The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  “Not having you.” She felt his fingers beneath her skirt, meandering up her calf.

  She pressed her hand atop his firmly, but kissed him gently. “I can’t risk becoming pregnant—not now.” Surely he understood? They’d already discussed this. “We’ll have to wait.”

  “Until you finish medical school—until we’re finally married?” he asked. “For God’s sakes, Marie, I’m a physician. There are ways to prevent these things.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Are there now? And this is how you court a woman?” They were both Catholic—this would never do.

  Matthew looked stunned. He spoke slowly, as though she were a child. “No, it’s not,” he said without elaborating.

  She wondered if Matthew believed the lie that had circulated at the college—about her supposed lover. Even if he’d dismissed that talk, Marie did have an illegitimate child. Oh, yes—now she understood. Her stomach twisted.

  She fumed, “You think because I had a child out of wedlock that I’m tainted, that I no longer have morals? That was over eleven years ago, and since then I’ve worn my fingers to the bone making my own way in this world—keeping my daughter out of the poorhouse—and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you ruin my chance to become a surgeon!” Trembling, Marie grasped the doorknob.

  Matthew reached for her arms, forcing her to face him. “Come now, Marie, don’t talk rot. I think no such thing.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” she retorted. “You’ll never know!” She tried to tear herself from him, but he held her so tightly, she could barely breathe.

  “You’re right, Marie, I don’t know,” he said calmly. He pulled back to meet her gaze, but held her firmly. “Forgive me. I allowed my emotions to overrule my manners.” He smiled tentatively. “And I’d like to make it up to you.”

  Marie arched a skeptical eyebrow and waited.

  “Saturday, my sister-in-law’s hosting a party at her home in St. Helena. I’d hate to go alone. Do come with me. She’s dying to meet you.”

  Marie smiled warily. Their affair was intended to be clandestine, but he had told his sister-in-law and brother about her. That had to be a good sign. Then she remembered that his family was one of the wealthiest in San Francisco. She had been raised simply; she didn’t know how to behave in that kind of company, and she hated small talk.

  “It’s a little too early, don’t you think?” she asked. “What if word gets out that we were seen together?”

  “I doubt any faculty or students will be hiding in my brother’s garden in St. Helena, but if it makes you feel better, why don’t you come with Sara and Philippe? No one will be suspicious. I’ll send a car for all of you.”

  Send a car? The cost of that alone would pay for a new dress for Adeline. She looked at him blankly. Did he understand how little she had?

  “Nonsense, we’ll take the train,” Marie replied. Perhaps Rose or Aurora could watch the children for the day with Adeline’s help. Then something else squelched her optimism. “Will your parents be there?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

  “You think I’d feed you to the wolves this early on? No, and that’s the whole point. I’d like you to meet my brother and sister-in-law first. They’re very modern.” Everything about Matthew was modern: his profession, his clothes, his cars and his tastes. He belonged with a rich socialite who would know what to serve at fabulous parties and who would decorate his office in the latest styles. What on earth was he doing with her?

  To Marie’s disappointment, Sara and Philippe were eager to accompany her to Bridget Donnelly’s house party when they discussed it Friday morning. As much as she welcomed their support, she really wasn’t looking forward to meeting Matthew’s family.

  Sara fussed far more than Marie expected at the news, dragging her over to the looking glass. “We only have a day to find you the proper attire,” she complained.

  “I’ll just wear my blue dress,” Marie offered.

  “Over my dead body,” Sara said as she sifted through the hangers in her closet. “Too long, too wide, wrong color.” She sighed. “Listen, Marie, I’ve met Bridget Donnelly and her daughter, and even on the train platform at midday, they were dressed to the nines in silk and lace. They looked like a pair of candied cakes!” Sara laughed. “As nice as they are, I refuse to send you there not looking the part.”

  Marie had earmarked every last penny of her savings for tuition, books and Adeline’s needs. “I can only spare about fifteen dollars,” she said, calculating the amount she was saving by not traveling back and forth to the city this summer.

  “That will buy you the top half of the dress, and maybe a hat,” Sara said, tongue in cheek. “I’ll give you the rest.”

