by Brenda Joyce
Suzanne was annoyed, but instinct made her instruct Jenson to send him in. A moment later Henry Marten appeared, looking somewhat disheveled in his baggy, ill-fitting suit. Suzanne realized that he had lost weight.
“I am sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” he said.
Suzanne shrugged. She did not stand up, nor did she offer him a seat. “What is so urgent, Mr. Marten?”
“I am representing your daughter, Mrs. Ralston.”
Suzanne stiffened with shock. “What!”
Henry cleared his throat. “She has monies due on the first of next month. Will they be forthcoming?”
Slowly Suzanne got to her feet, gripping the smooth lacquered tabletop, in a state of disbelief. “Only if Sofie comes home—alone.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” Suzanne said harshly. “You may tell her that she will receive her trust payment if and when she comes home—alone.”
“I am afraid I do not understand,” Henry said.
“If Sofie continues to reside elsewhere, defying me, she will not be supported by me.”
“The money is held in trust by you from her father, is it not?”
Her jaw ground down. “Yes.”
“I am afraid I must ask to see a copy of the trust agreements, Mrs. Ralston.”
Suzanne was incredulous. Then she was furious. “My lawyer is Jonathan Hartford, Mr. Marten. He has those agreements, not I.”
Henry smiled briefly. “Then I might tell him you have approved my request for copies?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“It would be silly for me to have to go to the courts merely to be afforded the opportunity to read the documents,” Henry said.
“Yes, you have my approval,” Suzanne snapped. “But let me save you some time. The agreements are ironclad. Unless Sofie marries, she will not take possession of her father’s estate until she is twenty-five. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about that.”
Henry only bowed. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ralston.”
Suzanne watched him leave. Then she cried out, in fury, in distress.
A lawyer! Sofie had gone to a lawyer! It was unbelievable. God, didn’t she know that Suzanne was only trying to protect her? To protect her from the very same kind of anguish Suzanne comprehended firsthand from having lived through it once, a long time ago? Suzanne did not want Sofie to make the same horrible mistakes that she had made. Yet she had already made some of them, and if she continued on her present course, she was going to repeat more of them.
Shaking, Suzanne sank down in her chair. She did not recognize her own daughter, not anymore. Once Sofie had been complacent, obedient, malleable. If she had her art and the seclusion with which to work, she was happy. But it had all changed when Edward Delanza had walked into her life. Yes, that was when it had changed. In every way, this was all his fault.
Suzanne hated him. God, how she hated him!
Two summers ago Sofie had become brave, defiant. She had ignored all of Suzanne’s warnings and plunged recklessly into an affair with him. Suzanne shuddered. In doing so, Sofie was repeating the past mistakes of her mother exactly.
Suzanne remembered being fifteen and heated with lust for Jake, so much so that she could think about nothing or no one else. So much so that she had purposefully given her virginity to him. So much so that she had been in love and she had married him in complete defiance of her family. They had cut her off without a cent. To this day, Suzanne was not on speaking terms with her parents. The day she had married Jake was the day they had buried her alive.
Like mother, like daughter. A worldly, virile man, an innocent virgin. Lust. Defiance. Loss of innocence. The similarities were frightening.
But the similarities ended there. Suzanne had married Jake before having her baby. Sofie had run away to Paris to have her child—and now refused to give the baby up for adoption.
Suzanne’s face lowered to her arms and she began to cry. All she had ever wanted to do was protect Sofie from hurt and suffering. The day she had realized that Sofie had broken her ankle in her fall down the stairs. Suzanne had been shaken free of her selfish grief over Jake’s loss. Sofie had looked so small and helpless, lying in her bed. numb with pain, and Suzanne had been consumed with guilt.
A guilt that had never quite disappeared. For when Sofie’s broken ankle had healed, it became apparent that she would be a cripple for the rest of her life. Suzanne had felt that she was responsible. To make up for what she had done, she would protect Sofie from any further hurt—for the rest of her life.
