Authors: Forever Wild
“You polecat,” she muttered. “Wait’ll I bring Zeb Cary around!”
He laughed, then turned back to Willough, his eyes suddenly dark with uncertainty. “What about the show, Willough?”
She fumbled in her purse. “Would you like your reviews first?” She pulled out several newspaper clippings. “The art critic of
The New York Times
considered you a celebrity, having shown with the Impressionists in Paris. He seemed to feel that though their works have elicited much criticism, it cannot be denied that you bring a freshness to your paintings that has not been seen on these shores in many a day. The man from
Harper’s
waxes positively lyrical. Your works ‘radiate assurance,’ he says. ‘The majesty of the wilderness is rendered in colors never seen before.’ ‘Truly remarkable,’ et cetera, et cetera.”
“What about my Paris paintings?”
Willough indicated the stack of clippings. “The general opinion seems to be that your métier is to be found here in the Adirondack Wilderness, not on the confining streets of a city.” She smiled in pleasure, looking from one to the other of them. “Though several of the critics commented on the remarkable series of drawings of the artist’s wife, so imbued with love and tenderness that the viewer is moved to tears. You’re very fortunate, Marcy. Most women must rely on a spoken avowal of love.”
Marcy trembled, seeing the look in Drew’s blue eyes. “I always knew I was lucky.”
The blue eyes twinkled. “Damn! It means I can never stray. My drawings will give me away!”
Marcy pinched him on the ear. “Drewry Bradford! If you ever stray, your wife will find another black bear!”
Willough cleared her throat. “Don’t you want to hear the rest?”
“Is there more?”
“Well, only a contract from Currier and Ives. They want to reproduce several of your paintings for lithographs. And commission a series on the major mountains and lakes of the Adirondacks.”
“My God.” Drew was still clutching Marcy’s hand. She could feel him trembling. “A commission? And they’re willing to pay?”
“Quite handsomely, according to Jesse. But you’ll have to work out the arrangements.”
Marcy smiled at Drew. “A commission to paint in the Wilderness.”
He grinned back. “I reckon we’ll have to
live
in the Wilderness, then. If that doesn’t break your heart, Mrs. Bradford.” He turned to Willough. “I don’t believe all this.”
“You’re quite successful now, big brother. There’s talk of making you an associate of the National Academy of Design. And one more thing. If you live here, I suppose you’ll have to have a house.”
“We’ll manage until the commission comes through.”
Willough laughed and stood up, coming over to the bed. “Perhaps you can manage on this for the time being. Jesse sold a few of your paintings.” She handed Drew a bank draft.
He leaned back in the bed, his eyes wide with shock. “Five thousand dollars?” he whispered. “We can live comfortably for a year on
three
!” He gulped and stared at Marcy, fighting back a sudden rush of emotion. “What’ll we do with it, Marce? How about a house on Round Island?”
She wiped away her happy tears. “I’d like that, Drew.”
“No, come to think of it. The first thing you’re going to do is take some of that money and buy yourself the fanciest dress you can find.”
“But Drew…”
He frowned. “And I don’t want to hear a lot of nonsense about it being wicked to like nice things!
Do you understand
, Mrs. Bradford?”
She nodded obediently. She wasn’t certain she still wouldn’t earn that spanking if she didn’t learn to curb her stubbornness. “Maybe Willough would help me shop in North Creek.”
“No. You’ll come down to New York City and stay with me for a few days after Drew has recovered. We can go on the most delightful shopping trips while he cools his heels!” Willough turned to Drew and smiled apologetically. “I’m a very rich widow, you know. Arthur knew how to make money, if nothing else.” She picked up her gloves and smoothed them over her slender fingers. “I’ll leave you two alone now. I’m sure you must have a great deal to talk about. I’m staying at Sabattis’s Boardinghouse down the road. I’ll be there till day after tomorrow.” She leaned over and kissed Drew on the forehead, then hugged Marcy warmly. She moved to the door, then turned, her eyes sparkling with tears. “I envy you both,” she whispered. Then she was gone.
