An Inconceivable Deception

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “I returned to Boston very recently,” Finn spoke up. “I apologize. I should not have come uninvited to your party.”

  “Agreed,” William said. “It was a private gathering. Your name, sir?”

  Rose held her breath. She was desperate not to lie to William. He deserved only the truth. On the other hand, Finn might be pushed only so far and then blurt out that he was her husband.

  “Phineas Bennet,” Finn said, his tone uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Today,” William persisted, “why did I find you touching my fiancée?”

  Rose started to speak, but Finn interrupted her. “We encountered each other by chance, and since I had not spoken to her at the Tremont, we were catching up. I’m afraid I got carried away. Again, entirely my fault. Please hold the lady blameless.”

  “Oh, I do,” William said. “She has never given me cause to doubt her.” He took hold of her arm, lacing it through his own.

  To Rose at least, it was apparent that Finn bristled, a flash of hostility crossing his handsome face. For a moment, she thought he might drop his conciliatory demeanor and move to break her and William apart.

  “It was good to see you again, Mr. Bennet,” she said, the words sounding forced, crossing her tongue like sandpaper.

  “I don’t think you should meet again,” William said, staring hard at Finn, “unless you are in the company of friends or family. Not if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

  With uncharacteristic rudeness that bespoke how upset he really was, William turned on his heel, taking Rose with him locked to his side. With long strides that forced her to hurry to keep up, he swept them through the Common toward Beacon St, presumably with her mother’s house as their destination.

  She didn’t dare even turn her head to glance back at her husband.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes until William began to slow his pace. Finally, when out of sight of those in the grassy park, he stopped.

  “I apologize,” he said to her against all expectations. She thought he would be accusing her and quite rightly so. “I acted badly back there,” he continued. “In my defense, I was so surprised to witness him reach out and touch you as I approached.”

  Grateful that William was not an angry, mistrustful man, Rose melted against his side. “No, it is I who am sorry. I should have stepped farther away from him. I was too familiar with Mr. Bennet, but he is, as I said, an old friend. From my late teen years.”

  William smiled weakly. “Ah, your wild years.”

  “My what?” Startled, she pulled back, then saw by his smile that he was teasing her. If only he weren’t so spot on.

  “As a young lady, you were quite fizzy,” he told her, “and then you calmed and then you became far too somber. Yet we solved all that, yes? You are precisely perfect, in my eyes, Miss Malloy.”

  “Thank you.” She could barely say the words as tears welled like a lump in the back of her throat for the second time in a few minutes. Had the Good Lord sent him to stop something inappropriate from happening?

  “How . . . timely” — she was going to say “odd” and changed her mind — “that you happened upon us like that?”

  “Miss Norcross pointed out which way you’d gone,” he said, not realizing how she flinched at the words.

  Maeve! She had watched Rose leave Thompson’s Spa, trailing behind Finn and apparently not too discreetly. When William happened along, Maeve must have sent him after her, perhaps with malicious intent.

  “I know how much you like the pond, so I headed this way. I didn’t see you at first. Then suddenly, you appeared on the walkway with that man behind you.”

  It was most likely that Maeve still harbored resentment over William having broken up with her and wanted, in turn, to destroy Rose and his engagement. Stupidly, Rose had offered her the perfect invitation to meddle. She would be more careful with their relationship — and William’s feelings — in the future.

  ***

  Finn wanted to throw back his head and howl. Clenching his fists to keep from physically separating Rose and Woodsom, he turned away, unable to watch as they walked together, arm in arm. It had been one thing to know of the man and even to see him at the Tremont, but quite another to have her fiancé come between him and Rose to stake his claim.

  This all-overish pain was exactly what he deserved. Still, it stung all the same. And despite knowing how this muddle had come to be, Finn felt real anger toward Woodsom surge through him from his head down to his toes.

  Dammit, what a mess! He hadn’t lied to Rose when he’d said he couldn’t blame this other fellow for loving her. She was everything a man could want. She was everything . . .

