Swan's Grace

by Linda Francis Lee

  But he was saved from making a decision—much less a mistake, given the murmuring audience behind them— when Conrad Wentworth strode into the house.

  With Sophie standing so close, Grayson watched as the disconcerted lines of her face went soft and adoring. “Papa,” she whispered, as if time had circled back and she were still a child.

  Grayson stepped away and she flew into Conrad’s arms. “Oh, Father!”

  The older man hugged her tight, then set her at arm’s length, his smile gentle and loving. “Let me have a look at you. Haven’t you grown into the prettiest girl around.” He glanced at Grayson. “Isn’t that so?”

  He conceded the point with a nod. “I agree.”

  Sophie’s cheeks reddened.

  “What’s this?” Henry asked, shooting Deandra a questioning look. “Do we have a blush?”

  Sophie pressed her hands to her cheeks, then laughed out loud and stood back. “Boston women can blush over a compliment as well as any Southern belle.”

  Conrad cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you let me know you were arriving early?”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise—a proper surprise that I was home.”

  “Speaking of proper, Sophie, you need to pack your bags. You really can’t stay here.” He eyed her entourage. “And I’m sure your… um, friends will be more than happy at the Hotel Vendome.”

  “Heavens,” Henry said dramatically, “the place is getting an absolute profusion of business. What with our brutish Mr. Hawthorne staying there. And now us. Perhaps we should invest.”

  Sophie ignored him. “Father, what is going on?”

  Conrad, however, had to drag his disbelieving glare away from the dapperly dressed little man. “I had planned to explain when I picked you up, but you got home early and didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Explain what? And where are you and Patrice and the girls living if not here?”

  “Well, I built a new home on The Fens. A beautiful place, actually. I know you’ll love it.” He smiled uncomfortably. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No, Father, you didn’t, and what does that have to do with Swan’s Grace? Mr. Hawthorne said you sold it to him.”

  Sophie stared at her father, her golden brown eyes darkening with vulnerability, and Grayson realized that she was silently, desperately willing the man to deny her words. She wanted the words to be untrue in a way that ran deep.

  Conrad hesitated, glancing around the room before turning back to his daughter. “Well, you see, princess, I did.”

  She went still. Too still.

  Grayson saw a world of hurt and betrayal flash through the golden depths of her eyes, and for reasons he didn’t understand, he hated the look, hated that only minutes before she had been laughing and teasing and thrilled to be home.

  He needed to tell her about the house and the betrothal, get it out in the open. But right then wasn’t the time to do it. Instead he found himself stepping in. “As the ubiquitous Henry has just noted, I am staying at the Hotel Vendome, and I’m fine there while we straighten this out.”

  “Straighten this out?” Conrad demanded.

  “Yes, Conrad.” Grayson locked his gaze on the older man. “We will straighten this out.”

  “But what about the party?”

  Sophie looked back and forth between her father and Grayson. “Party? What are you talking about?”

  Conrad smiled grandly, seeming to forget the uneasiness of seconds before as excitement laced his words. “Your stepmother and I are holding a huge party at The Fens to announce your—”

  “Your homecoming,” Grayson interjected, cutting Conrad off.

  Conrad’s mouth hung open, then his eyes narrowed in anger, his face turning a mottled red. But in the end, he was smart enough not to defy the younger, more powerful man.

  “Call it what you like, but all I can say,” Conrad finally managed, “is that this had better be straightened out soon.” He gave a meaningful look to Grayson. “The party is next Saturday.”

  Things would be straightened out, Grayson thought. But not here. Not with that suddenly haunted look in Sophie’s eyes.

  Chapter Four

  Emmaline Hawthorne, wife to Bradford, mother to Grayson, Matthew, and Lucas, extended her white-gloved hand and gave the driver fifty cents plus a nickel tip. She sat in the carriage for a moment, her primly straightened spine flush against the cracked leather seat. That morning she had taken great care with her attire, slipping on a peach silk gown and her favorite winter-white cape with fur trim.

