Louisa Rawlings (55 page)

“Joy unconfined!” Jesse leaned his head out the window, peering at the street below. With a grin, he pulled in his head and turned to Drew, his whiskers quivering. “There’s the most charming creature who’s just come in the door downstairs. If she’s a friend of yours, you can start reimbursing me for the invitations immediately! Come in!” he said heartily to the gentle tap on the door.

“I’m looking for Mr… Drew!” Willough smiled and held out her hands to her brother.

“Willough.” He kissed her on the cheek, noticing how pale she looked.

“Hrrmph!”

“Oh. Jesse.” Drew tried not to smile. “Willough, I’d like you to meet Jesse Brooke, an old and good friend, who’s helping me put this exhibit together. Jesse, this is my sister Willough.
Mrs
. Gray.”

Jesse’s face fell. “Oh. Charmed, I’m sure, Mrs. Gray.”

Drew chuckled. “Jesse was hoping…”

“Drew,” Willough interrupted.

For the first time he noticed the dark shadows under her violet eyes. “What is it, little sister?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Here now,” said Jesse. “Why don’t the two of you just hop into the sitting room out back. I’ve got things to do here.”

Drew led Willough into the small room behind the gallery, and indicated a worn chair next to the stove. He sat down opposite her. He frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Willough looking so distracted.

She removed her pale kid gloves and smoothed them on her lap. “I…received your invitation. Of course I’ll try to attend the opening tomorrow night. You must be very gratified and excited at the prospect.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Shall I be frank?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were filled with sadness. “This is a time for frankness.”

“It’s all a bit hollow without Marcy. I didn’t know how much I needed her until I lost her. That’s as frank as I can be.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I assume she went back to Long Lake. To her uncle.”

“Then go and get her, Drew.”

He scowled. “Willough, it’s none of your concern.”

“Why not? You’re my brother, and I love you. And you’re miserable without her.”

“For God’s sake, Willough!” What could he tell her without breaking her heart? Destroying her marriage? “You don’t understand,” he said evasively.

“Then tell me.”

He stood up and ran his fingers through his shock of black hair. All this time he’d kept it in, locked in his heart. “She’s better off without me,” he said at last. The words choked him. “When I first met her, she told me she wanted to marry a rich man. I took it as a passing fancy of hers, a silly whim that had stuck in her brain. She can be so damn stubborn when she makes up her mind to something. But maybe it wasn’t a whim.” He looked around at the shabby room. “In which case, she’s better off without me.”

“And maybe your conscience is bothering you because you wanted to be able to pamper her, give her nice things.”

That hurt. “God, yes!” he groaned.

There was no sympathy in Willough’s eyes. “What a very selfish point of view, big brother!”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ever ask her what
she
wanted? She knew you had nothing when she married you, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“But she married you.”

“Yes.” Could Willough be right? No. “Oh, hell!” he burst out. “What does it matter now? She made her choice the night…” He looked at Willough. She mustn’t ever know. “Nothing. It doesn’t concern you.”

“The night you found her in bed with Arthur,” said Willough softly.

“Oh, God, Willough, I didn’t want you to know. I think I might have killed Arthur that night but for you.”

She smiled gently. “Don’t worry about my feelings, Drew. Arthur was never faithful. I just didn’t think he’d sink that low.”

“I thought you loved him. That’s why I never did anything. And then”—his heart was breaking—“I’m not sure she wasn’t…a willing partner,” he choked.

“Don’t be a fool, Drew!”

“I never could give her what she wanted.”

“She probably never wanted anything but you.”

He laughed bitterly. “She wanted money. And she wanted Arthur.”

“You don’t believe that.”

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “You didn’t see her that night. I did. She was
enjoying
herself. The fancy trappings, the champagne dinner… She was holding him, kissing him, letting him…”

Willough stood up and put a hand on his arm. “Drew. She was drugged.”

He staggered back a step. “
What
?”

