Unrelenting Love: Banished Saga, Book Five

by Ramona Flightner

  “An astute assessment of her father and his desperation,” Sophie said.

  “I hate that she could suffer a fate similar to Sav’s, but I can do nothing about that now. I refuse to march into the church on her wedding day and cause any more scandal,” Lucas said. “She needs to want to change the dictates of her life, and she doesn’t.”

  Sophronia watched him with understanding and sympathy. “Of course you can’t march into the church,” she said before she chuckled. “Although it would be the most entertaining wedding I’d been to in years if you acted in such a manner.” She shared a long glance with Lucas.

  “How will we help Parthena then?” Zylphia asked.

  “I don’t know. Her father is foolish but influential.” Sophie gripped the handle of her cane as she frowned. “As the girl herself has agreed to this match, I’m afraid Lucas is correct. There is nothing for us to do, except support her afterward.”

  “Will you tell me more about this Morgan fellow? What is he like? Who are his friends? What are his passions?” Lucas asked Sophie.

  Sophie sighed. “Not all men are like you, dearest. Not all men have a great abiding passion. I fear Morgan’s passion is maintaining control of his world and of his business. Parthena will soon be a part of that world.”

  “And thus under his control. Is Morgan an evil man? Will he treat Parthena poorly?” Lucas asked.

  “He doesn’t support her beliefs,” Zylphia said. “He mocks her skills at the piano. Everyday her joy will be drained from her until she becomes a woman who I no longer recognize.”

  “Like Sav,” Lucas whispered. “I stood by and watched my sister slowly turn into a ghost of her former self.”

  “You’ve known Parthena a few weeks, Lucas. Why are you determined to care for her?” Zylphia asked.

  Lucas flushed. “She began to write me about a year ago—when I was in Montana and staying with Savannah, composing new music. Her letters were refreshing because her words were truly interested in the music, in my compositions, in me, not just the fame and trappings that come with success.”

  He gazed at Zee and then Sophie, a bemused smile flitting across his face. “I met her for a moment last fall when I played a concert here in Boston. We continued to write each other, and, when I returned to Boston in late April, she somehow found out where I lived. Demanded I tutor her.”

  Sophie shared a wry smile with Zylphia. “It seems you tutored her in more aspects than the piano.”

  Lucas flushed but didn’t disagree with Sophie. “We agreed to act as though we’d never met on the night of the Wheeler gathering to forestall any gossip. I’d never harm her.” Lucas paused. “I’d known, since I’d received her first letter, that she was a woman who could understand me, my passion for music. And never find me wanting because I became lost in a composition for hours on end.”

  “Oh, Lucas, I’m so sorry,” Zylphia whispered as she reached forward and gripped his hand. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you.”

  “We all have our dreams, Zee, and not all of them come true,” Lucas whispered. “She will always be one of my greatest joys. I can never regret having had her in my life.”

  3

  Lucas sat in his rented rooms at a desk lit by a small lamp. One corner of the sitting area was filled by a grand piano, while a chair, settee, and ottoman were pushed into a corner. A pencil and sheets of torn and used paper were strewn on the floor around him. He sighed at the knock on the door and rose. “Coming.”

  He stilled from opening the door farther when he beheld his visitor. “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it proper for a mother to visit her son?” She stood with slightly stooped shoulders, making her five-foot-one frame seem even smaller. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back in a severe bun, while her light-blue eyes flashed with disapproval as she beheld her son dressed in worn pants and a cream-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Not my mother.” Lucas stepped forward, ushering his mother into the hallway before shutting the door behind him. “What do you want?”

  “Merely to ensure you are well. We haven’t seen you at the store more than two or three times since you returned to Boston.” Matilda’s gaze roved over Lucas, from his disheveled hair to his untucked shirt to his stockinged feet. “You don’t look well.”

  “And why would that be, Mother?” The muscles along his unshaven jaw flexed as he clamped it shut.

