Dr. Tuttle came in carrying three glasses of white liquid on a tray. Outside, thunder boomed, and sheets of rain rattled the window. At times, the building groaned, as if strong fingers of wind strained to pry the roof off.
Though her head still ached fiercely, Lydia smiled a faint greeting
. Justine squeezed her hand, possibly to reassure herself, for in her sister’s eyes, this man was still a stranger.
“Some warm milk will help you get to sleep,” the red-haired doctor offered.
“You heated it for me?” Lydia felt flattered, even though Hiram had been Phillip’s friend, not just a mentor.
“Not quite
. One of the nuns keeps a cow for just such occasions. I’m famished, so I thought I might share some as well.” He passed each twin a glass.
Lydia sat up in her bed and sipped the creamy sweetness
. The taste reminded her of another stormy morning long ago. Father had yet been away at war, but Mother sat with her and Justine in the kitchen. Mrs. Kelso brought them tea, though the cups she gave the little girls contained mostly warm milk. The memory reassured her, for that night, gulf winds had chased away the storm, and just a few days later, their papa had come home.
Though she’d taken comfort, Lydia noticed the way that Justine dropped her gaze
. She wouldn’t look the doctor in the eye, even when she thanked him for his kindness.
“I could set up a cot for you
. It was a long night,” Dr. Tuttle said to Justine.
“No, thank you
. This chair is just fine.”
Lydia wished she would for once be her real self around outsiders
. If people could only come to know Justine’s sincerity, her honest wisdom, they’d flock to drag her from her self-imposed exile.
“Quite a storm, isn’t it?” the doctor asked at a particularly loud thunderclap.
Both twins nodded nervously, and Lydia was glad when Hiram changed the subject.
“How’s the head?” His blue eyes turned toward her
. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but he was fine-looking, for an older man. Not her type, perhaps, but he had good strong features and a mouth that looked as if it smiled often.
Lydia nodded carefully
. “Aching, and full of worries, I’m afraid. I wish Phillip hadn’t gone out in this storm.”
He nodded
. “So do I. My shift’s over, but I’m not leaving in this weather. Besides, if it gets worse, we’ll have a lot of company.”
“So you think that many people will be hurt?” Justine must have forgotten herself, to look up so sharply.
“Possibly,” Hiram answered. “And also, St. Michael’s is on high ground. We always fill up when the low sections of the city take on water. If we have injuries, I could use your brother’s help. He’s very good, you know.”
“He loved it,” Justine offered, then dropped her gaze once more.
“He’s needed here. We’d like him to come back.”
“No,” Lydia told him
. “He can’t. He promised Father. On Papa’s deathbed, he agreed to run the business.”
“Is he happy . . . doing that?”
“He will be,” Lydia insisted, “because he’s a man who knows his responsibilities. Once he gets past these current difficulties, he’ll be happy. I know that he will.”
Justine’s voice barely rose above a whisper
. “How long has it been since we’ve seen Phillip really smil
e
without that sadness in his eyes? How long has it been since we last heard his laughter?”
“He laughs
all
the time at me.” Lydia joked, but she knew Justine was right.
The smiles and the laughter they’d seen recently were mere ghosts
. Pale ghosts of their brother’s former joy.
*
John Frindly rubbed his burning eyes and tried to focus on the stack of files before him. The night had long since silvered into a rain-soaked morning, yet he couldn’t think of returning to his home to sleep. Not with Phillip out searching for this woman he’d decided to marry. Frindly had done all he could by insisting on a pair of men he trusted to accompany Payton, but still . . . Although he doubted the normal run of dock workers would be involved in something so reprehensible as murder, he had no way of knowing how many hotheads might be involved. Even if he could guess, what would it matter? One man’s bullet would be all it took to murder Phillip Payton.
And Frindly knew he couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t allow Lamar Payton’s only son to die.
You were wrong about that boy
. Frindly directed his thoughts at the old man, who might even now be toasting his toenails in Hell, for all he knew.
Bucking you to study medicine didn’t mean that he was weak at all.
On the contrary, Phillip Payton was in some ways far stronger than his father
. Though Lamar had been known as tough and uncompromising, Frindly had never seen him hold to a difficult course on the strength of his beliefs. He might have worked for the old man for more than twenty years, but he couldn’t say with any certainty wha
t
if anythin
g
Lamar believed in. Profit maybe and the importance of tradition, of having a son to increase what he had built. Lamar had been furious when Phillip had refused him. He had even gone so far to cut off the boy from funds. But when his wife’s father had died, Phillip’s grandfather’s bequest had made it possible for the young man to independently pursue his education.
Frindly remembered his shock the day that Phillip had at last shown up for work in the wake of his father’s funeral
. Phillip came because he’d promised, he’d explained, and at that moment, John had known there was something different about this Payton. Something both strong and honorable. Too honorable, it turned out, to turn a blind eye to a wrong. Even when his actions could destroy Payton Enterprises.
Frindly shook his head to clear it
. He couldn’t allow himself to be seduced by old memories cloaked in the hiss of rain against his window. He had to concentrate, God damn it. He had to try to find this Ross fellow before anything happened to the young woman Payton was so taken with. For Frindly knew as well as he knew himself that if an innocent girl were hurt, Phillip would walk away from Payton Enterprises forever. And even worse, he would do so a shattered man.
There
.
