After Innocence (3 page)

Sofie was certain that she looked a sight, and knew that her mother would remark it, as well as her distress. Of course, Suzanne would never guess at the cause of her upset.

Her limp much more pronounced than usual, Sofie followed the hall to where it entered the house’s central foyer and found her mother standing in the green and white salon, conversing with a young man.

“Sofie! There you are! We have been looking for you everywhere. Henry said you were at the beach. Is that
true?” Suzanne’s brows were raised as she took in her daughter’s disheveled appearance.

Sofie paused as her mother moved towards her, the young man following closely behind. Suzanne was both an elegant and beautiful woman, her figure willowy and perfect, her hair dark, her skin as pale as ivory, and she was only thirty-six. Sofie had realized some time ago that she had been conceived when her mother was only sixteen. Often she had imagined how her beautiful mother had been swept off her feet by her handsome, charismatic father. Jake O’Neil. As often, she had imagined what their life would have been like if Jake had not been forced to flee New York fourteen years ago. How she missed him, and loved him, even to this day.

Sofie hoped her smile appeared genuine. “I am sorry. Mother. I was at the beach sketching.”

Suzanne blinked. “Alone?”

Sofie nodded.

Suzanne turned towards the man. who seemed quite nervous. “Did I tell you that my daughter is also an artist? She studies by day at the Academy and often paints all night in her studio at home. She is pursuing a career in art.”

Sofie blinked at her mother, who never spoke about her professional intentions publicly. While almost a quarter of her class at the Academy were other young women, equally as dedicated as Sofie, it was still considered very odd for a woman to be pursuing art instead of a husband. She glanced at the young man, who had managed to shake his head no. She realized why he was dismayed.

“Sofie is very talented,” Suzanne said, smiling. “Dear, show us what you have done today.”

Sofie froze, recalling her sketchbook, left at the beach, and why it had been left there, and her heart skidded uncontrollably. “My notebook is in my room,” she managed. “I would be glad to show it to you another time.” But she stared at Suzanne, wondering what she was about. Her mother did not approve at all of her art, especially recently, and would not normally suggest showing it to her guests.

“I want you to meet Henry Marten, dear,” Suzanne said, guiding him forward. “He is a cousin of Annette’s. He has just graduated from law school and he will soon be opening up his own law practice.”

Sofie smiled, forcing her attention to the young man, who appeared uncomfortable and ill at ease. She extended her hand, guessing at the source of his discomfort. He probably thought that Suzanne was matchmaking, which she was not. Sofie had not even debuted. How could she when she could not even dance?

Not that it mattered. Sofie had always aspired to being a professional artist. She had never been so naive as to think that a man might want to take a cripple for a wife, especially an art-mad one. She and Suzanne had agreed years ago that Suzanne would not push her onto the marriage mart, that they would not seek a husband for her. It would be too humiliating, and as success was obviously impossible, Sofie would devote herself to her real love, instead.

And it was for the best. When Sofie turned twenty-one, she would go to Paris. There she would continue her studies of art, perhaps even study with someone as great as Paul Cézanne or Mary Cassatt, two great artists whom she vastly admired.

Sofie looked at Henry Marten, who could not know that she was not interested in marriage, who was pale facing her, thinking himself a prospective beau. Sofie wished she were in her room, painting. But she took a deep breath and smiled too brightly and said, “How do you do, Mr. Marten. And congratulations. Where did you graduate from?”

Henry took her hand, dropped it immediately. “Nice to meet you. Miss O’Neil. I … er … Harvard.”

Suzanne excused herself with a smile, and Henry Marten appeared even more distraught once they were alone. Sofie felt her cheeks heating, wishing her mother had not put her in this awkward spot. “That is a grand achievement, sir.”

He stared at her, wet his lips. “Yes, thank you.”

Sofie forced a smile again. “It is no easy feat to be accepted there, is it?”

Still he stared. “No, it isn’t.”

“How proud you must be.” She shifted her weight again to relieve her aching ankle. She did not suggest that they sit. because she wanted to leave, to find Lisa. Her notebook would still be at the beach, and she
must
recover her study of the dashing, dark stranger named Edward.

“Shall we … er … walk, Miss O’Neil?”

