Louisa Rawlings (45 page)

“Turn off the water, Marcy.” The voice was soft, coming from somewhere beyond the mists.

“No,” she said dreamily. It was an effort to open her eyes.

“Marcy. The water.”

What could she do but obey the voice? She had no strength left. No will. She turned the faucet, stood there—in the little box—dripping. Why wasn’t there a place to lie down here? The door opened. She saw a thick towel. Hands. She allowed the hands to pull her out of the little box. Her eyes seemed filmed with gauze; nothing was clear. But the hands were tender, drying her like a baby. Gently they pushed her down onto the bed. She sighed and closed her eyes again, feeling the soft velvet beneath her back and hips.

Now the hands were touching her bosom. “Drew. My love,” she whispered. Drew was kissing her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. How funny! She didn’t know that Drew had a mustache. She put her arms around his neck. How could he make love to her if he still had his clothes on? “Love me,” she said. And then he was kissing her again.

But someone was at the door behind him. Through the gauze she could see
another
Drew. The Drew with the mustache stopped kissing her and stood up. The other Drew was shouting at the Drew with the mustache, “You bastard! If it weren’t for Willough, I’d kill you!”

He was so loud. And her head hurt. It was too confusing. Sh-h.-h-h! I can’t sleep with all that noise! She put her hands over her ears. The Drew with the mustache was going away. Now the other Drew was shouting at her. Words. Noise! Her brain was fuzzy. She tried to speak; her tongue was thick, choking the words before she could say them. She thought she said, Drew, help me. Something’s wrong with my head, my eyes. But there didn’t seem to be any sound in the room. And when she looked again at the doorway, it was empty.

She ought to follow Drew. Talk to him. Find out why he was angry. But she was tired…cold. She rolled up in the coverlet. “Why are you angry, Drew?” she mumbled. “Don’t be.” She should talk to him. But her limbs were like lead, and her head was buzzing.

She thought, I’ll speak to him in a little while. Whatever he’s angry about…I know it will be fine when I talk to him. But sleep first, Marcy…just for a few minutes…close my eyes…a few minutes…

She woke with her head pounding. She opened her eyes. A red-hot poker pierced her brain. She groaned, squeezed her eyes shut again. Had it been a dream? She’d been lying in bed and Arthur had been kissing her. Arthur! Willough’s husband! She laughed shakily. It must have been a dream! And then Drew in the doorway, saying all those things. Dreams were funny. While they were going on, you couldn’t always understand them, but later, thinking it over, the dream became clear.

What had Drew been saying in the dream? “You wanted a rich man. You always wanted a rich man. But you couldn’t even wait. Another day, and I would have sold my soul to give you what you wanted!”

What a funny thing to say! But the whole dream had been ridiculous. She—naked on the bed while Arthur kissed her! She gasped, her hand going to her breast. Oh my God! But she was naked now! She was afraid to open her eyes. If she should be in the railroad car…

She sat up in horror, seeing the blue velvet draperies of Brian’s room. What have I done? she thought in a panic. Think!
Think
! What had Drew said? “It wasn’t enough for me to give up my painting! You couldn’t wait to have all your pretty things! For Willough’s sake, you might have chosen another rich man to seduce besides Arthur!”

She was trembling violently now, remembering every angry word.
Had
she tried to seduce Arthur? Oh, God! Why was it she could remember what Drew had said, but she couldn’t remember what she’d done? The last thing she remembered before the kissing was leaving the dining table. She didn’t know how she’d gotten into bed with Arthur. Or why she was naked. She didn’t think he’d actually made love to her; Drew had come in before anything had happened beyond kisses.

But how could Drew ever forgive her? What was it he’d said? He’d given up painting! Oh, God! How could he? It meant so much to him. And he’d sold his soul, he said. What did that mean? He’d mentioned once, a long time ago, that his father had wanted him to take over the business someday. Could that have been what he meant? The condition that he’d decided to accept? So that he could have money for Marcy?

