After Innocence (38 page)

Jenson retreated, leaving Suzanne to her hot black coffee and uneaten breakfast toast. But he returned almost at once. “I am afraid the gentleman insists that it is urgent.”

Irritably Suzanne snatched the calling card and studied it. “Henry Marten, Esquire. What does he want?”

“He states his business is most personal.”

Suzanne was annoyed, but instinct made her instruct Jenson to send him in. A moment later Henry Marten appeared, looking somewhat disheveled in his baggy, ill-fitting suit. Suzanne realized that he had lost weight.

“I am sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” he said.

Suzanne shrugged. She did not stand up, nor did she offer him a seat. “What is so urgent, Mr. Marten?”

“I am representing your daughter, Mrs. Ralston.”

Suzanne stiffened with shock. “What!”

Henry cleared his throat. “She has monies due on the first of next month. Will they be forthcoming?”

Slowly Suzanne got to her feet, gripping the smooth lacquered tabletop, in a state of disbelief. “Only if Sofie comes home—alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” Suzanne said harshly. “You may tell her that she will receive her trust payment if and when she comes home—alone.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” Henry said.

“If Sofie continues to reside elsewhere, defying me, she will not be supported by me.”

“The money is held in trust by you from her father, is it not?”

Her jaw ground down. “Yes.”

“I am afraid I must ask to see a copy of the trust agreements, Mrs. Ralston.”

Suzanne was incredulous. Then she was furious. “My lawyer is Jonathan Hartford, Mr. Marten. He has those agreements, not I.”

Henry smiled briefly. “Then I might tell him you have approved my request for copies?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“It would be silly for me to have to go to the courts merely to be afforded the opportunity to read the documents,” Henry said.

“Yes, you have my approval,” Suzanne snapped. “But let me save you some time. The agreements are ironclad. Unless Sofie marries, she will not take possession of her father’s estate until she is twenty-five. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about
that.
”

Henry only bowed. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ralston.”

Suzanne watched him leave. Then she cried out, in fury, in distress.

A lawyer! Sofie had gone to a lawyer! It was unbelievable. God, didn’t she know that Suzanne was only trying to protect her? To protect her from the very same kind of anguish Suzanne comprehended firsthand from having lived through it once, a long time ago? Suzanne did not want Sofie to make the same horrible mistakes that she had made. Yet she had already made some of them, and if she continued on her present course, she was going to repeat more of them.

Shaking, Suzanne sank down in her chair. She did not recognize her own daughter, not anymore. Once Sofie had been complacent, obedient, malleable. If she had her art and the seclusion with which to work, she was happy. But it had all changed when Edward Delanza had walked into her life. Yes, that was when it had changed. In every way, this was all his fault.

Suzanne hated him. God, how she hated him!

Two summers ago Sofie had become brave, defiant. She had ignored all of Suzanne’s warnings and plunged recklessly into an affair with him. Suzanne shuddered. In doing so, Sofie was repeating the past mistakes of her mother
exactly.

Suzanne remembered being fifteen and heated with lust for Jake, so much so that she could think about nothing or no one else. So much so that she had purposefully given her virginity to him. So much so that she had been in love and she had married him in complete defiance of her family. They had cut her off without a cent. To this day, Suzanne was not on speaking terms with her parents. The day she had married Jake was the day they had buried her alive.

Like mother, like daughter. A worldly, virile man, an innocent virgin. Lust. Defiance. Loss of innocence. The similarities were frightening.

But the similarities ended there. Suzanne had married Jake before having her baby. Sofie had run away to Paris to have her child—and now refused to give the baby up for adoption.

Suzanne’s face lowered to her arms and she began to cry. All she had ever wanted to do was protect Sofie from hurt and suffering. The day she had realized that Sofie had broken her ankle in her fall down the stairs. Suzanne had been shaken free of her selfish grief over Jake’s loss. Sofie had looked so small and helpless, lying in her bed. numb with pain, and Suzanne had been consumed with guilt.

A guilt that had never quite disappeared. For when Sofie’s broken ankle had healed, it became apparent that she would be a cripple for the rest of her life. Suzanne had felt that she was responsible. To make up for what she had done, she would protect Sofie from any further hurt—for the rest of her life.

