HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (35 page)

He didn’t seem to notice that one of Moira’s gloved hands clung to the doorjamb without moving, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, or that while her makeup was perfectly applied, beneath it she was still the pasty girl Daniel had glimpsed inside her room.

It was all an act. He was witnessing an act. She purred and murmured to Henry with aplomb, reaching out with her left hand to graze the man’s shoulder and then forearm as she spoke, reeling him in like a fat trout on the line. But she’d soon need to cut this fish loose. She couldn’t stay on her feet much longer.

Quickly, he poured a glass of water from a center hall table and casually walked over to the duo. “Glad to see you up and about, Moira,” he said. “You must be dry as prairie grass in summer.”

“Bless you, I’m parched,” she said. She accepted the glass and drank half of it down, then handed it back to him. All done up or not, she was truly beautiful. While she’d pulled her blonde hair up into a tasteful knot, curling tendrils escaped around her neck. A China doll, with those rosebud lips and wide green-blue eyes. He saw, then, a thin rivulet of perspiration running from her temple down her neck and into the bodice of her fine gown.

Again, he wondered how long she could manage this charade and silently he urged Colvard to leave, as if he could will the man out of the hotel.

“I confess I believed the worst, Miss Moira,” Henry said with a bow of his head. “I thought you might be an addict, or worse, simply reneging on your contractual obligations. As I’m sure you understand, I cannot tolerate either. It would be to the ruination of the opera house.”

“I understand,” Moira returned sweetly. She raised one delicate, arched brow. “Until tonight, then? I shall be backstage by five o’clock, ready to go on at six.”

“Perfect,” Henry said with a sigh. He placed his hat atop his head, a rather smart top hat that made his round face a bit less round, and gave her a small bow. “Thank you, Miss Moira. I look forward to hearing you sing tonight.” Moira gave him a wave, and then he was back out on the street.

Daniel looked around and saw that Moira was again in a swoon, falling in an arc. He narrowly caught her up in his arms. Up close, he could tell she’d dressed hurriedly and she needed a bath. Daniel sighed and lifted Moira higher in his arms and entered her room to lay her on the bed.

Then he sat in a corner chair to wait.

She roused in a minute, looked around groggily, then seeing him, tried to sit up.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, lifting his hands, but remaining in his seat. “It’s all right. You just fainted.”

“Oh,” she said, lying back. She laid a delicate hand on her forehead.

“Moira, what is the matter with you? Did the doc say?” He paused and waited, but she remained silent. “Is it … is it, Gavin?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, obviously lying. “I’m simply exhausted. Gavin and I …” Her voice broke. “It was the constant travel, I’m certain,” she said, gathering herself. “Our transatlantic journey, then my life seems to have been one train or stagecoach ride ever since.” She looked at him and smiled. “Give me a little time. I should recover soon.”

He sat back in the chair, arms folded, wondering if he should confront her now or later. She had a show to do tonight, and she was plainly grieving Gavin. But he knew what it was like, running from the truth. You could never get far enough ahead of it to make it worthwhile.

“Moira.”

Slowly, she looked his direction. She looked so young, so frightened, so weary, Daniel had a hard time keeping his seat, not going to her. But he sensed that would overwhelm her, send her into hiding rather than drawing her out as he wished. “Tell me. As fast as you can. Without thinking about it. Just tell me.” He paused. “You can trust me.”

She waited as if weighing his words, then blurted, “I’m pregnant.” She stared at him as those two words left her rosebud lips, as if shocked she’d actually let them out.

He sat back for a moment as the ramifications of her declaration settled on him. The terror for her, to be alone—“Congratulations,” he said softly.

She gave him a scoffing laugh. “Congratulations?” She shook her head once, then turned to look at the ceiling. “It was a farce, Daniel. A convenient lie. We were never married. He never loved me. Never intended …” Her voice broke then and she tucked her chin, blinking rapidly.

Fury surged through Daniel.
Gavin
. He’d suspected the man was using her. Taken advantage of his position. And yet Moira was a woman grown. Responsible for her own decisions. He looked to the window and then down to his hands. He was in no position to judge.

“Daniel.” She was looking at him with those gorgeous green-blue eyes, beseeching him. “Say something.”

He stared back at her, knowing he couldn’t be near her. Not now. Not yet anyway. “Moira, you are not alone. I promise you that.”

Moira sank gratefully into the warm bath that Daniel had had two maids bring up. It wasn’t too hot, which would sap her, and not too cool. She had opened her trunk and lifted a small chest full of aromatics—a bit of mint to invigorate her; a touch of lavender oil to soothe. She was shaky, but after closing her eyes for a while and choking down a half cup of chicken broth, she managed to get to the tub and into it unaided. She held her breath and went all the way under, letting the water seep into her scalp, and then resurfacing, eyes still closed, breathing in the lovely smells.

