Perfect in My Sight (28 page)

CHAPTER
31

Peter climbed the stairs at Fifth Avenue and Thirteenth Street, taking the steps two
at a time in his haste.

Ruth had delivered to him a letter from a very irate Cile, claiming he had missed
yet another meeting with August Belmont, and that he could “go straight to proverbial
hell.”

Damn, but if he had, he didn’t know it. He didn’t remember scheduling one, nor agreeing
to a meeting at all. He was certainly preoccupied of late, but he damned sure would
have remembered that. Mr. Belmont’s was not a name he’d easily forget, not even with
Sarah as a distraction.

He rapped on the door at the Morgan estate and waited impatiently for Cile’s doorman
to answer. It took him longer to respond than Peter had patience to wait.

“Mr. Holland, sir.” He opened the door wide and stepped aside. “Shall I tell Mrs.
Morgan you wish to see her?”

Peter stepped into the foyer and glanced into the parlor. “Please.”

“She has been indisposed most of the day, sir, but I know she will wish to speak with
you. Please make yourself at home and I shall tell her you are here.”

“Thank you, Simon.”

“Of course, sir,” he replied. He bowed and stepped away, and Peter moved into the
parlor to wait. He was far too tense to sit and so he wandered the room, pausing at
the piano to clink a few keys. He wondered idly if Christopher would enjoy learning
to play. His ear for language was certainly remarkable enough. Peter thought perhaps
the same skills were required for music as well. And Christopher didn’t have any sort
of hobby to amuse him.

He plucked a few more discordant notes and decided his own ear was quite lacking.

Did Sarah play? He wondered.

And what had she said to Christopher?

He hoped his son had softened her a little because he damned well intended to ask
her again himself. Peter could scarcely think of anything that would please him more
than to crawl into his bed each night and wrap his arms around his sleeping wife—Sarah.

He didn’t want anyone else—couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone else. The sweet taste
of her lingered on his lips, and the scent of her in his lungs... the sound of her
voice upon his heart.

Even now, she was all he could think of.

He glanced out into the foyer.

Damn... he wished Cile would hurry because he wanted to go home. He’d left without
even telling

Sarah good-bye, or where he was going. Though he’d looked for her and Christopher
both, he hadn’t found either one and he’d had to hie out the door. Judging by Cile’s
mood the last time he had seen her, Peter hadn’t wished to anger her further by making
her wait. Nor did he wish to hurt her, and in truth, he owed it to her to tell her
about Sarah before someone else chanced to.

“Well, well,” Cile said.

Peter turned to find her standing in the doorway.

“Hello, Cile.”

She tilted her head coyly. “If it isn’t our front page headliner himself.”

“Christ!” Peter sucked in a breath. “The Times.”

She lifted her brows. “You mean to say you’ve not seen the papers yet?”

“No, I’ve not.”

“I see,” she said. And then lifted one brow higher. “Preoccupied?”

“A bit,” Peter admitted.

“You don’t seem to like things quiet, do you? I leave you alone for ten minutes, and
you embroil yourself in another murder.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue.

“Cile... I know you’re angry with me...”

“Not at all,” she denied. “I am quite well, Peter.” She sauntered into the room and
went directly to her bar to pour herself a glass of sherry. “In case you haven’t noticed
through our years together, I am quite resilient.”

“Dispense with the sarcasm, Cile.”

She turned around and leaned against the bar, sipping at her glass and eyeing him
over the rim. “I suppose I am pouting a bit,” she said honestly.

Peter lifted a brow.

“You have completely ignored me,” she protested.

Peter nodded, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She averted her gaze. “I know.”

“There were never any promises between us, Cile.”

She turned to look at him again, and her eyes were glazed a bit with unshed tears.
“I know that too.”

Silence fell between them.

“I never told you,” she began, “all those years ago ... because of Mary... and then,
well, because I sensed you didn’t wish to hear it, but I loved you, Peter. I love
you still. I want you to be happy.”

He didn’t know what to say. “Cile ...”

She lifted her fingers to her lips. “Shhh.”

He hated hurting her.

“Do you love her, Peter?”

He met her gaze directly. “Yes, I do.”

“You know what, then?” she said, moving away from the bar and walking toward him.
She smiled softly. “That’s all that matters.” She was obviously trying not to cry.

