The House of Secrets

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  “Oh, thank you,” Evelyn muttered as she gingerly took the hat from his hands, careful that their fingers didn’t touch.

  “Hayes is far too corpulent to catch you, so I thought I’d try,” he said.

  “Yes.” Evelyn was rarely at a loss for words, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Especially since Charles, rather than turning back to the house, continued to stand in front of her, apparently waiting for something.

  “Miss O’Keefe,” he began, then coughed in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. “I hope I didn’t offend you with my questioning. I’m afraid I may have been somewhat overbearing.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Evelyn lied. “An educated woman—especially one who intends to teach children—should be able to defend her opinions.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He smiled reassuringly, and his voice softened. “Mother can be chilly, but she only wants what’s best for the family. You acquitted yourself quite well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster.” Once again, an awkward silence settled between them.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Charles said finally, clasping her hand briefly with both of his. His touch sent a thrill of sensation up Evelyn’s arm, and her heart began to pound. Then he was gone, back to his sprawling home, while Evelyn wondered if she had only imagined the question in his eyes.

  WHEN MRS. BREWSTER OFFERED Evelyn the governess position, at double the salary she would have received in Philadelphia, Evelyn felt she had no choice but to accept. She began her duties warily, keeping to the schoolroom and avoiding her employer except when summoned to provide reports on Beatrice’s progress. Yet most days, seemingly by chance, Evelyn found herself crossing paths with Charles. Gradually, she realized these encounters were no accident. Charles’s tone moved from respectful to flirtatious, and Evelyn was flattered by his attention. There were moments stolen in the hallway of the Brewster mansion, his hand brushing hers as if by accident. Visits to the schoolroom as she tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on Beatrice. His whispered confession that she intrigued him as no other woman ever had. From then on, she was at his mercy.

  At the time, she thought it was love. Why else would she weaken at the thought of his hand resting around her waist? It wasn’t the grand romance she had once imagined—there were no intimate conversations or tender declarations of affection. Yet Charles had a hold over her that she had no wish to escape.

  When Evelyn first confided the new developments to her mother, Katherine almost fainted with delight. She insisted on making new dresses for Evelyn and admonished her to be on her best behavior. When Charles finally appeared at the house one evening and asked for Evelyn’s hand in marriage, Katherine could only nod and stammer before dissolving into tears of happiness.

  The reaction at the Brewster home was considerably less joyful. When Charles brought Evelyn into the drawing room later that evening, announcing that she had accepted his proposal, Alma fixed her future daughter-in-law with an expression of such horror that Evelyn had to turn away.

  “Nonsense,” Alma declared after an agonizing silence.

  Charles took a step toward his mother, his body stiff with self-righteous anger. “If you won’t welcome my future wife, Mother, we are prepared to settle in Baltimore.”

  Alma eyed Evelyn up and down. “That won’t be necessary. Charles, will you give us a moment alone, please?”

  It took all of Evelyn’s self-control to keep from clutching Charles’s hand. Charles glanced at her, then back at his mother.

  “Whatever you say to Evelyn, you can say in front of me.”

  “Very well.” Alma paused, pacing in circles in front of them as if rounding up her thoughts. “Charles, if you are attempting to prove your independence, the point has been made. I urged you not to rush into marriage, yet you ignored my advice and proposed to someone who is utterly unsuitable.” She turned to face Evelyn. “Miss O’Keefe, I am not unsympathetic. I understand your position, your family’s precarious finances. You saw an opportunity with my son…”

  “I assure you, I didn’t,” Evelyn protested. “Charles pursued me.”

  Alma glanced at Charles, taking in his amused smile. Then she smiled coldly at Evelyn.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “My son showed an interest, and you took advantage of it. No doubt you are quite skilled. I confess I was completely unaware of this turn of events. However, if you are willing to consider an alternate solution, I’m prepared to be quite generous.”

  “I have no interest in your money,” Evelyn said. “Charles and I love each other.”

