Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  She didn’t bother beseeching God. After all, she had stolen her sister’s husband. Maybe she deserved the loss of three babies from her womb.

  “I can’t make him come home. Can’t force him into my bed.” Couldn’t make him love her. “He doesn’t even know that I lost this child yet. Perhaps he won’t even…” Well, she had no illusions that he really loved her, but so far he hadn’t neglected his marital duty. Like he might be conducting a business transaction, an invitation appeared on her plate on the designated morning before their assigned meeting, an appointment designed to produce someone to carry on the Worth name.

  “Then go to him. Certainly you are not ignorant to a man’s weaknesses.”

  Jinx glanced at her mother. Phoebe didn’t look at her.

  “Mother, I…no. Foster is not very…” Gentle. He’d never been overly amorous with her, not even on their wedding night. She’d almost suspected anger, although she couldn’t admit that. Brutal would be too harsh, but sometimes she slipped away from him feeling hollowed out, as if he’d stolen yet more of herself from her. “Affectionate.”

  “A woman does what she must. It is part of the marriage contract.”

  She had kept her part of the contract. Usually, however, she crept off before the dawn, unable to see his face when he awoke and found her sleeping beside him. She would never forget the morning after the wedding for as long as she lived, the smile upon his lips as he’d awakened, only to vanish as he’d looked at her in the light of day.

  She blamed herself for their conjugal estrangement. She wasn’t, after all, beautiful like Esme.

  The image of her sister bubbled up, stole her breath.

  “What is it?”

  Jinx longed to remove her shoes, run her toes through the blades of sweet, thick thatch. Wind stripped her hair from its bounds, tangled around her face. Beyond, in the darkness, waves pummeled the shore.

  “I smell a storm coming.”

  “Indeed. You should hurry if you intend to board the yacht tonight.”

  Jinx glanced at her. “I will not. I hate the yacht. It makes me sick.”

  “I thought you loved the sea. You spend more time in Newport than any other society woman. I feared you would be attacked by ruffians, coming down here without a full complement of house staff before the season opened last week.”

  “I hoped the sea air would help me…would help the…” Baby. But she couldn’t say it. She had to stop thinking of the pregnancy as a child or she might simply fold into herself, let despair take her like the currents below the cliffs.

  Phoebe drew in a long breath. “I had three miscarriages before I had you, Jinx. You are not without hope. You simply must take to bed the moment you know you are pregnant. It was the only way I had you. Complete bed rest.”

  “And Esme? How did you fare with her?”

  Phoebe pressed her lips together.

  Oh yes, the forbidden topic. “Mother, you can’t simply erase her from your life. She’s your daughter also…isn’t she?” She took a breath, searching her mother’s face. She refused to interpret her stoic expression. Her voice softened. “Don’t you wonder how she is? Where she is?”

  “I know where she is, Jinx.”

  Jinx studied her, at the way her mother opened her mouth, drew in a long breath. Blinked.

  “Where?”

  “She doesn’t have your life, I promise you that.” She turned away. “I will retire to my room while you fetch your wayward husband.”

  Jinx stiffened as her mother pressed a hand to her arm. “Bear him a child, and then, even if he divorces you, you can demand he provide means for the child. You will still have the means to care for yourself.”

  And your family. Her mother didn’t say it, but Jinx caught the undertone. Her allowance would be enough to keep her mother in style as well. Of course, childbearing had been reduced to security.

  Have a child. Then she could close herself away from Foster forever.

  Away from love, forever.

  Oh, why had she stolen her sister’s life, thinking it should belong to her? Perhaps if she’d waited, she would have found love, someone who wanted her. Not Esme.

  Not beautiful, brilliant, courageous Esme, who had run away with the boy she loved to live happily ever after.

  Jinx toed off her shoes, leaving the slippers in a pile on the terrace steps. Then she stepped out on the cool stones, past the swans, their heads tucked under their wings, and into the curtain of darkness.

  Away from the house, with the windows like eyes peering out over the lawn, she could tear out her hair, let the husky lick of the sea coat her skin, draw her into the secrecy of the sea. Sometimes, when bathing at Bailey’s Beach, she longed to tear off her black stockings, feel the sand between her toes. To dive headfirst into the waves like the men.

