A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  Idly she touched her forehead, half-expecting to find an impression of his kiss branded on her skin. She wanted to talk about last night, wanted to ask a dozen questions, but she ground her teeth together and swore she wouldn’t mention the incident unless he did.

  “Are you feeling well this morning?” he asked politely, looking out the window, his hands deep in the pockets of his dressing gown.

  “Yes, thank you.” The intimacy of the moment, her in bed and neither of them dressed, made them awkward with each other. Lily’s throat closed, and she put down the muffin, knowing she couldn’t swallow. “Will this be our morning routine?”

  “Occasionally.”

  At once she understood. His presence in her room when Cranston arrived was intended to impart an impression of normalcy between man and wife, meant to suggest they were comfortable seeing each other in a state of undress. Undoubtedly there would be mornings when he entered her room before Elizabeth appeared, creating an assumption that they had slept in the same bed. Heat flooded Lily’s cheeks and stomach, and she closed her eyes, thrusting shaking hands beneath the coverlet.

  “Will you be with me when I meet the rest of the staff?” she asked, frantically needing to turn her thoughts away from the crisp dark hair at the collar of his gown, away from the hands he used so expressively, away from grey eyes that smoldered as if a fire burned behind them.

  “If you like,” he said, fixing his gaze on something outside the windows. “But my presence would be unusual. You’ve dealt with staff people all of your life.” He paused and his jaw clenched. “This situation is different for you only in that all the servants are new.”

  Did he suppose that someone listened at the door? Perhaps someone did; she didn’t know the habits of servants. But they were into the game now, and would play at deceit even in private. Setting aside the tray, her appetite gone, Lily nodded slowly. “I’ll manage.” What did one say to a pretend husband? “What will you do today?”

  “I’ll be at the firm.”

  “Oh.” He continually surprised her. “I thought you no longer practiced law.” A hand flew to her lips, and her eyes widened. Silently she cursed herself. If anyone was listening, she’d just revealed that she didn’t know diddle about her husband’s daily life.

  “You mean litigation, of course, and I no longer argue in court. I’m doing corporate work, and I’m involved in the legalities of establishing a new state.” Turning from the window, he glanced at the collar of her wrapper, then at her face. “As we’ve discussed, after I win the election I’ll close the firm.”

  “I’m sorry.” She mouthed the words silently and rolled her eyes, irritated with herself. Aloud, she added, “I believe I’ll spend most of the day resting in my room.” Familiarizing herself with the clothing in the closet and in the drawers. “I haven’t recovered my strength yet.”

  Quinn moved around the bed toward the door to his room. “Today’s edition of the News will carry an announcement of your return from Santa Fe. Are you well enough to receive this week?”

  “I’ll resume my usual Friday at-homes,” she said. As they had discussed. “I hope you’ll honor the ladies with your presence this week.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  At the door, he paused to look back, and she was conscious of her sleep-raveled braid and lotion-shiny face. The hard speculative look in his eyes also made her aware that they could remove wrapper and dressing gown and be naked in less than two minutes. Scarlet scalded her throat, and she lowered her face, plucking at the stripes on the coverlet.

  Lily hated herself for thinking such things, didn’t want to hear the blood drumming in her ears when he came near her. It was as if her body had awakened from a long slumber and yearned toward the man who had awakened her. No matter that she didn’t entirely trust him, that sometimes she disliked him. He looked at her with those smoky eyes, and a volcano erupted in her stomach, spilling molten lava down the inside of her thighs.

  When the door closed behind him, she fell backward on the bed and threw an arm over her eyes, moaning softly, waiting for the tingle to subside from her lower abdomen.

  * * *

  Meeting the household staff went more smoothly than she had imagined. James and Mary Blalock appeared near the end of the presentations, and even that meeting went well, Lily thought.

  Mary had stared at her, then gripped her husband’s arm as if she might faint. For one awful moment Lily had been certain that Mary would denounce her, then Mary had collected herself and stammered, “You’re so thin! And your voice . . . you’re catching a cold.”

