Louisa Rawlings Page 4

  “But surely you have nothing to fear, Arthur. Just because of a friendship with Mr. Tweed…”

  “No. No, of course not.” Arthur stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Isn’t George Lenox connected with the Broadway Bank?” Isobel nodded. “I should very much like to meet him. It might be wise to switch my accounts at this time.”

  Isobel thought a moment. “I’ll have the Lenoxes for tea on Thursday. You can drop in. Then you can send your card around to him the very next day. Now, no more business! How is the house on Fifth Avenue progressing?”

  “The plasterer assures me that the walls will be ready for murals in another week. And the drawing-room paneling is in. I’m really quite pleased. I expect it will be only a few more months before I can move in. And then I shall give a great party, and you”—he paused to kiss her hand—“and Brian, of course, will come.”

  Isobel smiled, her eyes shining with delight. “You must let me help you with your guest list!”

  “I had every intention. I couldn’t do it without you. And you must let it be known in your circle that I’d look upon a refusal with disfavor.”

  “Rest assured,” she said with determination, “they’ll have to deal with me if they slight you.”

  Willough stood up from her chair, smoothing her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  Arthur turned to her. “No. Stay,” he said. His eyes were like a caress, soft and gentle on her face. “Will you come to my party, Willough? And bring your latest beau.”

  “I…that is…” What was the matter with her, stammering like a schoolgirl? She had always been so cool, so controlled.

  He chuckled. “If you blush like that, you’ll stampede every man there in his haste to dance with you!”

  “Willough doesn’t have a beau,” purred Isobel. “I don’t understand it. At her age, I was already married. Why, I had ten beaux alone the winter I ‘came out.’ I think she wants to be an old maid.”

  Willough felt a pang, the sting of her mother’s words. I don’t want to be an old maid, do I? she thought. She had her soft dreams, like any other woman. Misty dreams of a husband and children and a blissful future. But the noble men in those dreams bore scant resemblance to the brash young suitors who had come calling. They had asked nothing more from her than to look pretty and flutter helplessly. When she’d tried to talk about serious topics, they’d laughed and assured her that a woman needed only to be decorative. She’d even allowed herself to be kissed a couple of times, by the only serious suitor she’d ever had, just after she’d turned nineteen. It was quite a pleasant sensation, but scarcely worth giving up her independence, or her wish to become Daddy’s partner someday.

  And once—it made her sick to remember it—she had been grabbed by one of Drew’s friends at a party. Grabbed, held, kissed, his tongue forcing its way between her lips, one sweaty hand on her bare shoulders, the other kneading at her rump as though it would work its way through skirts and petticoats and bustle. She had found it frightening and disgusting. She had only a vague idea of the relations between men and women—what her mother called “that fate worse than death.” The servants gossiped about it, of course, but she’d only caught brief snatches of mysterious talk that left her still in the dark.

  Oh God, she thought miserably. Surely there was a man somewhere who didn’t expect her to be merely a silly ornament; who wouldn’t frighten her with violent, lustful kisses, nor leave her indifferent with soft ones.

  “Yes,” repeated Isobel, with a certain satisfaction, “I think Willough wants to be an old maid.”

  “Nonsense,” said Arthur. “She’s just waiting for the right man. A man who knows how to treat a woman with tender affection and respect.”

  Willough trembled. It was almost as though he could read her heart, her most intimate longings.

  His voice was very deep and resonant. Now it dropped to a soft murmur. “Will you come to my party, Willough? And drink champagne with me?”

  “I’ll be in Saratoga and MacCurdyville!” she blurted out, an edge of panic in her voice.

  He smiled. “Then perhaps I’ll bring the champagne to you.”

  “I really must write those letters,” she said and fled the room.

  Arthur watched her go, then turned to Isobel. “I had no idea she’d changed so. I still remember her as little Willough.”

  Isobel’s eyes narrowed. “Damn you,” she said softly.

  “Isobel! You can’t really be jealous.”

  “Do you still love me, Arthur?”

  “Always, cara mia.” The words came automatically.

