Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  He cleared his throat. “I won’t be here on Saturday.”

  “Why ever not?”

  He hesitated. “I’m returning to North Creek on Friday.”

  “North Creek? Haven’t you had your fill of the wilderness?”

  “There’s someone there. A girl.”

  She laughed—a small, nervous laugh. “You’ve had girls before. I would have thought you’d have said your farewells before you left the mountains.”

  “I’m going back to get her. To take her with me to Paris.”

  Isobel colored, two patches of angry red blotching her pale cheeks. “No! I won’t have it!”

  “I love her, Mum,” he said gently.

  “Love!” Her voice had become shrill. “What do you know about love, breaking my heart this way?”

  He frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “You’re all I have, Drew! Your father is gone. And I’m losing Arthur… I can’t bear to lose you too.”

  “I’m your son. I’ll always be your son. What does that have to do with Marcy?”

  She sneered. “Marcy. Common little country girl, no doubt.”

  “Stop it, Mother!”

  “Give her up, Drew,” she whined. “Don’t take her to Paris.”

  “I love her.”

  “I might even be able to manage four thousand. If you give her up.”

  “Don’t push me, Mother,” he growled.

  She half rose from her chaise, her eyes burning. “You ungrateful boy! You can starve, for all I care! If you think I’m going to hand over a single penny of my money so you can go traipsing all over Europe with some trollop…”

  “Dammit! Stop it!”

  “You wretch!” she shrilled. “Now you’ve taken to swearing at your own mother. Go to Paris with your whore! Go to the devil!”

  “As far away from here as I can get!” He stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind him, and marched down the corridor to his own room. He pulled open his bureau drawer, grabbed a small velvet box. Snapping it open, he withdrew half a dozen diamond studs that normally adorned the shirt of his dress clothes. He turned and tugged furiously at the bell pull. Parkman appeared at his summons.

  “Are you ready for your bath, sir?”

  He could still taste the bile in his mouth. That vindictive old woman… “No. Pack my things. I’m going to the Astor House.”

  “The Astor House?” The disapproval was strong in Parkman’s voice. “The Astor House is scarcely a suitable accommodation…”

  “It’s all I can afford.” He thrust the diamond studs at Parkman. “Do you know a good pawn shop?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then see what you can get for these.” A thousand or so, if he was lucky. Out of which he’d have to pay a hundred and fifty for their passage to France. “Oh. And one more thing, Parkman. I want you to get a message to the telegraph office.” He sat at his desk and scribbled out a note to Marcy.

  Arriving by night train North Creek, 6:30 a.m. Saturday, with passage to France and wedding ring. Meet me. Bring a preacher. We’re getting married.

  Chapter Six

  The buzzing fly droned in a lazy circle over Willough’s head, landed briefly on the glass shade of the kerosene lamp, then flew out of the open window behind Brian Bradford’s shoulder. Willough sighed. She was sorry to see it go. Its droning had been a distraction from the droning of Mr. Rutherford, who seemed willing to talk about the fine points of banking all afternoon.

  She sighed again and fanned her face with the Chinese fan. It was no use. Nothing seemed to help against the stifling August day. She could feel the bones of her stays digging into her rib cage, and the rivulets of perspiration that ran down from her knees under their layers of stockings and petticoats and skirts. She had put on a pale blue piqué walking suit with a short-sleeved Swiss muslin waist beneath, and a ruffled V-shaped neckline; if they hadn’t had guests at the luncheon table, she would certainly have removed her basque jacket.

  They’d been here in Saratoga for three days now, she and Daddy and Nat, and their company. In all that time, Daddy had avoided talking business, allowing Mr. Rutherford to bore them with his interminable monologue, and flattering Mr. Seneca at every opportunity. Daddy must want a large loan from their bank, she thought.

  She permitted herself to relax her proper carriage, leaning back into the cushions of her chair. Grandma Carruth would have been scandalized had she been alive, but Willough was too hot and uncomfortable to care. She stared up at the beamed ceiling and frowned, seeing a string of cobwebs that traced a pattern in one corner. She didn’t know why her father didn’t get more help in his house.