  “You’re just getting back on your feet,” Marie objected. “I can’t take your money.”

  “That’s nonsense, Marie. I made some extra money last weekend. I’ll give it to you and, in return, you’ll work the wagon next Saturday. Fair enough?” Sara’s face beamed with such anticipation that Marie couldn’t possibly refuse.

  Marie fiddled with the white silk ribbon trimming her lilac cotton dress and then pinned on the fashionable straw hat with matching flowers that Sara had insisted on. Marie inspected her reflection. Her waist was small, bound by an excruciatingly tight whalebone corset. Her hair was dark and lustrous, and her skin was smooth and even. The corners of her mouth hung down now, though, making her appear uptight and grumpy. She forced herself to smile, and the apples of her cheeks brightened with color. Matthew said he liked to see her relax, and Marie couldn’t recall ever seeing him tense. The memory of their first kiss in the garden sparked a tingling feeling from her lips down to her curled toes. Marie closed her eyes and sighed.

  She was capable of delivering twins singlehandedly, naming every part of the human anatomy and suturing a wound, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why Matthew Donnelly had set his sights on her.

  When they arrived at the St. Helena train station, they were pleased to find a hackney waiting for them. On their drive, as they neared a bend in the road, Marie heard the string quartet before she could even see the house. The swell of the violins and the deep lament of the cello set her on edge. Sara must have sensed this, for she squeezed Marie’s white-gloved hand and smiled. “You’re beautiful, Marie. He’s going to be bowled over, trust me.” Marie managed a weak smile, but as the wheels of their hackney crunched on the driveway gravel, her eyes drifted over Jimmy and Bridget Donnelly’s immense house. The three-story Victorian home was one of the largest Marie had seen outside of the city, complete with a turret, stained glass windows, a carpet of clipped green grass and hedges sliced into neat cubes.

  She gripped Philippe’s hand as she stepped down, but continued to watch for movement from the front door, which hung wide open. Sunlight flooded the hallway, and Marie could see through the house to a lush patch of backyard. The air smelled of sweet honeysuckle, barbecue and freshly baked bread.

  As they drew nearer, Matthew appeared at the top of the front steps. His arms opened to welcome them. Marie’s breath faltered: he was wearing an ivory linen suit, blue-striped silk tie and a straw boater. His cheeks looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. She linked her arm through Sara’s and locked her shaky knees. “Calm down,” Sara whispered as Matthew approached and shook Philippe’s hand vigorously.

  “Welcome,” he said, smiling warmly as he looked from Sara to Marie, and ushering them to the side lawn. “Do come around back, and make yourselves at home. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  A white tent, its sides billowing in the light wind, dominated the center of the sprawling back lawn. A beautiful old oak, standing twice the height of the house, shaded a throng of guests who were reclining lazily against its trunk and twirling on the rope swing hitched to its lowest branch. A loud crack sounded from the far side of the yard, capturing Sara’s attention. “Matthew, is that croquet they’re playing?” She nodded toward a huddle of men striking balls through wickets with short w
ooden mallets. “We watched croquet at the Olympics during the World’s Fair a couple of years ago, didn’t we, Philippe?”

  “Yes, but this is something different,” Philippe replied, squinting at the players on the court.

  “The American version—a game called roque,” Matthew agreed. “A bit more scientific than croquet.”

  “I venture it’s a vast deal more fun to play than to watch,” Sara teased.

  “Absolutely. I’d encourage you to try it, except when my brother Jimmy and his friends play, things can get a bit heated. I wouldn’t want to injure your delicate ears.”

  Sara shot Marie a knowing glance. “Believe me, Matthew, after living in New York, Marie and I have heard much worse than you could imagine!”

  He laughed. “I have no doubt. May I offer you some punch, or wine perhaps?”

  While they waited for Matthew to return with refreshments, Philippe took a look around. “I hate to break it to you, Marie,” he whispered, leaning in closer, “but see the couple standing under the oak tree?” He nodded at an older pair sipping champagne. “They are Mr. and Mrs. Rourke Donnelly, Matthew’s parents. You’d best prepare yourself.” Philippe winked, patting the small of Marie’s back. “You’ll be fine, old girl. Just be yourself.”