  It had been years since she had been out by herself, and it took a moment before she realized the driver wasn’t going to help her alight.

  The man’s rudeness didn’t bother her, however. It actually made her smile that she was about the city, rubbing elbows with every sort of person.

  She was less thrilled a few minutes later as she was jostled and bumped on her way to the small building in the South End of Boston. But even that couldn’t dampen her spirits. It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to make these arrangements, telling her maid she was sick so she would be left alone. Bradford would be furious if he found out what she was doing.

  But her husband’s anger paled in comparison to the sudden, disturbing feelings that had hit her a month before. Life was passing her by. It was as if she woke up one morning and wondered what she was doing. Her husband didn’t need her, and he never had after she had brought him the substantial dowry that had allowed him to rebuild the Hawthorne family fortune. Her darling sons didn’t need her any longer either. Being much like their father, her three boys had always been independent. Bradford had seen to that. God forbid he find one of them curled up in her arms as a child.

  But that was the past, and on that morning when she had woken up and wondered what she was doing with her life, she remembered the years of her girlhood. Years of love and gaiety. She doubted there was a soul in Boston who would believe she used to ride hell-for-leather down the country roads outside of town. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had seen her laughing out loud, or her long hair free.

  Certainly not her husband. His interest in her body had waned after the birth of their youngest child. She still remembered the night she had gone to him and he had turned her away, telling her that a proper woman didn’t want to make love, only saw it as a duty.

  But she was proper. She had led committees and attended church and sewn altar cloths. She had raised awareness of the poor and had instituted a charitable foundation to see to the preservation of Boston’s historic landmarks. She had been called the epitome of what all proper Boston Brahmins wanted their wives and daughters to be.

  Then why did she wake up in the wee hours of the morning with a sick feeling of emptiness in her heart? With desire running deep.

  She spent the first two weeks of her new awareness feeling guilty that she wasn’t grateful enough for all that she had. When that sentiment failed to make headway in her mind, she then spent the second two weeks deciding what to do about it. It hadn’t taken long to know what she wanted to do. Resume her sculpting.

  She was fifty. But the mirror still showed smooth and only gently lined skin. Her hands were still slender. Her body was still curved. She was still strong enough to work the clay.

  Emmaline hurried the last steps to the barnlike building that had been an artists’ haven for decades. When she was a young woman her father had allowed her to study sculpture. Her dear, kind father who had wanted her dreams to take flight. He hadn’t wanted her to be restrained by the reins society had placed around women.

  Sometimes it was hard to believe that Bradford, the man who had swept into her life, so full of energy and excitement, could have taken her dreams and ripped them apart. All too soon in their life together the illusions of love had worn away.

  Pushing through the heavy front door, Emmaline was hit with the rich smell of clay. The cavernous room was filled with people, a few using potter’s wheels, their feet pumping the pe
dals in a smooth, mesmerizing motion. Others worked on varying stages of sculpting clay, some of it still in large blocks, barely touched, some already being tackled, their masters leaning over them in trance-like pursuit.

  Everyone was trying to take the thoughts in their heads and translate them into the malleable earth they molded with their hands.

  Emmaline remembered the feeling well, even after decades away from working the clay.

  “Do you want something?”

  Emmaline whirled around, her long skirts sweeping the dust-covered ground. She came face-to-face with a woman with long gray hair secured in a braid down her back. No demure bun or simple chignon, as any woman over the age of eighteen was expected to wear.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Springfield.”

  The woman eyed her rudely. “His matron types don’t usually come here. Send him a message, and if he wants to see you hell meet you at one of those fancy teahouses women like you frequent.”

  Stunned by the woman’s instant and intense animosity, Emmaline was speechless for a moment and she nearly left. But then she remembered those long, sleepless hours.

  “Mr. Springfield is expecting me.”

