by Jane Peart
She thought of those traits that had so annoyed her at first—his brusqueness, his arrogance, his high-handed manner. Did he have any qualities that would entice her to accept his offer? What kind of father would he be for Natasha? Just at the ready with his checkbook? Evalee, in spite of all that had happened to her, held a romantic, idealistic idea of what marriage should be. She felt it shouldn’t be simply a business arrangement, a mutually beneficial contract.
But was it fair to Natasha to reject MacGowan’s proposal out of hand? The most important thing in Evalee’s life was her child’s future. That’s why she had left France, come to America, started her own business, struggled to make it succeed…The truth was, it had been more difficult than she had imagined. Now all she could see ahead was years of struggle, the two of them living on the proverbial shoestring. MacGowan was offering Natasha a gilded existence. Shouldn’t her mother at least consider it?
Wearily Evalee went upstairs. She was tired but she wasn’t sure she could sleep. Her mind churned with all the possibilities. Maybe you only had one great love in your life. Andre had been hers. She never expected to love anyone like that again. It was too much to ask. Still, she didn’t want to live the rest of her life without love, without the possibility of owning a home, having other children. But would MacGowan’s kind of marriage be enough?
Evalee was awakened by the sharp jangle of the phone by her bed. She reached for it and answered sleepily.
“It’s Trent.” The brisk voice immediately made her alert. “I called to tell you that I’m leaving for New York. A business emergency. I may have to go on to London.” There was a slight hesitation. “I just wanted to let you know that I meant what I said last night. Are you thinking about it?” Not waiting for her to answer, he went on. “You’d never have to worry again, Evalee. Whatever you want to do, I’ll back you. You can expand your business or sell it, we can move to a bigger place, whatever. Your child will have the best of everything. The finest schools, in Europe if you want. I’ll give her a debutante party like Mayfield’s never seen—”
“Please, Trent. Believe me, if I had feelings for you the way you want me to, none of that would be important.”
“Then what is important?”
“Love,” she said gently.
“Love is a commodity, like everything else,” he said bitterly. “It can be bought.”
“No, you’re wrong, Trent. Some things can be bought, but not love. I like you, I admire what you’ve done with your life, I’m grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. But I don’t love you and I can’t marry you.”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“I’m not the kind of man who accepts first refusal. Maybe you haven’t fully considered my proposal. I won’t press you now. I’ll be back in the fall. We’ll talk again.”
The click at the other end of the line meant he’d hung up. Evalee replaced the receiver. She felt sad. She knew Trent was a proud man, and she had wounded him.
Some way or other, she was determined to work herself out of her financial morass. But if she couldn’t, was marriage to Trent MacGowan the answer?
chapter
19
DURING THE HECTIC weeks of May, Evalee worked frantically to complete the job at Wemberly—to “connect all the dots,” as she facetiously commented to Dru.
“You’re working yourself to a frazzle,” Dru said worriedly. “I hope it will be worth it when it’s finished.”
“That depends,” Evalee said, then regretted it. She had not told her mother about Trent MacGowan’s proposal. She had not mentioned it to anyone. That didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about it.
It happened mostly when she was physically worn out, at night, after Natasha had been read to and tucked in, when Evalee was alone, sitting at her desk, going over shipping inventories, bills, and invoices. Her drawing account was perilously low. She hadn’t wanted to ask Doris for more money, although some of the things she had ordered for Wemberly had cost more than she had originally thought. Some valuable antiques had had to be crated, insured, and shipped from England. All this had added to the totals. Would Trent understand, approve of these purchases? Had he really meant it when he said price was no object? Could anyone but she actually tell the difference between authentic pieces and well-crafted reproductions? And more to the point, did anyone care? Evalee had the feeling that Trent would resent her if she assumed that he didn’t know the difference. But if her costs exceeded what he expected, would he feel justified in subtracting the overrun from her final fee?
Evalee raked her fingers through her hair, got up from her desk, and paced restlessly. She knew that if she accepted Trent’s marriage proposal, he wouldn’t mind how expensive the finished result was. Trent wanted her, for more reasons than as a “trophy wife.”
Evalee couldn’t remember a time when money had not been important. Her childhood and girlhood seemed a long time ago. When her father had been alive, they had lived well. It was only since his death that her mother had confided to Evalee the debts left behind, the jewels she had had to sell. And after her marriage to Andre, Evalee had certainly known the pinch of poverty.
But no matter what happened, marriage to Trent MacGowan was not the price she wanted to pay for security. With the Wemberly job done as perfectly as she could do it, Evalee felt sure she was on the brink of success—on her own terms, earned by her own tenacity, talent, and taste. If Trent MacGowan used some excuse that she had not met all the terms of their contract to disapprove of some of the expenditures, that was his problem. He could take it out of her payment. Somehow she did not think he would, but that remained to be seen.
In spite of her brave front, Evalee had many sleepless nights, anxious days, awaiting delivery of some of the last fine antiques. Delayed shipping caused her, she was positive, to spot a few random silver hairs.
