I pray this letter finds you well and send my warm regards to you across the Atlantic. I learned from my aunt, dear Theodore’s mother, that you were a particular friend of his. I wanted to write to offer what support I could as we await news of our dear Teddy.
When Teddy was with us last summer, he seemed out of sorts. He’s always been a favorite of mine, most likely because he’s forever insisted on doing what he desires. His defiance in returning to Boston after university showed me that I could also act in an equally independent manner. Although my parents have been disheartened and surprised by my decisions, I took comfort in knowing Theodore also refused to bow to his parents’ expectations, as well as Grandfather’s.
Teddy never bent to my grandparents’ will until he agreed to join the army. I’m uncertain why he did so. I do know I’ve never seen my grandparents as proud as they were that day. It was as though, by seeing my cousin in his uniform, my grandfather had a miraculous recovery after having suffered so severely from his apoplexy.
Keep faith, Miss McLeod, that dear Teddy will return to us. Stories of miraculous reunions are recounted every day in England. I pray our family will soon experience such a miracle.
Yours Sincerely,
Eugenie Abingdon
Zylphia stared at the postmark, dated before the Lusitania sank. She set aside the letter and curled onto the tufted red settee in her studio. She recalled her conversations with Teddy, remembering he had mentioned an English suffragette cousin who’d been imprisoned the year before and had lived through a hunger strike. “Eugenie,” she murmured.
Galvanized, she rose and approached a blank canvas. She picked up a fresh palette, and—rather than the gray, black, and dark greens she’d painted with in recent months—she placed splotches of bright colors the palette instead. A street scene soon took shape, the colors of the buildings melding with the large maple trees granting shade. Flowers in window boxes and along the sidewalk’s path formed a riotous kaleidoscope of color. She frowned as she studied the painting, belatedly recognizing it from her life.
She set down her palette, picking up a cloth to swipe at her hands. A harried knock interrupted her reverie, and she called out, “Come in.”
Delia poked her head in, dressed formally after making calls that afternoon. “May I?” she asked.
“Of course, Mother. But be careful with that beautiful dress. I never know where I’ve accidentally splattered paint.”
Delia moved toward Zylphia’s largely completed painting, her gaze roving over it with wonder. “Oh, Zee. This is tremendous.” She reached forward, uncaring of Zylphia’s dirty hands, and gripped one. “It’s such a relief to see you painting in color again.”
“In Paris—”
“I couldn’t give a hoot what they are painting in Paris now. You need to paint what calls to you. Not what some other artist is painting and calling art. This is beautiful.”
“Teddy and I walked a street like this, the fall we knew each other,” Zylphia whispered.
“Then you must keep it.” She glanced around Zee’s studio, at the stacks of finished paintings leaning against a wall. “I still believe you should have a showing. Your art shouldn’t remain hidden.”
Zylphia took a deep breath. “I think you are correct. I want more than to have my paintings piled on top of each other here.” She bit her lip. “Do you think Father would help me?”
Delia beamed. “He’d only be too happy. I’m sure, with all the people he knows, he has a contact in the art world.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Zylphia whispered as she leaned forward and embraced her mother, careful to only lean against her and not place her dirty hands against her mother’s fine dress. “What brought you to my studio?”
“Are you planning to attend the Wheeler soiree tonight?”
Zylphia’s eyes bulged as she glanced outside, noting the long shadows. “Oh, no. I have to change. I promised P.T. that I wouldn’t miss it.”
Delia smiled wryly. “I thought that might be the case. Let the painting settle for the night, and return to it tomorrow, darling. You must hurry if we are to arrive within a reasonable hour.”
Zylphia set her paintbrushes in turpentine and departed from the room.
Delia remained in Zylphia’s studio, battling tears as she reached forward to trace the vibrant brushstrokes on the drying canvas. “You’re coming back to us,” she whispered.