  Her father’s house. Her mother had never set foot in it all these years. And never would. Yet her mother always referred to the town house on Gramercy Park as the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Brian Bradford. It was never called simply her mother’s house, though of course it was. In the city, at least, the fiction was maintained for the world at large. The servants were instructed to say that Mr. Bradford was merely out of town on business, seeing to his holdings in the Adirondack Mountains. And there were long letters exchanged between her parents, detailing the running of the household, her mother’s constant pleas for more money for some extravagance or other. And every few months Brian would come for dinner or a social occasion. When the Astors or Belmonts or Goelets gave a ball, of course Brian Bradford would escort his wife, bending attentively to Isobel all evening. If the cream of New York society gossiped at all about the Bradfords, it was to envy them for a devotion that seemed to survive separations that would have put a strain on any other marriage.

  Willough glanced around the room. Mother would hate this house. It was certainly grander than the boardinghouse at MacCurdyville, but a far cry from the elegance of the town house in the city It was a country lodge, with its large stone fireplace soaring the twenty feet or so to the beamed ceiling of the parlor in which they sat. The room itself was two stories high, dominated by the fireplace and the sweeping staircase that led to a balustraded balcony overlooking the parlor. The bedrooms led onto the balcony. Beneath the balcony, on the main floor, were the dining room, the kitchen, and a small wing that housed a local couple—the only servants. Brian had had the place furnished in a simple but elegant country style: handsome chintzes cushioning the comfortable, well-padded chairs and sofa, frosted-glass kerosene lamps in brass sconces, a brightly patterned Oriental rug. A wall lined with books, and a bearskin hung on the stone fireplace. It was a cozy house; Willough had always felt more at ease here than in Gramercy Park.

  She stirred in her chair. She was becoming less and less comfortable as the afternoon wore on. Surely Daddy would be growing drowsy from the large luncheon they had eaten, and would dismiss them all to take his nap. She looked up. Nat was watching her, his piercing eyes half shaded by his shaggy blond brows. She was feeling too restless to care about her manners. Brazenly, she stared back at him. What was it about him that always made her so conscious of his masculinity? His clothes were ill-fitting, but she suspected that, even in fine tailoring, he would look as though his hard-muscled torso were about to burst the constraining seams of his coat. Perhaps it was the way he sat and moved, never quite relaxed, like a poised tiger about to spring. Or the square set of his jaw, the determined line of his mouth. Still, it was a nice mouth…

  She started. Merciful heaven! She’d been gazing at his mouth like a brazen hussy! She felt her cheeks redden; when she stole a glance at his eyes, she read amusement in their amber depths.

  “Yes, I quite agree!” Brian’s booming voice cut through her thoughts, halting Rutherford in midsentence. He made a face, rubbed at his stomach. “I don’t know why I can’t find a cure for this dyspepsia!”

  “Perhaps you should see a doctor, Daddy.”

  “Nonsense, Willough! What do they know? When I want to cut an open-pit mine into a mountain, I don’t ask a book-trained engineer! What the devil can a doctor tell me?”

  “
Quite so, Brian.” Rutherford smiled benignly.

  “A good nap. That’s what I need.” He wagged a finger at Rutherford. “But I want to talk to you at dinner tonight. I’ve got a new piece of land over near New Russia. It seems a shame, with all the charcoal I can get from that lumber…it seems a shame to send my pigs to some other man’s finery to be turned into bars or cast iron, or even steel. Brian, my lad, I said to myself, why can’t you open your own finery?” He laughed expansively. “And the answer that came back was…money!” He laughed again. “Well, we can talk about it at dinner.”

  Willough bit her lip. “I didn’t know you were considering that, Daddy,” she said quietly. “Perhaps we can discuss it later this afternoon. I’d surely like to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

  Brian smiled indulgently. “Would you now, lass? I don’t know why you bother your pretty head about these things. I’ll discuss it with Nat. He can give you the details.”

  “But, Daddy…”

  Brian stood up and scowled. “Not now, Willough! If you really want to be useful, you’ll have Martha send up a glass of mineral water to my room.” He turned to the bankers. “You might enjoy a stroll into town while I’m napping.”

