"Josiah had a painting of William up right here." The gold-and-green striped wallpaper was faded but for a large square where Nate indicated. "Gilt frame, these eyes that watched you. If there's a ghost in this damn house, it's him."
No, Abigail thought. William had long gone to his rest. If Nate was haunted by a ghost, it was Josiah's. As she and Nate continued from room to room, Nate talked incessantly of the man who had befriended the lonely boy. He talked of Josiah's passion for the house, his pride in his ancestry, his grief for the wife who had died twenty years before he did.
"Martha. Martha Irving. She must have been beautiful once. By the time I knew her, she was so fragile I was always afraid if I touched her she'd break. She was English, too; the Irvings always sent their sons to Oxford, and the sons always brought an English bride home. Josiah was no exception. Except this bride never gave him children. There was no son to go to Oxford. I guess I was the next best thing."
The huge bedroom where Nate had set up his drafting table had been William Irving's, Nate told her. To one side was a dressing room now converted into a bathroom, to the other side a connecting door to the bedroom that belonged to William's English wife. Abigail stood in the middle of the Oriental rug and gazed around, conscious of small prickles down her spine.
"How do you know this was his room?" she asked.
"Josiah told me," Nate said. He smiled with a hint of the first self-mockery she had seen since the tour began. "Somehow I figured old William might not appreciate me stepping into his bed, so to speak. But I thought he might enjoy looking over my shoulder. Keep the boredom at bay."
Abigail shivered. "Damn it, Nate, you're going to have me seeing ghosts any minute."
"Wait'll we get to the ballroom." For just an instant Nate was with her, his eyes dark with promise, before he looked away and said, "I'll show you the nursery."
In the hall, Abigail said, "You know, Nate, I don't think you've ever told me where you lived. Is the house still there?"
"Lord knows," he said disinterestedly. "I haven't been down that street in ten years."
A small frown crinkled Abigail's brow as she surreptitiously studied Nate. Why did all this matter to him so much, and his own background so little? Or was it more that he'd walled off the painful memories, refusing to acknowledge their existence?
The nursery was across the hall, beside Nate's bedroom. The wallpaper in here was especially faded, but Abigail could still make out the rocking horses set against what had probably been a mint-green backdrop. Now it was closer to olive-green drab, but tall, double windows would allow cheerful sunlight to stream in during the day, and the room was a generous size. The window seat was formed by built-in cupboards, and Abigail could easily imagine herself as a child curled up by those windows reading.
"Do you think Kate would like this room?" Nate asked from where he leaned against the doorframe.
Abigail slowly turned, looking at the room. She tried to interpret the question and his tone, but couldn't quite read his expression. "Kate'd probably like the whole house," she admitted. She could easily picture bright wallpaper, a ruffly canopied bed, and stuffed animals solemnly lined up on the window seat. "What little girl wouldn't?"
"I pictured her...." Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. "I guess she's the only kid I know...."
"Didn't you say you have nieces and nephews?"
"Yeah, I just don't see 'em much. I send Christmas presents...." He shrugged. "You know how it is."
No, she didn't, but Abigail didn't want to say so. Since she had a sister, she couldn't imagine not wanting to stay close. Family was something special.
On the other hand, she hadn't had a father who beat her, or a mother who ran away from her children. Maybe those ties could be severed beyond repair. Maybe Nate's attachment to his substitute father was understandable, a way of salvaging his sense of self.
Nate straightened suddenly, his expression changing. "Onward and up. The party's waiting."
Caught by his mood, she let herself be ushered up the second flight of stairs to the ballroom, which took up half of this floor. Accessible only by the servants' stairs were the servants' rooms, the remainder of the third level. Remembering them, Abigail thought that the contrast between those cramped, mostly windowless bedrooms under the eaves and this magnificent, high-ceilinged expanse was almost painful, a reminder of a way of life largely gone.
Whatever the ugly contrasts, the ballroom was a distillation of all that was romantic in that time. Moonlight poured in the tall windows and Nate made no move to reach for the light switch. Instead he crossed the silvered floor to fling open several of the windows that opened onto a small balcony.
Faint sounds drifted in: a frog croaking, a car in the distance, the night cry of an owl. Shadows ringed the room, as though guests sat politely waiting for the music to begin.
Those prickles walked down Abigail's spine again as Nate approached her. His back was to the moonlight, so his face was in shadow. She could almost see a stiff white collar above bow tie and frock coat. Did silk rustle around her own legs? It seemed entirely natural when he bowed before her and asked, "May I have this dance?"
"Thank you," she said formally. "I'd like that."
In an equally formal fashion he held out his arm and she laid her hand gracefully on it. In a moment he clasped her in a loose embrace and they waited, very still, for the music to begin.
"Ah," he murmured. "Do you hear it?"
She didn't, not quite, and yet there was almost a whisper on the edge of her consciousness. Music, soft, romantic, demanding that her feet move to its command.
It seemed that the shadows rose and moved onto the floor, too. Abigail closed her eyes and let Nate sweep her into the waltz. In the echoing expanse of the ballroom she seemed to hear the tinkle of a laugh, the swish of other skirts and the sound of boots on the gleaming floor as men twirled their ladies. They weren't alone, she thought fancifully: did the ghosts dance every night, or did they wait for humans to lead them out onto the floor?
