“Very good, then, Mrs. Davis.”
“Good day, Evangeline, Melody.” Mrs. Davis remained, waving, Fiona beside her until the last carriage pulled away.
Evangeline and Melody retired to their rooms to rest before dinner upon arriving home, Evangeline ordering a hot bath on the way upstairs.
“Please be careful, Melody,” Evangeline cautioned. “Verla Rhodes will be eager to spread any tidbit about you and Mr. Lane.”
“Don't over react. Besides, I am happy Mr. Lane is returning. I hope to become much better acquainted with him.”
Evangeline stared at her sister, disbelief forcing her jaw to clench tightly.
“And do not look at me like that, Evangeline. Heaven's sake! I'm a woman, a widow.”
“But, Melody, Mr. Lane likely behaves as his close friend, Mr. Masterson.” Her voice was tight, strained with concern.
Melody sighed, a sad, knowing smile on her lips. “Don't fret so. Please. I know you don't understand, but...but it is natural for a woman to desire a man intimately.”
“Say no more.”
A knock on the door spared her further discomfort.
“Your bath, Miss Grey,” Corinne announced.
“Come in.”
“I shall see you at dinner, Evangeline. And, please, do not worry.”
Melody slipped out, a few moments later Corinne followed, leaving Evangeline alone with her thoughts. Normally, these were cherished minutes of solitude, but in light of recent events she found no peace even within the heated bathwater. Melody's infatuation filled her middle with a sense of impending danger, and her father's ultimatum weighed heavily in her thoughts. Mr. Lane was to return. She would be vigilant in protecting her sister, both from Mr. Lane and from her own folly.
Bread and butter!
She'd also be left to entertain the too forward Mr. Masterson.
Chapter Four
Determined to help her sister see the inherent danger in pursuing Jonathan Lane, Evangeline knocked on her sister's door.
“Melody, may I come in?”
The door opened a crack. “Oh, it's you,” Melody breathed. “Come on! Hurry up!” Immediately, she shut the door tight, locking the latch.
“What's all this about?” Evangeline demanded, realizing her tone mimicked her sister's, hushed and tight.
“I received a letter,” Melody confessed, dragging Evangeline across the powder blue area carpet.
“From whom?” Evangeline cast a dark glance at her sister.
“From Jonathan.”
“Does Mother know?”
“She knows I received a letter, but she doesn't know its contents. It's going to stay that way! And do not give me that pinched face of yours, either,” Melody declared adamantly, grabbing the letter from underneath her pillow. “It's scandalous,” she giggled. “Not that a letter is scandalous, mind you...but what he wrote. Here! Read it.”
“I will do no such thing, Melody Grey Brentwood,” Evangeline informed in her reserved-for-the-most-serious-refusals-tone. “This is trouble and you know it.”
Melody only laughed. “I'm no fool, despite what you think. I know exactly what I'm doing. Mr. Lane and I are going to get to know one another quite well, indeed! And before you say another word, hear me out. Mr. Lane will either be a passing diversion from the boredom of the country or will become my new husband. Time shall tell which.”
Evangeline pinned her sister within her steady gaze, jaw tight, lips pursed. “Oh? It's Mr. Lane now, is it? What happened to Jonathan? Ruination. That is the only word I can offer to frighten you from this disastrous course, Melody. I do not wish to see you hurt.”
Melody was taken aback, or at least it appeared so.
“Are you going to tell Father, then?” Melody questioned softly. “Please do not, Evangeline.”
Without altering her harsh countenance, she replied, “No. I will not...on one condition.”
“Tell me. Anything,” Melody pleaded.
“Promise me you will not allow yourself to be compromised.” Evangeline sighed. “I worry for you.”
“I love you, too,” Melody squealed, hugging Evangeline, who immediately went rigid as an oak. “I knew you'd keep my secret; I just knew it.”
Evangeline tapped her foot, impatient to hear the words from her sister spoken aloud. “Melody,” she warned.
