Illusion. Emily French
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locked the center drawer of the walnut writing desk and dropped the key into her capacious apron pocket. The closer the hour of Seth’s return, the more apprehensive she was becoming.
She was not quite certain what she had expected from this marriage, but she knew she was feeling a decided sensation of pique and neglect. Whoever heard of a husband going off the very day of the marriage?
“What’s the matter?” Despite her rigid back, Ella’s teacup rattled in its saucer, belying her calm. “Are you regretting your reckless decision to marry in haste, my dear?”
Sophy laughed lightly. “No, of course not! I simply want to have all my personal bits and pieces unpacked before Seth returns.”
By keeping herself frantically busy, she was able to keep her uneasiness, her doubts, at bay. But despite her attempts, one question throbbed in her brain. Had she made a dreadful mistake? After all, she hadn’t made a very good start. She knew so little about the man. Still, it was said that all things in life balance themselves out. She hoped so.
Timidly, Ella expressed her own reservations, “Perhaps it would have been better if you had considered the consequences of marriage, Sophy. A woman is only a secondary consideration to a man beside his work, or where his interests are concerned.”
“It’s too late to fret, Aunt Ella. We must deal with reality. The deed is done. Until death us do part. ”
Sophy dismissed her aunt’s qualms with a facetious shrug, and picked up her cup. Her nose crinkled at the dark, syrupy brew. Sometimes, Aunt Ella’s concoctions tasted quite poisonous. There was a brief silence between the two women as Ella drank her tea and Sophy contemplated how she was going to greet Seth.
Would it be permissible to kiss him? In her fertile imagination, she could see Seth holding her gently, stroking her hair, murmuring soft endearments. Beyond this point, there was no form or substance, only an ill-defined longing which made her weak. Mostly because she was a bit vague about the next bit. She had only a dim knowledge of sexual matters, and was not at all sure what “doing your duty” entailed.
Unable to sit still, Sophy wandered over to the one set of bookshelves that had not been denuded. Idly she plucked a thick, red, Moroccan leather-bound volume off the bottom shelf.
A small package fell from between the pages, to land with a thud on the carpet. She instantly picked up the packet, and warily turned it over in her hands.
Ella sat her saucer on the table in front of her. The cup rattled again, and her back straightened even more. “What is it, dear?”
Sophy carefully undid the knotted red tape and unrolled the folio. Pressing it flat against the desk, she stood studying it for a long moment. Eventually she looked at her aunt, dark brows raised in curious question.
“Did you know Father owned property in Greene Street, Aunt?”
To her surprise, Ella blushed and looked away quickly, as if she was anxious not to let Sophy see her expression. It was almost as if she knew something.
“Nicholas never discussed business with me.”
Sophy frowned over the faded ink record of ownership. It was hard to believe that her father kept secrets from her, or that Ella might have been privy to that information. So it was with deliberation that she faced her aunt.
“I remember he often mentioned appointments he had in Greene Street. Once when I wanted him to put a proposal to John Rockefeller regarding an investment in the Cleveland oil refinery, Father said it was ‘a convenience and a delight’ to transact business there. Do you know what he could have meant?”
Just as deliberately, Sophy studied the older woman’s reaction. Ella’s expression was closed and she looked uncomfortable, even as she shook her head.
Relentlessly, Sophy continued, “This seems most mysterious. I think I will visit Greene Street. Don’t you think that will be amusing?”
“No,” Ella replied with the gloom of one who knew that, like Pandora, Sophy might do best not to pry.
The night was almost silent, except for the tick of the tall clock set in the angle of the stairs, and the muffled hiss of the gas fire, which burned softly in the grate. Sophy came awake suddenly. Something had disturbed her.
Was there a noise? The question remained unanswered. She wasn’t sure whether it was a sound, or whether it was the beating of her own heart.
In any case, she was awake. Better to investigate than to lie in bed worrying. Her mouth a little dry, her heart beating a little faster than usual, Sophy searched for a weapon. Picking up a silver candlestick, she crept down the stairs and along the corridor, toward the soft, muted sounds she now identified as coming from the kitchen.
She heard her own footsteps echo on the marble hallway. They seemed to echo very loudly. At the kitchen door, Sophy paused, straining to pick out any movement. A slender, uncertain little figure, she stared wide-eyed into the gloom. Relief flowed through her as she recognized the tall figure and gleaming head of her husband.
A wide smile lit her face. She was too delighted to do anything but exclaim breathlessly, “Seth! I didn’t know you were back!”
In the dim light, Seth’s elegant broadcloth suit glimmered richly like polished obsidian, and his crisp white linen shirt created an illusory pedestal on which rested the chiseled form of his handsome head.
“Didn’t you?” A trace of amusement flitted over his face at the obvious pleasure she did not know she had betrayed. “You must have missed me, to greet me so enthusiastically,” he added softly, indicating the silver weapon still clutched in Sophy’s hand.
Self-consciously, Sophy thrust the candlestick onto one of the kitchen benches. “I thought it was a nocturnal intruder.” The words came out in an unsteady rush.
“You look...mussed. Did I waken you?” As he moved toward her, his halting stride unhurried, his face was shadowed.
Sophy cared little for his words, only his presence. She smoothed her hair, feeling such a flood of warmth and pleasure that she felt weak. “It doesn’t matter. Welcome back.” Her voice was shy as she gave him her hand.
Seth’s jaw muscles went tight. In dishabille, her feet bare and with her hair flowing like a length of ebony silk about her shoulders, his wife looked very young and very fragile. Like a drop of morning dew waiting for the sun. The illusion of sweet, trembling innocence was heightened by her demure, white cotton negligee, trimmed with broderie anglaise.
Mildly irritated, he realized something about his pixiefaced wife had gotten to him. The determined lift of her chin, the mouth wide and ready to smile, the sweet clarity of her eyes drew him.
Curse her. Curse her. Curse her. She had already stripped him of his pride, his self-respect. Never in his life had he envisaged marrying a woman for her money, or having a wife who was richer than himself.
He had to be strong, or he was in danger of losing his honor, as well. The answer was simple. He must overcome this weakness induced by a pair of guileless dawn gray eyes and three years’ abstinence. Resist the temptation to press himself against her, beg her to let him make love to her.
He took a slow, steadying breath. Hell, where had that idea come from? It put him off-balance. He smiled in selfderision, taking her hand to his lips in a practiced, masculine gesture.
“It is nice to be back, Mrs. Weston.” His voice was low and thick.
Sophy’s brain was awhirl with delicious confusion. She had forgotten the sound of his voice, the low but distinct quality that seemed to intimate much more than the simple words he spoke.
It shook her to her core. She trembled involuntarily, and she could not think why. “I daresay you are tired after the rail journey from Chicago,” she heard herself say, still somewhat unsure of herself.
He let go of her hand and bowed slightly, as if he were a mechanical doll. “I am, a trifle.”
His