Dove's Way (11 page)

Hannah stared at her with a disapproving scowl.

But Leticia came around the table, her eyes alive with excitement as she took the seat a footman held for her. “Emmaline Hawthorne is a delightful woman. I’m sure she won’t mind that the note is a bit late. But enough of that. All the arrangements for the party are falling into place. It’s going to be fabulous.”

Nester sat at the head of the table and unfolded his napkin with a snap. “Ah yes, Finnea’s birthday party? That should be interesting.” He chuckled. “What will you do to entertain us this time, little sis? You’ve already exhausted the handshake trick, and you can only eat shrubbery every so often before the novelty wears off.”

Finnea blanched, but Nester was relentless. “Perhaps you could bark or growl? Maybe chant or dance?”

Jeffrey sat forward in his chair. “You’re out of line, Nester.”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “You are the one who’s out of line, Upton.”

A silent, awkward moment passed.

“I have a photograph of Father that I brought with me,” Finnea hurriedly interjected.

Nester jerked around to face her, and something odd showed in his eyes. A flash of yearning, excitement? But before Finnea could make sense of it, the look was gone.

“Let me see that,” he stated with a sniff of disdain.

She handed him the photo of their father, tall and broad-shouldered, the red of his hair masked by the sepia coloring, but his wonderful smile looking nearly as real as it had been when he was alive. Her heart twisted with love at the sight. God, how she missed him.

Nester sat for a minute, just staring, that look returning to his eyes, before Hannah reached over and took it.

“He always was a handsome fellow,” she observed when she peered at the photo. “I’ll give him that.”

“Yes,” Leticia said, her voice slightly breathless, staring at the photo when it came to her.

Nester took it back. “What is this he’s standing in front of?”

Finnea leaned over. “That’s our farm.”

“Farm?” he demanded indignantly. “Our father was an explorer, not a farmer.”

“Yes, he was an explorer, but we owned a farm as well. A rubber farm.”

“A rubber farm? Good God, what is that?”

“Three thousand acres of wild rubber-producing vines combined with several hundred more acres of land that Father cleared and planted with rows of tall, thin rubber trees.”

Nester was stunned. “Why haven’t I heard of this before? Upton, have you heard of this rubber farm?”

“No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Well, it must be a disaster. I’ve never heard of any kind of prosperous concern in Africa—unless it is mining gold or diamonds. Tell me he had a bit of either of those and I might be impressed.”

“Actually,” she stated, pride getting the better of her, “the farm is quite a successful enterprise. We are one of the largest exporters of rubber in the world.”

“That is outrageous,” Nester barked. “A prosperous concern that I have never heard a word about. What has happened to it now?”

“It is being run by the Katsu, who have been there hundreds of years.”

“A farm turned over to a bunch of savages? You can’t just turn over something like that to a pack of heathens!”

“Nester, please.” Leticia reached over and rested her hand on his.

Like a mother soothes a child.

Finnea felt an unexpected tightening in her throat.

“Who is this man?” Hannah asked, pointing to another in the photograph.

Finnea dragged her eyes away from her mother and brother and looked. The image was crisp and close up. “That is Gatwith Neilander.” She stared at the photo. “He came from Belgium with new ideas about rubber extraction.”

“He is a handsome fellow,” Hannah remarked.

“Yes. Father treated him like a son.”

The room went still.

“And who is this?” Leticia asked quickly.

Thankful for the diversion, Finnea said, “Hatabe, a highly respected man of the tribe.”

“What did he do?” Nester scoffed, his anger suddenly more intense. “Have a run-in with a plate-glass window? Look at that hideous scar on his face.” He laughed under his breath. “He looks like Matthew Hawthorne.”

With the quickness of lightning, the room went silent. In that second Finnea couldn’t hold it back any longer. She hated Nester with a passion she thought impossible, and the world seemed to tumble in on her.

“That scar is no accident, Nester,” she said. “It is a mark of great bravery. In Africa it is the scarred man who is revered, and the pretty man who is scorned.”

Nester laughed. “Thank God I didn’t stay in Africa, then.”

