An Inconceivable Deception

by Sydney Jane Baily

  Rose stared down at her hand and her treasured engagement ring. She had not yet thought to remove it.

  “I will tell you what is in bad taste, Miss Norcross,” Evelyn Malloy said, “bringing up my daughter’s private business out in the open for anyone to hear. Like a common fishwife. I would have expected your mother to teach you better than that. Good evening.”

  Leaving Maeve rightfully red-faced and chastised, Rose’s mother took her daughter’s arm and hurried their little group past Franklin’s cousin without another glance.

  Their somber party remained silent until they reached their carriage, and then Elise began firing questions as quick and targeted as a soldier’s bullet.

  Too soon, Rose had to relive it all, watching her sister’s face turn from incredulity to sorrow as she heard what had occurred.

  “How could Maeve know so quickly?” Rose wondered aloud.

  Claire, who had remained silent through everything, cleared her throat.

  “I believe I can explain that. It’s my fault. Maeve lingers at Franklin’s house like a fly on manure. I think she has more freedom around my future mother-in-law than in her own home,” she conjectured. “Anyway, I told him a very short version of what had happened only because Franklin asked if the four of us could go out tomorrow night,” she explained, barely glancing up from her lap.

  “When we had finished speaking in the parlor, we found Maeve in the hallway as we made our way out to his carriage. I suppose she had been listening in on our conversation. I promise, if I’d known she was anywhere around . . .,” Claire trailed off looking quite forlorn.

  Rose touched her friend’s hand. “It is fine. You kept my confidences quite securely for years, and I know you are not a gossip. The news of my broken engagement was bound to make the rounds sooner or later. I am not worried about Maeve or her opinion. She is all sour grapes anyway.”

  Privately, the notion of Maeve still hankering after William gave Rose pause, however. If William did take up with Maeve, Rose wondered how she would bear it. She couldn’t! She would have to poison Franklin’s cousin with arsenic in her tea or catch her off guard and push her into the harbor.

  She couldn’t even take cheer at the outrageousness of her own thoughts. Instead, Rose sat with her fists clenched in her lap. At any given moment, she felt so close to crying, she could do nothing but breathe deeply while longing for the sanctuary of her bedroom.

  Rose decided to give William his ring back by way of a go-between, for going to his home and seeing him would be too painful, and if he wouldn’t see her, that would be even worse.

  ***

  The next day, Rose caught one of their two maids going out to the shops on the cook’s errands and diverted her to William’s house in the Back Bay. However, Bridget returned still with the blue box and the exquisite ring inside.

  “He’s gone,” Bridget told Rose.

  “Gone?” she repeated, stupidly, as if the word were beyond her comprehension.

  “Yes, miss. His housekeeper said he’s left for an extended trip to the Continent.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Rose took the box that the maid held out to her and walked slowly back to her room, aware though unconcerned by the numb feeling that seemed to have stolen over her, leaving her lethargic and disinterested.

  Wondering how she would ever look at her engagement ring again, she put the lovely little box in the back of a drawer of her wardrobe along with all her hopes and dreams for her life together with William. He had left her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rose knew that Reed had tried and failed the next day and the next after that to catch Finn at his room. Frustrated by the man’s inaccessibility, her brother reported he’d slid the envelope containing the divorce papers under Finn’s door with a stern warning note to sign and return them immediately to Reed’s offices off of Scollay Square.

  Rose tried to care whether she was a married woman or a divorced one, but with her engagement broken along with her heart, she found she could not raise much concern over her marital status.

  What did it matter? Without William, who had been the sunshine in her life, what did anything matter?

  How could her heart survive not having him in her life anymore?

  That last thought came and went with the realization that if she could learn to live without Finn, she could live without anyone. Even dear William.

  In the days that followed, Rose did not return to the Boston Cooking School, causing Miss Farmer to send one of the teachers to check on her health. Suddenly, Miss Spencer was admitted into the foyer.

