Triumphant Love: Banished Saga, Book Nine

by Flightner, Ramona

  She poked her head around the corner of the elaborately carved black walnut doorframe, leading to the formal sitting room, to find Perry sprawled on the floor with their son on a blanket. His long legs acted as natural levees, keeping their son safely on the blanket as he rolled around.

  Perry laughed, his eyes crinkling with merriment and shining with pride as baby Benjamin thrust up on his arms and kicked his legs out, as he was on his belly, before trying to push up on his arms and legs again. “That’s it, lad,” he urged. “Rock to and fro, and soon you’ll be crawling.”

  Rowena dropped to kneel beside her husband, pressing her face into his neck and breathing in his clean scent of sandalwood. “Oh, how I love this, Perry.”

  His bright smile dimmed when he saw the wistfulness in her expression. He scooted so his back was against the sofa and wrapped one arm around her. “Why are you upset?” He kissed her head. “Your story was brilliant in the latest edition. I loved reading about the arrival of that West Virginia Senator. I imagine you wish you had been the one to pin a yellow rose to his lapel, before he voted in favor of the amendment.”

  His eyes shone with pride as he beheld his wife. By conventional standards, many considered her plain, and the word “mousy” had been bandied about to describe her. However, he considered himself among the privileged few who saw below the facade to the remarkable woman who had hidden behind plain clothes and a bland expression.

  She smiled. “I would have loved to have been there to witness the roar of approval as he strode into the chamber.” She kissed Perry. “And I’d always find it thrilling to pin a yellow rose on a man who’s in favor of suffrage. How could I not?” She leaned more of her weight against him

  “However, it’s not my story. I believe we’ll be successful in obtaining the vote by the fall. I can’t imagine waiting another four years to vote in a presidential election.” She dropped her gaze and clapped at her son, as he squirmed in their direction. “I love our time together as a family.”

  He shifted so he faced her, and only one leg stretched out to corral his son. “You sound as though you’ll soon be separated from us. As though we won’t have more times like this together.” He frowned when he saw the fear in her gaze. “Are you returning to Washington?”

  “Oh, Perry,” she whispered, as she pushed herself into his arms. “No. I have no desire to go there. Not without Zee and P.T. And neither of them are in a position to leave Boston.”

  “Or to leave their husbands,” Perry said. He swiped a hand over her hair. “No matter what either of them believes.” He waited for her to speak, his light-brown eyes filled with concern.

  She gripped his hand and blurted out, “I dread the day you leave to tour. I can’t imagine returning home to a house with a nanny caring for Benjamin, rather than you. To listening to someone else sing to him.” Her voice cracked. “My heart breaks a little each time I envision it.”

  He swooped forward and kissed her. “Then don’t imagine it. Instead come with me. Travel with me as I go from city to city.” He saw the doubt in her gaze and stroked her cheek. “I’ve already spoken to my tour operator. I’ve explained that I’ll need at least four days in each city to ensure my wife and child do not become overly tired from a frenetic travel schedule. That we will need suites with connecting rooms, so we are never far from our son. And that the train car must have room for all of us.”

  “Really?” she whispered.

  “Ro, you brilliant woman, how can you not understand that I dread being parted from you? Missing one of Ben’s milestones …” He shook his head, as though the thought were unbearable to imagine. “I love you, Ro. I love this life with you and Benjamin. I have no desire to be apart from you.”

  She smiled at him with a deep love. “But you still desire to tour. To travel.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes, as though the admission were disgraceful.

  She brushed back a lock of his blond hair and shook her head. “It would be shameful to keep your talents for Benjamin’s and my enjoyment alone,” she teased. “I’d love to travel with you.”

  He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “I must warn you. It won’t be just us. Lucas Russell and I are hoping to tour together. And he plans to tour with his wife and daughter.”

  Rowena relaxed against him. “It will be nice to have Parthena’s sister with me on tour. I don’t know her well, but I always thought she was the nicest of Parthena’s sisters.” She ran a hand over her husband’s belly. “And it will be nice to have someone to commiserate with as our husbands are swarmed with well-wishers after each performance.” She giggled as he growled in her ear and grabbed her hand, kissing her palm.

