“You mean…he abused her?”
Again Cyrus hesitated. He knew Julia would be appalled if the hell of her marriage became a topic for speculation in the neighborhood. But he also knew too well the social set to which they belonged. Some part of the story would have to be known if Julia was to escape censure for a second marriage hard on the heels of her husband’s funeral.
“Cy?”
Obeying one of the impulses that seemed to determine so many of his actions these days, Cyrus said, “He was brutal. In ways I hope you can’t even imagine. If she weren’t an incredibly strong woman, she’d have gone mad herself. As it is, she’s scarred both in body and mind, and terribly vulnerable right now.”
Noel’s expression was unusually still as he looked at his friend, and his voice was very quiet. “I see.”
“I could take her away somewhere,” Cyrus said broodingly. “Start fresh in another city, where no one has to know she was married before. But her life’s already been disrupted so much. She needs a sense of security, and I believe I can give her that here. In time. But if the people she knows in Richmond treat her badly—”
“You’re right in thinking that if the truth were known, there wouldn’t be many who’d condemn her for marrying again right away. The question is, how do you let the truth out without making Julia feel worse than she does about it.”
Another impulse prompted Cyrus to say, “Noel, would you ask Felice to call on Julia in a day or so?”
“Of course,” Noel replied slowly, his eyes very intent on Cyrus. “But what’s on your mind? And why Felice?”
“I’m not quite sure what’s on my mind.” He thought about it for a moment. “I believe Julia needs to know all marriages aren’t like hers was, and she’ll be sure of that only if another woman tells her. She needs to talk to another woman, someone she can feel comfortable confiding in. Felice would be perfect. She has a happy marriage, she wouldn’t condemn Julia, and her support would go a long way in influencing the other women in the neighborhood to accept Julia’s remarriage without censure.”
Noel looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Cy, you are uncanny.”
“What are you talking about?”
Leaning back in his chair, Noel shook his head slightly. “You knew Felice was a widow when I married her?”
“Yes. I remember when she moved to Richmond ten years ago. What’s your point?”
Softly, Noel said, “Her first husband…she’ll carry the scars he gave her to her grave.”
Cyrus felt a shock. “I had no idea,” he murmured.
“I think you did. Somewhere inside, I think you knew Felice would be the ideal woman to talk to Julia, even though I’ve never told you what she suffered.”
Cyrus didn’t say anything immediately, just looked at Noel steadily. “I don’t know. Perhaps,” he said finally. Then he shrugged. “My peculiar whims and notions don’t interest me at the moment. I’m worried about Julia. Will it upset Felice too much to talk to her?”
Noel got to his feet. “No, I don’t think so. And she’ll want to help, you know that.” He studied his friend for a moment, then obeyed an impulse of his own to say, “Something else is worrying you, though. What is it?”
He hadn’t meant to say anything, but Cyrus had a feeling he might need help in finding the answers he needed and there was no one he trusted more than Noel. “Drummond returned home hours before he should have. Lissa said he was already raving when he came in the door, that he knew Julia was leaving him—and coming to me. There was no way he could have known—unless someone told him. And I have no idea who it was.”
—
Julia rested her head on the lip of the tub, feeling the warm water ease her tension. Warm water, Mrs. Stork had said in her motherly way, because she’d feel chilled later if she didn’t now; shock did that to people.
Cyrus’s housekeeper had been wonderful, helping Julia get Lissa into bed and even persuading the shivering girl to drink enough hot soup to “warm her from the inside.” Julia had intended to remain by Lissa’s bed, but once her sister had fallen asleep, Mrs. Stork had returned with a smiling young housemaid and had urged Julia to take care of herself now, because Sarah would stay by the bed in case Miss Lissa needed anything.
Julia had protested. It was late, there was no need for Sarah to be kept from her own bed. But Sarah had spoken up shyly to say she’d be pleased to stay, and Mrs. Stork had said there was a bath ready for Julia and a tray would be sent up later. Not accustomed to being watched over by anyone—Adrian’s servants were efficient but remote—Julia had allowed herself to be persuaded.
