An Inconceivable Deception

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Believe it or not, I like the theatre. Did you think I was merely an uncultured barrelman?”

  She knew Finn was jesting in order to distract her from reliving her fright.

  “I never thought you were uncultured,” she returned, “though perhaps a tad salty.”

  He offered her a wry grin. “Of course, my seat at the back isn’t quite as good as yours, in the front row for all to see.”

  Rose felt her face grow warm. “That blasted light.”

  His eyes crinkled. “You looked like a Greek goddess. Your hair shone like polished onyx, and the light turned your gown into fiery copper. In a word, gorgeous.”

  She sighed. “It was supposed to be about Claire.” If he was so interested in how she looked, then why . . . “Why didn’t you show up at the church?”

  His jaw tightened, then he spoke, “I decided it was best not to go after you.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I don’t want to frighten you anymore than has already happened this evening,” he said. “When I came out of the bookstore, I did see a man trailing after you. One of these goons, I think. He watched you enter the church. I decided not to follow you inside. Instead, I waited to see what he would do. When he took off at a run to the nearest streetcar, I did, too.”

  “Then he wasn’t following me?” Rose pointed out.

  “I’m certain he was going to tell someone that he’d seen us together. I did the only thing I could think of, I jumped on the back of the same car as him, and it took us right to the shipyard.”

  “Kelly’s?”

  “No, the Navy yard at Charlestown. I lost him in the mass of workers.”

  Rose couldn’t suppress the shiver that trickled down her spine causing her to shudder.

  In response, Finn stroked her back, leaving a trail of warmth from her shoulders nearly to her derrière.

  “Truthfully,” he added, “I didn’t just happen to the theatre tonight. I’ve been keeping my eye on you since we last met at the bookstore—”

  The sound of glass shattering interrupted Finn, and then William’s furious voice spilled over them both.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  William had waited and grown concerned. After procuring their drinks, he’d returned to their meeting point by the second arch. Five minutes later, and with his glass half empty, he’d headed toward the ladies room and, uncomfortably, lingered a minute outside the entrance. Still, no Rose — though plenty of ladies gave him a curious or disapproving look.

  Finally, he’d started to wander around the lobby and then, at last, he’d spied her glorious copper-colored silk gown. However as he closed in on her, his eyes seemed to be lying, for his Rose was in the arms of another man, being held extremely close.

  Rage, white hot, rushed through him. As he reached the pair, who didn’t apparently notice his approach, William dashed the glasses down on the floor behind his betrothed. It was the most civilized thing he could do in light of the explosive anger that boiled in his heart and threatened to result in a brawl, right there in the lobby of The Boston Theatre.

  “Step away from my fiancée.”

  As the pair broke apart, William directed his focus on the only person who mattered.

  “This is the second time I’ve found you with this man.”

  Rose had appeared quite contented resting against the chest of Phineas Bennet. Moreover, her old “friend” seemed quite content holding her.

  As she moved toward William, her lovely face pale with guilt, her dark eyes huge, his heart sunk to his shoes. There was something terrible and destructive happening, and his world was about to change, unless . . .

  “Rose, say something.” He heard the pleading in his own voice.

  However it was Bennet who spoke. “She was threatened and nearly abducted. I helped her. She’s a bit unsettled.”

  William spared the man barely a glance as he watched Rose’s face for some small indication that everything was going to be fine.

  “Who threatened you?” His perfectly normal question felt anything but. “Why would someone threaten you?”

  Finally, Rose found her voice only to lose it a moment later. “Because I . . .” She stopped abruptly and looked to the man behind her for answers.

  That alone cut William like a blade.

  “This has something to do with you,” he said to Bennet. “She has been put in some danger because she knows you. Have I surmised correctly?”

  Bennet looked at Rose and then back at him. Bennet nodded and simply said, “Yes.”

  The electric house lights went up and down. The audience — both those who were and those who weren’t fascinated by the tableau being played out in the lobby — returned to their seats to watch the second half of The Lady of Lyons.

  The three of them remained where they stood.

  “Who is this man?” William demanded.

  Rose’s cobalt eyes filled with tears, which terrified him further.

  “Not here,” she whispered at last. “Please. Just take me home.”

  For a moment, William felt a surge of surprise. He could almost believe that it was Bennet who would take her home, and that he, her fiancé, was merely the interloper.

  Without another word, she walked stiffly toward the coat check counter and waited for him to catch up with the ticket stubs. He tipped the young lady and eased Rose into her velvet evening cape, barely touching her because suddenly, she seemed like the most fragile, brittle creature in the world. She stared at the floor while he did so.

  “May I take your arm?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, tears glistening on her cheeks, and nodded. In silence, they left the theatre.

  It was the longest ride of his life, with Rose’s occasional sniffling being the only sound other than the horse’s hooves and his own heartbeat, which seemed to be pulsing loudly in his ears. His misery was made worse when they reached her street without having spoken.

