She was barely aware when the priest cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Grayson chuckled.
Red burst into her cheeks as Matthew stepped away, the look on his face bold and satisfied. Her body tingled with sensations she didn’t understand, sensations that fought with the embarrassment. He had kissed her before with a sensuality and passion that melted her knees, but never with such utter possession.
She could hardly look away from him as the priest hurriedly finished the ceremony, then dashed down the steps to the long aisle. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
Emmaline was the first to approach them. Her eyes were filled with tears of either sadness or joy as she took Matthew’s hand and pulled him close. “Congratulations, my dear son,” she said softly, kissing him on the cheek.
Then she turned to Finnea and kissed her, too. Just when Finnea thought she would pull back, the woman whispered, “Make him happy. Please.”
Emmaline retreated, all sign of tears gone, and was led away by her husband, who never said a word.
In the end, only Grayson and little Mary remained, the rest of the wedding party departing down the center aisle. Finnea watched them go with a mixture of envy and dismay.
“I apologize for our father,” Grayson stated, his deep, rich voice resonating in the vacant space.
Finnea saw Matthew watch as Bradford departed. He clearly loved the man in spite of everything. But mixed with that love seemed to be a newly formed anger, as if he had been forced to reconsider his long-held assessment.
“But enough about our father,” Grayson stated. He reached out and swept little Mary into his arms. The child glanced at Matthew, before burying her face in her uncle’s shoulder.
Matthew’s expression grew taut, but Grayson didn’t notice. “I believe congratulations are in order.” He turned to Matthew, his smile growing devilish. “May I kiss the bride?”
“A handshake will do.”
Grayson burst out his laughter. “Now, now, little brother.” He winked outrageously at Finnea, then glanced back at Matthew. “If Lucas were here, he’d steal a kiss. I, at least, have asked nicely.”
Matthew scowled. “Have you heard from Lucas?”
“Yes. He wanted to be here. But you know how he and father are. Lucas didn’t want to cause a scene.”
Matthew nodded as if he understood.
“Now, about that kiss,” Grayson added, his dark eyes glittering roguishly.
“That’s enough from you,” Matthew commanded, then reached out and pulled Finnea close.
Her heart kicked at the possessive gesture. She could feel the heat of Matthew and smell the clean, spicy aroma of him. No perfumes, like she had learned men in America so often wore. He smelled wonderful and rugged, and she found herself leaning against him—as if somehow he could protect her. With a start, she pushed away, realizing in that moment that for all his anger he made her feel safe.
She looked up at him, startled. How, when he had made it clear time and again that he wanted nothing to do with her, could he make her feel so safe?
Matthew didn’t look any happier about the situation than she felt, but still he didn’t let her go.
Soon enough Grayson left, leaving Matthew, Finnea, and Mary alone in the empty church. Feelings of safety fled.
If you dance with the devil, someday you’ll pay.
Janji’s words from long ago.
She had heard him say it countless times, but never understood it until now. She was married, to Matthew—a man she had failed to tell of her past, a man who didn’t want her, or anyone. A man who wanted oblivion. He had warned her. But she had married him anyway. And now she stood before his daughter.
Long ago she had thought her heart could break no more. But standing in Trinity Church, she felt the tattered remains break apart completely.
How had she ever thought she could do this?
“I have a few rules, and if you follow them, I see no reason why we shouldn’t get along.”
Matthew eyed Finnea warily, as did Mary. They stood in the foyer of Dove’s Way only minutes after the wedding ceremony.
Who was this straightforward, no-nonsense woman before him? he wondered as he stared at Finnea.
She was dressed in a proper gown, looking every inch the perfect lady. The only testament to her former wildness was in her eyes, vibrant and green like the African jungle. But combined with that vibrancy was a coldness—a distance she had erected between them that he didn’t understand.
Matthew was hardly certain of what had transpired in the church. He had been tired, his hand feeling like needles were stuck in it. He had barely managed to put the ring on her finger without shaking. His face hurt and his head throbbed, and now he found himself married. For better or for worse. And right now he was getting a full dose of worse.
