Louisa Rawlings (46 page)

Drew was beginning to lose his self-control. All the hours of torment he’d suffered since he’d found Marcy and Arthur together were beginning to take their toll. He backed away from his father. “If you say so. Now let me go, for God’s sake!” His voice was almost pleading.

“Malice!” roared Brian, and swung at his son. This time Drew deflected the blow, grabbing at his father’s arm. They wrestled silently for a moment, muscles tensed, hands clenched to hands. Then Brian grunted, his grip broken by Drew’s young strength. He glared at Drew, all his frustration, all his anger in that one glance.

Drew felt as though he would cry. He thought, I need your friendship, Father! Not your hatred. Not now. With a groan, he clasped his father to his chest, wrapping his arms around the older man.

Brian wrenched himself free. “Get out.”

Drew took a deep breath. His father was unforgiving—it was too late for there to be anything between them. “I’ll pay back what I owe you,” he said tiredly. “Every penny.”

“I’ll expect it.”

He had to try one more time. “Father…” he said, and held out his hand.

Deliberately Brian turned his back on his son. “Get out,” he said. “I never want to see you again.”

Chapter Eleven

“Brigid, see that the girls take down the mirrors in the drawing room. I noticed they were covered with fly specks.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gray. Will you be wearing your mauve velvet gown tonight?”

Willough nodded, pulling on her chamois gloves. “I expect so. I’ll need my lavender corset to go with it. And see that the dust covers from the ballroom chairs are removed with a minimum of shaking. I don’t want the house filled with dust during the party tonight.”

Brigid smiled. “And it wouldn’t be healthful for the little one, ma’am, and that’s a fact.”

“Of course.” Willough felt a pang of guilt. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Cecily was her baby, sweet, helpless, and innocent. Why did she find it so hard to care?

I know why, she thought. Because Cecily was Arthur’s child as well. All the months she’d carried her, she’d never forgotten that. And never forgotten the horror of Arthur invading her body on their wedding night, and so many nights afterward, to plant his conquering seed.

Perhaps if she’d been able to nurse Cecily longer… That first week, holding the infant to her breast, she’d felt an unfamiliar stirring of feeling, a rush of love for the tiny babe. But then the fever had followed, drying up her milk, racking her body with aches and pains and hot, swirling nightmares. When she recovered, she found that Arthur had already hired a wet nurse, arranged for the christening, settled on the name—for his daughter. As though Willough didn’t matter. Her blossoming maternal instinct had dried up as surely as had her breasts.

She stepped out into the September sunshine and breathed deeply. What a glorious morning! Crisp and sunny with a clear blue sky. It was so good to be out-of-doors again. She’d felt like a prisoner all those weeks, lying in her bed. But she’d had a difficult delivery, and then the fever. And Dr. Page, who had encouraged her activity up until her confinement, was suddenly a tyrant, ordering her to stay in bed or within the boundaries of her own home until she was fully recovered. And then the weeks of rain that followed had kept her homebound. She’d been well enough to plan tonight’s party, their first formal entertaining since Cecily had been born. But this morning, seeing the rain clouds gone at last, she had determined to spend the day outdoors, enjoying her freedom. Arthur wasn’t expected until evening—business in Albany again. She wouldn’t have to listen to him make a fuss over whether it was “proper” for her to be seen abroad so soon after her confinement. So soon! It had been nearly two months, but Arthur was forever concerned with the proprieties.

Dear Arthur, she thought with contempt. With his peculiar sense of what was right and wrong. Well, perhaps she shouldn’t complain. They’d had a long talk the other night. Now that Willough had presented him with a child, he’d said, he was no longer interested in coming to her bed. Not for the time being, at least. When he thought the time was ripe for another child, he would resume his conjugal visits. But she was passionless, he said, and he found her tiresome. As long as they kept up appearances, he’d seek his diversions elsewhere.

She didn’t know whether to be glad she was free of her burden or angry at his moral principles that didn’t mind flaunting his mistresses. He’d even begun to spend time with Isobel again, though without the same warmth they had shared in the past. But at least they were now talking to each other. And when Isobel visited her grandchild Cecily, she always managed to exchange a few pleasant words with Arthur. Strange. It seemed to Willough that the reconciliation had occurred around the time that Drew had come home.

