The Widow's Secret (10 page)

Incredibly, he felt Jocelyn's arms creep around his waist, and she laid her cheek against his chest. “Micah, you are the kindest and the strongest man I have ever known. I wish…”

“What do you wish?” He could have stood in this deep glade for the rest of his life, holding her, nurturing her back to life. “If it's within my power to grant your wish, I will.”

“Micah…” Against his chest she shook her head. “You know better than to offer rash proclamations like that. Besides, not even God can grant my wish.”

“I don't believe that. Look at you—that's twice in a single afternoon you've mentioned His name.”

He felt the sigh that shuddered through her, sensed the unbearable pain gathering strength within her that left them both bruised and breathless.

Perplexed, but not in despair. Troubled, yet not distressed.
Lord, please give her back the hope.

“You and Katya.” Her words emerged in a thin trickle he almost couldn't hear. “I cannot fight you both. I'm so tired of fighting. Tired of wishing for what will never be, tired of trying to understand why you both believe in divine mercy
when nothing in my life, since I turned seventeen—
nothing
has offered me any assurance that God cares what happens to me.”

She withdrew her arms and pushed against his chest until reluctantly Micah released her. “Real or pretense, this courtship has given me something I never thought I'd have, and for that you will always hold a—a special place in my heart. But it will end, Micah. Someday you'll find the proof you need, and if they're guilty the Brocks and the Binghams will pay for the pain they have wreaked upon others. And I…I will endure. I created a new life for myself once. I can do so again.”

When Micah opened his mouth to protest, she grabbed his hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the palm. “It's all right, Micah. I know you never intended to hurt me. Regardless of what you said earlier, we have a counterfeit courtship. Not a real one.”

“I've spent the last eight years of my life learning how to distinguish between the real and the counterfeit. You're wrong, Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham.” Temper stirred, but Micah quelled the nastiness because Jocelyn didn't deserve it. “One day this case will be over, but I'm not prepared to let you enshrine yourself in a living sarcophagus again.”

And with a breeze rippling through the branches and the distant sound of a Stephen Foster melody and a blue jay shrieking a raucous protest, Micah hauled Jocelyn back into his arms, and stifled her words with kisses.

He might have felt guilty if his firefly widow hadn't melted into him, kissing him back with an ardor that matched his own.

“Y
ou seem distracted this evening, Jocelyn.” Rupert Bingham took a careful sip of water, then with equal care set the stemmed crystal glass back in its proper place. It was always a shock to see Chadwick's father, with his bent-over frame and gaunt form a marked contrast to the vigorous man Jocelyn remembered. “Did you and Mr. MacKenzie have a lover's spat?”

Both cousins snickered. As usual, Jocelyn ignored them.

“Mr. Bingham, must you speak so crudely, especially at the dinner table and in front of the servants?” Portia dabbed her lips with the napkin. “I hardly think they would engage in something so personal as a quarrel, especially at this early stage of their courtship.”

“Since when does length of time have to do with affairs of the heart?” Virgil said. Like his mother, he was golden haired and blue eyed. Katya had overheard gossip between household servants that Virgil was considered a prize matrimonial catch. But his clean-shaven face at twenty-nine was already marred by deep lines on either side of his mouth and nose; most of his words were colored by a pettish contempt,
though Jocelyn knew he tried to moderate his tone in front of his mother. He turned sideways now, studying Jocelyn. “On the other hand, she certainly doesn't need to waste time, if she's hoping to snare herself another husband. Pushing thirty, aren't you, darling?”

“Time…” Mr. Bingham mused, as though Virgil hadn't spoken, his brown eyes assuming their now-familiar faraway cast. “How does one measure time? Your aunt and I wed after only a six-month courtship.”

“Oh, do stop being such a sentimentalist,” Portia snapped. “It was an arranged marriage, and your bride spent the week before your wedding in tears.”

“My dear, it would be a kindness if you allowed poor Rupert to remember his wife as he wishes.” Augustus speared a piece of pot roast, then gestured with his fork while chewing the morsel. “Let's hear what Jocelyn has to say for herself, hmm? Come now, child, ignore your cousins and your aunt. Tell us about your outing with Mr. MacKenzie today.”

Micah had warned her that every step she took would be monitored, every word weighed, every sentence picked apart and analyzed. Because she wanted to remain open-minded—or stubborn—Jocelyn chose to attribute the solicitousness to the Brocks' earnest desire to atone for their repudiation of her after Chadwick's death. Portia reminded her of an overzealous governess offering instruction on everything—Jocelyn's day, her attire, the endless lament about her hair. Even her penmanship had been scrutinized and remarked upon.

Augustus summoned her almost every evening after dinner to pontificate on the benefits of her moving permanently to New York, in between counseling her on her finances and encouraging her to ask Virgil for funds when she ran short of pin money. She never did, of course, yet until a few weeks ago Virgil insisted on giving her money anyway, telling her
his father didn't want her to feel “like a poor relation.” Jocelyn found childish delight in giving the money to ragged street beggars, emaciated urchins and astonished cab drivers.

