“Matthew, stop! “Kimberly cried, grabbing his arm.
Reynolds did his best to defend himself, but Matthew had always been bigger, stronger. Richer, wealthier. More handsome.
“She loves me, Matthew,” the other man spat out, scrambling to his feet. “She s mine! Should have been mine all along.”
But Matthew wasn’t listening; he roared his fury, picking up a chair and tossing it aside with a crash of glass and splinters. Kimberly screamed. An odd scream. But he ignored her.
He started in on his best friend, each man’s fists finding the other. They fought with years of pent-up emotion. Time passed in a punishing flash before Matthew smelled the smoke.
Abruptly he let go. Reynolds fell back against the wall just as flames burst all around them. The kerosene lantern had ignited the draperies. The sprigged muslin went up like kindling, and within seconds the house rocked and shuddered.
Matthew grabbed his wife again, this time to get her outside, and hauled her toward the door. But she clawed and fought him until they staggered like two drunken revelers into the hearth, now blackened and barely distinguishable. For one brief second Matthew caught his reflection in the massive mirror that hung above the mantel.
But the second flashed by, bursting away as the wall collapsed, beams crashing down from the ceiling. He heard Kimberly’s scream and he lunged for her, but just before he got there, the world exploded, sending jagged shards of glass flying through the air.
The cut of glass. The feel of splintered wood. He felt the force of impact, sharp, incisive, knocking him to the floor. His head swam and when he tried to grope his way to his knees from beneath the glass and wood, the room seemed to shift around him and he fell back. His arm ached and he couldn’t seem to move it well enough to push himself up off the floor.
But then he saw Kimberly. The sight cleared his mind, and with a roar, he staggered to his feet. Pain swept through him, and when he touched his face, his hand came away slippery with blood.
But he gave it little thought. Stumbling over to his wife, he pulled her up into his arms and carried her from the cottage, blood blurring his vision. Stumbling through the doorway, he came face-to-face with a crowd of guests and his family, wild with grief.
People were everywhere, their jewels and waistcoats streaked with soot and smoke. But Matthew’s mind froze at the sight of two men staggering out of the cottage with Reynolds s limp, barely clothed body carried between them.
Matthew tried to make sense of the sight.
“Oh God, he’s dead!” someone cried out.
“I told you no good could come of this. Those two have been sneaking out of parties all season,” one woman said snidely, unflinching in the face of tragedy. “The least they could have done was be discreet.”
“Discreet? Good Lord, Kimberly Hawthorne has been anything but discreet. And from what I’ve heard, there have been many who have caught her eye.”
The women s gazes suddenly locked on Matthew, who held his wife in his arms, blood covering most of his face and torso. He turned away slowly, every movement an agony, to look down at the woman he had loved since he was a boy.
“Kim,” he whispered, dropping his head to her breast, tears mixing with blood. “Why? “
But later, after his wife had been pronounced dead, the tears were gone.
The easy charm. The golden smiles. The quick laughter. All gone. He felt nothing more than a cold hardness in his heart. The scar on his face a constant reminder of what a fool he had been.
“Oh, Matthew,” Finnea gasped. “I’m so sorry. But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill them.”
He blinked and only slowly seemed to recognize her. “Get out, Miss Winslet,” he said, his expression murderous.
But she didn’t move. “Matthew, please. Don’t do this to yourself.”
He started toward her. “Get out!” he raged, the words reverberating against the walls and ceilings in a horrifying echo.
And this time she took heed and dashed from the house.
“Damn you!” he bellowed, his voice deep and wounded.
His throat worked and his eyes burned as he pounded his fist into the door. “Damn you,” he choked out, pressing his forehead against the wood, welcoming the bite of pain against his skin.
Chapter Eleven
Jeffrey was sitting in the west receiving room when Finnea rushed through the front door of her mother’s house, her cheeks pink from much more than the frigid February air. She tried to sneak across the foyer to the grand stairway, to no avail.
“Don’t you look lovely,” Jeffrey said, standing up and extending his hands to her. “You look like you’ve been enjoying yourself today.”
