A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  The evening was frosty and dark, and she couldn’t see as much as she wanted to, but she had an impression that Denver was a sizable city spread across low hills. The gaslights and newly planted cottonwood and elm trees proudly stated the Queen City of the Plains was here to stay and thriving.

  “The house in town is located between city hall and the site for the new state capital,” Quinn explained from the facing seat. All Lily could see was the glowing tip of his cigar, his face was lost in ebony shadows. “Cherry Creek is about four blocks from here.”

  In this section, the homes were two- and three-storied stately brick mansions decorated with iron grillwork and stone insets. Each was surrounded by enough ground to accommodate a carriage house and private stables. Lily stared at the mansions with wide eyes.

  When Quinn’s carriage slowed then turned onto a gravel drive that circled before an imposing three-story larger than any private residence Lily had ever seen, she licked her lips and fell back against the squabs, raising a hand to her forehead.

  “I ain’t never been this nervous in my whole life,” she whispered. Immediately she realized she had said “ain’t” and silently cursed. “My hands are shaking.”

  “It’s only a house, and we have it to ourselves tonight. No one will be in except Paul.” Quinn flipped his cigar out of the carriage window, and she heard the rustle of his clothing as he sat up straight and collected his hat and gloves.

  Tonight was the first time Lily had seen him dressed in anything other than cowboy attire. He’d made the journey to Denver in what he called his city clothes, a dark suit and waistcoat, snowy shirt, and a low hat. For the first time he resembled her idea of a politician, sleekly tailored, somber, and imposing. And so handsome that she welcomed the darkness as it added to her nervousness to look at him.

  Rubbing her hands together, she gazed out the carriage window as they rocked to a halt, peering at the light sparkling through leaded-glass panes set in a massive front door. “I wish we could stay at the ranch.”

  What she really wished was that she were home in Missouri. She didn’t belong in a palatial mansion, wouldn’t know how to conduct herself. She would give the game away by getting lost in a place this size, or she’d break some priceless bibelot or spill coffee or whiskey on a carpet worth a king’s ransom. No, not whiskey; her whiskey-drinking days were over. From now on she would sip sherry, which she didn’t like, or tea, which always tasted like water to someone who preferred stronger libations.

  The front door opened as Quinn grasped her trembling fingers and handed her out of the carriage, and Paul stepped onto a wide brick porch. “Welcome home, Mrs. Westin.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kazinski.” Her voice quavered on a husky whisper. While Quinn and Paul shook hands, she peered behind them into the foyer. Light falling from a brass-and-crystal chandelier reflected on marble flooring. She glimpsed velvet flocked wallpaper and a tall vase containing an enormous spray of yellow chrysanthemums. Three prison cells would easily have fit into the foyer.

  While Paul directed the unloading of their luggage, Quinn offered his arm and escorted her inside. Now she saw the central staircase, gracefully curving to a gallery above them. She was so awed that she didn’t think about clasping Quinn’s arm or realize that she clung to him.

  “When you return from an outing, Cranston will take your parasol,” Quinn said, looking down into her face. “You can remove your hat and gloves here or in your room if you prefer.”

  “Cranston is the butler,” she reminded herself, wetting her lips and glancing at a gilt-framed mirror. Beneath it was a small table holding a brass card tray. She tried to imagine herself tossing her gloves on the table, then leaning to the mirror to unpin her hat and hand it to Cranston before she examined the cards.

  “I can’t do this. I don’t belong here.” The blueprints had not given her a real perspective of size, had not foretold the intimidating opulence of the Westins’ home.

  Quinn placed his hand on her waist, the first time he had voluntarily touched her. Lily felt the sudden scald of his palm and sucked in a small sharp breath. Part of her wanted him to touch her, but not now. Right now the tingling distraction of his hand on her waist only added to her confusion.

  “We’ll chase the chill with a snifter of brandy, then you can explore.” Brandy was not on the list of drinks that Miriam preferred. He was making an exception tonight.

