by Susan Wiggs
“Don’t pretend to be daft—I know you’re not.” The cane thumped the floor with impatience. “He disapproves because he fears it will break apart his family—again. My grandson used to have all the self-confidence in the world, but that changed after the fire. A man can be as vain as a woman. In this I agree with your equality talk. And Randolph certainly did have his pride. I arrived in Chicago eight months after the fire. This house was nearly finished, and Diana wouldn’t even step inside, even though he’d built it for her. There was not a single mirror in the place, and all the curtains remained shut. He lived like a beast in a cave, hating the sunlight, hating the stares, hating everything. But most of all, hating himself.” The old lady’s voice broke, but she held Lucy’s gaze. “In time, he rejoined the world again, finding his place at the bank. He uses gruffness to cover his true sentiments. That creature in the dark is still there, inside him, I think.”
Lucy stood riveted in place. She’d never considered this aspect of Rand, but she should have. What must it be like, to awaken with the face of a stranger? “His looks have changed somewhat,” she conceded, “but he’s certainly no monster. He has character and depth, and there is an expressiveness in his face that wasn’t there when I met him before the fire.”
“You and I know that, but we don’t see him the way he sees himself.”
Despite the stirrings of sympathy Grace’s explanation evoked, Lucy could not yield. She couldn’t forget his anger, his dictatorial manner, his furious opposition to her cause.
“I wish he’d been spared the agony of his wounds,” she said, putting the small box in her valise, “but he should know that his success did not come about as a result of his looks, of all things. He’s strong and principled, a brilliant banker, a generous father to Mag—” Seeing the smug expression on Grace’s face, she broke off and grabbed the handle of the bag. “Still, I haven’t changed my mind. Where I’m concerned, he’s an unenlightened, autocratic—”
“Did you know his mother abandoned him when he was a little boy?”
Lucy’s heart lurched. “What?”
“Sit down, dear. Set down that carpetbag. You’re not going anywhere.”
* * *
Grace’s words haunted Lucy all through the day. During dinner, she cast furtive glances at Rand, trying to picture him as a small boy, needing his mother, being told that she’d left, never to return. That had been the first of three terrible losses he’d suffered in his life—first his mother, then his child, then his wife. Each loss had probably made him more guarded of his own heart and less tolerant of any change, and that included a wife who wanted to change the world.
Now Lucy had to decide if it was possible for the two of them to build a life together. For the sake of Maggie, she smiled and chatted at supper, making believe nothing was amiss. Watching her daughter’s delight in her new family filled Lucy with renewed conviction. She had to make this work. And Grace, though it might not have been her intent, had given her the key.
According to Grace, Pamela Byrd Higgins had been a difficult, uninvolved wife and mother, given to fits of melancholy and periodic, unexplained disappearances. She had a habit of writing obsessively in private. Grace hinted that her daughter-in-law had an unhealthy attachment to medicinal laudanum—and to the doctor who dispensed it.
Pamela had brought a son into the world, but she hadn’t stayed to raise him in the comfort of her love. Instead, she had left a small boy grieving and alone. No wonder he had grown into the sort of man who espoused such rigidly traditional values. He wanted the sort of life for Maggie that his own mother had deprived him of—a stable family to love and protect and support, to provide shelter from the storm and a haven for happiness.
Yet Lucy knew there was another side to the story—Pamela’s side. From the first mention of her name, Lucy had sensed a haunting familiarity, and this afternoon it had come to her. Long ago, she’d heard of a talented poet and essayist named Pamela Byrd, and she wondered if she might actually be Rand’s mother.
Lucy had always believed that she had been put on this earth to rescue Maggie from the fire. Now, perhaps for the first time, she sensed that there was more to her destiny. Who else but a dedicated bookseller would remember the name of an obscure lady author? Her friend Kathleen would call it fate, pure and simple. Magic or not, Lucy intended to use all her expertise as a bookseller in order to unearth the writings of Pamela Byrd.