“Yes,” Penelope agreed from where she sat on the chaise, giving her an interested appraisal. “Where have you been that put such a glow in your cheeks?”
If possible, Finnea felt her face grow even redder, and she stammered. “Out.”
“Just out? Hmmm. Sounds mysterious.”
“Nothing mysterious about it,” she added quickly. “I was shopping.”
“Oh yes,” Penelope said politely, her dark hair pulled up in an elegant chignon, her gown of the finest silk. “Shopping. You do a lot of that these days. And without a chaperone.”
Finnea lowered her head. When she did, she found herself looking at her hands, which were clasped in Jeffrey’s. Although his hands were impeccably manicured, his fingers were thick and blunt, the hairs on his knuckles gray.
He was old enough to be her father, she thought with a start, just as Matthew had said. She snapped her head up. He was mature, she clarified.
As always, he was neatly attired, from his tie to his trousers, never a cuff or a shirt tack out of place.
Nothing rugged or dangerous about him, she thought with relief.
It was his elegance and sophistication, as much as anything, that she admired most about him.
She wanted nothing to do with a man like Matthew Hawthorne and his barbaric ways, she thought as she remembered the shredded paintings strewn across the floor.
No, she didn’t want Matthew. She had only thought that in a moment of vulnerability after a long, harrowing night in the jungle.
Suddenly the front door slammed open and shut, bringing Nester into the house. He stormed into the room, his starched white collar high around his neck, his tie askew, his morning coat improperly unbuttoned, his face mottled and red. “What is the meaning of you signing the Kendall contract?” he demanded of Jeffrey.
Finnea felt Jeffrey tense. He dropped her hands and faced her brother.
“Is there something wrong with the Kendall contract?” he asked coolly.
“I don’t care if there is or isn’t! That isn’t the point. It could be any contract.”
“Then what is the point, Nester?”
“That you have no right to make decisions without my approval.”
Nester began to pace the room, the sound of his steps reverberating on the hardwood floor, shaking off Penelope when she tried to soothe him.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Jeffrey said carefully, his anger only a flicker beneath his calm exterior, “it is my job to make these decisions. Moreover, it is only a decision regarding the purchase of the new casting machine. We have discussed for months now that the one at the foundry had to be replaced.”
“Only?” Nester snapped, coming face-to-face with Jeffrey. “Only a casting machine? Well, it is only my money that you are spending. Only my company that you seem to think is yours.”
“I think no such thing, Nester. But must I remind you that I control half of the stock? That, combined with the fact that I do run the company makes it possible to sign contracts without your approval.”
“Not for long!” Nester blurted.
But as soon as the words were out, he seemed to wish them back.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jeffrey stated cryptically as each man eyed the other.
Finnea had no idea what was transpiring, but she didn’t like it. She liked it even less when Nester’s face curved with a snide smile.
Out of seemingly nowhere, he said, “Finnea will never fit in here, Upton. Face it.”
She didn’t understand what made him suddenly turn on her. Regardless, the words seared her to the core.
“That’s right, little sis,” he added, his voice low and angry. “You think that you’re going to come back here and take your place as the daughter of the house. Well, you have another think coming. You will never fit in here.”
Jeffrey stepped forward. “She will if she marries me.”
This time Finnea gasped and Nester scoffed.
His face grave and serious, Jeffrey shocked both Nester and Finnea.
“My dearest Finnea, will you marry me?”
She was unable to think, much less speak.
“I know, I know. I just blurted it out, and that was foolish.” Jeffrey bowed his head and focused on her fingers, his thumbs brushing over the back of her hands. “It would mean a great deal to me to have you as my wife.” He raised his head. “And if you say yes, I will do my best to make you a worthy husband.”
Leticia strode into the room. “What is going on here? I can hear your shouting all the way upstairs.”
Nester pointed his finger at Jeffrey. “He wants my business! “he shouted.
“What are you talking about?” Leticia demanded, trying to understand.
