He raised haunted eyes and barely seemed to register she was in the room. “She was only four months old,” he whispered. “How could we have lost her?” Silent tears coursed down his cheeks as he tugged their baby’s blanket from the bed and raised it to his face to smell it. “How can she be gone?”
“Morgan,” Parthena sobbed, his visage a bleary blob through her tears.
He took a few steps to her and pulled her into his arms. “Let me hold you, Hennie. Please don’t push me away.” He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shuddering as he continued to sob.
“You miss her too,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with amazement.
“Of course I do.” His hold on her tightened to the point he squeezed the air from her lungs. “I … I hate this world where she’s not in it.”
Parthena wrapped her arms around him, offering him comfort after months of an icy distance between them. “You don’t hate me?”
“Oh, God, Hennie,” he rasped, as he eased them to the carpet. He tugged her closer, plastering her to his chest, as he rocked her to and fro. He fought for control of his emotions but ceded it when he felt her hands stroking his back and head. “I’ve missed you.”
They sat in quiet misery, sobbing out the pain and agony of the previous months onto each other’s shoulders. After many long minutes, they rested on the carpet, with Parthena’s head on Morgan’s shoulder. She shivered as his hands continued to rove over her back and hair, their touch comforting rather than annoying.
Parthena took a deep breath and pushed herself up so she leaned over him, meeting his gaze. “We must talk about it.” Another tear leaked out. At his bleak nod, she whispered, “I thought you hated me.”
“Oh, God, no,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t seek you out every night to hold in my arms if I hated you. It’s been the worst torment that you’ve barred me from your room.” His eyes shone with pain. “I hate that you have your own room.”
She pushed herself to sit upright. To keep her balance, she pulled her skirts free and sat cross-legged. She watched as he sat up too, and she did not fight him as he reached forward to hold her hand. “I … I felt like I lost my baby and my husband that day,” she whispered. Her eyes were filled with an endless pool of grief. “When you arrived home after receiving my summons, informing you that she had worsened …” Parthena paused, and the tears trickled down her cheeks again. “I … I had to tell you that she had already died.”
“Hennie,” Morgan entreated.
She shook her head and met his beseeching gaze. “Do you remember what you said? To me?”
He shook his head. “I was mad with a rage I’ve never felt before. And a grief I feared would be insurmountable.”
Her voice was flat and unemotional as she said, “You didn’t look to me for comfort. You didn’t hold me in your arms as I mourned our baby.” Her gaze hardened as she stared at her husband. “You yelled. At the staff. At the doctor. At me. Said that I was a poor excuse for a mother if I couldn’t even keep my own daughter alive.”
Morgan blanched and shook his head. “No. I couldn’t have said that. I wouldn’t have said that. You are—were—an exemplary mother. As I know you will be again.”
She shook her head and rose, her hand slipping from his hold. “I never want to be a mother again. I never want to hurt like this again,” she stated. “I don’t want you in my bed, Morgan, because I don’t want to ever risk having, and then losing, another child. I never want to feel that agony again.”
“Parthena,” Morgan called out, as she escaped the nursery that had not changed since the day their daughter had died, nine months ago.
Chapter 6
Richard McLeod sat in his office in one of the blacksmithing shops he owned in Boston, staring blankly at a row of figures. The wall with a thick paned window that overlooked the main workroom helped dull the sound of men hammering on anvils. He heard the murmuring of their voices but had no inclination to join in their conversation. Although Richard had an assistant, who aided with much of the day-to-day running of his blacksmith shops, Richard preferred to look over the books himself.
With a frustrated sigh, he tossed down the pencil he held and leaned back in his chair. The second of the three McLeod brothers, Richard had black hair, now gray at his temples, and he had more lines around his mouth and eyes. He used to tease his wife, Florence, that the lines were from the constant laughter and joy their marriage and their children had brought to his life. Lately he knew it had been due to his unremitting nightmares.
