Indigo Sky

by Ingis, Gail

  “Of course it was important. Money is always damn important.”

  Leila flinched as his alcohol-laden breath blasted her. She shook her head. Early in her marriage, she learned it was best to shut up when Hank was in his cups and his temper roused.

  He dragged a hand through his brown hair. “The conversation you so rudely interrupted was not only with Vanderbilt, but also Curtis, the editor from New York. We were about to finalize a deal.” He scowled. “Have you forgotten that he gave me my first opportunity to publish? You’re out of place, woman.” Spittle went flying. “It’s thanks to him and my publications, including my articles in Harper’s Weekly, that I enjoy the success I presently have. Which, by the way, brings in a brilliant income.” He flicked the fan hovering near her mouth. “An income that buys all these expensive baubles you enjoy.”

  Leila kept her eyes downcast, her lips compressed behind the fan.

  “Now.” Hank’s voice rose steadily. “Pray tell, what could not wait that you had to interrupt me?”

  Her lip quivered.

  “So what is it, Leila? What do you have to tell me?” He poked her shoulder. “Well? You have my attention, so speak up.”

  She took a step back, desperate to take flight. This day had been a catastrophe, like a herd of horses had slammed into her. I’m a coward. She opened her mouth to tell Hank about her rescuer, but the words clogged her throat. She took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. In his current mood, her story would only serve to enrage him further. He might have been amused at her accident, but Leila doubted he would find it amusing to know his partner had found her in a state of undress. Hank would call her wanton, and she couldn’t bear him berating her in public again. Her thin veneer of control would never withstand the onslaught. Tales of marital strife would run rampant through the elite patrons of Mountain House.

  “Well?” Hank tapped his foot, the sound assaulting her ears.

  A shiver washed over Leila. Perhaps it would better to wait until a more opportune time. He is certainly more reasonable sober. Hank, however, was rarely sober. She stiffened her spine and smiled sweetly. In their year of marriage, she’d discovered at least one of his soft spots. “I’m sorry, dearest. I didn’t realize I was interrupting something so important. I feel like such a dunce.” Leila caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop them quivering and took a tentative step closer. She looked up at him through her lashes. “Do you forgive me, Hank?”

  Anger slipped from his face. He reached for her and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close. “I know it’s hard for you. Women aren’t well schooled and don’t understand how business is conducted.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  A protest rose to her lips. How dare he throw gender inferiority at me? She knew, though, that any objection at this point would only provoke his anger again. Instead, she lifted her head and met his glazed eyes. Rising to her toes, she touched her lips to his. What happened to us, to the love I had for him, to having babies? Will we ever be a family, have a home? She lingered on their first meeting, when she’d fallen in love with him. I was so young.

  When she was on vacation from the academy boarding school, they met at the Catskill Mountain House. The twinkle in his eyes had initially fascinated her. He was bold, debonair, and quick to smile, while Leila struggled to make conversation. He’d enchanted her with his easy manner and gift of weaving stories.

  She now studied the planes of his handsome face. Although in his mid-twenties, Hank still possessed a youthful quality, despite the ravages of alcohol. His lips smashed down on hers. She closed her eyes and, for the first time, felt nothing but ice in her veins. All she could see was Rork Millburn’s face, the way he’d looked at her, consumed her with his desire.

  She squirmed away, unable to kiss Hank while picturing the stranger. Nausea turned her stomach. It crept up and stuck in her throat. How can I kiss my husband with these unimaginable thoughts of another man? What type of person am I?

  Hank pulled her tighter against his body. She tasted whiskey on his mouth, again. His hand crept up to her bosom. She pushed at his chest. They were on the veranda, a public thoroughfare. What in the world is he thinking?

  A growl emanated from his throat, and he turned her, pressing her against the rail. All pretense of affection or tenderness ended—as always. This was nothing more than another attempt to satisfy his primal need, enhanced by whiskey.

  She fought harder, her panic rising. A sob rose in her constricted throat. To her relief, his erection disappeared—but that was nothing new.

