A Deadly Affection (43 page)

“I need to speak with you,” I said, closing the door behind me.

“Not right now,” he replied without lifting his head. “I've got to get this contract ready for Charles's signature before he leaves on the afternoon train.”

“I'm afraid it can't wait.”

He looked up. “What happened to your forehead?” he asked, putting down his pen.

I needed to sit. I crossed to the reading chaise and perched on it sideways to face him. “Father,” I said, clasping my hands in my lap, “I haven't been entirely honest with you.”

I told him all of it, the good and the bad, hoping that, despite his certain anger, he'd be able to appreciate what I'd managed to accomplish. For although I no longer needed his approval, I would have liked to have his respect. He listened in silence, an increasing ruddiness of complexion the only clue to his feelings.

“You've been hiding all this from your mother and me?” he asked when I was done.

“I was afraid you wouldn't allow me to help Eliza if I told you.”

“Help her! As far as I can see, all you did was endanger everyone involved, including yourself.”

I silently released my breath, abandoning further hope. I was ready to accept, once and for all, that nothing I ever did or said would change the way he felt about me. It made me sad—but it also set me free. “I'm sorry I've been a disappointment to you,” I said in all sincerity. “I've tried to make it up to you. Conrad's death, I mean. But, of course, I never could.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Don't be absurd.”

“I don't blame you for loving him more, Papa. He was your only son. Your hope for the future.”

His eyes flared in surprise. “You can't believe I loved your brother more than you.”

“It's all right, truly. I understand.”

He stared at me for a moment, his cheek muscles twitching. Then he dropped his head into his hands with a sigh.

“Papa? Are you all right?”

When he lifted his head again, his eyes were bright with pain. “If I had a favorite, God help me, it was you.”

I stared at him, uncomprehending. “But you wouldn't even talk to me after it happened. You were so angry…”

“Not with you! I was angry at myself for letting it happen.” He ran his hand through his hair. “After the accident, all I could think of was what I would do if something happened to you too. I couldn't have stood it, you see. Losing both of you.”

I shook my head. “It was my fault he climbed up the tree.”

“Don't be ridiculous; you were just a child. I was the one who told the workers to leave the ladder out so that we could string up the electric lights for the party. Those damned lights! Your mother was worried they'd damage the tree, but I insisted on having them. I was determined to show them off.”

My mind was spinning, trying to mesh what he was saying with my own memory of events. I could never forget the way he had looked at me as he staggered toward me from Conrad's still body, or his painful grip on my arms. “You asked me what he was doing in the tree,” I said hoarsely. “You shook me, and asked me why he was up there.”

“I was in shock. I couldn't understand what had happened. I wasn't angry at you.”

I thought of the days after the accident, long days running into nights when I'd wandered about the house like a ghost, unseen and unheard. “Then why wouldn't you talk to me?”

His hands dropped limply into his lap. “I was”—he hesitated, searching for the right word—“afraid.”

“Of what?”

He shook his head in frustration. “Afraid to love you. Afraid that I'd fail you as I had failed Conrad. All I could think about from that day on was something terrible happening to you. I was determined to do everything in my power to keep you safe. That's all I've ever wanted, really. For you to be safe.”

Maybe it was true, I thought, remembering the times he'd been angriest—when I'd gotten lost in the Ramble and the park police had had to come looking for me; or when he'd caught me sliding down the second-floor banister; or, for that matter, when he'd found out about me and Simon. Maybe anger could be the expression of a crippled sort of love. But that didn't make it any less painful.

I'd always assumed my father knew best. But as poor Bitty had learned, and as I was beginning to understand, fathers were no more perfect than the rest of us, and no more deserving of unquestioning trust. My father had never assaulted me; but he had failed me in his own way, by letting his fears blind him to my pain, and causing me to lose trust in myself.

“You can't keep someone completely safe,” I said. “You only keep them from living if you try.”

He laughed weakly. “That's just what your aunt Margaret said. That Christmas Eve in Tuxedo Park, when she gave you a new sled, do you remember? You were determined to ride it down Slaughterhouse Hill the next day with the older children. Margaret caught me trying to pry off the runner when everyone else had gone to bed.”

“You didn't,” I said in disbelief.

“She said I couldn't keep you safe from everything, and that I'd only drive us both crazy. She said I was trying to play God. I remember asking her, why not? God hadn't done such a good job of things, after all.”

“But the sled was fine; I did go down Slaughterhouse Hill on Christmas Day.”

“I know. I realized she was right, and left the sled alone. I did try, you see. To let you take your lumps and learn for yourself. But you were always following your nose into places it didn't belong. I admired that about you, but I feared it too. I feared where it might lead you. That's why I had to let the Shaw boy go when I realized you'd grown attached to him. I couldn't stand by and watch you ruin your life with a single bad decision.”

“So you saved me by turning two blameless people out on the street? That wasn't right.”

“Life isn't always right or fair,” he said sharply. “You do what you have to do to get to the end of the day, and then you start over again, day after day, until you die.” He drew in a breath, then added, “Besides, he deserved it.”

“But he didn't. I told you, the kitchen maid lied about his boasting. He never talked about me to anyone.”

“He should have known better than to encourage you, all the same.”

“You mean because he was poor Irish, and that made him less worthy than me.”

“Don't be simple. It has nothing to do with worth. It has to do with sharing the same values and wanting the same things from life.”

“And what is it that I want from life? Tell me, Father. Because I don't remember you ever asking.”

His eyes narrowed. “I was only looking out for your best interests.”

I supposed he believed that. But I saw now that his real motivation had been fear—fear of losing me, fear of losing control. “Don't you think I should have had some say in the matter? I wasn't exactly a child anymore.”

