Finn looked away, back to the sea, then directly into her eyes. “You looked beautiful, by the way.”
“Thank you.” She’d never had a reason to wear anything like that gown when she’d been with him. They’d ridden horses and walked in the countryside away from everyone. They’d gone on adventures and strolled along the beach. They’d gone sightseeing to Newburyport.
One time, they’d climbed a tree when a family interrupted their picnic in Mount Auburn Cemetery north of Boston. Rose had thought it great fun to hide out in the branches of an apple tree while a husband and wife and their children passed unawares below.
Always away from other people at her insistence.
“Your family obviously admires your fiancé. I heard the speeches.”
What could she say? Rose nodded, thinking how strange that her husband had been present while her family toasted her engagement.
“And this man loves you. That was clear, too.”
Yes, William dearly loved her.
“Then again, who wouldn’t?” he added, his voice a low murmur. “So what do you want to do, Rose?”
For a second, she thought he meant that very moment. What did she want to do? She couldn’t have answered him. She knew the urge to hug him, indeed, wanted to feel his solid arms around her. Yet warring strongly with that feeling was the desire to lash out at him again, to cause him pain for letting her believe him dead for so long.
What do I want to do?
“Are you asking me if I intend still to marry William, now that I know you’re alive? Are you offering me a . . . a divorce?”
She could barely say the word, had never in her entire life considered she would be the type of woman who would need one.
Finn seemed to bristle at the suggestion, straightening up on the bench. “I wasn’t offering you anything of the kind.”
“Then what are you asking?”
He took a deep breath. “Do you love him?”
Rose didn’t have to consider, and she couldn’t lie to him.
“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have become engaged to William if I didn’t.”
What did Finn think? That she would pine for him and then agree to marry just anyone who came along and asked her.
His unspoken question was, of course, did she still love him? Similarly, she wondered what were his feelings?
“Why did you come back at this time?” she asked him for the second time.
“My apologies,” he said, his manner curt. “I didn’t mean to spoil your plans.”
How dare he inject a tone of bitterness! As if she’d been trying to marry someone secretly behind his back.
“That’s hardly the point,” she said. “Tell me why now.”
“I told you. The news of Boston’s high society reached me in Scotland,” he said.
Finn hadn’t bothered about her until she had decided to move on. Obviously, the announcement of her engagement and of the subsequent party at the Tremont had drawn him back to his long-neglected wife. How terrible!
“I couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to know—”
Right then three sharp whistle blasts sounded from across the harbor, as the Boston and Maine train to Portland left its Haymarket depot. Neither of them moved though Rose realized it was probably the same rail line that had brought Finn back to Boston from up north. From his home.
“Had to know?” she prompted into the silence.
“How you had fared,” he said at last though she didn’t think it was what he originally intended to say.
“I grieved a long time for you,” Rose told him, thinking of the countless hours of unnecessary sorrow. “Since meeting Mr. Woodsom, I have felt happy again.” She almost added “finally” for it had seemed a long time of nothing apart from overwhelming sadness and of everything around her being dimmed and colorless.
To find out that Finn had been alive the whole time, studying in Glasgow!
“That’s no small thing,” she told him, wanting him to understand precisely how much William meant to her. “Before I met him, it was as though I were living under water. It’s a poor analogy to make to you, after what you went through,” she added, “but you will perfectly understand the sensation. My father often took us in the summers to escape the oppressive heat. We went northwest, about twenty miles.”
Rose remembered being with her brother and sisters, canoeing and swimming in the Sudbury and Concord rivers.
“You know what it’s like,” she continued, recalling swimming down to the shallow riverbed, “not seeing clearly and being unable to hear sounds around you.” The isolating feeling of being under water, unlike anything else, had stayed distinctly with her. It was perhaps a poor analogy to make to a man who had nearly drowned, though she knew he would understand.
“After William began to court me, I . . . well, I breathed more easily again, colors were brighter, experiences were richer.” And she’d laughed with him — so much gaiety between them — however, in the face of the serious man beside her, she didn’t mention that.
“I’ll have to tell him about you,” she added, thinking aloud.
Finn nodded. “What will you say to him?”
What indeed! Rose dreaded the scene, explaining how she had neglected to mention getting married before. She had been a widow who now wasn’t one, and hiding being a widowed wife was bad enough. Now she had to disclose a dead husband who was not really dead at all.
Groaning, she put her face in her hands and exhaled. To her surprise, she felt Finn’s arm go around her, and then he pulled her against him.
Stiffly at first, she held herself away, lowering her hands to her lap. His scent, familiar but until that moment forgotten, tickled her nostrils. She breathed deeply. Strange, yet also not strange.
Little by little, she relaxed, letting her shoulder remain tucked under his arm, and finally allowing her body to soften so her head made contact with the side of his chest.
He squeezed her shoulder gently, and a second later, she felt his chin touch the top of her head, resting there. This was not helping her determine what to tell William. This was muddling her brain and causing her pulse to race.
