by Sara Orwig
“Take her upstairs and show her, Michael,” Trevor Wenger said.
Michael grasped her hand, and she went with him, climbing a wide staircase carpeted in a forest green. In the room of toys, Michael ran to plop down on the floor beside an oval track. She looked at the metal train, a colorful replica, and she watched Michael’s small fingers wind the spring. Then the train moved around a track while Michael sat on the floor to watch it. Her gaze drifted over the toys to the four-poster bed.
“Michael, next time you come, I’ll have a different train to go on that track,” Trevor Wenger said, and she glanced up at him. She didn’t know how long it would be before she could talk Fortune into letting them return.
“Can you bring him back again this week?”
“No. I feel I—”
“Mama, please,” Michael said, tugging on her hand. “Just a little while.”
She looked into his wide, dark eyes and was torn. Trevor Wenger had won Michael over, but Fortune would be a different matter.
“We can’t come back this week.”
“Then please let me see him next week,” Trevor Wenger said.
Michael tugged on her hand but kept quiet, waiting expectantly, and she didn’t want to explain in front of him that Fortune was adamant abut Michael never seeing his grandfather.
“Just a short visit. This doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“All right. Next Tuesday morning. But if something happens and we can’t come, I can’t send word.”
“I’ll understand.”
“We should go now.”
“So soon?” Michael said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you next week, Michael. You may pick something small that you can carry easily to take home with you.”
“Thank you!” He moved to the bookcase to open the glass front and remove a book. As they started out the door, Michael lingered, wanting to wind the train one more time.
“Michael,” she said gently.
“Just once more and then I’ll come.”
Trevor Wenger smiled at him. As they reached the head of the stairs, he turned to face Claire. “Thank you more than you’ll ever be able to imagine for bringing him.”
She looked up as Michael appeared, and they all turned to go outside to the buggy. When they started to climb in, Trevor Wenger stepped forward and picked Michael up, suddenly hugging him and then setting him in the buggy. His gaze shifted to her. “He’s a fine boy, isn’t he?” he said in a husky voice.
“Yes,” she said, wishing Fortune would relent. Trevor Wenger should be able to see Michael.
“Thank you again. I’ll look forward to next week.”
She flicked the reins and rode down the horseshoe-shaped drive beneath curving branches of live oaks.
“Mama, will Papa ever stop hating Grandfather?”
“I hope so, Michael,” she said, pained that Michael was caught between two men who were such enemies. She wished both of them would stop a moment and think what it might do to Michael.
“I can’t tell him I’ve been to see Grandfather, can I?”
“I’ll tell him, Michael, before we go next week, but let me talk to him first. As soon as I have, I’ll tell you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She rode home, worrying about how to tell Fortune they had been to see Trevor Wenger. She dreaded an argument with him, particularly because they were becoming so close. Last night he had held her in his arms, stroking her, talking for hours into the night. Rolling on his side, he had propped his head on his elbow to study her.
“I think I’m falling in love with my wife.”
She ran her fingers along his jaw. “I hope so.”
The memory filled her with joy, and she didn’t want to do anything to wreck the fragile beginnings of love. She sighed and turned up their drive. Climbing out of the carriage, while Michael went running to the back and Badru came out to take the buggy and unhitch the team, she walked in a back door, entering the wide hallway. The house was quiet, sunlight pouring through the windows. She removed her tiny silk hat and placed it on a table.
She was about to put down the box that Trevor Wenger had given her when Fortune stepped out of the door of the back parlor.
“Fortune! What are you doing—” The words died on her lips as she looked into his blue eyes that blazed with rage. His expression was as fiery as that first night.
He reached out to take her arm and pulled her into the parlor and slammed the door.
Chapter 22
“Where’s Michael?”
“He’s in the back. Badru is out there with him.” She could barely speak, she was so frightened. “Fortune, let me explain—” His fingers bit into her arms; his voice was quiet and laced with rage.
“I told you, Claire, you were never to let him talk to Trevor Wenger! Dammit to hell, I had your promise. I trusted you!” He looked down and took the gold box from her hand.
“Fortune—”
“So he paid you,” he said with such contempt she flinched.
She took a deep breath and raised her chin. “He’s Michael’s grandfather and he loves Michael—”
“The hell he does! I know how he treated his daughter, and I’m not going to argue about it. He’ll try to take Michael, don’t you understand? You promised me!” He turned and threw the box against the hearth.
She felt as if something were breaking inside her. “Fortune, he loves Michael, and I was going to tell you—”
“Claire, I’ve talked to Penthea and Badru. One or the other of them is to be with Michael all the time. You’re not going to be alone with my son again!”
“Fortune! You can’t—”
“Yes, I can,” he said in a tight voice. “I can’t trust you. Michael isn’t going to see Trevor Wenger ever again. Not as long as I have breath in my body!”
“Fortune, please listen to me,” she said frantically.
“I know the man. You don’t.” Fortune strode past her, yanking open the door and then slamming it behind him. She stared at it, tears forming in her eyes. She knew she had lost what love Fortune was beginning to feel for her.