She stopped when she stood before him and lifted her fingers to his face, giving him
a fond look. It was the first time he had spied anything at all in her eyes, the first
bit of warmth she had ever allowed him to see. “I have watched you withdraw more and
more, Peter darling. And I was never able to draw you back. Please believe me when
I say I am happy for you if only you are happy.”

He smiled at her. “You’ve always been a good friend to me, Cile.”

“And I shall continue to be so,” she promised without hesitation, dropping her hand
at her side. She winked then and said, “If only you would stay out of the papers,
darling. You are quite terrible for my reputation, you know!”

He chuckled. “Cile, you are quite terrible for your  own reputation.”

She giggled. “True.” She tilted him a glance. “But gad, you are a cad even to say
so!”

Peter laughed, and then winced and shook his head. “I suppose the papers were brutal?”

“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Quite! I cannot believe you haven’t seen them yet.”

He sighed. “So I am a murderer again?”

She shook her head. “Uh, not quite.” She laughed. “But speculation abounds, my dear.
You are involved, I think, in an array of questionable activities, none of which are
quite respectable, and yet neither are they illegal, thank God!” She laughed again.
“And you are a despoiler of innocent young girls as well.” She winked at him. “Just
the sort of slightly dangerous man women seem to adore.” She sipped at her sherry.
“Oh! And Belmont sent a messenger this morning, you might as well know. He isn’t withdrawing
his investments, but he did wish to know my feelings on the reports.”

“Belmont!” Peter shook his head. “Cile, I don’t remember receiving any requests for
a meeting. I’m sorry that I missed another with him.”

Cile’s brows lifted. “You haven’t really missed any at all. I’m sorry to say that
I lied the last time.” She tilted her head a bit and gave him a coy little glance.
“Forgive me?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at her. “You mean to tell me that we didn’t have a meeting
this morning?” Cile made a bewildered face. “No. Whyever did you think so?”

“Because...” Peter blinked. The note. Who had sent him the note if not Cile? “You
didn’t send a messenger this morning?”

She shook her head, denying it. He knew she wouldn’t lie to him again. Why should
she?

“Peter?”

Peter’s brows drew together. He glanced down at the floor, and then into her eyes
once more. “No meeting this morning with August Belmont?”

She shook her head.

“And you didn’t send a messenger telling me to come posthaste?”

She shook her head once more. “I’ve been abed all morning, darling. Why do you think
it took me so long to receive you? I had to dress, you know.”

Peter wasn’t listening. Who the hell would have sent him the note? A very uneasy feeling
slithered through him. Ruth had handed him a note... from Cile... penned in what looked
to be Cile’s elegant scrawl. His brows collided as he studied Cile’s face. She wasn’t
lying... he knew her too damned well. Something wasn’t right here.

Someone had wanted him out of the house.

“I have to go,” he told her.

“Now? So soon!”

“Emergency,” he said, and turned and rushed toward the door.

CHAPTER
32

Christopher led Sarah to the wardrobe in his room.

He opened the doors and fell to his knees at her feet and crawled at once into the
curtain of clothing. Two tiers of his clothing hung in perfect array, and the closet
seemed unremarkable until he began to toss out the collection of mementoes and toys
he had hidden within the wardrobe.

He tossed out an old shoe—one of his own, she thought, judging by the size, but its
mate never appeared. He tossed out a handkerchief—what appeared to be his mother’s—and
a wooden horse, and a soldier, too. After that came an assortment of items, some of
them recognizable, some of them not, though it was clear each item had been well used
and cherished. He paused, and backed out of the closet, dragging with him a small
leather-bound book. He brought it to his nostrils, making a disgusted face, and then
thrust it toward Sarah.

Sarah took it from his hands, examining it. “How did you discover it there, Christopher?”

“Just found it,” he said. “These are my toys,” he explained. “I save ’em there so
Caitlin won’t throw ’em away when she cleans my room.”

“I see.”

“They feel good,” he told her, groping for an item—the handkerchief—and exploring
it with his hands. “This one is soft,” he explained, pulling it through his hands.
“I think it was my gramma’s, my daddy said it was.”

Sarah could see that it had an initial embroidered on one corner and she made a mental
note to check it later. This instant, however, all she could think of was the journal
in her hands.