After supper, she tucked Maggie in, the familiar routine a comfort in this unfamiliar place. The house was painstakingly orderly, the furniture buffed to a high sheen, the carpets swept and the windows gleaming. The antechamber, which joined Maggie’s room to Viola’s, had a small sitting area and writing desk, the bastion of a proper woman of quality. It reminded Lucy of her childhood, when her mother had been busy organizing the Colonel’s social life. No wonder her mother seemed so content here. As did Maggie. Even Silky was getting used to Rand’s dog. The only malcontent was Lucy.
Seated on the edge of the ornate little pink-and-white bed, she read through a favorite story.
“‘…when he saw that the glass slipper fit,’” she recited aloud from a book of fairy tales, “‘the prince realized Cinderella was indeed the princess he sought.’”
She sneaked a glance at Maggie, who had solemnly vowed she would go to sleep after her bedtime story. The child lay upon the lace-edged pillows, as wide-awake as a sunflower at high noon.
Pretending not to notice, Lucy turned the page. “‘The prince sank down on one knee and begged her to marry him and be his queen.’” Long ago, Lucy had devised her own ending for the tale. “‘Cinderella laughed and told him to get up off his knees. I will not marry you or anyone else, she said. I never liked those glass slippers anyway. I am going off to have adventures of my own!’”
Maggie sat up in bed and plumped the pillows behind her. “How many adventures?”
“Six, and you’re procrastinating. You’re supposed to be asleep,” Lucy said.
“After my story.”
“The story’s over.”
“No,” Maggie said with exaggerated patience, “the next story.”
“My dear, we agreed a long time ago that you would only get one story at night.”
“From you,” said Maggie.
Rand stepped into the room. Lucy stood quickly, clutching the book to her chest. She could tell, from the bemused expression on his face, that he’d heard her revision of Cinderella.
“It appears she’s taking full advantage of having two parents,” he said.
“Two stories!” Maggie patted the edge of the bed. “Sit right here, Papa. It’s still warm from Mama.”
Lucy hoped her blush didn’t show as she gave Maggie a good-night kiss and retreated from the room. Standing in the hallway outside, she heard him begin reading. “‘Once upon a time, there was a good little girl who wanted to grow up to become the best wife and mother in the world…’”
TWENTY-ONE
Maggie had so much excitement building up inside her that she thought she might pop like a soap bubble. It was June the 24;xt;xh, her real true birthday, and she knew suppertime was going to be special.
“Happy birthday, darling,” her mama said, waiting in the dining room. “How do you like having your birthday in the summertime?”
“It’s the best,” Maggie declared happily as she sat in the chair Papa held out for her. “Thank you,” she said, and that got the smile of approval from both grammies, because the grammies liked nice manners. “All my friends came today,” she continued, fluffing out her linen napkin. “Did you know that Nancy Boggs’s papa went to work camp?”
“No, I didn’t,” Mama said.
“Nancy says it’s quieter around her house these days.” Maggie twisted around in her chair. “You won’t ever go away to work camp, will you, Papa?”
“Never,” he vowed.
Maggie grinned from ear to ear, showing off the stub of her new tooth growing in. “Sally Saltonstall was cross because I t
urned six before she did, and she used to be the oldest. Now I’m the older one, aren’t I?”
“Indeed you are,” Grammy Vi said.
Jiggling her foot against the table leg, Maggie quivered with excitement as she eyed the stack of presents on the buffet. She only picked at her food, pausing every few minutes to examine her gifts, wrapped in brown paper and tied with satin bows.
Mrs. Meeks brought out a tray of petits fours for dessert, and Maggie dutifully ate one. It was sort of dry and crumbly, but she didn’t complain. “Is it time yet?” she whispered.
“No,” said Mama.
“Yes,” said Papa at the same time.
“Hurrah!” Maggie jumped up from her seat. Mama tried to look stern, but she couldn’t help smiling as Maggie brought the packages to the table, balancing her chin on the top of the stack. Ripping into the first one, she gasped. “A hat!” she cried. “A beautiful hat!”
“That’s from me.” Grammy Vi beamed as Maggie tried on the straw bowler, decked with birds and butterflies made of dyed feathers. “You look wonderful, and so grown up.”
