Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Marriage to Byrch in another week. It was enough to make her weak in the knees. A no-strings marriage. How could she possibly honor that when all she had to do was look at Byrch and her determination dissolved?

  On his way downstairs, Byrch peeked into Callie’s room to find her still asleep. He recognized a small seed of hope somewhere within him. Patience. Time. After they were married, he’d wear her down and convince her, somehow, that the two of them were meant for one another. Time.

  Chapter Thirty

  Callie stood beside Byrch in the parlor, listening to Father Muldoon intone a prayer to bless this marriage. Marriage! She still couldn’t believe Byrch was actually making her go through with this.

  Kevin and Bridget Darcy acted as witnesses at Byrch’s insistence, their faces constrained and disapproving. Callie had had no say in the matter. Byrch seemed determined that his new wife should enjoy immediate acceptance, even though he realized the Darcys only participated because their social ambitions prevented them from refusing. After all, Byrch could be the future mayor of New York City.

  The pronouncement was made. They were man and wife before the eyes of God and the world. Father Muldoon beamed and even kissed the bride. Byrch heaved a mighty sigh of relief, so loud that Edward shot him a warning glance. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until the marriage was a fait accompli. He’d been certain something would go awry and that Callie would never be his.

  Edward served a luscious luncheon—succulent little finger sandwiches, cold wine, and a festive three-tiered wedding cake as the centerpiece for the elegantly appointed table. Kevin toasted the bride and groom, and Bridget pretended to smile at Callie, but her eyes were cold with speculation as she lifted her glass.

  Callie forced a smile and cringed inwardly at what Bridget must be thinking. The woman’s eyes were suffused with suspicion and speculation. How could she know this wasn’t a marriage made in heaven unless Byrch had confided the details to her? The sudden thought was so degrading that Callie felt faint and sick to her stomach.

  After lunch, Bridget and Kevin left, offering their wishes for a long and happy life, their words ringing in Callie’s ears even after the door closed behind them.

  Edward carried the dishes out to the kitchen and heaved a mighty sigh. He was becoming as nervous as an old woman with thirteen grandchildren underfoot.

  “What shall we do?” Byrch asked, taking Callie’s hand in his.

  “Do?” She stared at him, not understanding. She withdrew her hand from his, remembering her suspicions that he’d confided intimacies to Bridget.

  “Yes, do. You vetoed the idea of a honeymoon in Saratoga Springs. Everyone at the paper thinks I’m going on a honeymoon. That includes you too, sweeting. You won’t have your column to write for another ten days, and I cleared my desk yesterday.”

  “I . . . I didn’t . . . I mean. . .”

  “You haven’t given it any thought since this is a marriage in name only? I almost understand that. You could sit in the parlor. I could retire to my den. We could both annoy Edward, or we could go to our respective rooms.” Byrch had to regain control of himself. He was a bridegroom, for God’s sake, and his bride didn’t give a damn about him! “All right then, if you can’t plan days ahead, what shall we do with the rest of the day? You’re all dressed up. I’m all dressed up. Might I say you look lovely, sweeting? Even Bridget thought so and was green-eyed with jealousy.”

  The idea of Bridget green with jealousy pleased Callie, and she didn’t notice Byrch’s arm slipping around her waist. “Byrch, I hope you aren’t too disappointed about our not going to Saratoga. I just didn’t want to be around all those people in such a popular resort.” It was very close to the truth. Being around other couples celebrating their honeymoons would create a romantic atmosphere. Byrch would only have to look at her, and she would succumb to him, she knew she would.

  “I am disappointed, Callie. I understand how you feel, but sometimes a new atmosphere can give you a better perspective about things—things like your life, mine, our life together. But I certainly have no intention of insisting that you do anything you don’t want to do.” He removed his hand from her waist, his voice cool and distant.

  “Is that another way of saying you’re already regretting this marriage and the bargain we made?”