  “I would not presume to know.” She sniffed with displeasure as the sounds of neighbors arguing seeped through a nearby door.

  Lucas sighed and reluctantly opened the door to his small home. “I’m only allowing you in here because I don’t care to share our gossip with others.”

  “There is no gossip.”

  “Of course there is. Wherever you are concerned, there always is.” He refrained from slamming the door behind her, his fist clenched on the handle a moment before he moved into his sitting room.

  “Lucas, may I remind you that I am your mother and I am deserving of your respect?” Matilda Russell looked around the small room, unable to hide her disdain at the used furniture and shabby furnishings.

  “I will never forget you are my mother.” He watched her with a dispassionate loathing. “However, you will never merit my respect after what occurred with Jonas.”

  “I did what any mother, desiring respectability, would do.” She tapped her finger with displeasure on the wooden arm of her chair. “Besides, the sordid incident occurred over ten years ago. It is best to forget such things.”

  Lucas sat on one of the chairs, sinking into the well-worn cushions. “Do you expect me to believe that most mothers would be willing to sacrifice the happiness and well-being of their only daughter to a maniacal, violent man for the sake of a worthless reputation? That any amount of time would make what occurred acceptable?”

  He glared at his mother’s indifference. “I’ve lied over the years. Telling Clarissa and Savannah I’ve seen you. That I’ve forgiven you for what you did. For what you failed to do. But you and I know the truth.”

  “Yes, that you are an ungrateful son, who refuses to answer my letters and visit me when you are in Boston. I merit more consideration from you.”

  “You lost any reason for me to grant you respect when you failed to demonstrate an ounce of remorse at inviting Jonas to the house that night. Were you happy he shot me? That I nearly died?” Lucas’s eyes flashed with anger, the hurt at her betrayal nearly hidden by his ire. “Did you think to be rid of your bothersome son who was fascinated by music?”

  “That was an unfortunate event,” Matilda said, waving her hand in the air as though little of consequence had occurred that evening.

  “Jonas was intent on controlling Savannah’s fate, and he would have killed her had Colin not interrupted.” He let out a huff of air in exasperation. “He attempted to kill father and me too.”

  “Lucas, there is no reason for you to live in such a hovel,” Matilda said, ignoring any further attempts to discuss the events that led to Jonas’s death. “You must come home and live with us.”

  “So you can claim you are curing your lunatic son?” Lucas asked. “Yes, Mother, I’ve heard the rumors, and I know they could only have come from you or the grandparents.”

  Matilda clamped her jaw shut, her cheeks flushing red with her agitation.

  “You have an extraordinary manner for showing your motherly devotion. First, your abandonment of Savannah. Now your denouncement of me. Is it your dream that, if you make my life too uncomfortable, I’ll give up the piano?” He shook his head at his mother’s foolish hope shining in her eyes. “I’m never coming back to the store. I will never work with Father again selling linen. I’ll play the piano until my hands are arthritic and unable to touch the keys. And then I’ll hum tunes. I’ll teach. I’ll have soirees where I discuss the joys of playing the piano. It’s the one thing in this world that has ever brought me joy.”

  She flinched as she saw t
he contempt in his gaze as it raked over her, perfectly attired. “Do you really believe one such as Miss Tyler would want anything to do with you? Look how you live. How you dress. You are barely acceptable.”

  “Acceptable or respectable?” Lucas challenged. “I shouldn’t think she would pay much attention to one such as I, Mother. Even if she is an excellent pianist.”

  “No woman of decent birth will ever want a man like you as long as you continue to eschew a proper profession. I fear you will spend the rest of your life alone, with nothing but your piano to love.”

  “You may be correct, Mother, but at least I will have known joy. I will have known passion.”

  “Don’t speak to me of passion. If there is one thing in this family that we need less of, it’s passion. It has been our downfall.”

  Lucas watched his mother with a mixture of scorn and pity. “Only because you didn’t have the courage to embrace it. Aunt Agnes and Aunt Betsy knew better than you.” His head jerked backward as his mother slapped him.

