Louisa Rawlings (43 page)

“Drew Bradford, what is this?” she gasped in surprise. There in the center of the room was their little table, resplendent with a huge bowl of peonies and yellow roses. Beside it was a basket of strawberries; a jug of thick, sweet cream; the largest brioche she had ever seen, studded with raisins. And a bottle of champagne.

Grinning, he gathered her into his arms. “This, my love, is breakfast!”

“But how can we…how can you…”

He picked up a strawberry and popped it into her mouth. “Don’t you want it?”

She chewed and giggled at the same time. “You know I do! But champagne for breakfast? What’s come over you?”

His blue eyes peered intently into hers. “Do you love me, Marcy?” he whispered.

She put her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, Drew. With all my heart.” When he kissed her hungrily, his arms holding her tight, she thought she’d weep. He was suddenly the Drew of old, warm and loving and dear.

“Now, Mrs. Bradford,” he said, popping the champagne cork. “We’re going to have our breakfast. And then, if you’re not too giddy from the champagne, I’m going to take you to bed and make love to you all morning long.” His eyes twinkled wickedly. “Whether your husband allows it or not. Do you understand?”

She made a little curtsy. “Yes sir. But he’s very jealous.”

“And well he might be! Because I can steal you away with presents. Open that box.”

“This?” She picked up a round pasteboard box, its blue-and-white stripes sprigged with violets. She removed the lid, plowed through acres of tissue paper, and squealed in delight. Within the box was a straw bonnet with pink ribbons and a butterfly. “But I don’t understand, Drew. Why are you…”

“Have some champagne. And don’t ask so many questions or we’ll never get to bed. I thought the bonnet would look charming with your best gray gown. You’ll be the most beautiful woman on the boat.”

“The boat? What boat?”

He shook his head. “Questions again? I thought I answered that already.”

“Tarnation, Drew Bradford! I’ll kick your shins if you don’t stop funning me!”

He laughed. “Oh, very well! It’s just that you’d better start packing.”

“Packing?” Dear God. She put her hand to her thumping heart, scarcely daring to hope.

He pulled her back into his arms, kissed her softly. “Dearest Marcy. We’re going home.”

Marcy bit back the questions “how?” and “why?” Even on the trip back she held her tongue, but she had sent him to visit his mother when they reached New York. He’d found them a small rooming house on Tenth Street. “Just for tonight,” he’d said. “Tomorrow we’ll go up to Saratoga to see my father.”

Marcy’d taken off that funny little bonnet of hers, put her hands in his, gazed at him with those blue-green eyes that always melted him. “Go and see your mother.”

He’d shaken his head. Argued with her. He couldn’t ever forgive his mother for her ugly words about her.

Marcy had been adamant, her stubborn little chin jutting in determination. Whatever had happened between him and his mother, she’d said, it was time to make his peace. In the evening, if his mother was agreeable, the three of them could have supper together.

In the end, he’d laughed softly, given in. He couldn’t fight her once she made up her mind to something.

At his mother’s house he took the steps two at a time, eager to have this interview over and done with. Tomorrow’s meeting with his father would be difficult enough; he had no idea what humor his mother was in. This was June. They had parted last August on a note of acrimony. And although he had found it impossible to forgive her insults to Marcy, he was nevertheless aware of how she had doted on him through the years. Irrational or not, she would have viewed his marriage as a betrayal.

He was dismayed to see how she seemed to have aged in less than a year. The hands she held out to embrace him had a slight tremor. Damn Dr. Page! he thought. He should have taken her off that tonic years ago!

“Drewry! Dearest boy! How I’ve missed you!”

“Mum.” He knew she loved to be called by her pet name. He kissed her cheek and sat beside her on a small settee as she directed.

“You don’t know how I’ve reproached myself a thousand times because of our parting,” she said sadly. “I kept hoping you’d forgive me and write. Every day I watched for the postman, longing for a word from you. Longing to know you’d forgiven the hasty words of someone who loves you so.” She smiled and blinked back her tears.

