Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (11 page)

Helplessly, Zosia glanced at her best friend, and the darker woman patted her arm once. “We’ve come from the orphanage, Arabella.
Abuela
Zapato passed away this morning.”

Arabella gasped sympathetically.
Abuela
Zapato was the old woman who kept the shoe-shaped orphanage outside of town, and had been a grandmother to everyone in the town since before Arabella had arrived. She’d dispensed grandmotherly advice and care to nearly everyone, and had been close friends with Zosia’s mother, Mary. “Oh, Zosia, I’m sorry. Your mother must be devastated.”

The younger woman nodded, obviously holding back tears. “Mama was there when she…when she left. Mama on one side, Rojita on the other. It was…” She sniffed twice. “It was fast.”

Arabella nodded. The tea had turned bitter on her tongue. “I didn’t even realize she was ill.”

Snow handed her now-crying friend a handkerchief, and moved her hand to take Zosia’s. “It was her heart. Very sudden, just like my father.” The mulatto woman looked down at her teacup, and Arabella wondered—not for the first time—how she’d ended up in Wyoming with her red-headed sister. “I’m glad that her family—and Mrs. Spratt—got there in time.”

“Me too. Oh, poor Rojita and Micah. They must be aching.” The siblings had really been just two of
Abuela
’s orphans, but now helped run the orphanage. “I wonder if there’s anything we can do?” The two oldest boys left at the orphanage—Tom Turner and Jack Horner—were Eddie’s closest friends. “Maybe I could offer to help with Tom and Jack for a few days?”

“Sheriff Cutter sent us over here.” Zosia dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sure that they’d welcome any help with the boys, but I didn’t think to ask. He wanted you to know, though, that they wouldn’t be moving in this week.”

Arabella’s eyes widened as she realized the implications of
Abuela’s
death. “Of course, they probably need a few days to settle things, come to terms with—“

“Actually,” Snow interrupted, “I don’t think they’ll be moving at all. That’s what he meant.” She sounded apologetic. “The reason they were moving was so that they could have their own space. But Rojita will want to stay at the orphanage to take care of the children, I’m sure. And now, I suppose, there will be more space.”

There will be more space
. With
Abuela
gone, Rojita and Hank would be moving into the larger bedroom, and of course they’d need to be there to care for the children. But… Her stomach clenched. But they were going to rent
her
apartment. What would she do now for income? How would she and Eddie survive?

She shut her eyes on the all-too-knowing gazes on the young women across from her, and tried not to panic.
Calm down
. It was selfish to bemoan her own sorrows, to think of
Abuela’s
death as a nuisance to her. After all, a delightful woman—a woman whom she genuinely did care for—was gone from this world, and that was a loss. She really shouldn’t be thinking about how that loss was going to inconvenience her…but what was she going to
do
?

“I’m sorry, Arabella.” Snow’s sympathetic tone broke through her self-pity, and she opened her eyes to see two sets of compassionate eyes on her. “We know that you were hoping that they’d move in soon.”

Did they? Did everyone in town know her shame? Did everyone realize how much she needed money? Rule Number Three forbade sharing shameful secrets… but lately, Milton’s rules just didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. What difference did it make if everyone knew her business? She was a single mother who’d been supporting them on a bookstore people rarely visited. It was obvious that she needed money.

So she sighed. “Yes, I was rather counting on them.” And then, deciding to ignore Rule Number One that said she had to always keep up appearances, Arabella placed her elbows on the table and let her forehead sink into her hands. “I know it’s selfish to think about myself at a time like this, but…”

“We understand,” Zosia sniffed, sounding better than she had a minute before. “Is there anything that we can do?”

As Arabella exhaled, she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. It felt
good
to be sitting with these women, sharing tea and support. Although she was breaking several of Milton’s Rules, she found herself
anxious
to share her worries with them. She propped her chin up on one hand and smiled sadly. “I appreciate the offer, Zosia, but I can’t imagine what can be done. There’s a limited number of people who are looking for places to live.”

“How about Ian and Ella?”

Zosia glanced at her friend. “The Crownes? I didn’t realize they were looking for a new place.”

