The Firebrand (38 page)

Her hat was enormously fancy, with feathers and flowers piled high as the sky. Long, glossy yellow ringlets hung down one side. Her stiff petticoats swished

when she moved, and a gigantic bustle adorned her behind. Sally Saltonstall said bustles were fashionable, but to Maggie, they looked like a big bunch of bows and nonsense.

"I'm terribly sorry," the lady said in a soft, polite voice. "But you're right. I'm afraid I don't recall meeting you."

She leaned to the side to get a better look at Maggie. "Is this your little boy?"

Maggie scowled. That again. Just because she didn't wear a dress, people were always calling her a boy. Worse than that, they always called her
little.

"Miss—Mrs. Higgins," said Mama, "please come inside. We'll just get cleaned up, and then we'll join you in the parlor."

The lady puckered her forehead, but she went up the front steps with them and stepped into the foyer with its checkerboard floor and the staircase with the railing that was perfect for sliding down. She took off her skinny lace gloves and turned around slowly, looking at the naughty fountain of the boy peeing and the shiny woodwork of the staircase. "So this is Randolph's house," she said in a quiet voice.

Maggie didn't like it when people called her papa
Randolph
like he was a street or something.

"Please have a seat in the parlor." Mama's voice sounded tight, and her hand, which Maggie still clung to, felt all sweaty. "I'll send for some refreshments, and when we get cleaned up, we'll join you."

The white forehead puckered again. "I am here to see my—to see Randolph.

And our daughter, Christine."

"Maggie," Maggie yelled before she could stop herself. She stomped her foot. "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie."

Mama held her shoulders to calm her down.

"You see," Mama said, "this is Maggie. I believe her father sent you a photograph of the two of them. Didn't you receive it?"

"Yes, but—" The fancy lady got very quiet. Her eyes grew as large as two blue marbles, two very wet blue marbles. "Dear Lord,
you're
Christine," she said, and she sank down low. Her skirts swished on the shiny floor as she put her face very close to Maggie's. "I didn't recognize you at first," she said. "But I do now. My daughter." To Maggie's horror, the lady started to cry. "My beautiful daughter."

Mama kept hold of Maggie's shoulders as though she knew Maggie wanted to run away and hide. Leaning down, Mama whispered very fast, "Everything will be fine. I promise."

Forcing herself to be brave, Maggie stepped forward.

The lady hugged Maggie, covering her in a flowery smell that stirred up the bees in her stomach. She didn't know what to do about this crying lady, so she stood quite still and pressed her lips together until they hurt.

"You'll understand if she's a bit bashful," Mama said. "Please, if I could just get her cleaned up—"

"Of course." Sniffing into an embroidered handkerchief, the lady went into the parlor.

Mama told Nichol about the refreshments and hurried upstairs with Maggie. "We must be quick," she said. "We have a lot to talk about with Mrs.— Oh, I haven't the slightest idea what to call her." Mama was talking fast, more to herself than to Maggie. And the whole time, she was peeling off their clothes and scrubbing away with a damp towel. "Of all the times for her to show up unannounced."

Maggie brightened, tugging on her blue frock. "Let's tell her to go away." "No." Mama brushed Maggie's hair and stuck a big bow in it. Then she did her

own hair, twisting it into a braid. After that, with the shoe-button hook clenched

between her teeth, she bent down to fasten Maggie's dress. Maggie had never seen Mama get them dressed so quickly.

"She's a very important person in our lives, Maggie, and we must be polite and gracious to her." Mama spoke around the button hook in her mouth. "Do you understand?"

Maggie stuck out her foot so Mama could put a shoe on and hook the buttons.

They were the shiny black shoes she wore to church, and they pinched.

Mama pulled on a petticoat and plain blue dress. She checked herself in the mirror and scowled, taking up the towel to scrub her face some more. "All right," Mama said, grabbing her hand. "Let's go."

The lady was in the parlor where Maggie wasn't allowed to touch anything.

When she saw Maggie, she smiled, but she cried again, too. "My darling," she said, holding out both hands.

