Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  Gently, he drew her down onto the ground. "I can't fight my love for you any longer."

  "Then don't try." Easing ever closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him close, feathering kisses on his neck, his cheek, moving her body persuasively against his.

  "I love you so much,” he whispered in her ear.

  "Owen, my only love!"

  Lying across her, he kissed her with a passion that sent wave after wave of hunger coursing through her veins. Frustrated with the hard corset that impeded his touch, she wanted to tear it off, let his hands roam where they would. When his hands moved along her thigh and found her womanhood, she cried out as her fingers dug into his back.

  "Owen! I can't take this!"

  "You're driving me crazy!" He raised himself and began to unbutton his vest, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.

  Cold reality jerked her back. She must stop this madness. Even if William didn't treat her as a true wife, she must still honor her wedding vows.

  "Ah, no!" Desolation froze her insides. "Please, we can't . . . can't do this." Heartsick, she sat up and adjusted her skirt. She looked at him and saw all the pain and despair on his face that surely her own must reveal. "I'm so sorry, but we . . . we mustn't become intimate." She lowered her head, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

  His hands stilled, and she saw pure anguish in his eyes, the stern set of his mouth. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, you're right." He sighed. "So easy to forget."

  Dark leaden clouds gathered in the west, driven by a squally wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The temperature dropped sharply, and the wind increased, the branches of the maples and elms swaying.

  With an abruptness that caught her by surprise, Owen sprang to his feet. "Come on, darling." He held his hand out to her. "I don't want you to get caught in the rain."

  Chapter Twelve

  Days and weeks passed, a heartbreaking time when Lisa tried to drive Owen out of her mind. Might as well stop breathing. How could she forget someone who was a part of her, as much as her heart or lungs, every breath she took? She remembered his touch, every gesture and word. And oh! his kisses, his caresses. She knew she shouldn't think of these things, these memories that could drive her mad with longing.

  Everything reminded her of him--the blue sky above, the swaying of the trees, even the rumble of thunder. She could look out her parlor window to see the roses in bloom, their heady scent borne on the breeze, and wish that Owen were there to share the moment with her. Often, she'd read an interesting article in the newspaper and wonder if he'd read the same. More than once, she saw a man walk down the street, his dark suit, his quick stride reminding her of Owen, and for one glorious moment, she'd think it really was her loved one. But of course, it never was.

  Despite her heartache, she resolved to keep busy, giving herself no time to sit around and mope. She'd live each day to the fullest and never, ever, let him intrude on her thoughts.

  Yes, and while you’re at it, try to stop the sun from rising in the east.

  Perversely, she often wondered if miracles still occurred, for only a miracle would bring him back to her, only a divorce. And that would never happen.

  Lisa sipped tea at the breakfast table, observing her husband as he read the Wall Street Journal across from her. "William, since today is Sunday, I intend to visit the children at the Home for Orphans. Poor little ones, they don't get much love or attention."

  He looked up from the newspaper, frowning at the distraction. "How will you get to the orphanage when the servants have the day off? You won't have anyone to drive you in the carriage."

  "It's easy enough to get the Fifth Avenue trolley and then just a short walk across the bridge to Allegheny. If the weather stays pleasant--and it looks as if it will--I should have no problem. Might even enjoy the walk." She regarded her husband pensively. "With me away and the servants gone, it should be a quiet time for you. You can catch up with reading the back issues of the Wall Street Journal or work on your stock business."

  "I may do just that. In any event, I won't be bored." A secretive smile touched the corners of his mouth, prompting a question in her mind. "There are many things I can do." He drained his coffee cup and brushed his forefinger across his mustache, appearing deep in thought. "For some reason, that reminds me. I have some, uh, friends . . . a man and his wife whom I met through my business, who have expressed an interest in your mother's house. They like to entertain and consider your mother's house perfect for their uh, needs. In short, they'd like to buy the house."