She leaned against the door as tears streamed down her cheeks. She prayed when he calmed, he would rethink what he had said. She turned to place her forehead against the door as a sob wracked her.
That night, neither Fortune and Michael appeared for dinner, and she wondered if he would try to separate Michael from her as much as he could. She sat in the parlor, waiting to hear them come home until midnight, wondering where he was with Michael. Finally she went upstairs to put on her nightgown and wrapper, sitting by the open window to watch the drive.
It was two in the morning when she heard the buggy and looked down to see Fortune carry Michael into the house. She listened to him as he went down the hall to Michael’s room and heard his footsteps come back toward her door.
She held her breath, remembering last night and the hours they had talked, the lovemaking. His footsteps went past her room, and she heard the door close to the bedroom he had used before he had moved into hers.
She quickly went to his door and knocked. He swung it open, his hair an unruly tangle, a stubble of new beard showing on his jaw, his shirt already tossed aside. Without asking, she brushed past him and stepped inside, closing the door and facing him. Only one lamp burned, and it threw long shadows across the room.
“Where’s Michael been? You can tell me when you’re going to be gone like that,” she said, aching to reach out and grasp his hand and plead with him to forget the morning.
“I’ve had him with me. He slept on a sofa in my office, and I’ve been taking care of him,” he said with clipped words, and she could see that his rage was as strong as earlier. He didn’t want her in his room.
She pursed her lips. “Fortune, you’re being unreasonable—”
“He’s tried to kill me,” he answered in a cold voice. “And he did kill Marilee. He’s incapable of love. He wants Michael for his own selfish pur
poses, and he’ll try to take him sooner or later. I’m not going to argue with you, Claire.” They faced each other; he stood with his feet spread apart, his fists on his hips, his blue eyes blazing, and she realized she had lost his regard completely. She felt the sting of tears but forced herself not to cry, not when he looked as if he was on the verge of asking her to leave.
She blindly reached for the door and hurried into the hall, hearing him slam the door behind her. She rushed to her room, closed her door, and threw herself across the bed to cry, hoping it muffled the sounds.
Three days later, Claire asked Badru to take a note to Trevor Wenger.
“Ma’am, I don’t think I should do that.”
“Mr. O’Brien hasn’t asked you not to see him or talk to him, has he?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I need to let Mr. Wenger know that he won’t be seeing Michael again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Badru.”
She watched him go, wondering if Trevor Wenger would fly into a rage that matched Fortune’s or if he would accept what Fortune decreed. Or would he try now to take Michael from them?
She rubbed her forehead. She had a headache. She had slept little, feeling isolated. Fortune had taken Michael with him and avoided her. They hadn’t eaten a meal together for the past three days, and she wondered if they ever would again.
Two weeks later in the warm days of September, her relationship with Fortune had not improved, and she was aware that Michael was constantly trailed by Badru, or if he wasn’t present, occasionally Penthea sat quietly in the room with him. Michael was more solemn, and she was angry with Fortune for being so blind to what he was doing to his child.
The next week came without any change. She spent her mornings tutoring Michael, having lost all interest in making new friends in Atlanta.
One afternoon as she was coming out of the dry-goods store, Alaric approached. He was in civilian clothing, wearing a gray coat and pants, and he looked dashing with his wide-brimmed hat set squarely on his head and shading his eyes. He stopped in front of her, and the moment she looked up at him, she knew that he had talked to Fortune.
“Claire, I’ve wanted to see you.” He glanced around at her buggy. “Let me drive you. I know a place where we can talk.”
She knew it might start gossip, but she no longer cared. She couldn’t do any deeper damage to her relationship with Fortune. She nodded, and when Alaric held out his hand to help her into the buggy, she placed her hand in his, smoothing her blue and white dimity skirt. He climbed up beside her to drive, leaving town and turning to her as the team moved steadily along.
“I’ve talked to Fortune, and he’s in a rage over your taking Michael to Wenger’s.”
She looked away, fighting tears, afraid sympathy would completely wreck her control.
“Claire, I don’t know if you can undo what’s done, but he’s right about Wenger. I was the one who found Fortune when Wenger gave him that lashing. He meant to kill him slowly and painfully, beating him half to death and leaving him tied in the woods to die of exposure and starvation. That’s a hell of a way to treat your daughter’s husband and the father of your grandson.”
She wiped her eyes, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders. As soon as he did, she glanced at him. “Alaric, don’t make it worse by starting rumors,” she said, shrugging away his arm.
“All right, dammit, I’m going to drive out of town where we can be alone and talk.”
They rode in silence until they reached the rolling hills covered with trees. She saw remains of the defenses for war, wondering if the entire South was as torn up as Atlanta. New Orleans and Natchez hadn’t been, but she had heard that Vicksburg had had a terrible siege. Her thoughts shifted back to Fortune, for they were never long on anything else. Alaric halted beneath the shade of an oak and turned to her, pulling her into his arms.
Her self-control vanished and she began to cry, sitting stiffly with her hands balled in her lap. “I love him terribly, Alaric. And Michael and his grandfather seemed to like each other. Trevor Wenger was as considerate as possible to Michael. They’re blood kin.” She wrung her hands together, trying to get control of her emotions, hurting so badly.
