Dove's Way (33 page)

Ever since Finnea had walked out the door, Quincy had been disapprovingly quiet. So Matthew ignored him.

But just when the older man started for the door, he stopped him. “Quincy, I need you to do something for me.”

The butler whirled around with hopeful eyes. “I know where she is,” he blurted out.

Matthew’s brow furrowed. “As do I, but that isn’t what I’m talking about.”

Disappointment clouded the older man’s face.

“I want you to find someone else for me,” Matthew explained.

Hours later, when the sun was setting on the horizon, Matthew’s black lacquer landau pulled up in front of the wooden building in the South End.

After stepping down from the carriage, Matthew pushed through the door. The office was empty except for one man.

“Dr. Sanderling, I am Matthew Hawthorne. I believe my wife has spoken to you about my condition.”

Mary peeked into the darkened room. A fire burned low, casting a dim light across the wood floor and thick carpet. Her father was sound asleep as she crept inside.

Quincy had explained that a doctor was making her father better. She was not so convinced. Sleeping, he looked worse than ever. And since he had arrived home yesterday afternoon, he had done nothing but sleep. She was worried.

People had a way of leaving her. First her mother, then her father for a while, now Finnea. Mary didn’t want her father to leave her again, too.

But she had a plan regarding Finnea. She knew for a fact that Finnea hadn’t gone to heaven like her mother. She had just gone a few blocks away. Mary had sneaked over and seen her through a window. But before she could do anything about that, her father had to wake up.

From the side of the bed, Mary peered closely at Matthew’s sleeping form. She worried her lower lip as she studied him. There were cuts on his face that she didn’t understand, new cuts over the old.

She tried to wake him to ask what had happened, but he didn’t move, and her concern grew. After a moment she noticed a small bottle next to the bed. Laudanum. She recognized it, since her mother used to take the medicine all the time. “To calm my nerves,” she had always explained.

Mary debated for a moment, then took the bottle. After pouring it down the sink, she hurried to the kitchen, remembering all the ingredients Finnea had used to make a salve for a wound.

Matthew woke. He felt groggy and his face was tight—but different. It took a moment for him to realize that the pain was nearly gone.

Instantly he brought his hand up to his cheek, then jerked it back when his fingers sunk into warm goo.

“What the devil?” he croaked.

“Careful, Daddy.”

He stilled immediately and turned his head to find Mary sitting beside his bed in a chair she must have dragged across the room.

She stood up and pressed him back to the bed with tiny hands, like some kind of miniature nurse. “You can’t move too quickly or you might break open the stitches. But rest assured, I believe the doctor did a fine job.”

Matthew blinked.

“Mr. Quincy explained what happened, and I have kept salves on the new cuts, to keep them from getting icky—I mean infected.” She smiled proudly, as always, so much older than her years. “Dr. Sanderling was quite impressed when he came by to check on you. And now it’s a good thing you’re awake. You need to get out of bed and start moving around.”

“You sound just like Finnea,” he said without thinking, and immediately regretted his words.

But Mary only smiled. “I know, I was thinking the very same thing.” She looked at him closely, a twinkle in her eye. “I was also thinking that it’s time we win her back.”

Matthew froze in the process of sitting up in bed, his heart hardening at the words.

“We can do it, Daddy. I’m sure.”

Very slowly, Matthew swiveled around to look at his daughter. At the sight, his heart melted. Her blond curls, big blue eyes, and Cupid’s-bow mouth. He was stunned by the surge of love he felt for her.

He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it for so long. And if it hadn’t been for Finnea, it was hard to say if he would ever have found his way back to his daughter. A staggering sense of gratitude washed over him.

He held his arms open, and Mary raced into them. He kissed her on the forehead. “So you think we can win her back, do you?”

“Oh yes!”

“Well, we will have to figure out a way to get past that butler over there, not to mention her grandmother,” he muttered.

“That will be easy, Daddy, once we make a cake!”

“You think a cake is going to get us through the door?” His tone was skeptical.

“No one can turn away a present. It’s rude!”

She didn’t know Hannah Grable.

But then again, how could it hurt?

