Beverly Byrne

by Come Sunrise

  COME SUNRISE

  By Beverly Byrne:

  She loved him with all her soul-but he was destined to be a priest.

  She had no choice but to turn to another. . .

  COME LOVE. The exquisite Amy Norman is only seventeen when her parents are killed-and her life is changed forever. She can never go home again. She must stay in New York with friends of her family, people she has never met....

  COME DESTINY. From the moment Amy moves in with the Westermans, she is attracted to the handsome, blond Luke- but-their love will always be out of reach. When he enters the priesthood, she turns to his brother Tommy, whose jealousy over her love for Luke torments his soul....

  COME LIFE. But Luke is always in her thoughts, in her heart, when she is with Tommy-a fact that he never lets her forget, not in New York, where they are a part of glittering society, and not in rustic New Mexico, where they move to begin a new life....

  A sweeping tale of love and betrayal, of adventure and glittering romance

  ENTER THE WORLD OF

  WHERE LOVE CAN NOT ALWAVS ENDURE THE LIGHT OF DAY ••••

  AMY NORMAN. A beautiful innocent, she was cast away from her home and family, only to find a great love In the one man she could never have …

  (MORE)

  LUKE WESTERMAN. Blond and charismatic, he returned Amy's love-but his heart and soul already belonged to God and the priest-hood…

  TOMMY WESTERMAN. As dark as his brother was fair, he wanted Amy for his own –even if he was the second choice…

  BEATRIZ ORTEGA. Strong and statuesque, she would keep her New Mexico range-at any cost…

  RICARDO IBANEZ. A handsome doctor, he could only love the married Amy from afar- until his passion grew too strong to deny…

  ROSA MADAGCO. A woluptuous beauy, she wanted the good life-and she would become Tommy's mistress to get It…

  DONALD VARLEY. As Amy'guardian, he was to look after her best Interests. But was he everything he seemed to be?

  Fawcett Gold Medal Books

  By Beverly Byrne:

  COME SUNRISE

  FIERY SPLENDOR

  JASON'S PEOPLE

  JEMMA

  WOMEN'S RITES

  A Fawcett Gold Medal Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1987 by

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-90770

  ISBN 0-449-13230-7

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: July 1987

  Prologue

  ON THE SEVENTH OF MAY, 1915 TWO MEN STARED IN disbelief at a clattering teletype machine. Its staccato clicks and clacks and bells bespoke urgency in an otherwise silent and deserted room.

  Outside twilight made blue gray the New York streets. It was after 8:00 P.M. and most of Tenth Avenue's warehouses and offices were deserted. A few wharfs sheltered ships. They seemed lifeless and still, suspended in that moment between night and day. Dusk blurred to dark and a light winked here and there.

  In the Cunard office the older clerk wrenched himself into motion. He stretched out a hand and tore the message from the machine.

  Lusitania sunk off Irish coast by German U-Boat . . . this day fourteen-fifteen GMT ... search and rescue underway . . . few survivors ...

  "Jesus Christ," the second man said. "There must have been two thousand people on that ship."

  "Twelve hundred and fifty passengers," his companion said tonelessly. "About six hundred crew. Eighteen, maybe nineteen hundred."

  "Jesus," the other one repeated.

  "Bloody bastards. Goddamn Huns." The curses were spoken softly, respectful of the power of death. "A passenger ship, nobody on board but civilians. Oh, my God!" A rising note of hysteria crept into his voice. He fought it off and crossed to his desk, still holding the teletype message. Other, more senior, employees of the company must be notified. He had no desire to carry the responsibility for this ghastly news.

  The younger clerk stared into the darkness beyond the window. "Do you remember a few days back, when she sailed?" he asked. "First real day of spring. Aren't they lucky, I thought. Going to England on a lovely day like this. Wish it was me." He shivered and said nothing more.

  BOOK ONE

  1915-16

  1

  "THE LUSITANIA WENT DOWN IN FORTY-FIVE MINutes, my dear. I'm so very sorry," Donald Varley said.

  "But it's only two days." Amy Norman looked at the man, uncomprehending. "We may get more news. My parents may have been rescued ...."

  The headmistress of Miss Taylor's School for Young Ladies moved from behind her desk and laid her hands on Amy's rigid shoulders.

  "My dear child, you mustn't deceive yourself with false hope. We waited until now to inform you for just that reason. All the survivors are accounted for. There were very few, and your dear parents were not among them."

  Amy raised her brown eyes and stared at the woman. "You can't be sure," she said stubbornly.

  "I'm afraid I can," Miss Taylor insisted. "Believe me, I wish desperately that I were not."

  "Miss Norman-Amy-I do know how you feel. My sister and her husband were aboard too, you know. They didn't survive either." Varley fumbled with the briefcase on his lap, as if preparing to produce evidence to support that fact.