“Claire, if I were Fortune, I wouldn’t want Michael with him. It took a monster to do what he did to Fortune. And I’m sure Marilee suffered when he forced her to go home with him.”
Wiping her eyes with a damp handkerchief, Claire shifted out of his arms and looked up at him, realizing that Alaric had none of Fortune’s volatile disposition or his unrelenting will and toughness. Yet if Alaric said he would keep Michael from Trevor Wenger, then both Alaric and Fortune had seen a side to the man that she hadn’t.
“You would keep a child from even talking to his grandfather?”
“If it were Wenger and he had treated me the way he’s treated Fortune, yes, I would.”
“He seemed to love Michael. If you feel that way, how much more Fortune must …” Her words trailed away. Tears came again and she cried quietly. Finally getting control of her emotions, she edged away to wipe her eyes. “Sorry. It’s done now and it can’t ever be undone.”
“Yes, it can. Tell him you were wrong and you’re sorry. It may take time, but other than Wenger, he’s reasonable. You won him over once when he was even angrier. You can get him back again.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, staring at leaves blowing slightly in the breeze. “He’s too angry. He said he would never trust me again.”
“He’ll change. He loves you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He was beginning to, I think, but that’s over.”
“I don’t think it’s over,” Alaric said quietly, and she glanced at him. He reached up to wipe tears off her cheeks. “Ah, Claire, I wish you weren’t so in love with him. I would take you from him.”
She smiled and patted his hand. “You’re so kind, Alaric.”
“Oh, Lordy. No woman has ever told me I’m so kind.”
She gave him another slight smile, knowing he was trying to cheer her. “He takes Michael, and I can’t even see him. Michael is withdrawing into a shell.”
“Michael will adjust. Fortune will calm down and see what he’s doing when his anger cools. In the meantime tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you love him.”
“I don’t think that will mean anything to him.”
“Claire, don’t ever take Michael to see Wenger again.”
She looked into Alaric’s blue eyes and wondered if she had run a terrible risk with Michael. “It seems impossible that his own grandfather could be a monster,” she said softly.
“He is. You know I view the world more lightly than Fortune, but on this issue he’s right.”
She shivered, feeling her loss, aching for Fortune to be sitting talking to her. “I better go home.”
He nodded, stroking her cheek. “I’m doing what I can with Fortune. He’ll calm down.”
She didn’t think he would. She knew how implacable Fortune could be. She rode without seeing her surroundings, barely aware when Alaric stopped at her drive. As he jumped down and handed her the reins, she realized where they were.
“You were in front of the store,” she said. “I’ll take you back there—”
“Nonsense. Only a few minutes’ walk. Now give me a smile and tell Fortune you did the wrong thing.”
She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Alaric.”
“Remember, you can have my help or my brilliant company at any time, day or night.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember.” She turned up the drive, looking at the house that now seemed so big and so empty.
Four days later, she realized she was very late having her monthly. Every day she watched the calendar, not daring to hope or plan or think, yet down deep knowing she wanted Fortune’s baby whether he forgave her or not.
She waited, letting the week pass, hoping she was carrying his child.
Fortune came into the office from the mill. He mi
ssed having Michael with him, and he glanced at the empty sofa where Michael sat curled up with a book much of the time. He lit the lamps and sat at his desk to go over his books. Cal and Sophia had had to postpone their trip to Atlanta, and now Fortune was glad because he didn’t feel like entertaining even his brother.
Anger smoldered in him over Clair taking Michael to Wenger’s house. It astounded Fortune that Wenger had allowed her to leave with him. He could have easily taken Michael, prevented Claire from going home, and Fortune wouldn’t have known for hours.
He realized his jaw was clamped so tightly it was aching. He leaned back in the chair, combing his hair away from his forehead with his fingers. His blue chambray shirtsleeves were turned back, and he saw a smudge of ink on his arm.
“You’re working late again,” came a cheerful voice, and Fortune looked up as Alaric entered.
“Yes. If you would come to work with me, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
“You’d do it anyway.” Alaric sauntered into the room and sank down on a chair, draping his leg over the arm.
“Spare me the lecture.”
“No. You look miserable, Claire is miserable—”
Fortune raised his head, anger rising. “So you’ve been by to console her.”
“Don’t start on me,” Alaric said. “She didn’t even know I was alive. She can barely carry on a coherent conversation.”
Fortune tossed down his pen and stared at the lamp. “Alaric, let’s not go over this again.”
“I told her to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to her about it.”
“She’s sorry. Remember, you married a courageous, independent woman who is accustomed to making her own decisions and acting on them. You know she wouldn’t risk Michael for anything. She made a mistake. Haven’t you ever made one?”
Anger shot through Fortune. “Alaric, you’re straining my patience. It’s a wonder Wenger didn’t take Michael and leave for Europe that morning. And if something happens to me, you know he’ll take Michael from her immediately.”
“Then you shouldn’t be working out here alone late at night.”
