Blue Waltz (4 page)

His tone startled her, dispersing her delight as quickly as it had appeared. She couldn't tell from his ex-

28Linda Francis Lee

pression if he was angry or sarcastic. Either way, she concluded, finally remembering the initial reason for their encounter, she no longer had any interest in sharing a portion of his meal. But when she started to offer her apologies and settle for the foie gras, their eyes locked and held.

Her pulse slowed. And after a moment the dark heaviness that always lurked at the edges of her mind dissipated. As if she had come home.

The soft clank of silverware on china and muted voices sounded around her. She didn't understand this feeling, didn't understand how it had happened, or from where it had come. She studied him more closely, trying to find some explanation. She saw that the confidence was still there; it was unmistakable in this type of man. But there was something else that she had failed to notice before. Something both repelling and oddly familiar.

She didn't know him, she was sure of it. But somehow it seemed if she scoured the recesses of her mind she would be able to recall him, as if indeed she knew him after all.

But that was absurd, she admonished herself as soon as the thought wafted through her head. She didn't know anyone in Boston, especially not this man with his icy reserve.

"Why is it you have gained my attention?" he asked again, looking at her as if he, too, was trying to determine if he knew her.

"Your rolls," she replied without thinking.

His brow furrowed and his head cocked slightly to the side, and she knew he was trying to determine if he should be outraged or insulted.

"My rolls?" he inquired.

"Yes, your rolls. You asked if there was anything you

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could help me with." She glanced at the food item in question. "Yours appeared to be going to waste. And silly me, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind sharing."

After a moment he looked over at the bread which sat on his table, then turned back. He studied her face for an eternity, before his eyes traveled down the length of her velvet gown.

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Never in her twenty-nine years, neither while she was married nor anytime after, had anyone looked at her in such a way. Blatant. Perusing. Intimate, as if she wore no clothes.

She started to turn away, cursing herself for the impulsive behavior that never failed to get her into trouble.

"Help yourself," he said.

His voice wrenched her loose from her thoughts. She nearly flinched back when he held the dish out to her, a silver edge catching her reflection and casting it back.

"Have them all, if you like."

And then she saw it. The sling that held his arm. Black and pristine, just like the rest of his attire, but a sling just the same.

The man had been wounded.

It hit her all at once why he seemed so familiar, why she felt she knew him. Because he had been hurt. Maimed.

In a manner of speaking, she did know him. Perhaps not the man himself, but she knew the look in his eyes that said he had experienced a moment in his life that was so indisputable and consequential that it never stopped mattering. One incident—not a lifetime of incidents—just one that changed the way he looked at the world, and changed the way the world looked back.

She didn't know if for him the incident had anything to do with the sling. But somewhere, sometime, some-

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thing had happened. A quirk of fate undoubtedly, an anomaly in what had been a perfect world, that changed his life forever. She took a deep breath. Yes, she knew it all too well. She recognized the despair, glossed over with the same indifference that she saw when she looked in the mirror.

Breathing deeply, she started to hum. Slowly. Softly.

Could he remember his moment of change? she wondered. Could he put a name to it, could he see it in his memories—whole and complete? Or did he see only bits and pieces, the missing fragments always threatening in a dark murky place in his mind?

Her leg began to ache, but still she hummed, the sounds shaping into a tune. She began to rock gently in her chair—slightly—the movement barely noticeable. Her tune grew louder and she tapped her finger against the white linen tablecloth, looking away.

She saw herself back in her room, attempting to dance, the bits and pieces of memory trying to commandeer her mind. Her heart began to pound. Sounds rushed through her head like wind howling in a storm, ceasing the tune.

Without taking the rolls or responding in any way, she turned further away from him, pressing her back against the chair. Seeking, searching, grasping for something solid, something firm. But still her heart pounded. The palliative had failed, evaporated at the look in his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

His deep voice wrapped around her like a thick, soft blanket of concern. It sounded as if he truly cared.

Her throat tightened. She didn't reply, couldn't reply. What would she say? Yes, something is wrong. Everything is wrong. Never. She would never say such a thing.

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She had to get out of there. Escape—outside, into the open air. Where she could breathe.

Pushing back from the table, her chair snagged on the thick carpet. She tried to reach out and catch the wooden frame. But her hands fumbled like a clumsy schoolgirl's, and the chair tumbled to the floor. A few heads turned in her direction. The pirate-man started to stand.

"I'm fine," she finally managed, tossing coins onto the table that she pulled from her reticule. "Really, I'm fine."

The maître d' appeared at her side, and when he touched her elbow, she whirled around, her eyes wide.

"I've got to go," she stammered. "I've really got to go." Then she turned on her heels and fled as quickly and as carefully as her maimed leg would allow.

She hurried out into the night. The wind was blowing harder than before. The sky had opened up, spilling great torrents of frigid rain over the earth. She had forgotten her cape, didn't think of her cape, as she began to make her way toward home.

The memories pressed in on her, the words wreaking havoc with her mind. She began to walk faster, her limp more pronounced the faster she went. Instead of taking Beacon Street to Arlington, she veered off through an opening in the black wrought iron fence onto a path that cut across the Public Gardens, which she had learned led to her house.

The rain was driving now, hard and cold against her face and body. Her dress stuck to her skin, her hair ran in dark rivulets across her head. She walked and walked, her leg aching. The trees and benches began to look the same, the paths becoming indistinct. She had no idea where she was. Following whichever path she came to, she moved as if she were trapped in a maze, unable to find her way out. Frantic. Desperate.

"I love you, Blue."

The words loomed in her mind.

"I love you, my sweet child."

"Oh, Papa," she murmured, the words carried off with the wind.

She was hardly aware of the chatter of her teeth, her body's violent shivers that tried in vain to keep her warm, or the lights that glowed in the window of her home not fifty yards away.