A week earlier, however, Virgil had surprised her with a wrapped box one afternoon. Inside, nestled in powder-blue satin, she found a stiletto.

“You don't want to venture anywhere on your own, you know,” Virgil said, rocking back and forth on his heels while he watched her. “The streets are dangerous, full of footpads and muggers and thieves.” He lifted the vicious-looking object with its thick blade and short handle. “If you tried to scream, they'd slit your throat with this.”

“Are you trying to scare me, or brag about your own nocturnal proclivities?” Jocelyn had responded. Hiding her distaste, she snatched the stiletto from her cousin, dropped it and the box onto the Turkish rug, then sauntered from the room. “Your gifts are almost as sharp-edged as you are, cousin.”

Since then, Virgil no longer tossed “gifts” of money her way, or even engaged her in conversation other than a verbal jab or two over meals.

Rupert, on the other hand, tagged after Jocelyn like a lost soul, quietly pleading with his eyes for her to tell him about her life, though—unlike the Brocks—he never insisted. Instead of returning to his cottage on Long Island, Rupert had settled into another of the guest suites. Daily he murmured that he must return home, though after a month he still remained at the Brocks'.

On several occasions Jocelyn tried to convince Micah that Rupert couldn't possibly be the vicious ringleader of a network of counterfeiters. Micah, polite but obdurate, requested that she not exclude anyone from the list of suspects, including a man who behaved as though he had lost his will to live.

“Come now, don't be shy, child,” Augustus insisted now with an avuncular smile. “Mr. MacKenzie's a good man, with an astute grasp of financial matters. I've told him he would have made an excellent banker.”

“How preposterous.” Portia irritably waved a hovering serving maid away. “Mr. Brock, do try not to bore the man to death.”

“My dear, you are mistaken about Mr. MacKenzie's interest. He has confided to me that he's entered the contract stage with several local shippers, including Janssen's. They're one of our best customers. I've suggested to Mr. MacKenzie that a local bank would better facilitate these transactions, even offered to oversee the financial details myself.”

“Mr. Brock, I don't think—”

“Some of my friends are going to Coney Island this evening,” Julius interrupted his mother. At twenty-three he was already given to pudginess that, unless he curbed his appetite, would in a few more years turn to fat. “I promised I'd meet them.”

He rose clumsily, and his sleeve caught on the cutlery, sending knife and fork clattering to the floor. Red-faced, he plodded from the room, his back hunched defensively. It had been Julius who had spat on Jocelyn at Chadwick's funeral, but she felt sorry for him now.

“One of these years,” Virgil observed after his brother was gone, “you're going to have to find a job for the poor clod-hopper.”

“Perhaps,” Jocelyn put in unwisely, “he can have yours, Virgil.”

“What is this? My cousin showing some claws? Feeling pretty feisty, are you? Most women do, once a man comes sniffing around.”

The butler appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Virgil, there is
a…person…at the kitchen door who insists upon seeing you. He refuses to leave. I've taken the liberty of placing him in the service hall, Mrs. Brock, to avoid gossip among the staff.”

“Thank you, Palmer.” Portia stroked her chin, idly fiddled with the ropes of pearls around her neck. “Shall I come with you, Virgil?”

“I think I'm capable of handling the man, whoever he is and whatever he wants.” Virgil rose and strode from the room.

“Well, Rupert, now that it's just the two of us, shall we retire to the study?” Augustus inquired loudly.

Rupert blinked, then nodded. His gnarled, blue-veined hands neatly folded his napkin and he rose, thanking the servant who handed him his cane. “I could use a glass of port. These bones of mine are protesting the coming winter, I'm afraid.” He paused by Jocelyn's chair; for a brief second he hovered, lost in thought, a frown deepening between his eyes. “Your Mr. MacKenzie—did he know your people, child?”

Caught off guard, Jocelyn thought rapidly. “Not as well as he would have liked to. The distance between the families…”
Always tell the truth if possible, without revealing more than is absolutely necessary.

Mr. Bingham sighed, his gaze once again drifting. “I wouldn't want you to be unhappy,” he murmured, and for a second his hand rested with surprising strength on her shoulder. “You're a good girl, Jocelyn. I wish…”

“Mr. Brock, take him to the study before he turns maudlin,” Portia said. After the two men were gone she expelled a sigh of relief. “Now, Jocelyn, the two of us can finally enjoy a cozy chat. Tell me, when do you plan to see Mr. MacKenzie next? There. I see the rebellious flash in those eyes. You misunderstand—people do, you know.” She paused, then finished, “I wouldn't dream of prying into your
personal affairs, child. I—all of us—desire only your happiness. Virgil has confided to me how several of his friends think you're perhaps a trifle too aloof. Widowed so young, under ghastly circumstances, with no mother to guide you. I was hoping—”

“I believe I'm of an age—as Virgil pointed out—where I'm confident in my own counsel.” Jocelyn pushed her chair back and rose. “I did not come to New York with the intention of either finding myself another husband, or allowing you and your family to procure one for me. My feelings for Mr. MacKenzie—” She faltered, struggling with the torrent of rage that had spewed up without warning, a rage that fisted her hands because she wanted to sweep the Wedgwood china and Austrian crystal off the Brocks' twenty-foot dining room table and onto their inlaid parquet floor. Rage against her life and the unfairness of it, rage against the God Who had pushed Micah MacKenzie into her arms. Rage against the God Who had made her fall in love with this man…

The thought slapped her, and she all but staggered back, away from the table.

