Gregory, Lisa (44 page)

William
stared at the empty doorway in surprise. Poor Katherine. Why had he been such a
fool as to even mention Hampton's name? He should have realized the horrifying
memories it would dredge up for her. Poor, dear girl.

Matthew
dead! The words pounded in her brain. All the unhappiness she had felt before
seemed as nothing compared to this deep pain slashing through her. He could not
be dead; she could not live if he was dead. She sat numbly on the side of her
bed, staring at nothing. Her first, violent storm of tears was over, and now,
spent, she had to face the fact of his death, bring her spinning world into
some kind of order. Perhaps—there was always the hope that he wasn't dead.
William had not known for a fact that he was dead; it was only surmise. For a
moment she clung to that bright hope, then sternly put it away from her. No, it
was better go to ahead and accept it now. He had been on the edge of death and
then disappeared. What other explanation could there be? If Matthew were alive,
he would have sailed on the
Susan Harper
or some new ship. If he were
alive, he would be out there fighting. There was no escaping it: Matthew was
dead.

She
rose and went to the window to stare out into the black night. Oh, why had she
not stayed with him, accepted his reluctant offer of a mock marriage? Perhaps
she could have saved him somehow, nursed him day and night as she had during
his fever. Or maybe even kept him from the duel. Oh, God, if that duel had been
because of her; if that baron was her tormentor—she leaned her forehead against
the window, the tears streaming down her face again.

"Miss
Katherine?" Pegeen entered the room to help her undress. Her manner was
excited. "They said Lieutenant Perkins had come to call on you. Isn't it
grand his being here? Oh, miss, whatever is the matter? You have been
crying."

Katherine
attempted a smile. "It is nothing, Pegeen."

"He
didn't say anything to upset you, did he?"

"Oh,
no, Lieutenant Perkins is kindness itself. I am afraid it is I who must hurt
him."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
cannot marry him."

"Why
ever not, mum?"

"Oh,
Pegeen, I would make him a wretched wife. I could not give him any love; I have
nothing left in me to give."

"Sure,
now, and that's a wild way to talk," Pegeen said, her brogue thickening in
her excitement.

"No,
it is true. Oh, Pegeen, can't you see? I love Matthew Hampton!"

The
maid sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"And
now—he's dead." Katherine's voice broke, and the tears began to flow
again. "Matthew is dead!"

"Oh,
Miss Katherine." Pegeen enfolded her in a warm hug. "Oh, whatever
shall we do?"

"I
haven't even—oh, damn, I'm not even carrying his child! I have nothing of him,
absolutely nothing. Peggy, I can't go on; I cannot face life knowing he is
nowhere in this world."

"Oh,
Miss Katherine." Pegeen's ready tears mingled with her mistress's, and the
two girls clung to each other, sobbing.

How
horribly ironic it was that his death had made her realize she loved him. For
she knew at last, too late, that she loved him, that all her hatred and
fighting had been but pretense. She had simply been too scared and stubborn to
acknowledge it.

She
remembered his face, the slow, sardonic smile, the way his eyebrows lifted in
amusement, his long-lashed gray eyes, sometimes the cold gray of steel, other
times the stormy gray of the Atlantic, or now and then lit by the fires of
desire or anger. She remembered his soft, velvety drawl, with the hint of iron
beneath; his lean, hard body, the firm grip of his fingers under her arm as
they strolled the deck, the comforting strength of his arms around her as he
carried her away from Pearl's. And she cried for him and all the joy that might
have been hers, had she not thrown it away.

Katherine
managed to face her family the next morning, her eyes red-rimmed from tears and
a sleepless night. It was more difficult to keep her composure that evening
before William's loving concern. Katherine nervously twisted his ring and
observed irrelevantly that she must have lost weight, for his ring was loose on
her finger. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in, "William, you are a
wonderful man, and very honorable, too, to still want me to marry you. But you
must see that it's impossible."

"No,
I do not see."

"William,
please don't make this any more difficult," she whispered.

"Katherine,
I love you."

"You
are such a fine man, and you would be a kind and devoted husband, I'm sure, but
I cannot marry you. It would be so unfair to you—no, let me finish. My
reputation is ruined." She smiled mirthlessly. "I'm a fallen
woman."

"Do
you think I care about that? It was not your fault what that blackguard did to
you. Katherine, I want to take care of you, make you forget what
happened."

"But
the world would—"

"The
devil take the world! We need not live in Boston. We could live in New York, or
anyplace where ships sail. We can start a brand-new life; no one would
know."

"We
would know. I would feel guilty all the rest of our lives. It is not just that
I am—stained. I would make you an awful wife. I could never give you anything;
I am drained of all emotion. I don't think that I shall ever be able to feel
anything for anyone again. And it would be so unfair to shackle you with a wife
like that. You will get over this hurt, and then you can find yourself another
girl, one who will love you and be a proper wife for you."