  Her heart thudded, her face warming. She shot him an angry glance. "William, I told you, let's leave the house empty for now. I have a cousin who may want to buy the house, but it's taking him time to settle his affairs in Philadelphia. He's given me the impression that he definitely wants to move to Pittsburgh."

  "The house has been empty for too long!"

  "Then a few more months won't matter."

  He sighed with exasperation. "Let's forget about it for now. We'll talk about this later." He smiled then, as if the matter were of little consequence.

  A twinge of uneasiness nagged her, but she dismissed her misgivings and ascribed her foreboding to an overactive imagination. Setting her napkin down, she eased her chair back and rose from the table, resolved to set her anger aside.

  "Best I leave soon," she said, gathering the breakfast dishes. "I probably won't be home until early evening or even later. Sometimes the staff at the orphanage invites me to stay for the evening meal." Her voice assumed a note of concern. "Can you manage lunch by yourself?"

  He drew his matches from the bathrobe pocket, a reassuring smile on his face. "Oh, I believe I can handle things."

  After she'd cleared the table and washed the dishes, Lisa left for the orphanage, looking forward to seeing the children again.

  * * *

  The children sat clustered around Lisa, eager to hear the end of the fairy tale. "'The next morning when the maid came to clear the ashes, she found the tin of the soldier in the shape of a heart. But all that was left . . .'"

  She stifled a sigh of relief as she snapped the book shut. Pressing a hand to her throbbing head, she wondered how in the world she'd tell the boys and girls she'd have to leave early. They'd be so disappointed, but it couldn't be helped. She, who'd scarcely been sick a day in her life, now had a blinding headache, and why, she had no idea. Worry, no doubt. It had come upon her shortly after her arrival here and had gotten worse throughout the long morning. Playing games and telling stories, she'd tried to ignore the pain, but she could no longer disregard this agony. Nausea rose inside her; a hammer striking relentlessly against her forehead.

  "Please read us another story, Mrs. Enright," a little boy begged, his eyes wide with appeal while the others nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes," they chorused, "another story."

  Lisa folded her hands in her lap, heartsick at failing the children but aware she had no choice. She spoke quietly, for every sound was one more nail pounding into her head.

  "Children, I fear I must leave you early today." Hearing their moans, she winced. "But I am feeling unwell." She placed a light hand on her stomach. "You remember how you feel when you've a tummy ache?" Somberly, the children nodded. "And a headache?" she asked, her fingers touching her forehead. "Well, that's how I feel now, and I'm sorrier than I can say that I must leave you so soon. But I shall come again next week and make up for my early departure today." As she looked out over the sea of faces, she hoped her assurances would satisfy them.

  "Promise?" a little boy piped up, the others joining in.

  Lisa crossed her heart. "Promise." She rose on unsteady legs, then went to explain her plight to the supervisor. A few minutes later, she left the orphanage, stepping out into the blinding sunlight, nearly swooning with the pain. She took deep breaths as she rested against the brick wall, then finally made her slow way to the trolley stop on Fifth Avenue. All she could think about was getting home.

  After an endless
ride on the trolley and a long walk from Fifth Avenue, Lisa opened her front door and stumbled into the entrance hall, wishing only to go upstairs and lie down. She stopped, hearing voices from the library, men and women giggling. What in the world?

  On shaky legs, she trudged through the hall and past the parlor, then stopped outside the library, where the sliding door remained slightly ajar. Curious, she held her breath as she peered through the opening. What she saw and heard sickened her beyond words.

  She beheld four naked bodies on the library floor, William among them, doing the very thing that he refused to do with her, his wife! Sighs and moans of ecstasy reached her as arms, legs, and buttocks moved in frantic passion. Lisa pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She had to escape this nightmare. Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. Her legs quivered, nausea churning in her stomach.

  Her ears rang. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Swallowing convulsively, she pressed against the wall, fearful of movement, praying her weakness would soon pass. She didn't dare faint here, because if she did, well, it didn't bear thinking about. Hands clenched at her sides, she struggled for control.

