Her words fell into an appalling well of silence, a black hole absorbing all other sound. Everyone heard her, there was no doubt, not from their faces, and, in that second, she finally heard her words, staking a devastating claim to the man standing in shock beside her.
It was the voice cracking before an audience, the heel coming off a shoe during an entrance, the sneeze during a soliloquy picked up by an open mike. It was every embarrassing moment she’d ever imagined, rolled into one.
She reacted on instinct, fight-or-flight adrenaline overtaking that first wave of leaden horror. She had one thought, to live through the next minute, the next hour. Not to stand there, rooted in icy horror, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to muster a covering laugh that would say, I’m joking, I’m joking! Of course, I’m not his mistress!
But of course, she said nothing. Laura St. Bride, having said it all, had nothing to say.
And then, salvation.
Not missing a beat, Cat stepped in, Cat who could outstare, outwit, outlast anyone. Cat, who would always survive. Cat, who had the courage – or the nerve – to give the entourage a blinding smile and take her speechless lover’s arm.
“Let’s go, Richard, I don’t want to miss the rest of the tour.”
Cat, who practically dragged him out of the bedroom.
Her bravado lasted most of the way through the parlor tour. She was aware of Richard standing silently beside her, of the attention from his newfound friends: speculation from the doctor, unwelcome interest from the professional man, comrade-in-arms respect from the wife, disapproval from the New Jersey women, who, she now noticed, wore crosses and probably couldn’t wait to report to their Bible study group that they had met Jezebel in the flesh. On the plus side, the Boston girls scurried to the other side of the group after she glared at them.
She’d been a mother for thirteen years. She’d perfected the art of the quelling glare.
It took a few minutes of standing in the sunny room, with its gorgeous view of the western lawn where they had so recently stood, half-listening to the discussion about the artwork and the original panes of glass in the windows, before the adrenaline flood began to recede and reality began to wash in on her, and the full weight of what she had done in Jefferson’s bedroom fell on her.
I’m his mistress.
Oh, dear God, had she really said something that crude? She hadn’t, she couldn’t have. Those words, that scene – that wasn’t her. That wasn’t Laura Abbott, who gave new meaning to holding up the wall. That wasn’t Laura St. Bride, who never caused anyone a moment’s unease to anyone.
Those immortal words.
I’m his mistress.
Not girlfriend, with its innocuous claim of ownership, unlikely to cause anyone discomfort. Not that quasi-legal term, partner, meaning anything. Not wife, the ultimate keep-your-hands-off.
Mistress.
A story in one word: This man is married. I am not his wife. I sleep with him.
Mistress. Richard probably thought she had lost her mind. Crown princes had mistresses. Presidents had mistresses. CEOs of Internet companies had mistresses. An architect in Virginia who treasured his privacy did not have a mistress.
Oh, Richard, if we could live up there alone, on the mountain… I would be your truest mistress till the day I died….
No, she couldn’t be remembering that correctly. It didn’t even sound like Francie.
She had embarrassed him, Laura thought numbly, as they followed the docent into the dining room. The doctor was a potential client, and Richard was in business for himself, surviving on commissions and referrals from clients. Not that the doctor looked as if he might not enjoy a mistress himself – she’d seen him look at Boston A’s half-hidden rose tattoo – and not that Richard hadn’t established himself firmly as a restoration expert par excellence. Still, it couldn’t do him any good to be viewed as a man with an unstable personal life.
I have worked hard to put together a decent life. I won’t wreck it for a one-night stand.
No, just let me wreck it for you.
Oh, why, why, why had she let two silly girls get to her?
Laura tried to keep her distance from the rest of the tour in the dining room and the adjacent tea room. She loved rooms like this; Peggy had taught her how to set a gracious table long before anyone had ever heard of Martha Stewart, and she had taken pleasure in creating beautiful dinners in Cam’s home. She loved the fireplace, with its Wedgwood inserts; she loved the tea service; she loved the walls with their robin’s-egg blue contrasted against the white crown moldings. She hated the island of silence that had surrounded her ever since she had opened her mouth.
She stood in front of the fireplace and stared at the Wedgwood inserts. Maybe she could find something like that for her fireplace in London. She’d seen a gift shop down near the waiting line; maybe she could buy a replica of the mantel clock or the mirror and have it shipped to the flat. Maybe she could forget that she had ever in her whole life heard of a place called Monticello.
She heard people talking behind her, laughing, admiring. The women particularly liked these rooms. Good old Martha, she’d made homemaking chic again.
Richard had come to stand beside her. They stood there without speaking; she stared at the mantel carvings until the silence grew more than she could bear. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the stillness between them, and out came, “Cam would never let me paint the walls.”
What a stupid thing to say, as if Cameron St. Bride’s preference on boring eggshell walls was even worth thinking about.
“I wanted to paint a mural in our dining room, and he said no, he didn’t like trompe d’oeil, if you want something on a wall you should just hang a picture. Then I wanted a faux finish in our bathroom, and he said it was impractical and we should get hand-painted backsplashes instead.”
It took a moment – long enough for him to think Who took Laura away and left this crazy woman? – before he said carefully, “You can paint anything you want now.”
