by Isabel Morin
Now that she had all the pieces, or at least all those she could get on her own, she needed to tell Luke. But it was only morning and he had told her he wouldn’t be home at midday. She would have to wait until evening. Shaking and sick to her stomach, she replaced the letters and turned to leave the study.
Something caught her eye just before she opened the door. A leather portfolio lay on the corner of his desk, several pieces of paper protruding from it. Picking it up, she untied the string binding it and opened it up.
There were half a dozen sketches, all of them of her. Some were of her reading, others sewing, and one portrayed her asleep, the twisted sheets revealing a bare arm and leg, a few inches of her breast. She was smiling in her sleep, as if pleasure had followed her there.
All of them were rendered in careful, even loving detail. But whatever he felt for her, it wasn’t enough. If it had been, he wouldn’t be running away from memories of Catherine.
Upstairs in her chair by the window, she sat with her head in her hands. She’d hoped that when this moment came their marriage would be strong enough to sustain the blow, but they were more distant now than when she’d been a maid in his father’s house.
She’d been sitting in the chair, staring out the window for what could have been hours, when she heard Luke come in the door. With a feeling of unreality she listened to him mount the steps until he stood in the doorway, his masculine beauty a knife in her heart. She would have loved him all her days if he’d let her.
“There you are,” he said, coming toward her. “I hoped I’d find you.”
Roes struggled to keep her composure. “I didn’t expect you before evening.”
“I’m afraid I must leave for Stockbridge this afternoon,” he said, walking over to the wardrobe where he began filling a valise with clothes.
“But why so suddenly?”
“I received a letter this morning from Whistler, asking me to come immediately. They seem to have run into yet another snag.”
Rose could say nothing for several seconds.
“I see,” she finally replied. “When do you expect to return?”
“I imagine it will be at least three weeks. You’ll be all right, won’t you? I know things were difficult the last time I left, but Vivian will be here to keep you company.”
Three weeks. Should she risk telling him the truth now? Then again, could she stand to wait weeks more before telling him? That thought was even worse than the first.
“Don’t look so down, darling,” he said, leaving off from his packing to come over to her.
Taking her hands he urged her to stand, his arms coming around her in a warm embrace. Slow and deliberate, his kiss tore down her meager defenses. Her body responded instantly, as if there were no tomorrow, no imminent betrayal. She let him lead her to the bed where he pressed kisses along her jaw, down her throat, along the neckline of her dress. Restlessly he made quick work of her clothes, revealing her little by little as he removed each layer.
Her fears subsumed in desire, she gave in to his caresses, opening to him and demanding more in return. Fueled by her urgency, Luke pressed her back into the softness of the blankets, holding her hands above her head as he devoured her. His mouth on her throat, her breasts, he kissed her until she knew nothing but him. Twisting and turning she writhed beneath him, every nerve ending painfully alive.
Releasing her hands he moved lower, pressing kisses down to her naval and then further still to the center of her need. She opened for him, her hands twining in his hair, her hips rising to his clever tongue.
Higher and higher he took her, holding her hips as she bucked and tightened around him. She called out for him, needing him inside her. Rising up, his eyes intent on her and his breathing labored, he entered her. She held on to his powerful body, delirious with the feel of him as he filled her. When release broke over her she shook and held him tight while tears streamed down her cheeks. On a hoarse cry he emptied himself inside her, shaking as he lay on top of her in the aftermath.
It was a few minutes before either of them moved. Luke lifted his head from where it lay buried in her neck and looked at her.
“What’s this?” he asked, running a thumb over a tear. “Did I hurt you?” he asked worriedly.
“No, of course not. You mustn’t pay me any mind.”
Though he was only inches away, a sense of loneliness swept through her. Getting out of bed she pulled on her wrapper before turning to him. “There’s something I must tell you before you go.”
Luke sat up and swung his legs over the bed.
“You’re not with child, are you?” he asked, his expression somewhere between panic and pleasure, and it was all she could do not to weep then and there. Wordlessly she shook her head.
“Perhaps you could tell me in a letter,” he said, rearranging the clothes that had been thrown into disarray. “I’m sorry darling, but I’m afraid I’m running late as it is. It’ll be nightfall before I make it to Worcester.”
Coming to her he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “I’ll miss you,” he said, and then he was through the doorway and out of sight, though the feel of his lips lingered long after he rode away.
The next week passed in a blur, with Rose going through the motions of her life without feeling any of it. At night she slept ill, tormented by dreams in which she lost Luke a hundred different ways. Not even waking from these brought relief, for she was stuck in a purgatory of her own making, not yet condemned but not able to live either.
She left the house only to teach her classes and visit Vivian, but her friend persuaded her to come out with her and Edward one evening to meet with a group of people raising funds to build a public library. Rose had been excited to hear of it the previous week, as it sounded like just the sort of project she’d enjoy, and one unlikely to include anyone from Charlotte’s circle of influence.
“It will do you good to get out among the kind of people who’ll be present tonight,” Vivian cajoled. “Think how uplifting it will be to take part in such a worthy project, and one so dear to your own heart.”