She hadn’t had the time to feel a sense of strangeness in being in this house, and matter-of-fact acceptance of the servants turned what should have been an awkward situation into a relatively normal one. From the moment Cyrus had brought them there, she and Lissa had been treated as if they belonged. Not by a single word or glance had anyone betrayed surprise, curiosity, or censure.
Julia didn’t know what Cyrus had said to Mrs. Stork, but he must have told her something, because the waiting bath was in the master suite. After everything that had happened that day, Julia had felt nothing more than a twinge of embarrassment when she realized she’d been taken to his rooms. She had been provided with a nightgown—heaven knew where it had come from—and Mrs. Stork had asked her to leave her things out in the dressing room so they could be cleaned for the next day.
It had hit Julia only then. Everything in the world she could have called her own was nothing but a pile of ashes now. She tried to feel something about that, but was aware of nothing except weariness.
Now, lying in the warm, softly scented bathwater, she tried again to feel something. Not grief, no, but some emotion. A sense of relief, of freedom. Worry about the future. She was a widow now. Today she had seen her husband violently killed, had seen his mangled body lying in the street. She had seen the house she had lived in for two years blazing. She had taken a lover.
A soft knock at the closed door of the bathroom made her turn her head and regard the barrier a little blankly, then she heard Cyrus’s voice.
“Julia? May I come in?”
She was vaguely surprised he’d asked. That he had knocked. Intimacy with a man meant a loss of privacy, didn’t it? “Of course,” she responded. What else could she say? This was his house.
He came in and knelt on the mat by the tub, his black eyes searching her face intently. As if he had to touch her, his hand rose to gently stroke her cheek. “How do you feel, my sweet?”
“I don’t feel anything.” She forced herself to think. “The servants? The house?” She meant Adrian’s, of course, and Cyrus understood.
“The servants are fine, they got out in time. They’ve been given rooms here until we can get everything sorted out. I’m afraid the house was gutted.” His voice was quiet.
“I wonder why he burned it,” she murmured almost to herself. “The house was his pride.”
Cyrus was on the point of saying a madman could hardly be rational about anything, but something stopped him. Julia knew Drummond’s sickness better than anyone, and if she found the arson surprising…Cyrus had a feeling that was important, but he didn’t know why. And he didn’t want to probe the matter now with Julia. She was too controlled, too withdrawn; he didn’t like her pallor or the darkened stillness of her eyes.
“Did you talk to the police?” she asked idly in the same soft, remote voice.
“Yes.” He had dealt with all the official questions and had talked to the firemen at the Drummond house, preferring to spare Julia as much as possible. He was afraid, however, that the worst was yet to come. The mayor of Richmond had apparently gone berserk, setting his house afire and then rushing into the streets with a gun, shouting obscenities until an ice wagon had run him down; the newspapers were going to have a field day.
Cyrus leaned over and kissed her briefly, wishing he could protect her from the curious world outside this house. “Mrs. Stork sen
t up a tray for us,” he said. “You need to eat something, love.”
Julia wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t argue with him. “All right.”
He smiled. “Want me to wash your back for you?”
“No.” She knew the answer was too quick, too sharp, and her eyes slid away from him nervously. “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “Today at the house you were careful not to turn your back to me until your blouse was on. You don’t want me to see, do you?”
She had to meet his gaze again, drawn by the understanding in his incredible voice. “It’s ugly,” she whispered.
Cyrus made a soft sound, as if he were in pain, and said, “Sweetheart, nothing about you could ever be ugly to me. I have to see, you know that.”
“Not now.” She knew her eyes were pleading. “I can’t—please, not now.”
“All right.” He stroked her cheek for a moment, then rose to his feet. “I’ll wait for you in the bedroom.”
Julia nodded, and remained in the tub for a few moments after he’d gone out and shut the door behind him. What she wanted more than anything was to close her eyes and sleep, to forget for a few hours.