Zylphia entered the Wheeler mansion on Commonwealth Avenue and attempted to act aloof to the grandeur of her surroundings, left largely as they were when the elder Wheeler, a widower, still lived. The mansion was an homage to a French chateau in cream-colored granite with two black slate-covered turrets, large bow-fronted windows on either side of the immense entryway and small gargoylelike statues along the drainpipes.
She left her light wrap with a maid, accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and moved through the rooms on the lower floor, looking for her friends. As she rounded a corner, she bumped into Owen Hubbard, sloshing champagne onto his pristine tuxedo. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.
He laughed. “I’d expect no better from you, Miss McLeod.”
“Why is that?” she asked. She cringed as those nearby were alerted to her distress by his booming voice. As rapacious as vultures, their inquisitive gazes delighted in her discomfort and fed on her disquiet.
“You’ve never learned how to move in polite society.”
“Although you’ve moved in society for years, Hubbard,” a man said, his deep voice sounding behind her, “you’ve never mastered the art of accepting defeat.”
A firm hand gripped her elbow, and she met the supportive gaze of the evening’s host, Morgan Wheeler.
“If you would do me the honor, Miss McLeod?” He motioned toward the dance floor where the musicians played the first strains of a waltz.
She nodded, raising her head as she walked past Owen without further word or notice on her part. She placed her champagne coupe on the tray of a passing servant and turned to face Morgan on the dance floor.
“I’m surprised he still harbors such resentment against you, Miss McLeod,” Morgan murmured as he drew her to him. He smiled as she moved with increasing fluidity and focused on their conversation.
“I think he hates being thwarted.” She gasped an apology as she tripped on his feet.
He stifled a chuckle as his tight hold prevented her from falling and steered her in the right direction. “He also dislikes how you chose another man over him.” Morgan nodded toward someone standing on the side of the ballroom. “And he hated losing your father’s influence.”
“I’m worth more than my father’s influence,” Zylphia scoffed.
Morgan watched her with a flare of respect in his gaze. The waltz ended, and he escorted her to the side of the ballroom far from Owen Hubbard and his friends. “Thank you, Miss McLeod.”
She nodded and smiled. As he faded into the crowd, Zylphia backed away from the dance floor.
“Why are you trying to disappear into the masses?” a man with a familiar voice asked behind her.
An inquisitive frown already on her face, she spun to face him. She beamed as she barely stifled her squeal of delight. “Lucas!” She gripped his arm, remembering at the last minute how she should not hug a male not truly related to her at a ball. “How long have you been in Boston? What are you doing here?”
“I was invited, in a roundabout way, and thought it sounded interesting.” His amber eyes shone with amusement to find himself in a fancy Boston ballroom. He ran a hand through his brown hair, cut slightly longer than fashionable, before he tugged on the bottom of his tux’s coat. “I’ve been back here for a few weeks. Settling in as I can’t travel to Europe right now.”
“I’m amazed you’d willingly come to one of these events. Savannah always wrote about how much you hate these things.” Zylphia swatted him on his arm. “I can’t believe you’ve been here so long and never notified us. You’ll have to come to dinner soon.”
He flu
shed. “If you must know, I need to be seen among the elite of society with the hopes that they continue to support my music. And I’d love to come to dinner and see your family.”
“I’d think your music would speak for itself,” Zylphia said as she squeezed his hand.
“Well, rumors abound about how my penchant for composing and sequestering myself away are my manner of masking my increasing battle against lunacy.”
Zylphia gasped. “Who would say such a thing?”
“Oh, I have my ideas,” Lucas murmured as he smiled impersonally to the woman joining their group. He nodded as though he were to leave them, but Zylphia gripped his hand and shook her head.
“Zee, what were you doing dancing with that impossible man?” Parthena demanded.
“He’s not impossible. Mr. Wheeler saved me from an uncomfortable situation with Mr. Hubbard. P.T., I want—”
“I tell you, Zee, he’s up to something, acting agreeable when we know he’s onerous.” Parthena scanned the room as though searching him out.
“P.T., quit worrying about him. I want you to meet my cousin, of sorts.” Zylphia winked at Lucas. “Parthena Tyler, this is Lucas Russell.”