Scooting down in his chair, he rested his head against the hard wood and fought the panic that struck every time he closed his eyes. Although he silently berated himself, he had no ability to prevent the memories from flooding back. “Flooding,” he muttered, then sighed. “How ironic.”
The office door squeaked open, and he jumped in his chair, sitting upright with eyes filled with panic. He looked to the door to see who interrupted him without knocking, and his indignation evaporated as embarrassment took its place. “Uncle,” he breathed.
“You look like hell, Richard,” Aidan McLeod said. He waited for Richard to rise and then pulled him into his strong arms. They were of similar height, and, if an observer did not know better, they would be mistaken for father and son. When Richard eased away, Aidan kept his hands on Richard’s shoulders. “You must find a way to ease your torment.”
Richard shook his head. “It’s been more than a year. I should be over it by now.”
Aidan watched him with understanding, as Richard shuddered and took a deep breath. “When is the last time you walked in that area?” Aidan asked.
Richard’s eyes widened in horror. “Never. Never since that day.”
Aidan nodded. “As I thought.” He motioned for Richard to grab his coat and hat and to follow him. “Come with me. You must face your worst nightmare, Richard. But I won’t have you confronting it alone.” Aidan waited as Richard called out to his assistant, indicating that he was leaving, and then turned toward Boston’s waterfront.
Although April, the wind had a bite to it that caused them to button up their jackets and to wrap scarves around their necks. They walked out of the blacksmith shop and through the narrow winding lanes of the West End before crossing into the Italian-speaking North End. They walked through street after street of bow-fronted brownstones, with merchants peddling their wares in carts and women walking with baskets filled with fruit to sell. The redolent scent of bread baking, anise, and coffee filled the air as they passed bakeries and coffee shops. Mounds of refuse were piled near each street corner, awaiting the city’s street cleaners.
“Why did you decide to visit me?” Richard asked, as he skirted a man pushing a cart of oranges.
Aidan gave a coin to a woman peddling calzones. “I forgot about lunch,” he murmured, ignoring Richard’s question as he took a bite of the warm treat. He met Richard’s surprised stare. “I might be rich now, but I’ve never forgotten where I come from.” After taking another bite of his treat, he said, “Florence visited with Delia.” He shared a long look with his nephew. “Delia was concerned enough to speak with me about it, although I’m uncertain that would please Florence.”
Richard ran a hand through his hair and stared at the street scene, unwilling to meet his uncle’s gaze.
At his nephew’s persistent silence, Aidan said, “If your wife is troubled enough to seek counsel from us, rather than speak with you, you should recognize the severity of the situation.”
Richard gave a terse nod and walked beside his uncle as they traversed the North End. Richard’s pace slowed as memories of all kinds returned. His breaths became shorter and shorter as they approached the North End’s waterfront area and Commercial Street. He came to a sudden halt as an overhead train squealed past, and he dropped to his knees.
“Richard?” Aidan asked, as he gripped his nephew’s shoulder. He ignored the pedestrians, hissing and mumbling at them as they blocked a large portion of the sid
ewalk, and knelt in front of his nephew. “Richard, I’m here with you, and you are not in the molasses flood.”
Richard’s gaze was vacant and lost as he stared in front of him. “The shrieking. I should have known something was wrong with that shrieking. It was an inhuman noise.”
Aidan gripped Richard’s nape and canted forward toward his nephew. “Explain to me what you’re seeing, what you’re feeling.”
“Annoyance at my upcoming meeting. Confusion as I heard a loud groaning and shrieking noise. And then screams. So many screams as I looked behind me and saw this brown wave coming at me.” His blue eyes were filled with fear and agony. “I ran. I swear. I ran as fast as I could. But there was no way I could outrun it.”
Aidan made a sound of distress. “The reports said the molasses moved at over thirty miles per hour, Richard. You couldn’t have outrun it, unless you were at the very outskirts of its reach.”