Suzanne had risen to the role of motherhood with a vengeance. It was as if she had been waiting for this role of mother of a wounded cub her entire life. And once she had lost Jake, all of her passion was transferred to her daughter. Sofie might be crippled, but she had her art and she had Suzanne. Suzanne, who would protect her from society’s scorn by encouraging her to hide behind her eccentric penchant for art.
But Sofie no longer wanted to be protected. Yet Suzanne knew her daughter did not understand. No one could ever understand what it was to be a social misfit until she was firmly cast out and stoned.
Suzanne could not let her daughter do this to herself. To take on the burden of an illegitimate child that would surely destroy her. Suzanne knew what it was like to give up respectability in exchange for love. Love was not enough. Nothing was enough to make up for the pain of social ostracism.
But she had had Jake. Sofie did not even have Edward Delanza. And even if she could have him, the suffering that was only beginning now would be multiplied a thousand times. Suzanne thought of the heartbreak and suffering she had endured during her marriage. She thought about the vicious, violent fights. She thought about the nights Jake did not come home, or when he did, how he had reeked of cheap perfume. Even now, so many years later, remembering brought forth such hatred, and such regret. For what made it worse was the fact that it was mingled with a love that would never, ever die.
Suzanne knew that Sofie had no choice. She could not become an unwed mother. Nor could she marry Edward Delanza—who was exactly the bastard her father had been. No, there was no choice. She must give up the child and move forward with her life. In time, the pain of loss would be tolerable, it was best for everyone—for Sofie, for the child, and even for Suzanne.
Suzanne ordered her carriage brought around. She hurried upstairs to change into a better dress, to dab a touch of rouge onto her pale cheeks and pinched lips. She pinned a black hat with a half veil onto her head, hoping to shadow her red-rimmed eyes. Her pulse began to race.
She needed Jake now, she did. But she doubted he was in the city, much less at home.
Suzanne hurried downstairs, enveloped in a mink coat. She ordered Billings to drive uptown on Riverside Drive. Then she settled back against the seat, clutching herself.
If only Jake had returned. He would help. Somehow, he would help. Jake was the only man she knew who could move mountains, and Sofie had become a mountain.
She did not see Central Park as they drove through it. Her stomach hurt. She had not seen Jake in almost a year, not since that one single time. But not through lack of trying on her part.
After she had learned that Jake was alive again, and with little difficulty, what name he was going under, Suzanne had immediately hired a private investigator to find out where he lived. Within a few days the agent had located Jake Ryan’s residence at 101 Riverside Drive. Suzanne had gone there immediately.
And she had been stunned. The mansion occupied five acres, from Ninety-first to Ninety-third streets. Tall wrought-iron gates enclosed the entire property. A small brick cottage guarded the closed front gates. Tall oaks and pines lined the perimeter of the property, but the house set at the other end of the emerald green lawns was so large and so imposing that it could be seen quite clearly nonetheless. It resembled a medieval manor, complete with side towers and arched entryway, boasting steep roofs and parapets, more than it did a home.
Suzanne had be
en in shock. Jake lived here? In this mansion that could swallow the Ralston residence whole—and then some? How had he done it? How had he made such a fortune for himself? When she had met him he had been nothing but an Irish immigrant laborer!
And she had been stabbed with fury, too. She was his wife! She should be there, with him! She had spent the first years of their marriage living in a small house that was little more than a shack, dressed in couture gowns that quickly became threadbare. She had not been able to afford a servant, and she had had to care for Sofie all by herself—with only Jake to help her at nights. She’d had to cook, too, or they would not eat. Suzanne had been reduced to being little more than a peasant. It wasn’t fair!
Suzanne had gone to seek Jake out because she loved him, but now she was furious at being denied her place at his side. However, lake was not in residence. When they had tried to enter, they had found the wrought-iron gates padlocked. Someone had finally been roused from the cottage. The custodian told them that Mr. Ryan had left New York several days ago. But he did not know where he had gone or when he would return. However, upon being pressed, he had finally given them the name of the man he reported to. That turned out to be Jake’s solicitor.