  Before long, Matthew strolled back with champagne, a beautiful strawberry-blond woman by his side. He introduced her as his sister-in-law, Bridget. She recognized Sara and Philippe at once, and soon struck up a conversation with Marie. After several minutes of chatter about the weather, Marie’s studies at Cooper and the variety of guests, Bridget proposed the unthinkable.

  “Marie, dear, you must allow me to introduce you to Matthew’s mother,” she insisted with a radiant smile, taking Marie’s elbow and guiding her in the direction of the oak tree. Mrs. Donnelly, in a wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with yards of white tulle and fresh flowers, was holding court, surrounded by the younger women at the party.

  A broad smile lit up Bridget’s porcelain complexion. “You know, Jimmy, Matthew and I went on a delightful tour of the Loire countryside in our motorcar two years ago. My favorite châteaux were Chenonceau and Chambord—such grandeur! Matthew disagreed entirely, of course. The Château de Sully-sur-Loire was his favorite. Do you know it?” Marie shook her head, wondering what their châteaux tour had to do with anything. Bridget continued, “The medieval fortress there stands on the edge of the Loire River.” She looked across the yard to Matthew, who was sharing a drink with his father. “Anyhow, Matthew loved its elegant exterior: high turrets crowned with pepper-pot roofs, wide moats filled to the brim, and an enormous keep.” She paused, shifting toward Marie. “But he was most captivated by the apartments inside,” she added. “The interior was flooded with light, which made the solid stone walls and barrel-vaulted ceilings so beautiful. Matthew insisted that the château’s real beauty was in its strength—it had been home to three families over a thousand years. He’s always had a knack for discerning the true nature of things.” Bridget leaned in confidingly, whispering, “And once he’s made up his mind, no one has the power to dissuade him.”

  With that, they approached Mrs. Donnelly. To Marie’s chagrin, rather than waiting for a lull in the conversation, Bridget interrupted, blurting, “Mum, you must meet Marie Chevreau.” Matthew’s mother straightened up like an arrow and peered at Marie through her spectacles. At that moment, Marie could have kissed Sara for insisting she dress up for the occasion.

  “You are the midwife studying to become a doctor?” she asked in a faint Irish brogue. Matthew must have inherited his bluntness from his mother.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marie replied, forcing a smile. “I’m very fortunate to have witnessed some of Matthew’s surgeries. He’s very talented.”

  “Yes, that’s what I hear,” she said evenly. “And did I also hear that you have a daughter?” she asked in a crackly voice.

  The group hushed, except for Bridget. “Mum!” she admonished, resting a hand on her mother-in-law’s arm.

  Mrs. Donnelly shrugged off Bridget’s warning. “Won’t you accompany me into the house, Miss Chevreau?” she asked with a civility Marie had not expected.

  “Yes, of course,” Marie replied. Mrs. Donnelly’s gait was slow but steady as they walked down the brick path toward the house. To end the awkward silence, Marie confirmed, “My daughter’s name is Adeline and she’s eleven.”

  “So you raised her yourself, while working as a midwife, and now you’re studying for your surgical license?” To Marie’s surprise, Matthew’s mother sounded impressed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marie said quietly. “I did have help along the way, from a convent of French nuns in New York, and from my friends, the Lemieux, who accompanied me here today.” Marie gestured toward Sara and Philippe, who were deep in conversation with Matthew’s brother, Jimmy.

  “And where do you come from?”

  “France, ma’am. Tours, to be exact.”

  “And are your parents still alive, in France? What do they do?”

  “Yes, they own a successful business—a tavern in Tours,” she added, wondering if this would serve as grounds for instant dismissal from the premises.

  Mrs. Donnelly stopped at the end of the brick path, near the back entrance to the house. “What a colorful life you’ve led, my dear,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. She hesitated, but then continued in a hushed voice. “I must say, my son Matthew has also partaken of his share of diversions.”

  “Yes, Bridget was telling me about their travels in France,” Marie recalled carefully.

  “Then perhaps she also told you about Matthew’s fiancée, Miss Margaret O’Shea of Philadelphia?” Her sea-green eyes widened sympathetically, then darted in Matthew’s direction. “I do hope we meet again, my dear,” she concluded, before walking into the house.

