She inclined her head. “I do, but let me reassure you, everything is fine.”
“Stop play acting, Lilly. You’re in serious straits and I’d like to help.” He wanted to kick himself for blurting out the truth. “I’m your publisher and your friend. At least I hope I am.”
Her glance darted around the deserted front hall. “Keep your voice down. Please.”
Jack inclined his head. “I’m sorry.”
“If you’ve returned to Summerhill for my sake, then I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”
“Why won’t you let me help? I’m able to deal with MacIntyre in ways you can’t.”
She grabbed his arm, pulled him into the reception room, and shut the door. He stayed close as she tried to step away. Only inches apart, his urge to lean down and kiss her nearly overwhelmed him, despite her less than enthusiastic greeting. But instead, he gently ran his hands up and down the silky fabric of her long-sleeved blouse in what he hoped was a sympathetic, non-threatening gesture. She half-heartedly attempted to brush off his fingers, then stopped and looked up, her expression serious.
“Jack, if I allow you to confront the colonel yourself, I’ll owe you a debt of gratitude I won’t be able to repay.” She stared at him, pleading for understanding. “I’d feel obligated to go public with my writing and I can’t do that. I must consider my family. We ’d all be shunned,” she continued. “Mama and Papa would never forgive me and I couldn’t blame them. Mama might enjoy reading my dime novels, but she ’d never approve of me writing them. There’s a world of difference.”
Slipping her hands into his, Jack felt her resistance strengthen. Lilly’s determination was born of stubbornness and a shy nature. Along with concern for her family, her fear of taking center stage suffocated her wish to help him out.
Despair suffused his chest. “I do understand.”
“Thank you, Jack.” Relief seemed to relax the tension in her shoulders. “I’m truly sorry I can’t help you with Jones and Jarman. I sincerely wish I could.”
He grunted. What more could he say? For the last few weeks he’d tried his best to change her mind, but to no avail. Finding a solution without involving Lilly might be impossible, yet what other choice did he have?
He gently pressed her fingers, hoping to convey his surrender.
But she slipped them from his light grasp, turned away, and fled. Jack shook his head. He'd search for MacIntyre and try to solve this situation without Lilly's blessing.
Lord, show us both how You want this to end
.
T
hunder rumbled in the distance. From her favorite spot on the back veranda, Vanessa Westbrook glanced across Summerhill’s darkening lawn toward the sea. Granite gray waters met the sky and blended at the horizon. Yet the tangy air remained warm and humid. She calculated she could read another ten or fifteen pages of
Dorothea’s Dilemma
before the clouds burst open and forced her inside.
Seated on the chair next to gently bobbing ferns, Vanessa resumed reading. Only fifty more pages and she ’d discover if the heroine escaped from the villain’s clutches and accepted the marriage proposal. He reminded her of a younger, more handsome, and more perfect Thomas. She understood why the shop girls, in fact any woman, would love this story.
Trust in God to help you find your way
. She remembered the Bible verse she ’d memorized in her youth, “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
An excellent lesson to learn. But did she trust the Lord to help her navigate the murky waters of motherhood? Or did she interfere too often? Perhaps she ought to let Him guide Lilly and not carry the burden herself, even though she was accustomed to managing her daughter from the time the little one came into the world. Yet, to allow the Lord to help Lilly would bring such blessed relief. She ’d mull over the idea later, after she finished the chapter.
Vanessa peered through her spectacles. She turned the page and came to a scene where the heroine, Ada Brown, fell through a crack in the ice and slipped beneath the surface of the pond. Vanessa’s heart flip-flopped as she skimmed the text. Of course the hero, Lawrence Macon, plunged in after Ada and grabbed her before she sunk to the bottom. Lawrence pulled her onto the ice, gasping for breath, but thrilled to have saved the life of his true love.
How gallant. Vanessa ignored the growling thunder followed by a flash of lightning. The scene wasn’t over so she couldn’t bear to tear herself away from the pages.
Why did that last scene stir up long-forgotten memories? Of course! Several years earlier Jackson Grail had saved Lilly from drowning at her cousin’s country estate in the Adirondacks. He’d also retrieved her ring from the pond where they’d gone skating. How unusual that Fannie Cole imagined the entire scene so realistically.
Could Lilly be the authoress? No, that couldn’t be right!
Vanessa closed her eyes as the first drops of rain splattered off the roof into the open veranda. Fannie Cole couldn’t possibly know the exact details of the skating accident unless she was Lilly. No other explanation made sense. So Lilly had written
Dorothea’s Dilemma
, just as she ’d authored all those other dime novels. No wonder she girl so often vanished to her bedroom. Where else would she find the privacy to compose fiction in such a lively household?
Vanessa grasped her book and headed inside on rubbery legs.
“Where are you running off to?” Thomas asked as she strolled past the game room door. “Come sit by the fire.”