Mama gave Maggie a gentle shove and she went forward and put her hands into the lady's. "Sit here by me," the lady said, and Maggie obeyed, hoisting herself up to the cold, glossy silk of the best settee.

"So," the lady said to Mama, taking a glass of lemonade from a tray, "you must be the governess."

Mama sat down in another chair. "Actually, quite a bit has happened since I first discovered Maggie's father," she said.

"You're the one, then.
That
Miss Hathaway. The one who rescued my baby.

How can I ever thank you?"

"You needn't, Mrs.—" Mama stopped as if she had forgotten the lady's name. "Well." Mama smoothed her hands over her dark blue skirt. "We didn't know you were coming. You must have left San Francisco before getting Rand's latert wire."

The visitor's forehead wrinkled when Mama said
Rand.
"He sent another wire?"

"He had some news for you. The fact is, we were married about a month ago," Mama explained. "Rand and I, that is."

The lady made a little hissing sound through her teeth.
"Married?"

"With a flower and music
and
a kiss," Maggie said, unable to stay silent. She didn't like this visitor. She didn't like her at all. "She's my mother," Maggie yelled, jumping down from the settee and running to Mama. "Not you!"

The lady put her lemonade back on the tray. "Have you any sherry?" she asked.

The bank was still on shaky ground, and foolishly, Rand was about to make things worse. Lamott was gone in ignominy but Crabtree, McClean and the others stayed on. Though less fanatic, the remaining directors were as stodgy and intractable as the departed Lamott. They wanted Rand to promise to keep Lucy in check, to promise The Firebrand would never be rebuilt. He hadn't given them that promise. He refused to sacrifice Lucy's dream for the sake of the bank, even if it meant losing his position and starting down an unknown path he'd never trodden.

The notion put an unexpected energy in his stride as he returned home that day and walked into the house, reaching up to loosen his tie. Female voices drifted from the formal parlor. They must have visitors, since Lucy and Maggie ordinarily avoided the fussy room, which his grandmother had filled with art treasures, fragile knickknacks and costly antiques.

Leaving his tie in place, he stepped into the parlor...and nearly stumbled.

His mouth dried as though he'd ingested cold ashes. Then, with a mechanical courtesy that masked his stunned senses, he bowed from the waist.

"Hello, Diana," he said to his former wife.

In a rustle of silk, she stood up, a blond goddess, every bit as lovely as she'd been the day he'd married her. The years had only deepened her beauty, polishing her with a sheen of sophistication.

He crossed the room and took her extended hand, raising it to his mouth. Why couldn't he remember the feel of her hand in his, the smell and taste of her? He had the distinct sensation of meeting a stranger.

"Dear Randolph," she said in a soft, beguiling voice. "I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I had the worst fear that— Oh, never mind. It's so silly."

As she sank back into her seat, he took a moment to greet the others in the

room. Maggie jumped down from the settee and ran to him. "You're home!"

He picked her up in his arms, and instantly his heart thawed out. The familiar, welcome weight of her seemed to bring the world back into balance.

On another settee were Viola and Grace, the former looking as though she stood before of firing squad and the latter exhibiting a cautious pleasure. Grandmother had always liked Diana, mourning her departure more than Rand ever had.

Alone in an armchair sat Lucy, her dark dress and pulled-back hair giving her anxious face an unnatural pallor. She said nothing. He could not get used to a silent Lucy, for she always had something to say. Until now.

"When did you get here?" he asked. "Where are you staying?"

"I have rooms at the Palmer House," Diana said. "But I thought—" Flustered, she started again. "I've been simply overcome, seeing Grace and my darling Christine again." She pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her flawless cheek.

"She thought I was a boy at first," Maggie said. "Just like you did."

He felt a flash of chagrin, recalling that day. "I suppose it's because you were so tiny when we lost you." Kissing her on the head, he set her down.

"When I saw you today," Diana said to Maggie, "you didn't look anything like the photograph your father sent me."

The photograph.

Suspicions swirled and started to harden inside him. What sort of coincidence was it, that she'd come to him after seeing the photograph?

An awkward silence descended over the group, punctuated by the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel.