  Like an idiot, he’d let go of the best woman who would ever cross his sorry path. All he could do now was try to bring justice to the families of the men who’d died. Despite what he’d said to Rose, he wasn’t prepared to walk away, certainly not because of a threat.

  As for his marriage, Finn shook his head. He didn’t know if there was a way to save it. Wasn’t even sure he was supposed to try. After all, Rose and Woodsom were a perfect match. She’d looked so damned happy at her engagement party. Until she saw him!

  Finn started back toward Park Street and the closest trolley, all the while cursing himself for the pleasure he’d felt at seeing her when he’d already vowed to stay away. His destination was the North End and Liam Berne’s old bedsit. Though as Irish as potatoes and whiskey, Liam had refused to live with fellow immigrants in East Boston, preferring to nestle in with the Italians whose food and women he preferred.

  If his friend no longer lived there, hopefully someone would know where he currently abided. For at that moment, feeling as alone in Boston as if he were still adrift on a hunk of wood in the Atlantic, Finn needed a friend.

  ***

  While she dressed the next morning, Rose promised her own reflection that she would stop obsessing over Finn. The disgust she’d felt toward herself at being caught by William overshadowed any pleasure she’d experienced in her husband’s company. She must trust that Reed would handle the divorce with all due haste and that Finn would deal with the repercussions from the shipyard over his jarring return from the dead.

  As for her, she had a wedding to plan, a fiancé to nurture, and a best friend who needed her aid in bringing about her own marital bliss. Rose decided to ask her mother what she knew of Mrs. Brewster and also her sister, Mrs. Norcross, Maeve’s mother. Perhaps there was some reason that Franklin’s mother was set against Claire.

  Searching for her mother, she hastened into the parlor, expecting to find Evelyn perusing the morning papers with a cup of tea as was her custom. Rose stopped still as a Greek statue, even holding the breath she had gasped into her lungs at what she saw.

  The tableau before her was unlike anything she could have imagined. Her respectable, widowed mother, dressed in a demure mauve morning gown, sat on the smaller of their two sofas. Beside her, seated much too close, was Ethan Nickerson. Evelyn was turned with her body toward him, and he toward her. And they were holding hands! What’s more, there was no one else in the room. No friend or confidante, no chaperone of any kind.

  How positively extraordinary! How unthinkable!

  At her daughter’s entrance, Evelyn glanced Rose’s way.

  “Dear one,” her mother exclaimed, removing her hand from Nickerson’s grasp though not swiftly or with guilt. Instead, she did it with slow and deliberate grace, and then the gentleman in question stood up to greet the youngest daughter of the household. He bowed slightly, a pleasant smile on his attractively aged face.

  Rose recovered from her surprise, releasing her breath and moving forward until she stood before the older gentleman. She offered a polite nod of her head and a friendly, “Good day, Mr. Nickerson.” Then she took her mother’s outstretched hand in both of hers.

  “Mr. Nickerson and I are going to marry,” Evelyn said without preamble as if it was the most natural and expected news in the world.
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  Rose felt her mouth drop open. When she recovered a second time, she nodded, glancing from the beaming man to her smiling mother. How had this come about?

  At last, she found her voice. “That’s wonderful, Mama. Congratulations. Also to you, Mr. Nickerson.” She ignored the impertinent flurry of questions swirling in her brain. She also tamped down the image of her father’s adored face. Oliver was long dead, and her mother was vibrantly alive. More than that, Evelyn had been alone for a long time.

  “When will you marry?” Rose asked.

  If her own wedding was to be postponed because of her divorce — or worse yet, cancelled — then perhaps her mother could make use of any of the arrangements she and Elise had already made.

  “I’m not sure, dear. After all, I can’t leave you alone in this house any more than you wanted to leave me.”