  Mr. Seneca nodded. “Excellent suggestion, Brian. Is there a lady’s shop in Saratoga? I promised my wife a lace cap this trip.”

  “Yes. Right near the American Hotel on the Broadway. I just took Willough in, day before yesterday. Spent a fortune! But a daughter’s worth it. I keep telling her I don’t want her to dress like an old maid! Find yourself a husband, lass, I tell her. That’s the way to go! Forget about this nonsense with the business.” He laughed and started up the staircase. “Unless you intend to be one of those emancipated females in bloomers!”

  Willough felt the blood drain from her face. She kept her mouth frozen in a tight smile as Brian disappeared into his bedroom. She nodded mechanically at Rutherford and Seneca, who picked up their hats and walking sticks and departed for the town. She wanted to die. She sat quietly in her chair, wishing that Nat would go away and leave her to her private agonies. She didn’t know how long she could keep from crying.

  Nat crossed to the cold fireplace and tapped at the andiron with the tip of his shoe. “Don’t you ever let go, Willough?”

  She gulped, looked up at him. “What?”

  He smiled gently. “Scream, throw things, have a tantrum.”

  She was going to cry. She jumped up from her chair and went to stand at the window, staring sightlessly at the heat-soaked lawn. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nat,” she said stiffly.

  “Oh, I know it’s not genteel. I wasn’t raised with your fine manners. But a good holler sometimes makes you feel a hell of a lot better!” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Do you want to cry on my shoulder?”

  She turned around to look at him. He was smiling in understanding. She hadn’t known this man long, but she knew he wouldn’t have shamed her the way Daddy had. She took a calming breath and returned his smile, feeling warmed by his kindness. “What do you do, Nat, when you feel…oh, pent up?” A small laugh. “No. I’ll answer that. I’ve seen it often enough. You pace the floor.” She laughed again as he looked abashed. “We’ve worked so closely these last two months. It’s hard to have many secrets.”

  He grinned. She liked his dimple. “But sometimes even the pacing isn’t enough,” he said. “I miss the work at the furnaces. For God’s sake, don’t tell your father, but sometimes I go out behind Mrs. Walker’s at MacCurdyville…long about dawn…and help her boy chop wood. Matter of fact, I offered to help Robert repair a wagon wheel today—he can’t get a man from town to work in this hot weather. I figure I’ll work up a good sweat, then go for a swim in the lake.”

  She sighed, still feeling bitterness toward Daddy. “I envy you. Perhaps I should have learned to chop wood.”

  “A brisk walk might do you as much good. Tell you what—I’ll beg off with Robert. You go fetch your bonnet and parasol.” He laughed. “If the walk isn’t vigorous enough, I’ll teach you to climb trees.”

  “I’d like that.” She stopped. “Oh! No, I can’t. Arthur Gray’s in town to take the waters. He sent his card around and invited me to stroll with him this afternoon.”

  His face went hard. “The oily Mr. Gray?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you dare take that tone, Nat. Don’t you dare. Arthur’s a friend. I intend to invite him to come to supper on Monday night. You’d better not forget your manners!” She glared at his cold eyes. “And…and I intend to go strolling with him today!”

  He bowed mockingly. “Have a good walk. And guard your virtue.”

  “Oh!” She picked up a paperweight from the table and hurled it at him. It missed him and left a dent in the dark pine paneling.

  “Good!” he said, turning toward the door. “Now, if you could manage to do that when your father makes you angry, you might finally grow up!”

  “Dammit, can I have a little quiet in this house?” Brian’s voice bellowed from behind his closed bedroom door.

  Willough glared up toward the balcony, bit her lip in anger…but said nothing.

  “Just so,” said Nat softly. As he walked out toward the stable, she went to her bedroom to get ready for her stroll with Arthur. He arrived promptly, and they stepped out from the relative coolness of the house into oppressive heat. Taking her arm, he guided her along a path under the trees.

  Willough smiled and dabbed at the dampness along her upper lip. “Tell me, Arthur, is the Congress Hall Hotel as fine as they say? I’ve been in the reception room for musicales, of course, but how are the rooms?”