Drew. Frowning, Willough climbed into her coach and opened her parasol. If only her pregnancy and confinement hadn’t kept her so isolated from what was happening. She’d never been able to find out what had gone wrong with his life and his marriage. Isobel was vague, Arthur was silent. And Drew himself had refused to come to the house except on the day of Cecily’s christening. He’d spoken briefly to Willough; wouldn’t shake Arthur’s hand; left quickly.

His wife was gone. Isobel seemed to think she’d returned to her people. “Back where she belongs, the fortune hunter!” as Isobel put it. Willough was rather sorry. She’d been looking forward to meeting Drew’s Marcy; his letters from Paris had radiated love for his young bride.

He’d moved back into his old suite in Isobel’s house and rented a room on Eleventh Street, where he could paint all day. Isobel said he was happy. Willough wasn’t sure of that. She hadn’t really talked to Drew. But it was clear Isobel was happy. Her Drew was back under her roof. Back in her clutches, thought Willough bitterly.

“Did you just want to drive down the avenue, ma’am? Or are you paying a call this morning?”

Shaken out of her reverie, Willough stared at the coachman. “I’d like to go to East Eleventh Street, Jamison. Number one hundred and four.” It was past time to talk to Drew.

“Very good, ma’am.” The coach headed down Fifth Avenue.

“No. Wait. Take me down to New Church Street.” It was a little out of her way, so far downtown, but she had all day. And her curiosity was piqued. Since the day that Brigid’s brother Kevin had recognized Arthur’s caller as a member of a notorious street gang of former years (and Willough’s suspicions that Arthur himself was the former Artie Flanagan had been aroused), Willough had taken careful notice of Arthur’s business transactions, his visitors, the amounts of money he gave over to her, the amounts he asked for in return in personal checks. And Zephyr Realty, of which company she had discovered herself a partner. Confined to her house, she hadn’t been able to track down the other partners or find any information on its affairs. But Arthur had handed her another paper to sign only the other day. She’d managed to peruse it quickly without arousing his suspicion. Zephyr Realty was selling a large piece of property on New Church Street, and for a considerable amount of money. She supposed that at some point Zephyr had bought the land, and cursed herself for not taking notice the very first time Arthur had brought documents for her signature.

She frowned as the carriage turned off Rector Street onto New Church. A street of tenements and rookeries, dilapidated old buildings with strings of wash hanging across courtyards where ragged children played and shouted. The cluttered sidewalks were broken, several of the gaslights were shattered, and here and there a sagging tenement wall was propped up by beams. She shook her head as they made their way down the street. She hadn’t seen worse slums in the city of London! Yet Zephyr Realty had reaped a handsome sum from this land.

At one end of the street some laborers were at work, demolishing a three-story frame building. She had Jamison stop the carriage and escort her across the street. Picking her way carefully through the rubble, she accosted one of the men.

“If you please, my good man. What’s going on here?”

“Ain’t you got eyes, lady? We’re tearing down this old rubbish heap.”

“Yes. I can see that. But why? Will you build another? Perhaps something decent where a body can live?”

He snorted. “In this neck of the woods? It’d be a waste of time and money.”

“Then the land must be quite worthless.”

“Not to the right people, it ain’t. This is where the Metropolitan Elevated Railroad is putting their new line.” He scratched the dirty stubble on his chin. “It’s a wise man who knew when to buy this here piece!”

“But who would know the land was going to be worth something? Aren’t those things kept a secret?”

He shook his head. “Lady, go back to your fancy carriage. And leave these things to the men.”

“Just one more thing,” she persisted. “Who decides where the railroad will put its line?”

He looked at her as though she were a fool. “The Commissioner of Public Works. But of course everyone knows that the aldermen from the district are in on the plans.”

You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar
, Grandma Carruth always said. She smiled in helpless innocence. “Why then, an alderman can make a great deal of money by buying up the land before the plans are announced!”

