Dove's Way (32 page)

Finnea’s smile froze as hard as the ice had been in the dead of winter. “Yes, I saw,” she managed. “You are a very brave little girl. Good night, sweetheart.”

She saw the hard lines of confusion that came over Matthew’s face. But she didn’t wait for him to question her. She walked to her room with measured steps. She counted, concentrated, determined to make it behind closed doors. Once inside her bedroom, she went to the window. She refused to think— unable to think for fear of starting to scream, because just like before, she knew that if she started she would never stop.

Minutes later, Matthew came into the room. “What was that all about?” he asked in a low, commanding voice.

She didn’t turn away from the window. “Mary wanted to prove that she wasn’t afraid.”

“By nearly getting herself killed? Where did she get such an idea? From you?”

“Yes.”

“Good God! What exactly did you say to her?”

Finnea turned to him then. “All the wrong things.”

She walked to the clothes cabinet and found the small satchel she had brought with her. Counting again, she began to pack her few belongings.

“What are you doing?” he asked tightly.

“I’m leaving.” Simple, no emotion. She wouldn’t look at him; she kept her hands busy.

“Why?” he demanded.

She stopped, afraid she would be sick. “I told you this wasn’t going to work. I can’t be a mother to your daughter. It’s my fault that Mary fell through that ice. It’s my fault that she went there.”

“Finn,” he said, reaching out to her.

She jerked away from his outstretched hands, her voice rising hysterically. “I’m the one that led her to the lagoon! I’m the one who raced out onto the ice! I’m the one who told her she couldn’t run away from her fears when she told me she was afraid every time I slid across!”

Matthew reached for her again. “Finn.”

But she slapped his hands away, dashing the tears from her eyes. “No! I led her there but never thought to teach her about ice and how it would melt, and how eventually it wouldn’t be safe. I can’t do this! I can’t take care of your child!”

“Why?” He grabbed her arm and wheeled her around. “Damn it, tell me why?”

She met his gaze, and her sigh winged out of her on a defeated breath. “Because if I stay, I’ll only manage to get your child killed.”

“That’s absurd,” he burst out, his brow furrowed. “I’ve seen how you are with Mary. You’re a wonderful mother.”

The sadness in her face vanished, and she turned hard. Little did he know how untrue his words were.

“No,” she said with deadly calm. “I am not a good mother. Or a good wife. My mother was right. I don’t belong here. Not in this house, not in this city, or even in this country. I just didn’t want to accept it.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I’m going to my mother’s until I can determine what to do.”

Matthew grabbed her and brought them face-to-face. “Finnea, I don’t want you to go.”

She wanted to throw her arms around him. How could she live without this man? But then her mind filled with the image of Mary falling through the ice—and of a dead child lying in her arms.

How could she stay?

She knew what he didn’t—if she had been a good mother, Isabel would still be alive.

So she hardened her heart—for him and for his child. Not knowing what else to say, she replied harshly, “But I don’t want to stay.”

It was as if she had struck him, and it was only sheer force of will that kept her from throwing herself in his arms when he abruptly released her, pain and anger searing his face like a scar.

Chapter Twenty-one

Matthew stood before the canvas. White and blank, stretched so taut it felt like a drum. He didn’t want to think, couldn’t think. When he did, rage circled dangerously in his mind.

Bright sun streamed in through the long row of tall windows, falling over Matthew at his easel. Like a man obsessed, he became determined to paint, as if he could find truth and salvation in the rainbow hues arcing across the palette.

He picked up a paintbrush just as he had done every day for weeks. He held it in his hand. To no avail. While he had greater use of his muscles, he still hadn’t painted—even on good days when his head didn’t pound.

He stared, his mind as empty of vision and imagination as the canvas. Whatever had been inside him before that had made him paint, whatever it was from which he drew, was gone. He stood for long minutes, focusing, willing. Wishing. Until he threw the brush aside with a frustrated curse.