Ruth’s journal? There wasn’t any identification, except for the distinctive odor even
she recognized as Ruth’s—a strong, sickeningly sweet floral scent. It was a blend
of scents, actually, none of them the least harmonious, and it was only in that instant
she recalled the scent in her room the night of the fire.

Taking the journal with her, Sarah sat on Christopher’s bed.

“I think the boogeyman musta lost it, do you think?”

“Perhaps,” Sarah agreed, shuddering.

“I think that was why he was crying,” Christopher proposed.

With trembling hands, Sarah opened the journal to its very first page.

The date was December 5, 1878...

Damn Peter.

He’s never wanted for anything. Not ever!

From Father he received his due respect. From
his whore of a mother he received love! What have I ever had but silence and time
to dream—time to plan!

Bloody man’s world, this is—I've no choices available to me at all, have I, but to
depend
upon a man! It isn’t fair! Isn
‘t right! Simply because I’ve not been blessed with a face that draws men to my side,
I have nothing at all, nothing! Not even the assurance of a place to rest my head
at night! I hate men! Hate them all!

Sarah blinked at the vehemence of the entry, stunned by the anger apparent in every
word written.

“I wanted to show him where it was,” Christopher said, distracting her, “but I was
afraid.”

Patting the bed beside her, Sarah called him to join her. “Everything will be all
right, sweetheart. I promise,” she told him, and swore to herself he would never have
to lie there another night listening to the boogeyman in his room.

She skipped a few pages... scanning the entries. They were mostly short ones, hardly
a sentence, and judging by the dates, they were not kept every day. The very next
entry, for instance, was dated January 19, 1879. Sarah skipped that one and turned
a few pages, stopping at a particularly long entry marked

January 16, 1879

Peter met a woman today—Mary Cavanaugh. Ridiculous the way he follows her about. One
might think him a dog the way he drools after her!

What fickle pigs men are!

Well, Mary will not win with her silly little doll face and her childish giggles.
Her face will droop one day, and then what will she have?

Father abandoned Mother, left her to wither and die once her looks no longer appealed
to him! He ‘d found himself some young harlot to replace her within a month of her
burial. I wondered even that he might have hurried her to the grave—morbid as that
thought might be,
I have always suspected it to be so. So he’d gone and married his younger woman—and
then had expected me to raise their son! How just was that? To expect me to devote
myself to a little boy who would simply grow to leave me someday—just as my father
did to my mother—just as he then did to me!

Mother gave him the best years of her life—cooked and cleaned for him, doted upon
him—and for what thanks?

Women such as Mary Cavanaugh don’t have a care in this world. For me, nothing comes
easily—nothing is ever certain! I must rely upon myself and no other, because there
is no one I can count on—not even Peter!

Sarah took a deep breath and turned another page. Such anger in Ruth’s words. How
terrible to feel so alone and bitter.

The next entry she stopped at was dated June 10, 1879.

He’s going to marry the bitch!

Sarah sucked in a breath at the malevolence of those words. This had been Mary Ruth
had been speaking of, her cousin! Anger suffused her. Why couldn’t she have been there
at Mary’s side to stand beside her? She swallowed the knot of emotions that rose to
choke her breath away, and turned to look at Christopher, who was standing silently
before her now.

“Will you read it to me?” he asked her innocently, as though sensing her gaze upon
him.

Sarah shook her head, though he couldn’t see her, unable to speak for an instant.
She reached out to touch his cheek, patting it gently. “I don’t think you would like
this,” she assured him, her voice trembling just a little. She patted the bed once
more. “Come here and sit by me, Christopher.”

He climbed on the bed and sat beside her.

Sarah put her arm about him, drawing him nearer. She took a breath when he leaned
against her, and she dared to turn another page.

September 25, 1879

How dare Peter come to me and say to my face
that Mary’s beauty has been a terrible burden
all her life! So the rich little brat isn’t certain
she wishes to marry him because it frightens her. Poor thing...
she cannot be certain whether it is her face or her heart he loves her for! How dare
Peter in the same breath console me by telling me I should never have to wonder that
a man might love me for my heart instead of my face!

How dare he!

I hate him, and I hate his little society darling!

“Miss Sarah,” Christopher whispered at her side, but she didn’t hear his words, only
the drone of his voice as she forced herself to read another entry, not quite ready
to believe what her instinct was whispering to her.

