Blue Waltz (30 page)

"Get out of my house, Belle," he said slowly, his voice like steel, before turning to his brother. "You, too."

Adam met his hard stare. "Please, Stephen. Let me explain."

"What's there to explain?" he exploded, before visibly regaining control. "We have nothing to talk about." He wouldn't speak his brother's name. "I want you and your . . . friend out of my house."

"Perfect!" Adam cried. "Just perfect! I would hate to think that you would react any other way than as the narrow-minded selfish soul that you are."

Stephen tensed.

"I've tried to talk to you," Adam continued. "I've tried to gain your help." His voice softened. "Why can't you listen? Why can't you at least try to accept me for who I am instead of trying to turn me into who you think I should be? Can't you at least try?"

"Accept this? Like hell I will. It's unnatural, nobody would accept this."

"Belle accepts me! Why can't you!"

With an infinite slowness, Stephen turned deadly eyes on Belle. "You knew?"

"Yes," she said, her chin rising defiantly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

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"It wasn't my story to tell, Stephen. But as long as you know, you seem to forget one very important fact."

"And what is that?" he asked, his face a mask of sardonic rage.

"No matter how you feel about Adam's way of life, he's still your brother."

Stephen stared at her, then at Adam. "Not any longer," he ground out. And with that, he strode from the room.

Belle and Adam watched him go, staring at the empty doorway, each lost in their own thoughts.

"You don't need him, Adam," Tom said from the sofa.

Adam didn't turn away from the door. "But I do. More than you realize." He took a deep breath. "More than I realized. He's the only family I have." He dropped his head to his hands. "I think it's best if you leave."

At length, Tom pushed awkwardly and angrily up from the sofa. At the doorway, Tom turned back and opened his mouth to speak, but Adam cut him off. "Don't say anything else. Just go."

Tom snapped his mouth shut indignantly, then did just that.

The room seemed unnaturally quiet as Adam and Belle stood side by side.

"I suppose you heard all the noise through the wall?"

"No," she whispered. "I didn't know this was going on. I came over because some man is over at my house trying to measure the ballroom for flowers. I came to demand an explanation."

"Ah," he said with a tired sigh, "the party. I guess Stephen never got around to telling you."

"The party?" Belle asked, turning to look at him. "What party?"

Adam still stared at the empty doorway. "The party on St. Valentine's Day. For your birthday."

Her mind reeled. A party. She staggered back, catching herself on the solid back of the sofa.

For her birthday.

CHAPTER 21

Wrenville 1877

Saint Valentine's Day. Her birthday had arrived at last.

Papa had already left for his morning chores when Belle woke. He wouldn't be back until close to noon for the midday meal. Time enough to put the finishing touches on her birthday celebration.

Thirteen. Finally. The magic number when she would leave childhood behind, or so her mother had always said.

A piercing sadness shot through her. "Oh, Mama," she murmured into the quiet room.

Even though it was Belle's birthday, she had made a special gift for her father, something she knew he would cherish. She could hardly wait to see the look in his silver-blue eyes when he returned home and pulled the string free from the brown paper-wrapped parcel.

Anticipation left her nearly breathless all morning long as she did her best to clean the house, prepare her special meal, and bake a cake. She couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he entered. She might not be much of a cook, but her gift? He would love it. She was certain.

A smile curled on her lips when she wondered if he would bring her a stick of peppermint. But that hardly mattered. What mattered was that today they would start over, they would start a new life.

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Breathing deeply, she put the last touches on the cake before she turned to the task of cleaning up before he came home.

The house was done, the meal simmering in a pot on the stove, the cake on the table. As soon as Belle had finished dressing and all was ready, she felt quite grown up in the dress which she had cut down to fit her from one of her mother's old gowns. She hummed her mother's favorite melody and glided across the room, anticipating the dance she would share with her father.

She danced with an ease born of long days of practice while her father was at work. A royal princess on highly polished hardwood floors couldn't have danced more beautifully than she.

But as the minutes ticked by with no sight or sound of her father, Belle finally sat down on the wooden bench, running her finger along the paper-wrapped parcel that held her father's gift.

It was well past noon when she heard his footsteps on the small front porch. She jumped up from the table as he pushed through the door.

He stopped in the doorway without a word. His craggy face was hard as he took in her newly made gown. Her heart seemed to stop when he didn't move and the smile she had counted on, prayed for, didn't appear.

Blood rushed up her neck to her cheeks. The sound filled her ears. With stilted movements, she hurried to the stove. "Beef stew!" she chimed, forcing cheer.

No response.

"With little baby onions," she added, somewhat desperately. "Your favorite."

He still didn't move, but his pale gray eyes narrowed.

Cold air came in behind him, chasing out the warmth. Belle banged the heavy top down on the pot. She rushed to the table. "I know it's my birthday, but ... I have a present for you."

Still he only stared.

Desperately, frantically, Belle ripped the paper away before she held up the gift. She saw him suck in his breath.

"Madeline," he breathed, staring at the sketch of the woman who looked so much like Belle.

"Yes, Papa. I drew it for you," Belle said, a tiny bud of hope burgeoning in her breast.

Her father slowly lifted his eyes from the drawing until he met her gaze. But what she saw in his eyes was not happiness or love. Her hope died a swift, painful death, because she knew in that instant with a clarity far beyond her mere thirteen years that contrary to what she had believed, everything wasn't going to be all right.

CHAPTER 22

Boston 1894

Belle paced. Every step she took sent a jolt of pain up her spine. It wasn't that she was really affected by the pain, it was more a cataloguing of it, comparing it to other days. Today was worse.

Her eyes were red, her lacquered hair wild about her face, tossed and curled like a furious black sea.

Tomorrow was her birthday. February fourteenth.