  “And you’re not sorry you never married?”

  “I’m not the marrying kind. You know that.”

  She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. “How I must vex you. Growing old and tiresome…”

  He examined her dispassionately, noticing the tight lines around her mouth, the cheeks that now needed a spot of rouge to maintain the illusion of youth. Ten years ago she had been a beauty. Ten years ago he had been a man of twenty-eight, wildly infatuated with a woman of thirty-four. Now he was in his prime—and she was growing old.

  Do I still love her? he thought. He had ached with passion in those days, seeing past her pretense of a happy marriage, sensing her loneliness, her estrangement from her husband. He had wooed her, pursued her, waited impatiently for the moment when she would surrender to him, body and soul.

  Body and soul, he thought bitterly.

  When had he first realized that she never would? She loved him, that was certain. Loved to be petted, kissed, flattered, courted. But not to be loved as a woman should. Fool that he was, he had kept his hopes alive for years, relieving his frustration with a succession of mistresses who bored him and aroused her jealousy. But never enough to goad her into his bed. He began to remember gossip he had heard about Brian Bradford and other women. For the first time, he understood why. Isobel was like far too many women of this age, repressed and inhibited by all the nonsense they were taught, kept ignorant of the joys of sensual pleasure. An ice princess. He had thought her reticence charming in the days when he had burned with love. Now he saw it as prudery that had long since chilled his passion, leaving only comfortable friendship and habit. She was still good company—a woman of breeding and elegance. And with an impeccable lineage and useful connections.

  But an ice princess.

  And raising her daughter in the same mold. It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so pitiful, the way Willough had flinched at his kiss. Still…

  He paraded Willough before his mind’s eye. She had become more beautiful even than her mother, though she seemed unaware of the fact. And despite her cool exterior, there was a vulnerable softness in her. She had blushed and trembled at his affectionate words and tone, though she had tried to hide it; then she had fled in fear. He suspected that it wasn’t because she feared him, but because she was afraid to acknowledge her own feelings. He felt an unexpected stirring within him. How sweet it would be to woo Youth, to fan the innocent spark to a mature flame, before the rigid conventions had frozen her. He sighed, regretting the wasted years.

  “What are you thinking of, Arthur?” Isobel smiled uneasily, her mouth puckered in a prissy imitation of pleasure that made her seem older than her forty-four years.

  He shook off the disquieting thoughts. “Nothing, cara mia. Nothing.”

  She searched his face, her eyes dark and filled with pain. “Am I losing you, Arthur?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If I lose you, Arthur, it will break my heart.” Her expression was suddenly hard. “But if I lose you to Willough, I’ll never forgive you!”

  He smiled thinly. How tiresome she had become. There had been a time when he’d wanted to tear off her laces and silks, hold her naked in his arms, force her to take all of his love. But that was long ago and before he’d seen Willough. Willough, who blushed and sighed. Willough, with her red lips and sensual body. He smiled again at Isobel and said nothing. What co
uld he say without his voice betraying him?

  Isobel stared at him for a long minute; the clock on the mantel ticked in the silence. “I’m tired,” she said at last. “The tonic has made me sleepy. Please go.”

  “Do you want me to return for supper?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Will Drew and Willough be there?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He hesitated, seeing the look of apprehension in her eyes. He felt a moment’s pity. For what had been and was no more.

  “Then I shan’t come,” he said. “Make it tomorrow night, when I can have you all to myself.”

  “I spoke to Dr. Marshall yesterday at the boardinghouse, Marcy. He didn’t think my feller’d mind your riding in the boat. And he didn’t fuss at the rise in price. Figured you’d be useful.”

  Marcy squinted and shielded her eyes from the glare in the east, gazing out over the mists that shrouded Long Lake. Soon enough, she knew, the morning fog would burn away with the rising sun, and it would be hot. She rolled up the sleeves of her flannel shirt. “Thank you, Uncle Jack. He didn’t happen to say…um…if any of the men are single…did he?”