She got out of the tub finally, pulling the plug to let the water drain, and dried her body with one of the warmed towels provided for her. The nightgown she pulled over her head was fashioned of cambric and trimmed in pale satin ribbons, a lovely, expensive garment. It didn’t belong to one of the maids, she knew. The nightgown provided for Lissa had also been a fine one, and Julia couldn’t help wondering…
She pushed the speculation out of her mind, too tired to try to decide if the nightgown and the acceptance of the servants was merely due to past experience of women staying here. There was a hairbrush and comb near the basin; Mrs. Stork had said they were for her use. Julia took her hair down and brushed it, but didn’t attempt to braid it for the night.
She went out into the bedroom, finding that a small, linen-covered table had been set near the window with a light meal. She still wasn’t hungry, but when Cyrus came to take her hand and lead her to the table she didn’t protest. He had taken off his coat, tie, and vest and seemed relaxed, but she knew he was watching her closely. She wondered vaguely if he expected hysterics, and almost wished she could have them; she thought anything would be better than the numb lack of feeling that encased her.
He talked to her while they both ate, though afterward Julia was never able to remember what he said. All she recalled was the inexpressibly soothing sound of his voice, the peculiar magic of it seeming to surround her with a sense of peace and contentment. She ate to please him, tasting nothing.
When they were finished, he piled the dishes on the tray and set it outside in the hall. When he returned to her, he lifted her up from her chair, cradling her body easily in his powerful arms, and carried her to the big bed. He settled her there, drawing the covers up over her because the room was cool, then sat beside her on the bed and looked down at her gravely.
“I want very much to stay with you tonight, love,” he said in a gentle tone. “Hold you. May I?”
Julia was surprised, first, that he asked. This was his house, his room, his bed, and he had every right to be there, after all. Then she became aware of a crack in her numb cocoon as warm gratitude rushed in. Whether he was sensitive to the moral awkwardness of her presence in his bed on her first night of widowhood or was merely concerned about her state of mind, at least he was kind enough to ask her preferences.
Without thought she reached out a hand to him. “Please.”
He carried her hand briefly to his lips, then rose and began undressing.
She lay still and watched him. Some part of her mind considered the idea that this should have seemed wrong. Every proper feeling should have been outraged, she thought. Women didn’t sleep in the arms of their lovers on the very night they were widowed, it just wasn’t done. It wasn’t decent. She would be expected to mourn Adrian for at least a year; everyone she knew would be extremely disapproving if she didn’t. And they’d be utterly shocked she was even in Cyrus’s house—no less his bed.
Her upbringing insisted she conform to certain standards of behavior and obey society’s rules.
But being with Cyrus, even tonight, didn’t seem wrong. Every instinct told her she belonged with him. If she’d been offered another choice, she wouldn’t have wanted to exercise it. How could such a strong certainty be wrong? How could she pretend to mourn a husband who had treated her as Adrian had, or feel any need to show respect for his memory? How could she bring herself even to simulate grief for the end of a marriage that had been nothing but hell?
Julia knew she couldn’t do it. She thought fleetingly of the probable consequences, but when Cyrus slipped into bed beside her she dismissed them from her mind. He was naked, which somehow didn’t surprise her; she couldn’t imagine him in a nightshirt, and felt her lips twitch of their own volition at the very idea.
He gathered her into his arms, and her body instinctively molded itself pliantly to the hardness of his. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, one of her hands rested on his broad chest, and she felt mildly surprised she could be so comfortable. He had left the bedside lamp burning, and she blinked with the same detached surprise as she watched her fingers toying with his silky black chest hair.
“I love you, sweetheart,” Cyrus murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
She didn’t respond, except to sigh softly and relax completely in his arms. It had been a long time since she’d been able to give herself up totally to sleep; Adrian had found more than one rude or violent way of waking her, and she’d never been able to feel safe enough to sleep peacefully. But tonight she did. She slept so deeply and dreamlessly, she never moved all night.
