Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  It was as if he’d lived his life in a shell as rigid and hard as stone and then, in the next minute, that shell began to break away piece by piece, freeing the man inside. Freeing him.

  The rain had stopped and the brilliance of a full moon beamed through the window down on him, gilding the bed and everything on it with a sheen of silver. There, bathed in silvery light, Grant Morgan, the man who knew what he wanted and how to get it, realized that the course of his life had been unalterably changed.

  The realization was humbling…and the woman next to him was a treasure more precious than gold.

  Grant wasn’t there when she woke the next morning. Phadra sat up on the bed, disappointed to find herself alone in a room filled with flowers and the earthy scent of their lovemaking. A note lay on the pillow next to her.

  He’d written that he’d gone to the bank, would return before noon, and wished her a good morning.

  The note seemed sparse after what they had shared the night before. But then, that was the type of man he was…always economical, with both words and money. Wincing slightly as she moved and discovered that she was indeed sore in places she hadn’t dreamed existed until the previous day, she amended her verdict. Economical, yes, but not when it came to making love.

  The thought filled her with happiness. Outside the bedroom window, the sun shone in the kind of clear sky that followed a day of rain, and birds sang—or was that her heart? Suddenly Phadra realized that she felt better than she ever had in her life. She bounced out of bed and started dressing. Her body’s stiffness all but disappeared, and she found herself humming. The dress she chose was one of her favorites, a yellow and rose design copied after a painting of Helen of Troy. She felt as though she could launch a thousand ships that morning!

  A timid knock sounded on the door. In answer to her call, Meg, the lady’s maid, entered. “Oh, Mrs. Morgan, you’re already dressed,” she said. Meg started to bob a curtsey and then stopped, knowing Phadra didn’t like the formality. “Mr. Morgan told me not to disturb you. Oh, look at the flowers!”

  Phadra grinned, absurdly pleased at Meg’s reaction. “Come help me carry them downstairs. I’m sure they need fresh water, and I want to make sure there’s a bouquet in every room of the house.” As Meg helped to gather the flowers, Phadra fastened her bronze bracelets around her wrist and then picked up the gladioli. “When did he leave?”

  “Mr. Morgan left over an hour ago. Said he had to get to the bank and finish some business.”

  That sounded so much like Grant that Phadra smiled to herself.

  They took some of the flowers downstairs to the dining room, and Phadra ordered Meg to bring down the rest while she searched for vases. Meg hadn’t been gone for more than a few seconds when a voice in the doorway caught Phadra’s attention. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Henny said sagely. She walked into the room. “Someone made a terrible mess in the kitchen last night.”

  Phadra threw her arms around the older woman’s neck. “Henny, isn’t this day wonderful? Isn’t the world wonderful?”

  Henny made a pretense of feeling Phadra’s forehead. “She’s not running a fever,” she said to the world in general. She cocked her head and studied Phadra’s face. “But she looks flushed, and there is a slight giddiness.”

  Phadra laughed, kissed her on her cheek, and practically danced away. “Yes! You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m in love. Wonderful, wonderful love. And he loves me.”

  “Ah, child,” Henny said expansively. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Not as happy as I am for myself,” Phadra blurted out. “Henny, he is the most honest, caring…handsome man I’ve ever known. And he loves me, Henny. He loves me—”

  Someone rapped on the front door. Since Wallace wasn’t readily available, Phadra thumbed her nose at propriety and crossed into the hall to open the door herself. Immediately she wished she hadn’t done it. Miranda Evans stood on the front step.

  “Ah, Mrs. Morgan,” she said with false sweetness. “Is your husband here? Or has he already left for that important meeting at the bank?”

  Phadra didn’t like the emphasis she’d placed on “that important meeting,” as if she knew something Phadra did not. “He’s not here,” she replied, and pointedly refused to invite the woman in.

  At that moment Meg came down the stairs, her arms full of flowers. “This is the last of them, Mrs. Morgan.”