“I cannot be compromised,” Melody rolled her eyes, laughing. “I'm no virgin.” Her eyes were agleam. “There is one good to come from Mr. Lane and Mr. Masterson's visit that even you cannot deny.”
Narrowing her eyes, Evangeline waited, unable to imagine what good there was to be discerned from the mess. Her sister looked near to bursting, the signs of spilling her so called irrefutable good without Evangeline having to ask too apparent. “You cannot hope to wait me out, Melody. Best to have out with it and calm yourself.”
“Evangeline,” Melody begged, “you want to find out as badly as I want to tell!”
Evangeline yawned, “If you insist.” Hiding her soft smile, she rose from the bed's edge. “Good night; sleep well.”
“You always win. It's dreadfully unfair,” Melody laughed. “Come. Sit down, and I'll tell.”
Evangeline turned around, permitting her smile free reign. It gentled her face, allowing her strong bone structure to reveal its delicate, lovely side.
“Young men love outdoor activities! Mother will have to let us join our guests. Just think, Evangeline. Brisk walks and maybe a sleigh ride if it snows.” Melody hugged herself this time, to Evangeline's relief. “See? Even you cannot hide your smile.”
No, she could not. “I am laid bare, Melody. You are quite right.”
“We shall have days of freedom from this stuffy house and the company of two handsome gentlemen. It will be great fun.”
Evangeline's smile faded as apprehension curled in the pit of her stomach at the reminder of that gentleman's return. “Yes.” It was the only reply she could manage.
* * *
“Miss Grey,” Corinne approached, her expression grim.
“What is it?” Evangeline questioned, though she knew already. Her parents had argued earlier in the evening. She was being summoned.
“Mrs. Grey is asking for you,” Corinne answered, her words polite. Another emotion heated her eyes, traveling across unseen ties that bound them close. Corinne had been with her since her twelfth summer; they had grown up together. The maid had witnessed the good and the bad, and offered silent support and comfort over the years.
“Thank you. Please send a glass of sherry up shortly.”
Measured steps delayed the inevitable, Evangeline calmly preparing the comforting words she'd offer, words oft repeated, needed yet again. Knocking softly, her mother bid her enter. Slowly, she knelt beside the chaise, waiting.
“I'm thankful you're here, dear,” Opal sobbed. “A miserable state I am in.”
Evangeline reached for the basin on the side table, rung the cloth within and placed it gently across her mother's forehead. “There, there,” she soothed, “this will help your headache.”
“Ah... It does offer a small relief.” Opal patted her daughter's hand. “You are such a comfort to me.”
“I've ordered a sherry for your nerves. It will be up shortly.”
“Dearheart, you take such care of me.” Opal turned listless eyes upon her daughter. “It is a terrible injustice your father's done me.” Tears welled anew.
“Do not cry. It will only aggravate your head.”
“How can I not when my heart breaks so? Your father came in this afternoon, smelling of perfume.” Her voice cracked pitifully, moving Evangeline in tender affection.
How awful to be so enslaved by emotion it must be!
“Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation. Likely, he encountered some friends while in town, and you know how heavily some ladies bathe in perfumes.” Evangeline offered an avenue of escape from the torrid suspicions.
Opal sniffed and draped her arm across her brow. “Why
must you seek to exonerate him? Have you no concern for my suffering?”
“You know I do, but good sense demands we not jump to hasty conclusions. Think the best of him instead of the worst.” She allowed her words to settle between them a moment. “You've worried in the past only to later discover all was well.”
“This is different, Evangeline!” Opal wailed her disagreement frantically, batting her arm against the chaise.
When her mother sat up, Evangeline backed away marginally, unsure after the unexpected shift in her demeanor.
“If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. But still, you defend him – and accuse me! It is a sorry day when a woman's own husband treats her so cruelly, but a daughter's betrayal is far worse.” Opal's fingers gripped her forearm painfully, and Evangeline held her breath, her body motionless but for her pounding heart.
“I meant to ease your turbulent thoughts. Nothing more,” she stated, at last assuming control of her faculties. “Now unhand me; you're hurting me.” A firm approach was needful in the moments her mother succumbed to one of her emotional states. Evangeline learned this lesson years ago – always best to diffuse.
