“My mother’s wrong,” Finnea whispered, turning back to stare out the window. “My problem isn’t my anger.”
“I know,” Matthew said, his voice solemn, wanting to pull her into his arms, to make things right, but knowing that he had to give her time. “I never thought it was about anger. Frustration, sadness. Abandonment, perhaps. But never anger. And I especially don’t think that now, after Janji has arrived.”
Finnea gasped and whirled around, her mouth slightly opened, her eyes wide with indescribable hope. “Janji is here? In Boston?”
“Yes.” He searched her eyes, before pulling the toy from his pocket and extending it to her. “He has brought your belongings.”
She staggered at the sight, and Matthew had to reach out and steady her. When she met his gaze, he saw the darkness and the pain, no longer hidden by wildness or defiance.
“I want to see him,” she whispered.
Nodding his head, Matthew took her hand and led her out the door. He would take her home. To Dove’s Way. Where she belonged. He would help her deal with her past, then he would bind her to him with his love when no other restraint would hold her.
Chapter Twenty-three
Finnea flew out of the Winslet house. Matthew had to race to keep up, catching her hand and pulling her back to safety when she would have run into traffic.
Minutes later, they arrived on Marlborough Street. But when Finnea came to the front door, she stopped abruptly, bringing Matthew up short. She stared at the fine-grained wood, stared at the lion’s-head knocker. But Matthew knew that wasn’t what she saw.
“Are you sure it’s Janji?” she asked quietly, afraid she was going to be disappointed.
“Yes,” he replied solemnly. “I’m sure.”
She closed her eyes for one brief second, as if praying, then carefully pushed through the door.
Once inside she remained quiet so that no one noticed her. She waited beneath the mosaic, the warrior holding the dove, her face a cipher as she took in the scene before her.
The massive man from Africa stood perfectly still, as if he hadn’t moved a muscle since Matthew dashed out of the house. Mary stared at Janji from where she sat on the bottom step of the grand stairway, her elbows planted on her knees, her chin on her knuckles. The African stared back. Quincy paced and muttered.
“Janji,” Finnea breathed.
The man turned to her, his expression fierce. His eyes traveled over her as a parent’s inspecting a child. Then he smiled, a huge gleaming flash of white teeth.
“I see that my friend has taken good care of you,” he said.
Finnea blushed but was given no time to respond when Mary swiveled around.
“Finnea!” The child raced across the foyer and threw her arms around her. “You’re home.”
Finnea touched Mary’s head, and Matthew could see the tears forming in her eyes.
“Did you miss me?” Mary demanded.
“Yes, I missed you. Very much.”
Mary let go abruptly and turned to Janji. “I win! You smiled.”
Janji’s smile grudgingly widened even more. “You would make a fine opponent in my land.”
Mary beamed. This was the child he’d left behind, Matthew thought. Happy. Cheerful. Filled with love.
Finnea still hadn’t moved, as if she didn’t know what to expect from the visitor, until finally she came forward. Janji bowed his head formally when she stopped just in front of him.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered through tears that had begun to slip down her cheeks. Then she threw her arms around him.
The man was clearly startled by the action.
“They hug all the time here, Janji,” she said through a mixture of laughter and tears. “You’ll have to get used to it if you plan to stay.”
He stood stoically, then finally patted her awkwardly.
With a laugh and a sniffle, she moved back. “I have missed you, my friend.”
“Yes,” he said, clearly uncomfortable.
They went to the study, where a fire burned to ward off the chill of the spring night. They talked for hours, about the man’s difficult trip to the Americas, about the oddness of this country. Matthew smiled as he listened, really seeing for the first time how strange Boston must seem to an outsider.
But then the talk turned to what had been happening with the tribe in Africa. Mary grew bored and slipped out of the room.
“Your mundele brother, Nester,” Janji intoned, “is wanting to take our land away and sell it to another rich mundele.”
“What?” Finnea demanded, leaning forward.
“Your brother is trying to sell your father’s farm.”
“I should have known he would try to do something like that,” she raged. “And it’s all my fault.”
“Your fault?” Janji asked.