  Trying not to be rude, Rose asked the instructor to kindly thank Miss Farmer for her concern and said she would be back at the school the following day. She did not mean it.

  Two afternoons later, Miss Farmer, herself, showed up on the Malloy doorstep, and Rose was mortified when Jillian announced her.

  “May I intrude a moment?” the assistant principal asked after she was shown into the sitting room.

  “Oh, yes, please do,” Rose said, jumping up to meet her. She did a mental check on what she could offer her to eat and drink. “Would you like some tea or coffee, or perhaps a cup of cocoa?” she added, as Rose remembered the woman’s love of chocolate.

  “We also have delicious lavender biscuits. I didn’t make them. Our cook, Emily, did. She has Mrs. Lincoln’s cookbook. Such a fine one. The book, I mean, though, of course, Emily is a fine cook, too. I’ve been reading it ever since I started at the school. I am coming back. I know I told Miss Spencer I would return yesterday, but I . . . that is, I . . . oh dear.”

  Miss Farmer’s face was placid as she allowed Rose to ramble on and then finally stop for a breath.

  “You are a superb cook,” the assistant principal said unexpectedly.

  Rose took a small step backward. She was diligent, persistent, and dedicated when at the school. That was certain. However, Rose hadn’t believed her skills were in any way out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t like to think of you giving up,” Miss Farmer said. “Yes, I will have cocoa, please, if you’ll join me, and I hope you’ll tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Yes,” Rose said at once, for she greatly admired this woman and had found her to be wise and comforting and unflappable from the start — even when another student set her own hair on fire trying to caramelize sugar.

  Thus it was without too much discomfort that Rose found herself seated with Miss Farmer on the sofa, drinking cocoa and discussing her sad situation.

  After Rose came to the part in which she discovered William had left the country, Miss Farmer tsk-tsked.

  “That is an unhappy story indeed. However, it is not the whole of your story, is it?” She set down her cup. “You are a good cook, and that has not changed whether you are engaged or not. I understand about heartbreak and disappointment, but you must not let either define your person. Many young people let that happen. I did not.”

  Rose most certainly had let her widowhood define her for years, and as Fannie said, she could see herself letting it happen again with her newly broken heart. Rose wanted to stay tucked in bed in her room and go over in her mind in detail every minute she’d spent with William.

  Should she ask Miss Farmer about her own heartbreak? Of course, there was the stroke at a young age that had caused Fannie to stay in bed for a long time and to live with a limp. Rose knew little else except that the woman had never married.

  “Why did you start to cook?” Rose ventured a safe topic.

  Miss Farmer smiled. “Necessity, my dear. I needed to do something.”

  That struck a chord with Rose.

  “What’s more, as with you, it turned out I had an aptitude for it. However, I had to blunder along for years without tutelage. You do not. In the few months I’ve known you, I have seen greatness. Your meringues are light yet firm, and your vol-au-vents with seasoned fish are, in a word, divine. Not to mention, perfectly puffed, and I would give up an entire me
al for a slice of your strawberry sponge.”

  Rose felt her cheeks grow warm with the effect of Miss Farmer’s compliments.

  “Thank you.”

  “You won’t give all that up, will you, not because of something entirely unrelated happening in your life? I understand about staying in one’s room, though it was forced upon me due to my health. I hated it. You have a choice. Use your talent to pull yourself out of any melancholy that has gripped you. That’s my suggestion. These lavender biscuits are every bit as good as you said, by the way.” She popped another into her mouth and stood up.

  “I must be off. Thank you for your hospitality and letting me offer unsolicited advice.”

  Rose stood as well. “No, Miss Farmer, it is definitely I who am thankful. Your words and your kindness have indeed made an impression on me.”

  They walked toward the foyer.

  “Then I will see you tomorrow in class?”

  “Yes, you will.” And this time, Rose meant it.