Maggie shifted from one foot to another. She went over to Lucy to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sure you both have so much to discuss," Lucy said, standing up. "We shall leave you to it."

Taking their cue, Viola and Grace stood. Grace leaned over her cane. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course." Diana's mouth curved into a melting smile. "That's ever so kind of you, Grandmother Grace."

As the four of them left the room, Diana's gaze lingered hungrily on Maggie. Rand wondered if he'd looked that way, so desperate with longing, when he'd first found out about her.

"She's absolutely gorgeous," Diana said. "Yes."

"What a blessed, blessed miracle." All in a rush, she went to him, burying her face against his chest. "I never thought I'd feel this way again, ever," she said, weeping. "Oh, Randolph, where do we begin again? How do we begin again?"

He had no answer for her. His trying day had extended into a nightmare. He did not recognize the feel of her, or her smell. The shape of her pressed against him was alien, awkward. He didn't remember her.

Except that she had given him a daughter.

He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. "What are you doing here, Diana? What do you want?"

She searched his face with a misty-eyed gaze. He could feel her stare linger on the scars, but unlike she'd done years ago, she didn't recoil. He dropped his hands to his sides.

"I came because I want my baby back," she said at last, her voice breaking. "And my husband."

At one time, he would have sold his soul to hear those words. But that was a lifetime ago. "You were surprised, weren't you?" he said.

"I never imagined Christine—"

"By my recovery," he interrupted. "The photograph I sent surprised you, didn't it? You never expected me to get better."

"Oh, Randolph. I am more than surprised. I'm astounded and profoundly grateful."

"That you can bear to look at me?" He turned sharply away. "I'm very happy for you."

She pursued him, her face so dramatically pale that he suspected her distress was genuine. "Randolph, you must give me a chance. I'm a different person than I was so long ago. You cannot blame me for my actions when I was devastated by grief."

He said nothing to that. There was nothing to say that she would understand. "I didn't expect to find you wed to a stranger," she said, her voice thin with

woe. "Honestly, Randolph, what could you be thinking, marrying that woman?"

He'd been thinking of Maggie when he'd first done it, yet his marriage to Lucy had become something else entirely. But he wasn't about to explain himself to Diana.

"That woman
saved Maggie's life," he said. "She raised her, and Maggie loves her."

"And I'll be forever grateful," Diana said. "But I am Christine's mother."

"You gave her life," he conceded. "But you lost her— we both lost her—when she was so very young, Diana. She has no more memory of you than she does of being called Christine." He saw her wince. "Look, she didn't remember me, either. But our daughter has a loving heart. As time goes on, she's coming to know me."

"As she'll come to know me."

"Naturally you'll be welcome to visit Maggie," he said.

She pressed her small fist to her bosom. Then, without warning, she surged

against him again, her arms going around his neck. She smelled of flowers and hair dressing, and she felt as soft and fragile as a bird. "It's not enough," she whispered against his neck. "I want you back, Randolph. I want us to be a family again."

"It can't be like that," he said. "Lucy is my wife."

"You can fix this, Randolph." Her fingers brushed through his hair. "You can change this and make things right. You don't need that woman anymore. No judge in the county would deny you a divorce. It's clear you only married her so you could be near Christine. An annulment might even be possible."

"Your understanding of the law has always been impressive. They say you managed to divorce me in record time."

She swallowed hard, tightened her arms around him. "Oh, Randolph. I was so terribly frightened, and so filled with grief for Christine that I couldn't think straight."

She'd thought straight enough to extract a huge settlement from him—a settlement he could ill afford at the time. Still, as she said, that was all in the past and he found he didn't care anymore. "I won't deny you a relationship with Maggie," he said, reaching up to unlink her arms from around his neck. "You gave birth to her and you have a right to be in her life. I'm sure we can arrange for Maggie to spend time with you."

She encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. "I should have come back sooner, I admit that." In a swish of silk skirts, she turned to him. "Now I am home. This is where I belong."

"You made your choice," he said. "You fled from your monster husband. You only came back because you've learned that some wounds do heal." His gaze glided over her, head to toe. "But some others don't."