"I love you, my sweet Blue Belle."

"Oh, Papa," she cried.

Her foot caught on a bulging tree root. Reaching out in vain for something to steady her, her knees gave way and she fell to the ground.

"Papa," she whispered as she sank down into the mud. "Oh, Papa, where are you?"

CHAPTER 3

Wrenville 1870

"I'm home!"

The door slammed, shutting out the bitter February cold that blew in on its wake, making the tiny log house shudder.

"Mama, Mama! Papa's home!" Belle cried out, her mop of brown ringlet curls bouncing crazily on her head.

Running as fast as her chubby little legs would take her, she raced across the rough-hewn floorboards and rag rugs to her father, wrapping her tiny arms around his leg.

He was a big bear of a man, with a full head of thick, coarse brown hair, and gray eyes which he joked used to be as blue as Belle's before they faded due to all the pond swimming he had done as a child.

"There's my Blue Belle," he said, removing his heavy leather gloves and rubbing the top of her head.

His hand was large and calloused, the weathered skin catching in her hair. But Belle didn't mind, just as she didn't mind the feel of his coarse woolen trousers against her cheek, or the smell of hay and hard work that tickled her nose when he came home at the end of the day.

He tilted back his head and sniffed. "Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Smells good in here. What's your mama cookin' tonight?"

"You know! You know what it is! It's your favorite!"

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A teasing smile parted his lips. "Don't tell me we're having beef stew . . ."

". . . with little baby onions!" Belle finished for him.

"You're right, darlin'. Next to you and your mama, that is my favorite. All that thick juicy sauce . . ."

". . . smuttering all the carrots and potatoes!"

He chuckled. "Smothering, sweetheart, smothering all the carrots and potatoes."

Gently, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her away, then leaned down until he looked her straight in the eyes. "And why, I wonder, are we having such a special treat tonight?" He seemed to ponder the question with great deliberation.

"Don't you remember, Papa?" she asked, her voice suddenly breathless.

"Let's see," he teased with the utmost seriousness. "Could it be we're having company?"

"No," she replied hesitantly.

He screwed up his lips. "Could it be Sunday and I forgot?"

"It's Wednesday, Papa. Wednesday, the fourteenth of Feboorary."

"February, darlin'," he said chuckling. "And could it be," he added, grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, "that it's your birthday?"

"Yes!" she cried, jumping up and down. "You remembered! You remembered!"

"I also remembered something else." He reached into his coat pocket as he straightened. When he stood in the small house, his head nearly touched the ceiling, the months of dry winter air causing his hair to stand on end when he walked through the room.

She watched wide-eyed as he pulled both hands behind his back. The muscles in his shoulders and upper

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arms moved as he did something she couldn't see. Finally, when she thought she could stand it no longer, he presented both fisted hands out to her like a magician.

"Which one?" he demanded, his giant frame towering over her in the tiny house.

Belle stared at his hands with great deliberation. "That one," she blurted out, pointing to his left hand.

With a devilish smile, he opened it with a flourish.

"Empty!" Her nose wrinkled as she considered his other hand. She looked up at him again with those blue eyes and tilted her head.

Her father threw back his head and laughed. "Such a darlin' you are, Blue Belle." He opened his other hand.

"Peppermint!" she squealed, snatching the stick away, then hugging him tight.

"Browning Holly, you'll ruin that child's appetite giving her candy before supper." Madeline Holly stood in the kitchen doorway, a smile on her lips that belied her exacting tone. She had dark brown hair and deep blue eyes, making it easy to see where Belle got her looks.

Belle immediately disengaged herself and ran to her mother. "Mama, Mama, look. Peppermint!"

Madeline reached down and traced the back of her flour-covered hand down Belle's cheek. "Yes, love, peppermint, a special treat. But save it until after supper."

Glancing up, Madeline met her husband's eyes across the room. Her dark hair was pulled up and away from her face. "You're a devilish man, Browning Holly," Madeline said, her smile softening.

"How could I refuse those big blue eyes and a smile as sweet as her mother's?" he asked roguishly. "Especially on her birthday. Besides, I've brought you a surprise, too, my love."

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One delicately arched brow rose. "You can't charm me with sweets, husband, as well you know."

Browning laughed as he removed his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. "Then I guess I'll just have to throw yours away."

"Give it to me! Give it to me!" Belle said, jumping up and down.

"No, Blue," he responded, though his eyes, filled with a deep, gentle love, were locked with his wife's. "This is a surprise only for your mother. One I'll just have to see if she will reconsider later tonight."

Madeline's eyes grew intense as she returned his heated gaze. At length, she turned away and headed toward the small kitchen at the back of the house.

Browning closed the distance that separated them with a few bold strides. Pulling her back into his embrace, he nuzzled her cheek. "Ah, Madeline, my love. I missed you today."

Madeline started to laugh and slap at his hands. "Mr. Holly, behave yourself. Supper's nearly ready," she said, pulling away, but not before she pressed one graceful finger of promise to his lips.

"Tonight, then, my dearest love," he whispered after her.

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They sat before the fire, a rare pot of stew and a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table to celebrate Belle's sixth birthday. The small family laughed and talked and sang a few songs. When the last song was finished, a contented hush fell over the table.

"I take it all went well at the farm today," Madeline said, an earthenware cup held delicately in her hand.

"As well as any day. He wasn't around much. Had things to attend to in town."

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"If only he would spend more time in town," Madeline replied, her tone suddenly harsh.

Browning reached across and grasped his wife's hand. "Soon, love," he said, his eyes intense. "Soon, I'll take you back to Boston, just as I promised."

Belle looked on, her tiny face screwed up with worry. "You don't like the farmer, do you, Papa?"