The Mistaken Widow. Cheryl St.John
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the aisle at his right, his sister-in-law sat in her wheelchair. He fixed his gaze on the brightly colored stained-glass windows forming an arch above the clergyman’s head. The minister’s softly spoken words floated on the air along with the scents of candle wax and Leda’s flowery violet toilet water. Nicholas took her hand with the tear-soaked hankie between both of his and absorbed her tremors.
Anger at the pointlessness of his brother’s death coursed through his own limbs. Why that train? Why that particular night? If only Stephen had stayed at the university. If only he’d been more sensible. If only he’d listened to Nicholas’s counsel on finishing his studies and then coming into the foundry business.
If not for Claire, they could have had Stephen with them the last few months. Unfairly, Nicholas wished Stephen hadn’t linked their family to this girl with questionable motives, and he resented sharing their grief with her.
Against his will, his gaze moved from her leg, jutting straight out beneath layers of black fabric, to her blackgloved hands clenched in her lap. If his mother hadn’t been determined to bring her safely to Mahoning Valley, Nicholas would have paid her off and sent her back to her New York tenement where she belonged, posthaste.
She’d had the last weeks with Stephen. The last moments.
The realization that he would never see his brother again hit him squarely between the eyes. Stephen had been a handful, even as a boy, and Nicholas, older and bearing the responsibilities for the business and his mother and brother, had done his best to bring Stephen up as he’d believed their father would have done.
Stephen had resented his intrusive concern. And he’d deliberately done all he could to get under Nicholas’s skin. Claire happened to be one of those deliberate and rebellious stands against what was expected of him. Their marriage would have turned into a farce.
Now Nicholas was left to deal with her.
“Nicholas?” his mother whispered. “It’s time for you to speak.”
He stood and walked the few feet to the pulpit the minister had vacated. The first person he looked at was the last one he wanted to focus on, but he couldn’t help himself.
Claire sat with her head lowered and her hands in her lap, presenting the top of her hat. She raised her head. The black veil prevented him from seeing her eyes, but it left her delicate chin and deceptively vulnerable mouth visible. Her lips had a puffy look, as though she’d cried recently. Convincing—to everyone else. She’d sewn for actresses, he reminded himself. She would know how to make herself up.
Nicholas drew on his years of steadfast responsibility and dependability, and in a calm voice spoke of Stephen as a child, as a growing boy, and as a young adult. He said all the things that his mother wanted and needed to hear. All the things that their family and friends expected of him. All the things that he’d deliberately avoided thinking of until now. And then he took his seat.
And screamed silently on the inside.
Stephen. Stephen. His free-spirited brother with the unflappable zest for life and laughter. With so much yet to do and discover, his life had ended…leaving so many things between them unsettled. Would this gaping void of pain and loss ever heal?
The time had arrived for the mourners to get into their carriages and ride to the cemetery. Fearing she would crumple if he didn’t support her, Nicholas helped his mother stand. Milos Switzer appeared at his side, and Nicholas directed him to push Claire’s chair.
It didn’t matter who pushed her chair, Sarah’s thoughts were consumed with the actuality of what was taking place and what she’d done. Someone helped her into the carriage, where she sat with her foot on a padded crate and stared idly out the window, grateful for the cloaking anonymity of the veil covering most of her face.
Now his grave. She would have to see Stephen’s grave. And come to terms with the fact that he might have been alive had he been riding in his own compartment that evening.
They stopped and moved away from the carriage again. Nothing mattered but the sight of the canopy ahead. Her heart raced and panic rose in her chest. Somewhere in her peripheral hearing, a bird sang its sweet morning song.
Spring rain had turned the grass a bright green; scattered headstones and mourners dotted its perfection. Beribboned flower rings and colorful bouquets couldn’t hide the crude mound of freshly turned earth that covered Stephen Halliday’s body.
The overpowering floral scent struck the indisputable fact of Stephen’s death into Sarah’s heart with all the force of a bullet. She stared at the distressing sight, the ghastly horror of what she’d done hitting her squarely between the eyes.
She’d thought about Claire’s body before, but had banished the morbid thoughts from her mind. Now she had to deal with them.
Where was Claire? Where was Stephen’s real wife? She should be lying here beside him throughout eternity, but because of Sarah’s treachery, no one even knew enough to locate her body.
The thought physically weakened her and brought a sob to her throat. Leda reached a hand over to pat hers, multiplying Sarah’s feelings of hypocrisy.
And the baby Claire had been carrying! That tiny life deserved a burial place with both parents. There was no one to mourn for Stephen and Claire’s baby.
No one but her.
That burden crushed the air from her lungs and brought quick tears. Where were Claire and her baby? If they were separated from Stephen here on earth, would they be separated in the hereafter, too?
Sarah fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief and covered her trembling lips.
The minister went through his prepared speech, but it was lost on Sarah. God had spared her and William for reasons unknown to her, and in thanks she’d lied to Stephen’s grieving family.
One of Leda’s friends sang, and the clergyman prayed again. Sarah waited for lightning to come down and strike her where she sat. At that moment she’d have welcomed the escape. Lost in her own private guilt and misery, the only thing she could pray for was for this day to end.
“It’s time to go.” Milos Switzer stood beside her chair, and she realized Nicholas’s right-hand man had been silently waiting there for some time. The others had dispersed, and she sat alone on the grassy slope beneath the awning.
He pushed her chair over the uneven ground to where the carriage waited on the road, then lifted her in and assisted Mrs. Trent, who carried William. Once the women were situated, Milos seated himself at Sarah’s side, and the carriage pulled away.
“Stephen had so many friends,” Leda said, her voice hoarse with tears. “Just look at how many came.”
Nicholas rubbed his mother’s hand.
“He’s resting in a lovely spot, isn’t he, Claire darling?” she asked. “At his father’s left.”
Sarah was sure more blood drained from her face, if that were possible. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips to keep from sobbing aloud. Once Leda knew the truth she would hate Sarah for keeping Claire and her real grandson from their rightful resting place with Stephen.
William chose that moment to let out a wail. Mrs. Trent jostled him, and finally Leda took him and gave him her finger to suckle until they arrived home.
Claire sat with the handkerchief pressed to her lips. Observing, Nicholas wondered if she was ill.
“I’ll assist Mrs. Halliday,” he said to Milos once the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Help Mother, please.”
Milos tossed him an odd look, but said only, “My pleasure.”
Nicholas reached for Claire and she flinched, but composed herself. He lifted her against his chest and backed from the carriage.
In his arms, he discovered her trembling as fearsomely as his mother had. “Are you ill?”
“No,”