  Then, she broke her silence and said almost angrily, “No. We should go to your house.”

  Without a second thought, William drove them to his home on Phillips Street where, for the most part, he lived alone with two servants and occasionally hosted his parents when they were in the States. Neither of them mentioned the utter impropriety. It simply wasn’t done, and yet, they did it.

  ***

  Finn watched them leave and then strolled out into the nighttime air, not sure what to do with the rush of anger that left his heart pounding. Anger at himself mostly. Frustration at how powerless he felt, a feeling that was foreign to him and entirely distasteful.

  Catching sight of himself in a store display window, he suddenly realized the foolishness of having spent hard-earned money on an evening suit that he would doubtless never use again. He could have hung about the lobby and saved Rose from those idiots while dressed in his usual clothes. Yet he had felt the need to live up to her expectations of what a man at the theatre looked like, on the mere chance that they might meet.

  He certainly hadn’t planned on holding her in his arms.

  It hadn’t mattered one bit. She had left with William.

  ***

  Rose waited silently while William turned on the lamps in the dark parlor. Only the most modern of incandescent lighting suddenly letting them see each other clearly. They stood staring at each other.

  “A drink?” he offered, then frowned, perhaps recalling what had recently happened to their last drinks and why.

  “No.” Her voice was so faint, she tried clearing her throat. Still, she could only look at him. Whatever she said next, nothing would be the same between them.

  “Are you ready to talk to me?” William seemed a little hesitant, as if he dreaded her answer.

  Rose had spent so much time thinking about this moment, so why on earth didn’t she have the right words to tell him? Gentle words. Apologetic words.

  They stared at one another in silence for an
other long moment. His face was pale, the dark smudges a sharp contrast. If only she could ease his pain.

  “I am truly sorry,” she began, for she truly was. Beyond anything, she wanted William to be the laughing, jovial man he’d been when she’d met him.

  “Is this the important thing you nearly told me that day we had Italian ice?”

  Rose bowed her head, amazed that he remembered. After their walk, they’d kissed in her back garden and discussed wedding plans with her mother. If only she’d told him then.

  Finally, she nodded.

  “And what stopped you?” he asked.

  “The ball to my head.”

  William frowned.

  “Finn — Mr. Bennet — threw it. He wanted to stop me from telling you that he’d returned.”

  “Why?” His voice was raspy, with a hint of anger in his tone.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “He is in some trouble, and he thought that I — or even you — could be in danger if anyone found out we knew he was in Boston.”

  “Why isn’t this making sense to me?” William asked. “This has something to do with the incident that made you very sad in the past. We almost talked about it once.”

  Rose took a breath, nodded, and still she could barely get anything past her suddenly numb lips. But she did.

  “Phineas Bennet. He is my husband.”

  William took a step backward as though he’d been struck. He shook his head as if trying to ward off the pain, and a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead, making him look boyish, making her wish she could take back her words.

  “Rose?” He stared at her, the hurt that was etched on his face cut straight through her. It resembled precisely the anguish she’d felt when she lost Finn to the cold ocean. Except William had not lost her. She was still his, if he wanted her.

  For long moments, William searched her face before dropping his gaze to the thick rug under his feet. Yet not before she saw glistening in his eyes. His pain — and knowing that she had caused it — struck agony in her as if she were on fire.

  “No,” he whispered. Then again louder, “No!” He brought his gaze up to look right at her, a mask of anger in place of his confusion and sadness. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you—”

  “That you were married? When? After our wedding? On our honeymoon, perhaps?”

  She’d never heard such a tone from William. At least, not directed at her.

  Rose crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold.

  “I thought him dead, long dead. Even my family did not know about him. No one did. So in the beginning, there seemed no point in saying anything.”

  “In the beginning, perhaps, but after I asked you to become my wife. Surely then!” William paced the length of the room. “No before that. How about when you let me fall in love with you?”

  “I . . . I cannot defend myself. I didn’t want people to know what I had done.”

  “People?” he repeated, his voice raised. “I am not ‘people’!”

  “I know.” Rose didn’t know what else to say. She had used him terribly.

  William paced away from her, seemingly trapped by the four walls. At the far corner, he turned.

  “I wanted to give you everything,” he said loudly, nearly shouting. “Experience everything with you.”

  “As did I. As I still do.” It was true. She loved William Woodsom, and right then, in his anger, he was magnificent. His passion for life was something that had helped her to come back from the frozen world she’d slipped into after Finn.

  “Is that so?” He stalked closer again.

  She nodded, fascinated by this uncivilized creature who had materialized before her.

  He practically roared as he swept a porcelain vase off the nearest table. She jumped as shards scattered across the floor.

  “And yet you have already experienced some things, and let me believe otherwise.”

  Ah, his pride was rearing its head at thinking he had been duped out of being her first lover if not her first love. She understood enough to know that was important to a man, especially one of William’s standing.