“Thank you, Grammy Vi.” Maggie hugged her grandmother so hard the hat was knocked crooked. Straightening it, she opened a package from Grammy Grace, which contained an embroidery hoop and colorful skeins of floss. “Thank you, Grammy Grace,” Maggie said, even though she didn’t think embroidering would be much fun.
Grammy Grace pruned her lips, but Maggie saw a gleam in her eye. “Keep looking in the box, child. That’s not all there is.”
“Oh!” Her smile broadened as she discovered a pincushion in the shape of a frog. She hugged Grammy Grace, too, and set the frog on the table for everyone to admire.
“Open this next.” Papa handed her a big box. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Mama leaned forward. She seemed terribly interested in what Papa had bought.
The box was filled with fluffy tissue, and inside that nestled a tiny china tea set. Maggie carefully lifted out the pieces, each cup and saucer painted with small pink flowers. “This is the most wonderful thing ever.” She had a warm feeling inside as she climbed into his lap and kissed him on the cheek. Oh, she did love having a papa. Even though she’d only had him a short time, she didn’t ever want to be without him.
She wasn’t sure if Mama liked it yet. She had Disagreements with Papa—sometimes Maggie could hear them talking in quiet, cross voices about the Cause. Other times, like now, Mama smiled at Papa, and there was something soft in her eyes that made Maggie feel hopeful.
Maggie picked up the remaining box. “This must be from you, Mama.”
“It is.” Mama winked mysteriously.
“Marbles,” Maggie cried, looking into the box. “These are the best marbles in the world!” She picked up a large cat’s-eye. “Look at this shooter. I’ll be able to win all of Willie Sanger’s marbles.” Willie was visiting from New York City, and had all the children in the neighborhood shooting marbles. “Thank you, Mama.”
Papa slid another parcel across the table, and Mama blinked as if she was very surprised. The grammies looked from Papa to Mama, but even Grammy Grace kept quiet.
“A book,” Maggie said, opening the leather cover. Pointing to the title, she sounded out, “Lit-tle Women, by Miss L-Lucy?”
“Louisa May Alcott.” Mama gave Papa a different sort of Look. Then she handed Maggie a small parcel.
“Another book!” Maggie said, opening the second one. “This one’s called Little Men.”
“Heavens be,” Grammy Grace exclaimed. “Viola, would you like to join me for a cup of tea in the parlor?”
“Yes, please,” Grammy Vi said. “This is all entirely too much for me.” They both wished Maggie many happy returns of the day and left the room.
“This book is inscribed with Miss Alcott’s signature.” Mama showed Maggie a page with handwriting on it.
“There is one more surprise for you outside,” Papa said, pushing back from the table. Now he gave Mama a Look.
“Hurrah!” Maggie raced for the door. Hand in hand, she and her papa headed for the carriage house while Mama hurried after them. The carriage house was filled with the nice smells of the horse and molasses oats. Behind the buggy was a small, two-wheeled cart, painted red. Papa picked her up and showed her the stall next to Jake, the horse.
A shaggy pony stood amid the wood shavings, switching his tail and looking at her with beautiful velvety eyes.
“His name is Roy,” Papa said, “and he’s all yours.”
Maggie pressed her hands to her cheeks. For a few seconds, she couldn’t say a word. She felt like one of those church ladies on baptism day, when the Spirit moved them. She hugged her papa around the neck as hard as ever she could, and finally she found a whisper in her throat. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you ever so much.”
He kissed her and helped her lean over to stroke Roy’s buttery-yellow mane. “A pony and cart, Mama!” Maggie yelled over her shoulder. “Come see!”
Mama made sounds of admiration as she inspected Roy, petting him and asking Papa if Roy was tame and gentle enough for a little girl. Then, with a secret smile that made Maggie’s heart race, Mama lifted a canvas tarp from a corner of the storage area. “Hmm,” she said, “what could this be?”
Maggie went to investigate, and she couldn’t believe her eyes. With a whoop of joy, she leaped into her mama’s arms and hugged her. “A new bicycle! It’s much bigger than my old one. Papa, look. When are you going to learn to ride a bicycle?”
