Hannah looked at Finnea, their eyes locking. Finnea braced herself for the biting remark.
But it didn’t come.
In a moment Finnea would never forget, Hannah slowly took her hand away from Penelope, then pulled herself up to her full height, her own eyes like ice.
“Last-minute plan?” the older woman said, her voice commanding, her eyes fastening on the younger woman. “This is no last-minute plan, Penelope. I have known about it all along.”
With the cool dignity of a queen, she stepped farther away, distancing herself from the woman. “Do you really think my granddaughter would be foolish enough to marry someone who only wants her for her money? Good God, no. In fact, just days ago your very own Nester fired the man. Don’t you remember? You were sitting right there.”
Penelope struggled to mask her surprise, and Nester choked.
“I heard it myself,” Hannah added, looking at her grandson. “Didn’t you fire Jeffrey Upton just the other day?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I’m surprised you’ve forgotten, Penelope.”
The tension was thick, filling the room. Hannah and Penelope stared at each other, and Finnea knew that Hannah was daring the younger woman to say another word. If Penelope did, she might win this battle, but she would lose the war. Her grandmother would see to it.
Tears of gratitude burned in Finnea’s eyes. But her breath was swept away when Matthew turned to Hannah and said, “I may not be much to look at any longer, but I have wealth and I promise to care for your granddaughter with all my power.”
Only when Matthew looked at Finnea and extended his hand to her did she see his uncertainty and his frustration. He was doing this, but he didn’t want to.
Yet again, he was saving her. Her debts were mounting.
He was proving that he wasn’t a coward, as she had so callously and unfairly thrown in his face. How could she be anything less?
“I would be proud to be your wife,” she said, walking up and taking his hand.
Hannah picked up a glass of champagne. “To my granddaughter and her future husband.”
The crowd gasped.
“May they enjoy a long and healthy life filled with joy.”
The crowd began to talk at once, a din of noise. Hannah started to step away, but Finnea caught her arm. The woman looked down at the ringers that clutched her, then slowly met her eye.
“Why?” Finnea whispered, her voice barely steady.
Long seconds ticked by before Hannah raised her hand and laid it on top of Finnea’s. “Because you are strong and brave. You have more courage in your little finger than Nester has in his entire body. I may not like this situation we find ourselves in, but you are my granddaughter. And Penelope had no right.”
With that, she stepped away, leaving Matthew and Finnea alone among the crowd, cocooned against the noise.
“I appreciate what you are doing,” Finnea said to him, her voice soft but strong in the clatter of talk all around them. “And rest assured, I will work quickly to deal with my inheritance problems. Then we can quietly break off the engagement, and you won’t be bothered with me ever again.”
He didn’t respond, only looked at her in a way that was unnerving.
She chuckled uncomfortably. “You were quite convincing in your speech. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn you were serious.”
“I am serious.”
“What?” she gasped.
“I proposed and you accepted. I intend to marry you, Finnea.”
“Now, Matthew, it was all for show.”
“Boston doesn’t know that, unless you would like me to gain their attention now and set them straight.”
“But you can’t!”
“I can,” he said coldly. “And don’t doubt that I will.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“You once said that you owed me; now I’ve decided to call in that debt. We will marry, as we just announced. The fact is you need a husband.” He hesitated. “And I need a mother for my child.”
Child.
Her world tilted. “You have a child?” She could barely get the words past her lips.
“Yes. A daughter.”
Her mind reeled. “How old?” was all she could ask.
“Six.”
She pressed her eyes closed, feeling a strong sucking pull at her heart.
She had fled Africa to put memories of children behind her. Memories of a child named Isabel. Her precious child who would have been six years old this year if she had lived.
PART THREE
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.
Blaise Pascal
From the Journal of Matthew Hawthorne
I thought I had left Africa behind forever, the unfamiliar desire — sharp, intense, not contained or polite — the emotion. But I realize now that in many ways I never left. I drew my Africa to me. I was still in that jungle, the canopy of trees and vines obscuring the sky. Finnea in my arms.