Yes, the name was on the older payroll logs, just as he’d suspected. Ross Dawson. Sure enough, there was a note from the foreman to ban the fellow from Payton crews because he’d started several fights. The fights, according to the notes, weren’t with black workers or even foremen. Dawson had fought instead with the men of his own crew. “Drunk and lou
d
can’t use him,” Aaron Farley had scrawled in his usual terse shorthand.
Now that Frindly had a name, he could try to track down this troublemaker
. By using a couple of his best men, he had a chance to find this Ross before a few overzealous black dockworkers went out and provoked a riot.
*
Shae had long ago ceased to care who heard her. Once again, she called for help and banged the door with the shovel she had found against one wall.
She didn’t hold out much hope of someone hearing
. Already, she’d pounded for what she judged to be hours, to no avail.
As near as she could figure, a swift stream of floodwater was pinning the door shut
. The carriage house must be in a fairly low spot. Not only did she have the current pushing against the door, but the water’s weight as well. Though some had managed to seep inside the outbuilding, it must be higher still outside.
In the time since she’d awakened, the water in the building had risen above her knees, though it was hard to judge its height for certain
. Her dress, scarcely dry, once again had soaked up moisture like a sponge.
She decided to try again to find some boards to knock loose, but this time, she felt her way into the darkness that led to the back wall
. Though water was seeping in through cracks between the wood planks, at least she wouldn’t have to fight the current too.
She used the shovel like a walking stick to help her find her way
. After crossing the building’s empty center, she bumped up against what felt like barrels of some sort. They were too heavy to move, so she decided to climb up on them and then try for a loose board along the wall.
Something hard bumped the back of her left leg, and she screeched in alarm
. Whirling around, she put a hand out to fend of
f
what felt to be a length of board that was now floating inside the building.
With a nervous laugh, she hoisted herself up on the barrel, though the soaked dress weighed her down like an anchor
. She gripped the shovel firmly and started pounding at the boards with all her might. As the impact jarred her shoulders, she roundly cursed the men who'd built this damned place. One might have thought they’d meant it as a fine home and not a storage building!
Wood cracked, and she distinctly heard the squeak of a nail pulled from its berth
. Shae shifted her feet, and one punched through the barrel’s top. Yanking it free, she fell backward into the dark water.
*
God damn the girl, swore King. She was nearly as much trouble as Glennis had been. And her behavior was proving just as painful. Shaking off harsh memories, he unlocked the door to Lucius’s house with the key he had collected after the old man died.
“Mary Shae!”
The only sound that answered was the rumbling growl of Oliver’s damned cur. It stood before him, white fangs bared and at the ready.
Once more, he regretted telling his daughter she could keep the terrier
. There could be no peaceful coexistence with such a vicious animal. Why, it might even attack Mary or his sister!
The last thought provoked a chuckle, as he imagined Alberta shaking the little dog in her own teeth
. Still amused by the image, he pulled an ivory-handled derringer from his vest pocket and calmly shot the animal between the eyes.
Stepping over the still-twitching body, King strode into the master bedroom
. Still in the doorway, he spotted an open box lying on the bed. On the box’s side, the words “Rowa
n
Household Records” felt like a trio of cold blades plunged into his gut. Had Shae found it? But how? Lucius had long ago assured him he’d hidden it where no one would ever again see it.
With a cry of despair, King nearly flew across the room
. Peering into the mass of gold and silver, he tried to reach into the opening as if to assure himself the jewelry was Hers. But his arms, his entire body, refused him, and at last he stood, impotent and trembling above the gleaming tributes he’d once crafted with such care.
With a groan, he finally sank onto the bed and jerked his outstretched hand away
. He could no more touch his dead wife’s jewelry than he could leap headfirst into molten metal. Too many reminders of the time that he had loved Her. Too many memories of the day that She had died, the same day he’d asked Lucius to hide this hastily packed box.
And a damned fine job the old man had done of that
! If Lucius’s heart hadn’t given out, King would like to shoot his useless bookkeeper the same way he’d just shot his dog. Curse the man’s incompetence! Or was it that at all? Had Lucius meant to blackmail him with this? He shook his head, frustrated that he would likely never know.
One thing he did know was that Mary Shae must have been here, must have seen her mother’s jewelry
. King knew what she must think, knew how this must have made her suspicions crystallize into what she took for facts.
He would never get her back now, would never have the chance to protect his daughter
! Would never keep her clear of the awful sins that had consumed her mother . . . and his love.
Though Glennis was long gone, the memory of the snickers never died for King
. Snippets of overheard gossip had lodged inside his heart like poisoned thorns. The taint of the whispers and the laughter had made him put away his brushes, had made even the jewelry he crafted a pale imitation of what it once had been. The sting of humiliation had made him unable to show love to his daughter, the daughter that he treasured above all else.
Glennis, dear, weak Glennis, had destroyed him
. The woman, his beautiful, dead wife, had never been able to deny him anything. She had not denied him when he had sought to compromise her virtue in his family home. Hadn’t told him no when afterwards he had suggested an impossible marriage to legitimize the child she’d conceived. But neither had she been able to deny her favors to other men who admired her. And God help them both, she had a never-ending stream of devotees. Damn the slut, she was a wanton creature. Or else, so lonely for her lost home and family that even the basest contact could substitute for love.
Raindrops slapped against the bedroom window, but he barely registered their increase
. Staring at the wedding band inside the box, he knew he’d truly loved Her once. But curse his pride, he’d pretended he had wed her only out of duty. He’d never been able to show her how he felt in any other way than crafting trinkets for her.