Marcy fell into Drew’s arms, laughing for joy. All his hopes, all his dreams! Somehow the sufferings in Paris seemed worthwhile, meaningful. If only to bring more sweetness to this moment. He kissed her hard, grinned at her, sat her down beside him on the bed. He talked of his plans, the house they’d build, the future, with children and warmth and laughter. He talked of his need for her, for her strength and encouragement. She thought her heart would burst, all the love bubbling up within her.
At last he stopped and gazed at her, his eyes grown suddenly heavy-lidded with passion. “Is there a lock on that door?” he said, his voice husky in his throat.
She gasped. “Drew, you can’t! You’re still weak!”
“Dammit, I’m not
that
weak!”
“But Drew…”
“Listen to me, you stubborn imp! Throw the bolt on that door!”
She stood up. “Yes, sir.” She moved to the door, threw the bolt, turned to face him. “Now what?”
He brushed away a few loose feathers and grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Now, Mrs. Bradford, I want to see how fast you can get out of those clothes and into this bed!”
Willough climbed the steps to the Sabattis’s veranda. She felt tired, and filled with the old longing. She did envy them so, Drew and Marcy. So much in love. So happy together. Drew had always loved to laugh. Marcy obviously brought him joy. She fought back her tears, forcing Nat’s memory out of her head.
A red-haired young man with spectacles arose from a rocking chair on the veranda and stepped toward her. “Mrs. Gray? I’m Dr. Waugh. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
“Only to thank you, Doctor. I’m sure you saved my brother’s life.”
“I only finished what that noble little wife of his began. Dragging him down the mountain like that, then fighting her way across the lake in a storm.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”
“And my brother will be fine?”
“Oh, yes. The greatest risk was always that he’d lost so much blood he wouldn’t be able to fight off the shock or the infection. Fortunately, he’s a very vigorous man, in the prime of health. And the infection was mild.”
She smiled. “It was fortunate for us that you were here. Drewry tells me that you are considering a tuberculosis sanatorium here in the mountains.”
“Yes. I’m inspired by Dr. Trudeau, a very brave physician who himself is stricken with the disease. He has had several healthful summertime visits to Saranac Lake. He seems to think that the fresh air is salubrious. And I’ve heard others speak of the cleansing powers of the evergreens, particularly the balsam fir. It is widely held that the air is purer where there are many conifers, and that the scent of the trees themselves, when drawn into diseased lungs, is highly beneficial.”
Willough thought of Brigid’s brother Kevin, dying so tragically of consumption. “It would be wonderful if your sanatorium could provide relief to sufferers.”
The doctor nodded. “The disease kills one of every seven Americans now. And mostly the poor.”
“You would provide room for the poor, Doctor?”
“I would hope to. Alas, I have not the resources. I have a small practice in Brooklyn Heights. It’s scarcely adequate. But perhaps if I can take up a subscription among my patients and neighbors…”
Willough thought quickly. “A subscription? Nonsense! You’d raise scarcely enough money to build one wall of your clinic! That’s not how I’d do it at all!”
He took off his spectacles and polished them. “How would you do it, Mrs. Gray?”
“It’s a matter of common sense. The people who fall ill are workers, laborers. They’re a burden to their employers as well as themselves when they’re ill. It seems to me that the rich people who own the factories and the mills would pay handsomely to support a hospital such as yours. They would get a better day’s work out of healthy workers.”
He shrugged. “If I knew many rich people…”
His resignation was maddening! “
I
do!” she snapped. “It’s a simple matter—a few intimate receptions and luncheons, a few words to the right people…” She frowned. “How did you plan to provide the materials?”
He flushed. “Frankly, I hadn’t even begun to think of that.”