  The purpose of visiting Bailey’s is not to froth around in the waves, but to be seen. Her mother’s voice cut into her ears, reminded her of decorum. Indeed. Society would cut her so quickly, she might as well move to Philadelphia, or even Baltimore. If she had the excuse of a child, she might withdraw from the lawn parties, the dinners, the coach races, and the afternoon carriage rides along Bellevue Avenue, at least until her shame at Foster’s behavior pulsed less fresh.

  Perhaps, if he had a child, he might not look upon her with such disgust.

  She walked out to the edge of the lawn, where their property tumbled into the sea blow. A walkway along the cliffs gave voyeurs view of their estate, but no one hazarded the sand-cast rocks this hour of the night. Jinx sat on the ground, the cool of it seeping into her skirt. She leaned back on her hands, staring at the dark sky, searching for stars, wishing to unravel her mother’s words. She doesn’t have your life, I promise you that.

  Lightning bugs pulsed around her, the cicadas sawing against the thrash of waves. She smelled a storm in the scurry of air lifting her hair from her neck.

  Esme, where are you?

  She longed for some relief to whisk through her, but she only tasted dread welling in her mouth. Please let Esme be happily married to Oliver, have a child, or perhaps two. Certainly her mother had bequeathed her enough means for her and Oliver to start a life. Perhaps nothing of stature, but enough for their own estate, a meager staff. Oliver surely could find a way to support them, perhaps as a photographer.

  Esme wouldn’t be destitute, right?

  Jinx longed to close her eyes, to lift a petition toward heaven, but she had annulled that right years ago.

  Instead, her gaze fell upon the ships anchored off shore. She didn’t recognize the Jinx—the fact Foster named the ship after her only skewered her through with his mocking—but it drew forth the familiar longing. She didn’t want to simply bear Foster a child. She wanted to earn his love, figure out how to win back his smile, his laughter.

  The soft words of affection that had cajoled her to hand over her heart.

  She wanted to feel his arms around her, just once, in love instead of duty, and to live happily ever after.

  The sky lit up, a splinter against the pane of night, and behind it, a growl. She should leave, perhaps, but didn’t, even at another shock of lightning.

  I can’t make him come home. Can’t force him into my bed.

  Her own pitiful tones rushed at her and she closed her eyes.

  Then go to him…

  The sky broke open and began to weep upon her. She sat in the cloak of darkness until it saturated her through, down her bones, turning her numb.

  Go to him. Yes.

  * * * * *

  The storm drove Foster home.

  Jinx lay in her bed, the canopy casting shadow upon shadow as the rain lashed the window, and heard his steps in the hallway. The door to the adjoining room opened, closed.

  She held her breath, her heartbeat filling her ears. She didn’t hear his valet, so perhaps he’d come ashore alone. Occasionally, after a night of too much bourbon, Foster simply commandeered a waiting landau and instructed the driver to repair him bac
k to Rosehaven.

  At least he knew where he belonged. At least he didn’t take rooms at the Newport Casino.

  She listened to him tharrumph about his room, then silence as he must have climbed into his bed.

  What had Doctor Thornton told her after her second miscarriage? Something about being more apt to conceive within the three-month window afterwards? She had, of course. And lost that one also.

  But, that had been only a month ago. Perhaps…

  Outside, the rain drenched the lawn, pulsing over the cliffs in great waves of fury. Lightning flickered against the pane. She wouldn’t need a candle, or an electric light, however foreign the path between their rooms. She rarely used their adjoining door—only once that she could remember, even after four years of marriage.

  She half expected it to be locked. When she turned the handle, eased the door open, she could barely see into the room. His velvet drapes shuttered the paladin windows, blotting even the barest of light.

  Maybe it would be best not to see the cruelty in his eyes.

  Her throat parched, her breathing webbed in her chest.