If anyone she knew saw her, alone, being embraced by this stranger and apparently being unfaithful to her fiancé! Dear God, the recriminations, the ostracism from her social group, and the disappointment of her family as she brought shame upon the Malloy name.
Rose sighed. This was precisely the type of mess Reed was referring to at the party — the type that would give him more gray hair.
“I’m sorry,” Finn said, his voice a gentle murmur. “I know I’ve put you in a bad situation.”
To put it mildly. Yet she didn’t bother to voice her thought.
“I had better go,” she said straightening. She ought to sit alone in her room and examine her feelings. She ought to think about the best way to tell William. She ought to—
“Did you come by carriage?” he asked.
When she nodded, he said, “I’ll walk you to it.”
She hesitated. If they were seen . . . On the other hand, it was still early on Sunday, most people yet in church or at home, as she should be.
“All right,” she agreed and felt his arm slip from her shoulders as she stood. She shivered, still sensing where his touch had been. Stepping away from the bench, she watched him rise to his feet, a head taller than most men she’d ever met. He turned toward her and took a slow step and then another.
“Finn?” she queried.
He shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Yet he wasn’t. He had a pronounced limp, like Miss Farmer at the cooking school, though he walked steadily enough. Rose fell into step beside him. She had discovered that the school’s assistant principal had had a stroke at a young age. What had caused Finn’s injury?
Unfortunately, so estranged from the man beside her and so shocked at his living, breathing presence, she could not find the words to ask him. It would feel like prying into a stranger’s life.
“I can sc
arcely believe I’m walking along the dock with you,” he said, stating the very thought that had flitted across her brain.
In silence, she went over their brief conversation. Finn hadn’t made any declaration that he still wanted her or that he had come back to claim her — even though he had crossed the ocean only after discovering her engagement.
On the other hand, she knew precisely where she was with William.
“Where are you residing?” she asked as they neared her carriage. Would he disappear again, leaving her to think this was all an incredulous dream?
“I’m staying above The Restaurant Parisien on Winter Place. Do you know it?”
Of course she knew it! It was right across the Common from her home, and being aptly named, it served delicious French cuisine, which Rose had sampled in the second floor dining room that allowed women. She’d even told her teacher, Miss Sweeney, that she wanted to learn how to make coq au vin in a similar fashion to Chef Ober’s.
“So you know where to find me,” he said, as if he imagined she would start dropping in at his room the way she had done as a foolish girl of eighteen.
Her horse stamped its foot and whinnied, and she patted its glossy neck. How would she and Finn part? With a handshake?
“You’ll be fine getting home?” he asked.
“Perfectly fine.” Yesterday — and for all the yesterdays she could remember — Finn had let her think him dead. Now, he was worrying whether she could make it safely from East Boston to Beacon Hill? “How will . . . that is, will I see you again?”
“I didn’t come all this way to talk to you once on a bench.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He’d never been the type of man to kiss a woman’s knuckles like a dandy. Instead, bowing his head, Finn turned her hand over and held her palm against his mouth, pressing her fingers to his cheek. Briefly, he closed his eyes.
Rose could feel his warm breath through her thin summer glove. That he breathed at all was a miracle to her still.
For a long moment, he remained that way while her heart beat a wild tattoo in her chest.
Then he lifted his gaze to hers. “Somehow, I knew you would come here today.”
She nodded. It had been inevitable.
“You look even more lovely than I remembered. If that’s possible.”
“Thank you.” The words stuck in her throat. She would have forsaken any compliments for the rest of her life if he had only sent her a letter one, two, or even three years ago.
“I don’t suppose you want me to stop by your home and meet your family, now that I’m back.” Finn said it lightly, jesting with her, yet she had the distinct impression that her refusal when they first met still irked him.
Would his appearance on Mount Vernon Street be any better received now than when she’d married him?
No, it was a thousand times worse in the face of her engagement to William.
“I’ll meet you wherever you want,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his, “and then we’ll talk.” And figure out this impossible mess, she prayed silently.
A shadow crossed his face, shuttering his eyes. “Tomorrow then, at three o’clock, at Ober’s restaurant.”
Dine in public together? Impossible.
“I cannot—” she began.
“Trust me, Rose. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your reputation. Or your engagement,” he added before turning from her. “We’ll dine privately upstairs.”
She watched him walk away, frowning at his limp in an otherwise healthy looking body. What had happened to him?
Chapter Nine
Unable to eat that night, Rose partook only of a large mug of cocoa before retiring to her room where she remained secluded for the evening. She’d wished she could go straight to Claire’s house before dinner and pour her heart out. Inconveniently, her friend was in Newport for a debutante ball.
The Rhode Island branch of Appletons had done very well for themselves, and though Claire didn’t know personally young Miss Wetmore who was being presented, she’d been invited, along with Robert, to Chateau-sur-Mer for the grand coming-out.
If Rose hadn’t been so diverted by the sheer preposterousness of Finn returning from the dead — and consumed with guilt over the devastation that could ensue with William — she would have been extremely jealous of Claire’s exciting opportunity. After all, there was nothing quite like the eager excitement of a 17-year-old’s extraordinarily wealthy parents when it came to throwing the most divine ball possible.
