Dawn of the Golden Promise (23 page)

A few months past, Alice had taken the liberty of showing some of Mr. Whittaker's arrangements to Harold Elliott for his opinion. To her delight, Harold had been enthusiastic enough to take the selections on to his superiors at Firth, Pond & Co. After a frustrating delay, during which Alice all but hounded poor Harold, the publishing house was at last offering a contract.

But almost as exciting as the contract itself was the letter beside it. Because Evan Whittaker was a new name to Firth, Pond, the publishers had approached one of their most popular composers, Stephen Foster, for an opinion on Mr. Whittaker's music. Foster had not only applauded the new music, but his enthusiasm had been such that he had written a personal letter of encouragement to the composer.

Like Alice, Evan Whittaker was a great fan of Stephen Foster's compositions. Now, not only was he being offered a contract by Foster's own publishing house, but he had received the composer's enthusiastic endorsement as well.

A publishing contract could mean a great deal to Evan Whittaker and his wife, Alice knew. Certainly the royalties, no matter how nominal, would be welcome. But somehow she sensed that this unexpected tribute from Stephen Foster might mean just as much, if not more, to the diffident Englishman as any monetary reward.

She could hardly wait to present him with the contract and letter—indeed, she had decided against waiting until the weekly Thursday rehearsal in Five Points. Instead, she would go to Whittaker House this very afternoon.

As her mother often said, bad news could always wait, but good news was never too early.

15

What good for me to call when hope of help is gone?

EGAN O'RAHILLY (1670–1728)

F
or a moment Ruth felt a rush of satisfaction when she saw the stunned look on Patrick Walsh's face.

Obviously, he had not expected her to come to New York. Not for a minute would he have given her credit for that much courage. One of his pet names for her, after all, was his “pretty, timid sparrow.” She presumed he meant it as an endearment, but the image had wounded her deeply.

Ruth had always been self-conscious to a fault. Patrick often praised her “good looks” and “fine figure,” and Ruth was secretly pleased that he found her attractive, even though his compliments embarrassed her.

Where she perceived herself too tall and too thin, Patrick referred to her as “patrician.” The heavy chestnut hair that was only stubborn and troublesome to her seemed to hold a certain attraction for him: he insisted her thick chignon gave her
style.

And when she mentioned her self-consciousness, Patrick claimed to find her shyness charming. The one time she had openly objected to his teasing about her lack of confidence, he had quickly moved to reassure her. “I've always
disliked
overconfident, brazen women, my dear. I prefer you just the way you are.”

Now, in the silent, tense moment that hung between them, an entire tide of memories surged through Ruth—memories followed by regret. Regret for lost love…lost years…lost innocence.

For an instant panic gripped her. Could she really go through with this, now that she was here? Could she actually confront and accuse this man whom she had loved so completely, so wholeheartedly?

So foolishly…

She struggled to recall the words of reason and appeal she had carefully rehearsed all the way from Chicago, but at this moment she could think of nothing but escape. Shrinking beneath his furious, incredulous glare, it was all she could do not to turn and bolt from the room.

He let go an oath and slammed his pipe into its stand. With his hands braced on the desk, he lunged to his feet, his eyes blazing. Then he spoke, and the thunderous rage of his words immobilized her. “What do you think you're doing, coming
here
? Have you lost your wits altogether?”

Ruth stood perfectly still, stunned by the venom lacing his tone. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, she struggled to keep her voice from trembling as she faced him. “I didn't want to come here, Patrick. I
had
to. I need help—remember?”

“As I recall, I've already sent you a generous sum of money,” he shot back. The fire in his eyes suddenly banked to a cold stare, and his voice lowered to a threatening hiss. “You're wasting your time and mine if you're looking for more.”

Her heart pounding, Ruth groped for some shred of her carefully scripted argument. “Patrick…I'm carrying your child!” Even to her ears, the tremulous tone sounded like the whining of a frightened schoolgirl. “You—you can't simply dismiss me. This is as much your problem as mine.”

The stone mask remained unyielding. His words pierced her heart like shards of ice. “You have a keen sense of drama, Ruth. But the fact that you find yourself in difficult straits doesn't mean you can foist your unwelcome little bundle onto me. Surely you don't expect me to believe I'm the only man you've been with?”

Ruth had to brace one hand on the back of a nearby chair to keep her legs from buckling. “You
are
the only man I've been with!” she choked out. “You know you are!”

His mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. “Dear girl, I know nothing of the kind. To the contrary, as free and easy as you were with me, I find it difficult to believe you were ever as innocent as you'd like me to think.”

His tone was impatient, and his expression held a distinct note of dismissal. Glancing down, he began to thumb idly through a stack of papers on his desk.

Hot tears welled up in Ruth's eyes, almost blinding her. Denial warred against reason as the truth began to penetrate. Still she fought against the reality of what was happening.

