Unrelenting Love: Banished Saga, Book Five

by Ramona Flightner

  “She loves the damn piano,” Morgan rasped out. “I don’t think I’ll ever get her to stop playing it.”

  “Of course you won’t. But you already knew that. What’s your real concern?” Aidan asked.

  “She told me that I have the soul of an accountant,” Morgan whispered.

  “Did you always?” Aidan met Morgan’s startled gaze. “Before life and necessity turned you into a successful businessman, were you unable to appreciate a talent such as your wife’s?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “Then I’d suggest that your real self is merely dormant, and you have to allow those closest to you to set you free again.”

  “That brings chaos and destruction, Mr. McLeod,” Morgan argued. “I can’t live through that again.” He nodded at Zylphia as she rose to play the piano. He noted Aidan beamed at her.

  “She’s horrible at the piano, but I always encourage her,” Aidan murmured. When she played a piece by Beethoven, off tune and off pace, Aidan rocked to the music and smiled as though he were hearing a master perform. As though Parthena were performing.

  “You take joy in all your daughter does,” Morgan whispered.

  “Of course I do. And in all my wife does. They are strong-willed women intent on changing their lives and the lives of other women. I respect and admire them, even though they’ve chosen a hard road.” He shared a smile with Morgan as Zylphia’s piece ended, and he called out, “Bravo.”

  Morgan saw Zylphia roll her eyes and reach out a hand to Parthena. He frowned when he saw Parthena hesitate. “I’m slowly killing her spirit,” he said in a low voice. At Aidan’s nod, his frown turned into a glower. Parthena looked at him right then and shook her head at Zylphia.

  “Play for us, Mrs. Wheeler. Play for us your favorite,” Morgan called out.

  He relaxed into his seat when Parthena sat at the bench and began to play. “I have no idea what it is, but it is beautiful,” he whispered to Aidan.

  “Tell her that,” Aidan suggested. “You need to start again with your wife. Woo her. Court her. And you may be fortunate enough to win her affections. Blustering and bullying won’t.” He slapped Morgan on the shoulder and rose, moving to sit beside Delia.

  Morgan remained alone, watching his wife perform.

  9

  The following afternoon, Zylphia sat in the shaded sunroom at the back of the rented summer house. The women who had called for the afternoon had just departed, and Zylphia had flopped onto a padded wicker settee with delight after their exhausting visits. The scent of honeysuckle wafted in through the open windows and doors, while the distant, melodious roar of the ocean provided a soothing counterpoint to the birds trilling in the hedges. Lemonade, rather than a pot of tea, sat on the table in front of her. She fanned herself as she reached for a stack of letters on a nearby table and absently flipped through them.

  “Anything of interest?” Delia asked as she entered the room. She sat on a comfortable wicker chair near her daughter.

  “A letter from Rowena, venting her frustration that she wasn’t able to travel with us.” She set it aside. “Another letter from Teddy’s cousin Eugenie.” Zylphia opened her letter and smiled as she raised her eyebrows at her mother’s amused expression.

  “Finally a few moments peace where nothing is expected of us.” Delia sighed as she rested in her chair. “This is a lovely room at this time of day.”

  Zylphia nodded, sighing herself with pleasure as a cool breeze stirred the palm fronds and ruffled the pile of letters next to her on the settee.

  “What does Eugenie tell you?”

  “Nothing much,” Zylphia said as she scanned her letter before sitting upright. “Teddy.”

  Delia reached forward, placing a hand on Zylphia’s knee. She shook her head impatiently at Aidan as he entered the room, silencing him with her quiet communication. “What about Teddy?”

  “He’s been found. He’s home in England.” She sorted through the pile of mail, tossing letters to the floor as she searched. She paused at an envelope covered in unfamiliar handwriting and ripped it open. “Oh, God,” she gasped, a hand to her mouth as tears poured from her eyes.