  Lily had pulled up what she recalled from Paul’s cards. “Perhaps you could send down some of your wonderful chicken soup to help me recover.”

  The reminder of days gone by had brought tears to Mary Blalock’s eyes, and her husband led her away soon after. The moment the door closed behind them, Lily sagged against her chair in relief, only now letting herself admit how much she had dreaded meeting someone who had known Miriam well. She felt as if she had passed the first crucial test.

  The morning’s second test came when Cranston arrived to review the household routine. Paul would have been proud of her slipping and sliding. When Cranston assumed that she would set the menus each day, she managed to convey the deep weariness of someone recovering from a serious illness, and she’d maneuvered Cranston into suggesting that she approve the cook’s menus rather than compose them herself. When he inquired what she wanted served at her first Friday at-home, she asked that the cook submit two tea menus and she would choose which she preferred.

  There was a bit of the martinet in Cranston, and Lily used his desire to control “his” household to disguise her ignorance. At the finish of their interview they beamed at each other, well pleased to discover they were of one accord. Cranston wished to manage every small detail of his household, and Lily wished to let him.

  After Cranston departed, she opened every drawer of Miriam’s desk, again feeling like a trespasser, though there was nothing interesting to discover. She found a crystal inkwell and malachite pen, engraved stationery, a box of calling cards. Any personal items such as letters or notes or the diary Lily had hoped to find had been removed or lost in the fire. The only trace of Miriam in her little office was the dainty wallpaper and furnishings.

  Feeling an odd mixture of triumph over her dealings with the servants and disappointment that Miriam remained elusive, Lily curled into a corner of an upholstered window seat and gazed through bare tree branches at the distant mountains. Clouds as grey as Quinn’s eyes slowly blotted the white-capped peaks, and Lily guessed there would be snow by late afternoon.

  Drawing her legs up under her skirts, she clasped her arms around her upraised knees and watched the clouds.

  There were so many questions, and so few real answers.

  She didn’t think she had placed Miriam on a pedestal as Quinn had suggested, but it was true that the more she learned about Miriam, the more she identified with her. There were curious parallels in their lives.

  They each had lost a sister they adored. Both had buried their parents. They had each yearned for a child, had each borne a daughter, then lost her and blamed themselves. And there was Quinn. Had they both loved the same man?

  Lily shook her head and sat up straight. What sort of nonsense was she thinking? She could understand wanting Quinn, and heaven knew she did, oh she did, but she must never allow her fascination to turn to love. That would only lead to pain when she had to leave.

  That thought circled her back to Miriam, and Quinn’s comments last night. On reflection, Quinn was correct. Unless this was one of the incidents where he was lying to her.

  Lily had assumed early on that a beloved wife had disappeared, and she hadn’t understood Quinn’s seeming indifference. But if the marriage had been troubled, and Miriam had chosen to leave Quinn, several small mysteries were explained.

  Wounded pride would answer why he wasn’t searching for Miriam. It made sens
e that he wouldn’t want a woman who didn’t want him. If it hadn’t been for the upcoming election, he might have thought good riddance.

  But now Lily had a glimpse of the reasons behind his anger. Miriam had chosen a disastrous time to leave her husband. She must have known that her presence and the appearance of a stable marriage were important to Quinn’s campaign. She had timed her disappearance to hit back at him.

  But for what reason? Lily frowned, watching the clouds gather above the mountains. In her world, a neglectful husband was not reason to run away. In prison she had met women whose husbands had beaten them, almost killed them, but running away had not entered their minds. She doubted society women were all that different. Besides, she had already recognized that men and women lived in different spheres in Quinn’s world. Men attended to business while women structured their lives around home, fashion, and social events. It could be argued that neglect was built into genteel marriages on both sides, with each partner busily pursuing solitary goals and pleasures.

  Therefore, could there be a deeper, darker reason that had driven Miriam away? One thing was certain. Lily would never learn that reason from Quinn or Paul.