Sofie took a deep breath and smiled again, bravely. “Oh, ordinarily I would love to, but I am afraid that I must leave you to rest in my room if I am to regain my appearance for this evening.”

He hesitated, clearly relieved. “Of course, Miss O’Neil.”

Sofie smiled, as relieved, then quickly they separated, rushing off in opposite directions.

“Sofie—it is not there!” Lisa cried, closing Sofie’s bedroom door behind her.

Sofie jerked. She was soaking her ankle in a salted footbath, clad only in a cotton wrapper. “But it must be! You did not look in the right place!”

Lisa, small and dark-haired and exquisitely beautiful, exclaimed, “I did! I took the path that starts near the tennis court, and I went all the way to where you can see the ocean from the crest of the last dune, as you instructed—where you can see another path below. It was not there. I found your hat, though.”

“Oh, dear,” Sofie cried, dismayed and gripping her chair. “Someone has taken my study? But who? And why?”

“I really did look everywhere,” Lisa said.

Sofie barely heard her. “How will I paint him now?”

Lisa touched Sofie’s hand. “Paint him? Paint who?”

Sofie stared at her stepsister, at a loss.

Lisa gazed at her inquiringly.

Sofie realized what she had said. She took a deep, calming breath. “I saw this very debonair man walking on the lower path while I was on the dune sketching, and I did a rendering of him. He did not see me, of course.” She knew she was blushing. The skin on her face was warm. She felt as if omitting the entire truth was akin to lying, which it was
not. But she could never tell her younger sister what she had really seen.

And what had happened earlier that day on the beach still refused to quit her memory. She could not stop herself from remembering him, nor could she cease thinking about what he had been doing with lovely Hilary. Even now, shamelessly, she could see his expression of rapture at the very end. Her thoughts were so thoroughly indecent, so thoroughly wicked, so unnerving … Sofie could not believe she was so consumed with them—with him. And all afternoon since she had finally retired to her room, she had planned her painting of him, debating composition and coloring. She intended to change what she had seen just slightly for dramatic purposes.

“Who was he?” Lisa asked with real interest.

“I do not know. She called him Edward.”

“She? He was not alone?”

Sofie wished she could take back her words. “No,” she said, not looking at Lisa. How could she have let that fact slip?

But Lisa had sat down hard on the edge of Sofie’s chair, crowding her. “You must mean Edward Delanza,” she cried in excitement.

Lisa’s words stirred up a spark of both horror and anticipation. “Who is Edward Delanza?”

“I met him last night before supper—oh, how I wish you had been there! If only you had arrived yesterday instead of today!”

Sofie fervently hoped that the man she had seen on the beach that afternoon was not a weekend guest at the house. Hopefully she would never see him again. She would certainly never be able to look that man in the eye.

Sofie’s insides began to curdle. “He is dark and handsome?”

Lisa gave her a look. “Far more than handsome. He is devastating! Dashing!” She lowered her voice and leaned towards Sofie.
“He is dangerous.”

Sofie was ashen. No—Lisa could not be talking about the man she had seen on the beach. Surely he was not their houseguest this weekend. Surely not!

“He has the women in the house in an uproar,” Lisa chattered on. “Every woman found him fascinating last night—our guests, the maids. Even your mother looked at him more than once.”

Sofie had a very bad feeling, and she clenched her fists—afraid they were speaking of the same man, afraid he was there in her own house.

“His reputation is blacker than the night, Sofie.” Lisa was now whispering, her tone conspiratorial. “They say he carries a small gun at all times, that he is a diamond smuggler—of stolen gems—
and
he is a
rake.”

Sofie could not help gasping, her heart palpitating wildly. She closed her eyes, remembering in complete detail what she had seen that afternoon. Even though he had been the very picture of casual elegance, how easily she could imagine him smuggling diamonds … or seducing a young innocent. She picked up a novel she was partially through and vigorously began to fan herself with it. “I am certain the rumors are quite exaggerated. After all, why would Suzanne invite him if he were so despicable?” But she already half believed the gossip, oh, she did.

Lisa smiled. “Because he is hardly despicable, Sofie, despite what he does. They say he was wounded in Africa, and that makes him something of a hero! Several of the ladies here have set their caps for him, too; after all, he must be as rich as Croesus. I cannot wait for you to meet him, Sofie. This once, even
you
shall be smitten!”

