An Inconceivable Deception

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “I am sorry,” she repeated, thinking she would be apologizing to him for the rest of her life.

  William nodded, still walking around the room. “You thought him long dead?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding for emphasis.

  “Now that you know he’s alive, what are your thoughts?” He stopped pacing to stand before her and gaze into her eyes.

  She took a deep breath. She owed William the absolute truth.

  “If he hadn’t vanished into the sea, I believe I would be with him still.”

  “Yet he did vanish,” William reminded her and then fell into silence as he paced again.

  At last, he halted and took her hands.

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes,” she answered without any hesitation. “I love you. You must believe me. I never would have become engaged to you if I didn’t.”

  “I believe you love me,” he said. He pulled her close, his gaze locked on hers until the last moment when his lips found her mouth.

  Familiarity and warmth, Rose felt safe and relieved, reveling in the sweet pressure of his mouth against hers. He was still her William.

  The kiss went on until he raised his head, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. Her stomach clenched.

  Good God! Was that a kiss goodbye?

  “Do you love Bennet?” he asked again, more directly this time.

  Did she? “I loved him tremendously when I was eighteen.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” William pointed out.

  “I don’t know. It has been years since I had to examine my feelings for him.”

  “You must have felt something since he returned. What are your feelings now, Rose?”

  Turmoil swirled through her. What William wanted her to do was beyond difficult. It would tear her apart if she truly delved into her emotions. She had avoided scrutinizing her own heart and her depth of feeling for one man over the other, just as she’d avoided comparing the men themselves.

  Finn was Finn — the man who had captured her every sense with her first glance of him, their first words, first touch, first kiss. Everything had been intense, charged, all encompassing, so different from her idle flirtations before him, and she’d had quite a few of those. She’d pledged herself to him forever and thought her life over when his ended. Rose had cared for both their hearts better than he himself had done.

  Love Finn? Why, he was sewn so deeply into the soul of her being that as soon as she’d discovered he was alive, she had ached with wanting to see him, to touch him, to breathe alongside him. She had felt driven to be near him despite herself.

  But William — standing before her — he was sweet love and laughter, as well as sensual desire. He gave her everything she wanted, and she had given him all that was left of her heart in return, trusting that this time, she would have a chance to experience the full joy of living with a man. With William, everything seemed possible in their future, and she had eagerly awaited the wedding day so they could begin their life together.

  “I am torn,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I wasn’t sure what I felt when I first saw him again. Mostly disbelief and then anger. Honestly, though, and you deserve my honesty more than anyone alive, a part of me still has feelings for him.”

  She realized she was wringing her hands and tried to stop by fisting them at her sides. “How can my heart belong to both of you? It’s not possible, is it? It’s certainly not moral. How can I love you so much and yet still feel a deep attachment for him? It is bewildering, yet you deserve the entire truth, so yes, I do feel love for him, too.”

  There, she’d said it. It was a terrible thing to say to her fiancé, but she couldn’t pretend that she loved William solely or that Finn had no place in her heart and mind.

  He closed his eyes a moment. When he reopened them, she saw in their depths that he’d made a decision, and a shiver of despair ran through her.

  “As an only child, I never learned to share,” he began, and she found herself shaking her head, knowing where this was leading. “I never had to be second in my parents’ love. I can’t be second for you. Moreover, I won’t share even a tiny bit of your heart with Bennet.”

  “William, please—”

  “I can’t,” he said, his tone desperate though definite. “You were mine, but not wholly. I suppose I could have lived with that if he were dead.”

  Again, Rose tried to speak and William stopped her.

  “I am not making this decision willy-nilly, I swear to you. I have spent every moment considering. I thought to speak to Bennet and come to terms with the man. Then, seeing you there, realizing you were comfortable enough with another man to show up at his dwelling, to watch you place yourself between him and me.” He shook his head. “Even to lump me in with the bastard, hoping neither of us got hurt.”

  His voice broke slightly, along with her heart.

  “Please,” she said, “I didn’t mean—”

  William touched her lips with one finger.

  “Circumstances being what they are, sweet Rose, I won’t settle for less than the whole of you. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I am releasing you from our engagement.”

  Rose closed her eyes, feeling one tear and then another escape to roll down her cheeks. She felt William wipe them away, and they stood together in silence for a long moment.

  At last, she garnered her courage and opened her eyes once more to look into his dear brown ones.

  “I wish I could tell you my heart was entirely yours,” she said. “You deserve that.”

  William said nothing at first. Then he murmured, “Love and pride” which she instantly recognized as the secondary title to Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s play.

  “I wish you could accept what I can offer you,” she added, still clinging to a shred of hope.

  He shook his head.

  Rose swallowed back more tears.

  “I can tell you, William Woodsom, that you will always, always have a place in here.” She touched her breastbone. “And if I am ever to love again, whomever I’m with, he will have to share me with you.”

  The anguish on his face was no doubt mirrored on her own.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered. How could she ease him, soothe him? “I got engaged to you in good faith and would happily have lived my life loving you and you alone.”

  He took hold of her hand and raised her fingers to his lips for a gentle kiss.