He grimaced as though I was being deliberately obtuse. “Say what you will, I still believe I did the right thing.”

Of course he did. Because it was easier that way, easier than admitting that he'd let fear run his life, and mine. I was about to say as much when I suddenly realized that I'd been guilty of exactly the same thing, when I'd tried to talk myself out of telling Olivia she had Huntington's chorea. I'd told myself that I would be acting in her best interest, when it was really fear that was persuading me—fear of what might happen to me and mine should her long-sought engagement be called off.

If I forced myself to look beyond my fear, the truth was obvious. I had no right to withhold the facts from Olivia. She needed to know the nature of her illness so that she could make sense of what was happening to her and plan what remained of her life. It wasn't for me to decide what was best for another human being, just as it wasn't for my father to decide for me. The truth was hard, but it belonged to Olivia, to do with as she chose. I glanced at the whiskey bottle on the table and the well-used glass beside it. Perhaps Father would never be able to escape his fears. But that was his life. I had my own life to live.

“What train is the Fiskes' car coupled to?” I asked.

“The
20th Century Limited
. Why?”

“What times does it leave?”

“Two forty-five,” he said, opening his watch case. “Good God. I have to be there in forty minutes. Where the devil is Mary? I need her to tell Maurice to bring the motorcar around.”

I stood. “I'm going with you to the station.”

“What for?” he asked, gathering his documents.

“I have to tell Olivia about her illness.”

His head jerked up. “You'll do no such thing.”

“She needs to know,” I said, “before she gets locked into an engagement that she'll find difficult to break.”

“Then let her own physicians advise her. It's none of your concern.”

“Lucille won't give them a chance. She's managed to convince even Olivia that her symptoms are the product of nervous exhaustion. By the time her illness becomes too pronounced to ignore, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what? The Earl isn't going to abandon her once they're married. He's a man of honor. He'll do his duty by her.”

“What if he doesn't find out until they've had a child, and the child inherits the disease? Can you guarantee that he'll love and care for that child? Because Olivia may not be around to do it.”

“Of course I can't guarantee it.”

“Exactly. Neither of us can know what's going to happen. That's why Olivia has to be the one to decide. Her parents are doing everything in their power to force her into this marriage. She deserves to know how much it might cost her. If she still wants to go through with the wedding once she's aware of the risks, I'll be the first to congratulate her.”

He leaned toward me over the desk. “The Fiskes are not people to trifle with.”

“I'm sorry about your funding, Father. Really, I am.”

“I'm not talking about the funding!” he cried. “I'm talking about what will happen to you and your mother if you interfere with this wedding! You'll be shunned, socially and professionally.”

“Believe me, if there were any way I could avoid it in good conscience, I would.”

“Just stay quiet then, and let them go! No one will fault you for it.”

I gazed at his stricken face, a face I knew better than my own after years of tracking it for every nuance of emotion. It would only take a few words from me to smooth the creases from that forehead, and ease the tightness from that jaw. Just a few words, and equilibrium could be restored. “I'm sorry,” I said, “but I can't.”

For the first time I could remember, my father was at a loss for words. “Well, if you've made up your mind,” he finally muttered, “I suppose I can't stop you.”

“No,” I assured him, “you can't.”

“But that doesn't mean I have to help you. I'm leaving for the station now, and I'm not taking you with me.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Father, don't be childish.”

He stood. “I'm not going to help you destroy your future.”

“You know I'll just call for a cab.”

“It's snowing outside, in case you hadn't noticed. You'll be waiting for hours.”

“I'll take the El, then.”

“You and everyone else in the city who's trying to get somewhere in this storm.”

“Then take me with you! Please, Father, you must know in your heart that I'm doing the right thing.”

“I don't know any such thing,” he said, stuffing the papers into his document case. “You're clearly distraught. You ought to be resting, not racing about town. I'm sure that once you've had time to think about it, you'll come to your senses.”

I planted myself in his path. “I am not distraught. I'm thinking more clearly than I ever have.”

He stepped around me, starting for the door. “I'm going to tell Katie to keep an eye on you until I get back. I trust you won't do anything to upset her.” He reached the door and pulled it open. Katie and Mary were on the other side, their ears lowered to the keyhole. They straightened, looking sheepish.

“Well,” Father said acidly, “as you two have no doubt heard, Mrs. Summerford and I are going down to the Grand Central Station to see the Fiskes off. Mary, go tell Maurice to bring the car around at once.” She dashed off down the hall. “Katie, please call Dr. Mason and ask him to come look at Genevieve's wound while we're gone. And Katie, I'll ask you to see that she stays in bed until he gets here. She doesn't seem to appreciate the condition she's in.”

My mother was waiting in the downstairs hallway. “All set?” she asked Father as we came down the stairs.

“All set,” he answered, starting for the coat rack.

She gasped when she spotted me behind him. “Genna, what happened to your head?”

“She walked into a streetlamp,” Father answered as he pulled on his coat.

“I was attacked,” I told her, “but fortunately, I wasn't really hurt. It's just a scratch.”

“Attacked!” she cried, hurrying toward me. “By whom? When did this happen?”

“Come along, Evelyn,” my father said, taking her arm. “She told you, it's nothing serious. She can give you all the details when we get back. We have to go now, or we'll miss the Fiskes.”

“But…shouldn't we call the doctor?”

“Katie's taking care of it,” Father said. “If we leave now, we may even be back before he arrives.”

“I don't need a doctor,” I told my mother. “What I need is a ride to the station.”

“But your head…” She looked from me to my father in bewilderment.

“
I'm
a doctor,” I reminded her. “And I'm telling you my head is fine.”