The lilting music rose to a crescendo and her feet moved faster and faster as they glided about the room, Nate spinning her dizzyingly. Breathless, Abigail opened her eyes. All she could see was the moonlight as it flashed across Nate's face when he turned. He was smiling exultantly down at her, his eyes dark and his mouth sensual. Abruptly the waltz ended and he arched Abigail back over his arm in a triumphant conclusion.
She heard another laugh—was it hers?—and then she straightened, her breasts rising and falling quickly as she tried to catch her breath. The floor was suddenly empty again, shining in the moonlight. No music, the guests had gone home.
Nate lifted his hands to frame her face and one thumb gently touched her lips. His smile had faded and he looked down at Abigail now with an expression of heart-stopping tenderness.
"Thank you for the dance," he murmured huskily.
"It was...my pleasure," she whispered back.
He bent his head and touched her lips with his as softly as her unseen silk skirts had brushed her legs. She made a small sound and the kiss deepened, passionate, sweet, mysterious. His mouth was hot and hungry, and goose bumps shivered over her arms. She wanted him now, here in the moonlight and silence. He wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her tightly against the evidence of his arousal. Abigail reveled in her feminine power and moved, just a little, against him.
But instead of the reaction she had anticipated, Nate lifted his head. His voice was thick, hoarse. "Dear God, I love you. Abigail, will you marry me?"
CHAPTER TEN
Her back was to the moonlit windows, so Nate must not have seen the shock on her face. Nor did he seem to have noticed her lack of response, because he kept talking, quickly, urgently, his voice still rough with the passion that clouded Abigail's mind.
"We'll be a pretty small family for a house this size, but I know you and Kate will be happy here, too. And we can have kids of our own, fill a couple more bedrooms. Kate told me she doesn't like
the house you live in. She wants a horse, she says. I wouldn't mind one myself. And I know you worry about money, Abigail. But you wouldn't have to so much. You could cut back on your hours, maybe even quit working if you wanted to. What do you say?"
She was still frozen, stunned, though surely she had known in the back of her mind that this was where he was headed. Why else would he have asked whether she could love the Irving House, too? Why else his kindness to Kate?
Maybe she just hadn't wanted to think about the future. The trouble was, she still didn't want to. Her thoughts seemed to be working in slow motion, wading through a thick swamp.
"Abigail?"
"I...." She licked her lips and struggled for the right thing to say. "Nate, I'm not sure...."
His muscles tightened under her hands and he stepped back. "What do you mean, you're not sure? I didn't think I'd be taking you by surprise."
"Nate." She hesitated again. She shouldn't have been surprised. And yet.... "It's just that it's a big step."
"No kidding."
"I'm not sure I'm ready...."
"Ready?" The moonlight treated his face harshly, but she sensed that his anger disguised fear. "You were ready enough a minute ago."
"That's different."
"Isn't that my line?" In an abrupt motion he turned his back and stalked a couple of steps, then swung back to face her. "I thought you loved me, too. Was I so far off?"
"No!" she cried. "I'm just scared! Can't you understand, Nate?"
"Scared of what?"
She was scarcely sure herself. Maybe it was her own feelings that frightened her. It had all happened so fast, so much like her marriage. With his gifts and phone calls, his charisma and passion, Nate had been trying to sweep her off her feet. This second time around, Abigail needed to go slowly, to depend more on reason than on her untrustworthy heart.
"I'm...scared of being owned," she said quietly.
"Owned?" He swore. "Are you trying to tell me I remind you of your ex?"
She took a deep breath and looked down at her hands, squeezed together. "Yes." It came out so softly, she had to repeat herself. "Yes. Yes, you do."
The silence was so complete, Abigail had to look up. Nate just stood there, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides, his mouth tight and his eyes dark. They looked at each other, and then he shook his head.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this."
"I'm just asking for time to think about it," Abigail said with an effort. "Is that so unreasonable?"
A muscle twitched in his cheek. "I don't know if I want to marry a woman who has to think about it."
Anger suddenly shook itself awake to join her confusion and guilt. "What you mean is, you don't want to marry a woman who has an opinion of her own?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" he blazed back.
"Do you realize that you asked me to marry you, and then you didn't even wait for my answer? You assumed! Just like you assumed we'd live here, and that I'd be the one to cut back on my hours at work or even quit if my job was inconvenient! Well, my ex-husband assumed he'd make those kinds of decisions, too. Maybe I'm being paranoid..." He muttered something she chose to ignore. "...but maybe you need to think about what kind of wife you want."
"I thought I had," he said grimly.
Abigail had so many emotions tumbling head over heels in her chest, she didn't know what to think or say. Did she love Nate? What if she'd just driven him away? In doing so, had she let James still control her? Had her ex-husband taught her about her own vulnerability so thoroughly, she couldn't take a risk again?
"Nate..." Her voice was soft, shaky. "I don't mean to hurt you. I just.... I wasn't prepared. I really do need to think. Will you let me do that?"
