Jocelyn’s head drooped, the rigid shoulders slumping. “Were you…happy?”
“Very much. Until the birth of our son. Alice died. The doctor couldn’t stop the bleeding. An hour later, I lost our son. My little boy…” Micah had been holding him. Even after all the years, memories could scorch the scar until the grief ripped open, oozing pain. “My son…”
He passed a hand over his eyes, and when he dropped it to press against the sofa’s soft green velvet, Jocelyn’s slender fingers brushed his knuckles in a tentative duplication of his earlier gesture. “Mr. MacKenzie—Micah, I’m so sorry…”
“I buried them together. He was so small.…I can still see his hands. They were perfect.” His breath shuddered out and he lost himself in the compassion shining from Jocelyn’s face, the tears sparkling in her mink-brown eyelashes. “I’ll never know the color of his eyes…hear the sound of his laughter. When the pain hurts too much, I imagine him and my wife, up in heaven. Taking a walk with Jesus, all of them laughing—”
“Think it if you like, but it’s a lie!” She stormed to her feet, an enraged and wounded soul lashing out blindly. “I don’t want to hear about God, or Jesus, or how much we’re loved. If God loved you, your wife and your son wouldn’t be lying in a cold grave. I’m sorry for your loss, but at least you had someone you knew loved you. At least your wife had a child—” Her hands flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I—I—”
Whirling, she dashed from the parlor, the sound of her choked sobs echoing harshly in the air.
Stunned, reeling from the unexpected onslaught, Micah sat motionless. He couldn’t have said which hurt more—the fiery lash of his own grief, or the frigid blast of Jocelyn’s rejection.
Chapter Eight
She wept, soundlessly, her face buried in a pillow. Wept until her throat burned, and the spike lodged in her chest shrank enough to allow her to breathe. Until she was exhausted, and the outrage flattened into contrition.
What a selfish, mean-spirited harpy she was, to revile Micah MacKenzie’s faith. If believing in a compassionate God, if concocting pretty mental pictures of his dead wife and infant son strolling among puffy white clouds with Jesus gave Micah MacKenzie peace…well, Jocelyn had no right to challenge them.
But she’d long ago given up believing.
After mopping her face with her sodden hankie, she dragged herself across to her mirrored washstand, and shredded the woman reflected there. Look at yourself, Jocelyn. That dead-eyed, mean-spirited creature is what you’ve turned yourself into.
Perhaps she deserved her life. Perhaps, hidden within the hopeful young girl who had nobly rescued her family from homelessness and starvation lurked an evil twin. One whose secret longings required daily doses of divine castigation.
All she’d ever wanted was to re-create the happy home she had known as a child—with a devoted husband, children, the satisfaction of successfully managing her household. After Chadwick’s death, the few years she’d spent as a student at the Isabella Chilton Academy had almost resurrected hope for that dream. Of course, Miss Isabella quoted scripture—endlessly—as the source of the school’s credo, which was to train women to be competent wives, as well as wage earners if marriage was not God’s plan for their lives.
I don’t want any part of your noble credos, Miss Isabella. They were naught but foolish fancies, like Mr. MacKenzie’s.
With an inarticulate moan, Jocelyn whirled away from the mirror. Indifferent to appearances, much less propriety, she flew down the stairs, not pausing until she reached the parlor. Breathing hard, her gaze swept the room. Empty. He’d left then. She couldn’t even redeem herself with an apology.
She wanted to sink to the floor and pound her fists until they bled, she wanted to scream, she wanted to—She didn’t know what she wanted, only that she could not bear her present life.
“Mrs. Tremayne? Jocelyn?”
She whirled around. For a moment, every thought vanished, swept away in a cascade of relief and happiness. “I thought you’d left,” she managed, surprised by the hoarse croaking sound of her voice.
“I almost did.”