  She clamped her hand to her mouth, slipping past the library and hustling up the stairs. Her long skirt wrapped around her legs, almost tripping her. She yanked her skirt in her hand and rushed up to her room. Banging the door back, she didn't care how much noise she made. No one would hear her, anyway.

  Feeling as if she'd aged a hundred years within the past hour, she slumped into a chair and covered her face with her hands, her mind reeling with hurt and anger. Afraid she’d vomit, she unbuttoned her silk blouse and reached under her corset cover to loosen her corset and ease her sickness.

  Murderous fury roiled inside her. She wanted to strike out and hurt William, get even with him for this shameful abuse of their marriage, their house. At the same time, she felt sorrow for what their marriage might have been, for the happiness that could have been theirs . . . if William had tried to be a true husband, and if she had never known Owen. He made all the difference in the world, and only thoughts of him sustained her now, gave her the courage to think clearly.

  Why couldn't she have seen what kind of husband she had? Why, why, why? William wouldn't take her as a true wife . . . oh, no. Yet, he could indulge in this . . . this orgy. She held her throbbing head in her hands, asking herself again and again how she could have known what kind of husband she had. She had become a woman, garbed in childlike innocence, with no knowledge of the true meaning of marriage.

  Shock had intensified her headache, along with such a crushing sense of betrayal. Shivering uncontrollably, she brushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead, then rested her head on the back of the chair. So this was how men behaved, away from their wives. But no, Owen would never do this, not her Owen. She knew, too, of many happily-married couples, husbands and wives who loved and respected each other . . . Elizabeth and Lawrence, for instance.

  In the brilliant early afternoon light, she stared around her room but found no comfort in its familiar objects. Her life would never be the same, not after what she'd seen this day, not after William had dragged his marital vows through the dirt. Yes, she admitted to herself, she'd almost committed adultery, but she'd stopped, unwilling to debase her marriage vows, even with the man she loved.

  Pressing hard on the arm of the chair, she struggled to her feet and paced the room, at first with shuffling steps. She moved restlessly about as she forced her sluggish brain to function. Something nudged at the back of her mind, a means to thwart William, but the thought sped away, as elusive as mercury.

  She considered all her options. Her marriage had become a nightmare. She could not continue with it. Could not. Very well, then--divorce. She'd see Lawrence about her problem tomorrow. But wait, he was in New York on legal business and would be away for over a month, according to Elizabeth. Patience had never come easily to her, but she'd have to wait until Lawrence returned. Another problem sent her spirits plummeting. What if William wouldn't grant her a divorce?

  But if he did? Never mind the disgrace. She'd be free of this shameful excuse of a marriage.

  She remained in her bedroom as the hours crept by. Heavy darkness shrouded the room, and she made her way to the window, guided by the street lamp. Ideas churned in her mind, each centered on one goal: how to thwart William. She had to do something. He must never again even think of using her mother's house for disgraceful purposes. She wouldn't let him!

  Think, think! A plan grew in her mind, but did she dare use it? She nodded and raised herself to her full height, drawing strength for the challenge ahead.

  * * *

  "William, I don't want you to sell my mother's house to your friends." Lisa lifted her gaze to him across the table, dreading the task ahead. She clenched damp hands in her lap, her resolve stiffening as she spoke in controlled tones. "I'd appreciate it if they'd make some other arrangements . . . look elsewhere for a home." She shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with its intricate carvings that protruded into her back.

  "Sorry, my dear," he replied in a voice laced with sarcasm. "The arrangements have already been made. I've discussed the matter with them several times. They like the house. They want to buy it. Didn't I make myself clear yesterday? I've instructed our housekeeper to have the servants prepare the house, air it out, you know." He gave a sad shake of his head, his eyes accusing. "It's been shut up for so long. What a waste!"

  "You made those arrangements before you broached the subject to me yesterday!"

  He shot her a defiant look. "I intend to sell your mother's house to my friend and his wife. That's all there is to it."