  “You are an incredible woman, Miss Malloy. Know that I wish you only the very best. I wish you joy and love and peace. I will never forget you.”

  God, he was really going to end this. He was giving her up, and there was nothing she could do, for she could no longer lie to him and, clearly, only absolute dominion over her heart was what would keep him by her side.

  “And I, you,” she told him, gazing into his eyes to memorize them, seeing the warm flecks of gold in the tawny depths.

  Without another word, William turned from her and departed the study. Rose sunk to the ground and wept openly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “She is as she was four years ago,” Evelyn said into the telephone in her front hall. “I can’t console her, I can’t bring her out of it. She is going through terrible pain. Please come at once.”

  Those were the words that had summoned Claire to Rose’s side. Rose knew this for Claire quoted them to her, as they sat on her bed, holding hands, both crying, with Rose feeling so sick and nauseated she couldn’t imagine ever getting out of bed again.

  Her mother’s statement to Claire had been quite correct. She was in terrible pain, both mental and physical. All of her body ached with the loss of William.

  Was this even worse than the first time her heart had been broken?

  “Forget Mr. Graham and his ridiculous ‘health crackers,’ forget tea and even sherry,” Claire stated, dabbing at the corners of her own eyes after crying silently along with Rose. “It’s something stronger you need to bring you back to life. I shall go procure
for us some brandy.”

  This caused Rose to erupt in torrential sobbing again until she managed to convey that she and William had last drunk brandy together.

  “Fine, whiskey it will be.” With her face streaked from drying tears, Claire left the room only to return a short time later with a decanter from Oliver Malloy’s study and a tray of biscuits from the kitchen.

  “I’ve sent your housekeeper out for a surprise that will delight you, I know. Meanwhile, drink this.” Claire poured a very large amount of the clear liquid into the empty water glass that Rose kept by her bedside.

  “Where’s yours?” Rose asked, eyeing the glass and sniffing it. “This has been sitting around since my father died.”

  “That’s called aged,” her friend declared. “It makes wine and liquor better. Go on. Drink up.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Rose took a sip and coughed, nearly spilling some on her counterpane.

  “Try again,” Claire said. “After a few sips, everything tastes good — or at least drinkable.”

  Rose took another draught and let it burn its way down her throat and into her chest. And then, for good measure, another. She knew it couldn’t thaw the ice that had encased her, making her feel chilled, despite a warm bath and a bed warming pan to heat her sheets. Nor should it. She’d lost William, and it was all her own fault.

  For a few more minutes, they sat together, with Rose sipping and pondering her lonely future and sipping some more.

  “Your turn,” she said, at last handing the nearly empty glass to Claire. “Go on, try it,” Rose added, then burped and unexpectedly laughed out loud. “It’s de-pisc-able.”

  Claire laughed. “What did you say?”

  “I said that the whiskey is deth-pixable. Oh, you know what I mean.”

  Claire took a small sip. “God, it’s awful! Like I imagine poison would taste.” She sipped it again. “Hm!”

  “It hasn’t helped anyway,” Rose said, wanting to lie down. She did exactly that.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said, gazing down at her. “I wanted us to be happy brides together.”

  Rose let the tears trickle down the sides of her face and into her ears. “I shall never be one. I am entirely done with men.”

  Claire made a tut-tut sound. “Please don’t say that. You are still young and—”

  “No,” Rose stated. “Don’t say it.” She paused, feeling as if her bedroom were spinning. “I need water. There,” she said, sitting up and gesturing across the room, “in the pitcher.”

  Claire jumped up and brought it over. However, since her glass still held whiskey, Rose could think of nothing to do except drink from the pitcher, which she did, slurping from its sloped side.

  She handed it back before wiping her mouth and chin on the back of her hand.

  “Better?” Claire asked.

  “Maybe,” Rose said. “I feel strange though. Not good strange, either. Whiskey is denifitly not for me.”

  “Denifitly,” Claire repeated and giggled.

  “Stop.” Rose lay back down. “Secondly—”

  “Wait,” her friend interrupted her, “what was the first point?”

  Rose considered a moment but couldn’t recall.

  “Never mind that, secondly, both of these men knew how much I loved them, and each . . . and each was able to leave me. What does that tell you?”

  Rose began to cry again, hiccupping while she did so.

  A knock at her door made no difference to her emotional state, and she didn’t care when Claire answered for her.

  “Come in.”

  Evelyn entered holding a tin container that could only be one thing.

  “Ice cream,” Rose’s mother announced. “Strawberry, as requested.”

  Behind her, the housekeeper carried a tray with bowls, spoons, and napkins.

  “Set it on the bed, thank you,” Evelyn said. “We have everything we need.”

  Rose sat up again, plumping her pillows behind her and resting against her headboard.

  “I don’t feel well at all.” She used the edge of her bed cover to dry her face.

  Her mother, wielding a large silver spoon, started to scoop the frozen concoction into the three bowls. She divvied up the entire quart and then placed the spoon in the empty container, and the container, on the floor.

