The Firebrand

by Susan Wiggs

  Twenty-Eight

  The bank was still on shaky ground, and foolishly, Rand was about to make things worse. Lamott was gone in ignominy but Crabtree, McClean and the others stayed on. Though less fanatic, the remaining directors were as stodgy and intractable as the departed Lamott. They wanted Rand to promise to keep Lucy in check, to promise The Firebrand would never be rebuilt. He hadn’t given them that promise. He refused to sacrifice Lucy’s dream for the sake of the bank, even if it meant losing his position and starting down an unknown path he’d never trodden.

  The notion put an unexpected energy in his stride as he returned home that day and walked into the house, reaching up to loosen his tie. Female voices drifted from the formal parlor. They must have visitors, since Lucy and Maggie ordinarily avoided the fussy room, which his grandmother had filled with art treasures, fragile knickknacks and costly antiques.

  Leaving his tie in place, he stepped into the parlor…and nearly stumbled.

  His mouth dried as though he’d ingested cold ashes. Then, with a mechanical courtesy that masked his stunned senses, he bowed from the waist.

  “Hello, Diana,” he said to his former wife.

  In a rustle of silk, she stood up, a blond goddess, every bit as lovely as she’d been the day he’d married her. The years had only deepened her beauty, polishing her with a sheen of sophistication.

  He crossed the room and took her extended hand, raising it to his mouth. Why couldn’t he remember the feel of her hand in his, the smell and taste of her? He had the distinct sensation of meeting a stranger.

  “Dear Randolph,” she said in a soft, beguiling voice. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I had the worst fear that— Oh, never mind. It’s so silly.”

  As she sank back into her seat, he took a moment to greet the others in the room. Maggie jumped down from the settee and ran to him. “You’re home!”

  He picked her up in his arms, and instantly his heart thawed out. The familiar, welcome weight of her seemed to bring the world back into balance.

  On another settee were Viola and Grace, the former looking as though she stood before of firing squad and the latter exhibiting a cautious pleasure. Grandmother had always liked Diana, mourning her departure more than Rand ever had.

  Alone in an armchair sat Lucy, her dark dress and pulled-back hair giving her anxious face an unnatural pallor. She said nothing. He could not get used to a silent Lucy, for she always had something to say. Until now.

  “When did you get here?” he asked. “Where are you staying?”

  “I have rooms at the Palmer House,” Diana said. “But I thought—” Flustered, she started again. “I’ve been simply overcome, seeing Grace and my darling Christine again.” She pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her flawless cheek.

  “She thought I was a boy at first,” Maggie said. “Just like you did.”

  He felt a flash of chagrin, recalling that day. “I suppose it’s because you were so tiny when we lost you.” Kissing her on the head, he set her down.

  “When I saw you today,” Diana said to Maggie, “you didn’t look anything like the photograph your father sent me.”

  The photograph.

  Suspicions swirled and started to harden inside him. What sort of coincidence was it, that she’d come to him after seeing the photograph?

  An awkward silence descended over the group, punctuated by the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel.

  Maggie shifted from one foot to another. She went over to Lucy to whisper in her ear.

  “I’m sure you both have so much to discuss,” Lucy said, standing up. “We shall leave you to it.”

  Taking their cue, Viola and Grace stood. Grace leaned over her cane. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Diana’s mouth curved into a melting smile. “That’s ever so kind of you, Grandmother Grace.”

  As the four of them left the room, Diana’s gaze lingered hungrily on Maggie. Rand wondered if he’d looked that way, so desperate with longing, when he’d first found out about her.

  “She’s absolutely gorgeous,” Diana said.

  “Yes.”

  “What a blessed, blessed miracle.” All in a rush, she went to him, burying her face against his chest. “I never thought I’d feel this way again, ever,” she said, weeping. “Oh, Randolph, where do we begin again? How do we begin again?”

  He had no answer for her. His trying day had extended into a nightmare. He did not recognize the feel of her, or her smell. The shape of her pressed against him was alien, awkward. He didn’t remember her.