When people yield to emotion, they become irrational, even harmful.
No longer a young girl fearful and confused by her mother's fits, she stood her ground.
Recognition dawned in Opal's eyes, shame following in a rush. “Oh, dearheart, forgive me. I just get so upset.”
“Yes, you certainly do,” Evangeline stated calmly. She re-soaked the limp rag, pressing its coolness against her mother's cheeks.
A firm hand indeed!
Why her father failed to achieve the same success when employing the tactic puzzled Evangeline. No matter. Now that she'd taken control of the situation, her mother would capitulate to reason. Well, with help from the sherry.
“Mrs. Grey, open the door, please.”
Evangeline admitted her father without consulting her mother. Albert went immediately to his wife and embraced her, offering words of affection. “I cannot bear your tears. No more now.”
Opal melted into her husband's arms, his attention the balm she craved for her chafed nerves and wounded soul. “Oh, Mr. Grey...”
Evangeline heaved a sigh of relief even as she harbored irritation toward her father. He gave in; always he gave in. To stand his ground would put an end to the ridiculous chain of theatrics. Marching to her room, she muttered, “Of all the nonsense.”
The episode sapped her, leaving her hungry for solitude. All that carrying on; for what purpose? No person had ever affected her to such a degree, and Evangeline swore none would. Drifting into quiet thoughtfulness, as she was wont to do when busy with her knitting or sewing, the moment of her epiphany flooded from the reservoir of childhood memories.
“Let me see your calculations,” her father invited.
She scrambled to his desk, eager to earn praise from the man she admired so. All week, she’d practiced her multiplication, hungry to master the new skill. Excitement built secretly in her heart during the excruciating wait as her father scanned the paper. That he'd given her a clean, unmarked sheet of paper imparted a sense of great importance.
“Well done, Evangeline. I've found only one error. Look here.” Albert reviewed each step patiently until, at last, her eyes widened.
“There is the error, Father. May I correct it?”
“Please do. I'm proud. One week and you've solved every problem I gave you.”
Evangeline radiated pride and satisfaction, her father's words warming her all over.
“Thank you, Father. Will you write me more problems to solve?”
“Ah,” Albert chuckled. “That's my girl.”
He stood, hugging her close.
But instead of further satisfaction, her enthusiasm had waned at the affectionate gesture, the uncomfortable sensation of being restrained robbing her the joy of basking in honest praise. Rather than melt into her father's solid presence, she'd pulled away, not wanting to remain captive beneath his emotion. It was too like the moments emotion gripped her mother, prompting her to act without thought or concern. It had hurt in those moments.
In that moment, she understood herself. She did not enjoy hugs and manhandling. Evangeline much preferred communication of a non-tactile nature, for it was respect she craved rather than emotional outbursts. Unfortunately, she seemed the only sensible one of her family.
* * *
“What!” Incredulity laced Thomas' exclamation. “Why have I not heard of this stipulation before?”
Winston Platte shrugged noncommittally. “It was hoped you'd have settled down before it came to this, Thomas, my boy.”
“Is there no way around it?” Thomas searched his uncle's expression for any indication of hope.
“I am afraid not. Your father made his conditions quite clear. You must marry to receive any more funds aside from what is necessary to maintain the Masterson land holdings. And those expenses are limited to the essentials in the meantime.”
“Good God in heaven!” Thomas announced irreverently, reeling under his shock. “A wife! How am I to pull a wife from thin air? How long do I have?”
“You've until the end of spring to be wed or the terms of your father's will take effect. And, an heir is expected, Thomas.”
“An heir?” Thomas raged. “There's no guarantee of that even should I procure a wife in the allotted time. This is madness! It's extortion.”
Winston managed an impassive expression, his devilish joy contained nicely beneath. “Ah, Thomas, it's nothing so criminal as that. Think it an incentive to your betterment – and to your happiness if you'll allow it.”