  Drawing in a breath, she reached out into the darkness, her hand bumping a long bureau. She tracked her fingers across it, stepping gingerly across the floor, and they brushed his array of bottles. Her fingers trickled up the slim neck of a whiskey—perhaps it might be brandy—bottle. She stopped, drew it to herself. A tremor went through her.

  Last time they’d been alone, he’d called her a name, ordered her from his embrace. Humiliated her.

  She uncapped the bottle, brought it to her lips. Made a face at the pungent odor then tipped up the bottle.

  The liquid hit her throat like fire, tearing through her, burning her belly. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stave off a gag, her eyes watering. But she steeled herself and took another draught.

  This time, it burned less, although her stomach roiled. She closed her eyes, let it settle. Yes, her heartbeat seemed less thunderous in her ears. She didn’t bother capping the bottle, just set it on the bureau.

  Her skin prickled, the cool air finding the gaps in her silk corset, the bloomers she’d ordered from a boutique in Paris. She didn’t need Esme’s castaways. Foster was her husband.

  She shuffled across the floor, her toes finding the carpet edge then smoothing across it until she found the bed frame.

  The hint of a snore at the apex of his breathing told her that he’d already dropped into a sound sleep.

  Perhaps that would be best. Awaken him with soft kisses, allow him to believe this moment a dream, something lovely and rare.

  She tasted the brandy she’d drunk—probably brandy, from the sweet, albeit fiery tang in her mouth—and let it embolden her as she lifted the bedclothes and climbed in.

  He had his back to her, his skin radiating heat even before she touched him. She ran her fingertips over his smooth back, the wide shoulders she had loved, his muscular arms, strong from lawn tennis and golf. She pressed a kiss to his spine, felt him rouse.

  “Shh, Foster. It’s me. Welcome home. I’ve missed you.”

  He stilled, and for a long moment she thought he might spurn her, say something cruel.

  In the bottom of her stomach, she expected it.

  She didn’t expect him to roll over. To reach for her. Didn’t expect his kisses to be so sweet, so languid and kind. Didn’t expect him to hold her, or to make her feel beloved in his gentleness.

  He smelled of the sea, salty and fresh, and kissed her like he’d missed her, as if they hadn’t spoken cross words before his journey to Europe to retrieve Bennett. He said nothing, not even her name, and she tasted the whiskey on his breath. She decided he must believe himself back on the boat. Or dreaming.

  She certainly was.

  He seemed thinner, but perhaps he’d lost weight at sea, and his hair, longer, shifted through her fingers. He needed a shave, but she had expected that, although not the missing mustache. She imagined what he might look like without it—the way he’d appeared when they’d first met— and relished it.

  He wrapped her in his arms, covered her with his warmth, and for the first time ever, she didn’t fear him.

  Never had she felt so perfectly whole.

  Nor, so utterly bereft.

  So, this was how it was supposed to be between them. So this was how it felt to be loved, even briefly.

  Don’t wake up, Foster.

  He shuddered in her arms, as if sighing, then his breathing became thicker as he settled back into slumber.

  She longed to stay, but something—perhaps the errant slip of fear—shivered through her, whisking with it her relief, compelling her to flee. She slipped out of bed, pressing a final kiss to his whiskered cheek. Tomorrow, perhaps he’d remember.

  She would never forget.

  She closed his door behind her and found her bed cold. Shivering under the sheets, she watched the storm flash and bellow outside her window. Then she cupped her hands over her womb and prayed for a miracle.

  * * * * *

  Morning slid into her room like a waltz, bold and triumphant, the storm having scrubbed the sky to a classical blue. Jinx awoke early, wrapped herself in her peignoir, and stood at her window, watching the sun on the sea, the waves now calm as they rode to shore, breaking on the unseen cliffs below. She heard nothing of movement next door but couldn’t erase the images she conjured—the ones unseen except in her imagination, thanks to the blanket of darkness.

  She couldn’t wait to see him today, his gray eyes, hued with what she hoped might be the affection of their courting days.

  Except, they’d never really had a courtship, had they?