“All right, a cake it is. We’ll send Quincy to the bakery.”

“Oh no, Daddy! We have to make it ourselves. You and me. That way she will love it.”

He wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no. “Fine,” he said, determined that if his daughter made Finnea a cake, then by God the woman was going to accept it. He would see to that.

They started at noon the next day, after Mary pulled Matthew downstairs to the kitchen. Matthew couldn’t remember when or if he had ever been to the nether regions of the house, but he knew for certain that he didn’t know the first thing about how to work in it. Gleaming copper pots and pans hung from a massive chandelier like structure in the ceiling. A huge, smooth-topped work area stood scrubbed and cleaned in the middle of the cavernous room. But it was warm and welcoming, and Mary seemed to know exactly what to do.

She pulled out bowls from cabinets, pointed to pans hanging from hooks, which he retrieved She found spoons and measuring cups and an assortment of things that Matthew couldn’t name. The clatter of glass and metal brought the cook from the pantry.

“Lord have mercy,” the woman exclaimed as she bustled into the kitchen.

“Look, Violet,” Mary said. “We are making a cake to bring Finnea back.”

Violet glanced from Mary to Matthew. “Bring Miss Finnea back, you say?” She gave Matthew a decisive nod, adding, “And a nice bouquet of flowers wouldn’t hurt while you’re at it. A lady always loves flowers, she does.”

“Now,” Mary began, once Violet had returned to the pantry, “let’s get started.”

And they did, with Violet and Quincy coming and going, adding a bit of advice here and there. Matthew and Mary began by making a huge bowl of batter.

“Finnea will love this,” Matthew said, handing a large spoon to his daughter.

Mary secured the large bowl in the crook of her arm and started to stir. “I think Finnea just plain loves to eat. And she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, either.”

His hand stilling in the process of measuring out a cup of sugar, Matthew glanced over at Mary. “Maybe now.” He chuckled. “But when I first saw Finnea in Boston, it was at your grandmother’s house, and she cared a great deal then. She was dressed like the perfect lady, in a stunning gown and jewels.”

“Our Finnea?” she gasped.

Matthew laughed. “Yes, our Finnea.” His smile faded to a line of remembrance. “I remember the very first time I saw her, I thought she was the most exceptional woman I had ever seen.”

“Exceptional?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean you thought she was pretty?”

Matthew gave a tilt of his head, before pouring a bit of sugar back into the canister when he got too much. “Pretty? Yes. But it was more than that. She was special.” He looked over at his daughter. “On the night of the party, she ate a nasturtium.”

“What’s that?”

He chuckled. “A flower. Her mother was mortified. But Finnea handled herself with a grace that few women possess.” He looked at his daughter. “The kind of grace you have, Mary.”

It was as if he wanted to make up for lost time. He wanted her to know how he felt. But her response caught him off guard.

“Did my mother have that kind of grace?” she asked quietly.

His heart twisted at the memory of his wife. The fire and the pain. The betrayal.

But then he remembered Finnea telling him that no child should have to learn their parent isn’t a good person.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. A genuine smile as he dredged up different memories, of an earlier Kimberly.

“Yes,” he said, his smile growing wider, “your mother had grace. Grace and beauty. And she loved you very much.”

“Really?” Mary gasped with pleasure.

“Don’t you remember her?”

“Yes, but sometimes it’s hard.”

He nodded his understanding as he made a decision. “Did I ever tell you about the time I first met your mother?”

“No,” she breathed, rapt.

“Well,” he began, as he held the bowl so she could stir the batter when her arm got tired. He told her about the day they met, and answered all the little-girl questions she had. They talked as they mixed the batter, then continued all through the baking and even as they spread thick chocolate icing all over the top.

The kitchen was toasty warm and filled with delicious smells. Mary was aglow with stories of a mother who had loved her. And when the cake was done, they stepped back to survey the finished product. Violet and Quincy stood with them as well.

Mary’s eyes went wide.

“It’s lopsided,” she blurted, on the verge of tears.

Matthew panicked. He didn’t want her to cry. He didn’t want her to think she had failed. “I think it’s a perfect cake. I think it looks grand.”

