“Schematics?” Ophelia provided helpfully.
“Yes. Very well. The schematics. And all the notes he’d kept on the progress of his ‘experiment.’ He went to great lengths to convince me, in fact. He had to, because I was not of a mind to be easily persuaded.”
To Dario’s surprise, Ophelia smiled. “I know. He told me. I think he was quite perturbed by your lack of faith in his abilities.”
“It was never his abilities that were at issue,” Dario snarled, angered by the quiet satisfaction in her smile, by the way she stood so docile within his grasp even though he was sure his fingers must be bruising her arms. Had she never had any feelings at all? Had it all been a lie? Once again, memories of their wedding night rose up to torment him and his heart broke a little bit more at the thought of all he’d lost. She’d seemed so alive then, so wondrously real…
Angrily, he shook the memories away. “But, seeing as you’ve mentioned it, the one thing your so-called father did make abundantly clear to me was that the ability to bear children was not a function he’d had the foresight to give you.”
At that she nodded. “I’ve no doubt he did. For so he believed at the time. And, I assure you, no one could have been any more astonished than he when my condition first became apparent.”
“Stop it.” Dario thrust her away and turned his back on her. “I refuse to listen to any more of your lies. How dare you talk to me of children? If there’s a child at all, which I very much doubt, he must be another like yourself—naught but a…a physical machine of sorts. Just a shell of a person grown in some…in some vat within your father’s laboratory.”
“You’re wrong.” Ophelia’s fingers closed on Dario’s arm, forcing him to turn again and face her. “You’re so wrong, Dario. There is a child, a living being as human as you, and he grew here.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her belly, drawing Dario’s gaze. “Not in a vat or a beaker, or any other man-made container you may think to name, but right here within the secret, innermost recesses of my own body.”
Unwilling though he was, Dario could not look away nor stop the visions that took shape in his mind. Images of Ophelia as once before he’d imagined her: lovely and radiant, swollen with child. With his child…
“No.” Dario wrenched his hand free of her grasp. “It isn’t true. I tell you, it can’t be so.”
“I assure you it is.”
“Do you think me so gullible I can’t see through your lies? Is there nothing you won’t stoop to? This is naught but another attempt to extort money from me—that must be the case. You as good as admitted that’s the real reason you came here. Did you not say you could think of nowhere else to turn, that I was your last resort? Why would I take the word of so desperate a woman, even were she not already proved to be a liar?”
Ophelia’s eyes flashed. “Whether you believe me or not, it hardly matters. What does it change, after all? You are still my husband and, if for no other reason than that, Arthur is legally your son.”
“And if I renounce him? If I go before a court of law and expose the truth about you to the world—what then?”
“You would never do such a thing,” she answered, speaking with insufferable calmness—nay, with inhuman calmness, with a serenity that set his teeth on edge. “You know you wouldn’t.”
“Would I not?”
She shook her head. “If you were truly capable of behaving in so brutal a fashion, of rendering me up to strangers who would view me as no more than a freak, an object of curiosity, something to be dissected or studied or experimented upon, I’m convinced you would have done so years ago.”
Dario felt his expression harden. “You have no idea to what extremes you may yet drive me. Do not tempt me.”
Ophelia’s face grew pale again. “But he is your son, Dario.” Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her. “And completely human. I swear it.”
“You swear?” Dario laughed. “By what, Lia? Would you swear to a God who had no hand in your making? What force would such a vow have to bind one such as you? You cannot be held to human standards, nor expected to react as a human might. You have no soul. There’s nothing for your perjury to put at risk.”
Tears shimmered in Ophelia’s eyes. “You can’t know that,” she whispered. “You can’t possibly know whether such a thing is so. Why should I not have a soul?”
“Mama? Is everything all right?”
Startled, Dario turned toward the door. His breath caught at the sight of the slightly built child who hovered in the doorway, bright curls tumbling over his forehead, dark eyes trained anxiously on Ophelia. On his mother. Dear God. It’s not possible…is it?
Outraged, Dario turned back again to Ophelia. “You brought him here? How dare you?”
Ophelia blinked the tears from her eyes. “Come, Arthur.” She held out her hand to the boy. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Then she favored Dario with a pitying look. “Of course I brought him with me. I told you I had a child. What did you think I’d done with him? He’s not a clockwork doll. I couldn’t very well have left him behind, or stored him upon a shelf somewhere to await my return, now could I?”
To that, Dario had no answer. He watched as the boy came and stood beside his mother, struck dumb by the resemblance between them. Despite himself, his heart began to race. No one could look upon them and doubt them mother and child. But, no, he could not allow himself to be fooled again. The resemblance, marvelous though it was, meant nothing, meant less than nothing. After all, no one who looked upon Ophelia would doubt her to be a living, breathing woman either. Not unless they knew better.
“Arthur, this is Mr. Leonides.” Ophelia’s voice was calm once again, serene, void of emotion—just like the machine she was. “Your father.”
The boy’s eyes widened. He held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” he said gravely.
Dario took the little boy’s hand almost without thinking. “Likewise. I mean, thank you. I mean, yes, I…it’s nice to meet you too.”
