A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  “Paul will object to any mention of mining regulation,” she said slowly, a little dismayed that she would know this, and by how much information she had picked up merely by sharing a dinner table with Quinn and Paul or being in the same room with them.

  Quinn slammed his fist against the mantel hard enough to rattle the candlesticks. “At some point we have to stop feeding the voters pallid bromides and start serving up hard medicine.”

  “Unfortunately, the men who have to swallow that bitter pill are the same men who are financing your campaign.”

  “Good God. You sound like Paul.” They looked at each other, then laughed. Taking a seat, Quinn smiled at her. “Enough politics. What did you do today?”

  “The usual Monday things.” Did she imagine the shadow that crossed his expression?

  “I hope your Monday errands included ordering a new wardrobe.”

  “You’ll have to sell the ranch to pay for all the materials and trimmings I purchased. I ran into Miss Teasdale at the fabric shop, and she’ll call tomorrow to discuss designs and begin measurements and preliminary fittings.”

  “It can’t happen soon enough.”

  Lily studied him then glanced at the door and said in a low voice, “Am I so like her that you need clothing you haven’t seen before to remember that I’m not her?”

  “You are so unlike her that I wonder I ever thought you were similar.” He stared at her and knots appeared along his jaw. “Right now, I look at you, and it’s impossible to believe anyone could mistake you for her.” He shook his head and his voice roughened. “It’s you I see, and you I want.”

  Her breath caught, and she closed her eyes, letting her head drop against the top of the settee. She wanted to believe him.

  * * *

  Lily’s days of leisure, of lazy mornings and long afternoons with nothing to do but nap or read, were over. Marietta Teasdale arrived shortly after Lily’s morning meeting with Cranston, and the fittings continued until luncheon. In the afternoon, she repaid calls, shopped for trimmings recommended by Miss Teasdale, and planned her Friday at-homes.

  If the weather was fair, Daisy laundered personal items on Monday. Fresh linens and Quinn’s shirts were returned and soiled items collected by a Chinese family who owned a laundry in Chink Alley. On Tuesday, wood and coal were delivered, and the iceman came on Wednesday. On Wednesdays, Quinn dined at his club and didn’t return home until a few minutes after nine. The cook had Thursdays off, so that evening they had a cold supper. On Friday, Lily received. On Saturday, she ordered fresh flowers from the hothouse a block off Broadway, then Morely drove her along the boulevard, and she nodded out the carriage window to other ladies in the promenade.

  In the evenings, Paul usually came for supper or for coffee in the family parlor. After thirty minutes, Lily left the men to their politics and retired to her bedroom to read or to discuss the next day’s ensembles with Elizabeth.

  And always there was Quinn and the heat between them. The long, smoldering looks of hunger, the appetite barely in check. Some nights, he stood in the doorway connecting their rooms and stared at her without speaking. Other nights, he sat on the end of her bed and they talked. He didn’t touch her when she was in bed, and she understood. They would not have been able to stop with touching. There were nights she wanted him so much she wouldn’t have cared, didn’t want to wait for a silly thing like new clothing. It was Quinn who insisted.

  “I’ll keep my word to you,” he’d said, his gaze on the nipples rising beneath her thin nightgown. “If it kills me, I’ll keep my word. I want you to be very sure that it’s you I see.”

  “Waiting may kill us both,” Lily had whispered in reply.

  During the first week of December she asked Morely to drive her to the Prospect Hill Cemetery above Cheesman Park. There, kneeling in the fresh snow that covered the graves like a fleecy blanket, Lily gently placed a bouquet of hothouse roses and baby’s breath against Susan’s headstone and felt a lump rise in her throat.

  But it was Rose she grieved for, not tiny Susan whom she had never held to her breast. Days passed when she did not think of Rose at all, then something would be said or something would happen or she saw a little girl and suddenly her stomach cramped and her heart ached and she missed Rose like an amputated limb.