  In the span of a heartbeat, many things became clear: why her mother was not anxious about her youngest child finally flying from the nest and her recent preoccupied disposition. Perhaps Evelyn had been pondering her future, or even her past, and considering what it meant to become another man’s wife. Of course, this explained her mother allowing herself to be monopolized by Mr. Nickerson at every gathering and each event they both attended. For years!

  “We could sell this house,” Evelyn continued, “and you could live with Mr. Nickerson and myself at his home until your wedding day.”

  Rose felt herself pale and had to sift through the myriad feelings her mother’s words evoked, with the initial one being abject dismay. How awful — to move along with her mother like an unwelcome spinster! Fervently, she thanked God she was not one. Her second feeling was amazement, that her mother would no longer reside on Beacon Hill as she had since the age of twenty-one, but rather in Cambridge. Mr. Nickerson’s large home was across the river on Brattle Street, a Greek revival-style mansion that seemed massively oversized for two people.

  Lastly, Rose felt sweet relief wash over her like cool rainwater. She would no longer have the overarching worry of leaving her mother alone. Moreover, the cream on top of her Bakewell pudding was that Mr. Nickerson was a retired merchant, albeit an impressively successful one, who had opened a string of emporiums around Boston and another two in Philadelphia. Surely, his being in trade would soften her family’s reception of Finn as a shipbuilder, even if he were only to be known as her former husband and not her current one.

  “Or you could live with Elise and Michael in the interim,” her mother continued, oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her daughter’s head. “It’s obviously too crowded at Reed’s.”

  Rose had to smile as her mother shuddered slightly. Evelyn had never approved of her son’s home on the wharf. Even though Rose thought it quite charming, she was glad she didn’t have to be foisted off onto any of her married siblings.

  “We’ll worry about that later,” Rose said, noticing with amusement her mother’s raised eyebrows at the uncharacteristic calm and levelheadedness of her youngest child. “It will be a welcome relief to turn from planning my wedding to yours.”

  Mr. Nickerson coughed, and her mother blushed prettily.

  “I wouldn’t dream of treading on the spectacle of your wedding day,” Evelyn said. “As for us,” she glanced at her groom, “there won’t be a wedding ceremony, per se. That would be unseemly. Some will frown on us marrying at all. In any case, I certainly won’t be walking down the aisle in a new dress. Nor does Mr. Nickerson have any desire to stand at the altar in a morning suit. We have both had that experience before, and those days are far behind us.”

  “Exactly,” said the reserved gentleman before expounding further, “We plan on having a small civil union, only the two of us and our immediate families, of course. It is not something young people ever consider.”

  Rose almost rolled her eyes. Little did he know that she had already done precisely that type of wedding sans family. And she’d loved it. The day was etched in her brain, perhaps stronger than any other.

  “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she exclaimed, feeling giggly, lightheaded, and a little terrified all at once.

  “You’re making me the happiest man in the world,” Finn said.

  “It’s the same for me,” she assured him, knowing her mouth was wearing a generous smile she could not hide.

  They’d entered the courthouse hand-in-hand.

  “No regrets about not having your family around you, then?” Finn asked.

  She remembered looking into his perfect blue-gray eyes and saying, “You are my family now.”

  He’d given her a lopsided grin, and she knew he was pleased.

  “What about your father and brothers?” she’d asked.

  “I doubt they would’ve come down from Portland anyway. I’ll take you up to meet them someday soon.”

  Then they were ushered into the justice’s office, where the process was over in minutes.

  Mr. and Mrs. Phineas Bennet.

  In the end, she’d never met her husband’s family. If they’d gone to the memorial service for the Garrard, she did not know.

  “Dearest, you look as if you’re a hundred miles away,” her mother said. “Did you need me? Do you want tea?”

  Mr. Nickerson remained standing while Rose dithered. Now what? She had wanted to talk privately with her mother about delicate matters. She could do neither with her mother’s beau standing by.

  “I merely came in to tell you I was going to see Claire. I’ll see you later, Mama. Good day, Mr. Nickerson.” She hurried to the door, then turned back, “Congratulations to you both.” She meant it with her whole heart.