  Aidan sat beside her, heedless of the letters he was crushing and pulled her into his arms. “Shh. … Shh, my darling girl. Whatever has happened, we’ll help you through it.”

  Zylphia shook her head, rubbing her face against her father’s chest. “No, he’s alive. He’s alive!” She turned toward her mother with impassioned, joyous eyes, raising the letter over her head as though in triumph.

  She swiped at her cheeks and turned her attention again to the letter. “I didn’t recognize the handwriting. But it’s Teddy. He … he injured his right arm and has to write with his left. He says he didn’t want to dictate a letter to me.”

  “Of course he didn’t. One shouldn’t dictate sentiments of love,” Aidan murmured, kissing her head. He backed away as Zylphia pushed herself to a standing position.

  “Please excuse me, I have to …” She failed to finish her sentence as she rushed from the room.

  Aidan pushed aside the letters and scooted to sit closer to Delia, reaching to clasp her hand with his. “I couldn’t have asked for more,” he murmured.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, squeezing his hand and leaning into his shoulder.

  “I simply hope he returns to Boston soon. I can’t imagine trying to keep Zee here now when she knows he’s alive and in England.” Aidan sighed, sharing an amused, yet worried glance with Delia.

  Zylphia shut the door behind her and collapsed to the floor. She read the letter again, attempting to savor his words.

  My Most Beloved Zylphia,

  I can hardly believe I am writing you. I know you will doubt this letter is from me, as I am writing it with my left hand. My right hand and arm are still badly damaged, and I am uncertain when I will regain full use of them.

  Thank you for corresponding with my cousin Eugenie. Thank you for never losing hope I was alive. Even when unconscious and insensate, I knew, in some indescribable way, that you were waiting for me. I don’t know what I would have done had I awoken to learn you had forsaken me.

  I long to hold you in my arm. To cradle you to me. To smell your sweet scent and forget. Forget all the time we were apart and never look back. I miss you, my Zylphia.

  I must close, as I don’t want to miss the post. I love you, Zee. More than you’ll ever know.

  Your,

  Teddy

  Zylphia kissed his name and then held the letter to her heart. She curled onto the floor and sobbed. At the knock on her door, she attempted to plead for the person on the other side to grant her time alone, but her voice failed her. As the door pushed open, Zylphia scooted away from it, allowing Parthena to squeeze inside.

  “Zee!” Parthena knelt beside her, running a hand over her back. “Is it Teddy?”

  “No. Yes.” She reached forward and gripped her friend’s hand. “He’s alive. He’s alive!” Zylphia said in a louder voice. She nodded her thanks as Parthena gave her a handkerchief. After scrubbing her face, Zylphia tried to push herself up but then decided to remain where she was, curled on the floor.

  “Come. Let’s get you up, to the bed at least,” Parthena said, gripping Zylphia’s shoulders and helping to heave her upright.

  Zylphia came to a standing position, swaying subtly as she stumbled to her bed. Although the day was hot and humid, and the windows were open to allow any breeze to enter, Zylphia shivered and crawled under the covers.

  Parthena sat on the bed next to Zylphia, and stroked a hand from her shoulder to fingers and then back up again. “What did it say?” She glanced toward the door as it creaked open, and Delia crept inside.

  “He’s injured. His writing is different because he hurt his right arm. He misses me. Dreams of seeing me.”

  “Of course he does, my dearest girl,” Delia murmured, running a hand over Zylphia’s brow. She blinked away tears at seeing Zylphia so distraught.

 
“You’ll see him again soon, Zee,” Parthena murmured.

  “When?” Zylphia asked, her eyes filling with tears she was helpless to fight. “Crossing the Atlantic is treacherous. I can’t go to him, and he can’t come here. I might not see him again until this war is over.”

  “At least you know he’s alive, recovering, and dreams of you,” Parthena murmured.

  “I just want to see him. Touch him.” Zylphia took a stuttering breath as she fought a sob. She shared a watery smile with her mother. “At least I know, when I dream of him tonight, he is recovering in England.”

