“I can’t eat,” Adriane protested. “Not now.”
“Of course, you can,” Blake said briskly. Then his eyes softened on her. “It won’t be as hard as you think. I’ll be right beside you.”
She knew he was no longer talking about food, but she smiled a little anyway as she said, “To help me eat?”
He didn’t smile back. “I’ll spoon-feed you if I have to.”
Adriane’s own small smile slipped away as she stared up at him. “He’s going to put us out on the street.”
Blake’s jaw set in a rigid line. “He’s going to try.”
27
The black-bordered second issue of the Tribune-Herald announcing the deaths of the two news warriors, Wade Darcy and John Chesnut, was carried out to the streets by the newsboys the next morning before daylight. A few hours later, a little before noon, Wade Darcy’s body was carried out to the cemetery.
By the time they lowered his coffin into the ground, Adriane just wanted it to be over. She had insisted on keeping the long, lonely vigil by her father’s body throughout the night, and now dazed by both her grief and lack of sleep, she felt surrounded by a thick, gray fog. She knew the preacher was talking, but his words were nothing more than a muddled mixture of sounds that made no sense to her ears. When he finally stopped and looked at her, it was a long moment before Adriane realized he was waiting for her to drop the first handful of dirt on her father’s coffin in the grave.
As the loose dirt scattered and danced on the wooden surface, Adriane had to force her feet to move away from the grave and allow Lucilla to take her turn.
People followed them back to the house, where Lucilla’s servants, under Lucilla’s direction, saw that they were fed. Adriane sat in a straight chair in the shadow of the press and wished them all gone. She wasn’t sure how many more sorrowful smiles or sweaty pats on her hands she could endure.
Blake brought her a plate of food, but when she pushed it aside, he carried it away without a word. He left her alone until all the people were gone. Then he came back and, still without a word, pulled her to her feet and ushered her toward the stairs.
When she saw the set, determined look on his face, she went with him meekly. She couldn’t fight him even if he was about to demand his rights as her husband. She was so exhausted it was all she could do to push her feet up the steps, and before they got to the top, Blake was nearly carrying her.
In her room, she stood silent and waited submissively for whatever might happen next, but all he said was “You need to sleep.”
When she just stared at him without moving, he went on matter-of-factly. “Do you need help undressing?”
His words were like a dash of cold water in her face. “No, I can manage,” she said.
He looked at her a long moment. “That’s your trouble, Adriane. You always think you can manage without help, but the truth of it is that neither one of us can manage without the other anymore. We need each other.”
“You don’t need me. You need the press.” Adriane wasn’t sure where the words came from, but she wished them back as soon as they were out.
Color exploded in his cheeks. “Blast the press. It’s not even yours. It’s Jimson’s.” Then as quickly as it had come, the storm left his face, and he went on in a flat voice. “You’re tired. I’m tired. Let’s just let it go right now. We can fight tomorrow.”
“Will we fight?” She stared up at him.
“About some things.” The beginnings of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Maybe a lot of things, but we’ll make it, Adriane. It’s going to turn out all right.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I don’t know. Just a newsman’s hunch, but what kind of newspaperman doesn’t have a few hunches that turn out to be right.” The smile left his lips then, but stayed in his eyes. A gentle smile that was almost like a caress. “Try to sleep.”
She listened to his footsteps going back down the stairs, and wanted to call him back to help her with her buttons. She wanted him to tell her again that somehow they would make it even if he couldn’t tell her how. She wanted to see him smile. She wanted him to touch her.
The last thought brought her up short, and she made herself remember how little she actually knew about Blake. She made herself remember Eloise Vandemere, whoever she was. Adriane’s eyes went to the boxes Blake had stacked in the corner of her room, but even if she could find answers there, she was too exhausted to search through them. Blake was right. She needed to sleep.
Late in the day the noise of the press starting up woke her, and she was somehow comforted by the familiar sound. She thought she should get up to see if Beck needed help, but sleep stole over her again before she could move.
The next time she awoke, it was dark. She still lay on top of her bedcovers in her chemise and petticoats, but someone had spread a light cover over her. She gingerly reached out her hand to feel the bed around her. She was alone.
She hadn’t really expected to find Blake in the bed with her, for she surely would have awakened if he’d lain down beside her during the night. But he had made it very clear that they would share the bed.
As she sat up slowly, her eyes began adjusting to the darkness until she could make out the shapes of the furniture. Without a sound, she slid out of the bed, found her slippers, and pulled a wrapper around her. The clock struck two as she stepped out in the hallway, and she used the bongs to cover the noise of shutting her door. If Blake was sleeping in the sitting room, she didn’t want to wake him. Of course he could be in her father’s room, but somehow she didn’t think so. There would be too many ghosts of memories in there.
In fact, the ghosts seemed to come out of the room as she crept past it to follow her down the hall to the stairs. She didn’t try to chase them away. She wanted them with her. That was the reason she was up.