  “No, damn it, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Why do you always have to look for hidden motives in everything I say or do? Why can’t you just accept me for what I am? I offered a trip, a honeymoon trip. You declined, for whatever silly reasons you have, for whatever excuse, and that’s the end of if. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to my study and read the paper, that is, unless you want to read it first.”

  “No, you go ahead. I think I’ll write a letter to my mother. Certainly she’ll want to hear of my wedding.”

  “And of course, you have so much to tell her. You’d better get on with it, all those interesting details will take hours,” Byrch snapped.

  Now what had she done? “You see, you’re doing it again. There’s no reason for you to take such a tone with me. Why shouldn’t I write my mother? It was your idea we get married, to save your reputation, remember?” Callie said stonily. Reading the paper. On her wedding day he was going to read the paper. And just what was she supposed to do? She had no columns to write for another ten days. She’d be damned if she would work in the garden on her wedding day. Edward wouldn’t want her puttering around his kitchen. She’d already taken a bath. That left a nap. Imagine taking a nap, alone, on her wedding day. Tears stung her eyes. Was this to be the rest of her life? “Read your damn paper and see if I care!” Callie sniffed as she gathered her skirts in her hand to start the climb up the long staircase.

  Byrch wished he were a child so he could throw himself on the floor and kick and scream. What did she want from him? Couldn’t she see his agony? Did she hate their agreement so much she was now going to write all the nasty details to her mother? Lord help him, all he wanted to do was love her, take care of her, and be the father of her children. Was that so damn much to ask? By God, it wasn’t. He had been almost sure she would agree to the honeymoon trip to Saratoga. Perhaps that was wrong. He shouldn’t have used the word honeymoon. A trip. An excursion to a new place is what he should have said. He had been so sure he could win her over, being with her twenty-four hours a day. People simply did not live like this!

  Byrch rubbed at his throbbing temples as he spread out the paper. The words were blurred, indistinct, as he tried to focus on one of the columns. Was all of this a mistake? Was it going to get better, or would it get worse? If only he knew. Perhaps he should send Callie back to Ireland, settle a sum of money on her, and never see her again. That’s what he should do. She was miserable living with him, and now that he had forced this unwanted marriage on her, she would withdraw from him even more. How in the living hell had he allowed himself to be placed in such a predicament? Because he loved her, heart and soul. He knew now that his love wasn’t returned; he should simply cut his losses and try to live his life without Callie.

  Byrch lifted his gaze to the ceiling. What the hell was she doing up there? Crying her eyes out? Crying because she made a terrible mistake and didn’t know how to rectify it? He snorted at the implausible idea. Callie was tough.

  Tossing down the paper, Byrch bounded up the stairs. Without ceremony he threw open the door, surprised that it wasn’t locked. He felt mystified when he saw that she wasn’t crying or writing to her mother, but staring out the window. In a brisk, businesslike tone he made his announcement. “Starting tomorrow morning, I’m going to show you New York. If you’re going to work on my paper, you’re going to be the best goddamn reporter there is, next to me. I want you downstairs and ready at eight-thirty sharp. This is how we’re going to spend our honeymoon. I think I should tell you that while I was downstairs, I had a second thought, and that was to settle a sum of money on you and send you back to Ireland.”

  “What?” Callie ga
sped hardly believing the words she was hearing. Send her back? Give her money and send her back? “I don’t understand. Why would you send me back? You were the one who wanted to get married. If you were thinking of sending me back, why did you marry me?” Good Lord, surely this shivery, quaking voice wasn’t hers.

  “I’ve been known to be a fool at times, and that was one of those times. My eyes are open now. But keep it in mind.”

  “But that’s a . . . a threat,” Callie said in a hushed whisper. Surely that wasn’t what he meant. One look at Byrch’s face told her that was exactly what he meant. Now that she was married to him he could do whatever he pleased, and if it pleased him to send her back to Dublin, he would do it. She ached with the need to cry, but instead she stiffened her back and composed her face. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in the morning. I won’t be here for dinner, so don’t wait for me.”