But Nester wasn’t interested in explaining, and Finnea couldn’t get a word past her aching throat.
“How could he marry her?” Nester continued in a rant. “She’s a heathen!”
Jeffrey reacted in seconds, whirling around, and before Finnea knew what was happening, he slammed Nester up against the wall, paintings and sconces rattling in protest. “Don’t you ever say that about Finnea again, do you understand me?”
Finnea’s hands flew to her mouth, astonished. But somehow her heart surged with gratitude and heartfelt appreciation for this man who cared about her.
Leticia began to sob quietly and Penelope gasped.
“How dare you!” Nester screeched.
“I dare because I’m sick and tired of you treating your sister with such horrible disregard. She is not a heathen!”
But Nester hardly cared what Jeffrey had to say. “You are no longer employed! Do you hear me, you are fired!”
“But he isn’t, Nester,” Finnea said without thinking. She stepped forward, looking at Jeffrey rather than her brother, her brain trying to assimilate all that was happening. Her brother’s fury. The proposal. But her decision had already been made—in Matthew’s foyer with paintings lying in ruins around her. “Because I am going to marry him.”
“Oh, Finnea,” Jeffrey breathed, taking her shoulders and pulling her close.
“This is absurd!” Nester raged, rubbing his neck.
“I disagree.”
They swiveled around to find Hannah in the doorway.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “I believe congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you,” Finnea whispered, her heart beginning to pound Jeffrey took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, then whispered, “You won’t regret this.”
Regret?
The thought of Matthew flashed in her mind. His pain. His bellowing anger.
His kindness when he had saved her life.
But this, Jeffrey and Boston, was what she wanted. Not Africa, she reminded herself. Africa had nearly defeated her. Took all she had until she had nothing left to give.
Jeffrey gave her renewed hope. He cared for her, he was kind to her. But most of all, it was his full-grown children that swayed her in the end. Children not her own.
Isabel, her mind cried.
Tears threatened. She would have no more children, because she couldn’t bear to love some other child. Africa had taught her that most of all.
The days flew by with anticipation and preparation for the party, giving Finnea little time to think. It had been decided that they would announce the betrothal the night of her grand birthday gala.
Word had begun to filter through Boston’s inner circles of an impending engagement. The party was shaping up to be the premier event of the winter season. Her mother was beside herself with joy, and it was all a result of her.
For the first time since Finnea had arrived, she felt close to her mother, and she cherished the moments they shared.
Truly, life was finally falling into place. It was as if by becoming a bride-to-be she had finally been granted admittance into the secret club of Boston society. She told herself she was doing the right thing by marrying Jeffrey. He was mature and kind, and he adored her.
Everything was perfect. Everything, that is, except for the knot of apprehension growing inside her that refused to ease when she thought of the man she was going to marry.
It was Friday, her birthday, the day of the party when Finnea and Jeffrey rolled along Boylston Street in his black enameled landau. She had taken great pains with the errant curls of her red hair and had even dusted her cheeks with the horrid rice powder her mother insisted made her look more presentable. She should have been giddy with excitement. But the knot rose in her throat, choking off excitement.
“I’m so glad you are finally going to meet my mother,” he said, patting her hand.
Since their engagement two weeks ago, she had anticipated meeting the woman and having with her own mother-in-law-to-be exactly what her mother and Penelope shared. But day after day, Jeffrey had made one excuse after another until Finnea had begun to grow concerned that the meeting would never take place. She suspected it would have been put off even longer if this night hadn’t been the night of the announcement at the grand gala.
Finnea’s doubts and concerns must have shown on her face, because Jeffrey put his arm around her and said, “It’s going to be fine. What could possibly go wrong?” He patted her hands. “You know that I adore you, don’t you?”
Did he really? she wondered suddenly. And even if he did, was it enough?
Despite her intentions never to see Matthew again, she had gone to his house repeatedly since that fateful day when he met his father on the street corner, and every day she had been turned away. He was either out or unavailable, or simply sent word that he didn’t want to see her. And no matter how she had tried, Quincy hadn’t let her in.