  “I can understand why you don’t feel well,” she gestured toward the whiskey decanter on the bedside table before handing Claire and Rose each a bowl and spoon. She picked up the last one for herself. “Though ice cream cannot solve problems, it can certainly make them easier to bear. Good thinking, Claire.”

  Rose didn’t think she could eat anything. However, she touched the tip of her tongue to the first spoonful, and before she knew it, she’d polished off half her portion. It settled her stomach, though her head still seemed stuffed with wool.

  “I have something else for you,” Evelyn said. She reached into the watch pocket in the seam of her bodice and withdrew tickets that had been carefully folded in a piece of cream-colored paper. “You may have forgotten, but Miss Barton’s lecture is tonight.”

  Rose groaned.

  “Dearest, this will take your mind off of everything. I promise. She is an excellent speaker, though the topic is grim to say the least.” Her mother shook her head. “I’m sure she’ll discuss the war for a little while, but I believe she will speak mostly of her work at Johnstown after the flood. It will be fascinating.”

  Evelyn held her spoon as if she were about to conduct an orchestra and read from the printed sheet: “Clara Barton was the first of the relief workers to arrive, a mere three days after the catastrophic failure of the South Fork Dam in Pennsylvania. As it turned out, over 2,000 people had perished, and many more were still in peril, causing Clara and her Red Cross to remain for five months.”

  Rose suppressed a second groan. Her own troubles were slight in comparison to a wall of water and debris 60 feet high bearing down on an entire town at the speed of a fast-moving locomotive. Would hearing about death and destruction change her perception of how hopeless her own life seemed at present? She doubted it.

  Finishing her ice cream, she let Claire take her bowl from her.

  “Do you want to go?” Rose asked her friend.

  Claire looked torn between enjoying the lecture with its no doubt gruesome details, supporting sketches, and mesmerizing photographs and supporting Rose’s desire to stay home and wallow in her misery.

  “Yes,” the petite blond said, “I rather do.”

  Thus Rose found herself out in the world when she felt she should be home mourning. The decent thing to do was put a black shroud over her head, cover the mirrors, and stay indoors for the next decade. Instead, wearing a plum-colored dress with a small lightweight cape, she entered the main lecture hall of Harvard University, fighting past the throng of those still hoping to secure a ticket.

  They had picked up Elise on the way over, and the four of them located seats halfway back in the center section.

  “Perfect,” Evelyn said. “I’m so pleased you came, Rose, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said to humor her mother. Though in truth, nothing could banish the heaviness she felt, the near-crushing knowledge that she and William would not marry. The ever-present feeling of loss was a familiar one, a terrible overarching sensation that she had hoped never to experience again.

  Still, her brain could entertain other thoughts while her body remained listless and her heart torn and battered. “I’m sure it will be enlightening to listen to Miss Barton.”

  It occurred to her that, as with the cooking school’s Miss Farmer, Miss Barton was another spinster who enjoyed a full life without the benefit of a husband. Rose nodded quietly to herself. She could do the same.

  As soon as the seats were filled, Clara Barton entered the room and stood before them. At age 69, the “Angel of the Battlefield” still looked capable and vigorous. Her voice was strong and her presentation lively. It seemed only a few minutes had passed wh
en, in fact, she’d been speaking for nearly an hour and a half. She allowed questions and gave answers. Then, to everyone’s chagrin, it was over.

  “I don’t know about you,” Elise said, to the three of them, “but I am exhausted merely listening to her. I don’t know how she does it. I feel I am quite a lazy good-for-nothing.”

  They all chuckled, except Rose. She, too, felt positively drained.

  “I only hope to be so spry at her age,” Claire pointed out. Miss Barton had paced the stage for most of the lecture, and regaled them with anecdotes she’d endured the year before in Pennsylvania with as much gusto as thirty years earlier during the War Between the States.

  “I wish it wasn’t so crowded,” Evelyn mused. “I would like to have spoken to her personally a moment, and even have heard her thoughts on women gaining the vote.”

  “You are right, Mama,” Rose spoke up. “See, she has already been beset by well-wishers. We had best leave before we’re crushed.”

  The four of them exited the building and began a brief walk across Harvard Yard to where their carriage was parked.

  Evelyn took Rose’s hand. “I’m proud of you coming out like this.”

  Elise’s ears perked up. “Why? Are you ill?” she asked her youngest sister.

  Rose reddened, having momentarily forgotten that Elise didn’t yet know about any of her misfortune — Elise, who had planned the now non-existent wedding down to the smallest detail.

  “Oh my mouth,” Evelyn muttered, having realized her faux pas.

  Before Rose could begin to explain, Maeve appeared in front of her. She greeted everyone, paying particular attention to Claire who would soon be related by marriage. “Wasn’t that a stupendous lecture?” she commented. Not waiting for an answer, she added, “I admire Miss Barton though I know I could never venture into such territory as she did.” Then her gaze focused on Rose, who could read at once in Maeve’s expression that she knew.

  “My condolences on your association with Mr. Woodsom coming to an unfortunate end. Such a shame.”

  All four ladies, especially Elise, gasped at her ill-mannered words.

  “Still wearing his ring, I see,” Maeve continued. “I would have thought it in bad taste.”