Blue Waltz (22 page)

"Of course it is," the painter stammered, glancing down at the picture as if perhaps he had mistakenly brought the wrong canvas. "No, see, it is your father. Just as you described."

"This is nothing like I described!" Her voice grew shrill.

Stephen and Adam watched. Hastings stood in the doorway. Rose and Maeve peered from behind him.

"This doesn't look anything like him!" Belle said, taking a step back. "It can't!"

"But madame—"

"You told me you could paint!" she cried angrily. "And I believed you!"

She threw her head back and laughed, but Stephen could see the laughter didn't reach her eyes.

"Madame, please," Marvin begged her. "This is exactly as you described."

"My father's forehead is high. Regal! Like a king's! His nose is patrician, his shoulders are broad. This," she sneered, waving her hand at the painting, "is rubbish! Do you hear me, rubbish!"

Stephen looked on. She was dazzling and repulsive, alluring and repellent. She was dressed bizarrely, but looked more beautiful to him than any of the perfectly dressed women he had seen around the world. One min-

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ute she was laughing, the next she was raging mad. More proof that the rumors about her were true. But oddly, that didn't seem to matter. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, and he found that he didn't particularly care why.

"Belle," he said softly.

Everyone looked at him, including Belle, who swung around to face him. When their eyes met, he saw her surprise. Then he saw the red creep back into her cheeks, but this time, he knew the red was caused not by excitement but embarrassment.

"It's all right," he said to her as if no one else was in the room. "We'll get another painter. In fact, I know of one who could do it. I'll contact him immediately."

"No, it's not all right," she cried, raising her hands to her cheeks and pressing hard. "It's not all right at all."

Belle glanced from Stephen to Adam, then to the servants in the doorway. She took in the painting one last time, pressing her eyes closed, before she rushed awkwardly from the room without another word, the picnic she had so painstakingly planned forgotten.

"I did exactly what she told me," Marvin lamented with an exaggerated sigh. "I swear to you, monsieurs, exactly what she told me."

But the others ignored him.

Stephen started to follow Belle, but was stopped at the door when Hastings placed a restraining hand on his arm. Stephen gave the man a look of hard resolve meant to put him in his place. Hastings only pulled his shoulders back and said, "Leave her be, sir, please."

"Maybe he's right, Stephen," Adam said from across the room. "I don't know how much more she can take."

Stephen's jaw clenched as he glanced back and forth between the men who tried to keep him from Belle. What

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did they think he intended to do? Hurt her? He only wanted to help her. But was that truly all he wanted from her?

"Despite what you think," he said tightly as he turned to go to her, "I have no intention of hurting Belle."

Adam took a step forward. "I know you'd never do it intentionally."

Adam's words stopped Stephen cold, piercing him in a way that he didn't understand. He didn't turn back. "Is that what happened to you, Adam?"

His brother's lack of response was answer enough. A great heaviness pushed at Stephen's shoulders.

"Well, now," Maeve said, breaking into the silence. "Best be gettin' about cleanin' up."

Reality washed over Stephen. Here he stood, saying things that he normally wouldn't say even in the privacy of his own home, much less in someone else's. What was happening to him? He should leave this house, leave Belle Braxton alone just as his brother had said. But then he caught sight of the painting, and saw not the portrait of a man captured ineptly on canvas, but the image of Belle, her pain etched in his mind.

With that he slipped by Hastings and headed up the long stairway that led to the upper regions.

He found her upstairs, on the top floor, sketching furiously on a large pad of paper. He stood quietly for some time, uncertain what to do. The sight tore at him. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to protect her from a world she was not quite at home in. He wanted to make things right, still her upset. But how? he wondered.

"Belle," he whispered at length.

She looked up with a start, her blue eyes wild, tears streaking her cheeks. Her fingers stilled in their task. "I

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can't remember what he looks like," she said, her voice tortured.

Stephen's brow knitted as he sank down onto the floor beside her. "Who, Belle? Your father?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she groaned. "My papa. I don't remember what he looks like."

