Reclaimed Love: Banished Saga, Book Two (6 page)

The room was formally furnished, with pictures of faraway lands, thick ivory-colored wallpaper, plush blue velvet curtains, numerous chairs, tables and settees. There was even a grand piano in the far corner, under the ancestor’s photograph, although I knew Savannah refused to play. Thankfully the curtains were pulled open, allowing sunlight to stream into the room and illuminate it.

“How was Paris?” I asked, more for a topic of conversation than out of true curiosity.

“Mr. Montgomery was correct of course,” Savannah replied. “It was the perfect place to honeymoon. Such well-dressed, elegant people. I could never have imagined such refinement. And the new boulevards are glorious.” She sighed in apparent contentment though her eyes remained detached.

I continued to search for the old Savannah but could not find her.

“Yes, I wanted Mrs. Montgomery to know how I envisioned our lives. Nothing but the absolute best for our branch of the family,” Jonas intoned.

“Savannah…”

“Don’t ever use that name again in my presence,” Jonas hissed.

“Why should Savannah’s name be offensive to you?”

“It is not a proper name for a woman of high society in New England,” Jonas replied in a tone that said he would brook no argument.

“I disagree. Savannah’s name is good and proper, given to honor her father’s uncle Mortimer, who died in the War Between the States near Savannah, Georgia. I should think even you, Jonas, would honor the dead.”

“I know what is best for
my wife
, Clarissa. Don’t you dare contradict me.”

I looked toward Savannah, and, for the first time, I saw emotion in her sky-blue eyes. She sat motionless with perfect posture, by all appearances at ease, but her eyes pleaded with me to stop engaging Jonas. I hated the defeated, fearful look in her eyes but knew I would do what she asked. I nodded to Jonas, not because I agreed, but because I wanted to prevent any lasting repercussions for Savannah.

We sat in the formal parlor in an uncomfortable silence. Savannah pleated and repleated the same part of her sea-blue linen skirts over and over again. Jonas crossed his legs and held his trim body in tight control except for the slight tapping motion of his foot dangling in midair.

“It seems you are incapable of remaining scandal-free, Clarissa,” Jonas said, every line of his body expressing his contempt.

“I don’t know to what you refer,” I said.

Jonas snorted his disgust, watching me with intense eyes. “First the debacle at our wedding, where the entire newspaper notice was wasted on an attendant’s lack of composure and grace rather than on the elegance and good breeding of the groom and his chosen bride.”

I blushed, grimacing as I recalled my flight through the air at their wedding when I tripped while walking off the altar.

“Your grandmother Thompson was correct in advising Mrs. Montgomery to choose a new attendant. From now on we will follow their esteemed advice,” Jonas continued.

I bristled at the mention of my grandparents but refrained from speaking.

“But, no, Clarissa.” He said my name with absolute derision. “I am talking about the scandal with the poor cabinetmaker. I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing you and your family, that you would choose such an inappropriate man. An oafish oversize ogre with no idea as to the proper ways of society?” Jonas raised an eyebrow.

My heartbeat raced, and a fierce anger filled me, preventing me from speaking coherently.

“I would think you could have chosen someone better, someone like Cameron,” Jonas said, watching me closely.

I glared at him upon hearing Cameron’s name.

“As for the poor cabinetmaker, good riddance. Hopefully we will never hear from him again. You have yet to receive a letter from him?” Again the raised eyebrow.

I attempted to take a calming breath but instead felt as though I were hyperventilating.

“Maybe there was a train accident, and we are well rid of his regrettable presence.”

I gasped in horror.

Jonas smiled. “Ah, you are still foolish then and pining for a man who left you.”

I blinked away tears, bristling as I looked toward Savannah for help, but she only watched me with sorrowful eyes. “At least I know what it feels to truly love and be loved. I do not regret a moment of the time I spent with him,” I blurted out.

“
My
only regret is that we have that sideboard he made. I dislike having anything associated with that scandalmonger, and yet it is a rather decent piece,” Jonas said. “I had thought to rip it apart and use it for kindling, but we may keep it for now.”

“You can’t,” I protested. “That was a wedding present from her father. It should be cherished.”

