Swan's Grace

by Linda Francis Lee

  His shoulders tensed. He felt restless, disturbed. And it was all because of Sophie. But he was long past the thought of setting the betrothal aside. Because he couldn’t.

  He could tell himself that she was a challenge; he could tell himself that they shared a past and their families knew each other. But the truth was that she filled him, filled the gaping loneliness that had never eased.

  Up until now, he had moved through life with a minimum of disturbance, gliding through the events of each day with mastered cool control. In hindsight, he could hardly believe he had rolled around in the snow in a public place, much less with the woman he was to marry. And the fact of the matter was that his bride-to-be had rolled around with him, her fingers curling into his lapels, pulling him close. His body responded to the memory.

  This time his curse was audible.

  “What?” Bradford demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  His father muttered. “The last thing I need is yet another ill-mannered son. That was the one thing you always had going for you, you were respectful.”

  Grayson’s jaw went tight.

  “The fact of the matter is,” Bradford continued, “with Matthew gone, the future of the Hawthorne name is left up to you. Which brings me back to the original question. Have you set a date for the wedding?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bradford’s gray eyebrows peaked first, then he exploded. “Damn you! What is taking so long? Word has gotten out, no doubt from that blasted Patrice, that there will be a marriage. Before long, all of Boston will know you are supposed to marry Sophie. Beyond which, her father is my oldest friend and an important man in society. Everyone is expecting an announcement.”

  “After that messy debacle with Matthew,” he continued, “not to mention the continual disgrace of Lucas, if this marriage isn’t announced soon, everyone will assume Conrad backed out. And who could blame him?” He shook his head bitterly, then looked at Grayson, his gaze scathing. “Do your duty. Get this wedding over and done with. I won’t stand for another scandal tainting the Hawthorne name. And a broken betrothal will give people just what they need to start talking. Again.”

  Bitter, futile anger swept through Grayson. “I will let you know when a date is set,” he stated coolly.

  Bradford stared at his son, then grumbled. Muttering, he glanced toward the door. “Luncheon should be ready.”

  If his mother hadn’t promised to join them, Grayson would have left. But he saw so little of her. As a result, Grayson and his father strode into the dining room. But Emmaline was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Mother?” Grayson asked as a footman handed him a large hand-painted china plate from the sideboard, which was covered with an assortment of luncheon fare.

  Bradford served himself a heaping portion of mashed potatoes, roast, and gravy, then sat down and took a sip of mint tea from a tall crystal goblet. “She’ll be here.” He shot him a hard glance. “She wouldn’t miss lunch with her precious eldest son.”

  Just then Emmaline walked into the dining room in a cloud of gossamer silk, her soft gray-white hair pulled up with pearls. Bradford hadn’t waited before beginning his meal, and barely acknowledged his wife when she entered.

  Grayson kissed her cheek and noticed instantly that something was different about her.

  “Hello, dear,” she chimed, her voice more like a schoolgirl’s than that of the graceful matron he had known his whole life.

  He studied her, wondering at the difference. For a brief moment he thought of the day he had been certain he had seen her in a hansom cab. But he disregarded the thought as soon as it entered his mind.

  Bradford continued to eat, obscured behind one of the many newspapers that were delivered to him daily.

  “You look beautiful, Mother,” Grayson said, holding her chair.

  “Oh, why, thank you,” she said with a shy though pleased smile. But she bypassed the chair.

  In a move that amazed Grayson, she walked directly to her husband, then hesitated only a moment before she took a deep breath and rested her delicate hand on the man’s shoulders.

  Bradford snapped his head up, the ironed sheets of newspaper crumpling when he lowered his meaty hands. “What are you doing, Mother?” he demanded.

  Emmaline flinched, but she persevered. “It looks to be a dreary day. Winter can be so long in Boston.”

  Craning his substantial neck, Bradford peered up at her. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, no, husband,” Emmaline said with a nervous trill of laughter. “I was simply thinking that on a day such as this… perhaps we could have a picnic.” Her features softened and she met his eyes. “In the sunroom. Like we used to.”

  “Like we used to? Good God, woman. When in blazes have we ever gone on a picnic?”

  Her fingers tensed on the dark wool fabric covering his shoulders as she glanced furtively at Grayson, red staining her cheeks. “Before we were married, Bradford. Back when you were courting me.”

  Grumbling, he turned back to his paper. “Bah, we were young and full of nonsense.”

  “But I still feel young,” she said, the words seeming like a whisper of thought.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I said I still feel young,” she repeated, her hands falling away, her smile forced.

  “Well, you aren’t, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Bradford stated, “and you’d do well to remember that fact.”

  Grayson felt acutely uncomfortable to have witnessed such a scene.

  Finally, when the interminable meal was over, Bradford headed for his study, Emmaline headed for the stairs, and Grayson headed for the door. But all three were deterred when the front bell rang.

  Seconds later the butler stepped into the dining room.

  “Mrs. Hawthorne,” he announced in imperious tones. “A letter for you.”