  “Wait until Ben is in bed, darling wife.” He kissed her nape. “There’s no one’s congratulations I yearn for other than yours,” he whispered in her ear. “No one I ever desire in my bed except you. You, Rowena, are my every dream come to life.”

  * * *

  Theodore Goff, better known as Teddy to all his friends and associates, sat behind his large desk in his study in his home on Beacon Street in Boston’s Back Bay. Bright springtime sunshine shone in through the large windows to the right of his desk, and the rhododendron and hydrangea bushes outside the windows awaited warmer weather to bloom. A fireplace across from his desk and near the door glowed with a banked fire, and he knew he either needed to stoke the fire or call a servant to do it for him. A small stack of papers sat at his left elbow, as he worked through an investment report for a new client.

  When his office door opened, he murmured, “If you could attend the fire?” and continued to focus on the figures in front of him. He paid little attention to the servant who worked with silent diligence as he followed Teddy’s instructions.

  “I would have thought you’d have a servant do such chores for you,” Aidan McLeod murmured in a wry voice as he sat across from Teddy, swiping his soot-stained fingers on his pristine handkerchief.

  Teddy’s steel-colored eyes shone with shock to see his father-in-law sitting across from him. “Aidan?” he murmured, as he set aside the stack of papers. “What are you doing here?”

  Aidan shrugged and studied his son-in-law. Although in his early seventies, he maintained a youthful vitality. His previously black hair was now a pure silver in color, and his blue eyes were as sharp and as capable of ascertaining truth from fiction as ever. His shoulders had a slight stoop to them, but he still stood well over six feet. “I didn’t think I needed a reason to visit my business partner.” He watched Teddy flush and settled into his chair.

  Upon Teddy’s return from the Great War in 1915, Aidan and Teddy had begun a lucrative financial consultant business. They could choose their clients, and a long waiting list existed of Boston elite who desired their aid.

  “Of course you don’t.” Teddy frowned as he saw Aidan studying the beautiful painting over his shoulder. Zylphia had painted it for him two years ago, as she had faced her demons after her time in jail in Washington, DC. Rather than a dark, mournful painting, it was a gloriously hopeful painting of the Boston Garden in springtime.

  “I fear you understand I’m not here to discuss business.” Aidan watched as Teddy strove to act nonchalant, while Aidan steepled his hands in front of him and sat stock-still. “I’m worried about Zee.”

  “Of course,” Teddy murmured. He closed his eyes. “I’ve asked her to trust me.”

  Aidan leaned forward and tapped at his desk. “How much longer will this take, Teddy? I understand your desire to surprise her, but I fear she is unable to fight her fears this time.” He sighed. “She saw the envelope from the nurse.”

  Teddy swore and leaped to his feet. “Dammit,” he muttered, as he paced behind his desk. He rubbed at his nape and then leaned over his desk, gripping the edge of it. If he had the strength, he would rip the top off his desk. “I swear I never encouraged her to write me.”

  Aidan nodded. “I believe you. But Zee is in a fragile state. And she has doubts.”

&n
bsp; Teddy nodded. “Because I’ve already given her a reason to doubt.” His voice rang with remorse as he ran his injured hand through his sable hair. The tips of his three middle fingers were missing, a testament to his time as a soldier fighting for England in the Great War. When he had returned to the United States, his wounds healed but his soul battered, he had continued to write a nurse who had tended to him, while he was in one of the many tent cities near the Front. He had felt she was the only one who understood the hell he’d lived through. Regret roiled through him at the pain he’d caused Zylphia and for the reason she now had to doubt him.

  “I think the surprise isn’t worth it,” Aidan said in a gentle voice. “Not at the expense of your marriage.”

  Teddy nodded. He swiped at his forehead. “I wanted her to trust me implicitly. To know that I’d never do anything to harm what we have.”