Rose finally acquiesced, her interest great enough that it overcame her initial reluctance. When Edward and Vivian came to her door that evening she was ready, and the three of them headed out into the December chill, their breath misting before them.
“Where is the meeting to be held?” Rose asked.
“George Ticknor has offered his home as the meeting place,” Edward answered. “He’s been trying to raise interest in the library, as well as money, for some time. Ticknor was an old classmate of mine at Harvard, and now he’s a professor there. I wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear he’s heading the initiative. He’s always been a most liberal thinker.”
Rose felt a moment of alarm at this. Her father, Peter, had been a Harvard student as well, and quite a brilliant one, according to his friends. He’d been close with a number of Harvard professors up until Rose and he left Boston, and had corresponded with them until his death. But even supposing someone recognized her tonight, she couldn’t imagine how any harm could come of it.
They arrived at an enormous white house, complete with white pillars and stone veranda. A number of people were streaming toward the door, and carriages lined the street. Vivian and Rose looked at one another in surprise. They’d expected a sedate gathering, but one would have thought Ticknor was hosting a ball tonight.
A servant stationed just inside the door took their coats while another directed them to the ballroom. Rose found herself wishing she’d dressed with more care, for many of the guests were in full evening attire.
A tall, gray-haired man with great bushy sideburns and a ruddy nose greeted Edward the moment they walked into the ballroom.
“Edward, so glad you could make it. Miss March, it’s wonderful to see you. How do you do,” he said, bowing to Rose while Edward made the introductions. “Quite a turnout, is it not?”
“I should say so,” said Edward. “How did you manage
it?”
“Everyone’s come to see Vattemare. No one can resist an eccentric Frenchman. Word seems to have spread about his talents, and I haven’t bothered to squelch the notion that he’ll be performing. Let them think what they want if it brings them here. Maybe some of them will empty their pockets for once.”
“What sort of talent?” Vivian asked.
“Vattemare’s a ventriloquist. Have you ever heard the like? Of course, that’s just his hobby. His main interest is in efforts of this sort. He has a most creative and enterprising mind.”
Rose and Vivian looked at each other, incredulous.
“So good of you all to make it,” Ticknor continued. “Do find yourself someplace to sit. I shall hopefully speak to you later,” he said, rushing away as he was summoned to the front of the room.
Edward led them toward the rows of chairs that had been set up to face the front of the room. It was as they were winding their way through the crowd that Rose caught sight of the woman in a plum-colored evening gown, her dark hair precisely coiffed, her head turned in profile.
Charlotte Fletcher. And she was deep in conversation with Eliza Lynch.
Rose clutched Vivian’s arm, unable to believe what she was witnessing. The two women were leaning toward one another in intimate conversation when Mrs. Lynch let loose with the very same laugh that had so charmed Rose.
“What is it?” Vivian whispered in alarm.
But before Rose could reply, Mrs. Lynch’s gaze landed on her. An expression of surprise crossed her countenance, followed quickly by cool amusement.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, one eyebrow raised in arch amusement. “How unexpected.”
Rose stood where she was, unable to move or breathe for a moment. Then fury roared through, and with it a steadying determination not to let either woman get the best of her. Smiling, she walked over to them.
“Mrs. Lynch, Charlotte. How surprising to see you here. I thought only to meet people who concerned themselves with the greater good.”
Charlotte’s mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed, but Mrs. Lynch looked delighted by the confrontation.
“One should never underestimate others, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sure you’ll agree that leads to much misery.”
“Indeed,” Rose said, looking directly at Mrs. Lynch. “I seem to be forever underestimating the depths to which others will sink. How fortunate for you that you already know.”
Nauseated, her composure eroding, she turned to go only to be brought up short by someone standing in her way. She stared in surprise and disgust at the sight of Nathan.
Nathan laughed. “Goodness me. It appears my sister-in-law is not at all pleased to see me. How very hurtful when I’ve missed you so.”
It was all Rose could do not to accuse Nathan of killing her father then and there. Fortunately, Mr. Ticknor chose that moment to begin speaking, and everyone hushed at once and began taking their seats.
Turning away, Rose hurried to the empty chair beside Edward and Vivian, her breath light and fast. Up front, several rows beyond where she sat, George Ticknor made his case for the first-ever free public lending library. Rose heard almost nothing that was said. Her mind was taken up in remembering Eliza Lynch’s seemingly innocent comments about Luke and Catherine. The cold-hearted calculation of it went beyond anything she could have anticipated.
Ticknor finished his speech and then introduced Vattemare. The applause as the Frenchmen took his place in front was so thunderous, it succeeded in jolting Rose out of her trance. But though even a day ago she would have hung on every word he said about the importance of sharing knowledge, now she wanted only to go home so she could think in peace.
After what seemed hours, the attendees were encouraged to partake of the refreshments laid out in the back of the room. Rose was desperate to leave, but she couldn’t very well drag Edward and Vivian away when they were so enjoying themselves.
“Wasn’t that splendid?” Vivian asked, her eyes shining with excitement. “I cannot wait to contribute to such a worthy endeavor.”
