Beloved (10 page)

“How tragic that Mrs. Applegate thought herself a war widow for so long.” Kendall Michaels’ gaze remained on Tyson. “Think of the scandal it would have been if she’d married Mr. Calhoun only to discover her first husband still lived. You’d have made her a bigamist.”

A small gasp escaped Diana’s lips. All other conversations ceased, and the air became thick with tension.

“Yes.” Tyson’s voice was controlled, and if he minded the man’s comments, it didn’t show. “It would have been unfortunate, indeed. But since the belief that I died in Cuba was entirely my fault and not hers, her reputation would have remained untarnished. Just as it is now.” He looked at Diana again, though his words seemed to be for everyone else around the table. “I regret any hurt I caused her. I regret it all deeply. I’m thankful she’s given me the opportunity to redeem myself in her eyes.”

Is that what she’d done? Given him an opportunity to redeem himself. Yes, she supposed it was, in a way. She’d agreed to let him try to change her mind about him—and she thought, perhaps, he was succeeding. At least a little.

“I pray I shall prove worthy,” Tyson ended.

Justice Waverley cleared his throat. “You shall, my good man. You shall. I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I predict you and your beautiful wife will take Washington by storm after you’re elected.”

“Samuel,” Iris said to her husband, “you promised we would not speak of politics nor the law at the dinner table.”

“So I did, my dear. I apologize. And look. Here comes our dessert.”

Flaming cherries jubilee was just the right distraction to direct attention away from Diana and Tyson. The guests
oohed
and
ahhed
. Private conversations soon resumed. The elderly gentleman seated on Diana’s right asked her how long she’d lived in Boise, and soon he was telling her interesting stories about his early years in Idaho prior to statehood.

Tyson seethed on the inside.

It wasn’t unexpected that someone from the press would have questions about why his family had believed him dead. But he hadn’t expected those questions to come up at
this
dinner party. Nor had he expected anyone to say them in such a way as to hurt or embarrass Diana. And judging by her reaction, that’s exactly what Kendall Michaels had done.

When the gentlemen left the dinner table for the smoking room, Tyson made certain he was nowhere near Mr. Michaels. It was better he avoid the newspaperman until he managed to subdue his temper. He didn’t want to ruin his chances of being elected because he socked one of the judge’s guests in the nose. Especially so early in the race.

While the other men enjoyed their cigars and their glasses of port or whiskey, Tyson—who’d given up smoking and all but the occasional glass of wine—tried to visit with each one of them, answering their questions, sharing his opinions and positions on various subjects. But his thoughts throughout that hour were never far from Diana. How was she doing with the other ladies? Did she feel ostracized because of Michaels’ thoughtless comments? How could he protect her in the future from similar remarks?

He wanted to win this election. There was no question about
that. He believed it was what God had called him to do. He also believed he had a better chance of winning the election if his wife was by his side. But getting elected was not the main reason he wanted to save his marriage to Diana. Even before he’d returned to Idaho, even before he’d seen and talked to her again and spent time with her, he’d wanted to prove himself a changed man, a better man.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Justice Waverley said in a low voice. “Your wife has courage and backbone.”

Thankful it was just the two of them in this corner of the smoking room, Tyson nodded. “Yes, she does.”

“Someday you’ll have to explain to me why you spent so much time with continents and oceans between the two of you.”

Selfishness, stubborn pride, and stupidity. That’s how Tyson could have answered.

“Gentlemen,” the judge said, taking a step away from Tyson, “shall we rejoin the ladies?”

Since he had neither a cigar to put out nor a drink glass to put down, Tyson was free to lead the way to the parlor. He paused long enough in the doorway to sweep the room with his gaze until he found Diana standing next to the grand piano, singing while Iris Waverley played.

His wife had a beautiful, clear voice. Something else he hadn’t known about her.

Tyson strode across the spacious parlor, smiling when she looked his way. She quickly trained her eyes on the music again, but not before she stumbled over the lyrics. Color rose in her cheeks. Strange, how something as innocent as a blush could make him want to take her in his arms and kiss her until the ability to breathe left them both.

