Always in My Dreams (46 page)

"I stole it."

She couldn't temper her smile. "You're not a diplomatic aide," she said. "You're a thief."

Walker wasn't offended. His tone was more philosophical, revealing he had long ago come to terms with his particular talents. "It's probably more true than not." He watched her carefully, but Skye gave no indication that she found the information troubling.

Their soup was whisked away, their wine was refilled, and a light bass filet was placed in front of them. It flaked easily under Skye's fork. "I'm not aware that we have an embassy in Baileyboro," she said.

For a moment he didn't understand. "Parnell," he said heavily, with some reluctance. "Parnell is personal. I took a leave to come here and work with Parnell."

Skye didn't understand what that meant, but their location wasn't conducive to discussion. Although they enjoyed a modicum of privacy, the waiters moved in and out of hearing range. Their conversation was easily detectable by anyone who wanted to listen. "It can wait," she said, and then added significantly, "until we're alone."

Over the next eight courses, Skye absorbed everything Walker shared with her. It was like putting together a quilt with diverse and colorful patches of fabric. The pattern took shape slowly, but it existed when one looked for it. It was held together by a common thread and the undeniable order of the arrangement. As unlikely as it seemed in the beginning, in the end, the colors and small scraps of fabric shared a singular harmony.

"I was five when my parents decided to become missionaries. Until that time we shared a house with my mother's mother on Beacon Hill." The address indicated old money, prestige, and acceptance in the upper stratum of Boston society. Walker knew that Skye would understand. "My mother's younger brother was there also. Most of what I recall about my childhood includes him one way or another. Grandmother was everyone's idea of a matriarch. She was the absolute ruler—fierce, stern, cold. I rarely saw her. She was uncompromising about the role of children in a home. The main rule was to have as little to do with them as possible. I can't say that I minded. On the rare occasions our paths crossed, I remember being quite afraid of her. I swear the only reason she knew my name was because I was her sole grandchild."

Skye didn't believe he was exaggerating. She ate slowly, taking in his every word.

"My father and mother spent much of their time involved with the church. That didn't find any favor with Grandmother. She believed in Sunday duty and generous contributions. Her Protestant ethic was about work and not about faith. She removed my parents from her will just hours after they announced their decision to take up a China mission. I celebrated my sixth birthday in Shanghai."

"What about your uncle?"

"He had his own interests and didn't want to come with us. I know my mother asked him. He felt obligated, I think, to stay with Grandmother, though they didn't get along in any fashion. The family money was in shipping and my uncle was the first to admit he had no business sense. Grandmother was forced to sell off pieces of it after my father withdrew, when my uncle wouldn't take it up. The money supported my uncle's projects over the years. He always had something he was working on. None of it suited Grandmother. She thought he was a wastrel, perhaps even a little mad. She was astonished, I think, that she had sired him."

Skye could hear it in Walker's voice, the assurance that his uncle was the least mad person he knew. "You must have written over the years," she said. "To know so much about him."

"We did. Mail delivery was inconsistent at best. We would go for months at a time without hearing anything from Boston, and then we would be flooded. I cared more about the news from home than about my parents. They were very satisfied with our life in Shanghai. The mission consumed them. They counted themselves responsible for over two thousand converts."

"Two thousand," she said softly. "They must have been enormously pleased."

Walker's tawny brows were raised. He shook his head. "Not with millions of souls to be saved," he said. "And that was only in the province of Nanking. My parents felt that their life's work could never be accomplished. It didn't stop them from trying, however. Even then I was part of the diplomatic corps." Walker's smile was wry. "My father liked to think of himself as an ambassador of God's."

Skye smiled because he expected it and because he wasn't expecting her pity. She imagined that Walker had been more alone in Shanghai working beside his parents than he had been in Beacon Hill with his uncle. "You never had any brothers or sisters?"

"None who lived." His voice lowered. "My mother miscarried at least two times that I know of while we were in Shanghai. She thought it was because she hadn't done enough. It led directly to her decision to join the leper colony. It was her way of atoning for some imagined sin."

"So they left you behind on the mainland?"

"I was supposed to return to Boston, but money for my passage never arrived. My uncle could be a little vague at times. I imagine he forgot he was supposed to send it."

"A little vague!" she exclaimed softly. Skye was amazed by what had happened, as well as by Walker's calm acceptance of it. "But you were just a boy. How could he forget his responsibility to you that way?"

"He forgot most things when he was working. He had a passion for his projects that rivaled my mother's. The focus was simply different."

"What sort of work?" she asked. "You never said."

"Didn't I?" A sampling of cheeses and fresh fruit had been set in front of him. Walker chose an apple slice and chewed it slowly while Skye waited for an answer. The time had come. "He was a tinkerer," he said.

"A tinkerer?" she asked blankly. "An inventor, you mean? Like Jonathan Parnell?"

"Not
like
him," Walker said.
"Exactly
like him."

Skye frowned. "What?"

"My uncle is Jonathan Parnell."