  Breathless, he retreated from her. “I don’t want you—never did.”

  “We should get back.” Leila kept her voice even. As always, his reaction left a bitter taste.

  He nodded. She sighed with relief and stiffened as he ran a finger over her breast.

  “Fear not, darlin’. One of my problems is that I don’t find you wildly exciting.”

  His words stuck like a knife. Even though her love for him had faded, his rejection still hurt.

  He spun and walked away, his steps erratic.

  “No, Hank, ‘tis not I,” she whispered as he disappeared through the door. “You’ve killed my love with your excesses.” Blowing out a long breath, Leila smoothed her silk dress, affected repairs to her hair, and walked to the dining room, praying for strength to make it through the night.

  Chapter 5

  Head held high, Leila entered the dining room wearing her brightest smile. The only vacant chair at their table was between Hank and Millburn. Leila closed her eyes briefly and groaned inwardly. Could this day get any worse—or any harder? She reached for her chair. Every nerve in her body was aware of Millburn. The air stirred as he rose. Her spirit fluttered to life. His hand brushed hers as he pulled out the chair. He stood so close his body heat filled her cold, bitter places. Her senses swam with delicious sensations.

  Hank’s drunken chortles shattered the moment.

  “You flatter me, Sissy darlin’,” he slurred.

  Leila swallowed and sat. The chair slid into place as though she weighed no more than a feather. She glanced at Hank. He had his back to her, leaning close to Sissy Lanweihr. Is he being unusually cruel because I refused him on the veranda? Still, she plastered a smile to her face and kept her eyes on the cutlery. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Millburn.”

  “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Dempsey.”

  His deep baritone ran invisible fingers up her spine. Air seemed to be in short supply as he sat, his broad shoulders almost touching her. He took a table napkin and laid it on her lap. She jerked. His soft chuckle teased the hairs at her nape.

  “I merely wish to ensure you don’t spoil this exquisite gown.”

  She glanced up and met Sophia Vanderbilt’s glittering eyes. The woman missed nothing. She was near seventy and looked every bit her age and more.

  Sophia continued to stare at Leila, unblinking—a fat frog eyeing a fly. “Well, dear, did you get everything sorted out with your husband?”

  Leila wet her lips, resentment rising. What on earth does it have to do with her? Gossip said old Sophia was going batty. Leila didn’t believe a word of it. Old age and a massive fortune allowed the woman to do and say whatever she pleased. “Yes, Mrs. Vanderbilt, thank you for your concern.”

  Sophia gestured to Millburn. “Leila, I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Rork Millburn.”

  “Thank you, but my husband introduced us.”

  “Now that you mention it, I can see you two are, ah, familiar.” Sophia brayed at her own innuendo.

  Heat invaded Leila’s cheeks. She was one of the people Leila had passed on the way back to the hotel. She braced herself for the inevitable revelation.

  Rork laughed and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “Once again, it’s a pleasure, Mrs. Dempsey.” He held her
hand a fraction longer than necessary and squeezed it surreptitiously. “You’re wicked, Mrs. Vanderbilt. Beautiful, but definitely wickedly witty. Don’t you see your probing flusters Mrs. Dempsey?”

  Suitably distracted, Sophia flapped her fan, giving him an arch look. “Careful, young man, or I shall believe your silky words.”

  He chuckled. “You had better believe my words. I can assure you, if I were the marrying kind and you were free, I would offer for you in a heartbeat.”

  Sophia’s laugh tinkled in the air. “The rumors have truth then, Rork. I heard you have a devastating effect on women.”

  “Please, Mrs. Vanderbilt. You make me sound like a rogue.” He put his hands up in mock horror.

  “Well, dear, you certainly have an old hand like me believing you.”

  Rork’s robust laughter echoed through the room. “I don’t offer empty flattery, Mrs. Vanderbilt. I’m simply a bachelor who enjoys the company of an engaging woman like you.” His smile was quick and charming. A dimple appeared high on his cheek as genuine humor lit his face. He looked from Leila to the matriarch.