For a moment they studied each other in silence. Now that he was looking for it, Dario could see more than just Ophelia in the boy’s features, he saw bits of himself there as well. Or was that just wishful thinking? Was this another cruel hoax? Was she offering him a lie in the guise of what she obviously knew he wanted above all else?
Or was this boy, who gazed at him so steadily and seemed without guile, really his son—a son whose existence she’d kept from him for almost eight years, a grandchild his parents had died without ever knowing? If that was true, it was, perhaps, the cruelest cut of all. Hard on the heels of that realization came another.
“You call him Arthur…after my father?”
Ophelia shrugged. “It seemed fitting. And I knew it was what you would have wanted.”
What he wanted? It was a struggle to control his temper. How could she know what he wanted when he didn’t know that himself? Just as he no longer knew what to think; not about this, not about anything. He could no longer tell what was real from what was illusion.
There was only one thing immediately clear to him. He needed to get them out of this hotel and back to his villa, so that he could decide upon his next step without the whole town looking on; without them judging, whispering, spreading more rumors about his family—spreading more lies about his family. Without the Leonides name being dragged, once again, through the mud by gossips.
He turned to the boy. “Do you think you can locate one of the hotel maids and ask her to begin packing up your belongings, and those of your mother?”
Ophelia stirred. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Dario, what are you doing?”
Arthur glanced back and forth between them. “Are we leaving, sir? We only just arrived last night.”
“Yes, I know,” Dario told him, trying hard to keep the tension he felt from showing in his face. “But it will be Christmas soon, so I’m taking you both with me back to my villa. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the holiday much more if you spend it
there, rather than in a hotel.”
At that, Arthur’s face lit up. “Yes. Of course I will. I’ll go at once,” he said, already running from the room.
“Dario, I… Thank you.” Ophelia’s voice shook with what could have been relief. Her eyes gleamed with what might have been tears. She tried again to lay a hand on his arm, but he pulled away. Anthropomorphism—isn’t that what they called it when you ascribed human emotion to something that was not human? Isn’t that what he was doing now, what he’d always done where Ophelia was concerned? It wasn’t real and he could not allow these false emotions to sway him.
“Make no mistake,” he told her. “I am not doing this for you, or him, or because I’ve accepted the validity of your claim. I have yet to make a decision about any of it. I’m acting simply to safeguard my family’s reputation. I am well known in this town as you may recall and, as you yourself have pointed out, in the eyes of the world you are yet my wife. I will not have it said that you and the child you claim is mine were forced to stay in a hotel rather than in my home.”
“I see.” An angry flush colored Ophelia’s cheeks, but her voice was once again dispassionate. “And I understand your reservations, Dario, but nonetheless—”
“No,” Dario said, cutting her off again. “I’ve done talking with you about it. If you’ll excuse me, I must see about procuring a coach for your conveyance. I trust you can make your own way to the lobby? Say in half an hour’s time?”
Ophelia’s jaw tightened. “Of course.”
He nodded and turned for the door.
“But, whether you wish to hear it or not, I do thank you all the same,” Ophelia called after him.
Dario shook his head. “Unnecessary, Madam. I’m merely doing my duty to my family. I’ve done nothing that requires your thanks—nor have I any intention of doing so.”
Chapter Four
The drive to the villa seemed to take longer than Ophelia remembered. Perhaps the snow was hindering their progress, or maybe she was just more anxious than ever to put the miles behind her. Since Arthur, seated beside her, was once again captivated by the horses, the trip left her with plenty of time to think. Perhaps too much time.
Rage burned within her. She didn’t deserve the disrespect Dario had shown her this morning. Maybe she had been wrong to keep her true nature a secret from him for as long as she had, but when would have been the right time to tell him? Given his reaction when he did find out, she doubted “the right time” would ever have arrived.
Oh, how she wished things were different, that she wasn’t forced to accept his aid and actually feel grateful for it! He was helping her only grudgingly, and not even for her own sake, and yet… Without his aid, her situation would be so much worse.
Despair, and the fear she’d been living with on a daily basis since her father’s death, rose up to nearly choke her as she thought about all that might yet happen to her if her secret was revealed, or if Dario refused to fight for her, if she was declared to be nothing more than a piece of unclaimed property or, even worse perhaps, part of her father’s estate…
It was for this reason that, despite Dario’s threats this morning, there was a small, rational part of Ophelia’s mind that insisted she really shouldn’t fault him overmuch for his treatment of her. Yes, he’d cast her from his home without giving her the opportunity to defend her actions, and he’d been cold and insulting to her today as well, but other than that, what real harm had he caused her? Naught but a fraction of what he could have done had he chosen to.
Unfortunately, however, it was not the rational part of herself that she had consigned to Dario’s care. She’d given him her heart. And that organ, being very decidedly irrational, still found it almost impossible to forgive him for rejecting her love and devotion, and for declaring her of no value to him.
For better or for worse—was that not the vow they’d both taken and sworn to honor? Apparently, Dario no longer considered her capable of honoring any vow. Perhaps he felt that absolved him, as well, of the need to stay true to the promises he’d made her?