“I don’t know what to do to overcome this,” Richard whispered, as he swiped at his eyes and bowed his head.
Sighing, his uncle clenched his jaw. “Consider talking with your wife.” When Richard emphatically shook his head, Aidan said, “Then, when the school year is over, consider traveling to Montana. I think it would do you good to see Gabe and Jeremy. Get out of town. You have good men working for you, and you know they will not rob you blind.” His smile was filled with ironic humor. “Even if you never earned another penny from any of your forges, you’d be fine with just your investments.” His smile broadened as Richard nodded his agreement.
Aidan heaved Richard to stand and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Come. Let’s go to …” He sighed and scratched at his head. “I was going to say to a pub, but that’s been outlawed.” He shook his head in consternation. “Let’s go for a cup of coffee.”
Richard chuckled and eagerly left the area of Boston he desperately wanted to forget.
* * *
Teddy sat in his office on the comfortable sofa along the wall facing the window. He stared at the painting Zylphia had gifted him of the Public Gardens and knew they would soon be in full bloom again. Smiling, he closed his eyes as he recalled the day she had brought him her precious art. She had been painting nonstop for over a week, as she had exorcised her demons, and the only art he had seen was devoid of all hope. Filled with shadows and despair.
But, when she had knocked on his door that day two years ago, smiling and full of life, like the Zylphia who had teemed with optimism before Washington, his breath had caught. He knew, in that instant, if she had wanted him to hang a painting of a black canvas, he would have, as long as he could continue to see the joy in her gaze.
When Teddy heard a sniffle, his eyes opened. He looked to the door and saw Zylphia hovering at the entrance to his office. “Zee,” he whispered, “I was just thinking about you.” He fought a frown at the wariness in her beautiful blue eyes and longed to run his fingers through her lustrous black hair, flowing loose down her back.
She frowned as she stared at him, her gaze expressing her disbelief at his statement. “Somehow I don’t believe you.”
“Zee,” Teddy murmured, rising from the settee, “I’ve not lied to you.” He took two long strides to grip her arm as she spun to race from the room. “I swear to you that I haven’t.” He yanked her into his embrace and wrapped his strong arms around her. Rocking her to and fro, he held her as she cried. “I’m sorry you saw her letter. I realize now I should have shown it to you.”
He winced as she pummeled her fists against his back. “Why didn’t you, Teddy? Why?” she gasped, as tears poured out and soaked the front of his shirt. She pushed away from him. “Do you want her?” Her eyes glowed with betrayal and fear. “Why can’t you admit it?”
He growled in aggravation. “Because it’s a lie. I don’t want anyone but you.” He gripped her arms. “You are my wife, and I love you. You, Zee.” He watched the incredulity in her eyes and fought desperation. “Please, Zee. Listen to me. And read what I show you. Then I hope you’ll believe me.”
He led her to the settee and refrained from sitting directly beside her as he wanted to because she shied away from further contact from him. He perched on the settee, sitting at an angle, as he kept ahold of one of her hands. “I have been in contact with many people from England recently.” He cleared his throat and flushed. “Unfortunately Maud discovered my correspondence and decided to write.” His voice cooled as he mentioned the name of the nurse who had cared for him, when he was injured during the Great War, the nurse with whom he had corresponded during his convalescence and for a short time after his return to the United States.
Zylphia stared at Teddy in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
He blew out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to ensure that you will vote when women can vote here in the United States.” He saw her eyes widen. “Will you remain here?” He waited until she nodded and then rose and moved to his desk. He extracted a file, and he saw her recognition of it as the file he had hidden from her a few weeks ago. The red tag on it made it hard to miss.
He passed it to her. “I spoke with your father, and he made me see that a surprise is not worth threatening your happiness or our marriage.”
He waited as she bent over the folder, her loosened hair covering her face as she read its contents. She sniffled and ran her fingers over the words she read. “Oh, Teddy,” she murmured. “You never told me.” Her gaze flew to his. “You saved so many.”