She looked down. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. What I said was ugly. Unforgivable.”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite that way. Painfully honest, perhaps. For both of us. But I burdened you with my life, un-solicited, so I—”
“It wasn’t a burden,” she blurted, frantic to atone. “I’m sorry for everything I said. I had no right, especially when I could see how much it hurt you to confide in me about your past. If I could only go back—” Hastily she strangled the sentence. “I—I wanted to know more about you.”
A little pool of silence descended.
“Why?”
Because the question was voiced so gently, because the gray eyes bathed her in kindness instead of recrimination, Jocelyn melted. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been forgiven with such grace, as though her childish wish had been granted and the scene in the parlor had never occurred. If she never saw this man again after today, she would cherish the undeserved gift he had given her. In the desert of her life, she would cling to the one golden moment when someone cared enough to overlook her character flaws.
Pride and disillusionment floated away. All that mattered was her need to prolong the moment. “My marriage didn’t turn out the way I expected. For a little while, I used to think about you. After a few years, I stopped.” She could no longer meet his gaze. “And I made myself forget. It’s been ten years, yet you’re still being kind, even though I don’t deserve it. I no longer trust in God. I’m not sure I even believe He exists.” She stopped abruptly.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, his eyes smiling. “I’m listening. I won’t stomp out the door in high dudgeon, spouting scripture as I stomp.”
Jocelyn choked back a fresh bout of tears. “I’ve never known a man like you,” she managed, swallowing repeatedly to clear her throat. “I’m afraid….”
The smile died. “Afraid? Of me?”
“Of what you make me feel. Of what this—I think there’s something wrong with me, something about my character I’ve never been able to subdue, inside.” Cheeks flaming, she forced the rest of it out. “From the very beginning, that day when we were sitting together on the parlor sofa, and you held me? I—Nobody has held me like that in over te—I mean, in over f-five years. And it felt so good, so safe, I wanted more. I know what those feelings imply about my character, but you deserved to know.”
He was frowning now. Why was he frowning? She had spoken with too much candor, she had placed him in a socially awkward position, presumed upon his kindness and thus deserved nothing but his censure.
“What those feelings say about your character is that you’re a human being, and a woman. A beautiful but lonely woman who for some reason shut herself off from life when her husband died.”
“I’m not beautiful on the inside. If you knew…” She choked back more words, her pulse leaping when instead of repudiation, Micah MacKenzie took her hand.
Holding her gaze, he stroked the backs of her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Shocked speechless, Jocelyn clung to the strength of his warm fingers, her heart beating a suffocating tattoo against her rib cage.
“I know about your fear, and your loneliness,” he murmured as he cupped her trembling hand in both of his. “And your lost faith. No—don’t pull away. It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“If I don’t pull away now, I might not be able to at all.”
There. Her stark declaration finally jarred him, though despite the start of surprise he still refused to release her. Jocelyn quit tugging and closed her eyes, savoring the connection even as she steeled herself against the desolation that would follow.
“That’s a dangerous admission,” he mused eventually. “Not one I would have expected, despite your widowhood.” Still watching her, he lifted her hand and pressed the palm over his heart. Through her fingertips she could feel the beat, a h
ard rhythm in tune with her own runaway pulse. “Because, Jocelyn, I feel the same way about you. Someday we’ll talk about it. But now is not the time.”
Somberly, he released her and gestured to the two wing-back chairs arranged to face the parlor’s fireplace. “Right now, we need to talk about the letter from Augustus Brock, and what you’re going to do.”
Her earlier temper had stung his skin, but Jocelyn’s candor stripped Micah’s heart bare. Alice had been reticent, both in her words and her personality; outside the criminal culture, most of the women Micah had encountered since her death abided by the social credo that precluded extreme emotion of any kind. And sensuality…well, the concept simply hadn’t been part of their vocabulary.
Then Jocelyn Tremayne exploded back into his life. Did she have any idea what it did to a man, to deliver that loaded confession while staring up at him with wounded eyes the color of a sun-dappled pine forest?
A log from the fire he’d stirred to life earlier shot sparks, then settled into the flames. When a man started thinking in flowery metaphors, he was in as much trouble as that log, on its way to a fiery destruction. Weeks earlier, Micah had known he was in trouble. Without hesitation, he jumped feet-first into the fire. “Would you allow me to read the letter from your uncle-in-law?” he asked.