“Much should be cherished that isn’t,” Savannah whispered.

Jonas stiffened, glaring in her direction.

“Could I have a tour of your new home, Savannah?” I asked.

“
Mrs. Montgomery
is too busy today to show you through our house. As am I,” Jonas replied for Savannah. “She will send you a note when you may call again. Please do not call if you have not been invited. We are quite occupied with our new lives to entertain, well, you, Clarissa, whenever you feel like calling. This isn’t like before her marriage when you could stop by whenever you wanted.”

“Sav?” I whispered.

A flicker of a joyless smile moved over her features before she looked away.

I nodded. “I may not be welcome here, but you are always welcome at my house,” I said. I reached out and gripped her hands.

She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and then turned toward Jonas to stand beside him.

Jonas barely nodded his good-bye to me.

I stumbled out of their ornate entryway and walked down their cobbled street. I decided to forgo the pleasure of seeing the late-season roses in the Public Gardens to meet the mailman.

I walked toward my neighborhood in the nearby South End. When my parents had purchased our family home with my mama’s dowry, the South End had been a prestigious neighborhood losing its bloom. Now its luster was almost completely tarnished as it became increasingly working class. Many of the once-private homes were filled with boarders renting rooms, and Boston’s first apartment building, the St. Cloud, had been constructed near my home. My street was like an oasis with an oval park down the middle with bow-fronted homes lining the park, although few of the houses surrounding the park remained single-family residences.

As I reached Union Park, my street in the South End, I saw our mailman, Mr. Curtis, on his rounds. His mailbag bulged with letters to deliver, although I knew that, if I were inclined to visit with him, he would spend time every day talking with me about my family, work or the latest political intrigue. I quickened my pace.

I arrived home, panting, to hear him say to Mrs. Smythe, “Another one for Miss Clarissa from Montana. Wouldn’t that be something to receive mail from such a far-off place?”

At hearing the word
another
, I suddenly comprehended that Mrs. Smythe had stolen my mail as she had earlier in the summer. I reached for the letter, ripping it out of Mrs. Smythe’s hands.

Mr. Curtis turned toward me with an open, friendly smile. “Ah, eager to hear the news. Can only mean one thing. Love is in the air! Good afternoon, ladies.” He nodded before turning past me to walk down our front stairs to continue his rounds.

“Give me that letter this instant, Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe hissed, one hand on her pregnant belly.

“No, it’s mine,” I snapped. I moved into the house. “How dare you keep my letters from me!”

“You have formed a regrettable attachment, and I aim to see you recover from it,” Mrs. Smythe snarled. She reached again for my letter, but I firmly held onto it, over my head.

As she stood on her toes, reaching for the letter, she tripped on the edge of the carpet, which hurled her into me. Neither of us were in a position to catch our balance, and we landed in a heap on the floor. I nearly bashed my head against the base of the staircase, and Mrs. Smythe landed on top of me. One of her legs nudged the front hall table, knocking over a new blue crystal vase. I watched in horror as it tumbled to the ground and splintered apart.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Mrs. Smythe wailed, holding her belly.

“What? I’ve made you act like me?” I asked, trying not to chuckle.

“No, you’ve hurt the baby,” Mrs. Smythe gasped.

“I’ve done no such thing,” I argued. “But we’ll call for the doctor.” I saw Bridget, Mrs. Smythe’s faithful maid, standing in the hallway and instructed her to fetch the doctor.

I extricated myself from Mrs. Smythe’s clothes, stood and heaved her off the floor. However, Mrs. Smythe retained her focus and reached for the letter. I realized her intent too late and pulled it away from her just as she grabbed it, causing it to tear in two. She held onto the larger portion of the letter, including the corner with the return address.

“No!” I yelled. “No!”

“You are so naive, Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe simpered with a triumphant smile. She waddled into the parlor, no pain evident in her movements. I rushed after her, determined to retrieve that portion of the letter to piece it together, only to watch her throw it in the smoldering grate of the fire.

I collapsed onto a settee. I sat near her, in her favorite section of the parlor near the door. The furniture was newer, freshly upholstered in gaudy gold satin. I looked toward the distant part of the parlor, envisioning my evenings last summer with Gabriel as we sat by the piano or next to each other by the window, on the settee far from Mrs. Smythe.

