Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  But how could Drew ever forgive her? What was it he’d said? He’d given up painting! Oh, God! How could he? It meant so much to him. And he’d sold his soul, he said. What did that mean? He’d mentioned once, a long time ago, that his father had wanted him to take over the business someday. Could that have been what he meant? The condition that he’d decided to accept? So that he could have money for Marcy?

  She began to cry. Money for her. And she hadn’t ever really wanted it. She’d only wanted to be able to help him, to love him. She hadn’t wanted money.

  Or had she? She had been a “countess” last night, enjoying Arthur’s attentions, enjoying the rich surroundings, the servants, the food and wine. A part of her must have wanted Arthur to make love to her. He wouldn’t have tried otherwise.

  You’re wicked, Marcy, she thought. No wonder Drew must hate you now.

  She staggered out of bed, clutching at the chair to keep from falling. She dressed hastily, still trembling. She’d never felt so weak in her life. She stared at herself in the mirror. What am I doing here? she thought. With these people? In this life where I don’t belong? Once she’d thought herself safe, away from the mountains that had killed her parents. She must have been mad. There was no safety here.

  She hurried out of Brian’s room. Keller was in the kitchen galley. “Good morning, Mrs. Bradford. Do you wish some breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He reached over to a shelf, handed her a sealed envelope. “This came early this morning. By messenger. I didn’t want to disturb you. The messenger didn’t think an answer was wanted.”

  She stared at the envelope. Her name, Mrs. Drewry Bradford, was written on the outside. In Drew’s neat hand. She tore open the envelope. A stack of greenbacks tumbled out. Fighting back her tears, she stumbled to a chair and sat down, her hand pressed tightly against her lips to keep from crying out in pain.

  Keller was alarmed. “Mrs. Bradford! Are you sure I can’t give you something?”

  She took a deep breath. “No.”

  “I can call you a cab to take you to the Bradford house.”

  “No.” She knelt in the galley and gathered up the money, replacing all but twenty-five dollars, which she put into her handbag. She handed the envelope to Keller. “Please see that Mr. Drewry gets this. And if you will, you can direct me to the ticket office of the Grand Central Terminal. Will I need a cab for that?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s just the other side of the platform and down the track. I’ll take you there. Shall I bring your valise, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please, Keller.”

  “Do you want to catch a train, Mrs. Bradford?”

  “Yes. To the North Woods.” I’m going back where I belong, she thought. Long Lake. Her mountains. Her sweet Wilderness.

  “I’m going home.”

  The train whistle shrilled, sending a puff of steam into the afternoon drizzle. Drew pulled up his collar against the cold rain and dashed into the waiting carriage. The whistle sounded again. Like a shriek of pain. Drew had an irrational urge to open his mouth and echo that mournful sound, wailing his grief to the impersonal sky.

  No! He couldn’t afford to give way to despair, couldn’t allow himself to feel anything yet. There would be time to mourn Marcy, time to allow his numbed heart to acknowledge its pain. But first he had to deal with his father.

  His father. He’d briefly contemplated writing a letter. A coward’s way. As difficult and as painful as this meeting would be, he knew it had to be face-to-face. He had no illusions that Brian would understand, but he had to try. For his own peace of mind.

  And there was something else. Perhaps it was losing Marcy that had done it. The thought of the lonely years without her. He felt pity for his father, an unexpected surge of feeling that made him regret the distance between them. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If his father could swallow his disappointment, find forgiveness in his heart…

  Martha met him at the door of his father’s house and ushered him into the parlor. A cheery fire burned in the stone fireplace, dispelling the afternoon chill. “Would you care for something to eat, Mr. Drewry? A sandwich? Or some hot tea?”

  “Thank you, no. I ate on the train.”

  Martha frowned. “You have no luggage. Won’t you be staying over?”

  “I’m not sure. I…left my traps at the depot. If I decide to stay…”

  “I’ll have Robert fetch them in that case. Don’t you fret. Now I’ll just tell your father you’re here, and then I’ll set another place for you in the dining room.”

