Unrelenting Love: Banished Saga, Book Five

by Ramona Flightner

  “They are highly overrated and only bring pain,” he snapped, before flushing and looking away.

  “Who hurt you, Morgan?” Parthena whispered. “I know we always fought as children, but you were still decent. And we were children, seeking any amount of attention we could garner from our absentminded parents. You had an interest in me, even then. Yet you weren’t intent on controlling everything around you.”

  “Why would you betray me? Sleep with another man before our wedding?” he asked through clamped jaws.

  “I didn’t know we were to be married! I thought I’d marry him,” she whispered, shocked at the flash of pain in Morgan’s eyes.

  “You speak of me not seeing you. When in reality, you never saw me. You never saw that, throughout all those years, I was right there waiting for you. I was waiting for you the entire time.” He rose but came to an abrupt halt as she stood, moving to block the door.

  “Morgan,” she murmured, tears in her eyes, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “And yet, living with you, day after day, only brings me more pain,” he rasped, pushing past her and out the door.

  13

  Muted conversation and bursts of laughter flowed through the room where her paintings hung, displaying Zylphia’s artistic talent, assisted by the gallery owner’s knowledge of lighting which heightened each piece’s beauty. Even the gray, green, and black pieces seemed to shine. Waiters circled with a never-ending supply of champagne and trays of small appetizers. The door and windows to the gallery were flung open on the warm September evening, enticing passersby to stop in to join the festivities. A discreet basket by the door was partially filled with the Votes for Women blue-and-yellow metal birds which Zylphia had helped to design. She knew her father had bought two hundred as party favors for the attendees of her showing, both of them relishing the thought of giving them to many of his associates who were staunch Antis.

  Zylphia mingled with her prospective patrons—a mixture of friends, her father’s business associates, and strangers interested in a newcomer’s art. She remembered Sophie’s adage to keep smiling, no matter what she heard. Her mother’s advice of holding her head high and remembering that no one else had the ability to paint as she did gave her courage as conversations abruptly halted with each approach she made to a new group.

  She saw Parthena and Rowena standing to one side and moved to them. She hugged them both and tried not to lean on them.

  “I’m terribly upset with you,” Parthena said, mischief glinting in her eyes.

  Zylphia stiffened, and Rowena gripped her arm in support. “Why?” Zylphia asked.

  “You’re as talented an artist as I am, but you’ve allowed me to act as though I’m the only one entitled to the artistic temperament.” She beamed at Zylphia. “Your paintings are brilliant, Zee.”

  Zylphia glanced surreptitiously at the crowd, sipping drinks and chatting. “If that’s the case, why do they stop talking the moment I approach them?”

  Rowena looked to Parthena. “Tell her. After all, I’ve never experienced anything similar to hosting an art show or a concert.”

  Parthena said, “They’re uncertain what to say to you. They thought they knew who you were, and you’ve upended their impression of you. It’s very confusing for them.”

  Zylphia snorted and then had to stifle a giggle as one of her father’s business associates glared in their direction. “Of course it’s inconceivable that women would be more than they appear.” She donned her mask of interested artist as a female patron approached her.

  The woman wore a slightly dated dress, faded at the trim and seams. Fine lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth hinted at her age. Golden hair shot with white suggested she was older than she appeared. “Miss McLeod, I’ve waited ages to make your acquaintance.”

  Zylphia stiffened against a shudder at her obsequious tone. “I was unaware I was known outside my small circle.”

  The woman smiled. “I find many are interested in the McLeod family and your numerous social vocations.”

  Zylphia shared a quick, startled glance with her friends. “We’re no different than any other family.”

  “So you say. And, even though you are a talented artist, you also actively campaign for the vote. Isn’t that correct?” At Zylphia’s nod, the woman said, “How simply marvelous.” She smiled at Zylphia’s friends. “How did you learn your tactics that will bring success in a few short months?”

  “I spent time with my cousins in Montana last year and learned from the women there about how to successfully campaign.”

