Her body began to move. She wanted to give in. But how could she? How could she open up her heart and body without shredding what little was left of her soul? She had given herself once. She couldn’t do it again.
“Stop!” The word came out as a broken gasp. “Please. I can’t do this.”
He went still, his hands clasping her to him, though no longer in some attempt to arouse her. She had the fleeting thought that he was trying to fill her with strength.
“You can, Finn.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Let me help you. I’m on your side. Don’t you understand that?”
A shudder of emotion nearly undid her. She wanted to give in, to share her grief, and perhaps find out it wasn’t so unendurable. But she knew that wasn’t true. She could never forgive herself for not having saved her daughter.
“No, Matthew,” she said so quietly that the words were nearly lost in the room. “I can’t. This marriage is a mistake.”
She felt the hot anger that flashed through him, but as soon as she had uttered the words she knew there was only one solution. She couldn’t stay married to him because in truth she couldn’t be the mother he had bargained for. She couldn’t be a mother to his child any more than she could be a true wife.
“I am going to seek an annulment,” she stated.
With barely controlled motions, he set her away from him and turned her around to look at him. His eyes burned like blue fire.
“There will be no annulment, now or ever,” he stated with cold finality.
Then he was gone, disappearing through the doorway that separated their rooms.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite what Matthew had said, early the next morning Finnea sent a note explaining the situation regarding her shares of Winslet Ironworks to the man she knew had been her father’s lawyer. She also asked that he see to her annulment. She pushed away the heaviness that came over her at the thought—pushed away the image that leaped into her mind of strong fingers splayed over her abdomen, then drifting lower.
Her breath came out in a trembling shudder. Sensation rippled through her body at the thought of how Matthew had touched her, his fingers on her nipples, his hand brushing over the curve of her flesh.
She pressed her eyes closed. She couldn’t stay married to this man.
Later that day Finnea came downstairs for afternoon tea wearing another hunter’s shirt, combined with a pair of low-heeled boots beneath her skirt. Her long, curling red hair was down, secured at her nape by a leather tie. Proper Boston attire was gone. She relished the freedom, relished the sense of self she felt returning after months of trying to be someone she wasn’t, hoping her mother could love her. Swept-up hair and perfect gowns having failed, she might as well be comfortable.
Her boots clicked against the tiled entry hall floor of Dove’s Way, her stride determined. She entered the informal dining room and was awed by the large glass-paned doors looking out over the snow-covered gardens. The room was empty, except for the china, the silver-laden table, and Quincy.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Finnea whirled around to look for Matthew’s mother, only to realize he was talking to her.
Mrs. Hawthorne. Matthew’s wife.
A wave of unexpected pleasure washed over her. But she brushed it away. She wouldn’t be his wife for long.
“Good morning, Mr. Quincy.”
She noticed that the man’s normally ruddy cheeks were pale as he stood at attention by the side bar. “What’s wrong? You don’t look yourself.”
The butler pressed his fingers experimentally against his cheek, then winced. “Nothing, Mrs. Hawthorne. Just a bit of a toothache.”
She started toward him. “Let me have a look.”
His eyes went wide, and he took a step back. “Whatever for?”
“I learned a bit about tooth ailments while I was growing up.”
He warded her off as politely as he could. “Thank you, but I’m fine, Mrs. Hawthorne.” He gestured toward the selection of finger sandwiches, cakes, and tea. “What can I get for you?”
She studied him for a second and decided not to push. “I can get it, Mr. Quincy, thank you,” she said, distracted as she remembered the remedy Janji had always used to ease tooth pain.
She picked up a small plate of creamy bone china sprinkled with hand-painted flowers and thought of salt. A salt water wash. She retrieved a serving tong, recalling that one had to chew a fresh clove of garlic with the affected tooth, then pack the area with more salt and alum. She would make Mr. Quincy a concoction, but she wouldn’t mention it until she had it mixed up and ready.
She glanced around the dining room. “Where is… are the others?”
“Miss Mary has already eaten and returned upstairs. Shall I call her?”
“No,” she said hurriedly. “That won’t be necessary.”