She began to cry. Money for her. And she hadn’t ever really wanted it. She’d only wanted to be able to help him, to love him. She hadn’t wanted money.

Or had she? She had been a “countess” last night, enjoying Arthur’s attentions, enjoying the rich surroundings, the servants, the food and wine. A part of her
must
have wanted Arthur to make love to her. He wouldn’t have tried otherwise.

You’re wicked, Marcy, she thought. No wonder Drew must hate you now.

She staggered out of bed, clutching at the chair to keep from falling. She dressed hastily, still trembling. She’d never felt so weak in her life. She stared at herself in the mirror. What am I doing here? she thought. With these people? In this life where I don’t belong? Once she’d thought herself safe, away from the mountains that had killed her parents. She must have been mad. There was no safety here.

She hurried out of Brian’s room. Keller was in the kitchen galley. “Good morning, Mrs. Bradford. Do you wish some breakfast?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He reached over to a shelf, handed her a sealed envelope. “This came early this morning. By messenger. I didn’t want to disturb you. The messenger didn’t think an answer was wanted.”

She stared at the envelope. Her name, Mrs. Drewry Bradford, was written on the outside. In Drew’s neat hand. She tore open the envelope. A stack of greenbacks tumbled out. Fighting back her tears, she stumbled to a chair and sat down, her hand pressed tightly against her lips to keep from crying out in pain.

Keller was alarmed. “Mrs. Bradford! Are you sure I can’t give you something?”

She took a deep breath. “No.”

“I can call you a cab to take you to the Bradford house.”

“No.” She knelt in the galley and gathered up the money, replacing all but twenty-five dollars, which she put into her handbag. She handed the envelope to Keller. “Please see that Mr. Drewry gets this. And if you will, you can direct me to the ticket office of the Grand Central Terminal. Will I need a cab for that?”

“No, ma’am. It’s just the other side of the platform and down the track. I’ll take you there. Shall I bring your valise, ma’am?”

“Yes, please, Keller.”

“Do you want to catch a train, Mrs. Bradford?”

“Yes. To the North Woods.” I’m going back where I belong, she thought. Long Lake. Her mountains. Her sweet Wilderness.

“I’m going home.”

The train whistle shrilled, sending a puff of steam into the afternoon drizzle. Drew pulled up his collar against the cold rain and dashed into the waiting carriage. The whistle sounded again. Like a shriek of pain. Drew had an irrational urge to open his mouth and echo that mournful sound, wailing his grief to the impersonal sky.

No! He couldn’t afford to give way to despair, couldn’t allow himself to feel anything yet. There would be time to mourn Marcy, time to allow his numbed heart to acknowledge its pain. But first he had to deal with his father.

His father. He’d briefly contemplated writing a letter. A coward’s way. As difficult and as painful as this meeting would be, he knew it had to be face-to-face. He had no illusions that Brian would understand, but he had to try. For his own peace of mind.

And there was something else. Perhaps it was losing Marcy that had done it. The thought of the lonely years without her. He felt pity for his father, an unexpected surge of feeling that made him regret the distance between them. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If his father could swallow his disappointment, find forgiveness in his heart…

Martha met him at the door of his father’s house and ushered him into the parlor. A cheery fire burned in the stone fireplace, dispelling the afternoon chill. “Would you care for something to eat, Mr. Drewry? A sandwich? Or some hot tea?”

“Thank you, no. I ate on the train.”

Martha frowned. “You have no luggage. Won’t you be staying over?”

“I’m not sure. I…left my traps at the depot. If I decide to stay…”

“I’ll have Robert fetch them in that case. Don’t you fret. Now I’ll just tell your father you’re here, and then I’ll set another place for you in the dining room.”

Drew nodded as she left the room, then stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. He wasn’t sure Father would want him to stay for supper. Not after he heard what Drew had to say.

“By God, boy, it’s a pleasure to see you!” Brian Bradford strode into the room, hand outstretched.

