Jeffrey wheeled around to find Finnea standing in the doorway, misshapen stains of brown covering the bodice of her light blue gown like continents on a map.
“Finnea!”
“Yes, Jeffrey?”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough,” she replied, her voice wooden and emotionless.
“You don’t understand!”
The air in the room seemed sharp and stagnant. Finnea felt as if she couldn’t breathe. All she could think of was getting away from this house, this woman, and this man in whom she had trusted.
“I believe I do,” she said. “No doubt these are the first honest words I have heard from your mouth. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Damn it, Finnea. We need to talk. Mother, please excuse us.”
“There is nothing to talk about, Jeffrey,” Finnea said.
“Oh yes, there is.”
He took her arm and led her to the murky depths of a man’s study. The room smelled faintly of cigars.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded.
She forced herself to focus. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell me you don’t go to Matthew Hawthorne’s house.”
Finnea’s heart seemed to stop beneath her stained gown. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Penelope. Why would she tell me such a thing if it’s not true?”
“It hardly matters.” And she realized it didn’t matter because there was no explaining her visits to Matthew, just as there was no explaining Jeffrey’s words about what he really wanted from her. “It doesn’t matter because our engagement is off.”
“Off?” he demanded. “It can’t be off!”
She headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Home to tell my mother there will be no announcement this evening.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can’t?” she asked, her voice suddenly impatient.
“No! Everyone is going to be there. Everyone is expecting our engagement. I’ll be a laughingstock if you back out now.”
No apologies, no remorse, simply concern for himself. And to think she thought he was different from Nester.
“I’m sorry, Jeffrey. But the engagement is off.”
“You’d rather be at the mercy of your brother?” he demanded.
The words gave her pause, sending a shiver of uncertainty through her.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, pushing his advantage. “Not such an appealing idea.”
“But perhaps not much worse than being at the mercy of you. He, at least, has never lied about his feelings for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Finnea didn’t start to shake until she felt the solid front door close behind her. Cold dread wrapped around her heart. She was a fool to have thought a man like Jeffrey would truly want to marry her—or at least marry her for herself.
She concentrated on the feel of the cold against her cheeks.
No more than a few steps away, she realized she had forgotten her shawl. But she would freeze before she returned to that house.
Finnea hurried down the sloped walkway, the hem of her dress dragging in the plowed snow and ice. She strode through the maze of Beacon Hill streets without knowing where she was going. Sights and sounds pressed in on her. The colors seemed vibrant and shocking compared to the calming greens and browns of Africa.
She gritted her teeth and gave a cry when her feet slipped again and again on the hard-packed snow. It was cold, a cold that seeped through everything, even windows and walls. In Africa it was warm, blissfully warm and beautiful, she thought, rubbing her hands vigorously against her arms. In that second, she missed her home with an intensity that left her gasping for breath.
She didn’t know where she was going; she only knew she had to get away. She wanted to think. She wanted to talk it out. She wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms and hear that everything would be all right.
Finnea fought back a sob, pushing at strands of hair that had shaken loose from her chignon.
There wasn’t a hired hack to be seen when she finally came to Beacon Street. Rummaging through her reticule, she pulled out a nickel and raced to catch the trolley. After she paid, she fell back on a hardwood bench and stared at the passing house fronts through the murky windows. She didn’t think, couldn’t think for the jostling and the nearly deafening noise of iron wheels over tracks laid down in the cobbles.
She jumped down at the corner of Beacon and Arlington, before the trolley continued west to Brookline. Without thinking, she headed south, then turned right a block later when she came to Marlborough Street instead of continuing on one block farther to her home on Commonwealth Avenue. With each step she took, she went faster, until she was practically running, never stopping until she came to Dove’s Way.
Chapter Twelve
The heavy brass knocker fell insistently against the thick-planked front door. Matthew was certain he knew who it was.
Finnea.
She had come to him every day for the past two weeks, and he had sent her away each time despite the fact that he wanted to see her, more than was good for either one of them.