He felt like a villain. “Oh, Mum. I’m here now,” he said gruffly.

“Where’s your…where’s Marcy?”

He noticed her choice of words. Not a good sign. “My wife is at Mrs. Oliver’s Boardinghouse, over on Tenth Street. She’s tired from the trip. She wanted to rest for a bit. But perhaps later, the three of us can dine together…?”

Isobel stared at her fingers. “Perhaps.”

“I love her, Mother. That hasn’t changed. I hope you can begin to understand that and accept her.”

“Of course, dear boy.” A single tear dropped from her eye onto her folded hands.

Oh, God. “How’s Willough?” he asked quickly.

“I’m sure I don’t really know. What she and Arthur do is of little concern to me. I see them seldom.”

“But is Willough happy in her marriage?” He thought, Or do you hate her so much you hope that she’s not? Poor little sister.

Isobel looked uncomfortable. “She’s… ‘in the family way,’ if you know what I mean. It’s quite shocking, really, the way she exhibits herself around town, and in her condition. I gather she’s due in just a few weeks. I can’t understand why Arthur doesn’t forbid such carryings-on!”

He laughed softly. “Perhaps little sister is finally letting go of her restraints. Good for her! We’ll pay her a visit when we return from Saratoga. I think she and Marcy will get on famously.”

Isobel pursed her lips. “You’re set in your plans, then. I couldn’t believe it when I heard from Brian that you were coming home. And to work for him! He must be very anxious to have you as his partner. He even sent his private car to take you up to Saratoga. It’s waiting at the Grand Central Terminal.”

“Good! I’d planned to take the train tomorrow. The day coach. But perhaps Marcy and I can go tonight. It’d be a pleasant trip. I’m sure Marcy’s never traveled that way before. And we can sleep as easily on the train as at the boardinghouse.”

“But what about your painting, Drew?”

“I’ve given it up.”

“Oh, how it grieves me to hear you say that. Because of Marcy?”

“I’m not bitter, Mother. So get that tone out of your voice. I’m just facing the truth. I have an obligation to my wife. An obligation I’ve accepted willingly. Because I love her.”

“But you want to paint. You
need
to paint.”

He pushed down the pain in his heart. “We all have to compromise with life.”

“Drew. Listen to me. I still have that money set aside. I can afford to pay for a small studio for you. You can paint to your heart’s content.”

“And where are we supposed to live, Marcy and I?”

“You can stay here.”

“Good God, Mother! What kind of a life would that be for Marcy? Even if you accepted her with all your heart?”

“I can’t afford to pay for rooms for you as well. You’ll have to stay here.”

“No. I want to see Marcy happy. She’s suffered enough this last year. I want to see her happy.”

“At the expense of your own happiness?”

“I’ve made up my mind!” He rose from the settee and strode to the door.

“And you’ve let your father win you away from me!” she shrieked. She began to weep. “Oh, the ingratitude of children! The knife to the heart!”

He returned and knelt before her, frowning. “Stop it, Mum! You know I love you. But I must do this thing my way.”

She sniffled, dabbed at her eyes. “You’re right, of course. Don’t be cross with me. I’m just a foolish old woman. I trust your judgment. Do what you think you must.”

He smiled his relief. “May I bring Marcy for supper later?”

“Of course.” She stood up and crossed to her vanity, fingering the cut-glass bottle filled with her tonic. She turned. “No. Wait. Will you indulge your Mum just one more time? I’m not at my best today. I hate to meet your dear bride when I’m languishing. When you return from Saratoga, you’ll come to dinner. The two of you. I’ll have time to plan it properly. Perhaps we can have Willough and Arthur too. And your father.”

“That might be very pleasant.”