“Yes,” she bit out, “you would have easily fallen into the cowardly segment.”

Shocked silence sizzled through the room.

“How dare you!” Nester exploded, leaping from his chair, his fist banging on the hardwood table.

“Nester,” Jeffrey warned.

Nester whirled around to face him. “I’ve had enough of your tone. Remember who you are talking to. You might run Winslet Ironworks, but I own it.”

A hardness came into Jeffrey’s eyes. “How could I forget.”

Finnea couldn’t take any more. She had to get out, into the fresh air. Away from these people who thought so little of her and her past, away from a life that was going so wrong.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, each word spoken carefully for fear she might break as she quit the room.

Sitting at his desk, Matthew knew the moment Finnea arrived at Dove’s Way. He could hear her, and he suspected he would have heard her had he been up in the attic. She wasn’t exactly loud, more that her voice was filled with energy. Talking as soon as the door opened. Greeting the servants.

With a wry smile, he watched a moment later, when Quincy showed her into the study. He had finally slept last night, hadn’t passed out, hadn’t been on fire with pain. He had dreamed of her, had woken with blood rushing low, desire sweeping through his body with an aching burn.

Just the sight of her now made him grow hard as she marched through the room, her green eyes flashing, her red hair wild. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to feel the sweet kiss of her skin against his.

But then he looked closer, and this time it was her face that gained his attention. It was red. Bright and splotchy in a way that made him realize she wasn’t just angry, she was crying. Really crying. And it wasn’t some coy display meant to manipulate a man.

He had the sudden thought that Finnea would sooner wrestle a man to the ground than manipulate him with fake tears. The realization pleased him immensely, then aggravated him in turn.

What was it about this woman that filled him with heat in one second and protectiveness in the next?

“Now what’s the matter?” he snapped, disgruntled.

“Nothing,” she stated, the sharpness of the word undermined by a sniffle. “I meant to bring you some cleansing tea, but things kind of… got away from me, and I forgot.”

She grabbed up a pillow and punched it in what Matthew could only guess was meant to fluff. Another punch like that and he expected feathers would fly.

“Hell,” he muttered, hanging his head, before coming around his desk to stand before her. “Something happened, and it has nothing to do with forgetting to bring tea,” he replied gruffly, though he gently nudged her chin until their eyes met.

She jerked her head away from him.

“You can tell me, Finnea.” He hesitated, that protectiveness surging stronger. “It’s not like I’m a stranger.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “Thank you for reminding me,” she snapped, but her bottom lip quivered.

With a curse about stubborn women, Matthew closed her in his arms. The feel of her filled him, and for a moment he forgot about everything. It was always that way with her. She settled him somehow.

He shook his head and his hand came up to stroke her hair. “Ah, Finn. What am I going to do with you?”

She let him hold her, and he could feel when her tension eased and she leaned into him. “Talk to me,” he said, feeling the tears that suddenly seeped into his shirtfront. “Tell me why one minute you’re dancing and laughing, then in tears the next. In some ways it’s like I know you so well. But when I think about it, I don’t really know you at all.”

“After that night in the jungle you know me like no one else,” she sniffed, pushing back.

He touched her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. “Clothes aren’t the only thing that hide a person. I’ve seen your body, yes….”

Red surged to her cheeks, and she tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Perhaps I’ve even seen a bit of your soul,” he added, memories of Africa swelling in his mind. “But I don’t know the things that make you happy or sad. Tell me what happened, Finn, tell me why you’re here.”

“I told you. Nothing happened,” she repeated adamantly, jerking away.

This time he let her go, but she didn’t leave as he had thought she would. She grabbed up the brocade pillow, then dropped down to the divan in a billow of skirts.

“I’m here for my lessons,” she stated doggedly, hugging the pillow to her chest.

Matthew studied her for a long moment, taking in the stubborn tilt of her chin and the obstinate set of her shoulders, and decided not to push. The fact was, he wasn’t certain he really wanted to know what was the matter with her. “Fine. Sit up straight.”

“I can listen to your lessons and lean back at the same time.”