“Yes, my fault. I’m the one who told him about the farm. He knew nothing about it until I mentioned it. I should have known. Don’t you worry. Nester will not get away with it. I’ll deal with him as soon as I get back to the house.”
Matthew didn’t like the sound of that. She was home. She belonged here. And he wasn’t about to let her leave again.
Beyond that, he didn’t want her hurt anymore. Not by him. Not by Nester, and he could imagine how her brother would react to a plea from Finnea in regards to this farm. Matthew made a mental note to send word to Grayson first thing in the morning. His brother was one of the best lawyers around.
Suddenly Janji retrieved a satchel from the crate and extended it to Finnea.
“For you,” the African said.
Matthew saw Finnea’s breath catch and the tears that wiped away all laughter when she looked inside. With a strength that would have made a warrior proud, she reached over and laid her hand on Janji’s. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you for bringing my memories to America.”
“You are welcome.” He hesitated. “Just so long as you don’t let them hold you in the past.”
She didn’t answer. She pulled the satchel close to her chest, and Matthew knew her smile was forced. “I am tired,” she said. “We will talk more in the morning.”
Then she stood and Matthew knew she would head for the front door.
“You can’t leave,” Matthew stated.
“Why not?”
Matthew could feel Janji’s eyes on him. Because I don’t want you to go. But it was too soon for that. “Because—”
“Welcome home!”
The adults turned to the study entrance. Mary stood in the doorway, pushing a service cart that held the lopsided cake.
“Daddy and I made it just for you!”
For a moment, Mary’s smile wavered and she bit her lip. “It didn’t come out so good.”
Matthew watched as tears sprang to life in Finnea’s eyes; then she rushed forward and swept Mary close.
“It is a perfect cake. And I love it, just as I love you.”
Mary traced the tears on Finnea’s face. “And I love you.”
The cake was served. Quincy and Violet shared a piece. Janji ate an entire slice and pronounced that he wanted more. Mary served the confection, doling out several slices that were sent to the servants in the kitchen.
But when the platter was empty, Finnea stood again. “It’s getting late.”
“Come on, Finnea,” Mary said. “I’ll walk with you upstairs.”
Finnea’s mouth fell open to protest, but Matthew met her eyes, willing her not to disappoint the child.
“Quincy will go to your mother’s and get your things,” he offered.
She started to balk; he could see it.
“Please,” he added softly. “You have a guest, after all.”
In the end she was convinced to stay. She gave Quincy instructions to have a room readied for Janji. Then she said good night and allowed Mary to pull her from the study, never losing her hold on the satchel.
Matthew started to go after her, to make sure that indeed she went upstairs instead of out the front door, but Janji spoke.
“You love her.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.
Matthew stared at the empty doorway, listening to her footsteps as she went up the stairs. “Yes, I do.”
“I gambled when I sent her to you.”
Matthew wheeled back.
“Yes, I sent her to you intentionally.”
“But you told me it was cargo I was to look after, not a woman.”
Janji smiled. “Yes.”
“I knew I hadn’t mistranslated.” Matthew shook his head. “Why did you do it?”
“Because I believed. I believed she could heal you, and I knew if I told you it was a woman I was sending you, you wouldn’t have agreed to take her—regardless of what you thought you owed me.” The African hesitated. “But more than that, I believed you could heal her.”
The truth hit Matthew square in the chest. She had healed him. But he hadn’t even begun to understand her pain.
“I felt certain that I was right,” Janji continued. He shook his head. “But now I see that she wants to return to Africa.”
With a start, Matthew straightened. “When did she tell you that?”
“She didn’t. I saw it in her eyes. In addition, she thinks she is going back.”
“She is my wife,” Matthew stated arrogantly, ignoring the fire of his heart. “She will stay with me.” And I will find a way to heal her.
Janji’s dark eyes were like fathomless pools, staring into him. “Good.” As if he had understood the unspoken words. “She does not belong in Africa. At least not as a white woman alone. She must stay with you.”
“She will,” Matthew stated with a boldness that matched the wizened man’s.
