Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I’m glad to know that,” Annie said, following the woman inside. As they walked down the hall toward Mrs. Crow’s stillroom, she wondered whether, if hibiscus was good for the heart, it might help to heal a broken heart. She had been so foolishly confident in Adam, and the discovery that he and Delia were sleeping together again was more painful than she could ever have guessed.

  Mrs. Crow opened a jar and began to fill a paper bag with dried red blossoms. “I hope your friend is doing well,” she said. “I trust that the wild carrot seeds did their work.”

  “My friend?” Annie said blankly, and then remembered the little fiction she had contrived on her earlier visit. “Oh, yes, my friend! Yes, of course. She wanted me to be sure to thank you. The wild carrot seeds did just what they’re supposed to do.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Mrs. Crow said briskly. “I hope she’ll remember that a little rue goes a long way, too.” She gave Annie the paper bag. “That’ll be twenty cents, dear.”

  Annie handed over the coins and took the bag. As she walked home with the hibiscus, she thought about Delia and Adam and what she had just learned. She was sure that Adam would never impose himself upon an unwilling woman. She knew—because he had told her—that he believed that intercourse was immoral without love.

  But as she knew very well, Adam was a fervent lover whose need wasn’t readily satisfied. Her cheeks colored as she remembered the nights they had spent together making love, falling asleep and waking to make love again. He and Delia were married in the eyes of man and God, and their lovemaking—unlike the lovemaking she had shared with him—was entirely lawful, even blessed. He might not love Delia the way he loved her. But she was his wife and an attractive woman who took care to make herself beautiful. And while it might be catty to think that Delia needed to hold Adam’s love and attention because she had no resources of her own and could not survive as a single woman, it was also true. If she drew him to her bed, why should he say no?

  And then she thought of something else. If Delia invited Adam to her bed, could he say no? Wouldn’t she ask him why? Of course she would. And Adam—who was a cautious man by nature—would feel that he had to make love to his wife, if only to keep her from asking too many questions. He wouldn’t want to do anything that made her suspicious.

  These considerations made her feel a little better, but not much. One way or another, it was all the same in the end. Adam and Delia had made love, while she was alone and lonely. She tried to swallow down the hurt, but her heart really did feel as if it were breaking—in a way that Mrs. Crow’s hibiscus tea could not cure.

  * * *

  • • •

  ADAM had also a great deal to think about. Mr. Simpson’s call and the encounter with Greta and Delia afterward had troubled him deeply, and the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. He had never been a man to take risks, but loving Annie had changed him—changed him inside and out, he thought. He fought with himself, but finally decided. Honorable, dishonorable, it didn’t matter. He had to see Annie and talk with her about Mr. Simpson’s visit and Greta’s misunderstanding. He needed to know what she thought.

  Since Douglas’ death, he had been in the habit of doing the occasional chore for their widowed neighbor, as well as dropping off the stable rent once a month. So a day or two after Simpson’s visit, he told Delia that he was taking the rent money to Annie.

  “Unless you would rather do it,” he offered, already knowing the answer.

  Her reply was predictable. “I’m busy right now.” She didn’t look up from the magazine she was reading. “You do it, Adam. You’re the one who’s using the stable.”

  “I’ll tell her you said hello,” he said, adding, “She may have a few repairs that need doing.” Delia nodded absently and he left.

  The sky was still light when he took the path through the hedge. Now that Delia was home, he thought, Annie might not want to see him—she might even refuse. But when she answered his knock at the kitchen door, the expression on her face told him all that he needed to know. He shut the door behind him, glanced at the window to make sure the curtain was drawn, and gave up all pretense of being an honorable man. He pulled her against him, kissing her hungrily. For a moment, he gave himself over to the raw pleasure of holding her in his arms, of running his hands over her body, her face, her hair.

