Nodding to him, Rose kept moving, keeping her eyes averted from the infamous nude painting of Mademoiselle Yvonne. Obviously, the restaurant was between the luncheon crowd and the dinner set, and even more obviously, she was not welcome there.
Before she could decide what to do, however, the maître d’hôtel hurried out from a door in the back of the room. Suddenly a sliver of worry skated through her at the thought of being recognized so close to her home, and she tried to keep her head down while gracing him with a smile.
“Are you dining alone, mademoiselle?” he asked in a thick accent, looking shocked at the prospect. However, as soon as she gave him her name, he bowed low.
“Come this way.” He led her through the ornate dining room with its mahogany furnishings, Italian sculpture adorning pedestals, and richly detailed European paintings on the walls. She remembered pressing her face against the glass as a young girl and looking in for the first time when walking with her father. She’d been unable to take her eyes off the sparkling crystal chandeliers, certain they were dripping with large diamonds.
Allowing her to pass through ahead of him, the maître d’hôtel held the door open to the kitchen from which a wave of warmth assaulted her along with the delectable aroma of roasting meat and sautéing onions. Finn leaned against a counter, arms crossed, talking with a tall, wiry man in a traditional chef’s uniform with a kerchief knotted around his neck. The man was efficiently slicing mushrooms, his hands moving at lightning-quick speed.
“Rose,” Finn greeted her, coming forward as soon as he saw her, his limp still obvious though less startling.
Her heart lurched. Would she ever be accustomed to seeing him alive again, in the flesh instead of only in her memories? And what of the surge of anger that followed. Could she ever forgive him?
“Louis, this is the lady I was telling you about. Monsieur Louis Ober,” Finn added for her benefit. “This is Miss Malloy.”
Rose felt a rush of alarm. What had he been telling this man who paused only briefly, sparing her a welcoming glance as he bobbed his head before turning his attention back to his task?
“Excuse my back, mademoiselle,” the chef said. “I must keep working. We will have a full house tonight.” Then he chuckled. “As every night we are open.”
Indeed, not only was he working, but two other men — one kneading dough and the other cutting up a chicken — worked at different counters. Neither of them said anything or even seemed to notice her.
She relaxed a little and released the breath she’d been holding. If Finn had told this man more, then certainly he would have introduced her to Chef Ober as Mrs. Bennet. She’d hardly thought of herself that way, except the day they stepped out of the magistrate’s office as husband and wife.
“You’re mine now, Mrs. Phineas Bennet,” Finn had said to her, but then she’d stopped him from kissing her on the public street.
“I already was yours,” she’d told him to soften the rebuff until they were alone again when she could show him how much she loved him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Monsieur Ober,” Rose said.
“The pleasure’s all mine, mademoiselle. You may call me Louis.” At last with the mushrooms sliced, he laid his knife down, wiped his hands on the apron wrapped around his waist, and clapped Finn on the back. “It’s so good to have you back in town. Take this lovely lady upstairs to your table, and I’ll have Joseph bring your meal up. I must start my roux.”
Finn put his large palm in the small of Rose’s back and directed her to the back stairs. When they got to the smaller of the two second floor dining rooms, it was deserted. He escorted her to a table for two, set with a stark white tablecloth and fine china.
“What did he mean by ‘your’ table?”
Finn shrugged. “Louis is the first friend I made when I moved to Boston, before I met you. My mother was French-Canadian, you remember?”
She nodded.
“I walked by here one day and smelled what I would have sworn was her cooking. Louis said it was one of the greatest compliments he’d ever had.”
“Why do you sit up here?” she asked as he pulled out a chair for her, then moved to the other side of the table and sat down.
He shrugged. “It’s a little joke. I helped Louis design a vent to draw the oven fumes and smoke out of the kitchen and keep it cooler as well as making it easier for him and his cooks to breathe. In return, he dubbed this my table and said I could eat here whenever I wanted.”
That was like Finn, Rose thought. Always thinking of some way to improve design, either a ship or a kitchen, it made no matter.
“Chef Ober was not shocked to see you when you returned?” Rose asked, watching Finn spread his napkin across his lap.
He looked up at her quickly, and she caught it — a flash of guilt.
“He already knew,” Finn began slowly, “that I was alive.”
“Oh.” What could she say? He’d contacted his friend but not her. “You had written to him. When?”
“Last year.”
His words struck her as though he’d actually laid hands upon her and delivered a blow.
Last year. Before she’d fallen in love with William. Before it had become too late. She nearly got up and left, except she had to hear more, no matter how painful.
Keeping her voice steady, she said, “You should have let me know, too, even if you didn’t feel as though you could come see me.”
His gaze remained on hers. At last he shook his head.
“I didn’t think a letter was the right thing to do. I couldn’t imagine you finding out without me here to—”
“To what? Watch my world fall apart?” Rose snapped, then pursed her lips. She hadn’t meant to say that, and certainly not with the level of hostility her tone expressed, yet that was most certainly what was happening.
“No. That’s not what I wanted.”
