“I have some—” He coughed to clear his throat. “—some bad news. I received a note from Nathan. He and Edmée want us to go out with them on Saturday. They’ve got their hearts set on us going to the opera with them.”
“What are my options?” she asked softly.
Chane spread his hands. “I’m asking you. You could beg off, saying that it’s too soon after the death of your friend.”
Jennifer shook her head. “Nathan and Edmée are your friends. I’ve met them only twice, but I think of Edmée as a friend. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. But she’ll know something is wrong between us.”
“Not by any word of mine.”
She believed him. He would never deliberately embarrass her. She had come to count on his generosity and gallantry. He was one of the few remaining gentlemen. Too stubborn, perhaps, but…
“I think we should go with them,” she said, watching him closely.
Chane paled, and she knew his worst nightmare had just come true. He would have to spend at least one evening being nice to her.
On Saturday, Jennifer dressed carefully. She had never had what she thought of as real breasts. But now, probably because of her short pregnancy, they pushed a little too tightly against the shimmering fabric of her bodice. In desperation, she slipped out of that gown and chose another, looser gown with a high-waisted Empire style. It was made of the finest Lyon silk, and the mauve complimented her coloring and brought out the purple in her eyes.
Marianne Kelly, her lady’s maid at the Bricewood, meticulously curled and pinned Jennifer’s hair into a mass atop her head. After Marianne left, Jennifer continued to sit at her vanity, agitated by the thought of spending the evening with Chane. Their guests would be here any moment. She was not sure why she had wanted to do this. It would be impossible to play the happily married couple for Edmée, who would instantly see through anything so juvenile. Jennifer was sorry she’d pushed Chane into this evening, especially since it would probably be harder on her than him.
A knock sounded on her door.
“Yes?”
Chane opened the door and stepped into the room. In starched white shirt, black cravat, and black evening suit, he looked solemn, crisp, and heartbreakingly handsome. His gaze captured hers in the mirror and held it.
Seemingly embarrassed, he said, “I brought you something.” He stepped forward and placed a necklace around her throat. The warmth of his hands and the cold of the necklace confused her senses. The icy gleam of diamonds made her look askance at him. He fastened the catch and stepped back.
“They were my grandmother’s.” They both stared at her reflection in the mirror. “Diamonds become you, Jennie.” His voice sounded raspy, deeper than usual. “I thought it might confuse Edmée into believing our…lies. She will recognize these.”
Jennifer feared she might cry. She hated crying at the thought of her husband, who no longer loved her, giving her a necklace she couldn’t keep and hadn’t even wanted two minutes ago. But now it had opened a wound in her that ached dully.
She leaped to her feet and walked to the floor-length mirror beside her armoire. “Does this gown look indecent to you? I must have gained weight. Christopher fed me hourly.”
Chane had been avoiding looking at her. Now he couldn’t resist. Her breasts had filled out. The gown was a little snug, but not unusually so. Her lovely cheeks were pale and devoid of their usual vibrance, but her eyes were intense and impossible to ignore. Just looking into them made his insides knot with longing.
Then bitterness flooded through him, tasting like gall in his mouth. He could not imagine how any woman as slight and delicately built could be so strong and resilient. Here he was, still devastated by her betrayal, and she had already recovered and gone back to work.
“You look fine,” he said, turning away.
Chapter Nineteen
Edmée hugged Jennifer and leaned back to smile into her eyes. “You’ve filled out a little. It looks wonderful on you.” She turned to Nathan, who looked handsome in his black suit. “Doesn’t she, Nathan? If I gained three ounces, I’d look like a sow.”
Nathan shook his head and smiled at Chane. “She lies about everything. I don’t know what to do with her.”
They rode the elevator down, with Edmée chattering the whole time. It clunked to a halt on the ground floor, and Chane fastened Jennifer’s coat against the cold wind and helped her into the carriage, sitting near her without quite touching her.