  “I want you,” he whispered urgently, his lips against her throat. “Oh, God, I want you, Annie. Please, let’s—”

  “No,” she said. Flushed and breathless, she pushed him away. “I can’t, Adam. I don’t have any . . . that is, I can’t take precautions right now. We wouldn’t be . . . safe. I don’t think we should risk it.”

  “Ah,” he said. Regretfully, he dropped his hands, wondering if perhaps she had changed toward him, and this was a way to put him off—a way she knew he would understand and respect. But he discarded that thought immediately. Her kiss, her body against his, had told him she had not changed.

  She went to the window and opened the curtains. “Will you have a cup of tea? It’s already brewed.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and pulled out a chair. “I’ve brought the money for the stable rent.” He took the bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table. “I told Delia I was coming, and that I’d ask if you had any repairs that need doing.”

  “I don’t, thank you,” she said, and poured their tea. The silence that followed felt, to Adam, oddly uncomfortable. And then he found out why.

  When she sat down, she added, “I saw Delia yesterday afternoon.” She wasn’t looking at him. “At Mrs. Crow’s.”

  He frowned. “Who is Mrs. Crow?”

  “The lady who runs the boardinghouse in the next block. She sells herbs. I went to get some of this lovely tea. Hibiscus. Do you like it?”

  He picked up the cup and sipped. “It’s very nice.” He frowned again. “Delia was there? I wonder what she was—”

  “Wild carrot seeds,” Annie said, spooning honey into her tea. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Crow didn’t have any. She told Delia where to find them, though. She said the plants are growing in the empty lot behind Purley’s, right next door to your store. Now is a good time to—”

  “Behind Purley’s?” Adam asked, frowning. “I’ve never noticed. But I don’t know anything about plants. I wouldn’t know what I was looking at.” His frown deepened. “Wait a minute. Wild carrot. That’s the contraceptive, isn’t it? I wonder what Delia wants that for. We’re not—”

  “Please, Adam.” Annie lifted her cup in both hands, meeting his eyes over the rim. Her eyes were dark and troubled, her voice quiet, restrained. “You don’t have to explain. I understand, certainly. After all, Delia is your wife. It’s only natural for you to want to—”

  “But I don’t,” he protested. “Even if she asked me, I wouldn’t . . . That is, we haven’t . . . Not since before she went to Galveston.” He rubbed his jaw, not understanding. “Believe me, Annie, please. The subject hasn’t even come up. If it did—if she brought it up—I wouldn’t. I’d say no.” He stopped, a thought coming to him, and then another. When he spoke again, there was a knot in his throat. He pushed the words past it with an effort. “If she’s using that carrot seed, it’s not on my account, Annie.”

  Clearly puzzled, she stared at him. “But I saw Delia when she left Mrs. Crow’s. She seemed truly distressed. And Mrs. Crow told me what she asked for.” She paused, frowning. “If you aren’t . . . If the two of you haven’t . . . then I wonder why—”

  Adam didn’t have to wonder. “I know why,” he said. “I know who.”

  Annie’s expression was blank. “Who? Adam, you can’t possibly think—”

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “I met the man a couple of days ago, coming out of my house. In fact, that’s what I came to talk to you about, Annie.” He leaned back in his chair. “His name is Simpson. Delia said he was just ‘passing through’ on his w
ay from Galveston to Austin. He brought her a box of candy and a letter. She said they were from her sister, but I don’t believe it.”

  Annie put down her cup. “Candy and a letter? You mean, she actually had a conversation with him?”

  He reached for her hand. “It wasn’t just a conversation, Annie.”

  “Are you sure?” She hesitated. “I’m asking this, Adam, because Delia made a big point of telling me about a man who came calling, a Mr. Simpson. She said he pursued her from Galveston, but she sent him away—him and his box of candy.” She pulled her hand away. “She said something like, ‘The poor man didn’t even get to set foot in the house.’”

  “He set both feet in the house,” Adam said tersely. “He smoked his cigar in the parlor and—” He stopped. There was more, of course. “Her dress was . . . disarranged. And a button was missing. I found it on the floor.”