Finally, the high brick wall that ringed the Leonides estate came into view. Ophelia gazed at it in surprise, startled by its obvious state of disrepair. The nearly invisible, wire-mesh dome that rose above the bricks was still in place, but the dust that lay upon its surface and the holes that riddled it left her with no doubt that it was no longer operational.
How had this happened? How had Dario, who had always been so proud of his home, with all its modern features and all the “improvements” he’d had built into it, allowed things like this to come to pass?
When last she’d seen this place, it had been pristine, lovingly cared for. Dario had been utilizing her father’s technology to transform the grounds surrounding the house into a veritable Garden of Eden. Apparently, that dream was something else he’d abandoned.
As they passed through the front gates, her suspicions were confirmed. Everything within the walls lay blanketed by a heavy, white rime. Once, super-heated water flowing in pipes beneath the garden’s surface had turned this land—land that had once been mostly desert—into a lush oasis. Hidden valves and elaborate engines had kept the air inside her father’s “mechanical greenhouse” balmy, as warm and delightful as perpetual spring.
It was all Ophelia could do to keep from scowling. It saddened her to see her father’s work, his legacy, left to rust. But, really, what cause had she to be surprised? At one time science had been one of Dario’s driving passions—so much so that, for a time, he had actually apprenticed himself to her father. He, proud and wealthy as he was, had worked night and day, at all the most menial tasks, for little more than the privilege of being allowed to view the professor’s work at firsthand.
As the state of his grounds made painfully obvious to her, it was clear the great enjoyment Dario had previously derived from the products her father’s advanced technology had made possible—herself included—was firmly in the past. The only emotion any of it seemed to excite in him now was sheer disgust.
Arthur was out of the coach as soon as it stopped. Spying Dario waiting for them on the front stairs, he rushed across the drive before Ophelia could stop him.
“I say, is that your horse?” Arthur pointed excitedly at the little black mare from whose back Dario had just dismounted.
For a moment, Dario gazed searchingly at Arthur, saying nothing. Ophelia held her breath, waiting to see how he would respond to his son’s overtures. Finally, his mouth relaxed and a faint smile appeared. It was nothing like the smiles Ophelia remembered seeing there, once upon a time, but it was a smile, nonetheless. “Yes. It is. Do you like horses?”
“I should say so!” Arthur nodded emphatically. “May I ride it?”
“Arthur,” Ophelia chided as she hurried up the stairs to join them. “Stop pestering.”
“Another time, perhaps.” As Dario turned to Ophelia, the look of tolerant amusement that had lightened his expression while he spoke to Arthur fled his face.
Ophelia stiffened in response. She was glad for the muff she wore which hid her hands from sight; for, right now, those hands were clenched into fists. She glared back at him, matching him look for look.
How dare he look at her with such cold disdain? And here, of all places, in the garden he’d once commissioned as a gift for her. The memory of that nearly reduced her to tears. Dario had known how much a stranger she’d felt herself when she’d first moved here. The alien landscape, the foreign culture, the lack of acceptance by his family, all combined to leave her feeling lost and more than a little homesick.
The verdant gardens he’d crafted here, so reminiscent of the green valley in which her father’s house was located, had done much to lighten her mood. Although, if Dario only knew, her greatest pleasure was that which she derived from knowing her husband cared enough about her feelings to take on the challenge in the first place.
Was that why it hurt so much to see it reduced to its current state? Because it illust
rated, in a way nothing else could have done, how very much estranged she and Dario had become?
“Perhaps you’d like to go inside now?” Dario suggested in tones as chill as his expression. Before Ophelia could answer, however, the double front doors were thrust open and Dario’s housekeeper emerged.
“Mrs. Leonides. Is it really you come back at last? Welcome home, missus, welcome home!”
Ophelia smiled at the older woman, grateful for any excuse to turn her back on Dario’s scowl. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrison. It’s good to be back.”
“When Mr. Leonides telegraphed earlier to say he was bringing guests home with him, I never dreamed… And who is this young man then?” the housekeeper asked as she caught sight of Arthur.
“This is my son.” Ophelia slipped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and drew him forward as she completed the introduction. “Arthur, this is Mrs. Harrison. Your father’s housekeeper and…and my very good friend.”
Mrs. Harrison’s eyebrows rose higher. Although Dario was not in Ophelia’s line of sight, her ears registered his angry snarl. She ignored it. She’d said nothing that wasn’t true. Had he brought her here expecting her to lie? How little he knew her anymore.
“How do you do?” Arthur said politely.
For a moment, the woman seemed at a loss for words, but she quickly recovered. A warm smile brightened her face. “I’m very well, my dear. Very well indeed.” Then she straightened her shoulders and shot a sharp glare in Dario’s direction before turning her gaze to Ophelia. “I’ll see that your old room is made ready for you immediately.” Her voice was kind, far kinder than any Ophelia had been addressed by in months. So kind, in fact, she had to blink back tears of gratitude.
“I hardly think that necessary,” Dario protested, effectively halting Ophelia’s tears and leaving her all the more determined to accept the housekeeper’s kind gesture. “Surely, there are plenty of other rooms, already made up, that could be given her instead, are there not?”
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