—
It was nearly noon the next day when Julia woke, alone in the big bed. She lay drowsily for a while, dimly puzzled, then sat up slowly as she realized where she was. In Cyrus’s house. In Cyrus’s bed. The clothing she’d removed last night lay neatly over a chair near the bed, obviously clean and pressed. Only the soft ticking of a clock on the wall disturbed the silence.
Julia looked at the clock for a moment, then threw back the covers and slid from the bed. As she got dressed and put her hair up, she gradually became aware she wasn’t numb anymore. The feelings were somewhat distant, hazy almost, but they were there. A lingering shock over the violent suddenness of Adrian’s death; a sense of loss for her belongings gone in the fire; worry about Lissa; and worry about the future.
Choosing to deal with one matter at a time, she focused her attention on her sister. It wasn’t until she left the bedroom that she realized she didn’t know her way around the big house, but Lissa’s voice made the matter academic.
“Oh, good, you’re up. Cyrus said you were, but I couldn’t figure out how he knew since he’s just come back.” Lissa was a little pale as she came down the hall toward her sister, and the left side of her face was faintly discolored from the bruise Adrian had given her, but she was smiling.
“Are you all right?” Julia asked.
Lissa nodded reassuringly. “I’m fine. I still shake when I remember—but I try not to think about it. You? Cyrus said you slept well.”
Julia’s first impulse was to rebuke Lissa for so casually using Cyrus’s given name, but even as the thought occurred she chided herself wryly. We’re in his house, and I slept in his bed! It’s a little late to worry about propriety. Still, she glanced at her sister a bit uncomfortably as they began walking toward the stairs together. “I’m…much better. Lissa, I know what you must think about—about—”
“About you and Cyrus?” Lissa’s smile widened as she linked her arm with her sister’s. “I think it’s wonderful.”
Uncertain if she should feel amused or appalled by Lissa’s acceptance of the situation, Julia said, “For heaven’s sake, you weren’t raised to think anything of the kind. I hope you know how improper the entire s
ituation is.”
“Why, because people will say so?” Lissa’s voice was calm. “Julia, people said you had a perfect marriage, and they were certainly wrong about that. Besides, you’re going to marry Cyrus so it’s not as if you’re living in sin.”
Julia stopped at the head of the curving staircase, staring at her sister. “Did he tell you that?”
“Well, he said he’d asked you, and he meant to persuade you. I don’t know why on earth you’d say no.”
Somewhat weakly, Julia said, “I’ve been widowed less than twenty-four hours.” To her own shock, it was the best reason she could think of.
Lissa smiled a little, but her eyes were grave. “Julia, I saw what Adrian was yesterday. I saw it. I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through these last two years, but I can guess the idea of another marriage—especially so soon—scares you to death.”
Julia knew that was true; tangled with her painful awareness of the scandalous situation was a frightened reluctance even to think about binding herself legally to another man. Haltingly, she said, “Cyrus has been very kind. And I know I should be grateful he wants to marry me, but—”
“Grateful?” Lissa looked bewildered. “You talk as if he’s being noble in asking you! Why? Because you’ve—what’s that prim phrase I heard old Mrs. Hunt use?—oh, yes, just because you’ve anticipated the wedding night? Or is it because you were leaving Adrian anyway? Julia, for heaven’s sake, Cyrus loves you, don’t you know that?”
“You don’t understand,” Julia mumbled, too dismayed by Lissa’s extremely frank comments to pay much attention to the last confident statement. She wasn’t much surprised at Lissa’s muted cheerfulness. Her sister had always been able to adjust quickly to even the most disturbing changes in her life. But this complete acceptance of Cyrus, and Lissa’s cool disregard of all the proprieties, was definitely upsetting.
Oddly, Lissa laughed, and took her sister’s arm again as they started down the stairs. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand, Julia. But Cyrus should be able to make things clear to you. I like him so much.”