The ghosts drifted silently down the stairs, but though she tried to be as quiet, one of the steps creaked loudly when she stepped on it. She held her breath and listened for some answering sound of movement in the house, but when she heard none, she began to doubt Blake was even there.
Downstairs in the pressroom, she lit a candle and shielded the flame with her hand. As soon as she found what she wanted, she moved silently out of the pressroom into the kitchen, where she set the small candle in the middle of the table. The flame flickered and made strange shadows on the walls, and Adriane had no trouble at all imagining the ghosts among them. But she wasn’t afraid. She knew these ghosts.
She was here to face them, but the smell of ham and fried chicken still heavy in the air made her remember the old dog. She found some biscuits in the warming oven on the stove.
The back door hardly squeaked at all when she went out of it, but it must have been enough to alert the old dog. Before she could call him, he appeared out of the shadows on the back stoop beside her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Mallory,” she said as she put the biscuits down in front of him. “I’m afraid I forgot about you, but if you’ll forgive me, I’ll find you a juicy ham bone tomorrow.”
As if he understood her words, the dog wagged his tail and pushed his head against her hand for a pat before he dropped his nose to the biscuits. For a moment, Adriane was tempted to open the door wide and let the old dog come in to keep her company, but then she went back inside and shut the door behind her. An old dog sitting at her feet wasn’t going to make what she had to do any easier.
She sat down at the table and stared at the folded paper for a long moment. The black edges peeped out of the folds, and her hands felt heavy as she made herself open it up. The finality of the dark black headline type screamed at her. “Wade Darcy, 1801–1855.”
The obituary her father had written for himself was brief, terse almost, and not at all like something he would have written for anyone else. He gave his birthplace as near Richmond, Virginia, and listed his late parents’ names as Joseph and Emma Darcy. There was no mention of brothers or sisters, although Adriane
remembered him once talking about a brother who went west. She herself was listed as his only survivor, with one brief line about a wife, Katherine Darcy, preceding him in death. There was no mention of poor Henrietta at all.
He warmed to his subject a bit as he began an account of his accomplishments, especially when he came to how he’d established the Tribune in 1841, first as a weekly, then as a daily in 1848. A hint of pride crept into the words as he wrote about the newspaper rising in popularity until it became Louisville’s most widely read daily, one that was a beacon of light to all its readers.
As her eyes fastened on that line, she could almost hear him saying the words aloud. A beacon of light. That had been the Tribune’s creed for years, but her father had never said the words without a bit of awe mixed with his pride.
“Words have power, Adriane,” he’d told her more than once as they looked over a story together. “The right words can split the darkness of ignorance and light the way for our readers.”
With his voice echoing in her mind, she read the last paragraph Blake must have written, detailing how Wade Darcy had courageously sacrificed his life in an attempt to stop the riots. Then a few lines stated how sorely he would be missed not just by his loving daughter but by the whole community, but it was the last sentence she read over twice.
Today a great voice has been silenced, but the memory of that great voice will live on in the minds of all his friends and readers and long be an inspiration to those who follow in his path.
Adriane dropped the paper and stared at the shadows shifting uneasily around her. Now was when she was supposed to cry. She had saved her tears for just this moment, but though the tears were a crushing weight inside her, her eyes stayed dry.
The candle flame flickered, and the ghosts danced out of the shadows to mock her tearless eyes. Then there was one who was not a ghost.
She didn’t know how long Blake had been standing in the doorway before she became aware of him there. He made no sound until she turned her head to look at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you want me to go away?”
She started to tell him yes, that she wanted to be alone, but it seemed to be a time for the truth. “No,” she said softly.
As if he’d been holding his breath waiting for her answer, a whisper of air escaped him. He came across the narrow space separating them and pulled up a chair beside her. For a minute he didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her, but instead studied the candle that was nearly burned down and the newspaper in front of her. “It was a good, honest obituary,” he finally said.
“The part you added was kind,” Adriane said.
“Not kind. True. I may not have agreed with everything your father said or wrote, but he was a good newspaperman.”
She didn’t know why those words caused the tears to break loose inside her, but suddenly her eyes were flooded. She covered her face with her hands as she said, “I’m sorry.”
Gently he touched her hands. “Don’t hide your tears from me, Adriane. Let me share them.” He slid out of his chair onto his knees beside her and pulled her head down on his shoulder.
With relief, she leaned against him and didn’t try to stop the sobs that shook her body. Then after the last tear had emptied from her, he stayed on his knees beside her as he fished out his handkerchief and gently dried her cheeks. She peeked over at him a bit self-consciously as she said, “I’m all right now.”
He still didn’t climb up off his knees. Instead he looked oddly unsure of himself. After a moment, he said, “I want to properly propose to you, Adriane.”
“But we’re already married, Blake,” she said, remembering how she had forced Stan to propose to her in the carriage. She’d been so foolish then. She tried to pull Blake up. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” He took hold of her hands as his eyes burned into hers in the dim candlelight. “I don’t want there ever to be any doubts in your mind as to why I married you. It has nothing to do with presses or newspapers. It has only to do with how much I love you.”