  Her heart beat erratically. Angry tension pounded in her head. She ran her tongue along dry lips, determined to settle the matter. "Then let me put it another way. I will not have your friends living in my mother's house. I simply will not permit it."

  William barked a short, derisive laugh. "'I simply will not permit it,'" he mimicked in a falsetto voice, grinning with malice. "And just what do you intend to do about it?" He drew a cigar from his vest pocket and leaned forward, eyes wide with feigned interest.

  Instead of answering his question, she challenged him with two of her own. "What will our neighbors think of these so-called friends of yours? Will they be considered suitable people for the neighborhood?”

  His face held a puzzled look. "Why wouldn't they be considered suitable?" Without asking permission, he lit the cigar and soon noxious fumes drifted across the table. He lounged back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, as he blew smoke toward the ceiling. "You don't even know my friends. You don't know anything about them."

  Oh, don't I? Lisa wanted to say. She scoffed. "They'll never be accepted in Shadyside."

  Suspicion glinted in his eyes. "Perhaps you'd better explain yourself." He rested his arm on the table, smoke curling upward from the cigar, his chest heaving.

  "I think you know what I mean." This was it; now she must play her trump card. Her pulse quickened, her skin felt prickly-hot.

  He drummed his pudgy fingers on the table. "Well, Lisa, I'm waiting."

  She stared at him for a long, contemptuous moment. "This man and his . . . wife are your friends, is that what you said? More than just friends, I believe." She folded her hands on the lace tablecloth and gave him a long, cool look, willing her heart to stop its frantic pace.

  "What in hell are you trying to say?" William crushed his cigar on his plate, a venomous look in his eyes.

  She glanced down at her lap for a moment, then met his furious look. "I came home early from the orphanage yesterday, about noontime. You didn't hear me, obviously--"

  "You bitch!" William banged his fist on the table, spilling his coffee, staining the white linen tablecloth. He sprang to his feet, his chair falling backwards, the sound heightened by the stillness of the room. He raised a hand, looking as if he would strike her. Rage contorted his face. "Why, you little cu--"

  She looked u
p at him without flinching. His words shocked her more than she'd ever admit, but she refused to show it. “That’s right, William, call me names. Call me anything you like. It won't change a thing." She pointed a finger at him. "Just make sure these . . . these friends of yours never set foot in my mother's house, or I'll--No! Don't you dare walk away while I'm talking to you! If I ever again see the sort of thing I saw yesterday, if you ever again use this house or my mother's house for such wicked purposes, I'll make things so bad for you, you'll have to leave this city in the middle of the night."

  "Oh, yeah?" he challenged. "How can you stop me?"

  "Good question, William. I'll spread the word about the kind of husband I have, tell Elizabeth and Lawrence. They have no love for you, or didn't you realize that? And what about Mrs. Stanwyck? Everyone knows she's a pillar of the community. I'll tell her a thing or two, along with other friends."

  "They'll never believe you."

  "You think not? Our neighbors know me. They see me at church, know I'm active in the community. But you!" She laughed without mirth. "What do they know of you? You don't associate with any of these fine people, only those who matter, of course--those who can advance your career." She nodded with assurance. "Take my word for it, they'll believe me."

  He spoke between clenched teeth. "You little bitch." After one last hateful look, William grabbed his portfolio and sped away. Despair grappled with relief as she heard his heavy strides down the long hallway and the slam of the front door.

  Resting her elbow on the table, Lisa took long, deep breaths, relieved the ordeal was over.

  But was it over?

  Chapter Thirteen

  A hazy cloud of mill dust covered the city as Lisa stood in front of the Fidelity Trust Company Building, its once gray granite now grimy with mill dirt. Questioning her sanity, she thought about this foolish mission to Henry Frick's office, but she wouldn't even consider returning home, not after she'd come this far. Convinced now that the union had right on its side, she had only the slimmest hope that she could persuade Frick to give in to the workers.