  “That’s my brave daughter,” Delia murmured, embracing Zylphia as she continued to cry and shudder.

  10

  My Darling Zylphia, August 18, 1915

  As I sit here, listening to the lark outside the window at my grandfather’s house, my thoughts are filled with you. I envision you going from house to house, convincing the men of Massachusetts of the merits of women voting. Have you had any rows with your constituents? Have you been reprimanded recently? I imagine you must bite your tongue frequently as you listen to the arguments against the vote.

  I see you tapping your paintbrush against your easel as you concentrate on your next masterpiece. Do you still paint in vibrant color, Zee, or have you muted your talent as you attempt to conform to the world around you? I hope you realize you are a woman incapable of muting. You deserve to shine, and, if those around you don’t appreciate your talent and abilities, they can sod off. (Forgive my swearing—I’ve spent too long in the company of soldiers.)

  I wish I had exciting news to impart. However, my routine remains unchanged. I like to believe I’m improving, but it’s torturous in its slow progression. Eugenie has been an enormous help as she refuses to take pity on me in the days I don’t want to do my exercises. She refuses to allow me to accept my current situation as my permanent reality.

  Never forget, my love, the thought of being with you again, of forging a life with you, is all the encouragement I need to continue my rehabilitation.

  Do you ever dream of the one night we had together? I relive it constantly, but, rather than ending the evening sitting alone, contemplating the coal fire, in my dreams I awake with you in my arms. For those sweet hours we had together, you gifted me with your trust and your true feelings. My only regret is that I did not have the opportunity to show you all the pleasures of loving without the pain.

  I dream of the day we are together again.

  Your,

  Teddy

  My Beloved Teddy,

  Of course I relive the night we had together. It was the most memorable night of my life. I’ve never known such joy. Each morning I wake, aching as though your fingertips are hovering over me, on the verge of caressing me. The reality of my lonely bed is harsh.

  This abject loneliness and yearning for you is from my own folly. Oh, Teddy, how I wish I could go back and change how I lashed out at your honest expression of love.

  If only I’d had the courage to trust in you and in us that night. (The ghost of you, of us, is everywhere here, darling. I must change the topic or I won’t be able to continue writing.)

  I’m currently in Newport, although we depart soon for Boston. We’ve had many meetings about how to further our prospective causes, as there is also a referendum in New York state the same day as in Massachusetts, on November 2. I’ve enjoyed meeting like-minded women, although we remain stymied as to how to convince influential men to support our cause.

  Canvassing wasn’t progressing as well as I had hoped when I was in Boston. I like to think we’ll be more successful than in 1895, but I worry. Every Sunday the priest rants against women wanting to change the natural order of the world as God had intended it. If I hear that one more time, I fear I’ll rail at the priest, which would do little for the cause. My father, sitting beside me in church, has to lay a hand on my arm to calm me and keep me seated. These few weeks in Newport have brought a respite from the outrageous proclamations from the Boston pulpit.

  I am considering moving to Washington, DC, for a while, to help Miss Paul after the vote in Massachusetts. From what Sophie tells me, Miss Paul’s planning on ramping up her tactics. Never fear, dearest. I will not participate in any violent acts. It is the one condition my father has given if he were to help me.

  I would like to no longer depend on my father. Should I have an art show and sell some of my paintings? I think it would be a way for me to experience true independence. What do you think?

  My darling, know that the day you return to me will be the best day of my life.

  Your,

  Zylphia

  My Darling Zylphia,

  The best part of any day is receiving a letter from you. Reading about what you are doing does not replace being there with you, but it does bring its own succor. In everything I do, you are never far from my thoughts.

  I know I expressed regrets about our night together, but please do not blame yourself for our current separation. My stubbornness, and profoundly injured pride, prevented me from reading your letter in time.

  I try not to have many regrets. For, if I do, then I’d have to doubt what I’ve lived through, and I must believe there was some purpose to what I experienced in the war. I cannot doubt that, or I fear for what would happen. It can’t have been for nothing.

