by Jill Morrow
Jim ignored the murderous scowl Amy threw from his right; it only confirmed the fact that she was still steamed by the bargain they’d struck in the car. “You must be very pleased,” he said. “It’s not often a second marriage gets full endorsement from the first wife.”
Bennett continued undeterred. “Very true, young man, and I can’t tell you what a blessing it is.”
“And my father’s will, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas’s words floated like toxic fumes from the foot of the table. “I suppose it’s ready for immediate execution following the ceremony?”
“Yes,” Adrian said. “Mr. Reid and I have done our parts to ensure that the events of tomorrow evening flow smoothly.”
Nicholas shook his head. “You amaze me, sir.”
“Thank you, but it’s nothing astounding. I’m merely an attorney following the directions of my client. Bennett, I believe everything is in order, but since Mr. Reid and I are here, perhaps you’d care to review the document after dinner this evening?”
Bennett had lifted the silver dinner bell and sat poised to ring. “Oh, I’m sure the will is as meticulously drafted as is your usual custom, but I’ll take a look later if you think it might speed matters along tomorrow.”
“The will is incomplete,” Amy said, so low that Jim was surprised anyone else heard.
“It’s Mother who says that, isn’t it?” Chloe clapped her hands. “She’s come back!”
Bennett set the dinner bell down onto its clawed feet without ringing it. “I don’t think she ever left,” he said. “Elizabeth, my sweet! How lovely that you’ve joined the conversation. What’s wrong with the will? I gave Mr. de la Noye very complete instructions based on your wishes.”
“Mother dictated the will, too?” Nicholas asked. “Is there anything she can’t do now that she’s crossed over?”
Amy’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the table.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jim murmured beneath Chloe’s loud reprimand of her brother. “You only promised us tomorrow.”
A fine sweat beaded her forehead. “I’ve been trying to ignore her, but she insists on being heard. Jim—I know things aren’t right between us, but you’ll look after me, won’t you?”
“Of course. I gave you my word.”
“Elizabeth,” Bennett repeated, “what more does the will need?”
Jim followed the older man’s gaze to a spot beside the fireplace. The teardrop crystal prisms dangling from a candlestick on the mantel swayed softly, as if teased by a summer breeze.
“Mrs. Chapman says that it will take very little to perfect the will,” Amy said. “She says that Mr. de la Noye has done a thorough job with the facts you gave him, but that you did not have all the necessary information. Now you do. As written, the will directs that the bulk of your estate pass to your wife—Catharine Walsh Chapman—upon your death.”
Jim checked: Amy had grown very pale but seemed collected.
“What more do you suggest we add?” Adrian asked.
“Issue,” Amy said. “Catharine Walsh’s issue.”
“Ah.” Adrian leaned back in his chair. “Children.”
“Child,” Amy corrected. “Mrs. Chapman wants to make it clear that all of Catharine Walsh’s inheritance should pass to her child . . . to me. She wants no interference with that.”
Nicholas’s accusing stare landed on Catharine. “How surprising that this matter should arise,” he said.
Catharine locked her own stare to his. “Kindly keep your vile insinuations to yourself.”
“And how interesting that the point is brought up by the beneficiary herself.” Nicholas’s voice cut like a thin, sharp wire.
Adrian silenced him with an open palm. “Surely Mrs. Chapman knows that whatever Catharine inherits will become hers to do with as she pleases. The will can do very little about that. A trust, perhaps . . .”
The crystal prisms on the fireplace mantel swung back and forth as if trembling. “Write it as I say!” Amy commanded.
Jim snapped to attention, startled by her vehemence. Amy blinked hard, then relaxed in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not sure what just happened. But Mrs. Chapman is adamant that there be no misunderstanding.”
“Of course.” Bennett nodded, puzzled. “Whatever you think best, Elizabeth.”
“I’ll take care of the matter immediately after dinner,” Adrian said. “Is that all Mrs. Chapman wants to tell us?”