“Arthur put something in her food or drink. She probably didn’t even know what was happening.”

His head was reeling. “Was he so unsure of his charms—that bastard!—that he had to drug her?”

“Oh, Drew! Don’t be such a fool! He was so sure of her love for you. It was the only way.”

“Well, he didn’t succeed there, at least,” he growled. “I burst in on them before he’d had a chance to…” An iron band was twisted around his heart. “But why Marcy? Of all the women he could have had…why Marcy? I thought he was my friend. ‘Uncle’ Arthur! Damn him! And so stupidly brazen! Didn’t it occur to him I’d find out?”

“He did what he intended to do,” she said gently. “You were meant to find them together.”

“What?
Meant
to? That’s madness! What in God’s name for?”

Willough blinked back her tears. “Oh, Drew, I’m so sorry. To break up your marriage.”

“Why would Arthur want to break up my marriage? My life had nothing to do with his.”

She hesitated. “It wasn’t Arthur’s idea,” she murmured at last.

He didn’t understand. “Then…who…” He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to see the truth. “Oh, God, Willough. No,” he groaned.

“She told me so herself. Not more than an hour ago.”

“I don’t believe it!” he said, even as he remembered how his mother had hurried him out the door that night. Just in time to walk in on Arthur and Marcy. He closed his eyes, fighting the pain. “Why would she do it?”

“She was desperate. You’re all she’s got.”

“I always thought she loved me.”

“She did. She does. Too much. Have pity on her, Drew. She’s a pathetic old woman.”

He pounded a fist against the wall. “And Arthur! I’ll kill him!”

Willough shook her head. “No, Drew. He’s not worth your anger. Leave him to God’s judgment.”

He sank back into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “Will she ever forgive me?”

“If you love her, find her and bring her back.
Fight
for your happiness, Drew! And don’t be concerned about the exhibit. Your Mr. Brooke and I will take care of it. We’ll see to the opening.”

“I’m not concerned. With Marcy gone, all this”—he waved toward the open door and the gallery beyond—“appeared worthless.” He looked at his sister. She seemed altered, somehow. Sad and calm and self-contained. Not at all the “little sister” he’d thought her. “And what about you, Willough? What about
your
happiness?”

She smiled through her tears. “I let my love get away. I guess I’ll regret it forever.”

And now she must go to Arthur.

She allowed herself to weep for him when she saw his face. The attendant at the morgue had pulled back the sheet for her identification. Arthur’s face was pale, with just a small bruise at the graying temple to show where he’d been struck. Even with his eyes closed in death, there was a haughty air about him, the handsome mouth curved into the hint of a superior smile, the aristocratic mustache groomed just so. Poor Artie Flanagan, she thought. Fighting his way up from Broome Street to a mansion on Fifth Avenue, only to be felled by a brewery wagon. It seemed such an ignominious death, such a squalid end to all his high aspirations.

She wept for him. And for her mother who had loved him. They’d always been strangers, she and Arthur. And enemies, at the end. But she’d shared his life for a year; she’d shared his bed. She had borne his child. He was deserving of her tears. Perhaps he too had hoped for a better marriage.

She nodded to the attendant and turned away, drying her eyes and composing herself before she went out to her waiting carriage. For the first time she was grateful to Grandma Carruth. Her proper upbringing at least would see her through this long day.

She took out a small mirror from her handbag to look at her face; the lack of sleep last night had done more damage than her tears. She was pale, but it was a becoming pallor. Arthur would have approved: with her somber complexion, her haunted, dark-shadowed eyes, her constrained expression, she was the perfect picture of a grieving widow.

A widow. She looked more closely at herself, peering into her violet eyes. “Who are you?” she whispered. She had no one but herself now. Arthur was dead. Daddy’s love had proven to be an empty shadow—fleshed out by her own needs. And Nat was gone, leaving her with nothing but bittersweet memories. She had no one but herself now.