  “You’ll never understand what I sacrificed due to giving into my passion. What I lost. You stupid boy.” She rose, quivering with her agitation. She snapped her fingers at him, and he frowned at her. “Come along. I expect you to come home with me now.”

  Lucas laughed, but it was filled with rancor rather than humor. “I’m not some dog that will jump to your bidding. I’m not returning home with you now, Mother. I’m never returning home with you. I’ll visit Father soon, hopefully on a day you are out.”

  She bristled with indignation as her son continued to sit even while she stood. She opened her mouth as though to spew further vitriol, but then spun on her heel and stormed out the door.

  Lucas heaved a sigh and rose, locking the door behind her.

  Dear Miss McLeod,

  Thank you for your recent letter. It is wonderful to correspond with Teddy’s dear friend who is also a suffragette. In your next letter, you must write more about your suffragist activities. I’m eager to resume my work for the cause here, but I find I remain quite weakened after the last hunger strike from my most recent imprisonment. I am only capable of stuffing envelopes at our main headquarters.

  I can imagine you are quite curious about Teddy when he was younger. He and Lawrence were always my favorite cousins because they never minded a girl joining their antics. My mother blames them for giving me the notion I could do anything a boy could do and thus demanding more in the way of suffragism. She may be correct.

  Teddy had a tendency toward seriousness. Lawrence was the only person who could fully lighten his mood. His death was a blow to all of us but to Teddy most of all. The rambunctious antics ceased overnight, and he buried himself in science and math. I worried, until my dear aunt wrote about you, that he would remain immersed in scientific endeavors for the remainder of his life.

  If you don’t mind me asking, what occurred to force Teddy to return to England? I’d thought he’d never return until he had a wife. Our grandmother has always insisted he marry a lady of noble blood, something Teddy has resisted. However, upon his arrival, that resistance seemed to have weakened. As had his desire to avoid our grandfather’s dictate that he fulfill a grand and noble act in his life and thus enlist for duty in the Great War.

  Please forgive me my impertinence. As you are curious about Teddy’s life in England, I am curious about his in Boston.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Eugenie Abingdon

  “I heard you played the piano recently with Lucas Russell,” Morgan Wheeler said as he sat in the formal parlor at the Tyler residence. Parthena sat in a settee across from him. They were alone, her parents deeming that, as an engaged couple, they did not need a formal chaperone. The door to the parlor remained open, their nod to propriety. The deep blue wallpaper made the large room feel small, as did the dark mahogany furniture.

  “He visited with Miss McLeod,” Parthena said, her voice without inflection. The tea sat in front of them, unpoured and cooling.

  He looked from the tea to Parthena, then at the tea again. Parthena’s gaze remained fixed on the carpet. “Parthena, I know we haven’t always been on the friendliest of terms, but I believe we can have a successful union.”

  “I’m certain, if you repeat that to yourself enough times, you might come to believe it.”

  “Do you believe I’d offer to marry you and make myself miserable in the process?”

  “Yes, because that’s what you’ve done to me.” She raised a defiant gaze to him, her hands fisting on her lap as she saw his jaw clench.

  “What is it you want from me, Parthena?” When she remained mutinously quiet, he glared at her. “Do you want me to go to your father and say I won’t marry you? If so, your family, rather than continuing to live in the splendor of your Back Bay mansion, will be forced to sell it and move to a tenement. Do you think I want to see you working at a back-breaking job, rather than tinkering at your piano and your social causes? I couldn’t countenance that scenario.” When she remained stubbornly silent, he demanded, “Is that what you’d prefer?”

  Parthena clamped her mouth shut, her jaw trembling. She glared at him before she finally spoke. “I will never forgive you for forcing me to marry you.”

  Morgan slapped his hand on the edge of his chair and rose, slamming the door to the parlor shut on the two of them. “When did your father start complaining about the expense of his four daughters?” His intense stare forced an answer.

  “A little over two years ago.”