“No, I can’t,” she said. “It’s not my house anymore.”
The rest of the tour was leaving the dining room now, going back towards the front of the house. She slipped past Richard and the other people in their subgroup, who had been openly eavesdropping on this first post-mistress exchange. Even the New Jersey ladies looked sorry for Richard; his mistress had gone completely around the bend, crying about not being able to paint her walls.
The tour of the house finished on a flat note in the northeast bedroom. It should have ended back in that spectacular front entrance, or Jefferson’s greenhouse, or the tea room, anything except this bland bedroom with the flowered wallpaper. The room was small and stuffy, and she felt a touch of claustrophobia. She couldn’t wait to file out the door to the terrace where she and Richard had begun their exploration of Monticello.
Maybe they could leave now.
But, oh no, now Richard’s groupies were asking him to take them through the underground dependencies, not part of the regular tour. She saw him pause and look over at her with reservation, and she saw that he wanted to do it. Well, why not? The man was an expert; he’d written the thesis that she hadn’t typed on the structural engineering of the dependencies.
Laura said, “That sounds like fun,” and the rest of the group relaxed. She hated that everyone was tiptoeing around her. She’d spent a lifetime accommodating other people, but let one ill-advised word escape her mouth, and people treated her like a volcano that might blow at any moment.
Richard led the group around the terrace and down the same stairs they had descended an hour before, before he’d told her he did not want Cat Courtney in his bed. She thought of that uneasily as they circled around to the ice house. She’d told him that Cat was just a job, she was still his true-blue Laura, but he had then seen – as had everyone else – Cat Courtney demolishing two silly little girls, overkill for a minor faux pas.
Not two silly little girls. Francie.
>
Oh, dear Lord.
Had she been striking out at Francie? Had she looked at two rude but harmless twinkies trying to catch Richard Ashmore’s attention and seen Francie resurrected, Francie moving in to type his thesis, Francie coming up the mountain with Richard, Francie trailing off into the forest with him?
Francie winning once again?
She hadn’t even fought fair in Jefferson’s bedroom. No twinkie could hope to compete against a grown woman who’d made a man moan in ecstasy a few hours before.
She saw Boston A and Boston B gazing at Richard flirtatiously, two children who had no idea who they were up against, doubtless thinking that any man with a cranky mistress might be interested in trading her in for a newer model. And suddenly she was sick of the whole thing.
She waited until Richard had finished talking about the ice house – who knew there was so much to say about an ice house? Before the group moved on to the next room, she hurried over to his side and touched his arm. He looked down at her, and she saw in relief that he wasn’t angry. On the other hand, she didn’t see the man who had touched her like a precious treasure the night before. He showed no emotion as he looked at her.
“If you don’t mind,” Laura said softly, “I need some sun. I’ll meet you down at the gift shop when you’re done, if that’s okay.” Without waiting for his answer, she turned to the others, smiled a Cat Courtney smile – no sense in not making that work for her right now – and said, “It was lovely meeting you all. Enjoy the rest of your tour. And do have Richard tell you about his book. It’s wonderful.”
Her good deed for the day, to add to Julie’s college fund.
It was a relief to walk across the lawn down to the gift shop, away from the press of people around them. The sun was high in the sky now – noon, she saw with a glance at her watch – and a huge line waited for the next several tours. They had indeed just beaten the heavy crowds.
Maybe she ought to set up a trust fund for Julie for college. She didn’t know what architects earned, but surely keeping up Ashmore Park, a stable of horses, and an airplane and then adding college and possibly graduate school in music to the mix was going to be a financial burden. She’d already told Lucy not ever to worry about the cost of schooling for her child.
If Richard would even let her help out. I’m his mistress. She already knew his answer.
She had plenty of time to shop in the gift store. The shop didn’t stock the mantel clock, and the mirror was a special order, but the staff was more than happy to help out someone who seemed determined to buy out the store, assuring her that they could ship whatever she wanted wherever she wanted. She browsed around, glancing up nervously every time the door opened, and the longer he delayed, the faster her heart beat, the more anxious she became.
By the time Richard came to her, she had been staring at a blown glass ornament for ten minutes, unable to decide if she wanted a miniature Monticello to hang on her tree to remind her of this day.
“Are you going to get that?” His voice was calm, the voice of a man talking to an acquaintance.
Laura carefully did not look at him. “I might. I collect blown glass for my Christmas tree.”
“Then you should get it as a souvenir of your first trip to Monticello.” First trip – there wouldn’t be a second; she was never showing her face here again. “There are some other ornaments over there – oh,” he saw the pile already waiting at the counter, “I see you found them. Ready?”
Laura had just signed the receipt for a truly frightening amount and was replacing her card in her wallet when a thought struck her. All the St. Brides, even Meg, carried a corporate credit card; it simplified the St. Bride Family Administration’s bookkeeping, and she had never given it a second thought. But that meant that Mark probably saw her account activity. He could tell where she had been and what she had been doing from her purchases. He’d see the fabric she had bought in Gettysburg, the purchases at Monticello. He’d see that she hadn’t once paid to put gas in her car, even though she had supposedly driven all over the state. He’d see that she had not paid for any meals or a hotel room.