Her tears came again. But this time Stephen didn't wait. He pulled her into his arms, and after only a slight hesitation, she pressed her head against his chest and cried.

"There, there," he soothed, his hand stroking her head as if he had done it a million times. "What do you mean you don't remember what he looks like?"

"I just don't, is all. I can't see him clearly anymore."

"You can hardly gauge your recollection on that canvas downstairs. Your Mr. Dubois is no artist, love."

"Oh," she groaned, "that doesn't matter. I can't remember. Truly can't. When I was describing him to Mr. Dubois, I knew I was having trouble remembering, but I denied it. I had hoped that once I saw the portrait it would prove that I hadn't forgotten." Her hands fisted against his chest. "It only proved that I have."

He pulted Belle close, unexpected emotion sweeping through him as he suddenly recalled a time so long ago. "It was about a year after my parents died," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "when I realized that I couldn't remember the sound of my mother's laughter."

The muted winter light seeped through the windows, wrapping around them like the silken threads of a spider's web. "A year after the accident," he continued, "it hit me. I couldn't hear her laughter any longer, couldn't remember what it sounded like. I searched my mind fran-

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tically, day after day, trying to find the memory buried away somewhere, the memory of the sound."

"Oh, Stephen."

He took a sharp deep breath. "But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember. Her face was still vivid, but only because a painting had been done of her just before she died. Her laughter, however, was gone. But I loved her," he said fiercely. "Truly I did."

He looked down into Belle's eyes, his own dark and intense. "You may have forgotten what your father looks like, but he will always be in your heart."

After a moment, a wry smile crossed his lips as he touched the tears on her cheek. "I know that for certain. Every time I turn around, you're telling me something about that father of yours. If I were an insecure man, I might be jealous."

He looked at her with a caring softness. "What matters is that you obviously love him very much."

His intention was to ease her, to help her. His heart clenched when she only pressed her eyes closed, tears cascading down her cheeks.

"Not enough," she whispered. "Oh, dear Lord, not enough."

CHAPTER 15

Wrenville 1876

The day was cold, the earth hard. It had taken six grown men to dig the grave.

Browning Holly stood beside the casket, staring, tears freezing on his cheeks. Young, sweet Belle stood beside him, frozen with grief, but with uncertainty as well. Her father hadn't uttered a word to her since Doctor Williams had pressed her mother's eyelids closed two days before and said she had gone to heaven.

Her father had seemed confused, unable to grasp the truth of the doctor's words. But Belle had understood. Even at twelve years of age she had known her mother was dead.

Scarlet fever had come to their valley, wiping out friends and neighbors, sometimes whole families. But Browning and Belle had survived. Though with the way her father didn't speak now, Belle was afraid that he was getting sick, too.

The same men who had dug the grave lowered the casket into the earth. Grief threatened to overwhelm Belle. Her mother, gone, forever, buried.

What if she wasn't really dead? Belle suddenly wondered, her mind swirling with panic. What if she was just asleep, tired? What if she woke up in the box, blackness all around, screaming? Would anyone hear her?

Belle's heart hammered in her chest and she started

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to ask her father, ask him to make sure she wasn't awake in the box, trying to get out. Her father's large calloused, ungloved hand hung at his side. Carefully, she reached over and tried to take his hand.

He glanced down at her with a start. "Madeline," he breathed.

The word pierced Belle's heart. She knew she looked just like her mother, her father had told her often enough. But just then, she didn't want to look like anyone else; she wanted to look like Belle, his Blue Belle. "No, Papa. It's me, Belle."

She watched as his eyes widened, then filled with pain. She tried to wrap her fingers around his, expecting him to return her grasp. But his hand only stiffened as he turned back to the grave. For a second she held on anyway, her tiny gloved hand holding on. She started to speak, but stopped herself. The thought of that awful, glacial stare turned on her again made her drop her hand away.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the old farmer her father worked for. The man stared not at the casket but at Belle. With a shudder, she felt the need to press close to her father, but didn't.