  “Here?” the woman scoffed.

  “Yes, here.” Courage she hadn’t felt in years surged through her. “I am sure he is in his studio upstairs. I’ll just go up there now.”

  The woman was clearly taken aback by Emmaline’s knowledge of this place. But Emmaline didn’t wait for her permission. She headed for the stairs.

  As soon as she placed her hand on the banister, a door flung open.

  “Emmaline!”

  She craned her neck and found Andre Springfield at the top of the stairs. “Andre.”

  “I didn’t believe you would really come.”

  “Well, believe it. I’m here.”

  The short, round man barreled down the stairs, grabbed her hand, and all but dragged her up to his study on the second floor. As soon as he slammed the door shut, he stood Emmaline in a shaft of light, took her hands, and held them out dramatically.

  “Let me look at you!”

  He danced her around in circles, and Emmaline couldn’t help but laugh. In a matter of minutes she felt the years drop away. It was as if she had never left. He had less hair and she knew she no longer looked eighteen. But none of that mattered.

  “Sit, sit! You must tell me all about what you’ve been doing these last many years.” He directed her to a chair, then dashed back to the door, flung it open, and hollered out, “Collette, bring us some tea!”

  He was still a whirlwind of energy, and Emmaline smiled to think that not everything had changed.

  “Now tell me everything.”

  “Heavens, we would be here all day.”

  “Grand! I can’t imagine anything I would like more than to spend time with you.”

  Emmaline lowered her head and glanced at her gloved hands. Andre reached out and nudged her chin. “What is this? Emmaline Abbot blushing?”

  “Emmaline Hawthorne now.”

  “Yes, yes. How could I not know? Your husband is written about in every paper. He is either taking some poor politician to task or signing some new deal to make thousands more dollars. He is everywhere one turns. But I don’t want to hear about him. It will ruin my day.”

  He said the words with a wicked grin, and Emmaline couldn’t help her answering chuckle—couldn’t seem to manage a bit of offense. Somehow Andre Springfield had always been that way. He could say the most improper things and get away with it.

  He glanced at the door. “Where is our tea?” he bellowed.

  Just then the door opened, but it wasn’t Collette who entered. A tall man with broad shoulders stood in the doorway. He had a full head of hair, graying at the temples. His skin was lightly tanned, as if he spent time in the sun. His eyes were dark and clear. He looked directly at Emmaline and after a long moment he smiled.

  Emmaline couldn’t move, her breath caught in her chest. Her mind spun and her heart leaped.

  “Hello, Em. It’s been a long time.”

  Chapter Five

  The slamming door brought her head up from the ledger with a start, the pencil lead in her hand snapping on the page.

  Sophie sat back in the desk chair, papers with numbers scrawled all over them spread out before her. She could see a long line of harsh sunlight trying to slice through the closed curtains of the bedroom.

  Normally she would have been asleep at this hour. Her entourage still was. But worry over finances had kept her up most of the night. The thought of losing Swan’s Grace left her reeling. But she had more immediate concerns just then. No matter how she worked the figures, she didn’t have enough to get four adults through to May if she had to pay for their lodging—in Boston or Europe.

  Of course, she had known that all along, but at two in the morning she had woken up with a flash of hope that if she redid the numbers, cutting back here, saving there, she’d have enough to get them through. The truth was as harsh as the morning sunlight.

  To make matters worse, her father had made it clear that Deandra, Henry, and Margaret were not welcome at his new house, and Sophie wasn’t about to leave her friends to fend for themselves. Which left staying at Swan’s Grace as the only viable alternative until she could get her father to straighten things out. And he would, surely. Swan’s Grace was hers.

  In the meantime she had to find a way to maintain residence in her childhood home. Though how hard could it be? she reasoned. Grayson was an old friend. Besides, how much time did a lawyer spend at his residence? Didn’t he have cases to try, judges to meet, clients to advise—all of which undoubtedly took place in courthouses and downtown offices?