“Why do you want to? Unless…” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this interest personal or professional?”
“I don’t know.” He answered her question, picking his way through how much to tell her. “I’m not trying to avoid an answer, Jocelyn.” As he hoped, his familiarity stiffened her drooping shoulders, though she didn’t protest. “As Chief Hazen explained the day you met him, for the past eight years the Secret Service has been conducting an investigation of a counterfeiting network based in New York City.”
“I remember. And you were the chief in charge, until he transferred you to Washington.”
“Well, I was in charge for only three of those years. What he didn’t share with you is the reason for my transfer to headquarters. We believe this network has expanded their operation as far south as Charleston, and west to St. Louis. Remember Benny? He’s the one who indicated a new source here, in Richmond. But he got away from me before I learned where he obtained the goods.”
“Wouldn’t he have obtained them from this new…source, you called it?”
He could share at least that much without fear of compromising the case, or himself. “Both the bill and the coin were manufactured elsewhere. Benny could have snitched them from their origins, in New York, or he could have gotten them from a new shover—the person who passes counterfeit goods—here in Richmond.”
She thought about that for a bit. Then, “Surely you don’t think Mr. Hepplewhite was part of this network!”
“It’s highly unlikely, but a thorough investigation is required nonetheless, because Benny Foggarty is still at large, and Mr. Hepplewhite was murdered.” She flinched a little, but her gaze upon him was steady. “Remember I told you how murder is not the normal modus operandi of counterfeiters?”
“I remember.”
“Mmm. Most of the members of this class of criminals hold down ordinary jobs, along with their illegitimate pursuits. Manufacturing bogus goods takes time—and money. So they’re also bricklayers, carpenters, factory workers. But some member of this motley group crossed a line when he committed cold-blooded murder. Thus far, Mr. Hepplewhite makes the third victim that we know of.”
He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. The firelight danced across Jocelyn’s face in an evocative play of light and shadow; Micah tried not to compare the flames to her hair, which she had stuffed into an untidy knot on top of her head. Several strands had slipped free to spill unnoticed down her back. Short snippets dangled about the neat shells of her ears….
Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. “For the past ten days I’ve been pursuing another lead. Took me all the way to St. Louis. I returned to Richmond as soon as I could, not merely because I needed to follow up on Benny Foggarty and Mr. Hepplewhite, but because…” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I needed to see you.”
“I’m under investigation. I received bogus goods, and my former in-laws live in New York City.” Her voice was dull. “It’s never been Mr. Hepplewhite. It’s me. You think I’m part of this counterfeiting network because my husband was from New York City.”
Lord, she’s going to turn every one of my hairs gray…. “No. I do not think you’re a counterfeiter. I believe you’re innocent, Jocelyn. Don’t shake your head. Look at me, and trust me.” He waited until he knew he’d gained her complete attention. “Right now, my faith in your innocence has placed me in an awkward position, but I am not going to abandon you. That’s a promise, and I don’t make those lightly.”
“There’s no need to make promises you might have to break. I understand. You don’t need to explain.”
“There’s every need. I want to explain—because you don’t understand.”
Head tipped sideways, Jocelyn contemplated him for a long moment. “What don’t I understand?”
What she didn’t understand would fill the Farmer’s Almanac. Micah sucked in a deep breath, then prayed an urgent prayer for guidance. “As I explained, counterfeiting is peopled with men whose daily lives are the antithesis of polite society. Networks are formed, and broken, much like schools of fish in the ocean. Loosely bound, easily separated, occasionally caught in a net. However, we believe the murders that have been committed have been ordered by one, perhaps two, individuals who are not part of what we call a criminal subculture.”
Reluctant to proceed, he picked up a miniature bronze statue of a cat posed on the table where the missing glass paperweights used to be, stroking the ears with absentminded fingers.
“Well,” Jocelyn prodded impatiently, “do you know who they are?”