Snow shrugged, and sipped at her tea. Arabella liked the way she pursed her lips while she thought. “I’m not sure that they are. But the other day I was in the Mercantile, and Ella mentioned Ian rescued another dog, and it’s almost as big as Shiloh.”

“Oh dear.” Zosia’s smile was watery, but there. “There can’t possibly be room for them all?”

Even Arabella had to smile at the thought of yet another animal squeezed into the tiny apartment above the mercantile. “Ian mentioned to me that Shiloh and Manny live in his storeroom now, but that he has to pick the flour sacks off the floor so they don’t get into them.”

Snow smiled triumphantly. “See! He’s probably desperate for a new space!”

“Especially now that Ella’s expecting.” Both women turned their gazes sharply to Zosia, who nodded once.

“Zosia Spratt, bless my soul, you never told me a thing about that!”

“I just heard it from Mama yesterday. She heard from Papa, who heard from Ian himself.”

Arabella’s brows went up, impressed despite herself. “You’re right; they’d probably love a bigger space. But I’m not sure if we’d do well with so many dogs running around.” It would be tight, with the Crownes living upstairs and her and Eddie living downstairs and the dogs living…well, everywhere. Although in all honestly, Eddie would probably love it.

“Well, that’s certainly true.” Snow sat back. “I don’t think I would care to share a building with that many animals.” Snow lived with her sister and mother in a lovely home nearby, but Arabella couldn’t imagine them allowing pets to track dirt all over.

“You could get married.”

Arabella managed not to react overtly to Zosia’s casual comment. Instead, she picked up her tea again, gripping the saucer a little too strongly, to keep her hand from shaking. “Whatever makes you say that?”

The young woman shrugged one shoulder, the action causing her dark curls to bob exotically. Her sharp features were bewitching in the afternoon light streaming through the open window. “Mr. Mayor has been gone two years. You’re doing wonderfully with Eddie, but having a husband to help would certainly mean you wouldn’t have to move out of your home.”

“I’ve already moved out.” Arabella tightened her jaw when she took a sip, trying to appear nonchalant while she flicked her eyes about the room, taking in all of the furniture she and Eddie had moved downstairs.

Zosia made a dismissive noise. “But you could move back in, again. Or into another house, if a man offered…”

Arabella carefully placed the cup and saucer on the tablecloth, resisting the urge to trace the ornate
fleur de lis
with her fingertip. Milton’s death had been scary. It left her alone. Though it wasn’t as scary as Edward’s death, but still… she’d wanted another husband, then. But in the two years since, she’d realized how strong she could be on her own, and had known that she wouldn’t remarry. She’d had two husbands, and one True Love, and that’s more that any woman could say she deserved.

But… in the last week, she’d been…thinking. Been thinking about Vincenzo.
Often
. Thinking about the time they spent together, and his stories, and his music that seemed to make her complete. She’d been wondering what those sinewy forearms would feel like as he pulled her against him; how his lips would taste. She’d been thinking about his hands on her, and
that’s
when she knew that she wouldn’t mind re-marriage, if it was to the right man.

It seemed that others in the town had picked up on the time they’d spent together. Snow exchanged a look with her friend. “Another man who had his own house, for instance? A lovely, brand-new home?”

They were talking about Vincenzo, and Arabella hurried to insure his reputation was intact. “I couldn’t possibly leave my garden, ladies. And no one has offered marriage.”

“I’m sure it’s just a matter of time, though.”

“No.” She hadn’t intended to sound so harsh, but it slipped out. Vincenzo had shared his music with her, but that was it. “I cannot remarry. Not at my age.”

There was silence for a moment after her announcement, and then both women made identical
tsk
ing noises and rolled their eyes. They could’ve been sisters, and Arabella definitely didn’t smile, because the subject matter was not funny—but it was close.

“Arabella, you—“

Snow interrupted her best friend. “You’re beautiful, Arabella. You’re not old, you’re not worn-out. You’re beautiful.”

The statement, given so matter-of-factly, made Arabella pause in the process of dismissing it. She stared across the table at the younger woman. Snow’s brown skin was pristine, smooth and creamy like hers used to be. She had striking green eyes set under delicate brows, and a perfect little cupids-bow mouth. She was stunning, even prettier than her sister Rose, and she had to know it. But here she sat, calling Arabella beautiful? There was no false praise in her expression, nothing to indicate that she hadn’t mean what she said. Snow thought she was beautiful.

