B000XUBEHA EBOK (36 page)

Was she using him any less than he’d used her?

The question came back to her later that night as she lay in the darkness, trying and failing to fall asleep. She didn’t know the answer.

But she did know that it was a blessing the suite did not have a door that connected to Cameron’s room. She would have done the unthinkable and the unforgivable by going to him tonight. Turning, she pushed her face into the pillow and longed for him.

Chapter 20

“I attended a church social a few years ago and met a man there who had miraculously survived being caught in the midst of a cattle stampede.” There was a chill in the air, or maybe she imagined it, but Della felt cold inside and out. “He said he felt the ground shake beneath his boots and heard the sounds of bawling and the animals’ hooves long before he saw the cattle sweeping down on him.” She looked out the carriage window at the homes of the Wards’ neighbors. They were almost there. “I feel the ground shaking.”

The carriage rolled to a stop before the stone walkway leading to the Wards’ porch. “Are you afraid of seeing Claire? Or are you afraid of the Wards?” Cameron asked quietly.

Frowning, Della picked at the fingers of her gloves. “Mrs. Ward said awful things to me. When Clarence did come home, she tried to keep us apart. I know she complained about me in her letters to him. Sometimes Mr. Ward was sympathetic, but he’d shrug and say he had to live with her, so he didn’t interfere in how she treated me. She opened and read my letters to Clarence, and she read his letters to me. Once she told me that my mother had sent me to stay with my cousin because my mother wanted to be rid of me so she could chase after men.” Anger pulsed in the hollow of her throat. “She didn’t even know my mother! Putting poisonous ideas in people’s heads was her favorite amusement.”

Drawing a deep breath, Della tamped down a burst of anger that felt as fresh as when she’d lived with the Wards. She hadn’t expressed her resentment then. She hadn’t stood up to her mother-in-law, had never raised her voice or responded rudely. She had wanted to, but from the day of her wedding, she had reminded herself that Enid Ward was her husband’s mother. No matter how shrewish or hurtful she might be, she was also the woman who had raised the man that Della married. For that, she would respect Mrs. Ward and would always turn the other cheek.

But in doing so, she had made herself an easy victim and let herself be overpowered, overwhelmed, and ruthlessly bullied. She’d had no foundation of strength when the Wards stole Claire and forced Della to leave Atlanta.

“It’s different now,” Cameron said, his fingertips grazing her throat as he reached to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve grown up. You won’t be manipulated or controlled.”

“And I have you this time.”

He nodded. “And you have me.”

“Cameron?” She stared into his tanned face and piercing blue eyes and felt her heart turn over in her chest. From the moment she had first seen this man, she’d loved the lean, hard look of him. “Will it be awkward for you to meet the Wards?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing is the way it’s supposed to be, is it?” She was so glad he was here today, but she was supposed to hate him. And part of her did, she hastily reminded herself. If the Wards knew who Cameron was . . . Della pressed her lips together and shook her head. Sometimes the world was so confusing and unfair.

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Was anyone ever ready to walk into the unknown? Cameron jumped out of the carriage, put down the step, then handed her to the ground. She straightened the skirt and jacket of her traveling suit, recalling Mrs. Ward’s interest in fashion. A decade had elapsed since Della had cared about fashion.

Frowning, her gaze on the house, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head. The Wards must have sent Claire away for the day. If Claire had been in the house, Della was positive that she would have sensed her daughter’s presence.

Cameron extended his arm. Della hesitated, then wrapped her hand around his sleeve. She made herself place one foot in front of the other and then do it again, kicking at the hem of her skirt as if she were angry.

“They can’t keep me away from my daughter,” she said, sending Cameron a flashing glance and hoping bravado would squash a rising tide of apprehension and dread. “If I decide to see and talk to Claire, they can’t stop me.”

Cameron pressed her hand. “I have the name of an attorney. If necessary, we can go from here to his office.”