“You love me?” A touch of wonder awoke in her heart.
“I love you more than life itself.” There was no way she could doubt his words, because he was opening his eyes to her and letting her glimpse his soul. He spoke his next words slowly and distinctly. “Adriane Darcy, will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” she said with no hesitation.
“Without conditions?”
“Without conditions.” And with those words she gave up all resistance to the love that wanted to flow out of her toward him.
“No matter what might have happened in the past or what might happen in the future?”
For a moment his words reminded her of all she didn’t know about him. What in his past would make him ask for such a promise? But then his eyes were there, promising nothing mattered but his love for her and her love for him. “I am your wife, Blake. The vows said till death do us part.”
The candle guttered, and the flame drowned in the melted wax. Darkness fell around them, but neither of them moved as if they did not want to let loose of this moment.
Finally Blake said, “Thank you, Adriane.” He stood up at last and reached down for her hand. “There are still a few hours before the newsboys come for the papers.” He hesitated for a bare few seconds before he went on. “Come to bed.”
She went with him willingly, her fears of what he might expect of her vanishing just as the ghosts who had followed her to the kitchen had dissolved into nothing but harmless shadows as soon as he had come in the room.
She was ready to surrender totally to him, yet when they lay down on her bed together, he demanded nothing. She tried to awkwardly tell him that he could take what he wished.
He gently brushed his lips against her hair, pulled her close to him, and whispered, “When the time is right, there will be no taking. Only giving. But now we’ll sleep.”
And so she did. When she next woke, the grainy gray light of dawn was slipping through her window. Blake’s arms were still warm around her and she lay without moving for a moment as she absorbed the feel of him against her and listened to his soft, even breathing. She had never felt so safe.
She didn’t know why. She had no reason to feel safe. She had every reason to believe that life was fragile and easily stolen. Her father was gone. The Tribune, which had been the center of her life and her father’s for so many years, might soon be gone as well. Yet with Blake’s arms around her, she felt safe.
The questions she’d had yesterday didn’t matter. Her eyes went to the boxes of files that she could just make out in the dawning light. If there were answers there, she would never look for them. The past didn’t matter. Eloise Vandemere, whoever she was, didn’t matter. Even if Blake had loved her once, he loved Adriane now, and that was all the answer she needed.
She turned her head slowly to study his face while he slept, but he was not asleep. His eyes were open and waiting for hers. And she knew the time for giving had come.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said softly and surrendered herself completely to him in every way.
28
Blake’s fingers trembled as he fumbled with the ribbons on Adriane’s chemise. She was so beautiful, her skin so incredibly soft under his hand. All through the early morning hours, he had held her close, breathing in her fragrance and hardly daring to move for fear she might pull away from him.
Passion had flooded through him more than once, but he had refused to give in to his desire for her. He wanted there to be no bad memory of their first time together. So he would wait until she was ready. He had been prepared to wait however long it took, but then she had surprised him by turning those beautiful eyes on him in the dawning morning light. Eyes that wanted him to touch her even as she feared what that touch might bring. Innocent eyes full of trust.
He wanted to keep that trus
t alive, but what if his touch didn’t bring her the pleasure simply breathing in her scent brought him? That fear of failing her made him clumsy as he tried to undo her chemise. So clumsy in fact that after a moment she reached up and untied the ribbons herself.
He peeled the fabric away and stared at her with the wonder of a boy first aware of the differences between men and women. He could feel her looking at him as if worried he might find her lacking, and he whispered to her how very beautiful she was. She seemed to relax a bit then, and he ran his fingers over the softness of her skin.
When she pulled in her breath sharply, he looked into her eyes. If there was any question left in his mind that she might not really be ready, she answered it by lifting her lips up to his. As soon as their lips touched, the fire consumed them both.
Long after their passion was spent, he held her, not wanting to surrender their closeness. He’d known it would be like this with Adriane, had known from the start their bodies would join as easily as their minds, but he hadn’t expected the sheer joy of receiving her love to make his heart feel as if it might burst. He had to wait for it to calm its beating before he could whisper the words of love into her soft hair. Words that, wonder of wonders, she repeated as softly back into his own ears.
The folded issues of the Tribune-Herald waiting for the newsboys down in the pressroom were forgotten as the gray of dawn gave way to morning. There was nothing but the feel of Adriane’s body next to his with nothing separating them.
At last he pulled away from her to let his eyes soak in the delicious wonder of her body again. He tried to slide his eyes quickly over the ugly bruises still evident on her arms so anger wouldn’t spoil this time for either of them, but the bruises were there. Not looking at them didn’t make them disappear. Very lightly he ran his fingers across them.
“He’ll never hurt you again,” he said, softly brushing the purple and green splotches with his lips.
Words Spoken True: A Novel Page 28