  A flash of genuine interest shone in the woman’s eyes. “I imagine the women of Montana have sense enough to know girls should not be involved in such endeavors.”

  Zylphia frowned before chuckling. “On the contrary. My cousins canvassed with their young daughters. I think my cousin Melinda will become an even greater campaigner than the rest of us, even though she’s only to turn fifteen.” Zylphia looked out at the crowd to see her mother approaching. “Let me introduce you to my mother as you have such interest in us.” She looked back to where the woman had stood to realize she’d faded into the crowd. “How strange,” she murmured.

  “Do you realize you never even got her name?” Rowena commented.

  Delia approached, on the surface smiling and exuding pride at her daughter’s accomplishments. However, her eyes shone with annoyance and concern. When she was at Zylphia’s side, she leaned forward and spoke in a hushed, urgent tone. “Zee, what were you doing speaking to that woman?”

  Zylphia huffed out a laugh. “You’re the one who told me to be sociable, no matter who approached or what they said. Now there are people here I shouldn’t speak with?”

  Delia frowned. “I expect you to avoid speaking with Clarissa’s stepmother,” she hissed.

  Zylphia gaped at her mother, momentarily speechless. “That was the infamous Mrs. Smythe?”

  “Yes, and, by how content she appeared when she left, you told her exactly what she wanted to learn.”

  Zylphia stared blankly over her mother’s shoulder, absently noting that Sophie had waylaid Mrs. Smythe and prevented her departure with a few whacks of her cane. “I spoke about my time in Montana. About my family there.”

  Delia closed her eyes. “Oh, Zee.”

  “I didn’t know!” she whispered, her wail a low protest but still loud enough to attract the attention of a few patrons. She smiled bravely at them.

  Delia sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m upset. It’s not as though she couldn’t have determined where our family is without speaking with you.” She glared in Mrs. Smythe’s direction. “I know that woman, and she’s up to something.” Delia straightened her shoulders and smiled at Zylphia. “This is nothing for you to worry about, dearest. You’re a smashing success. All anyone can say to Aidan is that they want to commission a piece of work from you for their homes.”

  “You’re not serious,” Zylphia said, Mrs. Smythe forgotten at her mother’s words.

  “I am very serious.”

  Rowena leaned forward. “Why don’t they simply buy a piece tonight?” Rowena waved a hand around at all the paintings present.

  “Because almost all have been purchased,” Delia said with a broad grin. “Can you imagine? Even those horrid dark pieces.” She gripped Zee’s arm as her legs seemed to buckle.

  “I can’t take it in,” Zylphia whispered. “Do you think people bought them simply to curry Father’s favor?”

  Parthena barked out a mirthless laugh. “Such people may attend gatherings like this, yet they don’t spend their money on paintings they don’t like.” She nudged Zee with her shoulder. “You’re a success, Zee. Relish it.”

  Zylphia raised luminous eyes to her friends and mother and then clamped her mouth shut. “I want to whoop and yell my joy!” She tamped down her excitement as patrons approached her, and she transformed into the composed artist who had previously circled the room. As she shared one last smile with he
r mother, her sparkling eyes gave away her excitement, and she left the comfort of her friends to circulate.

  “You have some nerve, showing your face here,” Sophie barked. She glowered at an acquaintance to prevent her from approaching.

  Mrs. Smythe simpered as she met Sophie’s glare. “It’s a relief to know that some things are constant. You haven’t changed.” Although her voice was candy-sweet, her eyes were as cold as steel. “However, you are older. I can always hope that means you’ll soon no longer be here to badger me or to lead impressionable young woman astray.”

  “No matter by what name you call yourself now, you haven’t changed either. I had hoped we had the good fortune of never seeing you again.”

  “I like to believe that I am free to come and go as I please.” Mrs. Smythe’s smile appeared to crack around the edges as she met Sophie’s censure. She raised her chin in affront and began to walk away.