  Drew nodded as she left the room, then stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. He wasn’t sure Father would want him to stay for supper. Not after he heard what Drew had to say.

  “By God, boy, it’s a pleasure to see you!” Brian Bradford strode into the room, hand outstretched.

  “Sir.” Drew answered the handshake with his own strong grip. The two men didn’t meet eye to eye: What Drew lacked in brawn over the more muscular Brian, he made up in inches, towering over his father. He sighed now, remembering. Brian had somehow viewed the height of his growing son as a kind of challenge. He wondered if they could ever be friends. Especially now.

  “Where’s that wife of yours? I thought I’d get to meet her.”

  “She’s…gone.”

  “For good?”

  “I expect so.”

  Brian frowned. “She didn’t walk out on you, did she? Walk out on a Bradford?”

  The pain was still too fresh. Drew turned away and stared out the window. Had it only been last night? Marcy…and Arthur? “Let’s just say it was mutual,” he growled.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Brian sounded genuinely sympathetic. “There’s no chance for a reconciliation, I suppose.” He sighed. “Well, as long as it doesn’t affect our arrangements… You can take a few days off, pull yourself together. Then we can get down to work.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  Drew turned and gazed steadily at his father. “I’m sorry, Father. That’s why I’m here. I can’t work for you. I’m not suited. Never was. I’m a painter. I found that out in Paris. I may not be a good painter, but I’m a painter.”

  “But your message from Paris…coming into the business…” Brian’s face was beginning to turn red. “Dammit, boy, what was that supposed to mean? Was it a goddam lie?”

  “No. I meant it. But I was doing it for…Marcy”—he almost choked on her name—“not because I thought it was right for me.”

  “And now you intend to go back on your word? Like a damned turncoat?”

  “That’s a little harsh, Father,” he muttered. “But…yes. I think it’s best. For your sake as well as mine. My heart wouldn’t be in it. You could give me the knowledge of the business, but I never could acquire your passion for it. I think that would distress you sooner or later. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? And what about the money I sent to you? On false pretenses!”

  “I’ll pay you back. As soon as I can.”

  Brian sneered. “Can I trust you? Any more than I trusted your lies from Paris?”

  Drew bit back the angry retort. “Send a lawyer around with a promissory note. I’ll sign it,” he said evenly.

  “I’ll send Arthur.”

  Drew exhaled through his clenched teeth. “If you send that son of a bitch, I’ll kill him.”

  Brian looked surprised. “What has Arthur ever done to you?”

  “That’s between Arthur and me.”

  Brian shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “So you’ll pay me back.” His voice was sharp with bitterness. “But what about the son I thought I had?”

  Drew flinched. That hurt. More than he thought it would, after all these years. “You still have him. Try to understand, Father. Painting is important to me. It’s my life. I can no more give it up than give up breathing. I know that now.”

  Brian glared at him. “My �
�artist son.’” His lip curled in scorn. “Malice, that’s all it is. You’ve always resented me.”

  “It has nothing to do with you! If I could be the son you wanted—and still live with myself—I would!”

  “Malice! I wanted a son who was a man, not a weakling who spent his days dabbling with paint!”

  “Don’t, Father.” Drew’s hands were fists at his sides.

  “Have you learned to hold your liquor like a man?”

  There was no point in staying. He’d only say things he’d regret later. And he was feeling too vulnerable. He’d lost Marcy. Perhaps it had been too much to hope that he and his father could make a new beginning, but he’d wanted it. God, how he’d wanted it! “I’ll be going now,” he said quietly.

  “No!” Brian poured himself another glass of whiskey, then filled a second tumbler nearly to the brim and held it out to Drew. “Here!”

  “Please, Father…”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Are you afraid, my artist son?”