  The glance was magnetic, and Leila could almost forget his earlier behavior.

  Sophia chortled. “I think you are definitely a flatterer.” She caught Leila’s eye and winked.

  Despite the whirl of emotions rushing through Leila, she couldn’t resist smiling.

  “You have a delightful smile,” Rork whispered.

  Leila jumped as his warm breath brushed her cheek. She scowled and glanced around the table and bit back a reprimand.

  Leila’s cousin Billy and his wife Eleanor watched with lively interest. Sophia exchanged knowing looks with the others at the table. Billy gazed at her over wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbed his chin.

  Leila forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Millburn, you are most kind.” She kept her eyes averted for fear of blushing.

  Billy chuckled. “Flattery is lost on my cousin, Mr. Millburn.”

  Leila did not want to be the center of attention. She was afraid Hank would eventually notice and cause a scene.

  Billy’s eyebrows drew together. “Cousin, you’re in a mood tonight. Is something amiss?”

  “No, nothing is amiss.”

  Millburn chuckled into his wine goblet.

  Leila resisted the urge to chastise him. Instead, she locked eyes with her cousin. “The newspaper said the draft is only for the poor and riffraff. Apparently, if you have enough money, you can escape the draft.” Mouth set in a hard line, she glanced at Hank. “My husband paid three hundred dollars.”

  He turned and scowled at her. “I’m reporting on the war, my dear. Hard to fight and write.”

  Sophia snorted. “My goodness, what is the world coming to? We must fight to let those southern scoundrels know we in the North are unified.”

  Leila fiddled with the cutlery. “War is dreadful. So many are dying. Harper’s Weekly had news about the death of General Stonewall Jackson, killed in action.” She leaned her arms on the fine linen tablecloth. “President Lincoln only wants what is best for our country. Why will the southerners not listen? Why must blood be shed for freedom? Is not freedom for all?” Usually Hank cut off her opinions with a sharp word. “Do you believe in slavery, Mrs. Vanderbilt?”

  “No, I don’t,” Sophia said, pursing her lips. “The whole idea is repugnant.” She buttered a bun. “That’s why we must fight for abolition.”

  Leila took a sip of wine. “Perhaps we should have avoided war and turned to dialogue first. At least until the South accepts our constitution and is willing to free their slaves.” Taking courage in both hands, she looked at Rork. “Do you agree with this war, Mr. Millburn?”

  “We’re fighting moral issues here. We need to free slaves, give them back their dignity. Obviously the South is fighting to preserve its institutions.”

  “You think we should support the war?”

  “Of course. Slavery is immoral. Why not hire and pay your workers? To my horror, these slaves are treated like animals, whipped, poorly housed and fed. A man, no matter the color of his skin, has the right to make choices and receive fair pay.”

  Leila nodded and turned to her husband. “Hank, what is your opinion about sending men to a senseless war?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “It would be better not to have war. If we fight amongst ourselves, what does that say about our unity? And do we want to follow France’s example by annihilating each other? Most of their leaders were killed during the Revolution. That will happen here, too.” He took his hand out from under the table and waved it. “Besides, we could suffer the indignity of losing. The South has a powerful incentive—money.”

  “Europe holds the South is going to lose,” Rork said quietly.

  “I believe that as well,” Leila said. “And based on what I’ve read, the Europeans don’t like the Confederacy’s support of slavery.”

  “That doesn’t mean they intend to help us, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Hank touched Leila’s cheek. “You shouldn’t bother your pretty little head with politics, darlin’. It doesn’t become you.”

  “I think your wife’s assumption is valid.” Rork leaned in to meet Hank’s eye. “But they don’t intend to get involved.”

  “Exactly.” Hank turned back to his source of entertainment—Sissy Lanweihr.