  The pressure of his fingers directed her toward one of the doors opening off the foyer. Frantically, she tried to visualize the blueprints of the house, but her mind had gone blank, wiped clean by size, space, and too many sensations to grasp all at once. She had expected a comfortable home, but she hadn’t anticipated that the house would be enormous or so lavishly decorated and furnished. Trembling with nerves, she gripped Quinn’s arm and pressed close to him.

  She felt him stiffen, and he gazed down at her. “You’re shaking.”

  “I’ve never been in a place like this. Never imagined I would be.” And tomorrow it would be her responsibility to direct the servants and manage this house that felt like a palace.

  “It’s just a house,” Quinn repeated. He guided her into a hallway and from there through double doors into a beautifully appointed room that had been labeled the family’s parlor on the prints. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace faced with tiles of imported, dark blue marble. A flower-patterned carpet covered the floor, repeating the burgundy and navy of comfortable-looking chairs and footstools.

  It was a lovely, intimate room filled with so many wall hangings and table decorations and shelves and plants that Lily felt she could spend the entire evening here and still not examine each item thoroughly. Her heart sank. One evening would not be enough to familiarize herself with everything in the house.

  While Quinn poured brandy from a cart near a small bookcase, she stood stock-still, staring around her, afraid to move or touch anything.

  Accepting the snifter he offered, she took a long swallow and waited for the brandy to hit her stomach with an explosion of warmth. “Is all of this new?” she murmured, lifting a limp hand and noticing she still wore her gloves. “Or did you rescue some of it from the fire?”

  “The fire occurred while we were still moving into the house and many items were in storage. Clothing, wall hangings, decorative items, several furniture pieces.” He shrugged. “The rest is new. The rooms were redone as closely as possible to what they were before the fire.” Moving to stand in front of the fireplace, he placed a hand on the mantel and gazed into the flames. “Miriam wanted the house restored as she had planned it.” Lily heard a clock chime somewhere; otherwise, deep silence filled the house. “Obviously any personal items you see were either in storage or saved. Mostly odds and ends.”

  Now she noticed the collection of photographs covering a round table. Choosing one at random, she tried to focus on the figures smiling back at her. “Who are these people?” She didn’t seem able to speak above a whisper.

  Quinn came up behind her, bringing the scent of bay rum and his hair pomade, and leaned over her shoulder. Lily felt a tremor shoot down her spine and fought an absurd urge to turn, throw herself into his arms, and burst into tears. “That’s Miriam, of course. And her brother Richard, and the judge.”

  “Mistakes like that will be costly,” Paul warned, entering the room and going directly to the drink cart. “You should have recognized yourself in that photograph and known the men were your father and brother. And Quinn, you wouldn’t say ‘that’s Miriam,’” he added. “You’d say, ‘that’s you.’”

  Quinn stepped away from her, and she cast a pleading look at Paul, searching for reassurance in his broad ordinary face. “I’m scared to death.”

  “Of a house?” He smiled and patted her hand.

  “You might as well send me back to Yuma. I’ll never convince anyone that I belong here.” She carefully replaced the photograph and set down the snifter of brandy before she spilled it. “You told me not to forget who I am. Right n
ow I’m Lily Dale, and I feel like I’m trespassing, like I should be knocking at the servants’ entrance instead of coming in the front door. Look at all of these things.” She heard her voice becoming shrill. “There are more items in this room than my Aunt Edna had in her whole house!”

  Quinn and Paul exchanged a glance, then Quinn gently placed his large strong hands on her shoulders and turned her to face the mirror above the mantel. “No servant ever looked like that,” he said, meeting her eyes in the glass. “Look at yourself. No one seeing you now could possibly mistake you for a servant.”

  The fashionable hat and expensive ensemble she wore helped some. She could admit her exterior might fool people. But inside she was still Lily Dale, an ex-convict and a nobody. A woman who knew her place, and this wasn’t it.

  “You selected the items in this house, Miriam,” Paul said in a soothing voice, trying to coax her into her role. “This is your home.”