  ***

  “That infernal bastard is dodging me,” Reed said, storming into his bedroom where he knew Charlotte was reading by the window, her favorite place for quiet time when their children were in bed.

  “What kind of talk is that with children in the house?” Charlotte admonished him. “You sound like a sore sheriff hunting down a slippery thief.”

  Reed shrugged. “A hotheaded attorney, perhaps.”

  “Yes precisely, or an exasperated farmer at reaping time with not a field hand in sight.”

  He blinked at her. Exasperated farmer?

  “I can’t stand it. Rose is slipping back into that morose state that makes me fear for her future and her sanity, and my mother is considering not marrying Mr. Nickerson so she can stay home and tend to Rose as if she is an invalid. What my sister needs is a swift kick.”

  “Gracious. You are in a state. First of all, your sister is perfectly within reason to mourn her engagement and the life she had planned with Mr. Woodsom. He was ideal for her, and it is doubtful his like will come along again.”

  Reed felt a twinge of compassion for Rose. His wife was correct. One could not simply replace the ideal person. He could not imagine life without Charlotte, and at that moment, no doubt, his sister was unable to imagine her life going forward without William. Yet go forward she must. Except Bennet was the blockage.

  “I have no doubt you will get the signature from Phineas Bennet eventually, even if you have to wait him out on his doorstep. After all, you showed great determination in coming out to Colorado and making sure I took in Lily and Thomas when I was too dense to see the right path.”

  He sat down beside her, a small smile already on his face.

  “How do you do it, Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Do what?” Charlotte asked, putting a marker in her copy of The Scarlet Letter.

  “Disarm me, distract me, make me realize I overstate my problems?”

  “Did I do all that?” She blinked and gave him her sweetest smile.

  “Indeed,” he said, eyeing her book. “I’m sorry I interrupted your reading.”

  Grimacing slightly, Charlotte lay it down on the table. “It is all heavy-handed sin and guilt. Bah, I’m not sure I can finish it anyway. Honestly, I much prefer Mr. Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, no matter how the critics tout Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Finn!” Reed repeated. “You’ve brought me right back to where I started.”

  “Shoot,” Charlotte said. “Then I’d better try some more distracting.” She stood up and embraced her husband, placing a searing kiss on his lips.

  Putting his arms around her, he pulled her closer. Mm, he felt like purring when he held Charlotte. Slanting his head, he deepened the kiss and finished by nibbling on her lower lip.

  “I love your lips,” he told her when they broke apart. “That was some quite good distracting,” Reed added. “However, I still feel as though I need a bit more disarming.”

  She grinned.

  “Of course, Mr. Malloy.” Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his head down for another kiss.

  ***

  “I need your help,” Reed said, a long time later when they were lying wrapped in each other’s arms, Charlotte’s back resting against his front.

  “What? More disarming?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “Aren’t you tired?”

  He chuckled and stroked his fingers across her bare shoulder.

  “No, I meant I need your help with Rose and Bennet, and the dead men and Berne, and the yard overseer whatever his name is.”

  “Walsh,” she supplied.

  “Yes, him, too. Wait, how do you know his name?”

  “Shoot,” she said again.

  Reed swept his hand down to rest on her pert bottom. He circled it with his warm palm.

  “Nice,” she murmured.

  “I’d hate to have to spank you,” he said into her ear. “For withholding the truth.”

  He felt her freeze in his arms.

  “Spank me?” she repeated, and the breathy tone of her voice demonstrated her interest. In another moment, she pressed against him more firmly.

  He groaned, then grumbled, “You’re not supposed to sound so pleased about it.”

  “Oh, well. If done correctly with a strong but kind man and a willing woman, I’ve read—”

  “Charlotte,” Reed interrupted. “Please tell me what you know about Walsh and why you know it.”

  She sighed. “Does this mean you’re not going to spank me?”

  He rolled her onto her stomach, pulled his hand back, and swatted her lightly on her rear.