At last she could see the light at the end of the tunnel. By the end of the month, the rooms had shaped up beautifully. She had fulfilled her contract, checking every detail, keeping on top of each facet of the work. She had been assertive about promised deliveries and had insisted on quality, even when it meant doing a job over.
Evalee suspected she had earned the reputation of being “one tough lady” among the workmen, dealers, and suppliers. But she had earned her fee. She had nothing to feel guilty about as far as that was concerned.
Then Trent called from New York. “I’ll be down next week,” he began abruptly. “Is everything ready?”
Having just followed a truck from the train station to oversee the delivery of the last two pieces of furniture out to Wemberly that afternoon, Evalee replied, “Yes” and whispered a grateful prayer.
“So have you made up your mind about my proposal?” was his next question.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” She could hear the hope in his voice.
“I mean, no. Yes, I have considered it and no, I can’t marry you.” There was a pause. Evalee felt her heart pound. “I simply can’t.”
“Do you want to say why?”
“It would be wrong. For both of us. A marriage without love, a marriage without trust and truth, is impossible for me. You deserve more than that, Trent.”
There was another long pause, and then he said crisply, “Well, that’s your decision.”
Evalee heard the click of the phone being put down. Slowly she replaced her receiver. What repercussions would her decision bring? All she could hope was that Trent would be pleased with his mansion and that he would not exact revenge by withholding full payment of her fee.
Four days before the scheduled housewarming party, she went through every room. Finally satisfied, she sent the last of the bills to Doris and signed off on the project.
Within days she received a check. Depositing it gratefully, Evalee breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. This would keep the business going and take care of her living expenses for the next six months.
Driving out to Wemberly on Saturday evening fo
r MacGowan’s housewarming party, Evalee had mixed feelings. She had not heard from him personally since his return from New York. Questions ran through her mind. Was he angry? How would he react when he saw her? Although in some ways she dreaded this night, there was no way she could avoid attending the party. Wemberly, after all, was her triumph. She had to be there at its unveiling.
She had spent a considerable amount of time deciding what to wear. The few gowns she had that were appropriate for such an occasion were all part of the elegant trousseau her mother had purchased for her in Paris so many years ago. Were they hopelessly out of fashion? Still, a Parisian designer gown never really lost its style. After uncharacteristic indecision, she had made her choice and got dressed.
Because of this, she was late arriving at Wemberly. Cars were parked up and down the wide, curving driveway. She saw that MacGowan had hired valets. They were standing at the end of the terraced steps, directing traffic and parking the guests’ cars. All the cars looked so shiny and new. Hers was shabby, its back-seat piled with catalogs, carpet samples, rolls of wallpaper. Embarrassed to have one of the uniformed young men see it, Evalee circled several times, then drove around behind the house and found a place to park near the service entrance.
The gravel bit into her thin-soled high heels as she marched back around to the front of the house. As she went up the terrace steps, she could hear the sound of music, voices, laughter. The party was in full swing. The place was crowded. She slipped inside unnoticed and looked around.
Milly Kirby, the society editor at the Monitor, was at the party, absorbing everything, and would write it up for the Sunday paper, then send a tear sheet of her article to the Richmond Times, with the hope that they might reprint it. A reporter and photographer from PIC, the popular picture magazine, was everywhere. His flashbulb popped constantly, catching candid shots of guests, all of whom hoped they would appear in the glossy pages.
As her gaze swept the room, Evalee saw that there were not many Mayfielders here. The few she recognized were Tom Oliphant, from the bank, Jed Foster, a realtor—perhaps the one who had negotiated the deal for Wemberly—and two other businessmen she knew by sight. Scott wasn’t here. She knew he had been invited—she had seen his name on one of the elegantly calligraphied invitation envelopes. Why hadn’t he come? Of course, Jill was in England, but being alone had never prevented Scott from attending important events.
It wasn’t hard to spot the host. His broad shoulders, encased in a superbly fitted white dinner jacket, rose above the small group of people encircling him. All were probably sophisticated New Yorkers, friends from his other life. This must be a proud moment for him, she thought. However, as she looked around again, she noticed that few of those present were what one would call old guard. Did MacGowan mind that half his guest list hadn’t shown up?
She didn’t have long to mull that question, because she was immediately aware that he was staring at her from across the room. It was one of those moments that happen in life—not like the evening she had met Andre but similar in its intensity. She was aware that something important and rather frightening was about to happen. It was like the time she had been out riding with her twin cousins. Cara had been leading, and Evalee’s pony had followed. Evalee had been unable to hold the animal back, no matter how tightly she pulled on the reins. The daredevil Cara had headed for a fence. Evalee had known that her short-legged mount could not jump, nor could she stay in the saddle if the pony attempted it. She had felt that wash of cold perspiration, that pounding in her ears, that horrible lurching in her stomach. At this moment she felt that same sensation of fear.
MacGowan crossed the room in a few strides and stood in front of her. In spite of his outer polish, he had the intangible mark of a self-made man, as though he were a bit uncomfortable in his costly, custom-made clothes. His taut aggressiveness contrasted with the comfortable ease of someone like Scott Cameron, who had been born into privilege and casually accepted it as his rightful place, feeling no need to scratch or claw to gain a foothold in society.