  Not for the world would she ask him where he was going. The least she could do was ask him where he was going, Byrch thought. He could come up with some kind of lie. A long walk in the park, he could feed the pigeons; he could watch the children playing. Hell, there were any number of things a newly married man could do if his wife wanted no part of him.

  Settling herself at her small desk, Callie picked up her pen to finish the letter to her mother:

  . . . and so, Mum, things are certainly different from what I expected. I’m so mixed up. Nothing seems to be going right for me. No matter what I do, it doesn’t seem to be right. I’ve been thinking a lot about returning to Ireland. Do you think that’s a good idea, Mum? I would have a little money, and if we were careful, I could get some kind of housework and we’d all be together again. I’m married, but I’m not married, Mum. I don’t know what to feel about that. I can’t take much more. I’m afraid to do or say anything for fear it will be the wrong thing. Byrch wanted to go to Saratoga Springs for a honeymoon. I said I didn’t want to go, but, Mum, I want to go. I have a long time yet before I can get back to work on the paper; I have to wait for the honeymoon to be over before I can start writing my columns again. If I haven’t learned anything else, Mum, I’ve learned that I can’t step out of my place again. Every time I reach out for happiness, for what I want, it’s taken away from me in the most terrible way.

  I don’t have anything to do right now, so I’m going to take another bath in that bathtub I told you about. Did you ever hear of anyone who took two baths in one day? I think I might be doing a lot of that in the days to come.

  This is the first letter I’ve written since I became Callie Kenyon four hours ago. Does that sound nice, Mum? Write to me, Mum, I need to hear from you. I need someone who loves me.

  Your daughter,

  Callie

  Byrch walked aimlessly for over an hour. He was unaware of the chattering, scampering children who raced past him chasing a kite on a long string. He paid no notice to an angry bumblebee that buzzed directly over his head, and he completely ignored a stray dog that yipped at his heels. Once he looked overhead as he neared a street corner to see where he was. He continued his aimless walk, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. His mind buzzed as angrily as the bee circling his head. Was there such a thing as backing oneself into a corner? If there was, that was exactly what he had done. Whatever in the world possessed him to threaten Callie with sending her back to Ireland? His stomach heaved when he realized that in the end that might be the best decision for both of them.

  A small boy in tattered knickers raced past Byrch, almost knocking him off balance. The quick sidestep he took to get out of the child’s way forced his dark thoughts from his mind. A moment later he heard his name called. “Oooh-hoo, Byrch.”

  “Flanna! I didn’t realize where I was for the moment. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “There won’t be many more like this one, so you better enjoy it,” Flanna trilled. “Aren’t you a little far from home, Byrch?” Setting her basket of flowers on the low brick wall, she watched Byrch expectantly.

  “I had something on my mind, and I find it helps to clear the cobwebs if I walk and think things through. Have you found that to be true?”

  “For me, it’s working in the garden. During the winter months I work in the greenhouse. My dear, departed husband had it built for me. I do so like earthy things, all manner of earthy things,” Flanna said.

  “I do too.” Christ, what was he doing here carrying on this stupid conversation with Flanna Beauchamp? Because you have nothing better to do, an inner voice answered.

  “If you aren’t going anywhere in particular, why don’t you come in and join me in a cup of tea. Or something stronger if you prefer. I was just about to go in and fix myself a cup. It’s been a long day.” She waited for Byrch’s reply.

  Hell, why not? He certainly had nothing better to do. Flanna could be entertaining when she wanted to be, and he had always found her amusing. Since he’d first met her and her parents at Bridget’s dinner party, Flanna had married a rich but elderly man. She was recently widowed and had resumed her maiden name, knowing it was more influential than her married name of Skaggs.

  “I’ll pass on the tea but take you up on some brandy if you have it.”

  “If I have it?” Flanna cooed. “Simon left me a well-stocked bar. You name it, and I have it, right down to Simon’s grandmother’s best crystal.” Her laugh tinkled, and Byrch thought it was one of the most pleasant sounds he had heard in a long time. Yes, Flanna could be entertaining.