Carefully he set the statue of the cat aside. “If I share anything else, I’m not sure if either of us will care for the consequences.”
A scant smile curved her mouth. “I’m not much afraid of consequences these days.”
After this, you will be. “The parties under suspicion are influential, upstanding members of society. New York society, to be specific.”
Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “Oh! I see now. That’s why you want to read the letter! I could go to New York, using my uncle’s invitation as the excuse. You’re asking me to, ah, replace Benny Foggarty as your inside source?”
“Not only melodramatic, but possessed of a fertile imagination.”
The brief smile returned, then vanished as the shadows in her eyes deepened. “I suppose. I thought I’d outgrown the bad habit. Likely it’s because I’m a freckled redhead.”
“You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”
“Life is a harsher schoolmaster than you, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Call me Micah, if you don’t mind. We’ve known each other more or less for a decade.” When she opened her mouth, he interjected swiftly, “Why don’t you fetch me the letter. I need a moment to sort a few things through my mind, then we’ll see if we can hitch both of our imaginations to the same buggy.”
She returned moments later with the letter, and the announcement that Katya would be along with a tray. During her brief absence she had rearranged her hair, scrubbed all traces of tears from her face and now more closely resembled the poised woman he remembered. He wondered how long that poise would remain intact.
They talked idly until Katya bustled in with refreshments. The maid searched Micah’s face, then, nodding to herself, left without attempting to initiate a conversation, which Micah appreciated.
“She doesn’t always try to run interference,” Jocelyn murmured as she handed Micah an earthenware mug full of steaming-hot tea. “Only when it’s someone she thinks will take advantage of me.” A soft smile appeared. “For some reason she thinks I need protecting, even though she’s not yet twenty.”
“You’re fortunate to
have her for a friend, as well as a servant.”
Her face clouded. “I don’t ever want to treat people as slaves or even servants, no matter what the color of their skin. When I was married to Chadwick, I saw—Well, never mind.”
Inhaling a deep breath, Micah set the mug aside. “Jocelyn. This part of our conversation is going to be difficult, so we may as well get it over with. There are some things I need to share with you about your husband’s family.”
Chapter Nine
On a brisk mid-October morning, Jocelyn and Katya boarded a private Pullman Palace car from the stately Baltimore and Ohio depot in Washington, to complete their journey to New York City. Despite Katya’s continued disapproval of the “melodrama”—her new favorite word—the maid’s excitement over the journey itself was contagious. By the time the Royal Blue Limited rolled out of the station, Jocelyn was able to banish the worst of her flutters and enjoy the simple pleasure of riding the rails in style.
The private car was a sumptuous affair of gleaming walnut and polished brass, with Waterford crystal chandeliers to light its interior, and deep burgundy velvet curtains draping the glazed windows. A crisply uniformed porter informed Jocelyn that he would return at noon to prepare her a luncheon in the car’s private kitchen. After a sideways glance at Katya, he bowed himself into the vestibule.
But as the miles rolled by, memories of her past life as the wife of Chadwick Bingham chipped away at Jocelyn’s serenity. Over there, she could see Chadwick sprawled in the tassel-fringed chair, in the corner of their boudoir. He was smoking, a brooding expression on his face, as she watched the scenery pass by in a blur.
Katya thrust a note in front of her face, and the image evaporated as she focused on the oversize loops and letters. Mr. MacKenzie meet us in New York? What if they make me stay in basement?
“Mr. MacKenzie won’t come calling until after we’re settled in. He’s going to be a distant cousin, from South Carolina. Why don’t we leave him to worry over his part, and we’ll concentrate on ours.” Katya only had to be herself, of course. As for Jocelyn’s role, she’d perfected it ten years earlier: the gullible Southerner gratefully accepting the carrot dangled in her face. “You must not write down any part of Mr. MacKenzie’s name, remember? From this moment on, we can’t trust anyone, especially the servants. You will remain my personal maid, and I’ll insist we have adjoining rooms. I won’t let them treat you poorly, I promise.”
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