Seated across from them, Edmée appeared too engrossed in teasing her husband to notice anything amiss with the other couple. “Kiss me,” she whispered to Nate.
“Behave yourself, you greedy wench, we’re not alone in here,” he said, glancing apologetically at Jennifer.
“Don’t be silly, Nate. They’re married. They don’t care what we do.” Edmée leaned close to him and parted her pretty lips for his kiss.
Nate leaned down and kissed his wife. When he withdrew, Edmée sighed expressively. “I love your kisses. And I love the opera, too.”
“I think I’m getting a headache,” Nate teased.
“You’ve never had a headache in your life. You’re going to have an ache, though, if you’re not careful,” Edmée whispered teasingly.
Their playfulness only emphasized Chane’s stony silence beside Jennifer. On impulse, Jennifer reached over, slipped her hand into his, and slanted a look up at him to see what he was going to do about it. Chane flashed her a look of warning, which clearly told her that she would answer for any liberties she took. Ignoring him and continuing to hold his warm hand with her cold one, Jennifer realized just how desperately she had needed his touch.
After a time, he reached up with his other hand and tugged at his cravat as if it had suddenly become too tight.
Too soon, the coach glided to a halt on the gaslit, tiled concourse of the Metropolitan Opera House. Chane retrieved his hand. Nathan straightened in his seat. Even Edmée tried to look more ladylike.
Their carriage rolled slowly now, one in a long line of sleek, elegant coaches creeping forward to deposit bejeweled ladies and top-hatted gentlemen at the foot of the impressive flight of steps leading up to the colonnaded doors of the Met.
This was a special gala performance, the first American presentation of Carmen, acclaimed the best of Bizet’s operas.
The interior of the opera house was built in the traditional horseshoe fashion. The stage was wide and draped with heavy gold curtains. Flanking it on both sides were five levels of boxes that encircled the interior of the horseshoe. From the stage, Jennifer knew the five tiers of ornately carved and draped boxes looked like balconies on a tenement, except nothing in the diamond glitter and satin gleam of their occupants reminded one of poverty.
Their box, on the second level directly opposite the stage, sported a small bronze plaque with the word KINCAID engraved in Gothic script. He or someone in his family had acquired one of the choicest locations in the house.
Chane and Nate stood at the back of the box and talked about the railroad. Edmée wanted to introduce Jennifer to all her friends, but Jennifer declined, having no desire or energy for calling on anyone or for receiving callers. Edmée left without her, while Jennifer sat in grateful silence and gazed out at the stage and the floor below.
A familiar haze floated above the enormous chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The gallery was noisy and restless. Local dandies strutted up and down the lower aisles, preening like peacocks. Some posed with arms held stiffly behind them, their top hats shining. At last the symphony stopped tuning instruments and played a few chords. The people scurried toward their seats.
She envisioned the singers backstage applying the last touches of makeup, adjusting costumes, exchanging quips with one another, and waiting tensely for the lights to dim and the curtain to rise. A sudden wave of homesickness for the ballet rose up within her.
“Will you be going to Colorado yourself?” Nate asked Chane.
“Yes, the sup
erintendent I hired didn’t work out.”
“When are you leaving?”
“A few days yet.”
Jennifer felt as if a hand had closed around her heart and was squeezing. He was leaving. And without her.
In deep pain, she fought back the tears that burned in her throat. The orchestra played the first bars of Carmen’s theme song. With a murmured apology, Edmée seated herself between Jennifer and Nate. The music of the overture wove a spell, and Jennifer gratefully let herself be drawn out of her own pain and into the safety of the drama unrolling before her.
“It’s so authentically Spanish, isn’t it?” Edmée whispered to Jennifer. “I was afraid, when I heard what they intended, that it would be merely Spain à la française again. The story is quite earthy and exciting. I love all the blood and passion. Too bad we can’t smell it as well. And Don José, he is magnifique, eh?”
Edmée kept up a running commentary. “That Célestine Galli-Marié is a fancy little piece of fluff, isn’t she?”