Parthena stilled, mouth slightly agape as she beheld Lucas. “You’re Lucas Russell?”
Lucas nodded, a humorous smile flitting across his lips. “Yes.”
Parthena’s expression was lit with a transcendent joy. “I’ve dreamed of meeting you. I collect all your sheet music.”
Lucas nodded with understanding. “You’re a pianist too.”
“Of sorts. I’d never compare myself to your grand talent.”
“I’m sure you’re too modest,” Lucas said with a wry smile.
“She is. She’s a wonderful pianist,” Zylphia said, looping her arm through Parthena’s in a show of solidarity.
“Perhaps we could meet some day and I could hear you play,” Lucas said. “If my cousin wouldn’t mind also attending to act as chaperone.”
“No, I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Zylphia said. She stifled a shriek as Parthena’s mother approached, wrenching the two of them apart.
Parthena obeyed her mother’s silent command and followed her toward the central part of the ballroom where the majority of attendees now mingled. Zylphia belatedly realized the music had stopped.
“I like your friend,” Lucas murmured as he watched Parthena’s retreat.
“She’s independent and willful, like me,” Zylphia whispered.
“Like Clarissa and Sav,” Lucas said with a warm smile.
Zylphia studied him for a moment as she watched his gaze track Parthena’s movements. “Why would you be interested in her? You hate society events.”
“Marrying into society would only help me and my career. Marrying someone who has an appreciation for music, and who would understand when I disappear for hours and days on end when I compose …” He shook his head a few times. “That would be wholly unexpected and priceless.”
“I doubt her parents would countenance such a match.” Zylphia turned to see her friend standing between her parents, Parthena’s expression remote as though her body were present but her spirit elsewhere.
“Nothing is impossible,” Lucas whispered, quieting when Parthena’s father raised his arms to garner the full attention of the room.
“My dear friends.” He held up his hands as the room quieted. “It is wonderful to be among such esteemed friends this evening. I would like to thank Mr. Wheeler for granting me the opportunity to speak for a few moments tonight.” Parthena’s father beamed. “This is a wondrous occasion, and I’m sure many of you are curious as to the promised announcement.” He puffed out his chest with pride to the point the buttons on his gaudy puce waistcoat almost burst. He glanced around the room, no doubt relishing being the center of attention.
“Oh, no,” Zylphia whispered. She gripped Lucas’s arm in her distress.
“It is my greatest pleasure to announce that, one month hence, my dear daughter Miss Parthena Tyler will marry our close friend Mr. Morgan Wheeler.”
Morgan appeared next to Parthena as the announcement was made, Parthena’s mother moving aside at the last moment to prevent Parthena from bolting. He lifted Parthena’s stiff hand, kissing it. Parthena stood stock-still, her eyes rounded with shock.
“Damn,” Lucas muttered. He gripped Zylphia’s arm, preventing her from rushing to her friend. “Don’t make any more of a scene,” he breathed into her ear.
As the crowd applauded, and a few men catcalled, Zylphia met her friend’s horrified gaze.
“Relax, dammit,” Morgan hissed as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.
Parthena remained as stiff as a board.
“When I back away, smile.”
Parthena blinked rapidly, forcing a smile as well-wishers surrounded them. Morgan fended off questions about their courtship, downplaying their previous tumultuous interactions, including the New Year’s Ball where Parthena had pushed him into a fountain.
He maintained a firm grip on her arm, bolstering her as her trembling became more pronounced. He glared toward a group of women gossiping loudly about the couple’s haste to marry and said, “We’ve always planned to marry. We decided we’d waited long enough.”
Zylphia approached with Rowena, and they enfolded Parthena in warm embraces. Parthena shook almost violently now. Zylphia backed up and whispered to Morgan. “She must leave with us. You don’t want to cause a scene where she faints and exposes the two of you to even more undesirable gossip.”