  “You’re still set on that, my girl? Well, I couldn’t very well ask the man right out! I only know he’s spoken for. Mrs. Marshall seems an odd one for a trip like this. I didn’t meet the rest of ’em. They just come over by stage from North Creek last night. Why don’t you just give it up?”

  Marcy stuck out her chin. “No. I mean to get me a husband.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know why my brother didn’t paddle that stubborn streak out of you years ago! And even if any of them is single, you’re not forgetting what I told you about needing money, are you? How will you know which of ’em is rich? Tell me that!”

  She bit her lip in consternation. “I don’t suppose I could ask them…could I?”

  He snorted and turned sharply. “Mind you watch that boat, Tom!” he called to one of the other guides. “See that the gear is stowed proper.”

  Tom Sabattis ambled over to where Marcy and Old Jack stood on the small dock. He grinned at Marcy and hitched at his wide leather belt. “Will you ride the Oxbow Rapids, Marcy?”

  She put her hands on her hips, answering the challenge. “They never scared me yet, Tom! You were the one that took the spill the last time we went together!”

  “Aw-w-w. That’s because I was with a greenhorn. I thought he’d darn near puke, he was that scared. Anyways, I sure am glad I’m not Amos. Taking the Marshalls. Mister Marshall looks a decent sort, but she showed up for supper last night dressed like it was Saratoga. All fancylike. And when she sat down to table, a body could hear her stays squeak! I thought my maw would drop the whole danged platter of flapjacks, she was trying that hard to hold in her laughter.” He eyed Marcy from head to foot, scanning the flannel shirt that failed to hide the curve of her bosom, the men’s trousers that accented her hips, the knee-high boots and snug leather belt that held a sheathed hunting knife. “It wouldn’t surprise me none if she takes a fit at the way you’re dressed!”

  “Bosh! I reckon I’m not about to take the rapids in a dress, no matter what the city slickers do! But I packed a skirt for Sundays, in case they’re the type who needs a little praying once in a while.”

  Old Jack scratched his head and grumbled, his eyes inspecting the five oddly shaped boats drawn up onto the spit of sand. “We’re going to waste the whole danged morning if those folks don’t get amoving. If the lean-to up at Clear Pond blew down in the last storm, we could be at it all day just setting up camp. And no chance for a spot of fishing.”

  “Don’t fret, Uncle Jack. It’s still early. Just past five, I reckon. And Amos and Alonzo aren’t back from Palmer’s yet with the last of the provisions.” Marcy smiled in understanding. “But if it’ll make you any happier, I’ll go on up to the boardinghouse to see if any of ’em are stirring yet.”

  “If my maw don’t look too frazzled in the kitchen,” said Tom, “whistle down to me. I sure could use a second breakfast right about now.”

  Marcy nodded and left the beach, climbing the heavily wooded hill to Sabattis’s Boardinghouse. The path was dim and well worn, the exposed cedar roots rubbed smooth by constant footsteps. On either side of the path, the forest floor was cluttered between the soaring trees, damp and matted dead leaves of yesteryear pierced here and there by white-blossomed hobblebush and feathery clumps of new ferns. Marcy noticed with pleasure that the wintergreen had begun to flower, and made a mental note to see if the wild roses had opened yet on the sheltered shore of Clear Pond. She moved slowly on her way, her eyes on the brush, seeking some new growth that had not been there yesterday, a patch of glossy clubmoss that announced that June had come at last. Her footsteps were soft, trained by years of tracking at the side of Uncle Jack and old Mr. Sabattis, an Abenaki Indian—though, of course, that fact wasn’t generally known to the tourists and city folk, who were more prejudiced about such things.

  “Don’t move!” An urgent whisper broke the morning stillness.

  She looked up. There on the path was a man, half-dressed. His feet were bare, and his gallused corduroy trousers were pulled on over a woolen undervest. That was all he wore. In his hands he held a large pad and pencil. He hadn’t even looked at her, not even when she stopped; now she followed his gaze to see that he was concentrating on a white-tailed doe some ten yards off the path and to her left. The man seemed to be drawing, his head bent over his sketch pad, a shock of black hair falling across his forehead. At his hissed command, the deer had stopped feeding on the leaves of a small bush and looked up, startled; then, sensing no menace, it had resumed its breakfast.