Suzanne had confronted the lawyer, without success. He was not about to reveal Jake’s whereabouts to her or anyone else. He had finally agreed, however, to pass along a letter. Suzanne had sent him a ten-page missive in which she had proclaimed her undying love for him, her anger at being deceived and duped by him, and her desire to be reunited with him as his wife. It had never been answered, but the lawyer had assured her that Jake received all of his mail. Just before the end of the year, Suzanne had sent another letter. She had yet to receive any reply.
And every few days Suzanne returned to the astounding manorlike mansion on the West side, hoping he had come back. But he did not. Her private agent finally learned that he kept a residence in London, another in Belfast, and a country estate in Ireland. Suzanne had never been more shocked. And he maintained such a low profile that it was impossible to discern in which location he currently lived. Suzanne was forced to give up.
Now Billings was driving the Ralston coach past the tall barred and padlocked front gates. Suzanne wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. Damn you, Jake! I need you—where are you? Sofie needs you!
She closed her eyes, sinking back on her seat. If only she had not lost her temper the last time she had seen him. If only she could relive—and change—the past. Worse, she did not know when she would see him again—or if she ever would. Goddamn him to hell.
Suzanne’s temples were throbbing when Billings helped her down from the coach. She was too absorbed in her thoughts to thank him and she hurried into the house. She should not have gone back there, to his Gothic West Side manor. But she could not stay away. Damn Jake for hiding. Damn him for not being there when she needed him so much.
She thought about Henry Marten’s visit, and the pounding of her head increased while her stomach pitched and sank like lead. She must send for Hartford, her lawyer. She was almost certain the trust was controlled by her absolutely, but she must make sure there were no loopholes. If not, perhaps the agreement could be doctored. She should not have told Henry Marten he could have a copy—not yet. But copies took time, so perhaps no damage had been done.
Suzanne was counting on the fact that she controlled the trust and that Sofie would have to come home if she was kept impoverished. Come home—and give up the child.
Massaging her temples, Suzanne strode down the hall. Someone moved inside the salon as she passed the open doors. One foot on the stairs, Suzanne paused, filled with unease. Had she glimpsed a man? She turned as Edward Delanza sauntered into view.
Her eyes widened, her heart stopped. “You are not welcome here!”
He did not smile. “So I’ve been told repeatedly. Where is Sofie?”
Suzanne faced him fully, gripping the banister with white-knuckled tension. Her mind sped. “She is not here.”
“I know. Where is she?”
Suzanne tried to control her uneven breathing. She sensed danger. She saw the furious determination in his eyes. Was he after Sofie—or his child? Did he even know about the child? Why else would he want Sofie—and be so angry as well? Instinct told her the child might bring Edward and her daughter together. A vision swept her. Sofie and Edana in a lavish home that belonged to Edward Delanza. But Sofie was weeping as she tended her child. Weeping and heartbroken and alone.
An alternate vision swept her, as quickly, as thoroughly. Sofie and Edana in the same home, but Edward was there with them. Father and mother were aglow with laughter, alight with love, the baby cooing contentedly.
Suzanne shook off her thoughts. She knew that she must keep them apart. “Sofie is in Boston.”
“In Boston!” He stared. “What in hell is she doing there?”
“She is visiting relatives,” Suzanne lied smoothly. “Now, get out.”
Edward studied her coldly. “I will find her,” he said. “With or without your help. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”
Suzanne inhaled hard as he stormed from the house.
He was trembling. He had come so far, so fast, but she had eluded him. It was unbelievable. When he had found her in Montmartre, she had told him she would never deny him his child. But that very same night she had fled with Edana, doing just that. When Edward had realized that she had run away with the child, he had been enraged.
He was still enraged, but it was cold now, silent and still and deep.