He frowned but nodded. Morgan called to a friend, moving away from Parthena and granting her two friends the opportunity to usher Parthena into a small alcove hidden by a screen, away from prying eyes. Parthena collapsed onto a wooden bench, tears coursing down her cheeks as she gasped for air. Rowena stroked a hand down her arm while Zylphia rubbed her friend’s back and shoulders.
Zylphia stiffened while she listened to the women chattering on the other side of the screen.
“You know the only reason he’d marry her is because she’s in some sort of difficult situation, and her father is paying him handsomely to act the gentleman,” a woman with a nasal voice intoned.
“Well, if it’s not for that, her father certainly paid him. How else was he to rid himself of such a troublesome daughter?” her friend responded with a snicker.
“Zee,” Rowena whispered, grabbing Zylphia’s hand and holding her in place. Rowena shook her head silently, her gaze entreating Zylphia to hold her temper.
The gossiping females grew silent, the sound of their heels indicating they’d moved away. Muted voices permeated the space behind the screen, with those conversations indistinct and free of any further barbs.
“You can’t fight my battles for me, Zee. I can’t even fight them for myself,” Parthena said on a stuttering sigh as her tears abated.
Rowena and Zylphia huddled around Parthena, kneeling on the floor in front of her. The trio of friends spoke barely above a whisper, allowing them to remain undetected in the alcove. “Had you no idea what your father had planned to announce this evening?” Rowena asked.
“He said he had an important announcement,” Parthena said. “I thought he would announce a business merger. Numerous lawyers have been in and out of the house this week, like always when he’s in an acquisitive mood.” She closed her eyes and fought a shudder. “I never realized he was intent on disposing of his problematic daughter.”
“You’re not being sent to your death,” Zylphia whispered.
“You don’t understand. Morgan’s not like the men in your family,” Parthena said, her usual glow and vitality dimmed in her gaze.
“Refuse to marry him,” Zylphia said with a defiant tilt to her chin.
Rowena gaped at Zylphia a moment before reluctantly nodding her head in agreement.
“You know I can’t,” Parthena said, an air of resignation shrouding her. “I must honor my father and my family.”
“No, P.T. You must honor yourself first,
” Zylphia argued, clasping P.T.’s hand.
“Give her time to think about what just happened,” Rowena soothed. “Besides, no matter what she does decide later, she should now reappear to forestall any further gossip.”
The sound of a throat clearing on the other side of the screen brought Parthena out of her momentary stupor. She rose, swiping a hand over her skirts before she brushed at her cheeks and then pinched them to give them color.
“You look beautiful, as always,” Zylphia soothed. She poked her head around the screen to see Lucas lounging against the nearby pillar, acting as a sentry.
He winked at her and then moved toward a group of women glancing in the alcove’s direction. While he distracted them, Zylphia and her friends returned to the ballroom.
Parthena approached Morgan, quelling a shudder as she reached out a hand to touch his arm. She gripped it and smiled at those who approached to wish them well. She bantered with a few of the gentlemen and evaded intrusive questions from the women. Morgan nodded his head in encouragement before leading her to the dance floor.
As Parthena continued to smile while he spun her around the room, she whispered into his ear, “Why are you doing this?”
“There is no reason to worry yourself at this time about my intentions, except to know they are honorable.”
She fought a glower, her smile becoming more brittle the longer they danced. At the last strain of the waltz, she stepped away as though to bolt from the dance floor. He gripped her around her waist to prevent any sudden movement. “No, Parthena. I refuse to allow you to make a scene or humiliate me in any way.”
“Of course. Social respectability must always be maintained,” Parthena rasped. She felt Morgan stiffen as he glared at a person watching them from the side of the ballroom. “What has you so incensed?”
“I’m surprised Lucas Russell was invited tonight. I don’t remember including him on the guest list.”
“Why should you be upset that the preeminent pianist of our city decided to favor us with his presence tonight?”
Morgan scoffed at Parthena. “I doubt he’s as talented as they say. Besides, if he were as gifted as you declare he is, I’m surprised he doesn’t wish to speak with you. After all, you proclaim to be proficient at the same instrument.”
Unrelenting Love: Banished Saga, Book Five Page 2