When he had heard the rumors that indeed she was going to marry Jeffrey, a hard coil of anger twisted in his chest. But he knew it was no business of his. He might want her, but he didn’t want another wife.
Matthew tried to focus on a small carved-wood mask he had brought back from Africa. But Finnea would not be banished.
What was it that had really brought her to Boston in the first place? What had sent her in search of her mother after nearly two decades? he wondered again. Was it simply a need for family after the death of her father?
That seemed plausible—until the dark emptiness in her soul flared in her eyes.
When he heard Quincy head for the door, Matthew called out. He could hear the man’s footsteps falter, then veer toward the study, bringing the butler to stand at attention in front of him.
“Sir?”
In the distance, the knock sounded again, this time harder.
“I’m not in, Quincy.”
The man sighed. “But Mr. Hawthorne—”
“I’m not in,” he bit out coldly.
Quincy hesitated before he gave a slight bow of his head. “Of course, sir.”
After Matthew heard the sound of muffled voices, followed by the click of the shutting front door, he waited thirty minutes, then called for his coat. Lately he only went out at night, to slip in to see Mary, or when the snow that made his arm ache and his hand fumble was piled high, allowing him to walk alone in the deserted Public Gardens. Today, however, despite the winter sun and crowded streets, he had to get out, away from his thoughts. But as soon as the front door shut behind him, he found Finnea sitting on the steps. He would have cursed her stubbornness had his heart not slammed in his chest.
She was huddled over, no doubt freezing. Stiff with cold, she craned her neck to look at him. He saw the darkness instantly, that stain on her heart that showed through in her eyes.
His brow furrowed. Finnea always came to him when she was upset. He wondered if she realized it, the way she ran to him when things were difficult, the way she looked at him when she was holding on by a thread.
“Do you ever take no for an answer?” he demanded, resisting the urge to take her gently in his arms.
She smiled at him despite his harsh tone, or perhaps because of it, and in that second it seemed the darkness began to dissipate.
“R-r-rarely,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“I should let you freeze out here.”
“But you won’t.”
“Hell.” He took her hand and pulled her inside. “Quincy!” he called out.
Within seconds the man hurried from the kitchen, conveniently carrying a silver tray.
“Some hot cocoa to warm you, Miss Winslet?” the butler asked solicitously.
“Y-y-you are a d-d-dream, Mr. Quincy.”
“You are a nuisance,” Matthew grumbled to the man, but not quite convincingly.
In the few minutes Matthew had been outside, the fire had been built up in the study, and a blanket had been retrieved. Finnea was quickly wrapped in the thick wool and seated next to the hearth with a steaming cup of cocoa in her hand.
“Why are you here?” Matthew asked her bluntly.
She eyed him from over the rim of her cup. “Do I need a reason?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then, I’m here for another lesson.”
Doubt raised his brow. “On the day of your gala?”
The ease she had gained died at the mention of the party. The emptiness flared, sharp, intense.
“Ah, Finn,” he whispered, unable to help himself.
He took her cup and saucer and set them aside. When she had nothing to hold, he could see the slight tremble of her hand.
“What is it?” he asked, this time softly.
Her gaze found the African mask on the shelf. “They disapprove of me, down to the core, don’t they?”
He could lie, but that would do her no good. “Yes.”
“Why? I’m trying. Don’t they see that? Don’t they care?”
The words tore at him, but he hardened his heart. “You are different from them. That’s all they see. You don’t fit into their preconceived ideas about how a woman should act. But what I find more telling is that somehow no one looks askance at your mother.”
Confusion marred her brow. “She is the very image of what they hold dear. Why would they?”
“Because she is a mother who left her child and didn’t return.”
Sharply Finnea pivoted away.
Matthew knelt before her and took her hands in his. “If they have to blame someone, they should blame her, Finn, not you.”
She suddenly looked at him as if something just occurred to her, something new beginning to spring to life in her eyes. She wanted something from him, he could see it, but what he didn’t know.
“Say you’ll marry me!”