Janji actually chuckled at this. “You are good for her, even if she does not yet know it.” The lightness faded. “But you must prove it to her.”
Matthew would have been offended had anyone else said such a thing. But with this man he knew it was from the heart, for the good of Finnea, and he couldn’t fault the man for that. Especially since he knew he was right.
After Quincy led Janji to a guest room, Matthew was left alone in the study. He stared at the flames, taking in all that he had learned, bits and pieces he had accumulated over the months he had known Finnea. Then he went to her.
He found her in the yellow room, standing at the window, looking out, the satchel opened on the bureau, a white baby’s gown held in her arms. The room was dark except for the moonlight that streamed in.
“You had a daughter in Africa,” he stated quietly, putting into words the conclusions he had drawn.
She didn’t turn around, and for a moment he thought she hadn’t heard.
But then she spoke, her words filled with an unfathomable sadness. “Her name was Isabel.”
He came forward, stopping just behind her. “God, Finn, why didn’t you tell me?”
She didn’t answer his question but said, “She would be Mary’s age if she had lived.” He could see her reflection in the window, could see her lips pull into a sad smile. “She would have loved Mary.”
“Mary would have loved her… just as she loves you.” He touched her shoulders, but at the contact she jerked away.
“No!”
But Matthew caught her, turning her determinedly around to face him. Her face was ravaged, streaked by tears. “What is it, Finnea?” he demanded. “Talk to me,” he added, his voice fierce, needing to understand completely so he could help her. “You once said you couldn’t stand to be touched, you couldn’t stand to feel. Once and for all, tell me why.”
She tried to jerk away, but he held her secure, his heart slamming against his chest, afraid of what she would say.
“Why won’t you let me get close to you?” A thought spiraled into his mind, making him flinch. “Is it because you can’t love anyone but Isabel’s father? Is that what it has been all this time?”
Tears fell freely then, and he knew that as long as he lived he would never forget the look of utter devastation on her face.
“Isabel’s father? Dear God, no. I can’t stand to feel because I can’t stand to be anything but sorry for having been a horrible mother,” she cried softly.
His brow knitted. “You are a wonderful mother,” he said, shaking her in earnestness. “I told you that before, and I meant it.”
“I’m not! I couldn’t keep my child safe—just as I couldn’t keep Mary safe.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
He felt her go still, felt the will drain from her limbs. She looked out, staring off, seeing something very different from the walls that surrounded them. Just when he would have swept her up and cradled her, she spoke.
“I heard her cry.”
“What?”
“I heard her cry. Just once, then she stopped. When I didn’t hear her cry again, I went back to my work. I didn’t go to her. Later, when I went in to check on her, she was dead. She choked. Choked! Choked on the button eye of her favorite stuffed bear.” Her hands fisted; her face grew strained. “If I had noticed it was loose, or if I had gone when she cried, she would be alive! Do you understand?” she gasped, her eyes imploring him to see her brutal conclusion. “I could have saved her—should have saved her!”
A mountain of ifs that paralyze and make it impossible to truly live. How to counter that? How to help her move beyond?
He reached out to her, and when she tried to slap his hands away, he curled his fingers gently around her wrist and pulled her to him.
“No one can answer every cry, Finnea,” he said softly against her skin.
“Maybe not, but a good mother answers all the right ones!”
Her tears became sobs, deep racking cries that Matthew could feel shudder through him when he cradled her against his chest. She fought him, but her strength was nothing compared to his. He held her, for the first time wondering if they could ever get beyond this.
He held her until her sobs trailed off and she collapsed against him. He stroked her hair, despairing.
“I don’t belong here,” she said hoarsely, forcefully putting distance between them. “I belong in Africa with Isabel.”
He looked at her for an eternity. “Oh, Finn, Isabel is gone. You can’t live in the past. You have to move beyond what you can’t change. You taught me that. You taught Mary that, too. Lessons from a wonderful mother to a daughter.”
Though she had stepped away, they were still so close that he could have easily touched her. But he didn’t. He held back as desire surged through him—held back because what he felt was a deeper desire, a desperate desire to make things right, make her whole.
“I love you, Finnea,” he whispered.