  Phadra had turned at the sound of the maid’s voice. “Yes, thank you, Meg. Please put them in the dining room.”

  “Oh, flowers,” Miranda said with obvious interest. “From your husband?”

  “Yes,” Phadra replied with a proud lift of her chin.

  “Well, how nice,” Miranda said benignly, but Phadra caught the hint of a secret smile. And Phadra’s instinct was confirmed as Miranda continued smoothly, “Then I guess Grant will be able to report to the directors this morning that he has managed to bring his wife in line.” She shook her head with a commiserating “tsk” before adding, “This morning I overheard Father telling Mother about Sir Robert’s ultimatum. It must be so embarrassing for you to know that Grant will lose his position, his livelihood, if he can’t control you. Makes a person wonder what you’ve done, hmm? But then it seems Grant has brought you in line nicely for the price of a few posies—”

  Phadra slammed the door in her face.

  “Phadra?” Henny’s worried voice said from behind her. “You can’t believe everything that she-devil has to say.”

  Phadra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. What Miranda had said was true. The evidence was in the way he’d planned her seduction, the way he’d manipulated her. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door and let wave after wave of pain at his betrayal wash over her.

  He didn’t love her. She was merely a means to an end. How could she have been so stupid, so naive?

  And then suddenly it was almost more than she could bear. Fool, fool, fool, she told herself over and over, not even feeling the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  Henny gathered her in her arms. “Phadra, what is it?”

  It almost hurt to talk, to repeat Miranda’s words, but Phadra made herself say them, hoping Henny would deny them for her. That Henny would say it was all malicious spite on Miranda’s part.

  But Henny didn’t. Instead she stared at Phadra. A terrible sense of foreboding tied Phadra’s insides into a knot. “Henny, why do you look that way? Tell me, Henny.”

  Henny cupped Phadra’s face in her hands. “It’s nothing.”

  Phadra pushed her away. “Tell me.”

  Henny looked toward Wallace, who had quietly joined them in the hall. “Tell me, Henny,” Phadra commanded again.

  The lines on the older woman’s face drooped sadly. “He asked me questions about you. I told him I thought he should pay some attention to you….” Her voice trailed off guiltily.

  Phadra turned on her heel and walked into the dining room. He’d been asking Henny questions about her. So he could learn how to bend her to his will; how to make her obedient and acceptable.

  And it had worked, hadn’t it? That morning when she’d woken, she would have followed him into the fires of hell if he’d asked her to.

  For the price of a few posies.

  She’d been such a fool.

  “Meg, throw out all of these flowers. Every single one of them.” Phadra turned to the doorway, where Henny and Wallace hovered anxiously. They looked so worried, as if they thought she was going to break down into tears.

  No, she was done with that. She was her own woman now, completely and unalterably.

  “Henny, I want all my belongings packed and ready for me to leave this afternoon. Wallace, summon a hack. We leave for the Bank of England. Now.”

  Chapter 20

  Phadra wanted, needed, to deal with Grant herself, so she ordered Wallace to stay with the hack. He agreed reluctantly. “If you need me, miss, just shout. I’ll be right to your side,” he promised, opening an
d closing one meaty fist.

  Hoping that matters wouldn’t come to that, Phadra stepped out of the hack and paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the Bank of England’s elaborate facade of ornate columns, stone banisters, and carved statues. The heavy doors had been propped open to allow the summer air to circulate inside.

  Saying a quick prayer for courage, Phadra stepped across the threshold into enemy territory. Huge windows allowed the room to be filled with bright sunshine, and there was a crowd of people doing their business in the Pay Hall this fine morning. To her right stood an officious young man, who appeared to be charged with the responsibility of making sure that all went well there in the bank’s great hall. She walked over to him. “Excuse me, but I wish to speak to Mr. Morgan. Can you direct me to his offices?”

  The officious young man lifted an eyebrow, taking in her bold bronze bracelets, unique style of dress, and sandaled feet. “May I ask your business, madam?”