  Arthur Gray pulled off his straw skimmer and fanned at his face. “What a scorcher!” He glanced down at the flower in his lapel, already beginning to wilt. He unpinned it and threw it away, replacing the small, straight pin on the inside of his lapel. “The rooms are nicely appointed. Bells and gas and water in every room. Primitive, of course, by New York standards, but quite satisfactory for this neck of the woods. And the mineral baths can be refreshing.” He replaced his hat and tucked his hand under Willough’s elbow. “Let’s try this path. It looks shady and much cooler than the one we’ve just come from.”

  She nodded and closed her parasol. “You haven’t given me an answer yet. Will you come for dinner on Monday?”

  “You make it very difficult to refuse. But my house on Fifth Avenue is finished. I’m deep in the preparations for my party. Did you get my invitation?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t really want to send it.” Playfully, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the soft flesh. “I wanted to urge you to come in person. Will you?”

  She giggled. “Will you come to dinner on Monday?”

  “I can’t refuse you. I’ll change my plans and go back to the city on Tuesday morning.” He bent and plucked a daisy from the side of the path. “A flower for the pretty lady. May I pin it on?”

  She hesitated. Her heart-shaped neckline came to a deep V in front; Arthur would have to put the tips of his fingers into the bodice of her dress to fasten the flower securely. Don’t be a fool, Willough! she thought. This is Arthur! Had he ever been anything but proper and polite? Once she had thought of him as Uncle Arthur; now he seemed a warm and friendly big brother. “Of course,” she said.

  He slipped his hand into the neckline of her dress and pinned on the flower; he was distant, deferential, quick. She didn’t feel a moment’s uneasiness. “It looks charming on you,” he said, and withdrew his hand. “Isn’t there a cooler place around here?”

  “There’s a lodge near the lake.”

  “Doesn’t your groundskeeper live there, above the boathouse?”

  “Not anymore. He married a widow with three children last summer, and moved in with her. Daddy turned the upstairs into a sitting room for me. It’s very pleasant with the breezes coming off the lake. I often go there to read. Come on.” She smiled. “Sometimes Martha thinks to put a pitcher of lemonade on the table.”

&nbs
p; The lodge was a two-storied boathouse set among the trees on the edge of Saratoga Lake. The lower floor was given over to the gear and tackle of the several boats that Brian Bradford owned, boats which now bobbed in the water next to Brian’s private dock. The room above was airy, with windows on all sides and fresh-looking, white wicker furniture. On one of the tables was a stone crock covered with a damp square of cloth. Arthur lifted a corner of the cloth and sniffed. “It’s lemonade, or I miss my guess.” He looked about the room. “Are there glasses?”

  Willough pointed to a small cupboard. “There.” She took off her English straw hat and put it on the settee with her folded parasol, next to Arthur’s hat.

  Arthur opened the cupboard and took down two glasses. He laughed softly at the sight of a small decanter filled with a deep red liquor. “I didn’t think you were a secret drinker,” he teased.

  She felt herself blushing. “Oh, Arthur, that’s just for when Daddy comes down here occasionally. He finds lemonade a bit tame for his taste.”

  “To be sure. Lemonade is a child’s drink.”

  It almost seemed like a challenge. “I do drink claret lemonade. I’m old enough!”

  “My dear, you’re old enough to do whatever you want to do.”

  It was a challenge. It was really too hot a day to drink wine, but she could scarcely back down now. “Then why don’t you put a bit of that wine into our glasses before I pour the lemonade?”

  Arthur smiled and brought the decanter to the table, placing it next to the crock. He poured carefully; the finished concoction was a lovely shade of pink. They sat facing each other across the table, sipping slowly, while Arthur told her a funny little story about the last time he had been in New York.

  What an agreeable man, she thought, admiring his refinement, his courtliness. She regretted all the years she had avoided his company. Guard your virtue, Nat had said. How absurd! She had never felt safer with any man. And Nat, of all people, warning her… Nat, with those eyes that seemed to strip the clothes from her body…