Suzanne had risen to the role of motherhood with a vengeance. It was as if she had been waiting for this role of mother of a wounded cub her entire life. And once she had lost Jake, all of her passion was transferred to her daughter. Sofie might be crippled, but she had her art
and she had Suzanne. Suzanne, who would protect her from society’s scorn by encouraging her to hide behind her eccentric penchant for art.

But Sofie no longer wanted to be protected. Yet Suzanne knew her daughter did not understand. No one could ever understand what it was to be a social misfit until she was firmly cast out and stoned.

Suzanne could not let her daughter do this to herself. To take on the burden of an illegitimate child that would surely destroy her. Suzanne knew what it was like to give up respectability in exchange for love. Love was not enough. Nothing was enough to make up for the pain of social ostracism.

But she had had Jake. Sofie did not even have Edward Delanza. And even if she could have him, the suffering that was only beginning now would be multiplied a thousand times. Suzanne thought of the heartbreak and suffering she had endured during her marriage. She thought about the vicious, violent fights. She thought about the nights Jake did not come home, or when he did, how he had reeked of cheap perfume. Even now, so many years later, remembering brought forth such hatred, and such regret. For what made it worse was the fact that it was mingled with a love that would never, ever die.

Suzanne knew that Sofie had no choice. She could not become an unwed mother. Nor could she marry Edward Delanza—who was exactly the bastard her father had been. No, there was no choice. She must give up the child and move forward with her life. In time, the pain of loss would be tolerable, it was best for everyone—for Sofie, for the child, and even for Suzanne.

Suzanne ordered her carriage brought around. She hurried upstairs to change into a better dress, to dab a touch of rouge onto her pale cheeks and pinched lips. She pinned a black hat with a half veil onto her head, hoping to shadow her red-rimmed eyes. Her pulse began to race.

She needed Jake now, she did. But she doubted he was in the city, much less at home.

Suzanne hurried downstairs, enveloped in a mink coat.
She ordered Billings to drive uptown on Riverside Drive. Then she settled back against the seat, clutching herself.

If only Jake had returned. He would help. Somehow, he would help. Jake was the only man she knew who could move mountains, and Sofie had become a mountain.

She did not see Central Park as they drove through it. Her stomach hurt. She had not seen Jake in almost a year, not since that one single time. But not through lack of trying on her part.

After she had learned that Jake was alive again, and with little difficulty, what name he was going under, Suzanne had immediately hired a private investigator to find out where he lived. Within a few days the agent had located Jake Ryan’s residence at 101 Riverside Drive. Suzanne had gone there immediately.

And she had been stunned. The mansion occupied five acres, from Ninety-first to Ninety-third streets. Tall wrought-iron gates enclosed the entire property. A small brick cottage guarded the closed front gates. Tall oaks and pines lined the perimeter of the property, but the house set at the other end of the emerald green lawns was so large and so imposing that it could be seen quite clearly nonetheless. It resembled a medieval manor, complete with side towers and arched entryway, boasting steep roofs and parapets, more than it did a home.

Suzanne had been in shock. Jake lived here? In this mansion that could swallow the Ralston residence whole—and then some? How had he done it? How had he made such a fortune for himself? When she had met him he had been nothing but an Irish immigrant laborer!

And she had been stabbed with fury, too. She was his wife! She should be there, with him! She had spent the first years of their marriage living in a small house that was little more than a shack, dressed in couture gowns that quickly became threadbare. She had not been able to afford a servant, and she had had to care for Sofie all by herself—with only Jake to help her at nights. She’d had to cook, too, or they would not eat. Suzanne had been reduced to being little more than a peasant. It wasn’t fair!

Suzanne had gone to seek Jake out because she loved
him, but now she was furious at being denied her place at his side. However, lake was not in residence. When they had tried to enter, they had found the wrought-iron gates padlocked. Someone had finally been roused from the cottage. The custodian told them that Mr. Ryan had left New York several days ago. But he did not know where he had gone or when he would return. However, upon being pressed, he had finally given them the name of the man he reported to. That turned out to be Jake’s solicitor.