Zosia clicked her teeth, dismissively dabbing at the last of her tears with her handkerchief. “And even if you
weren’t
beautiful, it hardly matters, Arabella. You are a kind person, who doesn’t gossip or say mean things, who cares about others and works hard.
That’s
what a husband would care about. Those are the sorts of things that make a woman worthy.”

Patting her friend’s hand, Snow smiled again. “That’s right. Your beauty would just be the icing on the cake, dear.” Arabella felt buoyed, like she’d found two new friends. “You would make a fine wife for
any
man.”

“Even a blind one.” The friends smirked at one another.

“I…” Arabella swallowed past a suddenly full throat. “I don’t think
Signore
Bellini is interested in a wife, ladies. We’re only friends.”

“We’ll see.” Snow winked. “In the meantime, would you like us to talk to Ella for you?”

Oh that’s right, her apartment. Arabella sighed. All of this talk of Vincenzo—of marrying Vincenzo?—had pushed her worries from her mind. “No, I’ll do it. It does sound like they might be looking for a new apartment, especially if Ella’s expecting. I’m very pleased for her.” And she was; the young couple were darling, and clearly doted on one another. She remembered another young couple like that, a long time ago, and pushed thoughts of Edward from her mind.

The three of them sat and enjoyed their tea, trading stories and memories of
Abuela
at town functions and the weekly Sunday socials, like the one that they had all missed today. And throughout the afternoon, Arabella did not allow her thoughts to linger on Vincenzo, or on his odd actions today. And she definitely did
not
allow herself to think about marrying him.

Vincenzo sat in darkness.

She’d had thick brown hair, given to curl just a bit at the ends. He used to tug her braids when they were both young, and then later he’d relish the chance to run his fingers through her hair as he pulled her pins out one by one. There’d been this spot on her neck, right below her ear, that felt like Heaven and would make her crazy. They’d discovered it by accident on their wedding night.

He could still taste her skin, if he tried hard enough.

Oh yeah, she’d been beautiful. He remembered what his hands looked like against the whiteness of her breasts; remembered the way she’d shout his name as if he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he remembered her smile, big and loving and heart-breaking.

He’d never forgotten her smile.

Vincenzo’s stomach rumbled as he turned the frame over and over in his hands. When was the last time he’d eaten? Gordy had been in yesterday—or last night?—with food, hadn’t he? Had he eaten anything? Vincenzo—or was he still Edward, after all these years?—only remembered the brandy, and the music. The loss, the mourning, filled him until he had to pick up his instrument and let it trickle out, or he’d explode from devastation.

Mrs. Mayor was his Jane, his Arabella. His wife. He’d left her alone, and…well, she’d survived. She’d remarried. She’d allowed another man to raise his son. The son he didn’t know he had.

Growling, he curled his hand around the small frame, wanting to crush the beautiful memories. He had a son. He had a wife. He had a wife who was kind, and generous, and was moved to tears by his music, just like when they’d been kids. He’d spent the last weeks falling in love with his
wife
, but knowing that she would never love him in return.

What would she think of him, if she knew? What must she think of him, now? A deformed monster of a man? Oh yes, he knew his playing was wonderful, but the rest of him? Ten years ago, because of how he looked, he’d made the decision not to come home. He’d built a new life for himself, just as she had… and that’s how their future had to look, too.

The part of him that was still in control placed the framed photograph of his beautiful wife carefully on the small table, knowing that he couldn’t afford to break it. Not now. And the back of his hand brushed against the brandy decanter.

He’d gone through quite a few of them in the days since the picnic. Five? Was it only five? Or was it more? Gordy occasionally brought him refills when he’d start yelling. He’d slept here at least two nights, drunker than he had any right to be. One more glass wouldn’t hurt.

Oh God
, he didn’t even know what day it was. He didn’t even know if it
was
daytime. Did it matter? It was dark. It was always dark.

Time passed. Maybe he slept there in the chair. Maybe those hadn’t been dreams, but horrible memories of the past. His mind was tormenting him, reminding him of the way she’d looked at the Independence Day celebration when she’d been sixteen. That was the year he’d told her he was going to marry her, and she’d laughed and skipped out of his reach and blown him a kiss. Or the first time he’d kissed her, in her mother’s garden, before she’d gone off to school. Christmases where their small families celebrated together, the snow catching in her eyelashes as she laughed at the clouds.