  Whirling out from under Quinn’s hands, she spun to face them both. “I didn’t select any of these things! Hell, the carpet I’m standing on cost more money than I ever saw in my life! This is like visiting a palace and waiting for the queen to arrive. And we all know who that would be, don’t we?” She covered her eyes with shaking hands, then glared at them, knowing they didn’t understand. She didn’t understand either, except the house overwhelmed her. This was Miriam’s house, the house where Susan had died, and it was profoundly intimidating and disturbing. “I just . . . oh just leave me alone.”

  Running into the hallway, she turned right and passed two doors before she stopped and placed a hand on her pounding heart and tried to collect herself and recall the blueprints.

  One of the doors was a coat closet, and she should have known that when she stumbled over the umbrella receptacle that stood beside it. She would figure out the others.

  Gulping a deep breath, she angrily told herself that she could do this, that she’d been crazy to suggest to Paul that he send her back to Yuma. A home like this was a fairy-tale palace, and she would live here for several months. It wasn’t frightening, so why was she so deeply disturbed? This house was a dream come true; living in it was a chance of a lifetime.

  She just wished she didn’t expect Miriam to appear at any minute and accuse Lily of intruding, trespassing in her house.

  Exploring with no plan in mind, she found the dining room, which was large and stiffly formal, then walked through a smaller, charming breakfast room before she peeked into the butler’s pantry. She touched nothing, kept her skirts carefully away from brushing against things. Farther along she located the kitchen and spent thirty minutes examining sinks, ovens, and gleaming utensils, knowing she very likely would not come here again. The ballroom chandeliers had been lit, so she could view the polished floor, the orchestra platform, but the huge room didn’t particularly interest her as she knew it wouldn’t be used during her tenure, not while Miriam was still in mourning for her daughter.

  The last room she entered on the ground floor was the formal drawing room, labeled the receiving room on the prints. As in all the rooms she’d seen so far, the gas lamps had been lit and hissed softly against the walls. A welcoming fire burned in the grate.

  The receiving room was intended to be impressive, and it was. Patterned silk covered the walls and ceiling, the furnishings and accoutrements had the look of imported antiques. Or so she guessed. Lily wouldn’t have recognized a European antique if it danced across the room and curtsied.

  But she hardly noticed the luxurious furnishings. Her gaze flew to a large silver-framed portrait above a long, low table. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto a brocade ottoman, staring up at the portrait.

  It was she. Not Miriam, her. To be certain, she removed the gold locket from around her neck and beneath her bodice and clicked it open with shaking hands, comparing the miniature inside to the portrait on the wall. She had never worn that elaborate white dress, had never posed for a portrait, but the woman faintly smiling with sad lavender eyes was her. The shock of it took her breath away.

  “Yes, it’s you,” Quinn said from the doorway. She wondered how long he’d been watching her. “The painting has been altered.”

  She felt so dazed that the only thing she could think to ask was, “Did someone rescue it from the fire?”

  “The portrait wasn’t here that night, it had been sent out to be reframed. When I returned to Denver, I had the artist retouch his work to accommodate the changes that occurred during your recent illness. He thinned the nose, widened the lips, altered the hair color a little, enhanced the bustline, and made a few other small adjustments.”

  The eeriness of discovering a portrait of herself that she had never posed for sent a chill down Lily’s spine. Fascinated and repelled, she stared at herself, fighting an absurd attempt to remember sitting for the artist. Giving her head a shake, she forcibly redirected her thoughts and fought to see traces of Miriam in the painting.

  “Something just . . .” Frowning, she gazed down at the locket in her hand. “In the miniature, she’s heavy, but—” Puzzled, she peered up at the portrait.

  Quinn leaned against the silk wall covering and pushed his hands in his pockets, watching her. “The large portrait was painted two years ago. The miniature is more recent.” The lines vertically cutting his cheeks deepened. “The miniature was made to commemorate Susan’s birth.”