  "Uncle Charles and Aunt Cecily too," Amy whispered. "Oh, God ... " She hunched the spine she'd previously kept deliberately straight, as if to clasp close the pain of loss.

  Miss Taylor hugged the girl and stroked her hair. Amy had black hair. Usually it was tied back with a grosgrain ribbon. Now the ribbon had come loose, and the shining hair hung forward over the girl's face. "Go ahead and cry, dear," the headmistress whispered. "It's best to face grief at such times."

  Amy pulled free of the woman's embrace and stood up. "Thank you for coming to Boston to see me, Mr. Varley," she said woodenly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go to my room now." Without waiting for permission she left the office.

  Miss Taylor turned to the lawyer. "I think it best if Miss Norman is left alone for a bit," she said. "I'll go up to her presently. She needs time to assimilate the shock."

  "Yes, of course." This time he did reach into his briefcase and withdrew a sheet of paper. "I believe you should have this. It's an extract from Mr. Charles Westerman's will. As you will see, I'm named as executor for the estate of my late brother-in-law."

  "Yes," she took the proffered document. "But I don't see ..."

  "According to the terms of Roland Norman's will, Charles was to be Amy's guardian in the event of her parents' death. Since both the Normans and the Westermans died simultaneously, in law at any rate, I am now Miss Norman's guardian. Until she's twenty-one. "

  "I understand. And what do you wish me to do, Mr. Varley? Are we to keep Amy here?"

  "Yes, of course. For the present at least. The way things are there's certainly no question of her returning to the family home in Africa. And she must not be alone. "

  "Good, I think that a wise decision. One further thing Mr. Varley. Is there to be a funeral? I know the bodies have not been recovered." She swallowed hard. "But perhaps . . ."

  Varley frowned. He was an exceedingly handsome man. The frown settled over his features like a mask donned by a superior actor. His clear gray eyes expressed troubled concern. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss to know what to do about poor Roland and Jessie in this regard. They weren't members of any chur
ch you see. As far as I know they had no religious beliefs at all. And there is no family apart from the child. My sister and brother-in-law were closer to them than anyone else. I only knew the Normans slightly."

  "May I ask what your intentions are with respect to Mr. and Mrs. Westerman."

  "There's to be a memorial mass at St. Ignatius' Church tomorrow.

  We're a Catholic family, so it's rather different.

  Miss Taylor nodded her perfectly coifed gray head. Catholics had rules to guide them in situations of this sort. It was one thing she found to admire about them. "I believe the Westermans leave survivors apart from yourself?"

  Varley managed a small smile. "Quite a few. There are two sons and a large assortment of other relations. We're a sizable clan."

  And an influential one, Miss Taylor thought. She pursed her lips and looked speculative. "Perhaps I should suggest that Amy return with you to New York for the service," she ventured. Then, when Varley looked like agreeing with her, she added, "But I do not advise it. I don't know Amy as well as I might, she's been with us less than a year, but I know young girls. Amy is naturally in shock. I think it best if she remain here in familiar surroundings."

  "I'll abide by your decision in the matter," Varley said, rising. "I'm a bachelor myself. I don't claim to know anything about children, certainly not girls."

  Miss Taylor extended her hand. "Please allow me to offer my sympathy for your own loss, and to thank you for coming."

  He left her his address and telephone number and proceeded to South Station to catch the Yankee Clipper to New York.

  ** *

  Miss Taylor went to Amy's room within half an hour of saying goodbye to Donald Varley.She knocked softly, then let herself in. Amy sat in a stiff chair by the window. She didn't turn her head when the head-mistress entered.

  There was a jumble of boxes and ribbons on the bed. A bunch of long stem roses lay wilting on the floor. Miss Taylor looked at the things and remembered that today was Amy's seventeenth birthday. The presents must have arrived just a short time ago.

  She stooped and rescued the roses. A vase stood by the washstand already full of water. Amy must have been preparing to arrange the flowers before she was summoned to meet Mr. Varley.

  "I'll just put these here for now," Miss Taylor said. Then she picked up the crumpled wrapping paper and neatly folded the discarded ribbons. A framed picture caught her eye. It was done in watercolors and showed a huge sprawling house surrounded by verdant greenery. A pony stood in the foreground. "Is this your home in Africa?" she asked softly.

  Amy turned and acknowledged the woman's presence for the first time. "Yes, that's Jericho. Mummy painted it. She liked making watercolors of the house. This one's always been my favorite. That's why she sent it to me for my birthday."

  "And is this your horse?"

  "My pony, Sheba. I've had her since I was six." There was a flicker of animation on the girl's face.

  "She must miss you," Miss Taylor said, then bit her lip. "Oh, look," she added hastily, "here's a present you haven't opened." She held it out, but Amy didn't take it.

  Miss Taylor opened the small box. A diamond ring winked up from a velvet cushion. "Oh, Amy, it's exquisite. You must look."