  Sophie slapped her with her walking stick on the shin, earning a grunt of pain. Sophie smiled with satisfaction and thumped it on the ground in warning. “You would have no need to intervene here if you hadn’t failed in your duty as a mother and if your life hadn’t come to naught. Your apparition tonight proves you only mean to share your unhappiness with us,” Sophie snapped, stamping her cane down with her displeasure. She watched for any signs of cunning.

  “I am not a ghost,” she hissed.

  “It would be better if you were.” Sophie leaned heavily on her cane. “Think very carefully about whatever you have planned, Mrs. Smythe. Clarissa is out of your sphere of influence. She has been for years. As is any member of the McLeod family, who have only grown closer over the years. You have no place in such a family.”

  “I have every right as my daughter is part of that family,” she snapped, her cheeks taking on a ruddy color and detracting from any hints of beauty she might have had.

  “You abdicated those rights over a decade ago. Leave the girl in peace with her adopted parents who love her,” Sophie said, her aquamarine eyes flashing in anger.

  “I would, but I worry that her father feels slighted because he has no place in her life. Just as I do.” She smiled sweetly at Sophie.

  Sophie frowned. “Her father’s dead, you daft woman. Sean Sullivan died many years ago.”

  Mrs. Smythe looked at Sophie with a challenging, enigmatic smile. “I wish you a good evening, Mrs. Chickering. Always a pleasure to see you.”

  Sophronia glared at Mrs. Smythe’s back as she exited the gallery. Sophie frowned as she thought through Mrs. Smythe’s words but could not make sense of them. She watched the crowd, but her mind wandered to a cascade of memories involving Mrs. Smythe. Of battling wits with her as Sophie attempted to convince the horrid stepmother to allow Clarissa to attend a suffragist gathering. Of Clarissa crying on her couch after Gabriel was forced away. Of Clarissa’s quiet desperation after Mrs. Smythe left Clarissa alone in the parlor with Cameron only to be raped. Of Colin returning to Sophie’s house with Melinda in his arms, rescued from an orphanage. “Meddlesome woman,” she muttered.

  “What was that, Sophie?” Parthena asked as she sidled up to Sophie. She held a glass of water as she surveyed the crowd. Her husband stood in the center of a large group of men, discussing business and reliving their antics at Harvard. She frowned as she watched him. He seemed to only lose his controlled facade when among his male peers.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the likes of Mrs. Smythe if I were you, Parthena. She’s like an annoying gnat, always flying around and causing irritation but then gone again.”

  “I’d think she’s more like a tornado. Appearing suddenly and leaving destruction in her wake.” Parthena smiled wryly at her own wit.

  “Ah, but that would be giving her too much importance in our lives,” Sophie said. “And I refuse to allow that woman to have a continued presence in them.”

  “It would seem to me she’s played an integral part in many of the McLeods’ lives,” Parthena argued.

  Sophronia glowered as she thought about Mrs. Smythe. “I’ve decent friendships that have lasted less time than my acquaintance with that wretched woman.”

  Parthena watched Sophie with a sly twinkle in her eye. “I think you secretly like sparring with her. So few would attempt to match your wit. Or would dare to challenge you.”

  Sophie harrumphed before she cackled at Parthena’s impertinence. “I’ve yet to determine why she came tonight, but I can guarantee it wasn’t to admire a budding artist’s talent.” Sophie nodded to the expanding group in the center of the room. “I’d focus your energies on that man you’ve married,” Sophie muttered. Her amusement faded as she noted Parthena sobering. “You’ve allowed him to keep you at an arm’s length for too long, dear. You must break through that protective shield he wears. Unless this is the type of life you dream of living.”

  “I fail to see why I should be the one to make such an effort.” She took a sip of her water and glared at her husband’s group.

  “One of you has to try, and I fear your husband believes he has been wronged. When a man’s pride has been hurt, he’s not about to broach a peace.” Sophie smiled at a friend who approached them and wandered off with her cane thunking loudly.