After Cameron lifted a heavy brass knocker, Della narrowed her eyes. “I detest these people for taking my baby. They are not going to shove me aside again!”

The same dark woman who had swept the porch yesterday opened the door and studied Della with a curious glance. “The mister’s expectin’ ya’ll. Come on inside.”

It was so quiet in the foyer that Della heard her pulse thudding in her ears. She was unable to concentrate on anything but holding herself together; however, she caught a dim impression of expensive wall coverings and wood floors and bannisters polished to a high gloss.

The woman smoothed a spotless white apron, then led them down a wide corridor to the double doors of a parlor stuffed with chairs, settees, a dozen little tables, and every surface draped with something gauzy or fringed.

Della’s gaze was drawn to the fire, and she didn’t immediately see Mercator Ward sitting before the warmth in a high-winged chair. She jumped when he spoke.

“I apologize for not risin’.” He gestured to a foot propped on a padded footstool. “A touch of the gout. Comes on me every year ’bout this time.”

Shock dried Della’s mouth. She would not have recognized this frail old man draped in an afghan that Mrs. Ward had made when Clarence was a boy. His hair had thinned and turned completely white. And while he was meticulously dressed, his clothing had been tailored for a man fifty pounds heavier and now hung on his sunken frame.

Della drew a breath and wet her lips. “Father Ward, this is James Cameron. Mr. Cameron was kind enough to escort me from Texas to Atlanta.”

Cameron leaned to clasp Ward’s hand and stared into his eyes. “I’m seeing to Mrs. Ward’s interests. In that regard, there are some issues that you and I need to discuss. If tomorrow is convenient?”

“Well now, I can’t think what we’d have to discuss, sir, but this visit is mighty puzzlin’ to begin with. If you want to come again tomorrow to talk issues, I reckon we can do that. I sure never thought to see you again,” he said to Della. “Sit down, sit down. Manda? I know you’re out there in the hallway. Bring the coffee cart.”

Della wondered if Mrs. Ward was also lurking in the hallway. She placed a hand over her heart and gave herself a moment to settle into the chair and will her racing pulse to slow.

“Will Mrs. Ward be joining us?” She ground her teeth together and told herself that she would stay in her chair and would not run out of the parlor.

Mr. Ward looked at her with an expression so like Clarence that she stared, then lowered her head and clasped her hands in her lap. How could she have forgotten that Clarence had a cleft in his chin?

“I guess you didn’t hear. Mrs. Ward passed on about eight years ago.” He tented his fingers beneath his chin and studied Della. “She was never right after the war. The war was hard on women. They gave their brothers and husbands and children. Gave their jewelry, money, heirlooms. Gave their homes. It was more than some could bear. The doctor said it was Mrs. Ward’s heart that killed her, but it was the war.”

If Della said the usual thing, that she was sorry, Mr. Ward would recognize the lie and the hypocrisy. She said the only truthful thing she could. “I’m sure you miss her.”

“That’s a fact.”

Manda wheeled a cart into the parlor and positioned it before Della. She waited for Della’s nod before she glanced at Mr. Ward, then withdrew.

The heavy silver coffee service had been sold during the early days of the war. This pot was painted china that matched the cups and the plates for raisin buns or triangles of toast and marmalade. Della couldn’t have swallowed a bite. The coffee was difficult enough. She served the men, then took a sip from her saucer and set it aside.

Every now and then, she raised her eyes to the ceiling, listening for sounds from above. And she had covertly examined the parlor, searching for signs of a young lady.

“Well,” Mr. Ward said after remarking on the chill in the air, “you said you came from Texas to Georgia. Is that where you live? Texas?”

“I live on the farm you gave me,” she said, her tone cool.

“Is that right? I sure never figured you’d want to live there.”

“What did you think I’d do?”

“Why, sell the place, of course. I figured you’d sell and then head for the nearest big city. Frankly, it’s a puzzle that you didn’t remarry, a handsome woman like you. I told Mrs. Ward, I said you’d be married within a year of leavin’ here.” He slid Cameron a long glance of speculation. “I bought that farm sight unseen. Never saw it myself.”