  Aidan sat back in his chair, and the chair creaked with his movement. “I understand that desire. The need to believe we are above reproach.” He shook his head. “But I do not believe it is worth risking a marriage over.” He looked at Teddy. “I know you believe Delia and I have a perfect marriage, but, at times, she must overcome her fear that I will leave her again. Especially when we argue.”

  Teddy stared at him in wonder. “You never argue.”

  Aidan chuckled. “Of course we do. We’re two strong-willed people. But we love each other. I understand her fears, and I refuse to cause them to grow by leaving the house when I am so irate that I want to escape.”

  Teddy looked at the older man, who had become a good friend and confidante. “Loving someone means understanding their fears and doing everything you can to alleviate them.”

  Aidan nodded. “Exactly.”

  * * *

  Florence ran her hand over her fine blue-gray wool dress as she waited for the butler to answer the door of the grand mansion in Boston’s Back Bay. She held her daughter, Agnes, in her arms. She would soon turn two, and she squirmed to be set down. “Hush, darling,” Florence whispered in her ear. “You can roam around when we are inside.”

  Florence smiled as the large mahogany door opened to the McLeod mansion. The butler recognized her, welcoming her inside. Ignoring the opulent front hall with its ornately carved staircase and a stained-glass window on the first-floor landing, she followed the butler down a short hallway to a small sitting room. After she set Agnes down, Flo slipped out of her coat and freed her daughter of her outer garment. The butler took both, retreating without a murmur.

  Florence ran a hand over her curly black hair that always escaped her attempt at taming it. Smiling at Delia, a woman she considered both aunt and friend, she led her daughter to the circle of chairs and a settee situated in front of the fire. “I had hoped it would feel more like spring by now,” Florence murmured, as she sat with an appreciative sigh near the warmth of the fireplace.

  Delia McLeod nodded, although her focus was on her great-niece, Agnes. “There’s my little love,” she murmured as she pulled out a box of toys she kept for her. Agnes reached for a doll and then crawled onto Delia’s lap. “My little angel.”

  Florence made a disgruntled sound. “Every time she sees you, she acts like an angel.” When Delia looked at her with a raised eyebrow, Florence smiled. “At home, she’s too busy, trying to keep up with her brothers. She won’t sit still long enough for me to hold her, unless she’s about to fall asleep.”

  Delia spoke in a soft voice. “I suspect she will soon be asleep in my arms too, Flo.” She looked at the younger woman who had spent her formative years in her orphanage and then had found love with Richard McLeod. Through a wonderful twist of fate, Delia had reunited with Richard’s uncle, Aidan, and they were now a family as well. In her early seventies, Delia’s hair was more salt than pepper, and she tired more readily than she cared to admit. However, she always made time for family.

  Florence waited until one maid had set down the tea service and another a tray of treats before leaving the room. When she was alone again with Delia, Florence said, “I had hoped Zee would join us today. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.”

  Delia shrugged. “Zee has been busy with her painting. And she’s not as keen to leave her house as she once was.” She ran a hand over Agnes’s silky hair. “You’ll find mothering a daughter challenging. You want to offer support, but you don’t want to interfere.”

  “That’s being a mother regardless,” Florence murmured. She fixed two cups of tea, setting one within easy reach for Delia, as she snuggled her great-niece on her lap. Florence then filled two plates with treats. “I shouldn’t eat so many delicious treats.”

  Delia rolled her eyes. “Of course you should. You’re beautiful as you are, and Richard loves you as you are.” She frowned as Florence’s hand shook at the mention of her husband’s name. “Flo? What’s wrong?”

  Florence set down her teacup with a clatter. She looked to her daughter, sighing with relief to see her sound asleep in Delia’s arms. “I don’t know what to do. It’s been fourteen months, Delia.” She closed her eyes, her head bowed, as she scratched at her forehead. “He wakes, every night, screaming in terror.”

  “Oh my,” Delia whispered. “I never thought they continued. Aidan never said …”

  Florence’s cheeks flushed with impotent rage. “Richard wants me to act as though they don’t occur. As though he doesn’t frighten the life out of me every night. And he’d be mortified if he knew I was discussing them with you now.” She swiped at her eyes. “The worst is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him.”

  “What happens?” Delia asked.