  Marie gripped a nearby newel post and struggled to breathe. Matthew’s fiancée? Marie thought she’d misheard, but no: Miss Margaret O’Shea.

  Marie glanced across the crowded lawn. Matthew nodded to her and gave her a wide, charming smile. Marie’s mind sifted through every memory she had of him and landed on Virginia’s voice, the interruption during Tom Adler’s surgery: Dr. Donnelly, Miss O’Shea is on the telephone. Marie rounded the side of the house and stumbled toward the front yard, skimming her palm over the smooth clapboards to keep her balance. Perhaps Sara would notice and come find her.

  But it was Matthew who rushed to Marie’s side. “Was my mother awful?” He sat down beside her on the front steps. “She wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  “Your mother was lovely,” she said coldly. “And she is the only one who isn’t lying to me.”

  “Lying? What—”

  “Margaret O’Shea. Of Philadelphia?” she said in a deliberate voice.

  “Wait a minute . . .” He seemed confounded.

  “Your betrothed, or have you forgotten?” Marie replied, suddenly finding the strength to stand and turn on her heel.

  He caught her arm and whirled her around.

  “Don’t touch me!” she cried.

  “Listen to me, Marie!” The veins in his neck pulsed wildly. “Our parents arranged the whole thing two years ago. Neither she nor I wanted to go through with it. Yes, we were promised to each other, but—”

  “But what? Are you or are you not engaged to be married?”

  “No, I am not,” he replied. “My father dissolved the agreement between our families last month and paid the O’Sheas a healthy sum. Fortunately, Miss O’Shea has already made a new match with an aristocrat’s son, so everyone’s happy.”

  “Oh,” Marie said bitterly. “So money solves everything, does it, Matthew?”

  “No,” his eyes glinted like cold steel. “No, it doesn’t.” He released her, placing his hands on his hips.

  “You’re a liar,” Marie seethed, pointing at him. “You led me to believe you were free!”

  “I am free!” He waved his arms in frustration.

  “You were engaged when you start
ed courting me in March! You lied to me for months!”

  “Yes, but I knew—”

  “Everything all right out here?” Philippe asked, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he approached. Sara followed close behind, negotiating the pebble driveway in heels.

  “No, it isn’t,” Marie huffed. “We need to leave,” she said to Philippe while holding Matthew’s gaze.

  “I’ll drive you to the station,” Matthew offered, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “The hell you will,” Marie snapped. “Let’s go.” She turned and started down the driveway.

  “Dash it all, Marie! Will you not listen to reason?” Matthew called, his voice steeped in misery.

  Marie set off in the heat toward the station. She didn’t dare look back.

  Chapter 31

  A little over a week later, Marie pinned up her hair in front of the looking glass, trying to convince herself that today, the first day of the new semester, was no different from any other. After her row with Matthew, and then her refusal to see him when he called at the Lemieux house the following afternoon, she didn’t know how to act, or how to be. She was humiliated, but she knew she was right. She had a daughter to consider, and she couldn’t trust him.

  Anatomy was her third class of the day. Marie drew a long breath before walking into the classroom. She chose a desk in the center of the room, hoping to hide behind her classmates. Finally every seat was filled, but Donnelly was missing. Her heart pounded in anticipation of seeing him again.

  An unfamiliar professor strolled in and dropped his notebook on the teacher’s desk. As the stick of chalk screeched across the blackboard, he announced, “I’ll be teaching anatomy this week. Dr. Donnelly has been called away.” Marie flushed with shame. Was this true, or had the faculty discovered their liaison and fired him? She swallowed hard, suddenly sick to her stomach. If she excused herself from class now, everyone would be suspicious.

  When the bell rang, students and professors flooded the hallway. Marie searched their faces for that familiar turquoise gaze. Maybe she was just imagining things; maybe he’d just switched classes with someone else. Marie found it increasingly difficult to think. Something hard hit her shoulder, knocking her into the nearby wall. Gripping her books tightly, she looked up to see Larry Deaver smirking. He walked on, laughing with his friends, without so much as an apology.