Portia's eyes were slits of glittering sapphire. “Your feelings for Mr. MacKenzie?” she repeated, the light nasal voice sharp as jagged crystal.

“Are…complicated.” What an insipid word. “I've never met a man like Micah MacKenzie.”

“From what I've heard, you've not met any men to speak of at all these past five years. Naturally, the first halfway presentable gentleman who finally attracts your attention is going to give your heart flutters. It's only the two of us here, child. We can speak plainly, woman to woman.” She rose, as well, stunningly beautiful in her velvet and moiré dinner gown. “Mr. MacKenzie is an attractive man, a wealthy man. An ambitious man. When he chooses a wife, he'll choose
carefully. He'll need a woman with family connections, but he'll also need a woman who can take her place in society.”

“Are you suggesting that I could never be that woman?”

“Oh, my dear, no! I'm actually suggesting that you let me help you become that woman. Instead of your maid, allow me to introduce you to someone who can work with your hair. Short is all the rage now, you know. By cutting yours we can minimize the vulgarity of the color. Cosmetics to disguise freckles, gowns from Paris. I'll persuade dear Rupert to give you my sister-in-law's jewelry. She has some stunning pieces.” Smiling all the while, Portia reached Jocelyn's side. “You've lost weight, haven't you? That will never do. A man wants to know he's embracing a woman.” She laughed, showing her small, perfectly even white teeth. “There now, I've shocked you, haven't I? I'm sorry. With your looks, I keep forgetting how much of a proper Southern lady still lurks inside.”

“Mother.” They both turned toward Virgil, who was standing just inside the pocket doors of the dining room. “I hate to interrupt whatever female wiles you're weaving, but I need to speak with you. It's an urgent matter that can't wait.”

“It's quite all right.” Jocelyn spoke quickly. “We were through.”

She strolled with cool dignity from the room while inside, rage consumed her.

 

Hours later, still unable to sleep, Jocelyn slipped from her bed, a massive medieval four-poster that made her feel as though she were submerged in a dark cave. For a while she gazed down into the dark gardens, lit in bright patches by an opalescent harvest moon. Abruptly, she snatched up her wrapper, along with a shawl, and tiptoed outside into the
dark hallway, not wanting to rouse her faithful guardian of a maid.

It was disheartening how easily she slipped back into the habit of drifting through houses like a forlorn shadow.

Swallowing hard, she descended to the main level. At this hour even the servants should be asleep, but she avoided the patches of moonlight nonetheless. Silently she made her way to the vast solarium at the back of the house, where a pair of French doors opened onto an acre of profusely landscaped gardens. The Brock grounds were known throughout the city, supposedly having been designed and landscaped by the great Downing himself. An eight-foot serpentine brick wall kept prying eyes out, and muffled the endless din of traffic from the street. Many times over the last month Jocelyn had found solace here; tonight she longed only to feel safe, instead of trapped.

Near the back, an alcove had been created inside one of the wall's curves, where a cast-stone bench nestled beneath a climbing rose arbor, now pruned back for winter. Jocelyn hugged the cashmere shawl close and sat unmoving on the edge of the bench, indifferent to its chilly surface. Stillness was a discipline long ingrained, though tonight her mind churned madly, like crazed rats gnawing inside her head.

How could she continue this disastrous sham courtship after this afternoon? She'd wanted to explain her feelings to Micah, but the words tumbled over themselves in a nonsensical mess—they were pretending that their courtship
was
only a pretense. She no longer knew the truth, only that she was afraid to believe Micah even when he was the only person to whom she could turn to find a way through the maze. Micah somehow always read her thoughts, as though he could climb inside her mind as one might climb a tree.

So…had he kissed her because he sensed how badly she
wanted him to, or had he kissed her because he was supposed to deepen the pretense…or had he been telling her the truth and had he kissed her because he really wanted to?

The kisses.

Even now, her heart twisted with longing, her breathing was reduced to shallow sighs. She felt like a chowderhead. The tangled mental musings were less alarming than this surplus of feeling, which she didn't know how to contain or express, much less control.

A cloud drifted across the moon. Darkness shrouded her, and the chilly November night slithered beneath the shawl as well as the wrapper. Shivering, Jocelyn bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. If she thought anyone would hear, she would have prayed, begging God to show her the way, to comfort her, to fill her heart with something—anything but this impenetrable thorn-infested thicket.
From the ends of the earth I cry unto you, when my heart is overwhelmed,
the psalmist had written.