“Later, Thomas, later.”
Vanessa rushed up the stairs, caught her breath at the landing, and climbed as fast as she could to the second floor. She strode down the darkened hallway to Lilly’s bedroom, relieved that the upstairs maids were finished with their chores and gone from the area.
She knocked on Lilly’s door, expecting a response. Where else would her daughter be on a dreary day when the weather prohibited the usual carriage ride and afternoon calls? She wasn’t in the library, her other place of refuge. “Lilly, are you there?” she called quietly.
Several seconds passed. The silence convinced her that the room was empty. Vanessa pushed open the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Even without the gaslight casting its yellow glow, the room looked the same as usual, tidy and rather impersonal. Quickly, she crossed the carpet and reached beneath the lining of Lilly’s treasure box. Her heart bumped against her bodice as she grasped the key in her trembling hand. Before she had time to feel guilty about invading Lilly’s privacy, Vanessa unlocked the desk drawer and jerked open the secret compartment. There, in a neat stack, were typewritten papers labeled
A Garland of Love
. Another dime novel typed up for publication. Her hand pushed against her bosom as she dropped into the nearest chair. All her energy drained from her body, leaving her limp as a rag doll.
So, Lilly’s hobby of composing poetry had developed into the career of notorious authoress. It was one thing to read a dime novel and enjoy it but quite another to discover her own daughter worked furtively in an unsavory profession. How could Lilly have placed herself in such an awkward position? If she were caught she ’d become a laughingstock and a pariah. The implications of Lilly’s deception robbed Vanessa of oxygen. She could barely breathe. Slowly she rose, locked the drawer, and replaced the key.
Back in her own bedroom, Vanessa rang for her maid and a cup of hot milk. For once she wished she drank whiskey. Something to soothe her nerves might help now, though she realized a temporary fix wouldn’t provide a permanent solution.
She’d obviously failed as a mother. Never once did Lilly confide in her about her writing or ask for advice. Did the girl think her mother was an ogre incapable of understanding her love of storytelling? Vanessa sighed. If only they’d discussed this together, maybe they could have come to some sort of consensus. Well, perhaps. Vanessa groaned. If she were scrupulously honest, she ’d have to admit she never would have accepted Lilly’s literary career. She ’d have done everything in her power to dissuade her daughter from penning such trash. Yet
Dorothea’s Dilemma
was hardly trash. A superb story, well told; she wished to read all of Fannie Cole ’s dime novels.
Should she confront Lilly with her new-found knowledge and admit she ’d snooped?
Then the items in
Talk of the Town
came to mind and replayed with horrifying clarity. What would Lilly do when she was exposed as Fannie Cole? What would the family do? Before she could absorb the crisis looming directly ahead, Thomas appeared.
“You’re sitting there in a stupor, Nessie. Why aren’t you dressing for tea? You must have someplace to go this time of day.”
“Well, I do, but I don’t feel like moving.” Should she tell him the news or keep mum until she could puzzle out the situation?
Thomas grunted. “That doesn’t sound at all like you. Is something wrong?”
Shrugging, Vanessa walked to the window overlooking the ocean, pulled back the sheers and stared into the fog and drizzle. “I have some thinking to do.”
“Oh?” His bushy white eyebrows shot upward. “Would you care to discuss it? I’m a good listener, Nessie. Haven’t I listened to you all these years?”
She tossed him a crooked smile. “Yes, you have and the Lord has blessed me for it.” She so appreciated his efforts. And his love.
She’d confide in him, but not just yet.
FOR THE REST of the afternoon Jack searched Newport’s likely hangouts for the colonel, returning to his rooming house, the bakery and then other establishments. Annoyed at finding no trace of him, Jack drove the carriage back to Summerhill, still intent on trailing Lilly whenever possible. Eventually she ’d lead him to MacIntyre.
Daylight faded into the sunset as Jack dressed for dinner. The Westbrooks were having dinner guests. He preferred to stay out of Lilly’s way, but he needed to follow her every move. If she noticed, she ’d object with every stubborn fiber of her being. But if he were discreet she might not observe his scrutiny. Who was he kidding? No one, least of all Lilly. Whenever they were in the same room they watched each other with probing eyes. Jack slipped on his black tailcoat, straightened his bow tie, and headed downstairs.
A few dozen cottagers arrived promptly at eight and strolled into the candle-lit dining room with the Westbrook household. Crystal vases of red roses graced the long table between tall, silver candelabras. Jack looked for Lilly and saw her seated at the opposite end of the large table, her lovely face as stone cold as a statue ’s.
She glanced his way once, then turned toward another gentleman and never looked back. Was this a subtle refusal to his proposal? Or was he reading too much into a simple turn of the head?
Annoyed his place card located him beside Irene, he politely bowed to her before they took their seats. Resplendent in green satin with a diamond necklace around her slender neck, Irene grinned with amusement at the seating arrangement.