  “No,” Rose said, glad she could at least give him this. “I agreed to marry you with my virtue entirely intact. A virgin wife the first time, a virgin bride for you.”

  This made him pause, stare hard at her, but then he practically spat out the words, “Then Bennet is an idiot.”

  She started to shake her head when he closed the gap between them, pulling her into his arms with none of his usual playfulness. Within seconds, while he gripped her upper arms, he crushed her mouth beneath his.

  Rose knew he meant to punish her, and she allowed him to be hard and fierce, and then, she wound her arms around his neck and held him close. Her body melted against his as it always did, and he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth, teasing hers open.

  His tongue swept hers, tasting her, and she relished him. His hands released their tight hold on her arms and circled behind her, languidly drifting up and down the silken bodice of her gown.

  At last, she felt the tension in him draining away.

  When long moments had passed, William gently nipped her lower lip, sucking it briefly into his mouth before he rested his forehead on hers. Together, they breathed in unison.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Flinching at his gratitude, Rose leaned back to look at him. “What could you possibly be thanking me for?”

  “Thinking you’d had marital relations with Finn made it worse. Your telling me that you are still an innocent makes me feel less of a fool.”

  She reached up and stroked his handsome face. “You are no fool, Mr. Woodsom. If I could go back and do things differently with you, I would. I would tell you I was a widow, and then, after fainting with shock at our engagement party, I would tell you I thought I’d seen my dead husband’s ghost.”

  “That would have been prudent.” William smiled down at her, sardonic and sad. “You have never been prudent, and I knew that.” He captured her hand on his cheek. “I’ve never before kissed a married woman.”

  Rose tried to smile back and failed. “Yes, you have. Quite a few times actually.”

  His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “I suppose you are right.”

  He released her, and as he did so, the chill and the fear and the sorrow returned. How much she depended upon him to shelter her. He had healed her heartache, and she had grown accustomed to feeling whole within the circle of their love.

  “Would you care for that drink now? I know you don’t want whiskey, but perhaps brandy. It seems you have much to tell me, and I, for one, could use a drink.”

  Normally, Rose would say no to such a stuffy drink, preferring fruity wine or champagne or even absinthe. At that moment, however, a mature person’s brandy sounded perfect, and she told him so.

  “Though I’m sure I’ve awakened the servants, I think I can trust them to leave us alone. Shall we venture into the kitchen for a snack?”

  He asked her this as he dispensed them each a generous pour and handed her a snifter.

  They tapped glasses, and Rose took a sip, letting the amber liquid trail warmth down her throat. She coughed.

  “If you like. I would like to see what kind of ‘snack’ you know how to make.”

  He smiled — genuinely this time — and she wanted to cry again. How lovely was William’s smile. How many more times would she see it?

  They wandered down the hallway to the kitchen, where he set down his glass upon the center chopping block. Rose watched William rummage through the cupboards, go in and out of the large pantry, and open each of the compartments of his newfangled refrigerator as if he’d never looked inside before.

  Eventually, he had an assortment of pickled foods, cheeses, bread, and even jam and cookies, all on a large plate. They sat there at the kitchen worktable and ate while sipping their drinks.

  It was a strange and enchanting meal, and Rose sav
ored every moment of it. This was how it would be with her and William, relaxed, a little whimsical, easy. If they were still to marry.

  She could not let this go, not let him go. William was all she could ever need.

  “How long were you together?” he asked suddenly.

  “Five months,” Rose said quietly. “But married for barely a month.”

  “We’ve been together longer than that,” he pointed out.

  She nodded.

  “An yet you didn’t engage in the act of man and wife?”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I couldn’t be a real wife to him,” she admitted, squeezing her hands together in front of her. “My family knew nothing of him, and I feared the very thing that happened — that he would disappear — except I would be left . . .”

  Rose couldn’t say it, even to William.

  “You’d be left enceinte?”

  “Precisely.”

  He sliced some cheese, offered her a piece, then popped a slice into his mouth, following it with a cookie.

  “Amazing that no one ever heard of this marriage.”

  “Because we kept it secret. Actually, I did. I didn’t want my family to know that I’d married in haste in case they disapproved.”

  William pondered that a moment yet seemed to understand.

  “You are right. They most likely would have.” He paused. “And still will.”

  “No, I was wrong to do what I did. I should have gone to them first, before I married.” She twisted her fingers together. “I made Finn feel—”

  “Dammit!” William swore softly. “Honestly, Rose, I don’t care what Bennet feels — then or now. He was a blackguard to marry you without your family’s permission, especially as young as you were.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together. He had a right to be angry, and she would not waste her breath defending Finn. Instead, she spread butter and some thick strawberry jam on a slice of bread and munched on the sweet treat. It was exactly what she needed.

  They continued to eat in strained silence that eventually became comfortable again. Hours later, they’d ended up back in the parlor. Having swept up the vase into a pile by the fireplace, the sat side by side on the sofa, nearly emptying the decanter of brandy.