pace about the room.

  “I have many regrets when it comes to Catherine, but this is something else.”

  “You always did prefer Cider Hill,” his father said with a chuckle. “There were days your mother and I barely laid eyes on you. You were gone from sunup until sundown, running wild through the forests and fields.” He smiled to himself, as if reliving fond memories.

  “Maybe that’s all I need. A house in the country, far enough away that I can breathe but close enough to map for the railroad.”

  “If that’s what you want, I won’t try to convince you otherwise. It was enough that you came here at all when I needed you. I never expected you to stay here permanently, though you know well enough I was hoping you would.”

  “When I married Rose, I fully intended to stay in Boston. I suppose I was so delirious at finally having her that I forgot myself. But some things don’t change.”

  “We are who we are,” Jonas replied with a sigh. “No use fighting it.”

  Luke couldn’t help wondering if he was thinking of Charlotte as he spoke. Surely his father would never have imagined her behaving as she had. Thank God Rose would never disappoint him in such a way. It just wasn’t in her. Even so, he didn’t know his new wife as well as he’d once thought. Something had changed and the intimacy of the first weeks of their marriage was eroding, but he didn’t know why. Too often he caught her studying him with a sad, haunted look that squeezed his heart.

  It was as if she were waiting for him to do or say something, but for the life of him he didn’t know what. He did everything he knew to make her happy, and yet she grew ever more quiet and withdrawn. Whenever he asked her what was wrong, she denied that anything was amiss.

  Perhaps it was the reality of being snubbed by so many people, or the sudden change in her circumstances. But he couldn’t help feeling as if it were his fault. Lately he’d begun to experience the same dull dread he’d felt when he realized he couldn’t make Catherine happy.

  It was the first time he’d admitted this to himself, and he quickly suppressed the thought. Taking a healthy gulp of whiskey, he looked back out the window.

  “It’s getting late in the year for any kind of move, so we’ll be here until spring at least.”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Jonas, sounding resigned.

  “Perhaps I ought to build something myself,” Luke mused aloud, the idea taking on weight as soon as he said it. Rose could tell him exactly the kind of house she wanted, and he’d give it to her. Maybe then she’d be happy. Boston was proving to be disappointment to her, and moving closer to her aunt would surely improve her spirits.

  He was bound to make another trip to the Berkshires before winter. When he did, he’d find the perfect place for them to call home.

  ***

  Rose returned home chilled to the bone from the short walk from Vivian’s house.

  “May I take your coat, Mrs. Fletcher?” Martha asked, appearing from the parlor door.

  “Yes, thank you, Martha,” she said, handing the girl her hat and gloves as well. “Is Mr. Fletcher home?”

  “He’s with his father in the study, ma’am.”

  Jonas didn’t often call, as he and Luke saw each other so often during the week. It was always good to see him, but Rose still felt the weight of all that was unspoken and unknown between them.

  She followed the delicious aroma of baking bread to the kitchen, where she found the housekeeper up to her elbows in flour.

  “Will Mr. Fletcher’s father be dining with us this evening, Mrs. Williamson?”

  “I don’t rightly know. They haven’t come out of the study since Mr. Fletcher arrived, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s getting late. Perhaps I’d better go check.”

  Heading back out of the kitchen she stopped in front of the study. The door was slightly ajar, and she was about to knock when Jonas spoke.

  “If that’s what you want, I won’t try to convince you otherwise. It was enough that you came here at all when I needed you. I never expected you to stay here permanently, though you know well enough I was hoping you would.”

  “When I married Rose, I fully intended to remain in Boston. I suppose I was so delirious at finally having her that I forgot myself. But some things don’t change.”

  Rose backed away from the door and ran up the stairs to her sitting room. Once inside she paced madly about, her thoughts whirling.

  Everything she’d feared was true. He still loved his first wife, enough that he couldn’t bear to stay in Boston. It was time to accept it and do what had to be done. Going to her trunk, she knelt before it and took out the glove she’d buried under layers of silk and linen, holding it in her hand as she hardened her resolve.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later Rose entered Luke’s study. It was cool and dim inside, the curtains not yet opened to the day. Luke worked for the most part from the offices in town, so there would be little in the way of railroad business. What she was looking for was of a more personal nature, however, and more likely to be here than anywhere.

  It took her only a few minutes to find the letters. Tucked into a leather box on the highest shelf of his bookcase was his correspondence with his family. Kneeling on the floor she opened it to find letters from his sisters, father and even his mother. She pulled out letters from Jonas dated from February and began to read.

  6 February, 1841

  Dear Luke,

  I hope this finds you well and surviving the winter in relative comfort. Did the necessary supplies reach the fort as expected? I confess that I myself am too old and used to my comforts to tolerate the harsh conditions of life in the Territories. Of course, you are used to living rough. I expect it is the people you find most troublesome.

  Lately I find myself feeling the same way. Many of the troubles of planning a new route lie more with the people involved than the track itself. Which brings me to my latest news.

  While there was never any hope of replacing you, did I even wish it, I have out of duty and necessity asked Nathan to bear some of the burden of the Western line. While he has not the skills, knowledge or discipline you have, he does seem willing to learn. In fact he seems all too eager to prove himself, even where doing so is not warranted.

  Charlotte has high hopes for him which I am afraid have to date been thwarted, whether by bad luck or poor choices I could not say. However, I have now given him responsibility for handling the landowners in Lenox, and I have hopes that over time and with my guidance he will prove to be an asset to the company.

  But enough on that score. I have heard from your sister Annabelle. They are all quite well and hoping to visit Boston within the next year. I do miss them and have not yet seen the youngest. I look forward to the day we will be able to get to Woodstock by rail, and many other places besides. There is no stopping this kind of progress. It has all the force and momentum of a train at full speed. These are exciting times, and would be all the more so were you to return.

  Forgive me for once again inserting my own selfish hope. If you cannot come here I may just drag these old bones to you, wherever you may be. I daresay I am not as indispensable around here as I think I am.

  As ever,

  Your father

  3 March, 1841

  Dear Luke,

  How I miss your rational mind. I could use you around here, and of course a man can always use his son near him. How did m
y children all end up so far away? I suppose I prevail upon you that much more because I cannot ask the girls’ husbands to return them to me. But what of you? I wonder whether you feel the need for a home. A man can go a long time without one, but it exacts a price.

  Over the years I have managed, I think, not to write you letters coercing you too baldly. I suppose I have been less restrained of late due to recent difficulties. The railroad encounters obstacles at every turn, and my efforts to teach Nathan about the business and give him meaningful employment seem to be for naught, or so it appears these last weeks. I recently sent him to Lenox to make another, more generous offer, and by his account Mrs. Harris is close to selling, for which I am grateful. Yet his manner of late has been most erratic. He is querulous, sullen and undependable. His behavior gets worse even as he prevails upon me to give him more responsibility. Were he not my wife’s son I would dismiss him. My hope is that this is a phase that will pass, for he was at one time, if not a brilliant businessman, at least an eager one.

  I see I have covered a fair bit of paper airing my grievances. This is what happens when one writes in the midst of frustration. No doubt things will be much improved by the time this reaches you.

  As ever,

  Your father

  Rose sat for long minutes, absorbing the import of the letters. Nathan had ridden out to the farm in February and yet neither she nor her aunt knew of such a visit. This was the confirmation she needed that he’d had been to the farm. Between the letter and the glove there could be no doubt. It was also clear Mr. Fletcher knew nothing of her father’s murder.

  Why had Nathan done it? Was he so desperate to prove himself that he would try to weaken their family just to get the land? Or had he become so angry that he shot her father in the heat of the moment?