  Lily closed her eyes. “Oh.” Miriam had still been heavy from her pregnancy. Lily had assumed that Miriam was much heavier than she was; however, the larger portrait portrayed her as nearly as slender as Lily. Now Lily understood why Paul and Quinn had so quickly seen the resemblance between herself and Miriam. They were accustomed to seeing Miriam without the additional weight.

  Quinn took the locket from her hand and dropped it into his pocket. “I forgot you still had this.” His expression hardened.

  “The locket was a gift, wasn’t it,” she asked absently, staring at the large portrait that was her, yet not quite her.

  “What makes you think that?” Quinn inquired.

  “The inscription.” Etched inside the locket were the words, To M. with love. “I think I understand why you altered the large portrait,” she said slowly, gazing around the room. “This is where I’ll receive callers.” Her mind raced, working it out. “Callers will have seen the portrait before. They may have doubts about me, but they can see with their own eyes that I’m the woman in a painting they are familiar with.”

  Quinn nodded.

  Standing, she faced him across the ottoman, blinking in disbelief. “What kind of man would alter a painting of a wife he may never see again?” she whispered. He fascinated her, attracted her, she felt alive and on fire in his presence, but there were moments when she intensely disliked him. “How could you do that?”

  “Because he wants to ensure your success,” Paul said crisply, striding into the room. “Because he wants to be governor of Colorado. Because he’s the best man for that job. Because I urged him to do it. Because it’s a damned clever idea. How many reasons do you want?”

  “You’re both despicable!” Furious, she pointed a finger toward the portrait. “Can you imagine how Miriam would feel if she walked in right now and saw that you’d changed her likeness? Can you even imagine how much that would hurt?” When Quinn opened his mouth, she thrust a palm toward him. “Don’t tell me that Miriam isn’t coming back. I knew that when I put on her wedding rings. But she could, damn it. I’ll tell you something else, cowboy. I don’t blame her for running away. A man who could so coldly alter his wife’s image couldn’t have been much of a husband!”

  They stared hard at each other, her face white, his flushed with dark anger. “Are you finished?” he snapped.

  Paul stepped up beside her and gripped her arm. “We’ll inspect the rooms on the second floor now,” he said tightly. “Then, I understand you wish to view the servants’ quarters.” At the door, he looked back. “Quinn? I left my satchel in the family parlor. Inside, you’l
l find some papers that require your signature.”

  At the top of the central staircase, Lily paused to look down into the foyer, pushing at the fingers of her gloves. “I behaved badly, didn’t I? But everything is starting to blur,” she said softly. “You can’t guess how confusing that is.” Her emotions were running amuck. Closing her eyes, she touched her fingertips to her forehead. “It’s like he did it to me. Altered my portrait. And those feelings are all mixed up with seeing a likeness of myself wearing a gown I’ve never worn, sitting in a chair I don’t recognize, thinking about something terribly sad that I can’t quite remember.”

  “Lily . . .”

  She opened her eyes. “How can any man be that cold and ruthlessly ambitious? He gives her a locket commemorating the birth of their daughter, but he seems untouched by Susan’s death.” She slapped at her dark skirt. “He isn’t wearing mourning.”

  “You know the mourning period is much shorter for men—”

  “He says he wants to protect Miriam’s privacy, then defaces her portrait. Is that how he protects her memory?”

  Paul gripped her shoulders and gave her a shake. “Stop it, Lily.”

  “Lily? I’m not Miriam now?” Her voice sounded thin and skated along the edges of hysteria. “But I’m not Lily anymore either.”

  “Get hold of yourself. You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I know,” she said, sagging against the gallery railing. “I’m so angry right now. But I don’t know why.”

  Or maybe she did know. Quinn had awakened desires she had believed—had hoped—were dead. To justify what she was feeling, she wanted to admire and respect him. But she kept slamming against the stone wall of his ambition and the lengths he would go to get what he wanted. And embedded in the wall of his ambition was Miriam’s imprint.

  “I feel so sorry for her,” she said quietly. When she looked at Paul, she saw worry in the frown lines between his dark eyes.

  “We talked about this, remember? About the need to balance who you are against who you’re pretending to be.”