  “Hm,” she said, thoughtfully into the pillow.

  “What do you think?” he asked, though he felt himself grow hard again and wondered at the unfamiliar source of his arousal.

  “It is an interesting sensation,” she admitted. “Do it again.”

  Hesitantly, he did, putting more distance between them and lifting the bedclothes so he could see what he was doing. He smacked her lightly, then more firmly. Her bottom blushed a reddish hue.

  “Enough,” Charlotte said, as he nearly swatted her again but stopped just in time.

  “Well?” Reed asked.

  “It causes a general warming and tingling that seems to travel from my posterior forward to my—”

  “I meant, tell me about the yard overseer.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then giggled uncharacteristically. After a second, she regained her composure.

  “Now that the cat is out of the bag, I can tell you that when Rose came to me to investigate the sinking of the Garrard, I not only went to the insurance office, as you heard from Mr. Bennet, I also took a trip to East Boston.”

  “Dammit all! That was dangerous and rash and dangerous,” he added again. “Yes, I know I said dangerous twice. You should have come to me. She’s my sister, and this is my problem.”

  Charlotte stiffened. “She is like a sister to me. I consider her to be my family, too. What’s more, I didn’t know there would be any danger in looking into the circumstances of a ship that capsized four years past. How could I know?”

  “True,” he conceded. “So you discovered that Berne received insurance money and then went to Kelly’s yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you met with the overseer, Mr. Walsh?”

  “Yes, he was quite forthcoming. Although when I tried to speak to Liam Berne, he had left early. Quite inconvenient.”

  “Good, I say.” He didn’t want his wife getting further mixed up in this, not with bodies floating in the harbor.

  “Not good,” she said. “I left everything at loose ends, and I feel badly about it. Why don’t we go together to Mr. Berne’s house and—”

  “No, I forbid it.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he said it.

  “You what?” she sputtered.

  “Two men are already dead as well as an entire boatload drowned. I don’t want you within a mile of Berne. Nor do I want you going back to Kelly’s. D
o you understand me, Charlotte?”

  He could see the mutiny in her eyes and changed tactics. “You have our children to consider,” he reasoned, drawing her body close to him again, “and I’d hate to have to find a new wife to be a mother to them, not to mention tend to my needs.”

  “Tend to your needs indeed! Mr. Malloy, you are beyond the pale!”

  Reed grinned against her hair and lowered his hand to her bottom once more.

  “I thought this was beyond the pale,” he said, gently smacking her delightful rear again. “I don’t think wanting to keep you out of harm’s way is unreasonable to any degree. It is simply my loving you with all my heart.”

  He felt Charlotte soften against him and then press against his shaft expectantly. No more talk of his sister’s incredibly complicated life. Tonight, Reed would succumb to the charms of his incredibly wonderful wife.

  ***

  Finn watched The Parisien from his vantage point across the street. If he thought laying low, being respectful to Gilbert, and working a lowly job in the Ropewalk would cool things off, it hadn’t. Precisely the opposite.

  The day before, someone had placed a dead fish in the pocket of his jacket that he’d hung in the Ropewalk’s utility room. Tonight, he’d been followed home. Of that, he was certain.

  After another few minutes, he watched a heavy-set man enter the restaurant. Only a few minutes later, he came out, looked up and down the street, and left. He certainly didn’t seem to be a man who wanted fine French cuisine.

  Pulling his collar up and his hat down, Finn dashed across the street, down the alley, and into the back entrance. As he charged into the kitchen, Louis looked up. He scowled.

  “You are very popular, my young friend, but I cannot have people coming and going looking for you every day and night.”

  “The man who was just here, he asked for me?”

  “He did.” The chef turned back to his worktable, chopping something Finn couldn’t see.

  “Sorry.” He started up the back stairs.

  “Your lady friend’s brother was here again, too,” Louis called after him, “earlier today.”