When I said we would marry, I saw her doubt. I felt it in my soul. It flickered in her eyes like fires burning just beyond the thick curtain of trees in the African forest. But once I admitted to myself that I wanted her, admitted that whatever had been dead inside me had opened up and started to breathe again whenever she was beside me, how could I let her go?
Chapter Thirteen
She couldn’t do it.
Finnea walked up the long center aisle of Trinity Church, her gown a shimmering cloud of velvet and lace, a splash of weeping roses trailing from her hands. The priest waited at the altar, Matthew at his side, her family and his gathered together, and she knew with sinking certainty that she couldn’t go through with this wedding—no matter what she owed him.
Finnea’s eyes burned and her throat tightened. A child.
She hadn’t thought…
It hadn’t occurred to her…
How could she marry this man who expected her to be a mother to his child?
The church walls closed in around her, making it hard to breathe. Thick, hard-chiseled stones and gritty mortar blocked out the air. She had a sudden yearning for tall, dry grasses and wide-open spaces, a place where she could see forever and breathe. She longed for the smell of rain when it first hits dust, dry and sharp, tiny puffs filling the air.
A wave of anxiety nearly choked her. She had lost everything. Her dreams of her mother’s love. Dreams of her family. She realized now that she had even lost herself as she tried to fit into a society that had no interest in her. Her dreams had been ripped apart, revealing that there was nothing here for her. Standing in the church, Finnea had no idea what was left.
Matthew?
He made her think of Africa. She had tried to outrun the pain, but by running away it was as if the loss had grown stronger, like wine fermenting in a barrel.
A mere three days had passed since her disastrous birthday.
Tongues had been wagging ever since. To make matters worse, Matthew had insisted they marry quickly and had obtained a special license, creating all the more titillating speculation about their marriage.
Things had moved too fast for her to think straight. Before she knew what was happening, she was walking up the church aisle toward a man who made it clear that she had little choice but to marry him, yet seemed angry about the very ultimatum he had set before her.
But stripped of whatever illusion had remained about her family, she knew she couldn’t be at the mercy of Nester. She felt trapped between her debt to Matthew and her need to free herself from her brother.
She couldn’t see any other solution. Matthew demanded they marry immediately or not at all. Clearly he was willing to do anything to gain a mother for his child.
But even when faced with the harsh reality of her brother, Finnea didn’t know how she could go through with the marriage. She might owe Matthew, but she couldn’t tell him about her past—about Isabel. That was a private pain she would share with no one. Not even Matthew. And if she couldn’t tell him, how could she marry him?
But she had already agreed.
Finnea pressed her eyes closed for one long second, breathing deeply. Her shimmering gown was the same one she had worn to the birthday gala, only now she wore a mantle of lace that Emmaline Hawthorne had brought for her. “A gift,” she had said, “for my new daughter.”
Swift, sweet joy shot through her, only dimmed by her own mother’s unrelenting disappointment.
Finnea looked up at the nave of the church. She sought peace in the cathedral ceilings and carved stone pillars. She sought courage from the scenes depicted in the stained-glass windows before she focused on the priest.
The man looked ill at ease in his flowing robes of black and white with hints of purple, though who could blame him, based on the less-than-happy countenances of the wedding party. Bradford Hawthorne stood like hard, cold marble in a stiff black broadcloth jacket and creased trousers, his face unreadable. Even Emmaline Hawthorne, in a lovely gown of soft blue chintz and a cameo at her neck, looked as though she were having second thoughts.
Then there was Finnea’s own family. Nester was angry at losing control over her shares, Leticia was weepy, and Hannah sat ramrod straight, her features implacable.
And Matthew’s older brother. She looked at Grayson Hawthorne. He was the only person there she couldn’t quite figure out. He stood like stone, much like his father. He didn’t seem altogether opposed to the match, but rather confused and concerned by the sudden turn of events. The quiet solidarity between the brothers was apparent, and a flash of yearning swept through Finnea over the contrast between Matthew’s brother and hers.