Unable to match Vivian’s delight, Rose murmured her agreement and hoped her friend wouldn’t notice anything amiss. She didn’t want to discuss what had happened until they were away from the house.
“Rose Stratton, is that you?”
Rose turned at the sound of her name, an instinctive smile forming as she recognized her father’s old friend.
“Mr. Winthrop. It’s good to see you.”
“I’d know you anywhere, though it’s been, what, six years? My sincere condolences on the loss of your father. Mrs. Harris wrote me of it only last month, but she didn’t mention that you’d left Lenox for Boston.”
Someone behind Rose made a choked sound. Turning around, she saw that Nathan stood only a few feet behind her. It was clear he’d overheard, for the blood had drained from his face and he stared at her as if seeing a ghost.
She’d been found out.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, with as much calm as she could muster. “I’m afraid my friends were just about to leave.” Terrified of what she might see if she looked back, she hastened over to where Vivian stood beside her father. “I must go at once. Please tell your father I’m ill. I’ll explain later.”
She was trembling all over and her skin had gone clammy. It was all she could do not to bolt from the house, but it would be folly to leave by herself. Who knew what Nathan would do if he found her alone?
Finally, after waiting an agonizing amount of time for Edward to extricate himself from a conversation and retrieve their coats, the three of them left the house. Every moment Rose felt sure Nathan or Charlotte would come chasing after her, demanding answers, but when she dared look back there was no sign of them.
By the time Rose made it back to Walnut Street, she was fully panicked. She stood in front of the door and embraced Vivian while Edward stood just a few steps away lighting his pipe.
“Stay with us tonight, Rose,” Vivian urged, alarmed at what Rose had told her on the walk back.
“I can’t. Nathan knows who I am, I’m sure of it. It’s not safe to stay here, and anyway I have to find Luke and tell him everything before someone else does.”
“But Rose—”
“I’m sorry. I must go now if I’m to leave in the morning. Promise me you’ll be careful. Nathan may wonder what you know as well.”
Guilt settled over her at the stricken look on Vivian’s face, but she remained resolved.
Once she had made her decision she wasted no time. Going immediately to Mrs. Williamson, she explained her plan to leave early the next morning. Though the housekeeper looked surprised, she made no objection. Rather she insisted Jeremy go with Rose, as it would be much safer than staying at inns by herself.
Upstairs Rose set about packing only the most necessary items. The lighter they traveled, the better time they would make. They would reach the farm by the evening of the fifth day if the weather held. She’d overnight there and then set out for Luke the next morning.
Once she had packed she sat down and wrote apologetically to Lydia and Matthew Brewster for the short notice of the break in their lessons, promising to write again on her return to Boston. She wouldn’t let herself contemplate what would happen if Luke didn’t forgive her.
She had decided they would ride rather than take the phaeton, as the roads through the Berkshires wouldn’t permit a carriage. Five arduous days was far too long to ride sidesaddle, so she decided to forgo convention and use one of Luke’s saddles.
Jeremy tacked up the horses in the dawn chill, thrilled to be going on an adventure, as he’d never been more than ten miles outside of Boston. Even Rose’s subdued mood couldn’t quell his excitement. Mrs. Williamson saw them off with food enough for a week, looking rather forlorn as she said goodbye to her son. She bade him look after Rose and mind himself, and Rose promised she would write as soon as they arrived.
Rose was anxious to be make good time and urged the horses into a cante
r whenever possible, but they couldn’t keep up such a pace for long. Luckily the weather, though raw and overcast, held the whole way.
The land, originally covered entirely by trees, had been cleared in huge swathes for the many farms that now covered the hills and valleys. Even so the landscape was heavily forested, the bare braches etched against the pale sky. Rose found the barren landscape beautiful and a balm to her melancholy spirits, the cold air and the smell of woodsmoke from nearby houses fueling her desire to reach the farm.
They rode from sun-up until sundown, pausing only for an hour at midday to take their meal. The inns they stayed at each night were unexceptional, providing mediocre but edible sustenance and a passably clean room for the night.
The last day was spent winding their way through the foothills of the Berkshires on narrow, rutted roads, the forest close around them. This combined with the elevation had them shivering while their horses labored up the grade. Rose was exhausted, dirty and so anxious to see her aunt she had to force herself to let the horses pick their careful way along the trail.
In late afternoon they reached the top of a hill and she saw the farm spread out before them. There was the cornfield, harvested and turned for the spring planting. She could see where the squash, pumpkins, and beets still grew. A man she didn’t recognize – he must be one of the recent hires – came out of the barn and headed for the house.
“Is that it, miss?” asked Jeremy, his eyes never leaving the view below.
“Yes, that’s it. And never was I so happy to see it. They’ll probably put you to work, you know. No one stays on a farm without working.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll help with whatever’s needed, just like I do for you and Mr. Fletcher.”
Rose’s stomach clenched at mention of Luke, but she said nothing. Turning her horse, she led the way down.
Aunt Olivia came to the door as they rode into the yard, staring at Rose as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Then she smiled and stepped outside, her arms wide open. Rose fell into her aunt’s embrace and held on for dear life.
“What’s happened?” Olivia asked, pulling back to look at her.