  Except that she had given him a daughter.

  He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “What are you doing here, Diana? What do you want?”

  She searched his face with a misty-eyed gaze. He could feel her stare linger on the scars, but unlike she’d done years ago, she didn’t recoil. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  “I came because I want my baby back,” she said at last, her voice breaking. “And my husband.”

  At one time, he would have sold his soul to hear those words. But that was a lifetime ago. “You were surprised, weren’t you?” he said.

  “I never imagined Christine—”

  “By my recovery,” he interrupted. “The photograph I sent surprised you, didn’t it? You never expected me to get better.”

  “Oh, Randolph. I am more than surprised. I’m astounded and profoundly grateful.”

  “That you can bear to look at me?” He turned sharply away. “I’m very happy for you.”

  She pursued him, her face so dramatically pale that he suspected her distress was genuine. “Randolph, you must give me a chance. I’m a different person than I was so long ago. You cannot blame me for my actions when I was devastated by grief.”

  He said nothing to that. There was nothing to say that she would understand.

  “I didn’t expect to find you wed to a stranger,” she said, her voice thin with woe. “Honestly, Randolph, what could you be thinking, marrying that woman?”

  He’d been thinking of Maggie when he’d first done it, yet his marriage to Lucy had become something else entirely. But he wasn’t about to explain himself to Diana.

  “That woman saved Maggie’s life,” he said. “She raised her, and Maggie loves her.”

  “And I’ll be forever grateful,” Diana said. “But I am Christine’s mother.”

  “You gave her life,” he conceded. “But you lost her—we both lost her—when she was so very young, Diana. She has no more memory of you than she does of being called Christine.” He saw her wince. “Look, she didn’t remember me, either. But our daughter has a loving heart. As time goes on, she’s coming to know me.”

  “As she’ll come to know me.”

  “Naturally you’ll be welcome to visit Maggie,” he said.

  She pressed her small fist to her bosom. Then, without warning, she surged against him again, her arms going around his neck. She smelled of flowers and hair dressing, and she felt as soft and fragile as a bird. “It’s not enough,” she whispered against his neck. “I want you back, Randolph. I want us to be a family again.”

  “It can’t be like that,” he said. “Lucy is my wife.”

  “You can fix this, Randolph.” Her fingers brushed through his hair. “You can change this and make things right. You don’t need that woman anymore. No judge in the county would deny you a divorce. It’s clear you only married her so you could be near Christine. An annulment might even be possible.”

  “Your understanding of the law has always been impressive. They say you managed to divorce me in record time.”

  She swallowed hard, tightened her arms around him. “Oh, Randolph. I was so terribly frightened, and so filled with grief for Christine that I couldn’t think straight.”

  She’d thought straight enough to extract a huge settlement from him—a settlement he could ill afford at the time. Still, as she said, that was all in the past and he found he didn’t care anymore
. “I won’t deny you a relationship with Maggie,” he said, reaching up to unlink her arms from around his neck. “You gave birth to her and you have a right to be in her life. I’m sure we can arrange for Maggie to spend time with you.”

  She encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. “I should have come back sooner, I admit that.” In a swish of silk skirts, she turned to him. “Now I am home. This is where I belong.”

  “You made your choice,” he said. “You fled from your monster husband. You only came back because you’ve learned that some wounds do heal.” His gaze glided over her, head to toe. “But some others don’t.”

  She had the grace to flush before turning away. “Must I beg you?”

  “Don’t bother. It won’t work.” He went to the door and leaned out into the foyer. “Mr. Nichol, have Bowen bring the buggy around.” He caught a glimpse of Diana’s expression and realized that he couldn’t simply pack her off to Palmer House. “I’ll be driving our guest to her hotel.”