She began to shake, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “Weeping Willough,” Arthur had called her many a time. First in playful teasing, then in derision. But she’d been a child then. Stop your crying, you silly goose! she thought. No one but herself. She took a deep breath, feeling an odd sense of resolution. A door had been closed.

No one but herself. It would have to be enough.

When she reached the house on Fifth Avenue, she found it in turmoil. Lillie greeted her at the door, tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, Mrs. Gray! Did they reach you at your mother’s? Have you heard the terrible news?”

Beyond the foyer, in the drawing room, Willough could see one of the parlor maids crying hysterically and being comforted by the cook, and the butler moved about the dining room, morosely watering the potted palms. Only Brigid seemed relatively calm.

Willough took the hatpins out of her hat, and handed hat and gloves to the sobbing Lillie. “Brigid,” she said, “do you have your wits about you?”

The girl bobbed in front of her. “I think so, ma’am. ’Tis a terrible thing, but there’s nothing to be gained by all this hullabaloo. It won’t bring Mr. Gray back.”

“No. Now listen carefully. You’re to take my carriage. Go around to Mr. Gray’s attorney. Tell him what’s happened. Have him notify the proper parties and arrange for the funeral. And I want a notice in tomorrow’s
New York Times
obituary column. Something that does justice to Arthur Bartlett Gray’s standing in this community. When you’ve done that, go to Lord and Taylor. I’ll need a mourning gown at once. Something that’s already made up.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a little square of cardboard. “Here. Here’s my card. Have them put the purchase on my account. Then take the gown to my dressmaker and have it altered to my measurements. I’ll want it by morning, if she can manage it. Tell her I’ll need at least two more black toilettes by month’s end. I’ll leave the design to her discretion. Can you remember all that?”

“Sure and I can, ma’am. You go on upstairs and take a rest. You’ll need your strength.”

She sighed. “Thank you, Brigid. I
am
tired.” She climbed the red-carpeted staircase. The afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows on the landing and illuminated the large antique canvases on the stair wall. Anonymous English lords and ladies of another century. Arthur had always encouraged the assumption—by his modest silence to their guests—that these were his ancestors. Poor Arthur.

She heard crying from the end of the corridor. Cecily. On an impulse, she turned away from her room and went down to the nursery. The nursemaid was there, frantically rocking the cradle, to no avail. Each shake of the lace-draped cradle produced fresh wails from the baby.

The nursemaid looked up, her eyes filled with dismay. “Oh, Mrs. Gray, I’m so sorry,” she said nervously. “It must be the colic. She’s been like this all afternoon. I’ll try to keep her quiet. I know with Mr. Gray…and all…that you’ll want your quiet. Perhaps a bit of paregoric…”

“No, no, Hetty. It’s quite all right. I’ll stay with Cecily for a little while. Why don’t you go down to the kitchen and see if you can calm Lillie and the others? I’ll just sit here with Cecily.”

“Yes’m.”

Willough leaned over the cradle and scooped up Cecily in her arms; rocking the baby gently, she sat in a chair near the window. As she rocked and crooned, the wailing became a gurgling sob, and then soft hiccoughs. In a moment Cecily was sleeping. Willough smiled and held her child closer to her breast. What a pretty little thing, she thought, stroking the downy cheek and smoothing back the single brown curl. My little girl. Who never asked for anything but to be loved. What had she to do with her mother or her father—if they loved each other or lived with hatred?

Willough began to cry, bitter tears that traced burning paths down her cheeks. “Oh, Cecily,” she whispered. “I’ll try to do better for you than she did for me. I’ll try. I’ll try.”

Chapter Fourteen

Drew Bradford shifted the knapsack to his other shoulder and grimaced. He’d spent too many sedentary months in his studio; this climb seemed far more rigorous than it might have last summer. The path up Owls Head Mountain was steep, and his load was heavy, with a warm blanket and several days’ food.