  Since the moment I saw your art, I’ve believed you should show it. Proclaim to the world your brilliance. You will be a wonderful success, and, for those who do not celebrate you, they are unworthy of your regard. I only wish I could be there to behold your triumph.

  As for your desire to live independently, I think it is a brilliant plan. You need to know you can survive on your own. I have come to understand this is an essential desire for you, and my hope is that, once you have fulfilled it, you will realize the joys of sharing life’s burdens with another. As you know, I will continue to pray I’m your choice.

  I hope you are merely reluctant to see the success of your canvassing, rather than that the men of Massachusetts remain entrenched in their traditional beliefs. However, I fear you are correct in your sense that success is far from guaranteed.

  I will worry if you travel to Washington, DC, to work with Miss Paul. I trust in you and know that you will always act in a way to bring success to your movement. However, I don’t trust in others. I don’t trust in how they will react to your insistence in your right to vote and to your own voice. Too many, men and women, remain who fear a woman free to speak her mind.

  In my eagerness to return to you, I caused an inflammation in my arm. Now, rather than exercising and building strength, I must settle for rest. Rather than the rest relaxing me, I’m filled with frustration at prolonging our separation.

  I miss you. I dream of you. I yearn for you. I love you, my darling Zee.

  Your,

  Teddy

  “Oh, how you slay me,” Zylphia murmured as she read Teddy’s latest letter. She was curled up on her favorite sofa in the family sitting room under a throw blanket on a cool September day.

  Delia, who sat across from her daughter, reading a letter from Clarissa, raised her eyebrows. “Is Teddy well?” she asked.

  “Yes, he’s slowly improving. He’s injured or reinjured his arm by overworking it in his eagerness to come back to me.”

  “That sounds promising, after what Eugenie wrote.”

  Zylphia held Teddy’s letter to her, unconsciously clasping it to her breast. “I’ve been worried since she wrote.”

  “I’d call it frantic,” Delia said.

  “How would you expect me to be when Eugenie tells me that he’s in a special rehabilitation center and refuses to admit it?”

  “I’d expect no less, considering you love him. I’m not condemning you, Zee. However, you must be honest with yourself and with Teddy. He most likely will not be the same man who returns to you as the one who left.”

  When Zylphia’s eyes filled with tears, Delia moved to her daughter, squeezing onto the edge of th
e sofa and putting an arm over her legs. “Why does that worry you?”

  Zylphia shook her head in frustration as she swiped at her tears. “I’m being foolish, but I have this sense Teddy is making me into an idol. And I don’t want that. I couldn’t live up to it.”

  Her mother watched her with exasperated affection. “Anyone who loves you is suspect, aren’t they? You believe your father and I have to love you, so we do. It’s the same with your cousins. You’re still confused as to why your friends like you.”

  Zylphia glared mutinously at her mother but remained silent. However, her mother was better at using silence as a tool than she was, so she eventually spoke. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Do you fill your letters to Teddy detailing your faults so that you give him plenty of time to run if he wants? Do you truly believe he’s coming back to you?”

  “I don’t think he wants to,” Zylphia whispered, her gaze showing her devastation. “Last month it was a hurt knee. Now it’s his arm. Next month will be another ailment, the submarines, his grandfather. Something. I’m terrified he feels obligated to return to me.”

  Delia squeezed Zylphia’s legs and sighed, her gaze distant. “Have you ever considered that his reluctance has nothing to do with you? Or rather it has everything to do with you, just not in the way you imagine?” At her daughter’s confused expression, she leaned forward and brushed curls off her forehead. “He’s been through a war. Seen the unthinkable and done it too. Not only that, he was injured badly enough he couldn’t be sent back to fight again.

  “The man you love won’t be the same, physically or emotionally. And my guess is that he’s terrified you’re going to reject him because the reality of him is a far cry from your memories.”