“You’re just saying that,” she said, her lower lip trembling with defeat.

“I’m not,” he insisted. He leaned down and turned her to face him. “It’s perfect because you made it. And you know how Finnea is. She’ll love it all the more because it’s not like every other cake.” And she’d better, he thought grimly. He would not allow his child to be hurt anymore.

Love burgeoned on Mary’s cheeks. “You’re right. That’s all that matters.”

He ruffled her hair. “Yes, that’s all that matters.”

“Now we must box it up to take over to her house.” She smiled. “We will show her our cake. And your face.”

He tensed.

“Oh, Daddy, she will be so pleased that you’re getting better.”

And he was. So much better that he could hardly believe it was true. He felt as if a constant tension had been cut loose from his body.

They were interrupted when a sharp buzz sounded, indicating that the doorbell was ringing upstairs. Matthew and Mary gave it little thought when Quincy disappeared up the steps to answer the door. Only when he raced back down and said there was a visitor, the man’s face lined with some emotion that neither of them could name, did their hearts stop.

“Finnea,” Mary breathed, taking the word right out of Matthew’s mouth.

He took her hand and they raced up the stairs, not hearing anything anyone was saying, only to stop dead in their tracks in the foyer. Disappointment mixed with confusion. Finnea hadn’t returned.

Instead, they stared at a man, as tall as Matthew and as broad and powerful, his white flowing robes contrasting sharply with the brilliant black of his skin. Next to him was a large crate, the wooden slats across the top broken and askew as if it had traveled a long way. Straw stuck out and spilled a path on the marble tiles.

“He has just arrived from Africa, sir,” Quincy explained. “For Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Mbote, Matthew,” the man greeted solemnly without preamble. “I was told at the docks that I could find Finnea here.”

“Janji,” Matthew said through his surprise.

His long stride covered the distance, and the men shook hands in the African manner.

Then Janji looked around as if he expected Finnea to materialize. When she didn’t, he turned back to Matthew. “Let me see her,” he commanded.

Matthew stiffened. “She’s not here. Why have you come for her?”

The African eyed him closely, and Matthew knew he was being sized up yet again—much as he had been sized up after Janji had lowered his gun, the lion lying dead only inches from Matthew’s feet.

But that was a lifetime ago. His eyes narrowing, Matthew began to take the man’s measure himself. At the gesture, the African grunted his approval.

“It is good to see you again, my friend,” Janji said with a glimmer of a smile. “I promised Finnea I would make sure her cherished things arrived in America. I have kept my promise. I am here with her belongings.”

“Look!” Mary exclaimed, pulling a handmade rag doll from the wood and straw.

“That isn’t yours, Mary,” Matthew said, and gently took the toy away.

But when he started to put it back, he noticed several other items.

Confusion shimmering through him, Matthew took out a tiny wooden horse and a carved ivory rattle. His movements were reluctant, but he understood at some primal level that this was important. This crate held the missing pieces to Finnea’s darkness. The answer he had been searching for was right here.

“What are these?” he asked out loud, not understanding, though his heart had begun to pound.

Janji stood stoically.

“Damn it, Janji, tell me why you brought these toys to Finnea,” he demanded.

The African met his eye. “It is not my story to tell. I am only here to deliver these things… and to see that she is safe. Take me to her now.”

But Matthew was no longer listening. Thoughts raced through his head like a rush of howling wind. Then, placing one small toy in his pocket, he slammed out the front door and headed for Commonwealth Avenue. Even without the cake, this time he would not be turned away.

Chapter Twenty-two

Matthew hurtled up the front steps of the Winslet town house and had to hold himself back from breaking down the front door. He had to see Finnea and uncover once and for all the past that lurked in the recesses of her eyes. The past that he was sure now held her back… and kept them apart.

She hadn’t wanted to leave, he realized with a curse; she had felt she had to go.

After he turned the knob to ring the bell inside, he paced as he waited for an answer, then banged again when no one answered quickly enough.

The butler finally pulled open the door, and at the look on Matthew’s face, the man took a step back.