  Her daughter was growing up hundreds of miles away, a small stranger whom Lily wouldn’t recognize if the child appeared on her doorstep. Remorse and longing brought tears to her eyes, and she had stumbled blindly back to the carriage and then had spent the remainder of the day curled in her bed longing for a faraway child whom she didn’t know.

  One thing she did not do as she settled into her life as Miriam Westin. She did not call on Helene Van Heusen.

  Chapter 14

  “Your mind wasn’t on the game,” Quinn commented as he and Paul stepped out of Babbit’s House, one of the more elegant saloon and gambling houses crowding Blake and Larimer streets. “Usually faro is your forte.”

  “I’m ready for supper and some talk,” Paul said shortly, tapping his top hat into place.

  None of Denver’s streets was paved, but this section of town near the railroad tracks received enough traffic that even the gravel had vanished, driven into the mud by wheels and hooves and boots. A constant flow of raucous revelers moved in and out of the entertainment establishments, and loud piano music poured over the swinging doors, spilling into frosty air.

  Periodically, the saloons and parlor houses were raided and closed for as long as it took the proprietors or madams to pay their fines and renegotiate bribes. Petty crime ran rampant, hustlers worked the shell game on corners, and snake-oil salesmen arrived on every train.

  Respectability was slowly chipping at Denver’s notoriety as a raw frontier town, but not quickly enough to suit men like Quinn. Many of the silver barons had built mansions and brought their families to the hill, and a prosperous middle class had opened shops along Fifteenth Street. However, there were still brawls in the street, and Denver’s residents were no strangers to gunfire.

  Once Quinn was governor, he would use his influence to elect the next mayor. He wanted an incorruptible law-and-order man, a man who shared his views of Colorado’s future and Denver’s role as the emerging state’s capital.

  “Would you prefer the club or a hotel for dinner?” he asked, pausing before the window of a gun shop to admire a collector’s set of dueling pistols. “Charles Girtler was in my office today. He mentioned the club has some California strawberries. Imagine. Strawberries in December.” If it wouldn’t have made him feel like a moonstruck swain, he would have purchased a box of strawberries from the club to take home to Lily.

  “Girtler stopped by your office?” Paul inquired.

  “It was a legal matter. We didn’t discuss politics.”

  “Then he didn’t flay your hide for championing water management to the grange members?”

  “It has to come, Paul. The state has to manage its resources.”

  Paul’s lips thinned, and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. “You’re walking close to the line, Quinn. There’s been talk. Men you don’t want to offend have been asking what kind of governor you’ll make if you’re this hard to control now.”

  Anger flushed his face, and he hailed a hansom as a diversion, giving himself a moment to control his temper. “How did you answer?”

  “I said I’d speak to you. Again.”

  Quinn stepped inside the hansom, and the cab moved toward quieter streets. He had been a brawler as a litigator, and he was a brawler still. It was his style to confront the issues head-on and fight his opponents to the resolution he wanted. Despite the growing list of concessions he’d made, compromise rubbed against the grain.

  “When do we address the critical issues? At what point do we stop feeding audiences pap and start giving them something meaty they can sink their teeth into? When do we stop pacifying a few profit-hungry moguls and start righting wrongs and planning for genuine progress?
”

  “The truth?” Paul stared at him. “Maybe never. At least not during your tenure as governor.”

  “Then why have I compromised an integrity I was once proud of? Why all the lies, all the acts we’ve dismissed as necessary evils? For what purpose? If getting elected isn’t about change or progress or the future, then just what the hell is it about?”

  “Power. Damn it, Quinn, it’s always been about power.”

  And there it was, the fundamental difference between himself and Paul Kazinski. When power was the objective, the end justified the means. No act was too heinous. No solution too ruthless.

  Ethics and moral dilemmas were left to men like him, men for whom power was less important than accomplishment. Paul lost no sleep playing the game of when-did-it-begin-to-go-wrong. He doubted Paul lay awake nights attempting to trace back the chain of concessions and compromises and mistakes and bad decisions made for wrong reasons. It was unlikely that Paul avoided his own eyes in the mirror.

  After they had been seated at a linen-draped table gleaming with heavy silver and had drinks in hand, Paul leaned forward in his chair. “You need to ask yourself if you really want to be governor.”