Lying beneath light bedcovers that night, Diana stared toward the ceiling, her thoughts in too much turmoil to allow her to fall asleep. The evening at the Waverley home had been difficult for her. Too often, with the exception of their host and hostess, she’d been made to feel like a bug under a microscope, inspected by men and women alike. People who were part of society’s upper crust who knew she was not. There’d also been that despicable newspaperman, Mr. Michaels, and his comments meant to sting and embarrass. He’d succeeded, too, although she’d done her best not to show it.

As for Tyson, her feelings toward him confused her more each day. And no wonder. She wanted them to live peacefully together for six months while still holding onto her hurt. She supposed she couldn’t have it both ways.

If only her life could go back to how it had been just a few short weeks ago.

“Why is this happening, God? I could have been happy with Brook. We were fond of each other, and he didn’t confuse me. I knew what was expected with him. Why did Tyson have to come back and ruin everything?”

If God had an answer, He didn’t share it with her.

September 1893

Years of bitter resentment exploded inside Tyson’s chest as he glared at his father. “You had no right to attempt to meddle with my inheritance.”

“I was looking out for your interests, boy.”

“No, you were trying to control me. Like you’ve always done.
Like I’ve let you do because I didn’t have the backbone to stand up to you. Because you held the purse strings. But you don’t hold them anymore, and try as you might, you won’t ever hold them again. I’m an attorney, thanks to you, and I know how to protect what is mine.” He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

“Tyson, come back here. We’re not finished.”

He yanked open the study door. “Yes, we are. For good.” He stepped through the opening and slammed the door closed.

He’d almost reached the grand staircase when he lost control of his temper. With a swing of his arm, he sent a vase and its contents flying across the hall. A gasp drew his gaze to the second-floor landing where Diana watched him with wide eyes. Frightened eyes. Sad eyes.

Guilt added to his fury.

He needed to get out of this house before he did or said something he’d truly regret.

TEN

It was the last Sunday in May, but soaring temperatures made it feel more like the heart of summer.

Finished with the midday meal, Diana’s mother excused herself from the table and went to her room to lie down. Diana considered doing the same. A mostly sleepless night—coupled with a lengthy sermon at church that morning, a large meal, and the heat—had left her eyelids feeling heavy.

“Maybe you should lie down too,” Tyson said, echoing her thoughts. “You look tired.”

Agreeing with him would be like admitting thoughts about him had kept her awake in the night. She shook her head. “I believe I’ll go sit in the garden and read.”

“Would you like company?”

Hating the temptation she felt to capitulate to his charms, she shook her head a second time. “I shall enjoy my book more if I’m alone.”

He looked disappointed, and his expression tugged at her heart a second time. She glanced down at her plate lest she change her mind.

After a lengthy silence, Tyson said, “I believe it’s time we plan our first dinner party.”

“So soon?” Her eyes darted up again. “Do you think we’re ready? There is much still to be done. More furniture to buy. More linens and such.”

“You’ve done wonders with the house, Diana, and you’ve hired a capable staff. Our guests are sure to be impressed.”

Begrudgingly, she warmed beneath his praise.

“We’ll make our first gathering an intimate one. Three or four couples. You could invite some of your own friends. We needn’t start with my political supporters.”

My own friends
. Did she have any? Any true friends. Any close confidants besides her mother. Since no one of her acquaintance had come calling to see how she was getting along in her new home, she knew the answer was no.

An all-too-familiar sense of loneliness swept over her. “I’ll think about who I might ask.”

“Don’t look so glum, Diana. I have great faith in you.”

It was good someone did, for she had little in herself.

Half an hour later, she sat on a shaded bench on the east side of the house. Bees buzzed around flowers that grew nearby. Small birds chirped and bounced from limb to limb in the tree that grew behind her. A book of poetry lay open on her lap, but she had a hard time concentrating on the words on the page.