  He extended a silver tray with a crisp white envelope on top with handsomely embossed initials in the seal. R. S.

  His mother stared at the crisp white stationery as though it were lethal. But when Grayson started to take the missive for her, she leaped forward and snatched it away.

  She fell back into her chair, fluttering nervously. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  No one else said a word, and Bradford didn’t appear to notice that his wife was suddenly acting strangely. He simply bade Grayson a tight good-day, then headed for the door.

  As soon as his father was gone, his mother abruptly pushed up from her seat.

  “I’m not feeling well. I need to lie down. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Then she strode from the parlor without looking back.

  Emmaline hurried down Charles Street. She was half incensed, half trembling like a butterfly as she thought of the note.

  Em,

  Either you come to me, or I’ll come to you. I’ll be waiting at the Old Corner Book Store.

  Richard

  How dare he?

  Regardless of her outrage, her heart sputtered at the thought of meeting him at the place where they had met before—so many years ago.

  She had seen him several times at the sculpting house. Each time she had been polite, but distant, not allowing him to get close. But she had felt the attraction, the pull, heated and intense, as if she were no more than seventeen.

  This morning, she had sought out her husband, hoping to find some way to fight off the feelings she felt returning for this other man. But Bradford had provided no reprieve.

  Emmaline hailed a cab and sat impatiently as the carriage fought its way through the dense downtown traffic. She remembered the days as a girl when she had managed to sneak away from her lessons and go to the place where Emerson and Longfellow used to meet. The Old Corner Book Store had been a meeting ground for a considerable circle of authors. The place had also filled her with a need to do something more than sip tea and crochet altar cloths for the rest of her life.

  For the first time, she had been exposed to ideas and thoughts so unlike any she had heard from
her governess or other young ladies in the polite drawing rooms of Boston Brahmins, or the schoolrooms of the Boston well-to-do. It was at the bookstore that she had first gotten the idea to sculpt—to shape her vision, not with words as the writers did, but with her hands. To create. She had loved those long days of conversation, loved the sense of self she had found for the first time.

  But that peace and satisfaction was short-lived, as she had been betrothed to Bradford Hawthorne already.

  The two-seater snared in traffic, and they came to a complete halt. Shouts and curses rang out as each carriage and driver jockeyed for the right of way. Impatient, Emmaline grabbed the speaking tube and informed the driver that she was getting out.

  Before he could say no, she hopped down onto the cobbled street, handed him some change from her reticule, then picked her way through the horses and carriages. She didn’t stop until she arrived at the barn-roofed store at the corner of Washington and School streets. With her heart in her throat, she walked in through the door.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they did it appeared that no one was there. She walked further inside, the smell of musty old books filling her with memories of another time. Closing her eyes, she felt the bittersweet memories of the past. How had things turned out so differently?

  “Em?”

  She blinked and saw him. So tall. Still so handsome, his graying hair only adding to his good looks.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  Her spine stiffened and she held her beaded reticule close. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

  Richard chuckled and tilted his head, conceding the point. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

  His frankness took the bite out of her anger, and she nearly smiled. Dear, arrogant Richard. He was still the same.

  When they were young he had stepped into her life and all but demanded her attention. She had been engaged at the time, and she had ignored him for weeks. But he had persevered, coming to Andre’s pottery house, talking to her while she worked, regardless of the fact that she hadn’t responded. He had regaled her with stories of his life. Of his parents, whom he loved dearly. Of his siblings. And as the days mounted, she found she looked forward to his arrivals.

  A month into his pursuit, things changed. His story that day had ceased midstream, then he had said, so simply, so purely, “I fell in love with you the first day I saw you.”

  Just that, on the heels of one of the many elaborate parties celebrating her betrothal, where Bradford had clearly been more interested in the other guests than in her. She had turned to look at Richard that day—and started down a path that had nearly destroyed her life.

  The smells of clay and firing ovens seeped into her mind. And it was a moment before she remembered thirty-two years had passed.

  Richard took her gloved hand, but she pulled it decidedly away.

  “You’re upset with me?” he said, his tone admonishing.

  “Of course I’m upset. You had no right to put me in that kind of position. That note could have fallen into the wrong hands.”

  “You never did like ultimatums.” He ran his finger along her sleeve. “And you always were beautiful when you were angry.”

  “Don’t think you are going to charm your way out of this one. If my husband had read that note, there would be hell to pay.”

  Richard scowled. “Don’t ruin a perfectly lovely day with talk of your husband. I try my best to forget that he exists.”

  “If you think for a second that I’m going to forget that fact, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Tsk, such a waste. But enough about that. I have a surprise for you.”

  “I’m not interested in a surprise.”

  “Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain that you don’t want to see the first-edition Jamesian sonnets I found?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I thought that might pique your interest.”

  She closed her expression. “I am not interested in sonnets.”

  “The volume includes ‘The Raven’s Love Song.’ “

  The title was like a knife to her chest. “Why?” she asked after long seconds had passed. “Why are you doing this to me? I’m no longer a silly young girl with dreams of fancy in her head.”