  “After everything I’ve done? The answer should be obvious.”

  “Yes, it should. That it isn’t is worrying a lot of people. If you want to be governor, then you have to play the game. No one wants a maverick in the capital. The party needs to trust that they can depend on you to protect the interests of those who’ll get you elected. They don’t want any unpleasant surprises. Your political boat’s wobbly right now. Rock it anymore, and you’ll tip yourself out.”

  Quinn’s fingers drummed on the tablecloth, and he frowned into his whiskey. He had come too far to quit. He’d find a way to live with whatever concessions he had to make until after the election. Once he’d been elected, the party could go to hell. Then he’d be his own man.

  “Now we need to discuss Miriam. I’ve received a bit of disturbing news. I’ve been informed that Miriam has been spending a lot of time shopping for fabrics and trimmings. Am I correct to assume this indicates she’s coming out of mourning?”

  “At my request.” It exasperated him that even in private, Paul strove always to refer to Lily as Miriam.

  “And why, may I ask, would you decide to widen her sphere of exposure and broaden the risk of detection?” Paul inquired coldly. “And have you considered that once Miriam reenters society, problems surface that we didn’t address. Handwriting, as one example.”

  “Lily is practicing Miriam’s signature.” He swallowed his whiskey and shrugged. “I’ll write any obligatory acceptance or thank-you notes.”

  “And cause a minor scandal. Husbands do not write their wives’ duty notes.”

  “I believe we can survive this small ripple in the etiquette pool,” Quinn said, his voice equally cool. “We promised her soirees, musicales, balls. Then dressed her in mourning and broke our promise.” He stared across the candles. “Do you ever grow weary of making promises you know you won’t keep? I do.”

  “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

  Quinn half rose from his chair. “That is none of your business. This conversation has ended.”

  Paul waved him down. “It’s my business since I’ll have to manage the inevitable problems that will arise.” Frowning, he leaned back as their entrees were served. “All right,” he said when the waiter departed. “You ignored my advice. You know I don’t agree with this decision, but what’s done is done. Now we deal with it.”

  “There isn’t going to be a Lily problem. She understands that our association ends after the election. Nothing has changed in that regard.”

  Paul pulled a notebook from his jacket and placed it on the table. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find and hire a forger to write the necessary acceptance, thank-you notes, and whatever other correspondence is required. A potentially dangerous solution, but I’ll handle it. It’s better than having you write them for her.” He made a notation. “You’ll receive a flurry of last-minute invitations the instant it’s known Miriam’s mourning period has ended. We’ll decide which parties, balls, et cetera will be the most politically productive. On the positive side, with Miriam out of mourning, we can put her on the podium with you for the dedication ceremony for the war memorial. Give you a more visible image as a family man.”

  He should have anticipated that no decision was simple, that there would be repercussions and a loss of control.

  He was also reminded of why he and Paul had been friends for so many years. Paul would fight hard to steer a decision in the direction he wanted, but win or lose, once the decision was made, Paul didn’t look back. There would be no reproaches, no I-told-you-so’s or recriminations. If the decisions went bad, Paul would focus his energy on solutions.

  “I’ll need to review precedence with her. Go over protocol.” Paul looked up from his notebook. “Can your wife dance a credible waltz?”

  He had no idea. “She can learn.”

  A thoughtful look narrowed Paul’s eyes. “If I didn’t know you were too smart to be foolish, I’d say you were half in love with her.”

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Quinn pushed his plate away and leaned back. “I admire her, that’s all. It requires courage to face people who may denounce you at any minute. Determination to learn all we’ve demanded that she learn, and willpower to make herself into something new. She’s bright and resourceful. She’s taken a greater interest in the household accounts than Miriam ever did, and she’s more aware of costs. I’ve yet to hear her complain, and she’s deeply appreciative of the opportunity to live graciously and well.”

  “As I said, I could almost believe you’re half in love with her.”

  Love is the wrong word, he told himself irritably. Lust would be more accurate.