Amy cocked her head for a moment, listening. Her shoulders relaxed as she breathed a relieved sigh. “That seems to close the matter of the will,” she said.
“Then perhaps Mother could simply stay and chat,” Chloe suggested hopefully.
“No.” Amy lifted the napkin from her lap to blot her forehead. “I’m tired. I just want to eat my dinner and go up to my room.”
“And that’s it?” Nicholas asked. “You turn ‘Elizabeth Chapman’ on and off like a faucet, and we’re to accept your edicts simply because you say they come from her? How foolish do you think we are, Miss Walsh? Or have you been so manipulated by your mother that you no longer recognize when your voice spouts her lies?”
Catharine shot from her chair, fists clenched. Adrian curled a warning hand around her wrist as she took a blind step in Nicholas’s direction.
The candlestick on the mantel began to vibrate, knocking the crystal teardrops together in a cacophony of chimes. Amy rose majestically to her feet, head held high. She swiveled to face Nicholas, left hand slammed to her waist, right arm stretched straight before her, index finger extended toward his nose.
“You are indeed foolish beyond measure, my son,” she said in a low-pitched voice. “You are to accept these words because I, Elizabeth Chapman, have indeed delivered them.”
“Mother!” Chloe cried.
Jim stared into Amy’s face. A pair of glittering, vacant eyes met his. He scrambled to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor.
Catharine Walsh rounded Amy’s other side, landing a shaky hand on her shoulder. “Amy! Amy, stop this now!”
Amy’s hand shoved Catharine away. “Please, Miss Walsh. I am very fond of you, despite your stubborn pride. ‘O what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ But I will not be manhandled. Step aside.”
Jim grabbed Amy’s wrists. Surprised, she turned toward him. “Give her back, Mrs. Chapman,” he ordered. “She isn’t yours. Give her back now.”
A satisfied smile crossed Amy’s face. “Good, Mr. Reid,” Elizabeth Chapman said. “At least one person in this room has sense. Good night.”
Amy’s eyes rolled back as she collapsed into Jim’s arms.
CHAPTER
35
She’s sleeping,” Catharine said, pausing in the doorway of Adrian’s bedroom like a street waif with no place to call home.
Adrian nodded slowly. “Did she say anything about what happened in the dining room?”
“No. She still won’t talk to me. But Mr. Reid offered to stay with her a little longer. Perhaps she’ll speak to him if she wakes up.”
Adrian mulled over her words for a moment, surprised that Jim had elected to stay by Amy’s side. After their conversation in town, he’d gotten the distinct impression that his associate preferred to relegate any further contact with the younger Miss Walsh to a purely professional level. Of course, Jim had been acting peculiarly all afternoon.
He slipped his arms from the sleeves of his dinner jacket, still deep in thought. “What did Mrs. Chapman mean tonight?”
Catharine entered the room, partially closing the door behind her. “Which part? I’m so very tired of everything Mrs. Chapman says.”
“‘O what a tangled web we weave . . .’”
“‘. . . when first we practice to deceive.’ Marmion. Sir Walter Scott.”
“I’m aware of the source. I’d like to know why she said it to you.”
Catharine sank into the armchair before the maple secretary. “Why does she say anything, A
drian? Why has she come at all? There are moments when I fear she’ll stay with us forever. It’s a nightmare.”
She looked particularly wan, hardly a glowing bride on the eve of her wedding. A small shiver traveled through her, raising the gooseflesh on her slender arms. Without a word, Adrian crossed the room to drape his dinner jacket across her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his. “Adrian . . . you do believe me when I tell you it’s Mrs. Chapman who’s decided I should marry Bennett? This isn’t some plan I’ve devised. All of this is just as startling to me as it is to everyone else.”
Adrian looked away. “Frankly, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“No, that won’t do.” She stood, clutching his jacket around her. “It would kill me to think you didn’t believe me. I’ve never lied to you, Adrian . . . to others, perhaps, but never to you.”
