The Color of Forever

by Julianne MacLean

  When I arrived at the Danforth’s mansion, I hurried up the walk and rapped on the brass knocker. Their butler opened the heavy oak door and informed me that Mrs. Danforth was not at home. I then asked to see Mr. Danforth, so that I might return something of value, which belonged to his wife.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Fraser,” the butler said, leaving me to shiver outside in the bitter wind blowing off the ocean, “but Mr. Danforth has returned to New York.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “I see. And what about Mrs. Danforth? Is she gone as well?” It surprised me that they hadn’t at least sent a note to thank us for the dinner party and say good-bye until next summer.

  The butler spoke matter-of-factly. “Only to Portland for the day, to do a little shopping I believe. I would be pleased to pass the item on to her the moment she returns.”

  Portland.

  I felt suddenly overheated and swallowed hard over my rising apprehension.

  No. I did not wish for my thoughts to run off in an unpleasant direction. Perhaps it was a coincidence that Mrs. Danforth had traveled to Portland on the same day as my husband. But why had Mr. Danforth returned to New York without his wife? Why would he leave her here alone?

  Feeling both flustered and disconcerted, I fumbled through my reticule for the earring, which I had placed in a small box, tied with a ribbon. Still standing on the stone terrace, my cheeks going numb from the icy wind, I held out the box.

  “It’s an earring,” I explained. “Mrs. Danforth wore it to our dinner party last week. She must have lost it on her way to the coach at the end of the night.”

  The butler accepted it and bowed gratefully. “I will see that she receives it.”

  “Thank you.” Turning away, I strode to the buggy and asked John to take me home, straight away.

  As we drove along Shore Road, I went over everything in my mind and felt shaken by what I had just learned. I loved my husband desperately—and I trusted him. I also believed he loved me equally, in return. Therefore I did not wish to believe what my instincts were suggesting. Surely I was imagining things.

  Please God, let it be so.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Sebastian arrived home shortly after 7:00, in time for dinner. When I appeared in the front hall to greet him, he removed his overcoat, handed it to the butler, strode forward, and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s good to be home. How was your day?”

  I was tempted to confess how my mind had run rampant all afternoon with images of his infidelity and betrayal, but I did not wish to sound ridiculous, or heaven forbid, hysterical. What I wanted was to observe him for a brief time and try to ascertain if it were possible that he was keeping secrets from me.

  “It was lovely,” I replied, walking with him to the drawing room for a drink. The footman, John, was there, waiting to serve us. I accepted a glass of sherry from the silver tray he held out.

  “The children and I played in the snow all morning,” I said, “and then I took a drive over to see Mrs. Danforth.”

  I glanced at my husband as I sat down on the sofa. He stopped in the center of the room and gazed at me for a moment. “What on earth for?”

  “I found one of her earrings in the garden below the veranda,” I explained. “I recognized it from the other night when she was here. She must have lost it as she was getting into her coach afterward. I wished to return it.”

  Sebastian picked up the whisky glass from John’s tray and held it in his hand. “And did you?”

  “Yes. John was good enough to drive me over in the buggy, but I am afraid Mrs. Danforth was not at home. Her butler said she had gone to Portland for the day. Just like you. And Mr. Danforth, for some strange reason, has returned to New York without her.”

  I stared at Sebastian directly, while my blood began to prickle through my veins, for it was more than obvious to me that I had caught him off guard. I had never seen him so lost for words. He lowered his gaze and sipped his drink.

  I sat for a moment, my mind burning with questions and suspicions.

  “John, would you excuse us please?” I said.

  “Of course, madam.”

  I waited for John to exit the room, then I set down my sherry glass, stood up, crossed to the double doors and pulled them closed. Turning to face my husband, I said, “Please tell me that I am being foolish and imagining things. Because it has been a difficult year. I do not think I can bear any more heartbreak.”

  Sebastian inclined his head questioningly. “What do you believe you are imagining?”

  “Surely you must be able to guess.” I returned to pick up my glass of sherry. “Because you are as white as a sheet.”

  On the surface, I probably appeared in complete control of my displeasure, but deep down, it was far more than displeasure I felt, for I was coming apart at the seams and wanted nothing more than to fall at my beloved husband’s feet and cry my eyes out—to beg him to tell me that it was all a silly mistake and he loved me more than anything, and that he would never betray me or stray to another woman’s bed. Not in a thousand years.

  But he said nothing like that, and I did not collapse at his feet.

  We stood facing each other in a heavy, stressful silence.

  “Did you see her today?” I asked, point blank.

  “Who? Mrs. Danforth?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Danforth. Who else have we been talking about?”

  Sebastian downed the entire contents of his glass and strode to the sideboard to pick up the crystal decanter. He poured himself another glass and replaced the stopper with a noisy clink.

  “You should probably sit down,” he said as he faced me.

  Oh Lord.

  Overcome by a sudden, sickening wave of dread, I moved to the sofa and took a seat.