  Drew swore under his breath and strode to his father, snatching the glass from his hand. “To your health, sir,” he hissed, and raised the glass to his lips. He downed it in one long gulp and slammed the empty tumbler onto the sideboard. “I’m used to absinthe! Now, may I go?”

  Brian’s angry glance wavered; then he recovered himself. “Damn you, boy. Malice. Nothing but malice. You never wanted to come into the business because you’re afraid you’re not as good as I am!” He poked a belligerent finger into Drew’s chest. “Admit it.” Another poke. “Admit it!”

  Drew was beginning to lose his self-control. All the hours of torment he’d suffered since he’d found Marcy and Arthur together were beginning to take their toll. He backed away from his father. “If you say so. Now let me go, for God’s sake!” His voice was almost pleading.

  “Malice!” roared Brian, and swung at his son. This time Drew deflected the blow, grabbing at his father’s arm. They wrestled silently for a moment, muscles tensed, hands clenched to hands. Then Brian grunted, his grip broken by Drew’s young strength. He glared at Drew, all his frustration, all his anger in that one glance.

  Drew felt as though he would cry. He thought, I need your friendship, Father! Not your hatred. Not now. With a groan, he clasped his father to his chest, wrapping his arms around the older man.

  Brian wrenched himself free. “Get out.”

  Drew took a deep breath. His father was unforgiving—it was too late for there to be anything between them. “I’ll pay back what I owe you,” he said tiredly. “Every penny.”

  “I’ll expect it.”

  He had to try one more time. “Father…” he said, and held out his hand.

  Deliberately Brian turned his back on his son. “Get out,” he said. “I never want to see you again.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Brigid, see that the girls take down the mirrors in the drawing room. I noticed they were covered with fly specks.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gray. Will you be wearing your mauve velvet gown tonight?”

  Willough nodded, pulling on her chamois gloves. “I expect so. I’ll need my lavender corset to go with it. And see that the dust covers from the ballroom chairs are removed with a minimum of shaking. I don’t want the house filled with dust during the party tonight.”

  Brigid smiled. “And it wouldn’t be healthful for the little one, ma’am, and that’s a fact.”

  “Of course.” Willough felt a pang of guilt. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Cecily was her baby, sweet, helpless, and innocent. Why did she find it so hard to care?

  I know why, she thought. Because Cecily was Arthur’s child as well. All the months she’d carried her, she’d never forgotten that. And never forgotten the horror of Arthur invading her body on their wedding night, and so many nights afterward, to plant his conquering seed.

  Perhaps if she’d been able to nurse Cecily longer… That first week, holding the infant to her breast, she’d felt an unfamiliar stirring of feeling, a rush of love for the tiny babe. But then the fever had followed, drying up her milk, racking her body with aches and pains and hot, swirling nightmares. When she recovered, she found that Arthur had already hired a wet nurse, arranged for the christening, settled on the name—for his daughter. As though Willough didn’t matter. Her blossoming maternal instinct had dried up as surely as had her breasts.

  She stepped out into the September sunshine and breathed deeply. What a glorious morning! Crisp and sunny with a clear blue sky. It was so good to be out-of-doors again. She’d felt like a prisoner all those weeks, lying in her bed. But she’d had a difficult delivery, and then the fever. And Dr. Page, who had encouraged her activity up until her confinement, was suddenly a tyrant, ordering her to stay in bed or within the boundaries of her own home until she was fully recovered. And then the weeks of rain that followed had kept her homebound. She’d been well enough to plan tonight’s party, their first formal entertaining since Cecily had been born. But this morning, seeing the rain clouds gone at last, she had determined to spend the day outdoors, enjoying her freedom. Arthur wasn’t expected until evening—business in Albany again. She wouldn’t have to listen to him make a fuss over whether it was “proper” for her to be seen abroad so soon after her confinement. So soon! It had been nearly two months, but Arthur was forever concerned with the proprieties.