  She kicked herself for goading him yesterday. Not the best way to start ingratiating herself. But being around him made her uneasy, unbalanced, as if at any second he could tip her over.

  Today, she promised herself, she would do better. She would be as sweet as pulled taffy, and he’d have little choice but to let them stay.

  For a second she thought of the rumors Margaret had heard of his impending marriage. What if he had a wife waiting in the wings to move in before May? But she wrote that worry off. Grayson Hawthorne was not one to do anything quickly, much less marry that way. No doubt he’d make an official announcement, then have a long and very proper engagement. By then she’d have Swan’s Grace back and the money to pay her bills.

  As the sun burned brighter, Sophie felt a growing sense of relief. Things would work out. During the day Grayson wouldn’t be around enough to care if they stayed at Swan’s Grace. And at night he could easily stay at the Hotel Vendome. He had told her father himself that it wasn’t a problem.

  The sound of efficient footsteps clomping across the downstairs floor seemed to vibrate up through the walls. She grimaced at the thought that it might be Grayson, disproving the theory that he didn’t spend much time there. But she dismissed the idea. Grayson Hawthorne did not clomp.

  She glanced at the huge four-poster bed that had been her father’s—though now Grayson was using it. His belongings filled the room. Fine suits, high-polished boots. A cashmere robe.

  In the early morning hours, she had pulled it on, wrapping it around her. His scent clung to the material, clean and musky. She had the fleeting image of his arms wrapped around her, and a shiver drifted down her spine.

  He was a man now, not a boy, fulfilling all the promise he had shown years ago.

  She groaned at the thought of him. Truly he unsettled her. And staying in a room full of his belongings hadn’t been one of her smarter decisions. It made her remember him—made her question her determination to be independent. And that made her mad.

  The fact of the matter was, she didn’t know how to be anything else. Her mother had taught her to be free, had never made the slightest mention of how society expected a woman to do a man’s bidding. She didn’t know the first thing about running a household or preparing a meal.

  And children.r />
  She pressed her eyes closed at the unexpected thought of holding a baby, Grayson’s baby, in her arms. Snuggling close. Someone to love her.

  She shook the thought away. She cringed to think of what a mess she would make of a child. Beyond which, she hadn’t worked five long years only to toss her success away at the first feel of a cashmere robe around her shoulders. The garment was soft and sweet. Grayson, the man, was anything but.

  The clomps from belowstairs broke into her reverie. With little help for it, Sophie secured the tie at her waist, searched the floor for a pair of feather-trimmed slippers, then went in search of whoever was making all the racket.

  Just when her foot hit the bottom step, she came face-to-face with a severe-looking woman who looked to be a hundred if she was a day. She wore a no-nonsense hat over steel gray hair, and a starched gown that made Margaret’s prudish attire look provocative.

  “You look a bit prim to be a thief,” Sophie stated without preamble, rolling the long cashmere sleeves up a few turns. “Would you care to explain what you are doing here?”

  “I’ll not be explaining anything to the likes of you,” the woman said with a sniff, her tone censorious as she looked Sophie up and down. “I’ll not abide a lady of the night waltzing about a respectable man’s home. Get away with you, girl, and believe you me, I’ll be having a word with young Mr. Hawthorne.”

  Young Mr. Hawthorne, as if he were a boy still in knickers. Who could this dour lady be?

  Sophie would have laughed her delight had she not been so surprised.

  But she was saved from having to do anything when Grayson pushed open the front door. He wore a fine wool overcoat and clapped his gloved hands together to warm them. A rush of cold air came in with him.

  He glanced down at the lock as he passed across the threshold, and when he looked up he noticed the two women. Sophie saw his eyes darken when he noticed her. His gaze traveled over her, seeing his robe, the motion like a caress. Then he smiled, surprisingly bright and rich considering he had left her yesterday in a dour mood.