They fell silent a moment, and it was in silence that a man, presumably Joseph, brought in two plates of food. Rose thought it might as well have been a mound of dirt on her plate for the little appetite she had.
Like the chef, the man clapped Finn on the back before leaving. Rose couldn’t imagine a man whacking William on the back with such familiarity. Of course, she couldn’t imagine William withholding the simple truth from her that he was alive. William seemed so in love with her that he’d find his way back to her no matter what.
“I am not hungry to tell you the truth,” she said. “I was hoping we could speak plainly.”
“We always did,” Finn said, and he used the side of his fork to cut off a piece of one of the twin crepes in front of him.
She couldn’t help looking down at her own plate, with two delicate crepes slathered in a creamy sauce and sprinkled over with parsley. It smelled divine.
“There’s chicken inside,” Finn told her, chewing thoughtfully, “and celery.”
Rose’s stomach turned at the notion of even tasting it. In truth, it seemed indecent to enjoy food while thinking of her unintentional deception toward William.
“I will tell my fiancé when next I see him,” she said.
“Tell him?” Finn prompted.
“That you exist.”
“I see. Then what?”
“Then he’ll ask what I intend to do.” Rose felt more wretched when she thought about it.
Finn popped another forkful of crepe into his mouth.
“Which is?” he asked, his words making their way out of his mouth around the food.
Again, out of sheer frustration, she felt the urge to slap him. How could he calmly sit and eat? He had given her no indication of his intent.
“You are being insufferable.”
Laying down his fork, he looked as if she’d delivered him a nose-ender with her fist.
“How can you say that? I’m giving you the freedom to do whatever you want, just as I always did. You never wanted to tell your family about us, and I didn’t make you. If you don’t want to tell William Woodsom that I e
xist, then don’t. If you do, then do so.”
Rose’s temples were starting to throb.
“This is a different situation entirely. If I don’t tell William, then he will expect me to marry him. Clearly, I cannot do that.”
“If you want to, you can,” Finn said quietly. “I won’t stop you. We can get a divorce, very discreetly, and no one has to know we were ever married.”
“You said yesterday that you weren’t offering me a divorce.” Hadn’t he?
“I did. I’m not offering it, but if you want one, that’s another matter.”
Did she want one? She looked across the table at Finn, her Finn, the same man she had felt so strongly about that she’d married him without her family’s blessing, simply on the strength of her instinct that they were meant to be together.
However, this Finn was a stranger, who had left her alone and bereft, and except for a few inconsequential compliments, seemed to view her as no more than an old friend. Whereas William, he was her steadiness, her warmth, the reason she had smiled and laughed and loved again.
“All right,” she said, watching Finn’s face. “Let’s proceed with a divorce. I’ll speak with my brother.”
She rose, unable to sit across from this unfamiliar Finn Bennet a moment longer. Her words had caused his expression to tighten, though all he did was offer a wry smile as he stood.
“So someone in your family will finally learn of me.”
Guilt twisted her stomach, but she could not change the past. Bidding him farewell, she did not even want to discuss meeting again. With her eyes burning from unshed tears and her heart pounding, she was in no fit state to go out the way she’d come in, through the kitchen, or give her compliments to Chef Ober.
Instead, Rose strode through the first dining room and into the second on her way to the main staircase. As her eyes scanned the room, she locked her gaze onto her red-headed sister-in-law.
Chapter Ten
Rose stopped short, and Finn, who’d been close on her heels, slammed into her, causing her to gasp and lurch forward. Of course, all eyes turned to her, including Charlotte’s and the man she was sitting with. Rose recognized him as the publisher, Charles Greene.
What could she do? Certainly not back up and disappear the way she had come. If only Finn were not, as she feared, standing directly behind her. She took a few steps, hoping he didn’t follow, and then made her way slowly to Charlotte’s table. It took all her willpower not to glance back.
“Hello,” she said, bending down to kiss Charlotte’s cheek as her dining companion stood up.
Charlotte’s inquisitive eyes scanned Rose’s face.
“This is my husband’s youngest sister, Miss Rose Malloy,” Charlotte introduced her. “This is Mr. Greene.” The distinguished man gave a slight bow and resumed his seat.
“Are you having a late lunch?” Charlotte asked her, sounding as if she thought something else entirely. Or was that Rose’s own guilt at being caught, projecting itself onto Reed’s perceptive wife.
“No. Yes.” She laughed as Charlotte lifted an eyebrow.
“I know the owner. Slightly. Chef Ober. And . . . well,” she trailed off, gesturing around the dining room.
Suddenly, inspiration hit. “I was thinking about the wedding luncheon and how grand it would be to have his cuisine.”
“An excellent choice,” said the publisher, taking a bite of the food in front of him. “You will excuse me,” he added. “I was at my desk all day and this is the first I’ve eaten.”
“I will not hold you up a moment longer,” Rose said, grateful for the gentle nudge to stop intruding on their meeting. Charlotte had a pad of paper out and a fountain pen in hand. She’d clearly been taking notes while the man dined.
“Please give my love to my dear brother,” Rose said, taking a few steps backward in preparation for fleeing down the stairs. “I’ll see you soon.”