Wouldn’t Arthur cringe if he could know what she was contemplating! “I know some contractors. Friends of my late husband. I’m not sure, but I suspect I might be able to persuade them to donate materials and services for your hospital. In honor of my husband’s memory.” And out of fear of his
wife’s
memory, she thought sardonically.
“That would be quite generous of them.”
She was warming to the task. It would be an exciting challenge. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided on a site as yet.”
“No. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. To look around in the region.”
“Well,” she said, smoothing her gloves primly, “there’s not a thing we can do until you make up your mind.”
He smiled and replaced his spectacles, allowing his gaze to examine her thoroughly. His eyes were pale gray and clear.
She stiffened under that searching appraisal. “You have a most insolent stare, Doctor!”
“I’d like to see you out of your corsets.”
She gasped. “I beg your pardon, Doctor!”
He grinned good-naturedly. “Only in the interests of scientific research, you understand. I’d like to see if you’re as stiff-backed without them!”
It was a gentle rebuke, but it hit home. It was the least she owed Nat’s memory, to bury Willough the snob once and for all. She exhaled, her face softening, and smiled sheepishly at the doctor.
He nodded in satisfaction. “I suspected you could smile.” He crooked his arm in her direction. “Will you take supper with me?”
She slipped her arm through his. “I’d be pleased to, Dr. Waugh.”
He led her into Mrs. Sabattis’s kitchen. “I’d very much like to discuss the possibility of a partnership, Mrs. Gray.”
Brian Bradford leaned back in his chair in the house in Saratoga. Beyond the windows, the evening shadows were lengthening. He sighed heavily. The day was dying. The trees were shedding their leaves with the dying season. He’d never felt so alone in all his life. He had a sudden yearning to be back in Scotland, amid the purple heather and the sweet mists.
He’d managed to lose it all. His wife. His son. And now his daughter. All he had now was his business. Safe and solvent because of Nat and Willough. But useless to fill the empty places in his heart.
He sighed again. Drew had never been his son. He’d never given the boy a chance. He realized with a pang that he’d never even seen one of Drew’s paintings. And now the word from the city was that Drew had had a stunning success. No thanks to his father, who’d been willing—my God,
eager
!—to destroy his son, the artist.
And Willough. So capable and strong. He’d never been able to see beyond her sex. Not until it was too late. There’d be no one now to inherit the business when he was gone. Not even Arthur. That was a blow, Arthur’s death. He wondered how Isobel was taking the news. If she hadn’t become so completely addicted by now that she was oblivious to the world around her.
Isobel. He regretted her the most. How had they managed to get to this pass? That terrible, drunken night when he’d abused her. He hadn’t meant it. He’d wanted her so badly, hungered for her. Was he at fault because his appetites were too coarse for her delicate nature? Was she at fault, colder than she should have been, filled with all the fears that that damned mother of hers had put into her head? And the time had gone by, and the apologies had died on his lips. And then his needs had driven him into the arms of other women. And after that she could never have forgiven him, even if he’d prostrated himself before her and kissed her feet.
He leaned back and pressed the dull ache just below his heart. Supper hadn’t sat well; perhaps a small brandy would settle his stomach. “Martha!” he bellowed. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his loneliness pressing against his lids. He heard the rustle of Martha’s petticoats. That was odd. It sounded like silk. Martha must be getting fancy these days.
And perfume. But that wasn’t Martha’s perfume! He struggled to sit up, opening his eyes.
Isobel smiled gently. “Martha’s busy in the kitchen. With the dishes. Do you want something?”
“What are you doing here, Belle?”
“You haven’t called me that for twenty years. Willough told me you weren’t well. I thought I’d come to see for myself.” She looked around the large parlor with its balcony and stone fireplace. “This is a handsome house, Brian. I’m sorry I haven’t come before now.” She sat in a chair opposite him, a small crease wrinkling her brow. “You don’t look well. Not at all, Brian. I want you to come back to the house in Gramercy Park. To be near the proper doctors.”
“I have to be near the business.”