  “What must I do to prove I’m sincere, Randolph?” Her voice rose in desperation. “I want things to be as they once were for us. Christine is back, my darling. Everything will be perfect now, if only you’ll remember the good times, and not the terrifying weeks after the fire.” She ran a hand over the clock. That pale hand on the pale porcelain evoked a memory. At one time, all of this had been for her. He’d built this house and filled it with fine things for Diana, hoping to lure her back. And it finally had.

  He went to the window to see if the buggy was ready. Hand in hand, Lucy and Maggie walked across the broad lawn toward Maggie’s favorite climbing tree. Nimble as a squirrel, Maggie swung up to the first branch. Brushing back her skirts, Lucy followed, her head thrown back in laughter. Then the branch Lucy held bowed ominously, and she fell to the ground, still laughing as she brushed herself off.

  “Things can change in an instant,” he said quietly, turning to Diana, who was admiring the silver tea service now. “You know that. This could all be gone, and I could find myself living in a flat up over a shop.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Nichol came in to announce that the buggy was ready. Rand led her, protesting, out to the front driveway. Lucy spotted them, and brought Maggie over. “I’ll be driving Diana to her hotel,” Rand said.

  “Goodbye,” Maggie said. “It was nice to meet you.”

  Diana’s eyes glittered with tears. She went down on one knee, drawing her daughter close for a hug. Diana’s love for the child was evident and genuine. Nothing about this situation was going to be easy, Rand thought.

  He handed her up into the buggy, and took a seat beside her. He tried to catch Lucy’s eye, but she avoided his gaze. Later, then, he thought. Later…but he had no idea what he would say to her. Lucy could move him with a single glance; Diana left him cold. But Lucy didn’t seem to know that about him.

  Clicking his tongue to the horse, he headed down the driveway. Diana ran her hand over the grain leather of the seat. The gesture filled him with a cynical understanding. She didn’t want him. She merely wanted what he had. They drove in awkward silence across the bridge and into town. Pulling back on the reins, he rolled the buggy to a halt in front of the elegant hotel. A boy came forward to hold the horse, and Rand helped Diana down. With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her into the lobby.

  The lobby was richly carpeted and furnished with gilt conversation chairs, potted plants and glowing chandeliers. Groups of guests spoke together in low, cultured murmurs. The resemblance to Sterling House was eerie.

  Her face turned paper white, and he wondered if she still suffered as he did from memories of that night. She had been wounded, too, perhaps in ways he had never understood.

  “Diana—”

  “Honestly, I can’t understand why you refuse to do the right thing, Randolph. I’ve come back, and Christine is back. We can be a family again.” The color in her cheeks returned, and her bright gaze flashed over him. “You’ve done so well since we were last together.”

  A slight edge in her voice raised his suspicions. She had known about Christine for weeks. Why had she waited until now to make her appearance? “How would you feel if I told you my circumstances have changed recently?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Playing his hunch, he explained, “At the bank. I expect to be dismissed.”

  “Nonsense,” she objected, folding her arms in front of her. “You’re just saying that to drive me away. Why would they want to be rid of you?”

  “The bank board and its most important investors object to Lucy’s political views.”

  “Just what sort of views does she hold?”

  “She favors universal suffrage and believes in equality between the sexes. She owned a radical bookstore which was recently burned.”

  “That’s a relief, at least.”

  “I doubt she’ll stop organizing meetings and marches to support her cause.” He remembered a time when he’d felt the same disapproval he saw on Diana’s face, and marveled at how completely Lucy had won him over. “A number of the bank’s clients objected to Lucy’s behavior, and withdrew their deposits in protest.”

  “Then you must bring them back, of course.”

  “They won’t come back unless Lucy gives up her cause.”

  “If that woman loved you, she would do so immediately.” Diana pressed her point. “It’s true, Randolph, you know it is. If she will not make this sacrifice for her husband, then clearly you’re not as important to her as her cause.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The local papers made much of Diana’s return. Lucy read them with a sort of sick fascination. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples, picturing their meeting the previous afternoon. She could not have been at more of a disadvantage—hatless, sunburned, sweating and dirty. In contrast, Diana had resembled a visiting queen. Cool and beautiful, she’d regarded Maggie with distaste until Lucy had explained that the little mop-headed boy in the garden was actually her daughter. Disapproval had turned instantly to adoration, and as far as Lucy could tell, it was genuine.