Chapter 14

The carriage ride to the St. Mark was made in silence. Skye found it easier not to talk than to talk and not raise her questions. For his part, Walker was not in a particular hurry to complete the account. He took his time at the desk, registering them as Mr. and Mrs. Walker Caide with a little fanfare and flourish. The clerk was the same one who had been on duty several nights before, the same one with whom Skye had carried on a flirtation. Now Walker noticed that his wife did everything she could to avoid the poor clerk's eye. As for the clerk, he seemed to be the victim of a tickle in his throat. It was the only thing that could account for all his incessant clearing of it.

Their suite was on the fifth floor and they rode the steam lift with three other hotel guests and the lift operator. The crowd kept Skye from saying what she thought of Walker lingering at the front desk. She didn't have difficulty communicating it with a sideways glance.

On the threshold to their rooms, with the bellboy looking on and the lift operator still poking his head into the corridor, Walker picked up Skye and carried her inside. The action actually rendered her speechless. Her eyes, on the other hand, were flashing.

Their bags were deposited inside their bedroom, and Skye looked around while Walker tipped the young man. Jay Mac had seen to fresh flowers in all the rooms. There was a bucket of champagne chilling on the bedside table and a box of chocolates in the sitting room. The bathing room had a large enamel tub and an entire shelf filled with bath salts and perfumes. Fresh towels were stacked beside the washbasin. A single red rose lay on top, imparting its fragrance into the fabric.

The bedroom was large. Even so, the enormous bed captured most of the space. Skye didn't spend any time dwelling on that feature. Her eyes skimmed past it to the balcony, then the armoire, the dresser, and the oval mahogany table and Queen Anne chairs. Every piece of furniture gleamed with polish and reflected the deep burgundy and cream accents of the wallpaper, bedspread, and mantel shawl.

The sitting room had several conversational areas that were defined by the arrangement of wing chairs and sofas and a love seat. After Skye had removed her hat, gloves, and coat, she selected a chair beside the fireplace. Walker was still in conversation with the bellboy in the other room. She couldn't imagine what he had found to discuss, but when the young man came through the room on his way out, he was having a difficult time controlling his smile.

"What was that about?" she asked Walker, as he began to lay the fire.

He didn't answer her. When he finished with the fire, he brushed off his hands and removed his jacket. The silver threads in his vest glinted in the firelight. "Would you like champagne?"

"I'd like to be able to think clearly," she said.

"Champagne is good for that." He brought in the bucket from the bedroom and two crystal glasses. "This was your father's idea," he said. "In case you were wondering." He uncorked the bottle.

Although she was prepared for the popping, Skye still flinched. She ran for a towel when the bubbles spilled over the lip of the bottle and mopped up the excess on Walker's hand and sleeve. "You've got some right here," she said, then dabbed at his jaw with the edge of the towel. She drew it away slowly, aware his eyes had darkened and his body was still.

"And you have some here," he said lowly. He bent his head and touched the corner of her mouth with his lips.

Skye didn't move. Even her breath was held. She didn't respond to the kiss in any way that he could see. Only she was aware that her heart had skipped a tortured beat. "Walker," she said softly. "I don't think—"

"All right," he said. He took a step back, poured the champagne, and handed Skye her glass. He didn't touch his rim to hers, having no idea what a proper toast might be for this occasion. He doubted Skye would toast her own seduction, and it was premature to hold out for a happy marriage, not when his wife had set down rules about sharing the bed. Walker put down the champagne. Skye had returned to her chair, but Walker chose the sofa. He loosened a button on his vest and rolled up his sleeves. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. "You have more patience than I would have credited," he told her, after he had tasted his champagne.

"You'll tell me in your own time," she said. "I've learned that much. I don't know that I like it, but I can respect it." She raised her champagne glass and wrinkled her nose as the bubbles floated upward and tickled her. Skye rubbed the end of her nose and curled her legs beneath her. Yards of hunter green fabric spilled around her. She smoothed the fabric over her lap and waited even longer for him to speak.

When he began, she realized that not only would it be in Walker's own time, but in his own way. His first comment wasn't about Jonathan Parnell at all.

"I was free to go most everywhere I wanted," he said.

"With my parents involved in the mission, I enjoyed fewer restrictions in China than I had endured on Beacon Hill. Most foreigners stayed close together and didn't venture into the countryside. Except for the missionaries, there wasn't much of an effort to learn about the people who were their hosts. Some countries, like England, actually negotiated spheres of influence."

Skye's brows rose briefly in question.

"Those are geographic areas where foreigners can operate under their own set of laws and mores. It's all separate from Chinese culture and Chinese expectations. Essentially, it means foreigners govern themselves and the Chinese have no control. The United States didn't bargain for that privilege. Not because we particularly respected the Chinese, but because we wanted an open door to pillage the whole country."

She didn't comment on his cynicism, believing he had good reason for it. "So the world was your oyster," she said softly.

Walker smiled at that, remembering. "Something like that. I know I satisfied my curiosity about most things Chinese. I learned enough of the language to engage in conversation and translate for my parents, who never quite grasped it. I spent a lot of time observing people going through the routines of their lives, the births, marriages, deaths. Ritual and religion fascinated me. I absorbed everything I could." He sighed. "Over time I began to understand how little my parents appreciated the people they were trying to convert. The concept of a single God, for instance, is not easy for the Chinese to accept. Their religious history embraces Tao and Confucius and Buddha. They can embrace many things, but not just one. To my parents, the Chinese were pagan. To me, they were deeply spiritual."