Why was it, she continued to wonder, that she had no close friends? She wasn’t an unlikable person. At least she didn’t think so. She wasn’t vain … although she was partial to pretty clothes and jewelry. She wasn’t dishonest … except for an occasional little white lie to save someone’s feelings. She wasn’t given to gossip. Well, she might enjoy listening to a juicy tidbit, but there was no one to tell it to later, so that didn’t count.

She’d been a shy child, especially after she was separated from her brother and sister. But after going to live with the Fishers, after
experiencing the love they’d showered upon her, she’d come out of her shell. She’d had lots of friends in Montana. She’d never wanted for anything, and she’d been happy.

All that changed after Tyson left her behind on his father’s estate. She’d stayed with the Applegates at first because she was certain her husband would return, because she was waiting for his letters, because she loved him. She’d stayed because of her mother-in-law, whom she’d grown to care for deeply. She’d stayed because she was—

The snap of a twig yanked her attention toward the house in time to see a boy step onto a wooden crate and reach for something on the counter just inside the kitchen window. One of Mrs. Cuddy’s pies, if Diana wasn’t mistaken.

She stood. “Young man, what do you—”

A board in the crate snapped in two with a loud
crack
. The boy’s foot fell through the hole and he tumbled backward, yelping in pain. A berry pie came with him, smacking him in the face as he hit the ground. He tried to get up before Diana could reach him, but his foot was stuck inside the crate.

“Don’t move,” she said as she knelt beside him. She put a hand on his shoulder to make certain he obeyed. A quick look revealed a bloody shin and calf above a dirty bare foot, and an ankle that was beginning to swell. “Mrs. Cuddy!”

The boy tried to jerk free of her hold.

“Be still or you’ll be sorry.” She tightened her grip.

The cook’s face appeared at the window. “Good heavens! What’s happened?”

“Could you send Mr. Applegate outside, please? I’m afraid this young man has injured himself.”

“Young man? A thief more like.”

“Please, Mrs. Cuddy.”

The cook disappeared from view without another word.

“Let go o’ me.” The boy tried to wrench free again.

Beneath the berries staining his face, he was layered with a great deal of dirt. His clothes hadn’t seen a wash pan in a month of Sundays. Diana guessed him to be nine or ten years old. He was much too thin, reminding her of Tiger, the starving kitten.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“I don’t gotta tell you nothin’.”

Oh, dear
. She drew a steadying breath. “Would you rather tell me your name or tell it to a policeman? Because we have a telephone in the front hall and I can call for an officer if that’s what you wish.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, and she had the distinct feeling he was assessing her, deciding if she’d made an idle threat or meant it. He must have decided upon the latter because he finally answered, “Ned.”

“What’s your last name, Ned?”

“Ain’t got one.”

“Everyone has a last name.”

“Not me. Don’t got a pa. Never did. You know what that makes me?” His eyes dared her to answer his question.

She knew what he meant but chose not to speak the word aloud, instead asking a question of her own. “What about your mother, then? She must have a last name.”

“She’s dead.”

Emotion tightened Diana’s throat.

“You gonna let go o’ me? It was just a pie.” He wiped some of the berries from his face with his dirty fingertips and stuck them into his mouth. “Ain’t even that good.”

“If not, it isn’t the pie’s fault.”

The screen door to the kitchen slammed closed, then Tyson
called, “Diana? Mrs. Cuddy said you needed me.” He appeared around the corner of the house, coming to a quick stop when he saw her and the street urchin on the lawn.

“Tyson, this is Ned. He’s hurt himself. Will you carry him into the house?”

“What?” Her husband’s eyes widened.

“We need to wash away the dirt and blood and see if he needs stitches. And I’m afraid he won’t be walking on that ankle for a while. Hopefully it’s sprained and not broken.”

“Maybe we should deliver him to his home instead. I can call for the carriage.”

“Ain’t got no home.”

“I can believe that,” Tyson muttered.

“His mother is dead and he has no father.” Diana rose from the ground but remained alert, in case Ned decided to attempt an escape a second time. Judging by his expression, the pain had worsened enough to keep him still. “Please, Tyson. Carry him inside.”

Her husband stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Diana, that kid likely has the fleas or lice the cat didn’t have.”