“But as for tonight…” The eyes she turned to him were dark and pleading. “I know I’ve lost you, dearest boy. It’s a grief every mother with a son must face. But…will you take supper alone with me tonight? The way we used to? I’ll put on my prettiest dinner gown for you. And you can change into your dress clothes. I’ve left everything in your room just as it was when you went away. Your clothes, your old drawings and paintings. Everything. You can take a hot bath, dear boy, and Parkman can help you dress…”

“But what about Marcy?”

“I’m sure she’s worn out from the journey and would welcome an early supper and a good night’s sleep. I’ll tell you what. The railroad car is at the station. And Keller’s on board, with a well-stocked pantry. I’ll have someone escort your Marcy to the car. Keller can feed her a good supper. And by the time you get there, she’ll be nicely settled in for the evening.”

“I don’t know…it’s her first night in the city…”

“And she’s probably terribly nervous about meeting Brian tomorrow. All the more reason for her to welcome a little solitude tonight. To compose herself.” She smiled in understanding. “We women are all the same. I’m sure that’s how
I’d
feel.”

“I suppose so.” He was torn. The thought of a hot bath…

Isobel’s lip quivered. “For old times’ sake, Drew. Please.”

He capitulated. “All right, Mum. But, Marcy…”

“You go off to your room, Drewry. I told you, I’ll take care of Marcy.”

Isobel watched her son’s retreating back. It was good to have him home. She intended to have him home forever. And to see that he became a painter, if that’s what he wanted. She couldn’t have him ruin his life by going into business with Brian. Drew was
hers
! She wouldn’t let Brian have him! And some day, when he was a successful painter, he’d thank her.

She sat down at her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’m doing this for your own good, dear boy,” she whispered, and began to write. The room was quiet except for the scratch of the pen. When she had finished the letter, she blotted it carefully, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. Taking up another sheet of paper, she crossed to her vanity and opened a drawer, from which she removed a large vial filled with a white powder. She shook out a quantity of the powder onto the paper, scrutinized the small, white mound, and sprinkled out a bit more. Carefully folding the piece of paper into a neat packet, she added it to the envelope with her letter, then sealed the envelope and rang for her maid.

She held out the envelope to the girl. “Have this sent round to Mr. Gray. At once.”

The maid bobbed, took the letter, and left the room. Isobel looked at her hands. They had begun to shake violently. She unstoppered the bottle of tonic, put it to her lips, and took a large swallow. She closed the bottle, wiped her mouth against the back of her hand.

“Arthur, you faithless snake,” she said to the empty room. “Don’t fail me.
It’s time to pay your debt
!”

As she waited for Drew to return, Marcy poured a bit of water into the china basin and splashed at her face and bare bosom. It was a warm evening. Even with her gown put aside, she felt uncomfortable. Perhaps when Drew came back from visiting his mother, they might take a little stroll. The street couldn’t be any warmer than this stifling room, and Drew had said that Washington Square Park wasn’t too far away.

She prayed that he and his mother had settled their quarrel; it would make her joy in their homecoming complete. Well, almost complete. There was still the nagging doubt that something wasn’t quite right with Drew. Oh, he’d been warm and loving, full of teasing and laughter. As he used to be. Their days had been filled with happiness—picnics in the Bois, carriage rides, flowers and champagne; their nights with hot passion. But sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t watching, his face would take on a distant look that she found bewildering.

And there was the matter of the money. He had given her lavish gifts, trinkets and ribbons and bonbons; no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make him understand that her joy—those last few days in Paris—had been because of his lightheartedness, not because of the things he bought her. And when she asked where the money came from, he was evasive. “My father’s helping out,” he’d mutter, then change the subject. But she remembered what he’d said in the past, that his father had made conditions he couldn’t possibly accept. So why had Brian Bradford sent them money? And why were they going up to Saratoga tomorrow to see him?

“What about your painting?” she’d ask him. “What happened to your paint box?”

He’d shrug. “I’ll do a bit when we’ve settled in. Don’t worry.” Either New York City or Saratoga, he’d said. He hadn’t yet decided which would be more convenient.