“Sir.” Drew answered the handshake with his own strong grip. The two men didn’t meet eye to eye: What Drew lacked in brawn over the more muscular Brian, he made up in inches, towering over his father. He sighed now, remembering. Brian had somehow viewed the height of his growing son as a kind of challenge. He wondered if they could ever be friends. Especially now.

“Where’s that wife of yours? I thought I’d get to meet her.”

“She’s…gone.”

“For good?”

“I expect so.”

Brian frowned. “She didn’t walk out on you, did she? Walk out on a
Bradford
?”

The pain was still too fresh. Drew turned away and stared out the window. Had it only been last night? Marcy…and Arthur? “Let’s just say it was mutual,” he growled.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Brian sounded genuinely sympathetic. “There’s no chance for a reconciliation, I suppose.” He sighed. “Well, as long as it doesn’t affect our arrangements… You can take a few days off, pull yourself together. Then we can get down to work.”

“No.”

“What?”

Drew turned and gazed steadily at his father. “I’m sorry, Father. That’s why I’m here. I can’t work for you. I’m not suited. Never was. I’m a painter. I found that out in Paris. I may not be a good painter, but I’m a painter.”

“But your message from Paris…coming into the business…” Brian’s face was beginning to turn red. “Dammit, boy, what was that supposed to mean? Was it a goddam lie?”

“No. I meant it. But I was doing it for…Marcy”—he almost choked on her name—“not because I thought it was right for me.”

“And now you intend to go back on your word? Like a damned turncoat?”

“That’s a little harsh, Father,” he muttered. “But…yes. I think it’s best. For your sake as well as mine. My heart wouldn’t be in it. You could give me the knowledge of the business, but I never could acquire your passion for it. I think that would distress you sooner or later. I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry
? And what about the money I sent to you? On false pretenses!”

“I’ll pay you back. As soon as I can.”

Brian sneered. “Can I trust you? Any more than I trusted your lies from Paris?”

Drew bit back the angry retort. “Send a lawyer around with a promissory note. I’ll sign it,” he said evenly.

“I’ll send Arthur.”

Drew exhaled through his clenched teeth. “If you send that son of a bitch, I’ll kill him.”

Brian looked surprised. “What has Arthur ever done to you?”

“That’s between Arthur and me.”

Brian shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “So you’ll pay me back.” His voice was sharp with bitterness. “But what about the son I thought I had?”

Drew flinched. That hurt. More than he thought it would, after all these years. “You still have him. Try to understand, Father. Painting is important to me. It’s my life. I can no more give it up than give up breathing. I know that now.”

Brian glared at him. “My ‘artist son.’” His lip curled in scorn. “Malice, that’s all it is. You’ve always resented me.”

“It has nothing to do with you! If I could be the son you wanted—and still live with myself—I would!”

“
Malice
! I wanted a son who was a man, not a weakling who spent his days dabbling with paint!”

“Don’t, Father.” Drew’s hands were fists at his sides.

“Have you learned to hold your liquor like a man?”

There was no point in staying. He’d only say things he’d regret later. And he was feeling too vulnerable. He’d lost Marcy. Perhaps it had been too much to hope that he and his father could make a new beginning, but he’d wanted it. God, how he’d wanted it! “I’ll be going now,” he said quietly.

“No!” Brian poured himself another glass of whiskey, then filled a second tumbler nearly to the brim and held it out to Drew. “Here!”

“Please, Father…”

“Are you afraid?”

“Don’t do this.”

“
Are you afraid
, my artist son?”

Drew swore under his breath and strode to his father, snatching the glass from his hand. “To your health, sir,” he hissed, and raised the glass to his lips. He downed it in one long gulp and slammed the empty tumbler onto the sideboard. “I’m used to absinthe! Now, may I go?”

Brian’s angry glance wavered; then he recovered himself. “Damn you, boy. Malice. Nothing but malice. You never wanted to come into the business because you’re afraid you’re not as good as I am!” He poked a belligerent finger into Drew’s chest. “Admit it.” Another poke. “Admit it!”