  The girl finally stretched out her hand, and Miss Taylor slipped the ring on her finger. Amy looked at it in silence, then she said, "This was the first stone my father found in Africa. He always promised I'd have it for my seventeenth birthday. It's not very large, only two carats." She spoke as though she were repeating a lesson learned by rote. "It's perfect though. A perfect blue-white stone. They arranged all the presents before they sailed. They made sure the things would be delivered today."

  She stopped speaking and stared at the older woman. Then she looked around the simple bedroom with its schoolgirl decor and its single window looking out on unfamiliar, unloved Boston. Her tears began as a silent flood, but soon became wrenching sobs that shook her small frame and made the curtain of black hair tremble around her white face.

  Amy spent a few days in the infirmary, then returned to her classes and the normal routine of the school. But looking at her, as she frequently did, Miss Taylor recognized the taut control for what it was, a thread being pulled tighter and tighter. Eventually it must snap, and what would be Amy's hold on reality then?

  The girl's only outward sign of mourning was the black serge dress she wore. More poignant was her zombielike behavior. She had never been an enthusiastic student, nor had she made close friends among the other girls. At first Miss Taylor put it down to Amy's exotic background. Now she gave up hoping that time would make the girl more like her classmates, or give her a share in their world. In early June she rang Donald Varley in New York.

  "As you know," she told him, "I had arranged with Mr. and Mrs. Norman for Amy to spend this summer at a camp in Maine. We thought she'd enjoy the outdoor life. I'm no longer sure that's a wise plan." She went on to try and explain her concerns. "Amy needs people to whom she feels close, Mr. Varley. People with whom she can express her feelings. I fear that she'll do herself great damage keeping everything locked inside this way."

  Varley had no suggestions to offer. "I'll think about it and call you back," he told Miss Taylor.

  There was no return phone call, but a letter came a few days later. Varley had discussed the problem with other members of the family. Perhaps Amy would like to join them at their summer home in Cross River. Both Luke and Tommy Westerman would be there. Amy might take solace from being with the boys. They had, after all, sustained an identical loss.

  "Where is Cross River?" Amy asked when Miss Taylor told her of the plan.

  "In Westchester County, New York. A charming town. I was there once many years ago. Do you know the Westerman boys well, Amy?"

  The girl shook her head. She'd taken to wearing her black hair in a severe bun, and it accentuated her high cheekbones and her piquant heart-shaped face. The brown eyes looked enormous now that she was so thin. "Not well," she answered. "We've met a few times over the years, and I saw them last summer with ..." She stumbled, then went on. "With Mummy and Daddy. There are a lot of Westermans. I don't really know who all the others are."

  Miss Taylor glanced at Varley's letter. "Your hostess would be Miss Lil Westerman, the late Mr. Charles Westerman's sister. She and her brother are also spending the summer in Cross River. It would all be quite correct, my dear. I think you should go."

  "Can't I just go home?" Amy asked. She sounded as if she knew what the answer must be.

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," MissTaylor said softly. "At least until this wretched war is over and you're a bit older. Won't you consider accepting this very kind invitation?"

  "Whatever you say," Amy agreed. "It doesn't matter."

  2

  " AMERICA'S GOING TO GET INTO THE WAR," TOMMY announced. He didn't look up to see how his remark affected the assembled company, just continued his complicated task at the small table serving as a bar. He was squeezing oranges, and his aunt avoided looking at the acid stains forming on the polished wood.

  "Any idea when this catastrophe is to come to pass?" Warren Westerman asked. He made the remark with little movement of his lips, and without removing the stem of his pipe. Neither did he lift his head from the book he was reading.

  "Soon maybe," Tommy said. He poured a portion of champagne into five stemmed crystal goblets. "Wilson doesn't want it of course. The privilege of being gassed in a trench isn't one of his New Freedoms. But after the Lusitania, well, someone's got to put the Huns in their place."

  Amy's head jerked up. Tommy didn't seem at all embarrassed by mentioning the ship in her presence. But then, why should he be? His parents had gone down with the Lusitania too. If it didn't bother him, why should it offend her?

  She glanced round the room. It was large and square with a high ceiling and book-lined walls. There was a big fieldstone fireplace, filled with greenery on this late June evening, and a deep bay window looking out over an exp
anse of lawn. Luke Westerman sprawled on the windowseat. His long legs were stretched across the flowered cushions, and his white duck trousers were bright against the vivid pink cretonne. He was leaning against the wall, and his blond hair contrasted with the soft green paint. Only his face was dark, but the frown seemed to have little to do with what Tommy said. Luke wasn't paying any attention to his younger brother.

  Amy looked away and her eyes met Lil's-Aunt Lil, she'd asked to be called. "You're among family here," she'd told the girl when she arrived a few days ago. "Or at least near enough as makes no difference." Amy was grateful for the gesture, but she still didn't feel at ease.