There was an enigmatic expression on MacGowan’s face, a stubbornness about his mouth, a suspicious glint in his gun-metal gray eyes, as if he were aware of what was going through her mind.
“Good evening, Countess,” he said, emphasizing her tide as he usually did, as if ridiculing it. “So you came.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. I had to see if my work lost anything in translation.”
“Have you come to hear your praises sung?” His smile bordered on a sneer. “Everyone is talking about the perfection of the restoration. Minton Prescott, the historian from Washington, D.C., said he could almost hear the swish of taffeta and crinoline hoop skirts on these polished parquet floors. You outdid yourself. You should be very proud.”
“It was a labor of love. And you made it easy.” She smiled. “With unlimited funds, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a decorator.”
“You are much more than that. As Prescott said, you’ve captured the heart of this house, brought it alive again, just as it was when the first Wemberlys moved in.” He added sardonically, “I’m sure they must be turning over in their graves to know that someone like me owns their house now.”
When he made self-deprecating remarks like that, Evalee never knew whether he was expressing some well-hidden self-doubt or just testing her reaction. “You’re too hard on yourself,” she said calmly. “I should think they’d be delighted to know that the house they loved has been so lovingly restored.”
His eyes narrowed. They seemed to ask if she was being sincere. Like a boxer, MacGowan always kept his gloves up, ready to defend himself. He was always ready to fend off a possible subtle put-down. Strange, Evalee thought. With all his money, he could afford to dismiss any negative opinions and give himself credit for throwing the most extravagant party Mayfield had seen in years. It was too bad that the people he wanted most to impress were not here to see it. But she knew Mayfield was a tight little community of insiders who rarely invited into their ranks anyone new—and then only people with unassailable credentials. Those Trent MacGowan didn’t have.
“It’s a very posh crowd you’ve gathered,” she said, hoping that the fact that she appreciated the influential guests would please him, make him feel better, in case he realized how few from Mayfield’s old families had accepted his invitation.
He started to reply, when one of his guests, a woman with an appearance that must have taken her hours to achieve and a gown the price of which would have supported Evalee for two years, came up to them, put a possessive hand on MacGowan’s arm. “Darling, this is a divine place. Do show me around—”
Evalee stepped back, smiled, and moved away to relieve MacGowan of the duty of explaining that she was responsible for most of what the woman was complimenting. He had only signed the checks.
She was glad to get away, glad to shake that weird feeling she’d had when MacGowan saw her. Why should he seem a threat? Hadn’t he provided her with a great opportunity, a chance to establish herself? There was just something unnerving about his presence, the way he looked at her…Despite the balmy June night, she felt a chill. Suppressing a small shudder, she moved among the crowd, greeting a few people she knew. Just to have something in her hand, she took a glass of champagne from a tray offered by one of the white-coated waiters moving among the crowd. She wished she could leave now that she was able to see that it had all worked out as she had planned. But there was no way she could do that. Dinner had been included in the invitation.
There were name cards at each place setting on the round tables for eight under the green-and-white tent on the lawn. Evalee was seated in sight of where MacGowan sat with some people she did not know. Somehow she managed to keep up a semblance of conversation as the dinner of Maine lobster, new potatoes, asparagus, was served. It looked delicious, but she had suddenly lost her appetite. She kept wondering how soon after the dessert—chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce, served with coffee—she
could leave. When the orchestra, which had played background music throughout the reception and dinner, began to play dance music, couples began getting up. Evalee decided that this would be a good time to make her escape, and she excused herself from her table.
Her intention was to make a quick exit through the back hall and out to where she had parked her car. She did not think she’d been seen, but as she reached for the doorknob, she heard MacGowan’s voice ask harshly, “Just where do you think you’re going, Countess?”
She whirled around, surprised and a little startled. “I’m sorry—” She started to use Natasha as her excuse for leaving, but she didn’t have a chance.
He shrugged, as if an explanation wasn’t necessary, as if it didn’t matter. “I didn’t get to tell you,” he said, his eyes moving over her, “that you’re the only one who looks as if she belongs here. You make every other woman here look overdressed.”
She thought of the women she’d noticed, all wearing dresses from the most expensive stores in New York, glittering with sequins and beads. She looked down at her own dress. She was wearing a 1930 Chanel, an opalescent chiffon with handkerchief-point hem—and of course, the Oblenskov pearls.
Again he looked at her, this time from the top of her shiny gold hair to the tips of her satin pumps with their marcasite buckles. “You’re the most attractive woman here tonight,” he said, almost harshly. Then he took her arm. “I don’t usually do this. But is there anything that would change your mind? I still want you, and I’m prepared to meet whatever terms you want.” He paused, lowered his voice. “This house needs you. I need you.” Those last words were spoken almost reluctantly. Evalee knew what it cost a proud man like Trent MacGowan to say them.
“I’m sorry. It would never work,” was all she could manage.
She saw his face harden. “Well, if that’s the way it is, then—”
“Yes,” She said quietly. There was an awkward silence, which Evalee finally broke. “I have to go now.”