  Drink in hand, Sebastian paced around the room. Then he stopped and faced me. “I probably should have told you this before,” he said, “but before you and I met each other, Mrs. Danforth and I…” He paused. “We were involved.”

  “What do you mean…involved?” I asked. “Are you telling me that you were lovers?”

  “Yes.”

  I inhaled sharply. “But she is a married woman. She has been married to Mr. Danforth for a number of years.”

  “Yes, and I am not proud of what occurred between us, but there it is. It happened. It cannot be changed.”

  I took a moment to process this. “How long were you involved in this…illicit affair?”

  “A few years.”

  My head drew back and anger came rushing in. I set my glass down on the end table beside me. “My God, Sebastian.” I gazed up at him with pleading eyes. “Did you love her?”

  For a moment, he did not answer the question. He simply stood motionless, except for a muscle flicking repeatedly at his jaw. At last, he spoke. “Yes, I believed I did.”

  My breath came short, for it was not easy to imagine that my husband could ever have loved anyone but me. I was the great love of his life. Wasn’t I?

  “What about the first musical evening I attended with my family,” I asked, “when she sang for us? Were you sharing a bed with her then?”

  He hesitated, and then nodded.

  Oh, God. I began to feel nauseous and laid a hand on my belly. “Were you still seeing her when you proposed to me?”

  “No,” he assured me. “As soon I realized I was in love with you and that I wanted to marry you, I ended it. That is why she and Mr. Danforth have not returned to Cape Elizabeth since our wedding, until now. She was angry and hurt.”

  My feminine wiles rose up in umbrage—for how dare Mrs. Danforth be angry and hurt, when she had no claim whatsoever on my husband? She had no right to feel anything, for he did not belong to her. She had her own husband.

  “Did Mr. Danforth know?” I asked.

  “Not until very recently,” Sebastian replied.

  I bowed my head and shut my eyes, struggling to keep my anger in check, when what I really wanted to do was pitch my crystal sherry glass across the room
and hit my husband in the face with it.

  I fought to control myself, even though my stomach was churning with nausea. “How did he find out? What happened recently to bring it to light? And why was she in Portland today? You never answered my question. Did you see her?”

  Sebastian took a deep breath and sat down on the sofa. “Yes, I saw her today. She came to my office to speak to me, but I did not invite her to come, and nothing happened.”

  “What did she want to speak to you about?”

  “She wanted to…” He paused. “To resume our affair. But I told her no.”

  “Well, thank you ever so much,” I replied haughtily.

  He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away. “Please, Evangeline, you must believe me. I love you. I would never do anything to jeopardize our marriage.”

  Struggling to control my anger, I made an effort to listen to what he had to say, because the rational part of my brain was telling me that it was not his fault if Mrs. Danforth still carried a torch for him. How could I blame her for that? He was the most handsome, charming man on the face of the earth. And if their affair had occurred before he met me, I could hardly call that a betrayal. And he told me that he put an end to it when he realized he wanted to marry me.

  “You say nothing happened,” I mentioned. “Am I a fool to believe you? To accept your word that it is all in the past?”

  He bowed his head, and again, my stomach churned, far worse than before. I covered my lips with the tips of my fingers. “My God. What are you not telling me?”

  His eyes lifted, and he regarded me with shame and regret. “I made a mistake, Evangeline. In London.”

  I shook my head at him, wanting this to stop. I did not want him to continue, because once those words were spoken—once he admitted it—there would be no going back to what we were.

  “She followed me there,” he said, “knowing I had left you behind. I thought nothing of it at first because she was traveling with her husband. I thought we had become friends at last, but there was a night, when I was lonely and we…” He stopped. “God, I don’t know how to say this to you.”

  I raised my hand. “Please don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Rising to my feet, I strode to the fireplace and stood with my back to him, fighting against the wild thumping of my heart and the sickness in my belly.

  My husband loves me. He would never do such a thing.

  “I am so sorry, Evangeline,” he said. “It was never my intention to hurt you.”

  I whirled around to face him. “What does that have to do with anything? Of course it wasn’t your intention to hurt me. What you did had nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even the tiniest, niggling thought in your brain when you were having your fun.” I stopped to catch my breath. “What happened, exactly?” I asked, suddenly wanting to know everything, for there was no point living in denial, refusing to hear the truth. “I assume you went to bed with her. How many times?”

  He shook his head at me, as if he didn’t want to say, and even through the fog of my escalating rage, I could see that he was sorry, that he didn’t want me to suffer, that he wished this was not happening.

  But it was happening. My husband had been unfaithful to me—with a woman he had once loved. He had broken our marriage vows and bedded another man’s wife.

  “I trusted you,” I said with disgust.

  “It was only one night,” he quickly replied. “And it was a terrible mistake. I knew that as soon as it was over and I regretted it immediately. I’d had too much to drink because of everything that was going on. Marcus’s illness, the theft in the company, and I was missing you. But then I couldn’t take it back. It was done. It happened quickly. I’m so sorry.”

  “Where?” I asked. “Where did it happen?”

  I don’t know why I wanted to know all the ugly, sordid details, but I couldn’t survive without the whole truth. My imagination would become a torture chamber otherwise.