She wiped her face with a small cloth, washing all her makeup off, intending to begin again. Then she reached for a luxurious, rich shampoo that she lathered in her hands before rubbing it through her hair and rinsing. She had to see tonight’s performance—and tomorrow’s—through, then escape this town. She would send word to the opera houses on her schedule that she would have to postpone, in plenty of time to avoid the ire of the last three of four. That would give her three to go back to when she was again ready to take the stage. If she would ever be ready …

She rubbed her hands over her belly. There was no telltale curve there, no fluttering within. How had the doctor known? She pressed down, wondering if she could feel a small baby there, and discovered a hardening, the size of an apple. Her womb. Now carrying a child. “Oh, Mama, what have I done?”

She looked to the empty chair beside the tub, wished her mother were perched there, ready to help her sort it out. Had her parents been alive back in Philadelphia, with her still at home, they would have sent her away to quietly have the baby. They would have helped her find a good home for it. She’d heard whispers … of how it was done. Then a match would have been made, to a less-than-desirable suitor, who would not hold it against her that she had been deflowered before their wedding night. It was the common penance for a fallen woman of society—life without love, now a life negotiated. But she was not a girl under her mother’s wing or her father’s roof. She was a woman grown. And she had to figure this out herself.

She nervously glanced to the empty chair, her last question echoing in the air.
Mama?

You are well aware of what you have done, child. Now the question is, what will you do?

Moira closed her eyes and listened to her mother’s reasonable, measured tone. There was no condemnation in it, only a demand for her to think responsibly now. What to do, what to do.… She knew she needed to, first, get through tonight. Salvage her reputation. Preserve it for the future. Then set it aside like lovely summer preserves on a basement shelf while she negotiated winter. And Daniel … Daniel had promised her she wouldn’t be alone. What had he meant by that? He would see through his obligations to protect her, watch over her as a hired guard? Or something more?

Isn’t that enough to figure out, for today?

You are dodging the baby.

I know it. But, Mama, I can’t think about it right now. It’s too much, too overwhelming.

Just remember, Moira, you were once as small as that child within your womb. She will one day reach for you and you will smile with gladness, happy she is yours.

That isn’t helping, Mama. Please, stop …

The only way through difficult times is to put one foot in front of the other. Lift that St. Clair chin. Throw your shoulders back. Move, and the rest will come.

Moira shook her head and then went back underwater, as if she could muffle her mother’s voice in her ears. She knew it was all a figment of her imagination, but she felt powerless to stop it. A phrase kept ringing through her mind: “Happy she is yours.”
Yours. Mine.
Hers. She didn’t want a child. A child was the last thing she’d ever wanted. Odessa was the natural mother, the ideal mother, the meant-to-be mother. Not her.

But you have been given a child. God does not make mistakes.

“But people do,” she whispered back. She rose and reached for her towel.

Two hours later, she was dressed in a fresh gown, her makeup reapplied. She pushed down another half cup of broth that Daniel had brought up.
You can do this. You are Moira Colorado. Show them what that means.

She moved to the door and found the hallway empty, then went down the stairs and finally spied Daniel, talking to the front-desk girl in hushed undertones. She wondered at the wave of irritation she felt, seeing the man pay attention to another, but then she shoved the feelings away.

Daniel followed the desk clerk’s gaze to Moira, letting his sentence trail off. “Moira,” he said, moving over to her. “You look … fine.”

“I’m much improved,” she lied. Hopefully, if he couldn’t see the fine sheen of sweat along her hairline, others wouldn’t either. “Are the girls over there? The pianist?”

“Everyone,” he said, still studying her with eyes filled with concern.

He really was handsome, a bit of a Greek god in his looks. He looked her over and lifted his chin. “Are you certain you’re up to tonight’s show, Moira?”

“Absolutely,” she declared, doing as her mama suggested and lifting her chin in response.

A tiny smile edged his lips at her answer. “Glad to hear it.”

She took his offered arm and moved forward, concentrating on walking as if she were floating. “I thank you for sending the bath water up and for the broth. I believe both will help me see this through.” They moved past the mousy front-desk clerk who busied herself with the sheaf of papers before her.

But by the time they reached the corner, Moira was shaking.

“Moira?” Daniel asked in concern, pulling her to a stop.

“Just get me to the theater, Daniel,” she said in a whisper, wiping her forehead with his handkerchief and praying she didn’t vomit right here on Main Street. “I’ll rest there, and discuss with the girls how to manage this, with me … in recovery.”