“Sings beautifully,” Chane added.
The curtain dropped on the first act to rousing applause. “Georges Bizet has a hit at last! I knew he could do something really fine,” Edmée said, applauding enthusiastically.
“I’ll get the champagne,” Nate said. Chane followed him out of the box and strode toward the bar.
Edmée turned and smiled. “So…” She paused and seemed to change her tack. “I’ve never been one to beat about the bush…Something is wrong between you and Chane, isn’t it?”
Jennifer nodded.
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“I guess so.” Haltingly, she told Edmée what had happened. Edmée paled and gripped Jennifer’s hand in sympathy as Jennifer poured out her story, stopping frequently to grope for words to describe what had happened. Jennifer was grateful for Edmée’s loving support. She realized it could have gone another way, and she could have made Chane and his friends furious with her.
“So how is it between you now?” Edmée asked.
“Now…he hates me and is going off to the wilderness so he won’t have to see me again.”
“Don’t let him.”
“How can I stop him?”
“You are still his wife. Demand to go with him.”
“What will that do for me?”
“It will keep you in his life. He is incredibly stubborn, and probably incredibly wounded by what has happened. You see, this is his second wound in the same place. There was another woman, several years ago, who did almost the same thing to him. He expelled her from his life with uncommon dispatch. So, it is doubly important that you do not give him a chance to do the same to you.”
Edmée took Jennifer’s hand. “Go with him wherever he goes. Or you will lose him.”
“I used to think that was what I wanted. But now…oh, God, Edmée. I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”
“Life is messy, my dear. Speaking of messes, would you like to go to the powder room?” she asked, patting at her hair.
They waited in the customary long line, and returned to the box to find Chane and Nathan sipping champagne. A bottle and two glasses sat on the small table at the back of the box.
Nate stood up to pour for the ladies. “We thought you’d been kidnapped by a band of wife snatchers.”
Edmée laughed. “Paid by whom? You didn’t bring that much cash with you.”
“Touché,” he said, handing each of them a glass. “Champagne for the two loveliest young bravas in the audience.”
They drank a toast to friendship. Nathan started to make another, but Edmée interrupted. “Nate, did you bring my chocolates?”
“You didn’t say anything about chocolates.”
“Nate, you know I love chocolates at the opera.” She turned to Jennifer. “He knows I have to have my chocolates. Please excuse us. We’ll be right back.”
Their departure left Jennifer facing Chane. The easy camaraderie she’d had with Edmée disappeared. Chane looked pale and tense. The same light that paled his cheeks also darkened his eyes, making them impenetrable, unreadable.
He was going away in a few days. That thought tormented her. Jennifer’s hand trembled. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she turned to put her glass down.
“Would you like to sit down?” His voice was polite, noncommittal.
“Yes, thank you.” Her legs had begun to shake as well.
Seated, his broad shoulder brushed hers. All her awareness seemed to pool at that point. She felt her soul pressing against his shoulder.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.
“Yes,” he lied. “Have you seen this before?”
“I danced a version of Carmen in Paris five years ago as an understudy to Arianna Monteverdi.”
Chane rested his left hand on his knee. Jennifer longed to touch him. Black breeches hugged his strong legs. An inch of white cuff extended beyond the black cloth of his sleeve. Seeing the easy strength in his lean hands reminded her of the way they felt on her body. She glanced up at his profile, which looked completely unforgiving. Under her gaze he tugged at his cravat and pushed his chin out a little. She averted her gaze, turned slightly away from him.
House lights dimmed and the curtain rose. Edmée and Nathan swept back into the box.
“Chocolates, anyone?”
The curtain rose. Carmen’s verismo style gripped the audience again, and Jennifer tried hard to get caught up in it. Near the end, the music reached a crescendo. Edmée shuddered beside Jennifer and gripped her hand. “Don’t you love these earthy, savage arias?”