  Phadra forced a tight smile. “I’m his wife.”

  “Mrs. Morgan?” His watery gaze swept her dress again, making her conscious that all the other women in the Pay Hall wore gloves and bonnets. “Of course,” he whispered. He then snapped his fingers to gain the attention of another young man standing by a set of doors leading out of the room. He signaled the other man to join them.

  “Wilcomb, this is Mrs. Morgan.” At the mention of her name, Wilcomb’s mouth practically dropped open, and again Phadra found herself being studied rudely. “She wishes to speak to Mr. Morgan. Will you escort her to his offices?”

  Wilcomb frowned. “That’s not possible right now. He’s in a meeting with the Court,” he said, nodding at the double doors.

  The meeting.

  She lifted her chin, her voice businesslike and brisk. “I wish to see him. Now.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible, Mrs. Morgan. They’ve been in there this past hour and more. I’m under orders not to allow any interruptions.”

  Phadra looked in the direction of the doors. No interruptions? “Well,” she said pleasantly, “I’ll just have to wait, won’t I?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Morgan. I’m very sorry,” Wilcomb said, as if he truly regretted not being able to honor her request. “Although I’m sure they will be done shortly. Perhaps you would like to wait in Mr. Morgan’s offices for him?”

  “Oh, no,” Phadra said smoothly while taking a sidestep or two toward the double doors that led to the Court of Directors’ meeting room. “I’ll wait for him over there. Would it be possible for you to get me a chair to sit in while I wait?”

  “Why, certainly,” Wilcomb responded, and, turning to the other man, started to tell him to fetch the chair when Phadra made her move.

  She broke into a mad dash for the set of doors and slipped through them before the startled young men could gather their wits and give pursuit. She heard a shout behind her and the objections of bank patrons who were jostled aside in the men’s hurry to stop her.

  Behind the doors was a small anteroom that led to another set of doors. In front of them, at a small desk, sat another officious young man. He rose. “May I help you?”

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Phadra replied, moving swiftly for the doors.

  “Wait, I don’t—” But she’d already entered, slamming the door behind her.

  Phadra came to an abrupt halt as she realized that she’d done it. She’d gained entrance into the palatial splendor of the hallowed Court Room of the Bank of England.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected. Looking up and around the room, she took in the cream-and-gold columns, the ornate ceiling and wall medallions, the thick carpet apparently woven specially for the room—and the long mahogany table in the center of the room at which were seated the twenty-five directors of the bank.

  At her entrance, every man at the table had turned in her direction except for the one standing at the end of the table closest to the door—her husband. No, she hurriedly amended. She would not call him husband.

  The three junior bank officers tumbled through the door behind her. Phadra quickly sidestepped them and went to stand beside Grant, holding herself proudly apart from him.

  “What nonsense is going on here?” Sir Robert demanded, slamming his palm against the table.

  Phadra defiantly held her head high and remained silent. She didn’t answer, and she wasn’t about to leave the room until she’d said her piece. Wilcomb immediately started making an excuse: “She wanted to see her husband, sir. We told her she couldn’t. That we were under orders, but then she just rushed in here—”

  “We tried to stop her,” the first young man interjected.

  Sir Robert held up his hand for silence, and the three young men came to attention. He sat back in his chair. “Good morning, Mrs. Morgan. As usual, your behavior is irregular.”

  At the mention of her name a low buzz of recognition started among the directors sitting around the table, and several craned their necks to get a good look at her. Sir Cecil did little but stare at his thumbnail. She refused to look at Grant. Every fiber of her being was aware that he stood only a hand’s width away from her. She could smell the spiciness of his shaving soap, sense his slightest movement beside her, even swear that she could feel the heat from his body—the textures of which she now knew almost as well as her own, after what they had shared the night before. But she couldn’t look at him. If she looked at him, her hard-won resolve would crumble.