  “We go to sleep. He won’t hold me as he always has but lays on his side, facing away from me.” She sniffled. “That’s the worst part. Feeling as though we aren’t even together, when we are in the same bed.” She flushed as Delia stared at her with compassion and understanding. “Then he’ll start thrashing around. Sometimes he wakes. Sometimes he yells out. Once …”

  Delia waited as Florence looked down. “Once?” Delia asked in a soft voice before she kissed the top of Agnes’s head.

  “A few months ago, he shook and whimpered and begged for help, but he wouldn’t wake up. I shook him and shook him from where I laid beside him on the bed,” Florence whispered, her eyes filled with the torment of the memory. “I crawled out of bed to stand over him and to have a better chance at shaking him.” She shuddered. “He lashed out, hitting me hard in my chest and belly, before waking.”

  “Oh, Florence,” the older woman breathed.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “He won’t come near me now. Says he refuses to hurt me further. He waits until the boys are asleep, and he goes to the sofa.”

  “Fool,” Delia muttered. “Has he told you what he dreams of?”

  “The molasses tragedy.” Her gaze met Delia’s horrified expression. “I had hoped he would overcome what he suffered last January, but he hasn’t.”

  “Nearly drowning in a fiery sea of molasses, like molten lava, is bound to affect anyone,” Delia said in a soft voice. “I fear we rejoiced too quickly in the fact he was extricated with no injuries other than minor bruises and burns.”

  Florence nodded, her mind returning to that day in January of the previous year, when Richard had been walking to a meeting with a business associate in the North End’s waterfront area, when a molasses storage tank exploded, injuring 150 and killing 21. Word had reached her, hours later, that a two-million-gallon vat of molasses, standing fifty feet tall, had exploded, sending a wave of the overheated sticky substance roaring through the nearby streets, destroying almost anything in its path and trapping others, as though a fly stuck to flypaper.

  Richard had been one of the lucky ones. Although trapped, his head had remained free of the sticky morass, and he had called for help. Fortunately firemen had freed him before the molasses hardened and froze the first night.

  Florence closed her eyes as she recalled the mad trip across town to Delia and Aidan’s ho
use. Then her flight from the automobile as she dashed inside to find Richard in the bath, attempting to scrub away the sickening sweet smell of molasses. “I should have known it would affect him.”

  “Why did he strike you?” Delia asked. She rose, shifting Agnes to another settee before placing a blanket over her. Then she sat beside Florence. “That’s not like Richard.”

  “No, he was appalled. And terrified he might lash out at me again.” She rubbed at her temple. “He never told me why he struck out. He won’t share what he is suffering. Says he wants to protect me.”

  “Oh, the poor man,” Delia said, as she grabbed Florence’s hand.

  “He’s terrified of hurting me again.”

  Delia pulled Florence to her, as the younger woman cried on her shoulder. “He doesn’t realize that, by not sharing this with you, he hurts you more than any physical blows.”

  Florence nodded. “Exactly. All he focuses on is that he harmed me. He refuses to see my point of view.”

  “What will you do?” Delia asked. She frowned as she saw the hopelessness in Florence’s gaze.

  “I don’t know. But I can’t continue like this.”

  * * *

  Parthena walked at a frenetic pace down the upstairs hallway. She never liked to linger near the room next to what had been the bedroom she shared with Morgan. As she attempted to race past it, a sound from inside that room caused her to freeze. Her breath caught as the tinkling sound of a baby’s windup lullaby drifted through the air. She closed her eyes as she saw her daughter, chubby cheeked and gurgling, as she listened to the music. Her slight frown when it ended. “Will you be a musician, like Mama?” Morgan had asked, as he tickled their daughter’s belly, then his eyes shining with joy as he looked at Parthena with pride.

  She held a hand to her belly, afraid she would faint. When the music started again, a rage filled her. Who would want to torture her in this manner? She stormed to the door, her breath coming in fits and starts as she pushed it open. She stumbled to a halt to see Morgan, standing over the empty crib, his hand caressing their daughter’s blanket. “Morgan,” she croaked.