“First,” Finnea continued, addressing Mary, “if you’re hungry, talk to Mr. Quincy. I don’t cook.”
Matthew’s eyes went wide.
“Second,” she added, casually smoothing the folds of her skirt, “if you go out, be sure to leave a note.”
This time Mary’s eyes went wide.
“You do write, don’t you?” Finnea asked, worrying her lower lip. But she didn’t wait for an answer. “And finally, don’t wake me before noon unless you are seriously injured or physically ill.” She thought for a minute, then nodded her head. “That’s about it.”
Matthew stared at his new wife much as his daughter did, stunned. He was sure at any moment the old Finnea, his Finnea, would burst out laughing and say it was all a joke. But this Finnea only turned away.
He caught her fingers, and for one fleeting moment he nearly laced them with his. He could feel her tremble, her eyes darkening with vulnerability. But before he could make sense of it, the defiance boldly surged back, making him doubt he had seen anything else.
She glanced down at the hand that held her before meeting his gaze. “Did I not make myself clear?”
Her voice held no weakness, no quaver, no trembling. His jaw muscles ticked. “Yes, you made yourself quite clear.”
“Good.” With that she walked away, her low heels clicking on marble, only stopping when she came to the bottom of the stairs. “I thought I’d take the yellow room I saw earlier. Could you have someone bring up my things?”
Matthew stood very still, his back rigid, his shoulders taut. The only sound in the house came from the tick of the hall clock and the occasional clatter of city traffic over cobbles beyond the door. She had chosen the room farthest from his own, and now she stared at him, daring him to contradict her choice.
He looked at her hard, anger ticking like a clock inside him. After long seconds, his gaze never wavering from hers, he called out.
“Quincy,” he barked.
The butler came running, his coattails flapping. “Yes, sir?”
“Please have Miss—rather, Mrs.—Hawthorne’s belongings taken to the yellow room.”
“Of course, Mr. Hawthorne. I’ll have them sent right up,” he said, hurrying away as Finnea took the stairs.
Matthew and Mary watched her go. At length, Matthew turned to his daughter and started to explain, to offer some reassuring remark about this woman who was supposed to be her new mother.
But the instant he looked at her, she dropped her gaze to study her shoes, her doll held tightly in her arms. The gesture tore at his heart. He knew that she would look at anything as long as she didn’t have to look at him.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, unsure as he was of what would come out.
“May I be excused?” she whispered softly.
He nodded his head but then realized that since she wouldn’t look at him she wasn’t aware that he had answered.
“Yes,” he said carefully, fighting back emotion. “Quincy will show you to your new room.”
But before he could say anything else, she turned in her tiny black button boots and ran to the front door.
Mary couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. She heard her father’s shouts to come back.
“I will not,” she whispered desperately, dashing away tears.
She hurried down the steps before he could reach her. Slipping through the yard of a house at the corner of Marlborough and Berkeley, Mary made her way to Commonwealth Avenue. Her steps didn’t slow until she came to the street she had lived on her whole life. The world fell away with each step she took, until she was walking the path she knew by heart—knew each crack in the walkway, each rail of black wrought-iron fencing, the snow on the spikes looking like downy white hats.
A tall house of red brick with black shutters and a high mansard roof stood out like a welcoming light. Home. Her real home.
Time went still, then swirled backward. Memories sprang to life. Real and vivid.
As if coming out of a bad dream, she hurried up the steps and was surprised when the knob on the front door was locked. Where was her mother?
She knocked, but no one answered. The curtains were drawn, everything quiet. She’d have to wait. Her mother was no doubt shopping or having tea.
She stared at the door. She didn’t notice the long minutes that ticked by or the sun that began to set as she waited. Patiently. Her mother would come home.
Lights came on in the houses all around her, though her house remained dark. But still she waited, only sinking down onto the step when her legs grew weary, resting her head on her knees.