January 28, 1880

I am not feeling very welcome.

I’ve given Peter everything, and what do I get in return? A battle at every turn!
I live every day of my life in fear that he will push me out of his life and his house!
Simply discard me... as our father did so easily.

My head aches at the mere thought. Laudanum does not dim the pain.

Peter’s marriage is laughable. He has gone so far as to admit to me that he doesn't
even love her! How can he be so willing to give a stranger so much—everything? His
wife does
not bear his blood as I do—and me, he discards without a thought! I live on what little
he gives me when it pleases him—when he remembers! And to her he gives everything!

Why should it surprise me ? My own father never cared enough to leave me a measly
portion of his assets, meager though they were. He left everything to his namesake,
his pride, his joy, his son! He left everything to his one child who hadn’t needed
anything at all—his one child who could easily make his way in this fool world without
any help—and nothing at all to the child who had no means to survive, unless she had
a man in her life—shallow, vain creatures!

The unfairness of it all makes me long to spit in the face of every man!

And what has Peter done with Father’s inheritance? He's driving his business into
the ground, that’s what he’s doing. If it weren’t for me—that I’d introduced him to
Cile—Peter would be a bloody pauper today.

He owes everything to me!

Everything!

His house is my house, his money my money. Everything is mine! I loathe having to
go to him and beg for every scrap of clothing I place upon my back. Loathe him for
making me come to him crawling—for not thinking enough to come to me instead! He takes
my sacrifices in vain, and never thinks how humiliating it might
be for me to come to
him every time I need something
... anything.

He’s no different from any other man—swayed by a pretty face. Mary Cavanaugh is all
that is loathsome in women, and damn Peter for wanting her anyway!

Well, I’m not going to be left once more with nothing!

Not if I can help it!

My head hurts! I am not going to be run out of my own home because suddenly I am no
longer needed here.

Mary will go before I do!

Sarah blinked in horror at what she was reading. She flipped pages in shock, stopping
at the date of her cousin’s murder ...

April 15, 1880

By now it is done!

Wish I could be there—anxious to know how all fared. But tomorrow will be soon enough.
I do not wish to draw suspicion.

I cannot see this as death—no, I refuse! It is rather a birth! My own! I think I shall
not even sleep tonight, waiting for the morning to discover the news! So long I have
wait
ed! Only a few short hours more
...

“Dear God!” Sarah exclaimed in horror.

“What, Miss Sarah?” Christopher asked low.

Sarah peered down at the child at her side. She had been so drawn up in the journal
she hadn’t heard a word he’d spoken to her.

“What’s wrong, Miss Sarah?”

Sarah sucked in a breath and brought her hand to her cheek, realizing for the first
time that tears had been streaming from her eyes. She swiped them away and set the
journal down on the bed, unable to read more at the instant.

She needed to find Peter, needed to show him the journal.

Lifting her hand to her mouth, she tried to compose herself, tried to think of what
next to do. She didn’t wish to leave Christopher alone, but neither did she wish him
to be present when she spoke to his father.

She knelt before the bed, taking Christopher by the shoulders. “Christopher, darling...
I am going to ask you to do something for me,” she told him.

He nodded, and Sarah reached out and took the journal into her hand, then pressed
it into his.

“I want you to take this to your father’s room, and I want you to hide with it under
the bed. Can you do that for me?”

His expression reflected his confusion, but there was no time to explain. And even
if there were, what could she say? Your aunt is a murderer, and I fear for your safety?
No, it was best for now simply to remove him from danger. Nor could she walk around
with the journal in her hand.

“Christopher?” she prompted.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and nodded.

“If your aunt Ruth calls for you, you are not to come! Understand?”

He nodded again, and Sarah turned around, surveying the mess on the floor. She had
to clean it before Ruth discovered it. She left Christopher on the bed as she hurriedly
picked up the items he had strewn on the floor and returned them to their little corner
of the wardrobe, shutting the door after them. That done, she turned to Christopher,
lifting him into her arms, deciding to take him to Peter’s room. She needed to see
to his safety herself.

“I’m going to take you there,” she said, as he lifted his arms around her neck. The
sickeningly sweet floral scent of the journal filled her lungs, making her stomach
roll and her heart beat faster. She had to find Peter.

Peter would know what to do.