He swung open the door of the Daimler. Damn her. Damn Sofie O’Neil for doing this. For taking his child away from him. For running away from him. Well, the whole world wasn’t far enough. Not for her. She couldn’t escape him. Not anymore, not now. He was going after her, no matter how long it took, and in the end she would be his wife, and Edana would bear his name. Edward was going to do what was right—for everybody.
But he didn’t buy Suzanne’s story that Sofie was in Boston with relatives, not for a minute. He had only arrived in the city that morning, but his next stop would be the Gallery Durand-Ruel. She damn well would have been in touch with them.
“Mr. Delanza, sir!”
He paused, about to slide his long body into the motorcar. The housekeeper, Mrs. Murdock, came running out of the house. Edward straightened, very alert. “Mrs. Murdock?”
“Yes, sir,” she panted, pausing before him. “If she finds out I’m talking to you, she might very well fire me without references—and I’ve been with her since Sofie was four years old.”
He gripped the elderly lady’s plump arms. “Mrs. Murdock, if Suzanne dismisses you, you can come work for me.”
Her eyes widened. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now, tell me about Sofie.”
Tears filled her eyes. “It’s a lie, it is! There are no relatives in Boston, none at all. You should have been here, sir. Oh, Lord, they were screaming at one another enough to bring the house down. It’s lucky Mr. Ralston wasn’t home.”
“Who was screaming? Suzanne?”
“Suzanne and Sofie! I never heard Sofie scream and shout, she was so angry, not ever, sir!” Mrs. Murdock was crying.
He was grim, but he kept his tone matter-of-fact. “What were they fighting about?”
“They were fighting about the child. It was so horrid! So horrid, sir!”
He sucked in his breath, his heart turning over in a very sickening manner. “What about Edana? Is she all right?”
“The babe is fine, sir. But Mrs. Ralston wants Sofie to give her up to another couple for adoption—and Mrs. Ralston always does as she wants. She and Mr. Ralston have already arranged it. Sofie refused. That was why she was screaming so. She left with the babe and the Frenchwoman right after that, in the night, it was, without hardly a stitch except the clothes on their backs! And I don’t think they have any money—because they were a ragged lot, they were, when they arrived.”
Adrenaline flooded his body, tens
ion quivered within him, but his tone was calm, flat. “Where did they go?” Edward asked, fighting down a horrible image of Sofie clutching Edana on a street corner, like any common vagrant.
“I don’t know!” Mrs. Murdock wailed. “If only I knew!”
Edward patted her. “It will be all right. I will find her, you can be sure of that.”
Mrs. Murdock gazed up at him, both beseeching and eager. “Yes, sir, I know you will. But please, do it fast. Before something awful happens!”
“If you hear from her, you can reach me at the Savoy.”
Mrs. Murdock nodded.
Edward thanked her and hurried to the Daimler, the composed facade he had struggled to maintain vanishing instantly. His heart felt like it was wedged in his throat. He was trembling, out of breath. God! He wanted to kill Suzanne with his own bare hands for chasing Sofie out into the street with Edana. Mrs. Murdock was afraid that something awful would happen. Edward was afraid, too. There were dozens of gruesome possibilities. The city was no place for a young woman to be alone with a small baby, especially without means. Edward knew that he must find Sofie and end this madness once and for all. Find Sofie and rescue her. Apparently he would play the champion one more time—but this time, her future was also his.
23
Sofie was nervous and had been that way all day, in anticipation of her meeting with Henry Marten. Henry saw her standing outside the thick glass door of his office and he came forward before she could knock. He smiled at her. “Right on time, I see. Why don’t we walk in the square? It’s a beautiful afternoon.”
Sofie nodded, trying to guess whether he was bearing good or bad tidings, but it was impossible to tell from his benign expression. He held her elbow as they went back downstairs. Outside, the sun was bright, the trees mostly bare, red and gold leaves swirling across the sidewalk. The air felt cool and crisp.
Henry did not release her arm as they strolled down the street. “I spoke with Suzanne, and I am in agreement with you. A reconciliation is unlikely unless you compromise with her.”