"Please, dear God," she prayed fervently, "let Stephen be wrong. Let my father arrive."

Stopping in the center of the floor, her head fell back. She held her arms out on either side of her body like wings. If only she could fly. Fly away, so fast and far. Like a bird. Not subject to the vagaries of man.

The darkness loomed. Her arms dropped to her sides. For her there was no escape from the bits and pieces of memory, or the missing fragments that threatened in that dark, murky place in her mind.

She hadn't been out of the house in days, had barely left her room. Maeve and Rose brought her meals, trying to coax her out. But Belle ignored them.

She closed her eyes and held herself tightly. The day was nearly at hand. One day before her birthday, with no other sign of her father than the diminishing memory of a man she hadn't seen in seventeen years. How would she survive if he failed to come—this time?

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This time she had believed he would come. With all her soul. With all her heart. Her foundation secure. But then she met Stephen, making her doubt, chiseling away at her belief as if it was nothing more than dry, crumbling mortar.

Damn him, her mind cried.

A loud bang sounded through the house. Her eyes snapped open. Hope surged. But then she remembered. The party. No doubt some other workman was down there now, preparing for the huge ball Stephen had Adam arrange.

A ball for her birthday, in the grandest of ballrooms, with a huge crystal chandelier.

"Oh, Papa," she cried, before she bit the length of her finger to keep from screaming out.

She had tried to talk to Stephen, but he wouldn't see her. Neither did he cancel the party. It was as if he had washed his hands of the whole affair. "It's already paid for," a man who appeared to be in charge had told her when she had tried to get him to take all his decorations and invitation lists away and burn them.

It made no sense. It was her house, and short of going to the authorities, she had no way to get all the decorators and caterers and waiters out of the house.

She didn't want a party, she had told the man.

"Sorry, lady," he had replied. "I got my orders."

Walking to the window, her thick leather boot caught on the rug. She caught herself on the window frame with practiced ease. If only she could stop the party, she thought suddenly. It was too early. This wasn't the year, she realized with unexpected clarity. That was it! It was too early. It was too early for her father to arrive.

Hope rushed in, filing the cracks in her compromised

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foundation. "Next year," she whispered. "He'll come next year. He hasn't had time to learn that I'm here."

Purpose and determination pushed all other emotions aside. She would go over to Stephen's house and demand to see him. She would have this party canceled yet. Then next year, yes, next year, her father would come.

Her step faltered when she thought of Adam. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since that fateful day. She had been so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn't thought of him. Guilt filled her. How selfish she had been. But she would make it up to him, just as soon as she halted this mad party.

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Nathan handed the sheets of paper to Stephen. The men were upstairs in a room that Stephen had begun using. He hadn't returned to his study downstairs since the day he had learned the true nature of his brother. His hand tightened around the pen that he held, strangling it.

"Mr. St. James?"

Stephen dropped the pen and sighed. After a pause, he turned his attention to the papers. He didn't want to read them, had told himself he wouldn't. He didn't want to know what Nathan had learned. But as always, like the moth he had become in regards to Belle, he glanced over first one then another of the pages.

"What about the father?" Stephen asked.

"I haven't found anything yet."

"And no doubt never will," he muttered as he began to read in earnest.

At first he read quickly, dispassionately, but soon he began to slow, returning to the beginning and starting again. He had doubted that she had been married, had thought that she had made it all up. But with the pieces

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of paper he held in his hands, doubt was extinguished. She had been married.

Pain seared through him, though it had nothing to do with jealousy. His pain was born by reading the date of her marriage.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Nathan asked.

Startled, having forgotten the other man, Stephen looked up. "Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don't need anything else. You can leave."

As Nathan walked from the room, Stephen was dimly aware of the front bell ringing. After a moment, he left the room and came to the top of the stairs where he could see down to the foyer.

The bell rang again, bringing Adam out of the parlor, staggering, just as Nathan reached the front door. Wendell was nowhere in sight when Adam pulled the door open.

"Adam!"

Stephen recoiled at the sound of Belle's voice.

"You poor dear, you look terrible," he heard her add.

Even from this distance, Stephen could see that Adam's eyes were glassy, his smile vacant.

"Thank you," Adam offered with a mocking salute.

"Hello, Mrs. Braxton," Nathan said, tipping his hat before he slipped out the door.

When Nathan stepped out, Belle stepped into the foyer.

"Do come in," Adam said, bowing drunkenly.

"You've been drinking—and too much, based on the looks of you."

"No, m'dear. Not enough. I can still think."

"Adam . . ."

"Don't," he said sharply. "I don't want your pity."

Belle sighed. "Why won't you let anyone help you?"

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He turned away from her with a jerk, heading for the stairs. Belle hurried after him.

"Adam—"

But her words were cut off when her boot caught on the thick edge of an Oriental rug. Gasping, she reached out, grabbing, but found nothing more than air. From the top of the stairs, Stephen lurched. But Adam turned back in time, catching Belle in his arms.

Stephen halted his flight, holding on to the railing with force to hold himself back.

"Clumsy old me," Belle said, pushing self-consciously away.

Adam studied her, his eyes clearing slightly, the liquor making his tongue bold. "How did it happen?" he asked simply.

Even from this distance Stephen could see her sharp intake of breath. He waited, his breath held, for her answer.

"How did what happen?" she asked, straightening the bodice of her gown.

"The limp. What happened to make you limp so?"

Looking away, Belle smoothed her skirts. Stephen thought she wouldn't answer. But after a moment, he heard her say, "I was born this way."

The words were a slap. They hardly made sense to Stephen. He thought he must have heard incorrectly.

"Born that way?" Adam probed.

"Yes, Adam. Now, would you be so kind to tell Stephen I am here to see him."