Yes, Claire was going to benefit from that eagerness by experiencing an extravaganza. She would come home with tales of ice sculptures, champagne, quail dishes, and plate after plate of strawberry Charlotte, not to mention the music and the decorations, both floral and otherwise.
Meanwhile Rose paced. Then she sat and contemplated. She ought to unburden herself to her brother. He would give her wise counsel, after he gave her a dressing down, of course. She paced some more and finally took up the needlepoint she was always trying to finish. In five minutes, she tossed it down to the carpet.
Finn had missed years of her life, and she, his. He’d missed an entire governor coming and going. He hadn’t had to struggle through The Great White Hurricane, as they called the 1888 blizzard that happened the winter after he died. Or rather didn’t die! While she was wading through thirty bloody inches of snow, Finn was . . . where exactly?
Eventually, Rose wandered down to her father’s study and chose a book. Climbing into bed, she tried to read. It was almost more frustrating than the needlepoint. She tossed it at the wall, watching with satisfaction as it caused a small tear in the wallpaper. Bollocks! Before she was reduced to knitting or practicing the harpsichord, she put out her light, hoping the same question would not reverberate in her beleaguered brain all night.
How would she tell William?
Should she ask him to walk with her prior to their regular weekly dinner and explain about her youthful impetuousness? Usually he left his State House office where he clerked for Lieutenant Governor Haile and came directly to her on a Thursday evening. They ate with her mother, his parents if they were in town, or at a restaurant. On Fridays, William was free even earlier, and they usually went riding if the weather was fine and made plans for the weekend’s activities over their evening meal.
Rose couldn’t imagine what circumstance would be best for disclosing her past to him. It would have been an easy confession when Finn was still dead. Why, oh, why hadn’t she done it then?
Now, the confession would end with the startling revelation that she was not a widow but a wife. She was not free to be William’s fiancée. Indeed, she could not be anything to him, to the man she loved.
***
Rose had been up since dawn, restless and anxious, and the day before her seemed interminably long until it would be time to go to Chef Ober’s restaurant. Her mother cornered her in the dining room where it was apparent that Rose was not eating, instead only sipping tea.
“Out with it, my girl.”
Rose actually jumped. That was hardly her mother’s normal way of speaking to her.
“Don’t look shocked. Do you think I will get anywhere with you by beating around the bush? Something is wrong, and I fear it is to do with your engagement. Or worse.”
Worse? Rose considered what could be worse than what actually had happened.
“Are you unhappy with William?”
“No, positively not.” Rose sipped her tea and watched as her mother took toast from the sideboard and poured her own cup of tea, doctoring it perfectly with sugar and milk. “I have always been happy with him.”
“Hm,” her mother mused, sitting diagonally to her at the head of the table. “Then what? You’ve seemed distracted since the party, quite honestly. You didn’t eat last night, and this morning, it seems you have no appetite.”
Since when had her mother been so observant? She usually paid far more attention to her garden than the comings and goings of her adult children.
“I can think of one situation that could cause this behavior, and I want you to know, dear, that you can confide in me. This is not the eighteenth-century. If certain circumstances have occurred . . .” With a meaningful arch to her eyebrow, she waited.
Rose frowned. It was the lack of sleep causing her to catch on slowly, but all at once, she realized that her mother was wondering if she were with child. Good God! At least that hadn’t occurred. If she’d given herself to William as she’d almost done more than once when they were in the clenches of passionate kissing, and she was at that very moment carrying his child while married to another man, she imagined she would have to flee New England all together. Perhaps she would have started a new life in California near her sister.
She shook her head and took a deep breath. Thank the Lord for small favors.
“Mama, I assure you that my lack of appetite and my being distracted are not caused by anything you are imagining.”
And suddenly, thinking how much more dire her situation could be, she felt a little better. She was still married to only one man and she was not carrying another’s child. What’s more, she still had her virginity to give to whomever was left standing when this nightmare was over.
***
Deciding to walk rather than fight Boston’s entangled traffic, Rose reached her destination early. Looking at Ober’s Parisien, she thought it not very impressive from the outside with dark-stained wood and four plain windows. Nevertheless, her stomach fluttered as if she were entering Buckingham Palace to meet Queen Victoria herself. How could she be going to meet Phineas Bennet? It was surreal.
She could not hesitate long as the gentle stream of passers-by nearly carried her along and away from the entrance. Later, in another hour, it would be a strong tide of pedestrians when the streets flooded with bankers and lawyers and other businessman pouring out of their workplaces. Most likely, her brother would be one of them.
The notion of bumping into Reed caused her to quickly open the door and step inside.
Rose found the restaurant to be deserted, save for an older gentleman sitting by himself at a table by the right-hand wall, eating a meal with apparent great gusto. Until he looked up and saw her. At which point his brow took on a thunderous look and he began to scan the restaurant. No doubt he sought a waiter to toss her out or show her upstairs to the rooms in which a lady was permitted to dine.
An Inconceivable Deception Page 9