  Alma flinched.

  “As you see, Mother, this is not a commercial transaction,” said Charles, a note of contempt lurking beneath his cheerful words. “I have proposed, Evelyn has accepted, and we will be married. With or without your blessing.”

  Though Evelyn was heartened by Charles’s resolve, she felt momentarily chilled by the fury in his eyes.

  Alma nodded slowly. “If you are determined to go through with this, you will have it. Miss O’Keefe, may I offer my congratulations.” But the words were a mere formality. Alma did not offer an embrace or even a handshake. Her body remained rigid, as if she were afraid she would crack into pieces if she moved.

  “Don’t worry, our house will be finished soon enough,” Charles reassured Evelyn as they waited for the carriage to take her home. “You won’t have to spend a night under this roof.”

  Their house. The thought of it was almost enough to distract Evelyn from the memory of Alma’s insults. Construction had begun long before Charles’s proposal to Evelyn, but she had been delighted by the building when he’d shown her around a few days before. She had never imagined a place so elegant could also feel so welcoming.

  When the carriage arrived, Charles held the door open for Evelyn, then climbed in beside her. He closed the door behind him and drew her toward him for a kiss that obliterated her fears. Until now, Charles had given her nothing more than fleeting pecks on the cheek. Now, his lips explored her face in a frenzy of pent-up passion, his hands roaming along her shoulders and down her arms. Evelyn felt her body melt into his and wondered how she would manage to resist him until their wedding night.

  It was only much later, as Evelyn lay in bed, that she felt a pang of doubt. She had told Alma that she and Charles were getting married because they loved each other. Yet Charles had never once told her so.

  By the day of the wedding, however, any lingering worries about her future husband were overshadowed by the event itself. Evelyn moved through her duties as if in a dream. She glided down the aisle and repeated her vows in a firm but quiet voice. She smiled graciously as Charles escorted her back through the church and out the front doors.

  Then she saw Will Brewster, and the haze lifted.

  Charles hadn’t expected his brother to come. Will had gone abroad years ago—“To study art,” Alma had told Reverend Alderson’s wife, in the same hushed tone she might have used to discuss a fatal illness. Charles had informed his brother about the wedding in a letter, but when no response arrived, Alma had crossed Will’s name from the seating chart. Yet there he was, standing at the bottom of the church stairs, pulling off his grimy driving glasses and greeting Evelyn with a delighted smile.

  “Will Brewster,” he said cheerily, waving his hand. “I take it you’re my new sister-in-law? Can I give you a lift to the reception?” Evelyn looked into his blue eyes, the same piercing shade as Charles’s, but sparkling with an amusement she’d never seen from her husband. His dark blond hair was tousled from the drive, but despite his disheveled appearance, he held himself with the same strong confidence as the rest of his family. Evelyn couldn’t help but smile back.

  “A lift? In that monstrosity?” Charles asked incredulously.

  “Nice to see you, too, Charles.” Will laughed.

  By this time, guests were filing out around them, and friends called out Will’s name as they rushed up to greet him. It wasn’t long before Alma pushed her w
ay to the front. She hurried toward her eldest son, then stopped in her tracks when she saw the condition of his car and clothes.

  “Oh, Will!” she admonished. “You look frightful!”

  “There was no time to change,” Will said. “I was trying not to miss the wedding—although apparently, I did anyway.”

  “Go to the house and clean up,” Alma ordered. “We’ll be serving dinner in one hour.”

  Will tipped his goggles in Evelyn’s direction. “I’ll look forward to getting acquainted this evening, Mrs. Brewster,” he said. His voice had a light, teasing tone, as if acknowledging how ridiculous it was that she should now bear that name.