He’d lost his eyes years ago, but he could still see. Could still see her,
had
seen her for the last decade. In the moments before that shell hit the ammunition chest he’d been carrying from the caisson, and everything went red and fiery and then dark and smoky—in the moments before he’d tucked the photograph carefully inside his boot—he’d been seeing her. Touching her photograph. Admiring her beauty, and wondering—as always—how he’d gotten so lucky as to marry the girl he’d loved forever.

And then he’d never seen another thing but darkness. Cursing, Vincenzo downed the rest of the brandy, and slept again. This time he dreamed of his son. Of Eddie, talking to him, pleading with him. But always, always just far enough, just foggy enough, that the words didn’t make sense. He knew the tone, though, and knew that he couldn’t do a damn thing for the boy.

This time, when he woke, he knew he’d been sleeping, at least. That was a small blessing. Wrinkling his nose at his own stench, he sat up—how’d he get to the settee?—and ran his fingers through his hair. God, he was a mess. Stumbling towards his favorite chair, he wondered what time it was. Wondered if it mattered. He fumbled for her photograph in the frame, but couldn’t find it. Must’ve knocked it off the table. Vincenzo muttered a curse when he found the brandy decanter empty. Probably for the best.

He sighed and laid his pounding head against the back of the chair. What was he doing? Trying to drink himself to death? Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea; he’d never cared about his legacy before, but it would make sense that Eddie would inherit his fortune. Vincenzo could die, and his wife and son would be taken care of.

Groaning, he laid his forearm across his face. He’d have to have a lawyer make up a will. God, he was thirsty. Was there more brandy in the parlor? Eddie and Arabella deserved his fortune. After all, they were the reason he had it; if he hadn’t been trying to spare her the pain of having a deformed husband, he wouldn’t have accepted that ticket to London after his discharge. He wouldn’t have played for that orchestra, wouldn’t have accepted their patronage, if he’d gone home instead. No, he owed everything he had to his own
cowardice
, his inability to go home and face his wife.

But now was even worse. She used to be kind-hearted and fun-loving. A decade of raising
his
child, of being married to that stick-up-his-rear Milton Mayor had turned her into a shell. A lovely shell only concerned with appearances. What would she say if she knew Edward Hawthorne was still alive? What would she say if she found out he looked like
this
?

His throat was drier than the Maghreb, which he’d been privileged to experience once. He could feel the sand scratching as he tried to swallow. “Brandy.” He needed a drink. “Gordy!” His bellow wasn’t nearly as forceful as he’d hoped. “Brandy, Gordy. A drink…water, even, God.”

Where the hell was Gordy? Where the hell was
he
, for that matter?
Hell
, that was it. Hell. He’d fallen and been trapped in his own fiery darkness, and he wasn’t ever going to escape.

He
could
leave, though. He could leave Everland, leave the friendly people and the fresh air and bird song and peacefulness that had turned so tangled suddenly. He could go back East, to New York, to catch a steamship to Europe. Or to San Francisco, to see the Orient again. Surely they’d welcome him?

Footsteps told him that his lazy manservant had finally heard his call. “Oh, thank God, Gordy. Brandy!”

The thump of a foot meeting the door, and then Gordy was in the room. “It’s about time ye joined the living, m’lord.”

“Did you bring me anything to drink?” Vincenzo’s winced at the way his voice croaked. He didn’t
sound
among the living.

“Aye, although not what I think ye had in mind.” Suddenly the smell of beef stew tickled Vincenzo’s nose, and his stomach cramped. He groaned, wondering when he last ate.

The sound of cutlery being arranged on the table beside him, and then Gordy pressed a cold glass into his hand. “Here, Vincenzo, drink.” From the sound of it, the fool was kneeling right beside his chair, mothering him. Not having the energy to mock Gordy for the worry in his voice, Vincenzo drank. It was water, and not what he’d wanted, but he drank anyhow. By the bottom of the glass, he knew it was what he’d needed.