  And why not? It wasn’t every day a woman was reunited with the child she’d given up for dead.

  Maggie had handled the reunion with typical aplomb, though she’d clung to Lucy’s hand for dear life.

  The papers described Diana as a returning heroine, the aggrieved mother back to reclaim her husband and child from the crazed radical who had stolen them both. Lucy longed to know what Rand thought of this development, but he had stayed out late last night, leaving her to grapple with a new terror—the fear that Diana would win him back.

  She had no chance to speak to him, for he went to work early, and then Diana arrived before breakfast.

  “I know it’s early,” she said, “but you understand, I couldn’t stay away.”

  Lucy studied the beautiful, hungry eyes, the exact same eyes she saw each time she looked at Maggie. “Of course.” She asked Nichol to send for her.

  Maggie came tripping down the wide staircase, still in her nightgown. When she spied Diana, she stopped. “Hello,” she said.

  “You haven’t had your breakfast yet,” Lucy said, her heart breaking even as she took charge of the situation. “And look who has come to see you.” She led the way to the breakfast room.

  Diana took a seat and opened her arms to Maggie. “Please,” she said in a faint voice. “It’s been so very long.”

  Maggie looked to Lucy for direction, and Lucy forced herself to nod encouragingly. The little girl climbed into Diana’s lap. Mrs. Meeks served the tea and biscuits, her florid cheeks even redder than usual as she stole furtive glances at the former Mrs. Higgins.

  And Maggie, bless her, took the situation in stride. Before long she was chatting away, recounting some exploit with Ivan while Diana listened with rapt attention. A chill shadow slid over Lucy as she stood in the doorway, watching them. They were so alike, Maggie and her natural mother. Both so pretty and gr
aceful, as though they had been born to be in this room, this house, this life.

  She wanted to shout at Diana to go away, to leave them alone to sort through this ordeal. But Diana didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere. Lucy was at a loss. She didn’t want to give the impression that she would allow Diana to simply push her out of the way, no matter how powerful a claim the other woman had, both on Maggie and on Rand. But at the same time, she didn’t want to keep Maggie away from the woman who had given her life.

  Lucy wondered if, under different circumstances, Diana might even be someone she could like. Rand’s first wife was much like many of the young women of Miss Boylan’s—well-mannered and educated, from a good family. As the moments passed, Lucy’s confidence faltered. She felt herself slipping into the shadow of her former self, the outspoken misfit no one understood, or wanted.

  “Nichol!” Rand’s voice rang through the house. “Nichol, where did you put those papers—” He stepped into the breakfast room and fell silent. Lucy tried to read the expression on his face as he regarded Diana and Maggie, but his eyes were hooded. “Diana,” he said.

  She put Maggie down and hurried over to him. “Oh, Randolph!” She rushed forward and embraced him. “You’re home.”

  “I forgot some papers—” he began.

  “Then you can stay home with us all day,” Maggie said. “Say you will, Papa. You don’t have to go back to that old bank.”

  Lucy knew her heart was in her eyes as she watched them—Rand and Diana and their little girl, together again. What would it take for them to resume their lives together? Diana was more beautiful than the sun and filled with contrition about her past mistakes. She was the mother of his child. And she wanted her husband back.

  Beauty, sincerity, history, commitment. How could Lucy compete with that?

  In an agony of uncertainty, she slipped out of the room without glancing their way again. This was it, then, the thing her mother hadn’t told her about being in love. The pain, when it came, was as intense as the ecstasy.

  She went to the conservatory, hoping to find her mother there. Of late, she had come to depend on her mother’s wisdom in matters of the heart, but Viola was nowhere in sight.