  “Disarranged?” Annie looked troubled. “Oh, surely not! I mean, what you’re thinking—it’s very serious, Adam. Perhaps you should give her the benefit of the doubt. After all . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  He knew what Annie was thinking: that he imagined Delia guilty of doing something that he himself had done. And that she didn’t want to charge Delia for a sin she herself had committed. But he shook his head again. “I might doubt it, if Greta—the hired girl—hadn’t told me . . .”

  He stopped. Greta hadn’t actually told him anything. He had read her accusing expression, that was all, and interpreted it to mean that she had seen what went on in the parlor between Delia and that man. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Simpson wasn’t just ‘passing through,’ as Delia kept insisting. The man is still here. I saw him again this morning, having breakfast at the hotel.”

  “Oh,” Annie said in a small voice. “Oh, Adam. You think she’s . . . that they’re . . .” She clasped her hands together tightly.

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “What’s fair for me is fair for my wife. If Delia and Simpson are engaging in a . . . liaison, I can scarcely complain.”

  “And I’m feeling terribly hypocritical, too.” Annie ducked her head, the flush rising in her cheeks. Her voice was low. “This is so awkward, Adam. I can’t feel sorry for what we’ve done, but I’ve put you in a difficult position.”

  “If I’m in a difficult position, it’s not your doing, Annie,” he said emphatically. “Anyway, when you get right down to it, I ought to be glad.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Maybe she’ll decide she loves him. Maybe she’ll run off with him.”

  “What?” Annie’s eyes were large. “Leave you? Leave Caroline? Oh, Adam, she could never do that! It’s unthinkable.”

  Adam knew she was at least partly right. Delia might no longer love him—perhaps she never had. Perhaps she had only loved what she thought he could give her. But she truly loved their daughter. She would never leave Caroline—and a woman who abandoned her husband could not expect to keep her child. What’s more, she valued her reputation as a dedicated mother and the charming wife of a respectable and well-off business owner. Running away with another man would create an enormous scandal, a public humiliation that she could not endure. Delia might like to imagine herself a femme fatale, he thought, especially when she went back to Galveston. But she was too conventional to abandon her marriage, no matter how sorely she was tempted.

  Simpson complicated the situation, however. Why was the fellow still hanging around Pecan Springs? He didn’t have business here, as far as Adam was able to discover. Was he watching for a chance to see and talk with Delia? Or was she leading him on, letting him hope that she might have some feeling for him? The titillating excitement of a flirtation was something she might very well relish, he thought—the thrill of being admired and perhaps even loved by a man who was not her husband.

  As Adam thought of this, he felt a great gulf of despair open up inside him, all around him. He was condemned to spend his entire life with a woman he didn’t love, a woman who might be foolish enough to engage in a dalliance that could injure all of them.

  And then he came back, as he always did, to the terrible irony of his position. Here he was, in love with a wonderful woman who could be badly compromised—by visits like the very one they were having tonight.

  If Delia could be said to be foolish, so, too, could Annie.

  If Simpson was culpable, so, too, was he.

  If Delia found out about Annie, she might use the knowledge against him—or worse, against her. And he couldn’t, in good conscience, remonstrate. By his actions, he had yielded up the right to appeal to his wife, or to charge her or punish her. He had opened Annie—the woman he loved—to the same ugly charges that could be laid against Delia. He closed his eyes and passed his hand over his face. What a horrible mess he had made of things!

  Now it was Annie’s turn to reach for him. “I am so sorry,” she said quietly, putting her hand on his. “I know how hard this must be for you, Adam. Delia is the mother of your daughter. In some ways, you must love her still. But are you sure you know what’s going on? Perhaps . . . perhaps this thing with Mr. Simpson is just a casual friendship.” She retrieved her hand and turned her head, but he had seen the tears brimming in her eyes. “And after all, you and I are hardly the pots to call the kettle black, are we?”