Matthew froze, his long fingers growing still against her skin. He sat back on his heels, paralyzed by awful, heady longing, until slowly he forced himself to stand up with a curse. He had said it before: He didn’t want a wife or need one. Especially this one.
But then he saw her chin tremble, and that dreaded mix of protectiveness and indulgence came over him. He covered it with irritation. “What has happened now?” he asked with a calm he didn’t feel.
Her eyes burned with tears, but she raised her chin. “Jeffrey was only interested in marrying me so he could gain control of Winslet Ironworks.”
He started to say he could have told her that weeks ago, but held his tongue. She was hurting badly, and he felt the damnable need to slay Jeffrey Upton for causing her pain. But he tamped down the emotion, refusing to feel anything.
She wiped angrily at her eyes. “And if I’m not engaged by tonight, apparently my shares of the company will shift from Jeffrey to Nester. I can’t let that happen. I have to be engaged or I will be at the mercy of my brother.”
“Ah, hence your preemptive proposal to me.”
She started toward him. “Say you’ll do it.”
His heart began to pound.
“I know such a favor is a lot to ask,” she rushed on, “but it would just be for a short time.”
His eyes narrowed, perplexed.
“Just until I can figure out what to do. You know, a fake betrothal to buy me some time.”
His heart hardened, and his jaw went tight. “No.”
Her footsteps ceased. “Matthew please—”
“No, Finnea.”
Embarrassment surged in her cheeks; he could see it, hot and bright.
“Do you hate me so much?” she whispered, choked.
“Hate you?” The words startled him. “I could never hate you.”
A sigh ran through his heart and he looked away. “I have never met anyone like you. Grasping at life, tilting at windmills. Even now you’re still fighting, still filled with desires.”
“I don’t want so much! And the day I get what I came here for I’ll be satisfied.”
“No. You’ve been filled with wanting since I met you on the train. You want everything.”
“That’s not true!”
“But it is, Finn. It is one of the things that draws me to you. And the day you run out of desires to chase and dreams to wrap your arms around is the day you die.”
“You’re wrong! I’m not here to chase dreams!”
“Then why?” He grabbed her arms and pulled her to face him. “Why did you run away from Africa?”
“I wasn’t running away!”
“Damn it, don’t lie to me. Say anything, but don’t lie!”
She tried to turn away, but he held her secure. “Why, Finnea?”
She stared at him, her gaze mutinous. “If you don’t want a lie, then it is none of your concern.”
He let her go immediately. “Fine, don’t tell me. But you will have to fight your battles on your own. I no longer want to fight, and I don’t want to dream. I simply want to make it through each day.”
He expected her to concede, to leave. Instead, she caught him off guard when she grabbed his arm and forced him to meet her gaze, her green eyes filled with emotion. “Coward,” she bit out.
His face grew taut.
“You’re afraid to live anymore,” she said bitterly, tears mixing with her anger. “Just like you’re afraid to paint. You’re not the wild man or even the crazy man. You’re a coward.”
His mind reeled, and the fury that was never far from the surface these days surged to life. But before he could utter a word, she was gone.
His hand fisted at his side, his jaw tight. What did she expect of him? She made him want to dream. There were times when he was with her that hope burgeoned inside him. But then reality crashed around him when he scared little children in the streets, stumbled clumsily, or collapsed with fatigue.
No, he was no coward, he told himself firmly. He was just a man trying to accept life for what it was and learn how to continue on with a modicum of pride and dignity.
But regardless of what he told himself, he couldn’t quite forget his anger over the fact that she had called him a coward. Nor could he forget the desire.
The walls pressed in on him. The large, high-ceilinged room suddenly seemed small. He had to get out.
He strode past a startled Quincy, jerked on his coat, and slammed out the door without a word. Ignoring the cold, he started walking. Ignoring the people who did double takes when they saw him, he continued on. He hailed a hired hack on Arlington Street, and seconds later he strode up the steps to his parents’ home. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t dark with everyone asleep. He needed to see Mary.