  She meant to ask Charles about his brother, but she didn’t have a chance. Three hundred guests had to make their way through the receiving line, then she and Charles had to be presented as man and wife and take their places at a table with Alma and an assortment of elderly Brewster relatives. Evelyn became aware of Will only later, after the dessert dishes had been cleared and the orchestra began playing. Evelyn looked at Charles expectantly, only to have him announce, “I never dance.” There were so many things she didn’t yet know about him.

  A figure in an immaculately pressed tuxedo appeared at Evelyn’s side.

  “If my brother won’t take his bride for a pass on the dance floor, perhaps I might be permitted the honor.” Will’s words were courteous to a fault, but Evelyn sensed an undercurrent of amusement.

  Evelyn glanced at Charles, who waved her off. “Of course,” he said, before continuing a discussion of trade tariffs with his great-uncle.

  “Only Charles would discuss business during his wedding dinner,” Will said, as he lightly took hold of Evelyn’s waist and pulled her across the wood floor. “But I suppose you’re used to that by now.”

  In truth, she wasn’t. But revealing how little she really knew about Charles might seem disloyal. “The business keeps him very busy,” she said.

  “Oh, Charles was born an old man,” Will said with a wink. “He’s always been the serious one.”

  “And what are you?” Evelyn asked.

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m the black sheep.”

  Evelyn laughed, but she knew it was true. Charles seldom discussed his brother, and when he did, it was usually to criticize him.

  “You’re not at all what I expected,” Will said. “When I heard Charles was marrying a governess, I pictured a humorless old spinster, the sort who used to rap my knuckles with a ruler when I misbehaved.”

  “Did that happen often?” Evelyn asked lightly.

  “More than I care to admit.” Will smiled, and Evelyn caught a glimpse of the boy he once was, his eyes twinkling with mischief, but without malice.

  “You’re not what I expected either,” she admitted.

  “Ah, now things get interesting,” Will said, twirling her gently around the edge of the dance floor. “You imagined a clubfoot or some other deformity?”

  Evelyn laughed again. “No, not at all. I suppose…well, you don’t act like a Brewster.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” Will said. “There were many times growing up when I didn’t feel like a Brewster. And just think—now you’re one, too.”

  Evelyn flashed back to the moment Will had addressed her as Mrs. Brewster. How the sound of her new name—her new identity—had filled her with dread.

  “I understand how it is.” Evelyn could barely hear Will’s voice over the sound of the violins. He continued to watch her with a bright, unconcerned expression, but his tone was serious. “It’s hard work fitting into this family,” he whispered. “I have no doubt you’ll make a great success of it—you seem like that kind of girl—but I hope you’ll think of me as a friend. Someone you can talk to if things get sticky.”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said. Uncomfortable with his intimate words, she glanced toward the table where Charles sat. He had his back to her, still engrossed in conversation. She saw people at the other tables watching her. Her behavior must be above reproach. She was a Brewster now.

  “Will you be staying long in town?” she asked in her best society-hostess manner.

  Will nodded. “I’ve caused enough of a stir in Europe. Time to recuperate.”

  “Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing you at the house regularly,” Evelyn said. The music was building to a climax. “I’ll look forward to continuing our conversation.”

  “As will I,” Will said smoothly. But the superficial chatter couldn’t erase the bond their moment of honesty had already formed between them.

  The orchestra paused before starting the next dance. Evelyn pulled her body away from Will’s as he leaned over and gently kissed her hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you, sister,” he said. His lingering hold on her hand made Evelyn blush. Was he flirting with her at her own wedding?

  Evelyn lifted the skirt of her gown and walked back to her table. She laid her hand on Charles’s shoulder as she sat down and smiled when he turned to look at her. Evelyn felt she was playacting the part of a dutiful wife. Inside, her stomach was churning with excitement, her mind replaying every word of her conversation with Will.