“Finnea!” he called without thinking, the word reverberating against the high ceilings. Reminding him she wasn’t there.

He stopped in his tracks as people came running, the house seeming to shake from the footsteps dashing over hardwood floors and fine oriental carpets. Quincy raced up from the basement carrying a towel, his proper coat nowhere in sight, his elderly face lined with unexpected joy. Mary hurtled down the stairs from her bedroom. They came to a halt and glanced around, finding the room empty.

Matthew stood, implacable, willing his mind to a blank. He didn’t say a word, but he could tell when Quincy understood what had happened. Mary, however, didn’t comprehend.

“Where’s Finnea?” Mary cried out, her joyous laughter filling the house as she threw open door after door in search of the woman she had missed desperately since she had left three days ago.

Quincy sighed his disappointment.

Mary stopped and looked at her father, the joy beginning to fade, replaced with confusion. “Where is she?”

The muscles in Matthew’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry, Mary. She’s not here,” he said, not knowing how to explain.

“But you called out to her, Daddy,” she persisted.

Matthew dragged his paint-streaked hand through his tousled hair. “Yes, I did.”

“Then she must be here. She must be hiding.” She started away, heading for yet another closed door.

“No, princess, she’s not here.” He cleared his throat, wanting to be anywhere but in that room facing those questioning blue eyes. “You see, your silly father forgot for a second that she was gone.” He shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Before I remembered, I called out to her.”

Pain was replaced by a terrible understanding in her little-girl eyes. And then she reached out and took his hand. “Oh, Daddy, I do the same thing, too.”

She walked away, with the grace and dignity of a queen, leaving the two grown men standing there staring after her.

“She’s a strong one,” Quincy murmured.

“Stronger than any little girl should have to be.” Matthew’s lips thinned. “Strong and brave, and she deserves a mother.”

Without a hat or coat, Matthew stalked out the front door, deciding then and there to confront the woman who had promised to be just that.

He ignored the people who did double takes when he passed by. Anger and protectiveness pushed him on.

Only minutes later he came to Commonwealth Avenue and the Winslets’ town house. He took up the brass ring and hammered it against the front door.

It seemed like forever before his sharp knock was answered.

“May I help you?” the butler asked in a droll tone.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Hawthorne.”

The man looked confused.

“Finnea,” Matthew clarified impatiently.

“Ah, yes. Miss Finnea. May I tell her who is calling?”

“Her husband,” Matthew replied with a short, deep sound in his chest as he started forward.

But Hannah stepped into the foyer, raising a regal hand to stop him before he got inside. “Hello, Mr. Hawthorne. I assume you are here to see Finnea?” Her smile was shallow and didn’t meet her eyes. “Unfortunately, she is out.”

Matthew was nonplussed for one long second, before he narrowed his gaze. “Your butler just said he would tell her who was here. Now she is out?”

“Yes, he must have forgotten.” She nodded meaningfully to the butler, and added a polite good day. And before Matthew could say another word, the door swung shut.

Matthew stared at the oak plank in disbelief. He’d had the door slammed in his face. He could hardly fathom the action. Never, even since the scandal, had he been turned away from anywhere, much less from a supposedly proper home.

Muttering a string of expletives, Matthew strode back to his own house and through the front door with a bang.

For three days he paced his study like a caged lion, telling himself he was angry because of Mary. He told himself he wanted to confront Finnea because she had made a promise, a promise she had failed to keep.

But with each day that passed, it became harder to believe his excuse. He wanted to see her. Needed to see her with an intensity that went beyond broken promises.

On the fourth day, Matthew gave up trying to understand his reasons for wanting to see her and returned to the house on Commonwealth Avenue. This time he was quicker than the butler. When the door started to crash closed, he flattened his good palm against the sturdy oak.

Matthew eyed the butler, then nearly cursed when he heard the recognizable click of sensible heels on marble.

“I see you have returned, Mr. Hawthorne,” Hannah said.

“I am here to see Finnea.” He enunciated each word with precision.

