CHAPTER SIX #3
In her bedroom, Leona freed herself of the skirts with their wet hems and dusty blouse, shivering in the cold damp.
She placed the key she always wore around her neck in a small box on the vanity.
After Mrs. McCarthy left the pitcher of hot water, Leona scrubbed at her skin as if she could wash the day away.
This done, she put on a soft wool dress of lilac and gray stripes with a low neckline.
She was wrapping a purple velvet ribbon with a dangling cameo around her neck when Mrs. McCarthy returned.
“Your hair is all a-tangle,” she said as the downstairs door slammed, and Leona jumped. “There’s Mr. Gladney. The dress is perfect. Sit, and I’ll brush your hair up quick.”
Her deft fingers wielded the brush, making the operation nearly painless. She pinned the dark coils of Leona’s hair up as she stared into the mirror, seeing only Benedict Van Wyn’s sneer. Gil entered after a quick knock.
Leona turned in her seat and gave her husband a bright smile. “Hello, darling! Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be off home now. Good night to both of you.” Mrs. McCarthy slipped out the door, taking her warmth with her.
Leona stood and smoothed her skirts. Gil, wearing the red wool scarf she’d given him last Christmas and worry in his eyes, kissed her forehead with cold lips. With fear nipping at her nerves, she steeled herself against revealing the events of the day.
He smiled down at her, hands resting on her shoulders. “I’m late?”
“Only a little. How did your meeting at the bank go?”
“Fine, everything is fine,” he said.
“Wonderful!” Yet she wasn’t quite sure she believed him. “You have time to change, if you like?”
“No, I’m going out again, just down to the Grange, for more business talk.”
She closed her eyes against the worry behind his smile.
“Everything is grand, my dear.” He kissed her forehead. “How was your day? Feeling a little better?”
“Yes, a little.”
She suspected they were telling each other marital lies, little reassurances so as not to worry the other.
For a moment, she again almost gave in to the desire to confide in him, tell him—everything.
But his smile faltered, and he turned away from her, as if sensing her need and rejecting it.
His burden was obvious, and she did not want to add to it by telling him about the dire possibilities hanging over their heads.
He moved away from her, unwinding the scarf from his neck, and hanging it on the chairback near the fire. “Shall we go down?”
Leona swallowed the moment of weakness. She would keep it from him for as long as she must. But so much depended on trusting Benedict Van Wyn to keep his suspicions to himself, it staggered her.
Mrs. McCarthy had left them stew and fresh bread and butter to go with it.
The novelty of having her husband home for supper made her heart a little lighter, but she still felt dim and cold with worry.
Well-practiced at not revealing her feelings, she forced a smile as he chatted about his day in the City until her spirits stirred and brightened.
His words, the warm glances from his hazel eyes melted the brittle splinters of her grief and fear.
Her smile was genuine, not a mask. He’d brought home a decent wine and a few new books and magazines.
When she commented on the cost, he said, “You are not to worry yourself about that—but perhaps we might take in boarders? It seems something your grandfather might approve of. You’ve got nothing to do with your days now that Mrs. Van Wyn has passed.”
She blinked at the cool way he spoke the words.
It was on her tongue to take him to task for it, but they were getting on so well she didn’t want to break the spell.
She couldn’t tell him about the memoir. He believed her money came from book and play reviews for Oran.
She’d always hoped to be more prolific and contribute to their financial security.
It rankled her he thought her days were his to spend, that supervising boarders would fulfill her.
Had the meeting with the bankers gone so badly?
But even as Leona had those thoughts, her eyes were on him, his noble aquiline nose, lovely full mustache, broad forehead, and the long planes of his face.
Her fears receded as her heart stirred, her body following down a familiar, if not oft-explored, path.
They hadn’t been married very long, but she believed she loved him, and that he loved her.
She longed to touch him. Her body kindled as the candlelight bathed him in a soft glow.
She put her dessert fork down, the cake not as sweet as the place her desire lived, then rested her eyes on him.
He poured more wine, and she drank it for courage.
Reaching for his hand across the table, he met her halfway.
His hands had warmed since the evening’s first kiss in their bedroom.
“You look lovely tonight, Leona,” he said.
She squeezed his hand, trembling a little, overcome with love. “I wish tonight to make a child.”
His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak—to deny her, she thought. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Damn your business meeting. I feel as if I haven’t seen you in a month.”
The light in his eyes danced. Shimmering awareness and base need rushed through her. His glance fell to her neck, to her bosom, his gaze potent.
“You are frank tonight.” He smiled. “I do miss my saucy wife.”