  Aidan McLeod froze as he beheld a woman hovering at the fringes of the showroom. He excused himself from his business associate and picked up a tumbler of whiskey as he approached her. Those turquoise blue eyes of hers seemed rapacious in their interest of the goings-on of Boston’s social elite. Elegant, slightly outdated clothes hung off her thin frame, giving her an air of fragility. “Fragile my arse,” Aidan muttered to himself as he smiled to another acquaintance and moved to stand in front of her. His outwardly friendly smile did little to conceal the animosity in his eyes.

  “I wondered if you would deign to speak with me, now that you are among the upper echelons of Boston society,” the woman said, her voice wheezy.

  “I’d promised myself to do you bodily harm if I ever had the misfortune of seeing my nephews’ wretched aunt again, but I can see time has already wrought its wrath on you.” He glowered at her. “Mrs. Masterson.”

  “Ah, it seems you are incapable of forgiving small slights from the past,” she taunted.

  Aidan took a deep breath, forestalling his rising fury. “You call your mistreatment of my nephews while under your care a small slight? You lied to keep them separated from me all those years,” he said, managing to control the emotion in his voice, yet his cheeks grew hot as they flushed with his anger.

  She smiled as though she had won a small victory. “It was so well deserved, what you suffered. I lost my sister when she married your brother. It only seemed fitting you’d lose the same.”

  Aidan clamped his jaw shut for a moment, the muscles ticking. “By your own choice,” he said. “You could have continued your acquaintance with her, but you chose not to.”

  She smiled triumphantly. “Just as you could have continued to look for your nephews, but didn’t.” She chortled. “To know they were right downstairs the entire time you had tea with me! Oh, the irony.”

  Aidan fisted his free hand and took a long swallow of whiskey. “Why would you come to my daughter’s art show, Mrs. Masterson?”

  She smiled at him. “I have an abiding interest in the McLeods. Your brother stole away my sister and ruined our chances of advancing our good family through an advantageous marriage. I’d hoped to see she was as great a failure as your brother.”

  “My brother was no failure. Neither is my daughter, nor are my nephews.” He took a deep breath as he looked to the gathered crowd. “As you can see, many are capable of discerning her artistic talent.”

  She laughed with derision at his boast. “Just as I’m certain you paid them handsomely to prevent your daughter from suffering the scorn that was her due from the artistic community.”

  “What do you expect to gain from coming here?” He studied her. “You’ve had no effect on the boys’ lives for fifteen years. We have all found love and p
rospered in your absence.”

  “I know of the inconsequential lives my nephews lead in Montana. It brings me tremendous pride to know that my own sons are men of superior standing and position than any of your relatives.”

  “You have no idea what kind of superior men my nephews are when compared to your offspring.”

  She smiled at Aidan as though he were a simpleton and unable to learn a simple fact. “My eldest knew better than to become permanently entangled with a shameless hussy. Your family seems to relish such liaisons.”

  “Fiona O’Leary Sullivan deserved better than your heartless son’s attentions,” Aidan replied.

  She patted him on the arm as though offering comfort. “I fear we shall never agree. My Henry is destined for great things, and a woman such as that tart would never have aided him in fulfilling his destiny.” She brightened as she focused on someone approaching them.

  Aidan turned and groaned softly. He shook his head in an attempt to signal Zylphia to turn away, but she smiled broadly and linked her arm with her father.

  After a moment’s tense silence when her father refused to introduce her, Zylphia’s smile dimmed but she introduced herself. “It’s a pleasure to meet my father’s acquaintances. I’m Zylphia, his daughter.”

  “I’m sure you like to believe you are, dearest,” Mrs. Masterson said.

  “Leave. Now,” Aidan demanded in a low, clipped voice, his eyes cold and his body tensed with pent-up anger.

  “Oh, I couldn’t depart before furthering my acquaintance with your somewhat lovely companion here. Does your wife know you carry on with other women? I hope she is an understanding sort.” She smiled benevolently as Zylphia paled.

  “Who are you, and why are you saying such horrible things to my father?” Zylphia asked, stiffening at the unforeseen attack.

  “My dear, I’m certain you’re intelligent enough to have determined that this man couldn’t possibly be your father. He’s a McLeod, and they are feckless and unfaithful. I’d never trust a McLeod.”