  Resting her chin on top of her raised knees, moodily watching the billowing storm clouds approach, she decided the only way to answer the questions was to find Miriam.

  The problem was where to begin.

  Chapter 10

  Quinn’s day was crowded with appointments, meetings, messengers coming and going, and continual interruptions that he welcomed as he found it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts strayed from conversations and paperwork and winged toward the mansion on Fourteenth Street. Was Lily managing the meetings with the servants? Handling Cranston? While Quinn rushed across town to a strategy meeting at party headquarters, had Lily been boarding a stage bound for Missouri?

  Resting his elbows on his desk top, he dropped his head and massaged the bridge of his nose, ignoring the lingering headache from last night’s whiskey.

  He had to trust that Lily would keep her word and go the distance. Had to trust that Paul was correct when he said she was ready and capable of deceiving those whom she must.

  Trusting her was not a comfortable situation, and he’d never before been in a position where he had to rely so heavily on an unknown factor. Wealth bought independence and the freedom of self-reliance; he wasn’t accustomed to needing someone this completely or feeling a loss of control. He chafed under the necessity of staking his future on a woman as ethereal as a ghost.

  “Mr. Westin? Here are the reports you requested.”

  He glanced up as Walter Robin, his secretary, entered his private office. Reed-thin and meticulously turned out, Walter was grimly efficient, hard-edged with ambition. After Quinn won the election, Walter would become a force to reckon with. Walter would decide who had access to the new governor and who did not. He didn’t know it, but his future also depended on Lily’s success at deceit.

  If Lily ran off, if the impersonation failed, or if Miriam was discovered, a great many people would be adversely affected. The scandal would reverberate against party leaders who knew nothing of Quinn’s situation and hadn’t had a voice in deciding the solution. Paul’s career would tumble backward. Walter and others like him would see hopes and plans disintegrate. The men Quinn had privately solicited for posts in his government would regret aligning themselves with his cause.

  And what would he do if his dream vanished in scandal?

  He hadn’t let himself consider losing the election or ending in a salacious scandal. He didn’t want to think about it now.

  Looking up, he frowned as a snowflake tumbled past his view of the courthouse.

  No, he would not give in and go home to see if Lily was still there. He had to trust her, that was essential.

  Trusting her was difficult but far easier than dealing with his obsession for her. She burned like a fever in his mind, a flaming Lorelei beckoning him to ruin.

  * * *

  Lily had not enjoyed much leisure in her life, and felt as if she ought to be doing something productive instead of spending the afternoon trying on clothing.

  Brightly colored ensembles were hung at the back of the closet, covered with protective cloth sacks. Deep-mourning outfits had been neatly separated from lighter-colored, second-stage mourning.

  Lily tried on two of the second-stage mourning suits and discovered they had been altered to fit her perfectly. It was boredom that prompted her to try on one of the light blue ensembles at the back of the closet. That and curiosity to know if she and Miriam shared the same figure dimensions.

  At the end of thirty minutes she had discovered that her bosom was larger than Miriam’s and her waist a shade smaller. The hemline informed her that Miriam had been about an inch taller.

  It wasn’t until she was removing the blue walking suit that she noticed a pocket and absently checked it. Inside she found a monogrammed handkerchief and a wadded slip of paper. She read the message on the paper, frowned, then tucked the slip of paper in the pocket of her wrapper to consider later. At the moment she was cold.

  She was perfectly capable of laying a fire and would have preferred to do so rather than deal with servants. But that wasn’t how things were done in Miriam’s world. Pressing her lips together, Lily rang for the housemaid, then glanced at the snow beginning to collect on the windowsill before she sat in a chair near the bed and picked up one of the books that Paul had recommended.

  The housemaid’s name was Daisy, and she curtsied when she entered the room, apologizing for the dusty smudges on her apron. Lily murmured a polite response. Pretending to be absorbed in her book, she sneaked peeks at Daisy over the edge of the pages, wondering if Daisy resented doing a chore the lady of the house could have performed herself.