“How can you say that to me?” she burst out. “There was never anyone else but you. Never! Not before I met you—and certainly not after!”

He went on shuffling through the papers in front of him. “There's no need for you to defend yourself to me, Ruth. Your private life is none of my concern.”

Without warning, resentment slammed into Ruth like a fist. “Perhaps you'd better
make
it your concern, Patrick!”

He looked up then, and the utter disdain in his eyes chilled Ruth's soul. A sickening dread washed over her. Threatening him had been a mistake.

“Get out.” His voice was frigid, his words edged with the same ice that glazed his eyes. But his tone held an unmistakable note of warning that made Ruth take a step back. “Get out of my office, and get out of New York. Now, Ruth.”

She was appalled that she could have deluded herself into believing that this cold, relentless man across the desk had ever cared for her. She didn't even know him. Only now did she realize that she had
never
known him.

Ruth tried to swallow, but anguish rose up in her, numbing her throat. Her mind registered the finality of his words even as she struggled to find some way of penetrating his indifference.

She stretched out a hand toward him. “Patrick…how can you do this…after everything we once meant to each other?”

He lifted his chin, and his pale, unblinking gaze raked over her, devastating her with contempt. “You stupid little baggage,” he said in an unbelievably casual tone of voice.” You never meant anything at all to me.”

Ruth swayed, tightening her grasp on the wing of the chair to keep from pitching forward. “You…you are despicable!” She nearly strangled on her own words. “You won't get out of this so easily, Patrick!” she blurted out. “Perhaps your wife will be more interested in my predicament than you are!”

Before Ruth even knew what was happening, he was around the desk, his hand clutching her throat.

“Don't you dare threaten me, you little tramp!”

The face she had once thought so noble and handsome now held only menace—menace directed at her. The taut composure of his features had given way to a frenzied, contorted ugliness fired by rage.

“I'm warning you—stay away from my wife!”

Raw fury burned in his eyes. For the first time, Ruth was actually afraid of him. His fingers tightened around her neck, cutting off her breath. At that moment she believed he was entirely capable of killing her.

Gasping, she twisted, trying to shove him away.

“Patrick!” she choked out. “You're hurting me!”

His fingers eased their tension only slightly as he pushed his face into hers. The blazing hatred in his eyes seared her soul. “I haven't even begun to hurt you, you little fool! If you ever—
ever—
try to interfere in my life again, I'll teach you about
real
pain!”

Still gripping her throat, he let his furious gaze play over her face for another instant. “Now you're going to leave my office, Ruth. You're going to leave New York.” His mouth twisted. “You're going to go back to Chicago and find some balding, dim-witted butcher to ply your questionable charms on. If you don't let any grass grow under your feet, you might even convince him that the brat in your belly belongs to
him
.”

The cruelty of his words echoed in the silence. The physical pain he was inflicting on her throat was nothing compared to the self-disgust that impaled her.

He seized her shoulders and wrenched her around, then shoved her hard across the room and out the door.

Sobbing, her vision clouded with scalding tears, Ruth stumbled past the inquisitive stare of the narrow-faced man behind the reception desk.

The door to Patrick's office banged shut behind her.

In the tumult of her pain, the sound was like the slamming of a coffin lid.

Ruth shuddered as somewhere deep inside her a dark abyss of despair slowly opened and drew her in.

The moment Colin Winston left the office, Nicholas Grafton turned back to Jess.

“You
are
going to fight him, aren't you?”

His head in his hands, Jess looked up at his friend. “Fight him?” he repeated thickly. “How? He's Amanda's uncle.”

“But he's also a complete stranger to the child.” Nicholas stopped. For a moment he stood fingering the chain of his pocket watch. “Jess…did you notice that he never once asked about Amanda? Never so much as inquired after her welfare? Doesn't that strike you as somewhat strange?”

Jess looked at him but said nothing.

“Something about that fellow,” Nicholas went on, “doesn't register quite right with me. I'm not sure what it is, exactly—perhaps just the shock, and not wanting to see you lose Amanda—but I don't much like him.”

Jess struggled to free himself from the fog enveloping his mind. It occurred to him that he had never heard the good-natured physician say anything derogatory about another human being. Nicholas Grafton usually had something good to say about most people, and if he didn't, he said nothing.

But he was right about Colin Winston's apparent indifference toward Amanda; it
was
peculiar. If Winston was really as concerned for her as he claimed to be, why hadn't he at least asked about the child, rather than simply demanding custody of her, as if she were nothing but a piece of property?

He looked up at Nicholas. The silver-haired physician had removed his eyeglasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose as he regarded Jess. “If I were you,” the doctor finally said, replacing his glasses, “I would talk with my attorney right away. There might be something Hancock can do to put Colin Winston off for a time—at least until you can find out more about the man, perhaps even have him investigated. You don't really mean to turn Amanda over to him without more information, do you?”