“That is the lesson. Sitting up straight, as in shoulders back, spine erect, knees together, ankles crossed, hands demurely in your lap.”

“Good Lord. What kind of a rule is that?” she muttered, dashing her hand across her eyes.

“A rule about posture, and if you sit like a slouch, you’ll be tossed out on your ear at the next social event you’re invited to.”

Her scowl grew fierce, and she tossed the pillow aside.

“That won’t do. The next party is the one my mother is giving for me.”

“Ah yes, the birthday gala. I would think you’d be happy about that.”

Finnea scoffed indifferently, though her chin started to tremble again. “Happy? Happy that Nester is certain I will make a fool of myself in front of all of Boston? You can bet he is counting on it!”

She swiveled to look at him, her eyes pleading, making him uneasy. How could he possibly fix what was wrong? And why did he feel the damnable need to do so?

She was determined to look Bostonians in the face, unafraid. If a woman could conquer Boston by sheer will alone, Finnea would be Queen of Society in a matter of weeks. But Matthew knew that will was not enough in the centuries-old town. The only thing that mattered, that would help, was lifelong, endless repetition and submersion in a way of life that could mold a person as surely and as indelibly as a potter molds his clay.

As if reading his mind, and refusing to believe she couldn’t do it, she quickly sat up straight, pulled her shoulders back, clapped her knees together, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands in her lap like a debutante.

“I can do it,” she said fiercely. “I just need you to teach me the things I need to know.”

Suddenly his patience came to an end. He hated the way she wanted to please her family.

An image of his father flashed in his mind, but he pushed it away. “It’s ludicrous to want to fit in so badly,” he snapped.

“I don’t care about fitting in. Not really.”

“Liar! You told me yourself that you do!” He grabbed her arms and pulled her up from the divan until the scent of her wrapped around him. “Finnea,” he whispered on a harsh breath. “Why do you care so much?”

She tried to pull away, tears springing back to life in her eyes.

“No,” he said, not letting her go. “Damn it, tell me why you care!”

“Because I don’t want my mother to leave me again!”

The words burst out of her, leaving her still.

They stared at each other, her eyes wide, her breath shallow and fast.

“I mean, I mean—”

His anger hissed out of him like air from a child’s balloon. “Ah, Finn.”

She tried to jerk away, but he closed her in his arms again and stroked her hair with a gentleness he thought long gone.

Long minutes ticked by, sunlight wrapping around them until she started to explain. “She left me there and didn’t come back,” she said in a choked whisper. “Is it so wrong to want her to love me now?”

He wanted to say that Leticia Winslet had had her chance to gain her daughter’s love and had let it go. But he didn’t.

“Why, Finnea?” he demanded instead, as if her answer could somehow make him better understand himself. “Why do you need her love?”

She looked at the wall, and he knew she wasn’t seeing the velvet-flocked paper or oil paintings. She was seeing something entirely different, something far away.

“I dreamed of her for years,” she said finally, “dreamed that she returned for me, dreamed of the feel of her kiss against my cheek, the feel of her arms holding me close.”

Suddenly he didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted her gone with an intensity that left his heart pounding.

But then she looked up at him, and he couldn’t turn her away.

He pressed his eyes closed as if to banish her from his mind. Is that how it would be between them? Drawn together because of the past, but unable to come together because of who they were now?

She who wanted to fit in, and he who no longer could.

“You must have been disappointed when you finally saw her again,” he said finally.

Her eyes widened with surprise, and she pushed away. “Disappointed?” She smiled, though barely. “No, I was proud. This beautiful woman was my mother. How could I be anything but thrilled to see her?”

Matthew could think of many things she could have been— angry, hurt—but he held his tongue.

“A woman is so much her mother,” she continued, her smile faltering. “A little girl learns who to be when she grows up from her mother, by watching her, by being near.”

Sharply, she turned further away, pressing her fingers to her temples, then whirled back. “No one taught me about all those things women wear beneath their gowns, or even to wear a gown! No one taught me about jewelry or fashion. Or about thank-you notes!”