  Leila shifted in her seat, eyes fixed ahead. Her husband’s hand once again disappeared under the table. Subtlety and restraint were not traits he possessed; drinking and blatant flirting were. Leila seethed, her eyes drifting to the exotic Sissy. The woman’s low-cut, scarlet evening gown hung off her shoulders, and her curly red hair was swept up in a mass of tousled twirls. Leila ate each successive course of dishes without tasting anything.

  Sissy giggled in response to something Hank said, and her hand flittered under the table.

  The subtler innuendos escaped Leila. She pushed aside a strawberry dessert. Is Hank still furious about the interruptions?

  She worried that when they were in private he would express his anger then leave and indulge in his dreadful activities.

  A quartet on a dais switched from soft background music and played the first waltz.

  “Mrs. Dempsey, may I have a place on your dance card?” Rork asked softly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Millburn. Please excuse me. I feel indisposed.” She caught a disparaging glance from Hank.

  He staggered to his feet and took her arm. “Bedtime, I suppose. Come, I shall escort you.” He chortled.

  She looked at her husband, narrowed her eyes, and said, “I can manage, thank you.”

  “Very well.” He sat again, giving Sissy his full attention.

  Billy rose hurriedly and followed her. “Wait up a moment, Cousin.”

  She turned slowly. “What, Billy? I’m exhausted.”

  Leila’s tall, lanky cousin with straw-blonde hair was a decade older, but he was her favorite relative, despite his flaws. His wife Eleanor snickered. She was as tall as her husband, but Leila was sure the corset beneath the fashionable evening gown was laced to the point of suffocation. Her bosom bulged above the low décolletage. Leila suppressed a smile. Eleanor looked like an overstuffed teddy bear.

  Billy leaned close to her ear. “I thought you should know Hank is planning a trip west with Millburn. They leave on Monday.” His eyes slid to Sissy. “Rumor has it that he invited certain, ah, friends to join them later. I arranged their train passage to St. Louis.”

  Leila swallowed. “Thank you.” She moved down the passage, her belly in turmoil, and walked into the empty bedroom, thinking about her empty life. But worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about Millburn. How could the man who scooped me from death possibly be Hank’s friend? She shrugged. Why should that make a difference? Somehow it did.

  Leila milled aimlessly then sto
pped and pulled the curtains aside. She stared blindly at the moonlit mountains before sagging into an armchair in the corner and contemplating her miserable existence. Why can’t I confront Hank—challenge him?

  Disturbed sleep finally claimed her.

  The handle rattled, the door creaked, and Leila’s eyes snapped open.

  Hank slinked through the door. The sun peeked over the mountains. Filtered rays of orange and yellow shafted through the lace curtains, casting willowy shapes on the walls. A rooster crowed in the distance.

  Leila watched him cross the room. She was determined to confront Hank but figured it would be pointless. There would be no conversation with him. He’d be too inebriated.

  Her mouth twisted. Hank hated it when she waited up. I must talk to him. Not only did she need to tell him about her encounter with Millburn, but Billy’s distressing news at dinner warranted immediate discussion.

  A giggle gurgled from Hank’s lips as he tripped over an ottoman. “Hello?” he slurred. “How’d you get there, Mr. Otto Man?” Shaking with mirth, he clapped a hand to his mouth.

  Leila clenched the chair arms. His laughter made her want to vomit, scream, throw a vase at his head, hurt him the way he hurt her. Instead, she bit her lip and waited.

  Hank stumbled again as he pulled the undone ascot from his neck. The pale gray silk floated to the floor, followed by his evening jacket and waistcoat. He unbuttoned his linen shirt. “Leila? You’re awake.” He peered at the corner where she sat. “What’re you doing? I told you never to wait up for me. You know I like to work at night.” His voice still held a hint of laughter. “Well, most nights.” The light from the window illuminated his face. His lips tipped in a crooked smile. Despite his swollen eyes, underscored with dark shadows, and his unruly hair, he was still suave. His smile grew wider. “But since you are awake.” Hank’s tone dropped, thick with desire.