Damn! So much for thinking that a cell phone covered her tracks.
She and Richard had walked halfway down the dirt and gravel path past Mulberry Row, past the slave quarters, before he said, “Well? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“What?” She needed to get her own American Express card. She would have her cell phone bill redirected – no, she was on the corporate account, and Mark could see the bills. He could probably tell where she was from the cell tower listing for each call. He could tell who she called, who called her.
She needed a new cell phone.
She needed independence from the St. Bride cocoon, no matter how convenient it was to have someone take care of the little details of life for her. Her checking account wasn’t even private. The personal assistant assigned to her and Emma had access so that she could balance the account every month and file the checks away.
She needed a new bank account.
She used the St. Bride email server, and every single employee of the St. Bride companies knew that emails were subject to corporate scrutiny. No one in the family had paid attention to the warning; no one would ever dare read their emails – except the CEO, if he became curious about her activities. He could read her email to Terry, asking him to send her diaphragm to her.
She needed a new email account.
“It’s obvious,” said Richard evenly, “that you are upset about something. I want to know what’s wrong. If my mistress is going to blow hot and cold all morning and then top it off by announcing to the world that we are sharing a bed, I think I am entitled to know what is going through her mind.”
“Oh, Richard.” She stopped, genuinely contrite. She had bigger problems than Mark’s access to her personal affairs. How could she have overlooked the effect of her moodiness on Richard? She hadn’t thought that he might wonder what he had done or even care that she was unhappy. She bit her lip and looked up at him. “I’m so sorry. That was inexcusable of me.”
“Not good enough, Laura Rose.” Richard’s voice was firm, giving no quarter, and that startled her. “I lived with the queen of mood swings for seven years, and I won’t play guessing games. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, really—”
“Laura.”
Oh, no, she was going to have to tell him. Most women wanted men attuned to their moods, she thought ruefully, and it was just her luck to actually have one.
“I got tired of the Boston bimbettes hanging all over you.” It sounded ridiculous when she said it aloud, and it wasn’t even half the truth. The girls she could have handled, maybe even the others who had taken his attention. Their monopoly of him paled in comparison to Francie’s voice from the past echoing in her head, reminding her that he had brought her twin up here on a snowy day and made love to her.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said brusquely, and she flinched. She’d hate to be on the receiving end of that tone very often. “Those girls are practically Julie’s age, for God’s sake. You can’t think that I’d have the slightest interest in a pop-tart, especially one with a—” He broke off impatiently. “Never mind. Don’t you think you went a little overboard? You flattened the hell out of them.”
“Good.” His sharp tone had gotten to Laura. She was tired of feeling tense and remorseful. She hadn’t chattered like a demented magpie. She hadn’t hung around thrusting her bosom in his face. “They were rude. I couldn’t hear, and neither could other people. You know all this stuff, Richard, it’s old hat to you, but it wasn’t to me, and I wanted to hear what the guide was saying. And,” she emphasized, “I didn’t notice the rest of your groupies doing anything, and you did ask how to shut them up.”
“You still went overboard.” He stopped, then said slowly, “But that wasn’t it, was it? You were all over the map before we ever got in line. What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing, it’s just
—”
“What’s bothering you?” He stood over her, staring down at her hard, and his eyes were dark with suspicion. He wasn’t going to let her slide without an answer.
She waited a long moment, her heart beating fast, while he continued to stare down at her. She was going to have to tell him the truth; he wasn’t backing down.
“You brought Francie here.”
The words hung in the heated summer air between them, and the silence stretched out beyond reason. She couldn’t look at him. She was more tired than she could remember being in months. She was tired of Francie, tired of hearing her twin’s voice in her head. She was sick to death of Richard’s past with Francie. She wanted to go home to her flat in London, crawl into her solitary bed, and sleep until she forgot that Francie had ever existed.
“That’s right,” said Richard flatly. “I brought Francie here. Now I’ve brought you. I’ve also brought my aunts from Ireland, my mother’s garden club, and, on one particularly hideous trip, Julie’s Brownie Scout troop. I’ve brought lots of people. So I brought Francie. What of it?”
She stared off along the path, anything to keep from looking at him. Her voice was low and miserable. “Well, I doubt those other trips were quite the same.”
“And what,” Richard’s voice sounded dangerous, “is that supposed to mean?”
She said nothing. She’d said far too much already.
He was furious now, every inch of his long body rigid with anger. He had folded his arms across his chest, glaring down at her, and for all her own height, she was at a disadvantage. She should have never said anything, she thought unhappily. She should have squashed down her jealousy – yes, it had been jealousy, she was still jealous of Francie, because Francie’s feelings for him had at least been honest. She hadn’t had the guilt of his blood on her hands.
“All right,” Richard said, “I’ve had it. I am not putting up with this. We’re going to fight about Francie sooner or later, so let’s get it over with. Come on. We’ll have some privacy down here unless the – what did you call them? – the bimbettes find us.”
All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1) Page 53