“And wind up in the pen!” He snickered. “But a lot of ’em manage to get around that. Hidden companies, someone else’s name. There’s a heap of ways, and they ain’t legal. But I know a lot of men who got rich that way!”

“Thank you,” she said, and went back to her carriage. My God, she thought. Alderman Calloway and his wife were among the guests that Arthur had invited for tonight. She suddenly wondered whether the party was a social affair or a meeting of stockholders and partners. Zephyr Realty celebrating its killing.

“East Eleventh Street now, Jamison.” She settled back in the carriage and smoothed her skirts. Her first day out was proving to be quite instructive!

Now if she could only get some answers from Drew…

In his studio, Drew put down his paintbrush and took a bite out of a large cheese sandwich, eyeing it with distaste. The bread was stale. And it made a miserable breakfast. But at least it hadn’t cost him anything. The Dutch beer saloon downstairs had a free lunch counter; for the price of a five-cent beer yesterday, he’d got supper
and
breakfast.

He stretched. He’d been up for hours, but he was still stiff from that bumpy cot. He supposed he could have made it back to Gramercy Park last night, but he’d been so involved in this painting.

No. That’s not the reason, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to go home last night. It was easier to send a note round with a messenger boy telling Isobel he was working late and would sleep in his studio. He’d done it often lately. And Isobel was increasingly sharp and reproachful to him. He hadn’t remembered his mother as being so autocratic, so demanding in her ways. She was beginning to try his patience. Oh, she’d been helpful, true enough. He couldn’t have taken this room without her assistance—and her money. But he was starting to feel smothered. It was as though she felt her love and interest gave her the right to push and direct his affairs. He sighed. Marcy had encouraged him, supported him. But she’d never tried to usurp what was his.

Marcy haunted him so! It was a nightmare to think of her. Because, every time, the last tortured image in his brain was of Arthur bending over her naked body, her soft arms about his neck.

He heard a noise outside his door. Someone was coming up the rickety staircase. It couldn’t be Isobel; she never managed to shake off the effects of her nightly laudanum until midmorning. “Come in,” he responded to the light tap outside. He smiled uneasily at his visitor. “Willough! It’s good to see you.”

His sister smiled at him. “Is it, big brother? Then why have you been a stranger? You’ve been home from Paris for over two months. And I’ve only seen you once, at Cecily’s christening.”

Oh, God, he thought. Poor Willough. What could he tell her? That her husband was a man without honor? Seducing other men’s wives? But…Marcy had trapped him—Drew—on Clear Pond Island to force him into marriage. Perhaps the blame was Marcy’s. Perhaps
she
had seduced
Arthur
. And even that lecher Stewart, in Paris. Oh hell! What did it matter now? He was well rid of Marcy, he told himself. And he still couldn’t tell Willough anything, no matter who had been to blame. “I’ve been busy, Willough. That’s all.”

“Too busy to visit me? When I was confined to my house? I thought we were better friends than that.”

“Willough, I…”

Her violet eyes were thoughtful, searching. “Or is it Arthur? Has something happened between you two?”

He crossed to the window, staring out at the brick arches of the church school across the street. Several children were playing on the sidewalk; their happy laughter drifted up to him. Marcy always laughed. Oh, damn you, damn you, Marcy! he thought.

Behind him, Willough sighed. “How are you doing with your painting?” she asked at last.

He turned. This, at least, was safe territory. He waved his arm around the room, indicating the canvases stacked up against the walls. “I’m painting like a madman, every waking moment.”

Willough pointed to the large canvas on his easel. “I read about the Impressionist show you were in last spring. Is this the kind of work they’re doing?”

“No. That’s the thing of it. I came back expecting to continue what I’d begun in Paris. The odd perspectives, the simplicity of the Japanese prints. But more and more I found myself going back to the field sketches and watercolors I did last summer in the Adirondacks. I’m working them up into large paintings now. But they’re different. I’ve changed since last summer. Look!” He moved about the room, pulling out canvases, feeling again the excitement he’d felt when first he’d realized that his style had changed.