“And as I said before, my granddaughter is unavailable for visitors.”

“I am not a visitor,” he exploded. “She’s my wife!”

The butler cringed and looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Hannah remained resolute. “Be that as it may, she doesn’t want to see you.”

They stared at each other, neither giving an inch. But short of physically pushing past the older woman, Matthew had little choice but to leave.

He stormed back to Dove’s Way, slamming himself into the garden room. He stared at pencils and paintbrushes. Sketches lay discarded everywhere. Half-started canvases stood forgotten. Others stood like gaping blanks against the walls.

During those days, Matthew hardly saw Mary. She kept to herself, and he knew that Quincy was seeing to her needs. Something would have to change, though. Matthew knew it.

Finnea had been gone for over a week when he heard the noise. It was late and he was in his bedroom, still dressed. Sharp pains had begun to stab in his face, and he knew he would have another long sleepless night. When he heard the noise again, he walked out into the hallway to investigate.

He saw that Mary’s door stood ajar, a dim light glowing inside. He remembered Finnea telling him Mary had nightmares. His first inclination was to call for Quincy. But he tamped down the need and went to his child.

She stood in the hallway before a large sweep of windows, looking out into the night.

His heart ticked at the sweetness of Mary. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked softly into the silence.

She started and swung around, her long blond curls flying out around her shoulders.

When she saw it was him, she smiled sadly, as if expecting someone else, no doubt Finnea. Then she turned back to the window. He came up beside her and looked out. He could see a gaslight down below on the street, a circle of golden light around it, fighting off the dark.

“Do you have bad dreams often?” he asked without looking at her.

“No, just sometimes.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

She hesitated, then said, “I’d rather not, thank you.” As if she were sixty instead of six.

He searched his mind for how to deal with this child, how to be a father to her after so long.

“Is Finnea ever coming back?” she asked quietly.

He stiffened. “No, she’s not,” he finally answered. He could tell he had upset her. With a sigh he raked his hands through his hair. “I miss her, too.”

She turned and looked at him. “Then why don’t you bring her back?”

“It’s not that simple, Mary.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because she doesn’t want to return.”

The words deflated her. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried. “I miss her.”

He knelt and opened his arms as she flew into them as she had a thousand times before—before their lives had changed so drastically. She cried against his shoulder, and he knew that she cried for so many things as he rocked her until her tears subsided.

Picking her up, he carried her back to her room and tucked her into bed. Sniffling, she hooked her elbows over the covers. The father in him began to resurface, old habits surging back.

“Do you want to tell me about your dreams now?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

Her gaze grew serious. She bit her lip as she considered if she should tell him or not. “I dream you’re holding me,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to her hands on the bed, “but all of a sudden you’re gone and I’m all alone and everybody hates me.”

His face furrowed with surprise and regret: surprise that he hadn’t already known the answer, regret that she would ever dream such a thing.

With all the love he felt, he pulled her back into his arms and held her so close, he was afraid she might break. “God, Mary, I love you, and don’t you forget that. I love you with all my heart. And I promise, I’ll never leave you again.”

Early the next morning, Matthew sat alone in the garden room. Mary was asleep upstairs. The servants were just beginning to stir in the lower regions of the house. And Finnea still hadn’t returned. The fact was, she had wanted to go. Hadn’t wanted to stay.

That made Matthew furious, or so he told himself in an attempt to explain away the twisting in his heart. He was angry for his daughter. Nothing more.

The room smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Fine horsehair brushes and soft lead pencils lay out; paint was ready on a palette. But he couldn’t concentrate.

Every few minutes his fingers found their way to his face. He pressed the scar experimentally, just a touch, then harder. Each time he could feel the sharp stab of pain.

Something left in the wound.

Matthew snorted his disdain into the quiet.

But then he pressed again, just enough to feel the pain beginning, making it harder and harder to discount Finnea’s theory.

A discreet knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he called out.

Quincy entered with a silver tray. “Your coffee, sir.”