  With a sinking feeling, she wondered if she had married the wrong Brewster.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALISSA COULD TELL Constance was surprised by her appearance, but she was too tired to care. She reached forward for a hug, then pulled back as she saw her friend stiffen. No wonder—Constance, as usual, was immaculate in a pressed cotton blouse and tailored trousers, while Alissa looked like a refugee from a construction site. Her greasy hair was jammed under an old college baseball cap. A paint-splattered, stretched-out T-shirt was paired with saggy pants that had a rip across one leg, and a fine layer of wood dust was sprinkled over her skin. The two women looked each other over, then broke into laughter.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” Alissa exclaimed. “Ready for the tour?”

  Constance clapped her hands together and pressed them to her chest, one of the prim, old-lady gestures that made her appear far older than she was. Although, at thirty-five, she was only a few years older than Alissa, Constance Powers seemed to belong to another generation. Even when her job as an architect had her traipsing through dusty building sites in a hard hat, Constance managed to stay elegant. Somewhere between a mentor and older-sister figure, Constance was the person Alissa aspired to be.

  “Is this still a good time?” Constance asked. “If you’re in the middle of something…”

  “I’ll be ‘in the middle of something’ for the next ten years, from the look of it,” Alissa said cheerfully. “Come in—I’m ready for a break. I even made sandwiches.”

  Constance stepped into the middle of the foyer, then gasped as she took in the soaring staircase and chandelier hanging high above her.

  “Oh, Alissa!” she exclaimed. Alissa grinned with delight. She could tell from her friend’s expression that Constance saw past the paint cans and the tarps on the floor. She felt the magic of this house.

  “I know it’s a disaster zone,” Alissa apologized. “I’m not going to invite anyone else over until I get the place in better shape.”

  “It’s fantastic!” Constance said. “Even more so than I imagined. Give me the full tour.”

  Alissa guided her friend through the rooms, talking nonstop and pointing out her favorite architectural details along the way. They ended in the master bedroom, just off the landing at the top of the main staircase. Constance pulled open the French doors that opened out onto a narrow balcony above the back garden. She looked down on the white stone patio and walkway below. Bushes and weeds had long since taken over the flower beds, but the outline of the garden’s elegant design was still clear.

  Constance turned and walked back inside. Her eyes scanned the high-ceilinged room. A double bed, one dresser and an armchair sat forlornly in the middle of a space that could have easily held twice as much furniture. The floral-patterned wallpaper was peeling off the walls. A full-length mirror mounted in a g
audy gold frame made the room seem even larger and emptier. Constance fingered the floor-length white curtains.

  “These are new, at least?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Alissa said. “The old ones were so dusty, I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Once you get this wallpaper down and put on a fresh coat of paint, it will look great,” Constance said.

  Alissa shrugged. “I’m concentrating on the downstairs for now.”

  “At least you’ve got indoor plumbing,” Constance joked as she peered into the en-suite bathroom. “When would you say this was done—the late fifties?”

  “Whenever peach and black were considered the height of fashion.” Alissa laughed.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re finally getting some help,” Constance said. “What time did you say that guy was coming?”

  Alissa glanced at her watch. A contractor recommended by Elaine, the Realtor, was due in half an hour for an interview. Alissa had hoped to hire some of the workmen she’d used in projects around Baltimore, but none were willing to drive this far.

  “One o’clock,” Alissa said. “C’mon—I’ve got lunch set up in the dining room.”

  The round, glass-topped dining table and silver aluminum chairs—brought from Alissa’s modern condo—looked especially incongruous in the middle of the formal room. Dark wood wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls; the upper half was covered in worn burgundy velvet.

  “I know it’s silly to eat in this giant room when it’s just the two of us,” Alissa said, pushing an open bag of potato chips toward Constance. “But the kitchen is such a mess. Plus, it’s so dark—it’s not my favorite place to hang out.”

  “Ah, yes, the days before eat-in kitchens,” Constance mused. “Half my jobs these days are kitchen expansions. Have you thought about knocking down that wall between the kitchen and conservatory? It would open up the whole back of the house.”

  “I’m not ripping out any walls,” Alissa said firmly. “I want to keep the original character of the house.”