"Katherine,
I don't want any other girl."

"William,
please." She looked away from him, agonized. She couldn't bear to tell him
that she had never truly loved him, that she loved someone else, that she was
tied to a memory. The pain and shock in his eyes would be too much for her.

"Are
you saying that the physical side of marriage repels you, that you could
not—"

"Yes,
William, I couldn't sleep with you—or anyone else." Except one man, a man
who's dead now. "That's part of it."

"Katherine,
I could be patient. In time, you would change the way you feel; I'm sure."
He stared at the carpet, unable to meet her eyes.

She
felt a twinge of exasperation. Why must he be so embarrassed and roundabout?
"No, William," she said firmly, "it simply would not work."
She pulled his ring off her finger and held it out to him.

He
stared at it for a moment, then finally took it. Stiffly, he rose and took his
leave. Katherine stifled a little sob. Why, oh why, did everything have to be
so unfair?

Grimly,
Katherine plodded through the days, wrapped in her grief, barely noticing the
world around her. The summer wore to a close. Dimly she was aware that far to
the south, the Confederacy was crumbling under the two-pronged attack of Grant
and Sherman; Lee's army was on its last legs. Why did they hang on so
stubbornly in the face of imminent defeat? Why not just give in and be done
with it? She smiled wryly. For the same reason, she guessed, that she clung to
life even though all hope and joy was gone—stubbornness, pride, desperation—God
knew what it was.

At
night, alone in her bed, she remembered Matthew's lovemaking, his hard hands
gentle against her skin, his deep kisses and tingling caresses, and she ached
with emptiness and unfulfilled desire. She had never guessed that she would
miss him physically, that her loins would burn for him and her flesh tremble at
the thought of his touch, that she would feel she could die from wanting him.
Why, oh, why, had she so stubbornly refused to give in? Why had she held back
when her body had wanted to let go, to return his love? Bitterly she regretted
it now: her life stretched before her so full of waste and emptiness—if only
she had snatched at that chance of happiness, however brief it might have been.

Now
she realized, too late, that he had not been entirely the selfish monster she
had thought. He had tried to bring her enjoyment, had concerned himself with
her pleasure. She knew now, after her experience at Pearl's, that he need not
have, that he could have gotten his own quick satisfaction from her without any
effort to arouse her. Pearl's had taught her what true cruelty and debasement
were; what he had done to her was not that. Many times he had offered her so
much more than just being the passive object of his lust. He had wanted to
converse with her, to take her to the heights of passion with him, to have her
company, to give her things. And she had coldly, stubbornly refused. She had
been the one who kept them apart and separate, who insisted that they remain in
their respective roles of conqueror and victim. If she had not been so
pig-headed, she could have reveled in the sensual joy he gave her—the sensual
joy they could have
shared.
She could have told him whatever she wanted;
he would not have been shocked by anything she said. He had enjoyed her wit,
laughed at her quips; she could have entertained him with her quick mind,
instead of always having to curb her tongue. Had she asked, no doubt he would
have taught her how to navigate a ship—or anything she wanted to know.

Now,
bitterly and too late, she saw her own folly. She had loved Matthew, but had
thrown away happiness with both hands. Now he was dead, and her life was an
aching void.

It
was one evening when she was in this black mood that her father called her into
his study. There was a peculiar twinkle in his eye and an air of suppressed
excitement about him.

"Katherine,
how would you like to go to New York to visit your cousin?"

"Who?"
Katherine asked in astonishment.

"Angela
Van der Vries. You remember, you went to her wedding about seven or eight years
ago."

"Oh,
yes, I remember; a, pretty blond girl, wasn't she?"

"That
is the one. She has written inviting you to spend a few months with her."

"But
she is only a distant relative, Father; our grandparents were cousins or
something." She regarded him suspiciously. "Why on earth does she
want me to come stay with her?"

Josiah
shrugged. "I don't know, really." He didn't add that he suspected it
was because he had sent her a telegram angling for an invitation for Katherine.
"Probably she's lonely, with her husband away at the War. Anyway, wouldn't
you like to go? Get away from Boston for a while. Why, you could go
shopping."

Katherine
had the feeling that her father had had a great deal to do with the invitation.
But what did that matter? Nothing mattered anymore. Her father wanted her to go
to New York, and her life would be this same dead gray wherever she went.
Nothing could ease the pain and bitter regret that were her constant guests. So
if her father wanted her to go, she might as well. At least she would be away
from her aunts.

"All
right, I will go," she said indifferently.

Josiah
felt like lifting his hands with glee. His scheme was working. He did not know
what foolish notion had made his daughter reject Lieutenant Perkins, but he
felt sure that the young man still loved her. Let her get down there in New
York, with him around all the time, and surely Perkins would be able to woo her
back and lift her from this dreadful gloom.