“You’re the one who sounds smitten,” Sofie said, surprised that her tone was so calm.

“I am smitten, but he is definitely not for me. Papa would never allow such a man to court me—and we both know it.” But Lisa’s dark eyes glowed. “Last night after everyone retired, he was with one of the women outside on the terrace. I saw them—it was shocking the way he held her. He was kissing her, Sofie!”

Sofie was frozen. “Who?” She croaked. “Who was he with?”

“You won’t believe me—I didn’t believe it either. It was Hilary Stewart.” Lisa leaned close. “J have heard that she wishes to marry him, too!”

Sofie could not respond. It had finally dawned on her that the man she had spied on at the beach
was
Edward Delanza, and that in a very short time she would come face-to-face with him. Dear God, how could she possibly face him after what she had seen?

S
tanding on the balcony outside his bedroom, Edward Delanza lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then settled his hip on the banister of the wrought-iron railing.

He glanced down at the perfectly groomed lawns. To his left were brilliantly colored formal gardens; far to the right he could just make out the edge of the tennis court. Directly ahead of him the cream and green dunes slid away from the lawns, and a lazy steel blue ocean swept in upon the beachfront in playful white-capped waves. In the west, unseen by him, the sun was setting on the other side of the house, turning the sky a dull, softly glowing pink.

Edward enjoyed the view. It was peaceful. He had lived so precariously this past year that he appreciated even life’s quietest—dullest—moments. But not for long. It never lasted for long. In a few days, a few weeks, a few months, he would get that unquenchable restlessness again, a restlessness that had its roots deep in his past, and in his very soul. Sometimes he thought of it as an octopus, whose tentacles he could not shake, and stricken with his burden, he would move on.

But right now he was happy to be just where he was, thank you very much. There was a helluva lot to be said for a peaceful smoke on a summer evening like this. He lifted his face to the still evening air, which was thick and humid and warm but nothing like a south African summer’s eve.

Too well, as if it were yesterday, he recalled his last night in southern Africa, crouching down behind a mountain of crates in Hopeville not far from the rail depot, which was on fire, bullets banging and ricocheting all around him, explosions sounding not too far in the distance. The British
and the Afrikaners had been going at it all night, and he had been caught in the middle. It had been endless. Edward vividly remembered craving a cigarette, but when he’d dug deep into his pockets, he’d only come up with two handfuls of diamonds.

Right then, he’d have tossed every rock aside for a single drag, if he could have.

The train from Kimberley had arrived two and a half hours late. Edward had gotten himself badly cut up getting through the barbed wire, and he’d suffered a flesh wound in his shoulder, too, shot by some soldier who’d seen him at the last moment as he dashed for the train. But he had made it. He’d leapt aboard the last coach, and when he’d arrived in Cape Town, greeted by a blood red dawn, he’d made the merchant vessel, too, just as she was slipping free of her moorings. He’d been bloody, hurting, and exhausted, but he had made it. With both pockets full of diamonds.

He was
never
going back.

Remembering, Edward smoked the cigarette right down to the end, until he’d burned his fingertips. He forced himself back to the present, and realized that he’d grown rigid with tension and was starting to sweat, a reaction he always seemed to have in response to the unpleasant memories. There was no hope for southern Africa: he’d realized that many months ago. The hatreds ran too deep and were far too complex. He was going to sell out just as soon as he could. There was no way he could enjoy being rich if he was dead.

His gaze soaked up the pretty, peaceful lawn scene below him. Several guests had strolled outside, drinks in hand, in their black dinner jackets and jewel-toned evening gowns. Not for the first time, his regard wandered back to the balcony’s single chair, which was poised by the door to the bedroom. On it was an open notebook. Its pages fluttered slightly in the breeze.

He was quite certain that the notebook belonged to the voyeur. When he and Hilary had returned to the house separately, taking different paths, Edward had found it lying abandoned in the sand in the exact place where she had crouched, watching him perform for her. His interest had
been surprisingly acute. But that emotion could not compete with his surprise when he saw the rough sketch she’d made of him. He couldn’t help being somewhat flattered that she had drawn him, but there’d been a couple of other sketches in her book, too, of the Newport beach. The little voyeur was talented, he could see that.