  Byrch walked around the low stone wall and marveled at the colorful blooms in the wide expanse of green velvety lawn. It was every bit as pretty as Callie’s garden. He watched as Flanna stripped off her gloves and slipped one arm through the basket and her other arm through his. He didn’t know why, but he thought the moves were the most seductive he had ever seen. Jesus, she must make a real production out of taking off her clothes, he thought.

  He liked the sound of the black silk dress rustling about her feet as they walked around to the back door. Not everyone could wear black the way Flanna wore it. White skin, ebony hair, and then the black dress. It could do things to a man.

  Flanna settled Byrch in a small sitting room off the main parlor. “Now you sit there and put your feet up. You look tense, Byrch. Relax. I’ll be back in a minute.” She was as good as her word, returning in moments with his drink on a silver tray. She excused herself a second time to get her tea. It was a pleasant room, light and cheery, much like Flanna herself. Colorful prints dotted the walls, and the furniture was low and comfortable. A man’s room. It must have been Simon’s room, he decided. A man could fall asleep in a chair like this and wake without being stiff and cranky. He liked it. He had to remember to ask her where she got it.

  Flanna settled herself across from him, her skirt hiked to show trim ankles. “So tell me, Byrch, how are things at the paper?”

  “Good. Very good as a matter of fact.” He had to keep his mind as well as his eyes off the slow moving ankle. “Circulation is up. We have a new reporter that is getting to the heart of things. Home delivery is going to be available soon. Good. Very good.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Flanna said lightly over the rim of her teacup. “What was it that was on your mind that you had to work out by walking? Perhaps I can help. I’m a good listener. Simon said I was the best listener he ever knew. Simon always said things like that. I do miss having a man to fuss over.”

  “You’ll marry again someday. Some lucky man will sweep you off your feet.”

  “I wish I could count on that,” Flanna laughed. “He would have to be a pretty special man for me to give up what I have now. A very special man, someone like . . . you perhaps,” Flanna teased lightly.

  Byrch almost choked on the fiery brandy. Flanna was off her chair in a minute, thumping him on the back and pouring another glass, urging Byrch to drink quickly. “It won’t kill you, it will help. Drink,” she said authoritatively. Byrch drank. “There now, you see, I was right. Don’t slump so.
I’ll just massage your neck and shoulders, and you’ll feel better in a minute. I used to do this for Simon all the time.”

  “Simon sure must have been a lucky devil,” Byrch muttered as he felt the long slim fingers work at his neck. “Hmmm, that does feel good.”

  Flanna’s tinkling laugh seemed to circle the room. “Why do you think poor Simon died? Lord, he was only sixty-two. I just killed him with love and devotion.”

  And that’s not all, Byrch thought to himself. “Keep that up, Flanna, and I’ll go to sleep on you.”

  “Would that be so terrible? I have seventeen rooms in this house. Of course, people would talk. Drink your brandy and relax. Let yourself go and enjoy what I’m doing. This is the best medicine for headaches or any kind of problem. Body contact. Your body, my fingers,” Flanna said wickedly. Byrch could feel his eyes getting heavier and heavier as Flanna crooned to him, all the while working on his neck and shoulder muscles. He could tell when Flanna withdrew and took her place across from him. One sleepy eye opened. All that black and all that creamy white skin. She suddenly reminded him of a vulture, a hungry vulture, as she stared at him across her teacup.

  Flanna sat late into the night, sipping cup after cup of tea as she watched Byrch sleep. He was a handsome devil. She could do worse. With her money and his newspaper she could stand this town on its ear. But first she would have to find out a little more about the young woman rumored to be living in his house. Bridget would know. Bridget would tell all.

  Flanna sat facing the small onyx clock on the mantel. It read 3:15 in the morning. Byrch had slept for nearly eight hours. Poor man, he must be exhausted. It would be a shame to wake him. When she noticed that he was stirring, she slumped a little lower in her chair and closed her eyes.