He could not help his rueful smile. “Yes, I remember. You never quite lie to me. You just leave out the details. What am I to do with you? All those wounds you inflicted so many years ago finally heal and then back you come, waltzing into my life as if we were merely parted by a few months abroad.”
Her sigh pierced his heart. “I’m sorry. Is it so awful to see me again?”
“No,” he said gently. “I wish it were. Cassie . . . tell me about Amy.”
Catharine slipped past him, avoiding his gaze as she walked toward the nightstand by the bed. Adrian watched in silence as she reached for the framed picture there. He knew the photo well—he tucked it inside his suitcase whenever he traveled.
“Yours?” Catharine asked, raising it to take a closer look.
“Yes. My wife and children.”
“You’ve a lovely family, Adrian.” Her voice seemed pitched a little higher than usual. “How long have you and . . .”
“Constance.”
“. . . been married?”
He crossed to her side, lifting the photo from her hand in one smooth motion. His wife’s impish grin met his. “It’s been over sixteen years now.”
“And the children?”
“Grace is nearly fifteen, Ted is twelve.”
“You’re happy.”
“Yes.” The admission felt almost like a betrayal. “Jim Reid’s father may have saved my life on the battlefield, but Constance saved my soul.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever told her anything about us?” She quirked an eyebrow, waiting.
He swallowed. “It’s never seemed necessary.”
Catharine drifted toward the window, parting the heavy curtains to stare down at the circular drive. “I see. So I’m not the only one who omits details that simply don’t seem to matter.”
Adrian rocked back on his heels. Bull’s-eye. “You must understand that I needed to start again.”
“Never mind. It’s not important. You’re content. You might even be at peace, provided you’ve learned over the years to let yourself be so. And with all that in mind, why should Amy’s paternity even matter?”
“Don’t you think it’s something I should know?”
“It wouldn’t change a thing that’s passed between us, no matter how much I might wish otherwise.”
He joined her at the window, staring out over her shoulder at absolutely nothing. The night sky glowed with a full moon and enough stars to lend a slight nimbus effect to Catharine’s dark curls. Her perfume scented the air, as richly hypnotic as a field of poppies.
She was so different from Constance. His wife had been born with an innate honesty that left no room for emotional subterfuge. With Constance, one always knew precisely where one stood. She was as open and honest as a spring day on the prairie, delighting in the simple joys life offered. Cassie came with more mysteries than a man could ever hope to unravel in one lifetime. She surrounded herself with walls that required scaling, with layers that needed to be steadily stripped away. It took a lot of work to touch Cassie’s heart.
Unfortunately, Adrian knew all too well how much that effort could yield.
He rested a gentle hand on Catharine’s shoulder. She twisted around to face him, so close that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her dark brown eyes. Responding to a distant memory, his arms wrapped around her, cradling her protectively as she rested her head against his shoulder.
She shuddered against him. “I want to tell you the whole story, Adrian, but I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“It’s just harder than I thought. I had everything securely tucked away, hidden from view. I never expected to see you again.”
“Perhaps telling me would bring you some peace,” he whispered into her hair.
She raised her head to look at him. “I hope you’ve been able to find some,” she murmured. “I’ve always wished it for you.”
She eased herself from his embrace, allowing the dinner jacket to slip from her shoulders to the floor. When she curled back into his arms this time, the warmth of her body beneath her sheer frock made his heart pound. He drew her closer, half afraid she’d never leave, half afraid she would. Random details bubbled through his mind until it was hard to tell where memory ended and the present began. He remembered how she’d tremble if he kissed that spot behind her ear, how she’d loved when his fingers played through her curls. She’d liked to press her body so close to his that it seemed nothing could ever come between them. They stood that way now: hip to hip, breast to breast, so near it seemed they could block out the rest of the world.
He licked suddenly dry lips. “Cassie . . .”
Surprise lit her face as he eased her away.