“It’s in damned sorry shape,” Cameron commented, his tone suggesting that Ward was to blame.

Mr. Ward narrowed his eyes and gazed back and forth between them. “Why did you come here, Della?”

“She’s here about Claire,” Cameron said when Della couldn’t speak.

Della’s heart hammered against her ribs. A ringing began in her ears and got louder. The storm rushed forward and caught her up, thundering, flashing, howling in her mind. She thought her body was going to explode.

“Who?” Ward gripped his coffee cup and frowned.

“Claire . . . Della and your son’s daughter.”

Eyes fixed on Ward’s dawning understanding, Della stood on shaking legs. She felt the blood drain from her face and she swayed on her feet. She shook her head and stepped backward. “No,” she whispered. “No, don’t say it.”

“Claire died years ago,” Mercator Ward said, looking surprised. “Don’t you remember? She was just a bitty thing. Couldn’t have been more than a week or two old.”

“Oh God.” She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. The room spun around her, picking up speed. She sank to the floor on her knees.

Ward raised an eyebrow at Cameron, then peered down at her. “Surely you remember. We followed the hearse to the old cemetery and buried the baby next to Clarence.”

“No.” Tears scalded her cheeks, choked her. The hearse. It was Claire’s hearse she followed in the dream. Now she remembered the tiny white casket beyond the gold vines etched on the windows. “No, no, no, no, no.” There was nothing more soul searing, nothing more brutally devastating than a tiny white casket.

“Please, please no.” Pressing her hands against her empty belly, she doubled over until her forehead almost touched the wood floor. “My baby! My baby!”

Strong hands lifted her and held her. She gripped Cameron’s lapels and looked up at him through streaming eyes. “My baby is dead! She died! Oh, Cameron. Help me. My baby died!”

“Lord a’mighty, girl. It was a long time ago. Is she touched in the head, Mr. Cameron?”

Even now her mind threw up a wall of resistence, not wanting to accept the unthinkable. Leaning past Cameron’s shoulder, Della whispered in a harsh voice, “She’s not dead. You’ve hidden her, haven’t you?” She started to turn with the intention of running up to the second story. She had seen the curtains move yesterday. Claire was upstairs.

“Della.” Cameron’s large hands held her immobile. In his eyes she read sadness and pity, and her head jerked backward. More than anything else, his expression shocked her into facing what she had refused to see for ten years and didn’t want to see now.

Her fingers dug into his sleeves. “I don’t want it to be true.”

“I know.” His hands slid up her arms then framed her face. “I know.”

“As long as Claire is alive, then I have a reason to be alive.” She was empty, hollow inside. There was no substance to hold her upright. Her knees collapsed and she sagged against Cameron’s chest.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of Mercator Ward’s house.

It was only noon—too early for liquor, but Cameron ordered a bottle of whisky sent up to the suite. “Here. Sip this.”

“I can’t stop crying.” But she sipped the whisky, then wiped a hand across her eyes and rested her head on the back of the sofa. “How could a mother
forget
that her baby died? How is that possible?”

Cameron sat beside her and pressed his handkerchief into her hand. There was nothing he could say, no words that could possibly comfort her or ease her pain. All he could do was be there and listen.

“I never doubted that she was alive. And while Claire was alive, I had someone to love even though she wasn’t with me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “So I pretended she was there on the farm. But I knew—damn it, I absolutely
knew
she was with the Wards. They stole her from me, but she was growing up happy and well cared for. I knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was true!” She took another long swallow of whisky. “Except it wasn’t true. Am I crazy, Cameron?”

“Maybe. In this one area.”

“The truly crazy part is that the Wards said and did hurtful things, but the one thing I most blamed them and hated them for, they didn’t do.” Bitterness roughened her voice. “With every fiber of my being, I believed they stole Claire. I believed she was here, in Atlanta with the Wards. I believed it!”