Teddy shook his head at the details of him carrying wounded men back to the trenches. “I’m no hero, Zee. I merely survived.” He motioned for her to continue to read the contents of the file. The tension in his shoulders eased as she reached out to lace her fingers with his. She gasped at one of the letters. “How could he?” she whispered.
He leaned over her shoulder, and he shrugged. “That’s my grandfather. He’s irate that I want to become a US citizen.” He smiled as her hold on his hand tightened.
When she had read the letters, she shook her head. “I don’t understand the need for all these.” She waved the folder in her free hand not clasping his.
“Do you remember two years ago, when I was afraid you would return to Washington? I finally admitted the reason I hadn’t wanted to become a US citizen was because I was afraid of fighting in the War again.” He saw her nod. “Well, I spoke with a lawyer soon after our conversation, and he said it would be a long process to become a US citizen. I had to file a declaration of intent, gather letters stating I was of upstanding moral character, and prove I’d been in the United States for at least five years.”
She scooted on the couch so she faced him. “Are you a citizen, Teddy?”
He shook his head. “No, after the declaration of intent, it takes from two to seven years to become a citizen. I had hoped that, because I fought in the War, my wait would lessen, but they give priority to those who fought for the US.” He sighed and stroked his fingers over her cheek. “I never meant to worry you. I never intended to cause you to doubt me. To doubt in us.” His voice had dropped to a hurt-laden whisper. “I wanted to surprise you, just as we headed into court for my swearing in as a citizen.”
Teddy’s gray eyes shone with pride as he looked at Zylphia. “I dream of you voting when women are finally granted that right. When I’m a citizen, you are again too.” After a moment, he closed his eyes, as though in self-recrimination. “And I’ll be forever angry with myself if you are not able to because I waited too long to start the process.”
“Teddy,” Zylphia whispered as her voice broke. “You know I never would have risked you.” She swallowed a sob and seemed to fight the urge to lean toward him. “Where is her letter?”
He nodded and rose, striding to his desk. Teddy pulled it from a drawer and handed it to her, before pacing to the fireplace, his hand gripping the mantel as she read. Every sniffle, every deep exhalation was as a knife to his heart, and he bowed his head in regret.
Gentle
hands hooked under his arms and slid up his chest, and he felt his wife’s weight along his back as she hugged him from behind. “Forgive me, Teddy.”
He wrapped his arms around hers, holding him tightly. “I was ashamed,” he whispered. “I should have shown you her letter when it arrived. But I couldn’t.” He allowed Zylphia to exert enough pressure to turn him to face her.
She cupped his face and looked deeply into his eyes. “Her letter is a pack of lies. You are not abandoning the men you fought with. You are not trying to forget what you lived through.” She kissed him on his lips, as he let out an uneven breath. “You are not a coward.” Her blue eyes glowed with rage. “She is a selfish, mean-spirited woman, who remains angry that you chose me over her. Ignore her.”
He yanked her into his arms, his arms banding around her. “Oh, Zee,” he rasped. “Forgive me again.” After a moment, when he fought back the urge to sob with relief to hold her in his arms, he whispered, “I had an irrational fear you would agree with her. On some level.”
Her hands tightened on his back. “Never, my darling Teddy. Never.” She attempted to hold him even closer. “I know who you are. An honorable, valiant man. You’ve never been a coward.” She kissed his head. “I love you.”
He lost his battle with his emotions, and a few tears leaked out at her words. He eased away from her fierce, protective hold of him and met her devoted gaze. “Oh, my darling, how I love you.” He kissed her with a reverent passion, tugging her to the plush carpet in front of the fireplace. His hands roved over her serviceable evergreen dress, and he pulled at the buttons and her underclothes until she was bared to him. “I need you.”
Triumphant Love: Banished Saga, Book Nine Page 9