The statement and advice hung between them, a rattled Thomas silent and brooding as he digested this new reality. “My happiness,” he repeated finally, bitterness lacing the parroted phrase. “Did my father consider the happiness of the poor woman, that by his tyrannical decree from beyond the grave be sentenced to the bonds of holy matrimony with his scandalous second son?”
Winston sighed. “Let the past go, Thomas. The happiness of your future wife is squarely in your hands. Your own happiness as well, for that matter. I can understand your frustration; you're thinking of your brother. But he's not here to take over as your father's heir. You are.” He paused to gauge his nephew's reaction to his words before continuing. “Your father mourned the loss of Timothy to his dying day, but he loved you.”
Thomas downed a stiff gulp of brandy, his mind conjecturing in six directions at once. “Is that so?” he replied flatly. “I'll be gone until Christmas Eve. As you know, I've an engagement with the Grey family. When I return we will speak about this further. Right now, I am far too angry to trust myself.”
“The time away will do you good,” Winston acknowledged. “Do not be angry, this is for the best.”
But Thomas' only reaction was to refill his snifter glass and swill another fiery swallow before excusing himself. Mounting his sleek chestnut, Thomas rode off as if hell and its demonic minions nipped at his heels.
Damn his father's attempt to force him into Timothy's place!
Guilt slashed at his confidence, hacking at his anger and slighted attitude as he pounded across the land with devil-may-care indifference for his own safety. It was he who should have fallen ill and died. Not Timothy.
Thomas had ever been of a wilder nature than his elder brother, always the one inventing mischief and bucking the rules. While Timothy conformed to the ideal son mold, studying diligently the lessons their father imparted with enthusiasm, Thomas rushed through, eager to gain his freedom and escape the confines of lessons, rules, and quiet manners. Timothy gained their father's respect, Thomas his reprimand. Deep inside, he'd never felt able to compete with his brother's perfection, and therefore, he set out to make his mark in a wholly different direction. Thomas loved his brother, yet he envied the bond Timothy shared with their father.
Daring Timothy to accept his challenge had been Thomas' immature attempt to b
e first at something. Physical strength and endurance was his realm. He'd goaded and taunted until Timothy accepted, the age old gauntlet of sibling rivalry thrown down. A dip in the frigid pond, then a test of wills as they shook and shivered in the freezing cold, each waiting for the other to break and head indoors. Thomas had whooped in triumph when his brother gave up. He'd won, bested his older brother at long last.
Victory had proved empty when his brother succumbed to fever three days later. Thomas knew shame that day, the admonitions against his foolish and dangerous antics ringing in his ears. The sight of his strong, proud father weeping openly convicted him. He'd learned an awful lesson; he could not fix what he'd done.
Knowing himself unworthy of his father's love, incapable of taking his brother's place as Masterson heir, Thomas refused any and all responsibility. His actions widened the chasm between father and remaining son. Thomas could hardly bear his father's love and kindness after what he'd done, would never accept the words Stanton Masterson had spoken to him.
'This was not your fault, Thomas.'
He did not deserve those words. He knew the truth. His damned, damned pride had killed his only brother.
Slowing his mount, having run them both to near exhaustion, Thomas stared ahead toward the horizon. Clarity came into focus, giving birth to the painful truth. He owed a debt to his father, to Timothy. He would do now what he should have while his father and brother still lived. The time had come to accept responsibility and become a man.
* * *
“What a lovely ornament,” Melody admired. “A perfect rosette, Evangeline.”
The small paper flower dangled from the wire hoop she'd fashioned. “I suppose it will do,” Evangeline admitted with a smile. “Yours is far more intricate.”
Carrying the newly forged treasures to the tree, the sisters hung them carefully amid the shiny globes and baubles adorning the heavily scented evergreen. Christmas tradition carried, the Grey daughters crafting a new ornament for the tree each year. Anticipation built steadily as the holiday approached, Evangeline infected with excitement along with her sister. Such a happy time. The gifts she'd wrapped carefully and hidden away in her room added to her joy. To see her family open them was a moment hard to await.
A Practical Arrangement Page 5