Jennifer squeezed Edmée’s warm hand. Chane appeared unaffected by anything on stage or off. Jennifer felt light-headed from the effort to appear normal. At last the final curtain descended. Thunderous applause filled the theater. The prima donna and the tenor came forward to take their bows. A large bouquet was presented to Carmen, a red rose to Don José. The applause rose again. The other soloists joined the stars, and finally the entire cast. Again and again they all bowed. Even the conductor was called up for a bow. Disheveled and smiling, he motioned the symphony to stand.
At last it was time to leave. Jennifer hung back, so heartsick she could not stand it. Being so near Chane was more torture than she had realized possible. Now, the thought of going home to separate rooms, separate beds, was unbearable. She wondered when he was leaving.
Thankfully, Edmée entertained Chane and Nathan with a charming monologue about her emotions during the opera. Jennifer walked to the railing to watch the audience below slowly fill the two center aisles. Crumpled programs, empty chocolate boxes, and paper wrappers littered the floor. Tears flushed into her eyes. She swayed.
“Oh, God! She’s falling!” Edmée screamed.
Jennifer tried to right herself. A rough hand grabbed her right arm and pulled her away from the railing.
Edmée gasped. Chane’s eyes were furious as he searched her face. His hand gripped her arm painfully.
“Sorry. I felt faint.” She tried to pull her arm out of his steely grip.
Tears could no longer be held back. They blurred her vision and spilled down her cheeks. Edmée stepped forward and whacked Chane with her fan. “Chane, for heaven’s sake. Do your husbandly duty. She’s crying. Can’t you see?”
Chane scowled down at Jennie. Edmée tugged on his arm. “Hold her! What on earth is a husband good for if he doesn’t hold his wife when she needs him!”
Reluctantly, Chane clamped his jaws and did as he was bid. His hand cupped her head and held her stiffly and dutifully to his chest. The heavy thud of his heart and the warmth of his strong, lean body overwhelmed Jennifer. She started to sob.
Edmée pulled Nathan out into the corridor and closed the curtains, leaving them alone in the box.
Jennifer couldn’t stop crying. She didn’t know if it was about Bettina’s death, a delayed reaction to losing the baby, the tension of being out in public with a man who hated her, having to take the comfort he offered so b
egrudgingly or needing it so desperately. In the middle of it all, she wondered what he was thinking as he stoically endured her bout of crying.
Chane was beyond thinking. Jennie’s shoulders shook and her hot tears soaked through to his skin and ignited a flame of compassion deep within him. Once, a long time ago, he had seen a man’s leg being cut off. That same flame had ignited then—it had been almost unbearable. It was the same, now. He hated her, but he didn’t want her in pain. Torn by conflicting needs, he held his wife’s slender, trembling form, and felt her small, hard breasts press against his chest where his own heart pounded painfully hard. He was confused and angry and disgusted with himself.
“This isn’t going to work,” he said aloud.
“What?” she murmured.
“Nothing you can do will change how I feel.”
“I know,” she said, new tears welling in her eyes.
The familiar fragrance of her Gillyflower perfume filled his nostrils and made him dizzy. In spite of his resolve, he wiped her tears, lifted her damp face, and kissed her cold, wet lips.
Touching her had been a mistake. Holding her trembling body as if it were any ordinary body was something only a fool would attempt. But kissing her…kissing her wet mouth, feeling it open and draw in breath from him, open wider and cling, was crazier than anything he had ever done.
Jennie strained upward into his arms. Her silky hair brushed his face and her lips moved against his with a hunger to match his own. Part of him surrendered to that need, but another part of him flashed a picture of Jennie naked in Van Buren’s arms.
Chane opened his eyes and firmly disengaged himself from his wife’s clinging arms.
“Noooo,” she whimpered softly.
“Yes.”
His tone caused her to open her eyes, and what she saw told her that he was back in command.
“It’s time to go,” he growled.
Woodenly, she walked to the back of the box where her coat hung on a peg. He helped her into it, put on his own overcoat and top hat, and led her through the thinning crowd and out into the cold night air.
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 28