  “Why do you think he, all of a sudden, thought having daughters was bothersome?”

  “‘Daughters are an expense with no hope for a return on the expenditures outlaid in their upbringing.’”

  “You parrot your father quite well,” Morgan said with a half smile.

  “I’ve had years of listening to him say a variation on the same theme.”

  “When did he become desperate for you to marry?”

  Parthena’s gaze became unfocused as she thought about his question. “Last fall.”

  “Exactly. Mr. Goff, who’d been helping your father extract himself from his financial nightmare, left town precipitously the previous spring. Thus, your father, who remained without the financial sense or fiscal fortitude to extricate himself from total ruin, became desperate to marry you off.”

  “I have nothing of value. Only a fool would pay to marry me.” Parthena looked at Morgan mockingly.

  “I’m certain you would have been delighted then to know your father was on the verge of announcing your engagement to Mr. Carlisle.”

  Parthena gasped, paling. “He wouldn’t have.”

  “Yes, he would. It seems aging Mr. Carlisle wanted a young wife of the highest social standing to provide him with a son.”

  “But he’s—he’s—”

  Morgan nodded at her horror. “Old enough to be your father and also takes great pleasure in provoking pain.”

  Parthena shuddered. “We know what happened to his last wife,” she whispered.

  “We suspect.” Morgan watched his fiancée with concern. They were silent a moment as they recalled Mr. Carlisle’s wife, Andrea, who was rumored to have committed suicide rather than continue to live with Mr. Carlisle.

  “One way or another, you were to marry. Lucas Russell, no matter how successful a pianist he has become, doesn’t have the resources needed to salvage your father’s finances.”

  “Why must I be the one to pay for his ineptitude?” Parthena wailed, a tear leaking out.

  “I’d like to think I’m a better option than Mr. Carlisle,” Morgan snapped.

  Parthena closed her eyes in silent agreement.

  “If you refuse to marry me, your father will have Genevieve marry that old letch Carlisle.”

  Parthena gasped at the thought of her next youngest sister bound to Mr. Carlisle. She stared vacantly at the spot on the carpet again. “I’d like to say he wouldn’t, but I know I’d be lying to myself. He’s been a different father these past few years.�
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  Morgan approached Parthena’s settee and sat next to her. “I know I’m not the man you envisioned marrying.” He reached forward and placed one of his large hands over her clasped hands on her lap. “However, we’ve known each other since childhood. I know we can make each other happy.”

  Parthena raised hazel eyes to meet his gaze. “How do you know this?”

  He raised a hesitant hand, stretching his fingers to lightly trace her cheek. “Because I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her. His kiss began as a gentle coaxing of his lips against hers but he soon deepened the kiss, pulling her against him in a tight embrace.

  When he attempted to bring her even more fully against him, Parthena pushed him away. “No, no, I shouldn’t,” she whispered, touching first her lips, then his a moment, as she scooted farther from him. Her hazel eyes were rounded, filled with confusion.

  “Shouldn’t kiss me in your mother’s parlor? Or shouldn’t enjoy it?” His eyes flashed with frustration, while his cheeks were flushed with the remnants of desire.

  Parthena flinched at his comment. “Both. Neither. I don’t know.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Parthena, we are to be married. I want you to feel joy at my touch.” He ran a hand over her hair to her shoulder. He leaned forward, kissing the top of her head before standing. “I will leave you now. Thank you for inviting me for tea.”

  Parthena smiled weakly at his subtle criticism, as no tea had been poured from the full teapot. She looked at him as he strode toward the door, exchanging an intense glance with him before he opened it and departed.

  Rowena sat in Zylphia’s conservatory, the windows opened to allow in a breeze on a hot June day. A pitcher of lemonade sat on the small table, forming a puddle of condensation as the ice melted. The diaphanous drapes obscured most of the bright afternoon light, although they barely moved with the weak breeze. Wicker furniture was scattered throughout the room, while ferns gave the room a tropical feel.