“No doubt,” her sister-in-law murmured. “Take care, Rose.”
“Yes, of course.” With that, she escaped, knowing that Reed would hear all about the episode and would instantly start discerning if there was any mischief involved.
Just as the glossy green door closed behind her, Rose glanced back into the restaurant’s interior. Finn Bennet, very much alive, was in there. Her husband.
And he was granting her a divorce.
***
Claire’s eyes had never looked so large, not even when Rose had whispered to her of her hasty civil marriage ceremony to Finn. This time, she made sure her friend was seated, a soothing cup of tea in hand. Still, Claire stared, gaped, and then set down her cup with a rattle.
“It’s too much to take in,” she said.
Rose knew exactly how her friend felt. She was reeling from the speed of the events that had occurred since her engagement party.
“Phineas Bennet, back from his watery grave,” Claire mused.
Rose cringed at her poetic imagery.
“You say he gave no indication as to why he returned?” Claire asked. “Other than that he saw your name in the society pages? Surely, he came back to claim you.”
Rose shook her head. “He made no declaration, and he seemed distant at best. Even when I risked everything to meet with him. He sat in front of me and polished off a plate of crepes.”
“Well,” Claire said, offering a small shrug, “Monsieur Ober’s are so very delectable. Practically irresistible.”
“Good God, not you, too,” Rose scolded. “In any case, the only thing I know for certain is that he will give me a divorce.”
“Is that what you want?” her friend asked, eyes wide.
“When I think of William, I can’t imagine not being with him.”
“And when you think of Phineas?”
“Honestly, I don’t know this Phineas Bennet. If I were meeting him for the first time today, I probably would have thought he couldn’t hold a candle to my William. Indeed, he’s still cuts a strapping figure and is fetching, but I can’t say that I would have given him a second glance.”
Claire looked shocked, and Rose felt a pang of remorse. After all, her friend had sat through the countless hours of Rose gushing about Finn after meeting him that first fateful day at the waterfront. Claire had also supported her when she’d decided she simply had to marry him. Most of all, she’d consoled Rose for more hours than she could recall after Finn was lost to her at sea.
It seemed disloyal to Claire after all of that to admit that she was giving up on the relationship.
“You admire William, too, don’t you?” Rose asked, feeling suddenly unsure that she had any ability to choose a man at all.
“Of course,” Claire said. She cocked her head. “You’ve never asked my opinion on a man before. Do you know that? You’ve always known whom you liked and whom you wanted. Don’t let this change you.”
This? This was huge. This was marriage . . . and divorce.
“Do you think I shouldn’t tell William? I mean, if Finn and I get a divorce, does anyone need to know that we were ever married?”
Claire looked thoughtful. “I think in your heart of hearts, dear, you would feel badly not telling William, wouldn’t you?”
Rose considered. It would be a strange secret to keep from one’s husband.
“You haven’t done anything wrong or anything to be ashamed of. I don’t believe he’ll think any less of you if he knows the whole story.”
Claire was undoubtedly correct. There was nothing terrible about the secret, except keeping it would be a blight on their relationship.
“You’re right, of course. I was an impetuous young woman, practically a child still. I’ll tell William today.” She sipped her tea, then looked at Claire’s sweet face. “Or should I wait until I obtain the divorce?”
“Perhaps you should speak with your brother first,” Claire advised. When Rose rolled her eyes, Claire added, “He loves you very much, you know. He will try only to help you.”
Yes, Reed loved her but often with the
results of a swaddling cloth. At least she could consult with him quickly — it was handy having a top legal mind in the family — and then speak with William with some idea of what was facing her.
When she told her mother she was going to visit Reed that very afternoon, she narrowed her eyes.
“Whatever for?”
Rose chastised herself. She used to be so quick to come up with ways to have whatever amusement she wanted. Now she felt positively slow-witted.
“Mama, I have a question regarding my upcoming marriage, of course.”
Her mother hugged her. “I thought you might ask him to give you away. I’m very glad of it.”
Give her away! Of course, the perfect reason for seeing her brother. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“I’ll be back for dinner, of course.”
She forsook her carriage to walk to Scollay Square; it would be faster than dealing with the chockablock of horses, carriages, and trams that clogged the streets of Boston from morning until night. The only time she could bear to pass through the city was very early morning, at dinnertime when everyone was dining or attending the theatre, or on Sundays.
A smile lit Reed’s face upon seeing her. His partner, John, had brought her upstairs to her brother’s office and then left them alone. Reed rounded his polished mahogany desk and swept her into an encompassing hug. Rose relaxed within the safety of his arms, breathing in his familiar sandalwood scent with a feeling of calm, and wondered why she hadn’t simply told him three years ago.
“What trouble brings you to my office?” he asked, his chin resting against her head.
Oh, yes, that was why she hadn’t told him. Her reputation for causing mischief, and especially for worrying her mother, seemed to hang around her like a well-worn cloak. Even if she’d been the epitome of resolute decorum and somber propriety since Finn’s death.
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