He gave a brief, formal bow, then made to leave.
“And Mr. Hawthorne?” she asked before she could stop herself, the plate and silverware held suspended in the air.
Quincy halted, the creases in his weathered face deepening. “Mr. Hawthorne?” he asked, as if he had never heard of the man before.
Finnea looked at him oddly. “Yes, where is he? Will he be down soon?” She was certain she had heard him only minutes earlier just beyond the wall in his bedroom.
“Hmmm, well.” He cleared his throat and seemed to search for words. “He’s… out. Yes, out.” He nodded his head. “Left at noon, he did.”
Before she could ask for an explanation about the discrepancy, he hurried away, the graceful wooden door that led to the butler’s pantry swinging shut in his wake.
“That was strange,” she said to the empty room, tamping down the disappointment she felt at Matthew not being there.
It was ridiculous that she felt this way. She wanted him gone, but she was disappointed that he wasn’t there. More proof that this situation was impossible.
Afternoon tea suddenly lost its appeal. She set the plate aside, then headed for the front door. She wanted out, out of the house, away from her thoughts.
The frigid February air beckoned to her, and she nearly ran to the door. But just as she was pulling on her coat, she noticed Mary precariously making her way down the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her.
Thump, thump, thump. With her hair secured beneath a woolen hat, Mary came down each step, almost backward as she manhandled the traveling case that was very nearly as big as she.
“Mary!” Finnea exclaimed, frozen by surprise in the process of pulling on her winter wrap.
Mary whirled around and almost tumbled down the remaining step. Finnea automatically leaped forward to catch her, the child grabbing hold of her instinctively.
The feel of still-soft baby arms and shoulders teased Finnea’s mind. For a moment she lost herself to the sensation, imagined the tiny arms wrapped around her neck in childish affection.
“Thank you for steadying me, ma’am,” Mary stated with crisp formality. “I’m fine now.”
Abruptly Finnea let go, then briskly secured her coat. “What are you doing?” she asked, hating the threat of tears that burned in her eyes.
Last night, Finnea had decided that affecting a kind but businesslike mien would be best in dealing with this child, a manner that wouldn’t allow for bonds or attachments.
Mary raised her tiny chin and looked her in the eye. “I am running away. Then you won’t have to worry about meals to cook or being woken up too early. And rest assured,” she added in a voice far older than her meager years, “I planned to leave you a note. I can write.”
Finnea blanched, her guilt over yesterday’s display resurging. But which would be worse? she reasoned. Giving this innocent little girl false hope that she could be a true mother, or establishing a considerate but professional relationship? Yes, better to get things going as she intended they continue on—until the annulment came through.
She would be kind and polite. She would feed the child and clothe her, see to her needs. She would find what everyone referred to as a governess while she was waiting for her inheritance to be straightened out and for her annulment to come through. She could do no less. But first she had to convince the child to stay.
“Running away, is it? Good idea,” Finnea said with a definite nod.
Mary’s eyes went wide like tiny rounds of blue mint candy.
“In fact,” Finnea continued, buttoning the last button on her coat and heading for the front door, “I think I’ll do the same.”
Mary didn’t move, only stood at the bottom of the stairs, her traveling case lying on its side on the marble floor, her own coat fastened haphazardly to the top, the tiny boat buttons looking as if they were being tossed on a tempestuous sea.
At the door Finnea stopped, her hand on the heavily embossed brass knob. “Would you like to share a hired hack?” She twisted her lips and considered. “Or should we be economical and catch the trolley? If one is going to run away, one must start thinking about one’s finances, I suppose.”
Mary’s brow furrowed. Obviously she had given little, if any, thought to finances.
But then Mary gave her head a vigorous little shake as if clearing her mind of half-witted thoughts. “You can’t run away!”
Finnea focused on the child with the utmost seriousness. “Why ever not?”
“Well… because,” Mary stammered, her mind churning for a suitable explanation.
“Just because?”
“Because you’re a grown-up. Grown-ups don’t run away.”
“Really?” Finnea bit her lip and looked directly at the child. “Well, sometimes I don’t do things right and I muck it all up. It’s a bad habit of mine.” Did the child understand? Did she hear the apology?