“I’m not at liberty to do this.” He hoped to eventually forgive himself for the undercurrent of regret in his voice. “And neither are you. You’re engaged . . . nearly a married woman.”
“Again,” she said softly.
“Again,” he allowed, although the word rekindled a sick roiling in the pit of his stomach.
“Just once? Could we be together just one more time? I would dearly love to feel something again. How wrong can it be if we’ve done it before?”
Years melted away as Cassie Walsh awaited his answer, each soft breath more hopeful than the last. All of her carefully crafted walls had finally fallen, leaving her more exposed to him than if she had slipped off her shimmery dress. Her yearning jarred his very core.
She studied his face. He could only stare back, unable to speak. For one brief moment, as she stood before him in the moonlight, 1921 collided with 1898, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
“No,” he finally said.
She hesitated, then brushed a kiss against his cheek. “You always were a gentleman at heart,” she said wistfully. “And I loved that about you. Good night, Adrian.”
He watched as she walked toward the door, unable to tear his eyes from her parting figure. A portion of his heart protested that he was making a terrible mistake, that he was once again allowing something dear and valuable to slip through his fingers. But Constance—his wife—was the one who’d defined dear and valuable for him in the first place.
His throat tightened. He could not leave Liriodendron fast enough. Until then, he would avoid Cassie Walsh, see to it that they were never alone. One more day; that’s all that was required of him. He could manage anything for one more day.
Cassie turned as she reached the door. “Amy isn’t yours, Adrian, but I wish with all my heart she were.”
His stomach began to churn, sending bile to the back of his mouth. His vision blurred as he stared at her. “Whose then?” he demanded, and he barely recognized the hoarse voice as his own.
She said nothing, merely opened the door and slipped from the room.
A long-dormant image of Peter Phillips branded itself onto his brain. Time shifted as a jolt of red-hot jealousy raced through him. The injury was twenty-three years old, but felt fresh and new. “Cassie!” he started, but the only response was the sound of her heels clicking down the hallway.
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Adrian bolted after her.
CHAPTER
36
February 1898
Somehow the seating arrangement in the sleigh got jumbled for the ride back from Almy Pond. Adrian crossed his arms against his chest and glared straight ahead. From the seat directly opposite, Cassie met his eyes and narrowed her own in response. With a regal lift of her chin, she turned to study the passing scenery.
He’d expected her to sit beside him, just as she had during the ride out to Almy Pond earlier that day. Of course, he’d also expected her to remain in clear view while ice skating. It had never occurred to him that she might disappear with Peter into hidden coves and inlets, oblivious to both her reputation and his own sensibilities. And as for leaving the ice to spend time alone with Peter in the sleigh . . . a muscle tensed in Adrian’s jaw, sending an unpleasant clicking pulse through his brain. Exactly how much had Peter paid his coachman to look the other way?
He couldn’t tell how long they’d been alone. It had felt like decades squiring Marjorie across the pond, smiling at her inane prattle until his face felt as frozen as the ice itself. He had no idea how much time had passed before he’d known—just known deep in his bones—that Cassie was no longer skating on Almy Pond.
Now Cassie and Peter sat side by side in the sleigh, but they did not touch. Cassie’s hands remained hidden in her muff, her profile as immobile as Egypt’s Sphinx. But Adrian recognized the expression on Peter’s face: no matter how hard his friend feigned nonchalance, he could not hide the smug grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a child who’d consumed most of the holiday sugarplums before the family guests were even invited in to the feast.
Adrian had never hated anyone so much.
“My goodness!” Marjorie slid a little closer to his side, her voice bright in the frigid air. “This is the bumpiest sleigh ride I can remember.” Predictably, her fingers tucked themselves beneath his arm.
“Do you think so?” he heard himself say. “Actually, I was just thinking that it was rather smooth. Peter, the trip to the pond was shorter than this. Is there a reason you’ve chosen a different route back?”