  Rose was still contemplating the unexpected turn of events when she strolled into Claire’s foyer and was told by the housekeeper that her friend was in a terrible state.

  Red-eyed and retired to her room, Claire would see no one except Rose who was shown upstairs immediately.

  “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you send for me?” Rose demanded, sitting on the bed beside Claire, who lay stretched out, her hand to her forehead, and looking positively wretched.

  “Are you ill? Feverish? A headache?”

  Claire closed her teary eyes and moaned, “I will never be Mrs. Franklin Brewster.”

  Rose feared as such but still asked, “Why do you say that? Franklin dotes on you.”

  Claire’s free hand slammed upon the lace counterpane. “He has doted long enough, and I am sick of it! It is humiliating,” she fumed. “He should declare his intentions or release me to find someone who will. Don’t you think?”

  Yes, Rose did think exactly that, though this didn’t seem the time to confirm it. Nor was it the time to tell Claire of her own mother’s imminent marriage; it might be like rubbing salt in a wound to know that even an aging widow could secure a proposal.

  “Franklin may be slightly slower than another man, yet I still think he intends to ask for your hand, and I think I am correct in believing you would like to be his wife.”

  Claire sighed mightily and lowered her hand from her forehead. She fixed Rose with her red-rimmed green eyes.

  “I would like to be his wife, and, truly, it is not because of his unhurried courting that I say I will never be Mrs. Brewster. No, it is because of the current Mrs. Brewster, his dragon of a mother.”

  Rose would have smiled if it weren’t so serious.

  “What has happened?”

  “It is what hasn’t happened. She has not taken to me. Not one whit.”

  Rose nodded, wishing more than ever that she’d been able to get some insight from her mother. “I don’t think that has anything to do with you though. In case you haven’t noticed, Franklin’s mother is like buttermilk, sour beyond belief. Why, I doubt there is a female in all of these United States whom she would deem good enough for her son.”

  Claire remained silent a moment longer. At last she said, “Still, it is I whom she has snubbed.”

  “How so?”

  Drawing herself up to sitting, Claire rested her
back against her white-painted headboard.

  “The dragon is holding a tea for young ladies at her home and did not invite me.”

  Rose felt her eyebrows rise involuntarily and her cheeks grow warm in anger on her friend’s behalf. Still, she hoped and prayed it was unintentional — though doubted that could be the case.

  “Maybe this is a special group? Individuals to do with a particular cause, perhaps?” she asked. “After all, I had not heard of this tea, nor was I invited.” Rose didn’t point out that, as a Malloy, there was not usually a gathering of young women to which she wasn’t included.

  “I think the only thing special about this tea is that you and I have not been invited. Maeve was, of course.”

  “She’s Franklin’s cousin, so she doesn’t count,” Rose offered. “Perhaps she is serving as hostess and these are friends of hers.” Puzzled, she decided to delve further. “I’m sure if we put our minds to it, we can find out more. In any case, how did you learn of it?”

  Claire’s face clouded over. “That’s the worst part,” she confessed. “Franklin and I were out riding yesterday, with Robert chaperoning of course, and he mentioned that he hoped to see me at his home next week and would do his best to find a reason to drop into the gathering.”

  “I see. You had not the foggiest idea to what he was referring.”

  “Precisely,” Claire said. “I felt like a fool when I explained I had no knowledge of ‘the gathering’. Franklin’s face became quite flushed. Naturally, it put rather a damper on the rest of the ride, and soon, we parted. If he has true feelings for me, he should make his mother aware of her utter insufferableness and demand she treat me better.”

  Rose was taken aback. This was the most heated she’d ever seen and heard Claire, who was normally so easygoing and, to her mind, a tad too passive, especially when it came to Franklin.

  “Good for you,” Rose said. “It’s about time you took a stand.”

  “Whatever can you mean?” Claire asked. “I’ve done nothing except give up the idea of becoming the wife of the man I love.”