  Tomorrow, Lily would don bright colors and come out of mourning. His palms grew moist, thinking about what that meant and remembering a promise he’d been waiting to keep.

  * * *

  Lily found it nearly impossible to swallow a bite of her ham and eggs. Already she had an eye on the clock, waiting for darkness and the moment when Quinn would take her by the hand and lead her upstairs. She had awakened this morning with a pounding heart and the remnants of a feverish dream lying damp on her skin. An hour later, her cheeks were still warm and flushed.

  Quinn wasn’t eating his breakfast either. For the last fifteen minutes, he’d held his newspaper before his face, staring at her over the pages, his smoky gaze fixed on her mouth, heavy-lidded with conjecture. With a sound that mixed amusement and frustration, he folded the paper and laid it near his coffee cup.

  “There’s no point going to the firm today. I can see I won’t be able to concentrate on torts or contracts.”

  Lily’s eyes widened, and her heart stopped. The color deepened on her throat and her mouth dried. “Surely we aren’t going to . . . I mean, it’s early and the servants will be . . .”

  Slowly his gaze traveled along the contours of her face, traced the shape of her lips, lingered on the full curve of her breast. The low fire at the back of his eyes made her hand tremble around her coffee cup. “I’ll instruct Morely to polish and prepare the sleigh. If you agree, we’ll drive around the city and show you off in your new red cloak and fur muff, let people notice that you’re no longer in mourning. Then if you like, we’ll shop for Christmas gifts for the staff. In the afternoon, there’s a matinee at Turner hall, an acrobatic troupe is performing I believe. Afterward, we can have dinner out or return here, whichever you prefer.”

  “Oh Quinn.” Both hands flew to her cheeks. “What a wonderful idea!” Excitement sparkled in her eyes. The hours would pass more quickly than she had imagined. She’d be doing something other than waiting in a torment of heightened nerves. “I’ll wear the toad green walking suit with the red-and-blue trim.”

  “Toad green?” he asked, laughing.

  She made a face at him. “It looks better t
han it sounds.” Jumping up before he could rise to assist her, she pressed her hands together and peered out the windows of the breakfast room at grey skies and low clouds. “I can’t eat another bite. I’ll run upstairs and get ready immediately.”

  Lily didn’t think of herself as a neglected wife because she was not his wife, and because her own days were busy and full. But there were times when she wished they spent more time together as she enjoyed his company and the exciting physical current that pushed and pulled between them. And occasionally she felt a pang of loneliness during the evenings when she dined alone, or evenings when political matters called him away, or the nights he spent closeted in the library with Paul and other political leaders. The rare treat of having Quinn for a whole day to herself thrilled her.

  Especially today. And tonight . . . But if she let herself dwell on tonight, she would explode with anticipation and nervousness.

  “Let me look at you,” he murmured, before they stepped into the sleigh. Holding her at arm’s length, he smiled at her red cloak and the flounces of toad green that rippled past the fur trim. His eyes locked to hers, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You are so beautiful.”

  She felt beautiful this morning. Until she’d donned the green ensemble, she hadn’t realized how weary she was of blacks and browns and greys. For the rest of her life she would associate those dreary colors with Miriam, who had worn so much mourning in her life.

  Today, with her red cloak swirling about her, she felt like a blazing column of fire, glowing inside and out. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were pink from excitement and the crisp cold air. Today, for Quinn, she was a rainbow of color. Red and green, and blue trim, and blond wisps floating in the silver vapor that misted around her lips.

  Even Morely appeared to approve her brightened appearance. He gave her a wide, gap-toothed smile along with the fur lap robe.

  “I love this!” Lily said happily, leaning against Quinn’s shoulder. Sleigh and harness bells harmonized in a jingling melody that made people smile as they passed. The air was cold enough to bring a shine to her eyes and turn her lips rosy. Beneath the fold of the lap robe, Quinn took her hand, and she wished it was warm enough to pull off her gloves so she could feel his skin. “I used to dream of riding in a sleigh when I was in Arizona, but I never thought it would really happen.”