  She’d pressed the bell for her lady’s maid what seemed ages ago, and finally Amelia knocked then opened the door, her face freshly scrubbed, her dark hair pinned up, in her morning attire—white dress, a princess apron with the bib, apron, and shoulders straps made as one and edged in lace, a matching lace cap pinned to hair. She tipped her head to her mistress and added a shallow curtsey. Jinx had read of that behavior in the English Ladies Manor Handbook and instituted it for her household. She’d also upgraded the uniforms of her staff to more formal attire in the afternoon, with black dresses, embroidered cuffs and stiff collars, and lacy aprons and caps. One had to set high standards to establish a reputation of culture.

  Amelia carried a tray furnished with tea and toast, a copy of the Newport Daily News folded on the tray. She set it on the breakfast table then left to draw Jinx’s bath.

  “I’ll be eating breakfast in the dining room this morning with Mr. Worth, Amelia. Please inform the cook.”

  Amelia emerged from the adjoining bathing room. “Yes ma’am.” She slipped out.

  Jinx poured herself a cup of tea, added two cubes of sugar, and sank into a divan. She’d have to replace Amelia soon—the girl was going on twenty-seven, nearly too old for a lady’s maid. But she’d been with the family since she was twelve, starting as a scullery maid. Perhaps Amelia could fill the position of a second housekeeper.

  It took so long to train a competent lady’s maid. What a shame that Jinx couldn’t keep her attendant like Foster kept his valet. Lewis had been with Foster before Jinx had met him, although with his dark eyes, his ugly, broken nose that made him appear like some back alley ruffian, she could admit that she feared him. He watched her like she might be something scurrying across the floor.

  Jinx finished her tea before Amelia returned. Amelia helped her bathe then slip into a corset—not too tight, just in case she might already be with child—and a bell skirt and white blouse with the new pagoda sleeves, flouncy and tied at the wrist. She wasn’t sure she liked the way they sometimes caught in her soup, but today she must be most delicately attired.

  Hopefully, beautiful.

  She exited her room, light sweeping from the two-story ballroom down the dark, paneled hallway, and followed it down the stairs. The dual staircase, split in the middle then rejoined at the bottom, carved out a heart-shape when
viewed from the bottom. She’d worked with architect Stanford White, competing with Alva’s beautiful Marble House for the largest ballroom in Newport. She’d laid marble floors, erected Corinthian columns, and found the perfect chandeliers to cast kaleidoscope colors captured by the sea. She’d designed Foster’s billiard room with bleached English oak and a chimney piece carved with the visages of Irish Kings. Decorated with a nautical theme, including an oil of his beloved Jinx, she’d thought, foolishly, that the room might call him home.

  But maybe those days of merely hoping were over. Maybe, after last night…

  The smells of breakfast—bacon and eggs, the oil on the griddle—seeped up from the basement, filling the hallway. She would have to instruct the housekeeper to open the windows, let in the salty air.

  She didn’t expect her heart to hiccup in her chest when she saw him, and for a moment, stood entranced in the doorway, tracing the cut of his wide shoulders, the curl of his dark—except, it seemed lighter, almost sun-bleached—hair.

  Too many days at sea. Or, some fancy Paris salon.

  Most likely, his brother had thumbed him into it.

  Along the length of the table, her mother sat attired in a stiff, high-collared, blue day dress. She sipped watery oatmeal and read a morning issue of the Newport Daily News.

  Jinx scraped up her voice. “Hello, darling.”

  He turned, and her world halted, her breath caught in her lungs, her eyes widening.

  “Hello, darling, to you.”

  She didn’t recognize this man. He had the features of Foster, the high cheekbones, the regal nose. But his smile—almost playful, and the tease in his blue eyes, suggested a man unencumbered by marriage, by responsibility.

  Bennett. It had to be, and she voiced her suspicion. “Bennett?”

  “At your service. And you must be the mistress of the house, my brother’s wife. Charmed to finally meet you.” He’d risen to his feet, and now, as she stood, rooted at the door, he came over and took her hand.

  Indeed, he looked a younger version of Foster, his crisp white shirt outrageously rolled up to the elbow, although he’d buttoned his gray waistcoat, his pinstriped pants neatly pressed.