  “It’s not important,” he said.

  “Yes, it is. You would know that if the shoe were on the other foot. You would need to know everything.”

  Sebastian shifted uneasily but kept his eyes locked on mine as he spoke those putrid words that ate away at my soul.

  “It happened in my coach,” he said, “after a ball in Mayfair at the home of one of our partners. She’d had too much to drink as well. Her husband had left early, so I escorted her back to her hotel.”

  “Did you spend the night in her room?”

  “No. Her husband was there. Everything happened in the coach. But I believe that is when he learned the truth, after that night.”

  I feared I might be sick. Laying a hand on my belly, I turned my face away. “I can’t even look at you right now. Please go, Sebastian. Just leave.”

  He stood and approached me, touched my arm. “Please, Evangeline. I must have your forgiveness. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Oh, stop saying such a stupid thing!” I replied, shaking him away. “I don’t care what you meant or didn’t mean to do. You slept with another woman—a woman you once loved. Maybe you still do. Obviously you still desire her. How could you, Sebastian?”

  My heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, and there was nothing he could say or do to mend it. I loved him too much, too deeply, and I’d thought he loved me, that I was the only woman in the world for him. But he had slept with another. Oh, God, I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to vomit.

  Turning away, I ran from the room.

  “Please, Evangeline.” He followed me up the stairs.

  I stopped halfway and slammed my open palms into his chest, pushing him back. He had to grab onto the railing to keep from tumbling down the staircase. It was lucky he didn’t break his neck.

  “Stay away from me,” I said. “I will never forgive you for this. You have broken my heart, Sebastian. You—the man I trusted more than anyone in the world. The man I loved. The father to our children. How could you have done this to me when my mother was dying and I was here all alone, caring for our children, in agony the entire time? I am repulsed by you!”

  I had never felt so full of hate.

  Dashing up the stairs, I entered our bedchamber, shut the door and locked it.

  I heard him in the corridor a second later. He knocked and spoke softly. “Please, Evangeline. Let me in. Talk to me. I must tell you again how sorry I am, and how badly I wish I could take it back. If only I could turn back the clock and travel back to that moment…”

  “Go away,” I said. “I don’t want to see you. Not tonight. I need to be alone.”

  He continued to plead with me through the door until I told him firmly, in no uncertain terms, that I would not forgive him that night. I needed time to calm myself. I told him that if he came in, I would only shout and throw things, and we would wake the children.

  Finally, he retreated, and I curled up in a ball on our bed, weeping my eyes out until the wee hours of the morning.

  Then, just before dawn, I rose from a brief and fretful sleep, still wearing my clothes from the night before. I ventured downstairs, donned my cloak and fur hat, and walked out the front door into the winter chill.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I still don’t know why I went there—why I was propelled like a spirit, sleepwalking, as if in a dream, down the veranda steps to our wooded drive and beyond, into the predawn gloom. My flesh tingled under my clothes, like pins and needles, all the way to my fingertips. I was strangely unaware of the crunch of fresh snow under my boots, and recalled nothing about my life. Then, as I grew more lucid and aware of my surroundings, I remembered what had occurred the night before and shivered with despair.

  I thought of what I was leaving behind in that white, symmetrical mansion, and felt as if I were choking in the throes of a nightmare. All I wanted was for my legs to take me away, to the very edges of the earth, where I could look forward into the future, beyond the horizon, where there would be no memory of this night.

  I re
ached the road and walked briskly along the frozen, rutted ground, making my way toward the Portland Head Light. What was I doing? Searching for a shoulder to cry on? A true friend?

  Or was it something else that drew me there like an invisible hand, beckoning me toward the powerful ray of light that would shine for miles and miles into the distance?

  All I could do was follow. Obey my instincts.

  Most of the walk passed in a blur, for when I found myself standing on the front door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, I realized I was trembling uncontrollably. The frigid wind off the water had chilled me to the bone, and only then did I realize that I had not worn mittens. I could barely close my hand to knock. I had to pound with the edge of my fist, for my tiny knuckles could not possibly compete with the roar of the ocean upon the cliff, just beyond the tower.

  The door opened quickly, and I found myself staring, in a daze, at Mr. Williams, whose eyes grew wide with shock. Still tucking his nightshirt into the waistband of his trousers, he said, “Mrs. Fraser. What the devil are you doing here at this hour? Is everything all right?”

  He reached out, took hold of my arm and pulled me across the threshold, then quickly glanced back outside, left and right, to see if I had come alone. Discovering no one else in the yard, he shut the door.

  “You’re as cold as ice.” He raised my bare hands to his lips and blew on them. He rubbed them between his palms to generate warmth and blew again. “Where are your gloves?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I must have left home without them.”

  He regarded me with dire concern, then led me to the table where he sat me down. Then he moved quickly to light a fire in the stove.

  I glanced toward the back room, embarrassed suddenly in case Mr. Harvey should emerge and discover me sitting there at such an ungodly hour, in a tremulous, emotional state.