  Marcy felt a slight breeze ruffle her loose curls; the deer was upwind, and far too busy to be spooked by her if she was quiet. Moving carefully, she continued on up the path.

  “I said, don’t move!” he whispered, still without looking at her. His pencil moved furiously on the paper.

  She ignored him. City slicker, she thought. The deer would need more than her quiet progress to frighten it off. Besides, she was curious to see his drawing. She covered the last of the distance between them, and stood near his left shoulder. He was very tall; she had to raise herself on tiptoe, and still she couldn’t see his sketch.

  He continued to be absorbed in his drawing. “You’re a stubborn hayseed, aren’t you?” he said softly.

  It had been said good-naturedly, but the word stung. “And you’re a dad-blamed fool for coming out here without your boots,” she hissed. “If the red ants are biting, you’ll be scratching for a week. Greenhorn!” she added with malice.

  He chuckled under his breath, his eyes still on the doe. “And a bit of a shrew, too, are you?”

  She gasped in outrage and turned to march up the hill.

  His voice cut like a knife, sharp and unexpectedly menacing. “If you move again before I’m through, I’ll knock you down!”

  She froze in her tracks, seeing the sudden tenseness in the square shoulders, the set of his jaw in profile.

  As quickly as the anger had come over him, it passed. He relaxed and resumed his drawing. “I saw her from my window,” he whispered, jerking his chin in the direction of the doe. “I didn’t want to stop to dress.”

  She was still smarting from his high-handedness. “I’m surprised you bothered to put on your britches!” she said with sarcasm.

  For the first time, he lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes were icy blue and clear, with a piercing intensity that took her breath away. They traveled over her in an unhurried appraisal, peeling away her clothing in a manner that left no doubt as to his thoughts. Then he grinned, and the eyes twinkled. “You’re lucky I did put on my britches!” He waited to see the blush color her cheeks, then returned to his work.

  She didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry. No one had ever looked at her like that before, not even Zeb with his hungry yearning. “You’re a fancy artist?” she asked in an offhanded way, then cursed
silently to herself, dismayed to hear the quaver in her voice. She thought, Danged if I want him to know how his eyes turned me to jelly!

  “A fancy artist?” He laughed softly. “Well, I try to be.”

  “Does it pay well?” She was surprised at her own boldness.

  “Not very,” he answered dryly, “but I…damn!” He swore as the doe, disturbed at last by their voices, lifted its head, sniffed once, and bounded away. “Oh, well…” He closed his pad and put the pencil in his pocket. “I guess I got enough.” He grinned at her again, the self-assurance of his smile pricking her like a cocklebur under her collar.

  “Can I move now?” she asked coldly, remembering his threat.

  He laughed. “Did I ruffle your feathers?”

  She pursed her lips primly. “You had no call to talk to me like that.”

  His face was suddenly serious, though she wasn’t at all sure he wasn’t laughing at her. “You’re right. No call at all. I’m sorry.” His eyes twinkled with a devilish gleam. “Of course, if I hadn’t been busy sketching, I might’ve found a better way to keep you from moving. And it surely would have pleased you more.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, then gasped and blushed as the realization hit her. He would have held her in his arms—that’s what he meant! Pleased her, indeed! She began to sputter in anger. “Why you…snaggle-toothed wolf! You swell-headed, puff-britched, conceited son of a…” She was too angry to continue.

  He leered wickedly. “Damned if I can’t think of a way to still your shrewish tongue! And close that pretty little mouth of yours!”

  She blushed even more furiously. She was half tempted to rear back and slap him as hard as she could, but he towered over her, and she wasn’t at all sure how he’d retaliate. Besides, his eyes were on her lips now, and he’d stepped closer. She gulped. His face was beautiful under its shock of black hair. Strong and beautiful. And his eyes were pale blue and mesmerizing, seeming to bore into her, to the very depths of her, until she felt wondrously, frighteningly naked before him.