When he finished, Gordy put a bowl and spoon into his hands, and he began to automatically eat. He ate like a starving man, but Gordy’s beef stew was worth it. His jaw felt stiff, unfamiliar, and his stomach heaved with the first few bites he swallowed. Noise behind him, and the breeze of fresh air, told him that Gordy had opened the room’s two windows.

“Lord help us, Vincenzo, it smells like a sty in here.” Gordy wasn’t wrong. “Are ye really back, then? I haven’t seen ye on a bender like this one in years.”

“Depends.” The stew really
was
delicious. “Is there any brandy left?”

“I’ve hidden it.”

“So there
is
brandy?”

“What’s all this about, then? Yer wife?”

Vincenzo’s head whipped around. “What about my wife?”

Fabric rubbing against fabric, and Gordy’s footsteps around the room. Probably tidying up. “Nothing. It’s just that the last time ye drank like this was because of her.”

He hadn’t realized that he’d talked so much back then. How much did Gordy know or suspect? Vincenzo sighed, the bowl finally empty.

“Where’s Rajah?”

“The blasted animal had enough sense to stay out of here. Probably couldn’t stand the smell. I let Eddie take him home with him for a few days, until you were feeling better.”

His throat went dry again. “Eddie was here?” His son had been here?

“Aye, twice. Ye’ve been drinkin’ four days now, haven’t ye? Ye’ve missed two of yer lessons with him, and one appointment with Mrs. Mayor. She sent a note ‘round to postpone, on account of takin’ in some orphans temporarily.”

Was that just an excuse to not see him? Vincenzo tried to remember what he’d said at the picnic. Had he offended her? Of course he had; he looked like a monster. Someone who thought that beauty equaled worth would be offended by someone who looked like him. God, he was thirsty.

“And Eddie?” He gave a sigh of relief when he heard Gordy pouring another glass of water, and eagerly took it to drink.

“The first time he came by, I told him ye were ill. He was upset, and yer pet wouldn’t leave him alone. So I asked him to take that greedy animal, figurin’ Mrs. Mayor wouldn’t mind too much. The second time was last evening; he came in here ta see ye, but couldn’t wake ye.” Eddie’s voice, pleading with him… Vincenzo thought it’d been a dream.

The water was clearing his head—or maybe it was the stew. As if reading his mind, Gordy handed him another heaping bowl of it. Around a mouthful of meat, Vincenzo asked, “Is there a lawyer in this town?” He knew what he needed to do.

“No.” Gordy’s response was immediate, and Vincenzo remembered that he’d been spending his evenings at the saloon with the locals. He probably knew all about their new home. Their soon-to-be-
ex
-home.

“That’s okay. I’ll find one in San Francisco.” He hadn’t known where he was going until he’d opened his mouth. San Francisco, and then on to the Orient. He’d bring a valise and his favorite instrument, and then arrange for workers to move everything else out after him, like he’d done only last month when he’d arrived in Everland.

“Yer going to California? I thought ye’re retired?”

“Me too.” He chewed. “But plans change.” Life plans change. He needed to go, to leave Jane—
Arabella—
to her peace. He’d arrange money for them, and then they could go back to the lives they wanted. Peaceful.
Beautiful
. She’d mourned him once, had said her good-byes. She didn’t need a beast of a man suddenly claiming to be her husband. “I need you to go get two tickets to San Francisco.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Vincenzo.” As if punctuating Gordy’s words, the clock in the hall struck three times. “Can it wait ‘til morning?”

Now that he’d made his decision, he didn’t want to wait. But something else bothered him; he couldn’t leave without talking to her, either. He couldn’t walk out of her life again, and then send her money to raise his son, without telling her why. He’d have to meet with her one last time…and try to refrain from kissing her.

“All right. But I’ll want to leave as soon as possible. Today.” He pushed himself to his feet, and felt his knees turn to jelly. Sinking back down into the cushions, he admitted that he needed sleep, real sleep in a bed. “Tomorrow, then. Send a note to Mrs. Mayor and ask her to meet with me tonight. I mean—“ Was it really three in the morning?

“I know what ye mean.” Then Gordy was beside him, moving the cup and bowl out of the way, and taking his elbow. Vincenzo gratefully let the younger man take some of his weight as he was led out of the room and down the hall.