  His face grew serious. “I am doing this because I have never forgotten you.”

  This time it was Emmaline’s turn to scoff. “Tell some other gullible woman your stories. I’m no longer that naive.”

  “Oh, Em.” He reached for her hand, and when she pulled away, he bowed his head and conceded. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “Sorry!”

  The clerk had appeared from a back room and now sat on a tall stool behind a counter. The young man’s head popped up at her outburst.

  “Sorry?” she said in a hiss.

  Richard took her elbow, and before she could think, he guided her out of the store and onto School Street.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded when he steered her along, hardly noticing the cold.

  “We need to talk, and we can’t with so many people around.”

  “We have nothing to discuss. Furthermore, I have no intention of being alone with you.”

  He stopped and turned to face her, his features suddenly serious. He looked at her for an eternity, just looked, before he dropped his gaze and studied the hand that he held, stroking the gloved surface with his thumb. “I never forgot you. I tried. God, how I tried. You have to believe me.” His thumb ceased its motion and he glanced at her. “I truly am sorry that I hurt you. But I had to go,” he whispered. “I really did. And now that I’ve seen you again, I can’t believe I ever left.”

  Her throat tightened.

  “Just talk to me. I ask nothing else. We’ll go to a cafe, or a park bench, or somewhere out of the way where people you know won’t see you. But please, Emmaline, don’t run away from me again.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy from the sound of kind words washing over her. How long had it been since someone had spoken to her as if they cared? How long had it been since someone sought her out? Her husband wanted no part of her.

  Was this destined to happen, that Richard would return? Would everything have been different if Bradford had been kind to her this morning?

  She didn’t know; she only found herself walking by the man’s side, the straining winter sun wrapping around them, tinting them in a muted gold, making her feel years younger. And she couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement that sprang up inside her.

  It was horrible and wrong. She knew that. And she told herself she would catch a hansom cab at the next block and return home. But block after block she allowed herself to be guided along, Richard’s hand on her elbow, the touch proper, but not.

  He was bold, his fingers on her sleeved arm as intimate as a passionate kiss.

  “Tell me about your life,” he said, steering her around a puddle in the street.

  “There is nothing to tell.”

  “Of course there is. Tell me about your concerns.” He looked down at her. “About your dreams.”

  And oddly she did. They walked for more blocks than she cared to count. With each step they moved farther away from downtown, farther away from the life she had been born to lead.

  “You’ve certainly done your share of charity work, and clearly you love your sons,” he said when her words trailed off. “But what have you done for yourself?”

  The question startled her. She hadn’t thought about doing anything for herself. Not in years, until she returned to her sculpting.

  He must have sensed her confusion. “Tell me, Em, what do you like? What do you want just for you?”

  She couldn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she realized she didn’t know how. She knew what her husband wanted, and her sons. She knew what her friends and the community wanted. She had spent a lifetime seeing to those needs. But in all that time no one had asked what she wanted, what she cared about. For the first time in y
ears she felt pursued and desired, cherished and interesting. She put from her mind what she was doing, slipping away and meeting this man.

  “You want to sculpt again,” he said. “Why else would you have contacted Andre Springfield?” He glanced down at her. “Unless you contacted him because you really had hoped to see me.”

  She shot him a scowl. “I wanted to sculpt.”

  “Then why don’t you go more often?”

  “It is so hard to get away.”

  “You deserve that. You deserve to think about yourself for a change. And if it’s hard to get away, why don’t you have a tutor come into your home? Women of good families do it all the time.”

  A bud of excitement swelled inside her at the thought. Would Bradford allow it?

  “I could come to your house and teach you.”

  She whirled to face him. “Good God, no!”

  Richard chuckled, then feigned an innocent look. “Now, Emmaline, I wouldn’t cause a single problem.”

  “Just as you didn’t cause a single problem this morning by sending me that note.”

  He didn’t even have the good grace to look abashed. He only chuckled more, his wide smile and white teeth flashing in the sunlight.

  “All right, so perhaps it’s not a good idea that I come to your house. But go to Andre’s more often. Forget about me. Do this for yourself, for Emmaline Abbot.”

  “Hawthorne,” she corrected sharply.

  “Ah, but you were once Emmaline Abbot, a beautiful girl who loved as no other.”

  “Emmaline Abbot, the girl you left without so much as a word.”

  “You always were a stickler for details.”

  He propelled her along the walkway, stopping to buy her a hot cocoa and then a brown wrapper filled with candy.

  “Do you remember the time we took the trolley out to Brookline?” he asked.

  “No,” she said too sharply.

  “I think you do.”

  “Well, maybe a little.” A reluctant smile surfaced.

  “You danced around without your slippers, as I recall.”

  She felt the surge of color in her cheeks. “I was a foolish girl.”

  He turned her to face him, surprising her. “You were a beautiful young woman.” His hands slid up her arms, his thumbs brushing her collarbones. “You still are beautiful,” he added, his voice growing gruff. “Very beautiful.” His gaze drifted to her lips.