  When she had a cheerful fire crackling in the grate, Daisy bobbed another curtsy and bustled away. Alone again, Lily tossed aside her book and studied the door separating her room from Quinn’s. Curiosity blotted all sensible thoughts of restraint. She shouldn’t. But she would.

  But before she tiptoed to the door, she made an effort to stop herself. A bedroom was a private domain. If she stepped inside there would be no question but that she was trespassing.

  She couldn’t help herself. Heart beating against her ribs, she opened the door, telling herself that she wouldn’t go inside, knowing that she would.

  For some reason she had expected Quinn’s room would be as spare and plain as the ranch, but it wasn’t. His bedroom was heavily masculine, but beautifully appointed. Wallpaper, draperies, and bedspread were done in various combinations of brown, navy, and cream. The desk, scattered tables, bed, and bureau looked to Lily like more European antiques.

  For a long moment she stood in the center of the room, listening to her heart pound, and inhaling his scent. Bay rum, shaving soap, a faint trace of smoke, and something else she couldn’t describe except to say that it was him. An undertone of something powerfully male and slightly earthy.

  After glancing toward the corridor door, afraid someone would enter unexpectedly and catch her, but unable to leave, she tiptoed around his room, running her fingers lingeringly over the razor and brush near his shaving basin and pitcher. Clutching the collar of her wrapper close to her throat, she gazed into the mirror he gazed into. Stroked the towel he used to dry his face. Touching his things sent a tiny thrill down her spine.

  Moving slowly, she examined the pictures on the walls, sun-drenched villas perched on sea cliffs, village scenes that again looked European to Lily. As she had expected pictures of horses or ranch scenes, his choices surprised her. She was seeing yet another face of a complex man.

  Next she examined his desk, the only untidy item in the room. Books, files, stationery were jumbled across the surface. Leaning and twisting her neck, she read enough on a scribbled page to guess he was working on a draft of another speech. After studying his bold slashing handwriting, she skimmed a finger along his pen, touched his crystal inkwell.<
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  Knowing she shouldn’t do it, yet unable to resist, she hesitated, then slid open one of the desk drawers and stared down at a pistol. Most men owned guns, and it didn’t surprise her to discover that Quinn owned one, probably several, but it surprised her to learn that he kept a gun in his bedroom.

  Continuing her inspection, she peeked into his closet, noting formal dress separated from business attire, only a few items reminiscent of the ranch. Rows of top hats and homburgs, boxes of socks and gloves.

  Finally she moved to stand beside his bed and felt her palms grow damp. Stretching out trembling fingers, she lightly stroked the spread covering his pillow. Her heart felt as if it would fly out of her chest, and she spun and fled back to her own room, closing the door firmly behind her and leaning against it as if to hold it shut.

  When her breathing returned to normal, she opened her window and rubbed some of the snow from the windowsill beneath her nose, hoping to chase away Quinn’s scent, but she imagined she could smell him on her fingertips. Dropping her head, she covered her face in her hands.

  What was happening to her?

  When she could think again, she gave her head a violent shake, thrust her hands into the pockets of the wrapper, and stared out at the falling snow. It was a relief to find the tiny slip of wadded paper, to have something to think about instead of Quinn.

  Returning to the chair beside her bed, she smoothed the small wadded slip open on top of the book she’d been reading.

  Same time. Same place. M.

  Here was Miriam, real and tangible. Tilting the slip to the light, she studied Miriam’s handwriting. The pen strokes were plain, without flourish, impressing her as almost masculine. Considering Miriam’s preference for ruffles, fringes, and frippery, Lily would have expected curlicues and embellishments.

  Same time. Same place. Leaning her head against the top of the chair, she tried to decipher the meaning of the message. A reminder not to forget an appointment? But surely Miriam wouldn’t sign a reminder to herself. And why would a person remind herself of an appointment if the time and place were the same as always? If Lily had written herself a reminder of an established appointment, she would have jotted something like: Quinn. Tuesday.