Finnea turned away from the thought as she continued up the aisle, turned away from the sudden burn of her eyes. And when she did, she saw Matthew’s daughter, six-year-old Mary. A sweet child sitting next to Emmaline. The little girl had the blondest curls she had ever seen and round blue eyes, a rosebud mouth, and the face of an angel. She sat quietly, focused on a finely made porcelain doll, her small hand stroking the doll’s hair as if trying to soothe it. Finnea knew in truth that Mary was trying to soothe herself.
Finnea’s heart pounded. At any minute she felt as if she would scream, the scream she had held back, locked away for the past two years. She felt it bubble in her soul, begin to surge. Threatening. Oh, Isabel. Her dear sweet Isabel.
Finnea shrank from the memories, but her mind reeled with images that were far clearer than the scene around her.
“Mama…”
Finnea pressed her eyes closed. Please, not here. She turned her head as if she could turn away from the whispered word in her head.
“Oh, Mama, you are so funny!”
Finnea laughed into the clear spring day. “But you are funnier, my silly.”
Everyone who saw them together had said they sounded just alike, just as they looked so much alike. The same red hair and bright green eyes. Even the way they walked was the same, hand in hand, cutting a path through the long, dry grasses.
“Do you love me, Mama?” Isabel asked suddenly one day.
Finnea stopped and bent down, her brow furrowed. “Of course I love you.”
Isabel looked at her, large green eyes wide with intensity, the flowing native wrap so white against her sun-golden skin, and gently touched her mother’s cheek with tiny hands as if memorizing the feel. “Only me? “
Finnea pulled her daughter close, her embrace fierce. “Yes, only you.”
“Oh, Isabel.”
The words choked her, and her head swam with pain and panic. She felt as if she were in a tunnel with no way out, the darkness sucking at her, pulling her in more deeply.
Her daughter was gone, taking what was left of her heart. How could she possibly love another?
Breaths coming in painful gasps, Finnea tore her gaze away from Mary. If she didn’t escape, she knew she would scream. And if she started to scream now, she wasn’t sure if she could ever stop.
But just when she would have gathered her skirts and fled down the aisle, she looked up at Matthew and saw an unexpected vulnerability barely hidden beneath his chiseled fierceness. He was certain she would flee, and somehow that hurt him. His face was turned just so, in that way that minimized the sight of his scar. That was when she realized she couldn’t do it—she couldn’t leave him at the altar after he had come to her aid yet again.
“Miss Winslet?” the priest prompted impatiently.
There were no alternatives. She owed him, though who would have guessed the price she would have to pay.
“Miss Winslet?”
In what seemed like only a flash of time, Finnea took the remaining steps to the altar, barely aware of the priest’s words until he asked, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Her head swam.
“Miss Winslet? Do you or don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
She only whispered the words, but they seemed to echo in the cavernous house of God. Bradford made some kind of disgruntled noise deep in his throat, Emmaline sighed, and Nester snorted. But what Finnea was most aware of was how she could actually feel Matthew ease.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The words echoed in her mind, much as they echoed against the high ceilings. She looked at Matthew and took in this man, tall and stunningly handsome in his black formal jacket with cutaway tails, white tie, and waistcoat. Her husband.
Her breath caught at the look that came into his eyes. Dark. Possessive.
Her heart began to beat harder, and her lips parted. His gaze never left hers as his arm came around her, strong and secure, and he dipped his head. But a mere breath from her lips, he stopped. “You’re mine now,” he whispered for only her to hear, his voice like gravel. Then he covered her mouth with his own.
Despite the audience, the kiss was deep and demanding, and her fingers curled into the fine pleats of his waistcoat. His tongue twined with hers as one, his strong hand drifted to her lower back, pressing her close.
She went willingly, her body spinning with a sweet yearning that left her breathless. She was married. To this man— who alternately made her yearn, then made her need to run, just as he had in the jungle.