  He heard her tender affection and knew that she was trying to make him feel better, which of course made him feel worse. “You’re right,” he confessed. “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m only guessing. I’m not being fair to Delia. And I’m certainly not being fair to you.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m sorry, Annie. I think I’d better go.”

  She nodded, silently. Her head was bent, her fingers twisted together.

  He looked down at her, loving her, desiring her, but knowing what he had to do. “I can’t come back, my love. From now on, I’ll slip the stable rent under your door. If you need anything—repairs or the like—send me a note at the store. I’ll arrange for someone to help you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s best.” She lifted her eyes to his and he saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. “Whatever happens, Adam, please know that I love you. Very much.”

  “I wish I deserved that,” he said wretchedly, and left.

  He stood outside for a long moment, hesitating. Then, rather than go home to Delia, he went into the stable. He was greeted by his horses and Caroline’s fat pony, whickering softly in the dusky interior of the stable. He took a deep breath of sweet, newly cured hay and warm horseflesh. His throat burned with his own unshed tears as he thought of Annie and their impossible dilemma. He took the stable buckets out to the water pump to refill them, then brought them back to the stalls. As he set the last one down, he heard the low, husky voice.

  “Hello.”

  He straightened, blinking into the dusty dimness. “Greta? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me, sir,” she said, stepping out of a shadowed corner. She was wearing a dark dress and a shawl flung over her head and shoulders. “I found somethin’ I thought you might oughtta see. After what happened the other day, I didn’t want to show it to you in the house.”

  “You found . . . something?” He was nervously aware that the two of them ought not to be alone here in the barn. If Delia should happen to come out, she would assume that they—

  “Yessir.” She cleared her throat. “It’s the letter that feller gave Miz Delia the other day. The feller who brought the candy. He’s got a room at the hotel an’—”

  “I know the man you mean,” Adam broke in gruffly, remembering the blue letter Delia had been quick to tuck in her sleeve. “But it’s Mrs. Hunt’s letter. How did you come by it?”

  The girl came toward him. Her shawl fell back and he noticed that she was wearing a red ribbon and some sort of cheap flowery perfume, so strong that it overwhelmed the other scents in the stable. “I found it,” she said. “In the wastebasket in her be
droom. She must not’ve wanted it no more, so she was throwin’ it away.” She took another step closer, and there was a provocative note in her voice. “You’ve been so nice to me, Mr. Hunt, and I appreciate it. I figgered you might want to have it.”

  Whatever was in the letter, Adam didn’t believe for a minute that Delia had thrown it away. The girl must have stolen it out of a drawer or a jewelry box. He had no right to his wife’s private correspondence, but he had to make sure Greta didn’t keep it. There was no predicting how she might use it. With an effort, he managed what he hoped she would see as a conspiratorial smile.

  “Very good, Greta.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take it, then, with my thanks.”

  “Just thanks?” Greta smiled coyly, both hands behind her back, her head tilted on one side. In the dusky half light, Adam saw that her posture was obviously meant to be tempting. Her shawl had fallen away and he could see that several buttons of her bodice were undone, revealing mounds of swelling white flesh. “Don’t you think you ought to give me somethin’ more than words for it?” She came a little closer, her voice seductive, and held up the letter. “What’ll it be, sir?”

  He took a breath, understanding that she was offering what he could not, would not take. But he wasn’t sure how to reject her obvious proposal without making her angry—and he could hardly wrestle the letter from her.

  “I believe you have my best interests at heart, Greta.” He gave her a long, grave look. “You do, don’t you?”

  She seemed to take that seriously. “Oh, yes, sir,” she said, with a quick nod. “I do, sir. With all my heart, I promise you.”

  “And I have yours, believe me.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “My dear.”

  She gave him a smile and he thought she was touched by the endearment. “Well, then,” she said suggestively, but she kept her hands—and the letter—behind her back.