Suzanne had confronted the lawyer, without success. He was not about to reveal Jake’s whereabouts to her or anyone else. He had finally agreed, however, to pass along a letter. Suzanne had sent him a ten-page missive in which she had proclaimed her undying love for him, her anger at being deceived and duped by him, and her desire to be reunited with him as his wife. It had never been answered, but the lawyer had assured her that Jake received all of his mail. Just before the end of the year, Suzanne had sent another letter. She had yet to receive any reply.

And every few days Suzanne returned to the astounding manorlike mansion on the West side, hoping he had come back. But he did not. Her private agent finally learned that he kept a residence in London, another in Belfast, and a country estate in Ireland. Suzanne had never been more shocked. And he maintained such a low profile that it was impossible to discern in which location he currently lived. Suzanne was forced to give up.

Now Billings was driving the Ralston coach past the tall barred and padlocked front gates. Suzanne wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. Damn you, Jake! I need you—where are you? Sofie needs you!

She closed her eyes, sinking back on her seat. If only she had not lost her temper the last time she had seen him. If only she could relive—and change—the past. Worse, she did not know when she would see him again—or if she ever would. Goddamn him to hell.

Suzanne’s temples were throbbing when Billings helped her down from the coach. She was too absorbed in her thoughts to thank him and she hurried into the house.
She should not have gone back there, to his Gothic West Side manor. But she could not stay away. Damn Jake for hiding. Damn him for not being there when she needed him so much.

She thought about Henry Marten’s visit, and the pounding of her head increased while her stomach pitched and sank like lead. She must send for Hartford, her lawyer. She was almost certain the trust was controlled by her absolutely, but she must make sure there were no loopholes. If not, perhaps the agreement could be doctored. She should not have told Henry Marten he could have a copy—not yet. But copies took time, so perhaps no damage had been done.

Suzanne was counting on the fact that she controlled the trust and that Sofie would have to come home if she was kept impoverished. Come home—and give up the child.

Massaging her temples, Suzanne strode down the hall. Someone moved inside the salon as she passed the open doors. One foot on the stairs, Suzanne paused, filled with unease. Had she glimpsed a man? She turned as Edward Delanza sauntered into view.

Her eyes widened, her heart stopped. “You are not welcome here!”

He did not smile. “So I’ve been told repeatedly. Where is Sofie?”

Suzanne faced him fully, gripping the banister with white-knuckled tension. Her mind sped. “She is not here.”

“I know. Where is she?”

Suzanne tried to control her uneven breathing. She sensed danger. She saw the furious determination in his eyes. Was he after Sofie—or his child? Did he even know about the child? Why else would he want Sofie—and be so angry as well? Instinct told her the child might bring Edward and her daughter together. A vision swept her. Sofie and Edana in a lavish home that belonged to Edward Delanza. But Sofie was weeping as she tended her child. Weeping and heartbroken and alone.

An alternate vision swept her, as quickly, as thoroughly. Sofie and Edana in the same home, but Edward was there with them. Father and mother were aglow with laughter, alight with love, the baby cooing contentedly.

Suzanne shook off her thoughts. She knew that she must keep them apart. “Sofie is in Boston.”

“In Boston!” He stared. “What in hell is she doing there?”

“She is visiting relatives,” Suzanne lied smoothly. “Now, get out.”

Edward studied her coldly. “I will find her,” he said. “With or without your help. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

Suzanne inhaled hard as he stormed from the house.

He was trembling. He had come so far, so fast, but she had eluded him. It was unbelievable. When he had found her in Montmartre, she had told him she would never deny him his child. But that very same night she had fled with Edana, doing just that. When Edward had realized that she had run away with the child, he had been enraged.

He was still enraged, but it was cold now, silent and still and deep.

He swung open the door of the Daimler. Damn her. Damn Sofie O’Neil for doing this. For taking his child away from him. For running away from him. Well, the whole world wasn’t far enough. Not for her. She couldn’t escape him. Not anymore, not now. He was going after her, no matter how long it took, and in the end she would be his wife, and Edana would bear his name. Edward was going to do what was right—for everybody.