“I suppose I must,” he said. “Very soon.”
Grabbing both their hands, she swung her feet up in the air and declared, “I’m the luckiest girl ever.”
* * *
Exhausted by her big day, Maggie finally fell asleep at nine o’clock, when the peepers came out, chirping from the deep shadowy places at the edge of the lawn. Lucy stood at the landing, looking out at the lake and thinking back on the day. The gift-giving had turned into a rivalry, and Lucy wasn’t proud of that. Yet Maggie had been so happy and excited that her mood had buoyed them all.
Lucy wondered if Rand had picked out the tea set himself. She had no idea, for ever since their disagreement, the tension between them had grown tighter, while the distance gaped wider. Had he picked it deliberately, a symbol of female servitude?
Deep in thought, Lucy jumped violently when a loud pop startled her. She rushed down to the dining room, where the sound had come from.
“What was that?” she asked. “I heard a gunshot.”
“Relax,” said Rand, pouring champagne into a crystal flute. “I’ve not been tempted to shoot you…yet.” He handed her the glass and poured a second for himself. Touching the rim of hers with his own, he said, “To Maggie?”
“To Maggie.”
She took a sip of the champagne and shut her eyes. “Heavens to Betsy.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I haven’t had champagne since before the fire. This could be one of the few things I’ve missed about being well off.”
They drank in silence, and Lucy savored the exotic taste, then looked at her glass in surprise. It was empty.
Without a word, he refilled hers and then his own. She sensed the tension between them, but it had a different quality. It was heavy with an expectant heat that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. Her gaze wandered to his strong hands and his wonderful, unsmiling mouth. She thought about the revelations from Grace. How could he believe his looks were gone? Then she thought about that morning he had kissed her, and in spite of everything, she wanted that moment back.
How could she be so foolish? She used to believe in the value of pure honesty, yet here she was, a willing partner in a dishonest marriage. Telling herself it was for Maggie’s sake did little to help, particularly at this moment. Flustered, she took a deep drink of champagne. He watched her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. His intense regard caused a phantom warmth to rush over her skin.
“It’s absolutely delicious,” she said.
“Is it?” He moved in close, then hesitated as if he might change his mind.
She didn’t want him to. His proximity heightened the pleasure of the champagne. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Let me taste.” He took the glass from her. Totally unprepared, Lucy felt liquid slosh over the rim as he set the flute aside. Bending low, he kissed her, his tongue searching for the flavor of the champagne she had just drunk. Lucy gave a small, involuntary moan, giddy with a surge of wicked sensuality.
He lifted his mouth from hers and she instantly felt bereft. He had some uncanny power over her, forcing her into an unwinnable war between desire and reason. There was so much she wanted from him, but she knew the price would be her free will.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s delicious.” He handed her the glass again, and drank from his own. He seemed perfectly calm, but she could see the pulse leaping in his neck. Perhaps Grace was right after all, and he was not so self-possessed as he seemed.
Trying to regain some sort of balance, she glanced at the bottle. The label read Sire de Gaucourt Grand Cuvée, 1870. Lucy gasped. “This is it, isn’t it?” she asked.
“This is what?”
“The rare champagne you bought when Maggie was born. The one you drink on each of her birthdays.” What had this day been like for him, six years ago? she wondered. Had he paced the halls, wrung his hands, stayed up all night listening for the sound of a newborn infant’s cry? Had he held the baby while his heart filled up with love? Had he kissed his wife and told her he was proud of her, that he loved her?
He picked up the bottle. “You can’t imagine what I’m feeling right now, Lucy.”
The way he stared at her as he spoke made her whole body tingle. “I cannot,” she admitted. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“I’m not used to this,” he said with rough-voiced candor. “I’ve grown accustomed to being alone.”
“As have I,” she said. She understood all the things he would not say—he wasn’t used to closeness, to having a daughter who adored him, to having a wife again. Discomfited, she lifted her glass. “Here’s to you. You’ll drink this on your daughter’s wedding day after all—”