“I’m sure you’d rather sit beside Lilly, but that wouldn’t be appropriate.” Irene ’s tinny laugh set his nerves on edge.
Jack ignored her remark, resisting the urge to glance at Lilly, so lovely in a blue and silver gown. “Your jewels are beautiful, Irene. Has George seen them yet?”
Her mocking smile slipped into a frown. “They’re a gift from my Uncle Quentin.” She sipped her water and returned the goblet to the white damask tablecloth.
“Are they? How interesting.”
His comment wiped the smirk off her face. Surprise and uncertainty flashed in her glittery eyes.
“Whatever do you mean? Do you doubt these are from him? He’s very fond of me and I of him.”
Jack laughed. “I’m sure that’s true.” He plunged his spoon into the consommé.
“Now what is that snide remark supposed to mean?” she whispered.
Jack’s glance swept the dining room. Beneath the soft glow of chandeliers and flickering candles, conversations hummed and jewels sparkled. Satisfied no one would overhear, he leaned closer to Irene. “Aren’t diamonds a rather expensive and unsuitable gift from an uncle to a niece?”
Her delicate fingers twisted the napkin in her lap. “Not at all. I’m offended you’d think so.” She ladled the clear soup into her heavy silver spoon, paused, and then poured the liquid back into the bowl. “You must have a very poor opinion of me. Why is that?”
Though her voice was as light as the tinkling of a piano, perspiration appeared above her upper lip.
He inclined his head. “Perhaps your relationship to your uncle is different than you let on.”
“Indeed, it is.”
She had purposely misunderstood his irony.
Clever little witch
. Irene reached inside her mesh reticule and retrieved a letter. “I do believe you doubt my connection to Quentin Kirby. This proves it.” She unfolded a sheet of expensive cream stationery. Reading softly, her voice was steady.
“My dearest niece Irene,
I do hope this note finds you in excellent health and fine spirits.Your absence has caused me much loneliness. Perhaps you would take pity on me and return to San Francisco for an extended visit.The necklace from Tiffany’s is just a small token of my esteem.
Your loving uncle,
Quentin Kirby”
Her self-satisfied smile rankled.
“No regards to your husband?”
“I’m sure that was an oversight on Uncle Quentin’s part.”
“Indeed. I find it very strange.”
Irritation crept into her expression. “Not really. Uncle Quentin and George have never met.”
Jack leaned back into the throne-like chair. “No?”
“I met George while I was visiting friends in Stockton. We married soon after we were introduced.” Irene ’s smile deepened as if she were remembering a whirlwind courtship. “We loved each other too much to wait any longer.”
“But your uncle approved of your marriage?”
Her confidence faltered. “He—he didn’t want me to move to New York. He wished me to stay in California.”
A footman served them the next course. Irene stabbed her fork into the duck, then looked toward the gentleman on her left.
Before she could begin a new conversation, Jack asked, “Are you planning to visit your uncle soon, as he requested?”
She glanced sideways. “As a matter of fact I am. I do miss the dear man. He’s my only living relative.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “I have such fond memories of him.”
Jack’s chest tightened at the lies that so easily rolled off her subtly painted lips. “Have you told George about your plans? He may object to such a long trip.”
She shrugged one sloping shoulder. “He’ll find a position soon I’m sure, so of course I don’t expect him to accompany me. That would be selfish.”
Jack lowered his voice again. “You’re going to leave George, aren’t you?” Sucking in his breath, he watched Irene flinch. Tiny lines around her mouth and eyes deepened.
She coughed up a nervous laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never leave my husband.”
“Oh?” Jack said, his eyebrow raised.
Irene ’s fork dropped and clattered against the china plate. Several heads turned toward her, but apparently misunderstanding fear for clumsiness, quickly looked away.
“Whatever do you mean?” she blustered.
“I know your background. All of it. Before you sneak off, have the decency to tell George about your life in San Francisco.”
Her thick lower lip trembled for an instant before she raised her chin. “That’s all in the past, over and done with. I’ll admit I wasn’t always discreet, but there ’s no point in tattling to George. It would only hurt him. I’ve been a faithful wife and will continue to be.”
“Then why are you returning to Quentin Kirby? Are you in love with him?”
A peal of harsh laughter rang above the din of the conversations. “Don’t be absurd. He ’s a decrepit old man. I love George and I’m coming back just as soon as I can.”
“Then if you’re not going for love, you’re going for money.”
Irene looked at him as if he were a dunce. “Of course it’s for money. Why else would I give an ancient roué the time of day?”
In her own selfish way she probably did care for George, but Jack suspected her feelings lacked any depth. Loyalty and integrity were alien, worthless qualities she neither recognized nor respected.
“I can never confess my—compromises—to George because they would wound him too deeply.”
“You’re afraid he ’d toss you out.”