  She took a step forward, placing the tips of her fingers on the table’s dark, glossy surface. “If it please you gentlemen,” she said in a clear, ringing voice, “I have something to say.”

  Sir Robert’s eyes narrowed with speculation. He looked from her to Grant and back before lifting his fingers, signaling for her to speak.

  She could feel Grant’s eyes on her, and her heart raced. Her voice shook slightly when she started speaking. “I understand that this group of men has informed Grant Morgan that if he values his position at the bank, then he must exert more control over his wife. I’ve come today to solve your problem.”

  “And what are you suggesting, Mrs. Morgan?” Sir Robert asked.

  Phadra looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each and every one of them before announcing, “I’m suing Grant Morgan for divorce.”

  The word divorce set off an astonished, almost angry, murmur from the directors as they sat up in their chairs and turned to their companions. Phadra refused to turn and look at Grant, struggling instead to control her own reaction at saying the word out loud. Only that morning she’d met the day full of hopes and dreams for the future. Now she felt that the very life had been drained out of her.

  “That’s it,” she said, the words becoming harder to speak over the lump in her throat. “That’s all I have to say.”

  One director snapped angrily, “We’ve never had a divorced member of the bank. It’s not to be sanctioned.”

  “But we need Morgan,” another argued. “Whitehall wants to deal with him and him alone.”

  “I will not countenance divorce,” the other shot back.

  “Think of the scandal,” another man added, and looked down his hooked nose at Phadra as if she were some new species of beetle climbing across his table.

  Sir Robert spoke, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “And what do you say, Morgan? Does your wife’s announcement change your decision?”

  All heads turned to the man standing behind her. Phadra straightened her back and clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. This confrontation, carried out in public, was harder than she could ever have imagined.

  Grant answered, his voice low and firm. “No, sir, it doesn’t change my decision. I am determined to resign my position with the bank.”

  Resign?

  Phadra whirled around in surprise.

  “And you were about to tell us why, weren’t you?” Sir Robert said. “That is, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

  Looking directly into her eyes, Grant sai
d, “Because I love my wife.”

  If the carpeted floor had opened up beneath her feet, Phadra could not have been more surprised. “Do you mean that?” she whispered, oblivious to the others in the room.

  “With all my heart.” And there in the silvery-gray depths of his eyes, Phadra saw the truth. The magic of it stole her breath away.

  “Then I guess our business is done,” Sir Robert announced. He rose from the table.

  “Wait a moment,” Sir Henry said. “What about Morgan? Are we just going to let him resign without another word? Don’t we need him?”

  Sir Robert started walking around the table. “You have your choice, Henry. The peace and harmony of your home or Morgan and his independent wife.”

  For a moment Sir Henry appeared to weigh the choices. He shook his head and, rising from the table, said, “I have to say, Morgan, I’m sorry that we will not have the benefit of your intelligence and widely acknowledged financial acumen…but if this is the price I must pay to get my wife out of those toe bells, so be it.”

  “As you wish, Sir Henry,” Grant answered, and then he did an amazing thing. He threw his arm around Phadra’s shoulder and hugged her close as if they were any young couple wandering around a country fair instead of a banker and his wife standing in the columned glory of the Court Room in the most powerful bank in England.

  Sir Robert paused a moment before them, his keen eyes resting briefly on Grant before he offered his hand. “Good luck to you, Morgan,” he said. He gave a nod and a smile to Phadra. “I have a feeling you may need it.”

  In the face of Sir Robert’s good humor, the other directors filed out without further objection. Three or four of them stopped to shake Grant’s hand and offer to help him in any way possible in his new career, whatever that might be. Phadra watched them go without regret. Sir Cecil was the last one to approach them. “If I ever need any help on anything, Morgan, can I bring it by for you to look at?”

  Grant shook his head. “Do your own work, sir.”

  Phadra could have sworn that the man looked close to tears, but he didn’t say another word and scurried out of the room behind the others. Slowly Phadra looked up at Grant. “Are you sure you’ll have no regrets?”