But of course it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter.
Finnea pulled back her shoulders. “Perhaps we could make a deal. I won’t run away if you won’t.”
Mary considered her with dubious blue eyes, clearly wondering if she was serious or not. “Well, I suppose I could stay,” she replied carefully. “But only if you will.”
A poignant rush of emotion wrapped around Finnea’s heart, twisting, hurting.
The desperation that had driven her to the front door in the first place grew and swelled. More than ever she wanted to escape, wanted to feel the bracing winter cold against her cheeks.
Without another word, she pulled the door open. A gust of wind rushed into the house, winter-dried leaves swirling in the frigid air, dancing on the ice and salt-crusted flagstone steps that marched down to the walkway below. Finnea stood, staring, memories of the past threatening. She saw Africa. She saw gentle warm winds and tiny arms wrapping around her neck.
“Where are you going?” Mary demanded, concern lacing her voice. “You said you weren’t going to run away.”
“I’m just going to the market to get a few things to make a concoction for Mr. Quincy’s tooth. It shouldn’t take long.”
Mary eyed her doubtfully. “Maybe I should go with you.”
In case you don’t want to come back.
Finnea heard the words implied in the child’s tone.
The clock chimed the hour, filling the foyer with the echoing bongs.
“Fine,” Finnea said. “But you’d best do something about those buttons.”
Mary dropped her head until her chin was planted in her chest, and she studied the front of her coat. With thickly gloved fingers, the child attempted to undo the misplaced boats, but the heavy wool was pulled too tight. She fumbled and fumbled some more. Then she looked up at Finnea in frustrated defeat. “I can’t do it.”
Finnea’s mind went still, her heart pounding over the look on Mary’s face. Leaning down, Finnea quickly started on the fastenings, concentrating on the boats as they slipped out of their moorings. She felt hot and crowded, like she was suffocating. Her own fingers stumbled before she finally had the buttons straightened. But when she started to push back, she found herself face-to-face with Mary, their eyes locked, so close she could make out the thick curl of white-blond lashes. And her eyes. So sweet, just like Isabel’s.
“Thank you,” Mary whispered.
Finnea’s breath came out in a rush and she straightened abruptly. “Of course.”
The streets were filled with carriages and trolleys, while women in gowns with hems brushing the ground hurried toward their homes. Mary and Finnea leaned into the wind as they headed down the granite-block walkway that lined Marlborough Street toward the Public Gardens. From there they would angle across the park in the direction of downtown, a lengthy trek under the best of circumstances, miserable in such wind and cold.
“Why don’t we take a carriage?” Mary called out, the words muffled by the wind. “Now that we aren’t running away, I suppose we have a nickel or two we could spare.”
Finnea was taken in by the impish smile on Mary’s cherub face. The teasing, the humor. The need to hug the child tight.
Finnea could only offer a crisp, efficient nod before she looked around. “I don’t see a hired hack,” was all she said, forcefully putting from her mind the child’s crestfallen face that she didn’t respond to the joke. “We’ll look for one when we come out on Tremont Street.”
They hunkered down and continued on. Thankfully, as soon as they walked through the stately gates into the Public Gardens, the trees, regardless of their barren state, and the tall evergreen bushes buffered the elements. Mary and Finnea continued on in relief.
The path had been shoveled, so they managed with relative ease. They walked side by side, Finnea slowing her stride to match Mary’s.
“Where were you going to go when you ran away?” Finnea inquired.
Mary shrugged but didn’t answer.
“Back to your grandmother’s house?”
“No,” the child said finally, glancing up. “I was thinking of taking a ship.”
“Why did you want to go so far?” Finnea asked. “Wouldn’t you miss all your friends?”
Mary bit her lip, then said, “Oh yes, I’d miss them. And they’d miss me as well. Terribly. I’m popular, you know. But if a person is going to run away, they should do it right and run far away.”
Finnea thought of Matthew running to Africa. Was Mary the reason he had returned?
“Were you really going to run away?” Mary asked, breaking into her thoughts.