Matthew saw her from the corner. He stopped in his tracks, his throat tight. He had been everywhere. His parents’, all through the Public Gardens and the Commons. Up and down each street of the Back Bay. But he had never guessed that she would come here, to this house where seven years ago he had brought his young wife, to this house where a year later he had shared the joy of their new daughter.
Never taking his eyes off his child, he walked up to the house that had been vacant now for nearly two years. When he turned up the flagstone path that led to the front door, Mary’s head shot up. Their eyes locked and held.
“She’s gone, baby,” he said softly. “She’s not coming back.”
He watched as her blank stare flashed with devastation, then emptiness. He understood so well.
She closed her eyes, one tear squeezing through to roll down her cheek. “I know,” she whispered.
But when he would have reached out to her, she dashed her tiny hand angrily across her face and raced back toward the house on Marlborough Street.
Chapter Fourteen
Breakfast the next morning was no better. As soon as Matthew walked into the dining room, Mary began to hum quietly, stroking her doll. Matthew stiffened and his heart sank. He hated this, hated that he didn’t know how to bridge the gap between them. He would have turned on his heels and let her eat alone in peace if Finnea hadn’t just walked into the room.
Something was different, he realized at the sight of her. Then he noticed that she wore the flowing white shirt of a hunter, the small, round, wooden buttons securely fastened to just below her neck. It was a shirt like the one she had worn on the train. She had tucked the tails of the shirt into the waist of a proper ladies’ skirt that any Boston matron would be content to wear. The mix was startling. And provocative. The wildness mixed with propriety.
Matthew nearly chuckled at her defiance until a stab of pain burned through him when he reached to pull out her chair. His fingers tingled, and a dull ache throbbed through his arm and shoulder. When he glanced up, he found Finnea studying him curiously. Her brow furrowed, her head tilting slightly in confused consideration. For a second he was sure she had found him out, understood his damning weakness. But when he bit back the pain and held her chair with a bland smile in hopes of appearing casual, she seemed to shake away whatever confusion she had felt, and sat down.
It occurred to him that it would be harder to hide this damnable affliction with this woman and his daughter living with him. Of course some part of him had known it all along. But he had wanted Finnea, and he had pushed all other considerations from his mind.
The dining room was silent except for the crystalline clink of silver on china. Matthew sat back and drank his coffee, leaving his meal untouched. He didn’t dare risk exposure by trying to eat. In the future, he decided, he would eat alone.
He studied her over sips of coffee. He knew she was uncomfortable. And Mary barely touched her food.
The silence stretched out as they picked at their meals.
It was Mary who finally asked to be excused just as Quincy entered.
“Don’t you want some pancakes, Miss Mary?” the butler asked, a friendly smile pulling at his aged face. “I had Violet make your favorite.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quincy, but I’m full.” She looked at her father, then dropped her gaze as if for one brief second she had forgotten his face. “May I be excused?”
Long seconds ticked by. “Yes,” he said finally.
As soon as Mary was gone, Finnea pushed up from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me as well.”
“No, I will not excuse you.”
His voice was a quiet command, making Finnea stop in her tracks. She glanced at him from across the table. His face was lined with a warrior’s hardness, the intensity of his gaze making her breath catch.
At length, he asked, “What is it about my daughter that upsets you? Or is it just me that you don’t like?”
The question startled her. She hadn’t expected him to broach the subject so directly. Her mind swam with possible answers, some true, some not.
How to tell him the truth?
How to explain her stupidity, her naďveté? How to explain the love she had felt for her daughter that made the foolishness of her conception insignificant? At least to her. But it mattered to everyone else. She had learned that in Africa.
Her father had been furious—furious at the man he had treated like a son, who in turn had betrayed his trust. But he had been furious at her as well, for stupidly giving in to a man full of false love and gossamer-thin promises. Gatwith Neilander had charmed them all: her father, her, the natives. He had arrived from Belgium with his reddish-blond hair and laughing green eyes, and taught them better farming techniques. Later, he had slipped away, having taught Finnea a good deal more than that.