No one, she suddenly realized with wisdom beyond her years, was going to help her determine if her mother was truly dead or help her deal with the old farmer. She would have to do things on her own now.

So she took a deep breath and forced herself to think of every detail of her mother's death. Eyes closed. Chest still. Skin unnaturally white. Lips stiff and blue. Yes, her mother was dead, Belle reasoned, her twelve-year-old mind sorting through the events. Her mother wasn't lying in the box trying to get out.

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But the farmer? He was alive. Very much so, and staring at her in a way that made her blood run cold.

And on that day, standing next to her father, reasoning out such things, Belle Holly began to change.

In the days that followed the funeral, Belle made every effort to keep the house clean, cook the meals, wash the clothes, make the beds. Having helped her mother for years, she was fairly accomplished at most tasks, though cooking a decent meal and washing clothes in the cold winter proved nearly beyond her capabilities. For several days her father did nothing more than sit in a chair by the fireplace. He wouldn't eat the meals Belle offered. He wouldn't speak when she spoke to him. Frequently, he confused Belle with her mother. And when his mind was clear, he did nothing more than mutter and mumble about how he had failed to fulfill his promises.

Then, on the third night, the old farmer came and told him that if he didn't show up at work the next morning he would be replaced. Browning had stared at the man, but said nothing. And that was when Belle watched her father's stony grief begin to turn to anger—slow, hot, molten anger.

Belle looked on helplessly. In a matter of days, her once bright, vibrant, and wonderful father had turned first despondent with grief then riddled with anger. The father she had known disappeared, replaced by someone who scared her. At night she prayed that her mother wouldn't be dead, and that her old father would return. But in the morning, her mother was still gone, and her old father hadn't returned. The new father, however, went back to work.

Days turned into weeks and Belle continually tried to fill her mother's shoes. Her father began to speak to her.

"The meat is tough."

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"The clothes have soap in them."

"The house is a mess."

Never enough. Nothing she did was ever enough. Never enough to make him love her again.

The following evening he didn't touch his meal.

"You should eat, Papa. It's not good to go without food."

His fist hit the rough hewn table making the dishware dance. "Don't you be telling me what I should and shouldn't do, girl! Just leave me alone!"

His anger sizzled through the room, scorching Belle. Never had her father spoken to her in such a way, crazed as much as angry.

And then he began to look at her strangely. "How old are you?" he demanded one night, surprising her.

"Twelve, Papa. Soon I'll be thirteen." He knew that, she was sure of it. Why had he asked?

"February fourteenth, isn't it?"

"Yes, St. Valentine's Day! You remembered!"

He seemed to consider her before he nodded his head, then turned away and didn't speak to her for the rest of the evening.

But he didn't have to. Her young, hungry heart burgeoned with joy. He had remembered. St. Valentine's Day. Her birthday. It was all the sign she needed to make her believe that everything was going to be all right. They would dance, if not in the grandest of ballrooms, then at home, just as they always did, on her birthday. The would share a fine meal, then dance in twirling circles. They would remember Mama. They would miss her dearly. But the love she and her father had shared would bloom once again. His anger would flee. And they would dance.

From then on Belle began to count the days until her birthday. She made plans. The meal. A cake. On her hands and knees, she polished the floor. She lived for February the fourteenth, the anticipation like food for a starving man. In only a matter of days her birthday would arrive, she repeated to herself every day upon waking, then again just before drifting off to sleep.

Just days until everything would finally be all right.

CHAPTER 16

Boston 1893

December fourteenth. St. Valentine's Day was only two months away.

Belle woke early in the morning, rain washing the windows blurry, and despite her sore leg, she leaped out of bed and hurried her ablutions. She wanted to get downstairs and check the progress of the ballroom. The construction had been going so well. Soon the men were bound to be done, and then everything would be all right. Her confidence wavered, but she pushed doubt aside with an ease gained from long years of practice. She took a deep, calming breath before she smiled and hurried out of the room.