“Why?” I asked, though I knew it was a futile question. She did not like me, loathed Gabriel and would do anything to keep us separated. I should have suspected she would do something like this.

I heard the commotion at the front door and sat mesmerized by the sight of Mrs. Smythe transforming herself into an injured woman. She leaned into her favorite lady’s chair and began to moan and twitch as though she were in paroxysms of agony. Tendrils of her previously tidy dyed-blond hair stuck to her forehead and trailed down her arm as her chignon came loose. She wiped at her forehead as though at sweat, and her small frame looked even smaller as she curled into her chair, clutching her belly. I watched the doctor’s solicitude, his concern for the baby and his abject disapproval of me.

“I would think, young lady,” Dr. Mitchelson said with a fierce frown, “you would have more common sense than to rile your stepmother at this late stage of her delicate condition.”

“She landed on top of me, and I think I provided a good cushion for the baby,” I said.

“There should have been no need for her to fall,” the doctor said. “I am sure your father will have quite a bit to say.”

***

THAT EVENING, after a scathing lecture from Da over treating Mrs. Smythe with the respect she was owed as my stepmother, I escaped to my bedroom to weep in private. Da seemed much less concerned that she had been intercepting my post and had in fact destroyed one of my letters in front of me.

I lay curled on my bed, crying, imagining what Gabriel would have written me when a loud knock sounded on my door.

“Rissa, come to the parlor,” Colin, my middle brother, commanded.

“Go away, Col,” I called back. I sniffled but hoped he didn’t hear it.

“I think you will be sorely disappointed if you don’t come down, Rissa,” he said with a hint of the old humor in his voice.

I sighed, rose from my bed and washed my face. I studied myself in the mirror in my mama’s vanity and was thankful I had not wept for long and that the aftereffects of my crying jag were not overly evident. My topaz-blue eyes showed very little red, and I had no swelling under my eyes to indicate my recent tears. I repinned my waist-length chestnut hair into a simple bun, brushed down my pale blue skirts and took a calming breath at the thought of having to spend time in the presence of Mrs. Smythe.

Upon entering the parlor, I saw Richard McLeod, one of Gabriel’s brothers, sitting companionably beside Colin on the medallion-style sofa near the fire discussing their blacksmithing projects. “Richard!” I exclaimed with delight.

“Hello, Miss Sullivan,” he said with the open warmness he had always shown me. “It is nice to see you.” He stood to his full height, nearly as tall as Gabriel at over six feet. His icy-blue eyes lit with warmth and concern as he studied me.

I blushed, hoping he would be unable to discern that I had been crying.

I sat in a chair near them. “Have you heard from Gabriel?” I asked, interrupting their conversation.

Colin laughed and gave me a wink, a lock of wavy auburn hair falling over his forehead and past his eyebrows. He reached up with hands battered from years working at the forge and pushed his hair out of his light blue eyes.

“Yes, and he is doing well in Montana,” Richard said, watching me intently.

It was a searching look, similar to the look Gabriel had used with me, and the memory made my throat tighten. “Montana?” Then I remembered what the postman had said today. “But he’s supposed to be in California.”

“Well, he met someone in Chicago who talked him into going to a booming mining town in the wilds of Montana called Butte.”

“Butte?” I asked. “Why on earth would he want to go to a mining town?”

“I guess for the adventure. Though I think he’s been asking himself that question since he arrived,” Richard responded with a wry smile. “But, now that he’s there, he’s got to stay for a while. He doesn’t have enough put by to be traveling here and there whenever the mood strikes.”

“Does he have work?” I asked.

“I’m surprised you know nothing about Gabe, Miss Sullivan. He writes you a few times a week, if not more.” Again the questioning look.

I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm my anger. “I have not received a single letter. They have been, ah, intercepted for lack of a better word and have not been delivered to me.” I tilted my head in Mrs. Smythe’s direction.

“Ah, the meddling stepmother,” Richard said, nodding his understanding.

“I learned today that she is intercepting my letters and destroying them.”