His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, as though the muscles were painfully tight. "I don't know," he said. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
She bit her lip and nodded. "I...I guess I'd better go."
"I'll walk you down."
She wanted to tell him he didn't have to, but only nodded again. Both were silent during the long trek down two flights of stairs to the foyer, where she collected her purse. Abigail didn't look at Nate as he walked her out to her car, but their footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel and she was very conscious of the house, rearing high and dark above her but for the warm glow of ground-floor windows. It seemed to have a personality, to be a part of the tension between her and Nate.
At the car Abigail opened her door and hesitated. Their eyes met again, and then he lifted his hand to gently touch her cheek. Abigail jerked, and his mouth tightened.
"We were made for each other, you know," he said, unnerving certainty in his voice.
Abigail stepped back, bumping into the hard edge of the car door. "No," she said sharply, just as certainly. "No, I don't know."
They stared at each other, love and pain warring with pride, and then Abigail climbed hurriedly into her car and fumbled in her purse for keys. Her fingers closed on them; the car leaped to life and Nate stood back.
At the foot of the long drive, Abigail had to put the car into neutral and the emergency brake on. She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and took slow, deep breaths.
She was terrified, she realized. Terrified that she had found something wonderful, and lost it.
And yet, she couldn't have done anything differently. Nate had asked for too much, too soon. Collecting herself, she put the car into gear and turned onto the road toward home.
*****
The night was warm, the croak of frogs a familiar accompaniment to the high summer scent of roses. Nate stood where he was and watched the taillights of Abigail’s car flicker, then disappear behind the slope of the hill.
Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to stare up at the house, a dark bulwark against the fears of the boy he had been. A cloud slipped across the moon and the darkness became complete but for lighted windows. Still Nate stood there, chilled even though the evening was warm. He didn't want to let himself think about Abigail, or pain would slam into his chest like a two-by-four.
The Irving House. It could still be his. For a second he flashed back, caught by a sense of deja vu. He'd stood out here in the darkness before, looking at brightly lit windows, hoping someone would walk past one. He'd been able to see the great clock on the mantel in the parlor, the oil painting of William Irving in the library, the delicate plaster cornices around the ceiling. All the while, he had been hugging to himself a desperate longing to belong. This was the home he wanted to be his; this was the father, the mother….
No, not the mother, the adult Nate thought, surprised at the realization. He had never been interested in Martha Irving, he hadn't cared that despite his relationship with Josiah, she had treated him with no more than vague courtesy. He hadn't wanted a mother, he'd wanted a father.
And a home. Well, this was home now; he belonged here. He had the right to walk up those front steps and through the ornate front door into the marble front hall. He would be welcomed there, comforted by the years and generations that had created a house of such grace, a house that should by rights be his. That still could be his.
It was just his mood that made it look so damned forbidding tonight. So big, so dark, so empty. The way Abigail had left brought back memories that made him see things differently, as though he were looking at a double-exposed film.
He hadn't thought about his mother in years, had convinced himself he didn't care. Funny, though, how easily he remembered the day he'd walked home from school and turned a corner just as she drove away in that dented '55 Chevy. She hadn't seen him, though he glimpsed her profile, thought he saw tears. Nothing new in that. She'd wipe 'em off her cheeks before she went into the grocery store or wherever she was going.
Only, that was it. She was gone. The scene, so meaningless until he knew its finality, had appeared in his dreams for months, maybe years, afterward. In his dreams he had run after her car, screaming, "Stop! Stop!" Sometimes the
one working taillight would flicker, and he would think she was stopping, but she never did.
Damn. No wonder the sight of Abigail driving away had shaken him so badly. He'd been cold one minute, now he was sweating. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and headed into the house. Standing out here was stupid.
Inside, he wandered restlessly through each floor, waiting for the familiar sense of security he always felt here. Tonight it didn't come. If the house had looked too big from outside, inside it damn near echoed. Room after room, silence behind him, silence ahead. Not even the cats appeared; true to their contrary nature, they never were here when he wanted them.
He went up to the ballroom only to shut the windows; damp night air wouldn't do wonders for the maple floor. The clouds had passed and the moon shone silver through the tall windows, but when he hesitated, one hand on the window latch, no wisps of music reached his ears. It always had been in his imagination. The room was no more romantic than a deserted gymnasium.
Back downstairs he made himself a cup of coffee, but instead of sitting, he found himself back on the second floor, outside Josiah's office.
Nate asked from the doorway. "Damn it, Josiah, where are you?"
Silence. What did he expect, an answer?
Josiah's desk was still here. Who'd want it? It was an ugly old office desk, chipped oak veneer and chunky legs. There was a gray metal filing cabinet, which Ed had had no interest in, and a couple of office chairs upholstered in green plastic. A house like this, and Josiah had been most comfortable here. The irony had struck Nate before.
He supposed Ed had gone through the desk and filing cabinet in hopes of a little buried gold in the form of life insurance or stock certificates. Nate was pretty sure Ed hadn't found any. Josiah had loved this house, and he wouldn't have let it deteriorate if he could have afforded renovation.
All Through The House Page 14