  Dear Arthur, she thought with contempt. With his peculiar sense of what was right and wrong. Well, perhaps she shouldn’t complain. They’d had a long talk the other night. Now that Willough had presented him with a child, he’d said, he was no longer interested in coming to her bed. Not for the time being, at least. When he thought the time was ripe for another child, he would resume his conjugal visits. But she was passionless, he said, and he found her tiresome. As long as they kept up appearances, he’d seek his diversions elsewhere.

  She didn’t know whether to be glad she was free of her burden or angry at his moral principles that didn’t mind flaunting his mistresses. He’d even begun to spend time with Isobel again, though without the same warmth they had shared in the past. But at least they were now talking to each other. And when Isobel visited her grandchild Cecily, she always managed to exchange a few pleasant words with Arthur. Strange. It seemed to Willough that the reconciliation had occurred around the time that Drew had come home.

  Drew. Frowning, Willough climbed into her coach and opened her parasol. If only her pregnancy and confinement hadn’t kept her so isolated from what was happening. She’d never been able to find out what had gone wrong with his life and his marriage. Isobel was vague, Arthur was silent. And Drew himself had refused to come to the house except on the day of Cecily’s christening. He’d spoken briefly to Willough; wouldn’t shake Arthur’s hand; left quickly.

  His wife was gone. Isobel seemed to think she’d returned to her people. “Back where she belongs, the fortune hunter!” as Isobel put it. Willough was rather sorry. She’d been looking forward to meeting Drew’s Marcy; his letters from Paris had radiated love for his young bride.

  He’d moved back into his old suite in Isobel’s house and rented a room on Eleventh Street, where he could paint all day. Isobel said he was happy. Willough wasn’t sure of that. She hadn’t really talked to Drew. But it was clear Isobel was happy. Her Drew was back under her roof. Back in her clutches, thought Willough bitterly.

  “Did you just want to drive down the avenue, ma’am? Or are you paying a call this morning?”

  Shaken out of her reverie, Willough stared at the coachman. “I’d like to go to East Eleventh Street, Jamison. Number one hundred and four.” It was past time to talk to Drew.

  “Very good, ma’am.” The coach headed down Fifth Avenue.

  “No. Wait. Take me down to New Church Street.” It was a little out of her way, so far downtown, but she had all day. And her curiosity was piqued. Since the day that Brigid’s brother Kevin had recognized Arthur’s caller as a member of a notorious stree
t gang of former years (and Willough’s suspicions that Arthur himself was the former Artie Flanagan had been aroused), Willough had taken careful notice of Arthur’s business transactions, his visitors, the amounts of money he gave over to her, the amounts he asked for in return in personal checks. And Zephyr Realty, of which company she had discovered herself a partner. Confined to her house, she hadn’t been able to track down the other partners or find any information on its affairs. But Arthur had handed her another paper to sign only the other day. She’d managed to peruse it quickly without arousing his suspicion. Zephyr Realty was selling a large piece of property on New Church Street, and for a considerable amount of money. She supposed that at some point Zephyr had bought the land, and cursed herself for not taking notice the very first time Arthur had brought documents for her signature.

  She frowned as the carriage turned off Rector Street onto New Church. A street of tenements and rookeries, dilapidated old buildings with strings of wash hanging across courtyards where ragged children played and shouted. The cluttered sidewalks were broken, several of the gaslights were shattered, and here and there a sagging tenement wall was propped up by beams. She shook her head as they made their way down the street. She hadn’t seen worse slums in the city of London! Yet Zephyr Realty had reaped a handsome sum from this land.

  At one end of the street some laborers were at work, demolishing a three-story frame building. She had Jamison stop the carriage and escort her across the street. Picking her way carefully through the rubble, she accosted one of the men.

  “If you please, my good man. What’s going on here?”

  “Ain’t you got eyes, lady? We’re tearing down this old rubbish heap.”

  “Yes. I can see that. But why? Will you build another? Perhaps something decent where a body can live?”

  He snorted. “In this neck of the woods? It’d be a waste of time and money.”

  “Then the land must be quite worthless.”