The Sea Before Us Page 23

  He started to back away, but she slid her hands behind his neck and leaned against his chest, the memory of his song feeding the impulse. “Wyatt?” Her voice feathered into the air between them. “I—I know. I know what bésame mucho means.”

  The smoke drifted away, and his lips parted, and she lifted onto her toes and kissed that wonderful mouth.

  A rumble sounded in his throat, and his lips stiffened beneath hers, as if he didn’t want her kiss, didn’t want to start what he couldn’t finish.

  But then the rumble deepened, and he gathered her close and kissed her back, as wild as that West of his, as true as his words, yet as gentle as his every action. Cherishing her. Loving her.

  She tried to be genuine, to show her full heart, show him how much she loved him and cared for him.

  All too soon, he pulled back, his lips as loose and swollen as hers felt, his pupils wide and dark. “It’s over, then? With Eaton?”

  Dorothy sucked in a breath. Over? Yes, it was, wasn’t it? But nothing had been said between them. She’d thrown him out without throwing him over.

  Oh dear. She was hesitating too long.

  Wyatt pushed away from her, several painful feet away on the sunken cobblestone path, and the smoke in his eyes turned to fire. “I don’t want crumbs.”

  “Crumbs?” She smoothed her jacket. How could she explain herself?

  “You might be happy with crumbs, but not me.”

  His face—she’d never seen him angry before, and she didn’t like it at all. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Eaton—he throws you a crumb.” He flung his hand to the side, like Papa feeding the ducks. “He throws First Officer Fussbudget a crumb. He throws What’s-Her-Face in supply a crumb. And y’all don’t mind. Y’all keep coming back for those crumbs.”

  Dorothy’s chin inched up at the unflatteringly accurate description. “I hardly—”

  “I don’t want crumbs.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “The whole loaf or nothing at all.”

  She’d never seen him speak with such passion, such strength, such confidence, and she wavered between admiration and fury. “I—I’m not a loaf of bread.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not a duck.”

  In the distance a woman laughed.

  With that laugh, Wyatt and everything else faded away into nothingness, and she searched for that laugh, the sound as ancient to her memory as the stones around her.

  Dorothy wandered toward that sound, unbelieving, unseeing.

  “Hey, now.” Wyatt’s voice filtered through the haze. “All right, I shouldn’t have said that about you. Don’t run off. Come on.”

  Dorothy shook her head, shook her hearing from the voice behind her to the voice before her, the lilting laugh she’d tried so hard to remember the past three and a half years, a sound she thought she’d never hear again. “Mum?”

  “What?” Wyatt said.

  “It can’t be. My mother?” She scanned the few visitors in the courtyard and picked up her pace. The voice—where was it?

  “What are you talking about? Your mother? I thought she was—”

  “Dead. She’s dead.” But that laugh tinkled with life, and down by the Argyle Tower, a woman walked arm in arm with a man. She had a familiar sway to her gait and a familiar way of gesturing with her free hand.

  “Mum?” She broke into a run.

  “Dorothy! Wait up!”

  Her foot twisted on a cobblestone, her weak ankle gave way, and she went down hard.

  “Dorothy!” Wyatt squatted beside her and grasped her shoulder. “You all right?”

  She shook her head, pain throbbing in the ankle she’d sprained searching for her mother’s body in the charred ruins. “Her body—it wasn’t there. It was here.”

  Wyatt rubbed her shoulder. “Say, why don’t we get you back to your hotel?”

  “No! Don’t stop me. Don’t hold me back.” She struggled to her feet. Pain shot through her ankle and her heart, and she stifled a cry. “I have to find her.”

  Unable to run, she limped as fast as she could, under the Argyle Tower, down the curving path, searching for the laughing woman.

  “All right, then.” Wyatt strode beside her. “I won’t stop you, but I won’t leave you either.”

  She nodded to keep him quiet so she could hear. Through the portcullis and onto the Esplanade.

  There she was, halfway across, and Dorothy gritted her teeth against the pain as she pounded over the broad expanse. The woman’s hat and coat weren’t familiar, but all Mum’s clothes were in London—or they had been until Papa donated them to Blitz victims, too soon for Dorothy’s taste.

  “Are you sure it’s your mom?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s hair was blonde, not Mum’s warm auburn, but the way she moved and the fragments of speech left no doubt.

  At the end of the Esplanade, the couple turned right, down the stairs that edged the last set of buildings.

  Dorothy followed down the steps, closing the gap despite the pain, driven by the pain. With each step, the woman looked more and more like Margaret Fairfax.

  At the bottom of the steps, the couple turned left onto the street, and Dorothy saw the woman’s profile, clear as the image in her memory. “Mum!”

  The woman paused on a doorstep as the man pulled a key from his pocket.

  Dorothy hobble-ran. “Mum! Mum!”

  The woman turned. Her mouth fell open, and she braced herself against the door. “Dolly?”

  Dorothy gripped the handrail, but the world spun around her, fracturing into pieces. Her mother. Alive and well.

  “Dolly, what are you doing here?” Her voice snapped, and her gaze darted around.

  “Me?” She stared at the face she thought had left her forever. “What are you doing here? You’re—dead.”

  “Let’s take this conversation inside.” The man opened the door.

  “Yes, let’s.” Mum followed.

  But Dorothy couldn’t move.

  “Come on, Dorothy.” A hand grasped her elbow—Wyatt. He was still there.

  Somehow she mounted the stairs.

  Mum hung up her coat and hat. “Shall I make a pot of tea?”

  “Tea? I don’t want tea. I want answers.”

  “You mustn’t raise your voice.” Her words trembled, but she strolled into the drawing room and sat on the settee. “Please have a seat.”

  Dorothy stood there. Her mother’s bleached hair had a harsh and aging effect.

  Mum smiled, but it twitched. “You look well. Have you lost weight?”

  “What happened?”

  “This is rather unpleasant, isn’t it? I never thought you’d find me.” She looked at the man on the settee beside her.

  For the first time, Dorothy did too, and she gasped. “Mr. MacLeod?”

  He gave her a stiff, polite smile. “Good evening, Dolly.”

  “Dorothy.” She sank into a chair. “What happened? I deserve to know.”

  Mum smoothed the skirt of her dress, her mouth squirming between smiling and pursing. “You know how dreadfully unhappy I was. Your father is such a bore, and I made a terrible mistake marrying him. Terrible. I need an exciting man.”

  The words slammed into Dorothy’s chest. An exciting man? Like Mr. MacLeod—as handsome as ever, and certainly as charming and entertaining. “What happened?” her voice ground out.

  “Well, Art’s death upset me horribly, and then that dreadful Blitz. I wanted out, but your father refused to give me a divorce. Refused. I needed to get away from London and the bombs and your father.”

  “And me.”

  Mum shifted in her seat. “Really, Dolly. You mustn’t be so dramatic. You of all people should know why I needed to escape.”

  “What happened?”

  She twisted her hands in her lap. “That day I was on my way to have tea with Mrs. Rayburn when the siren sounded. I didn’t care whether I lived or died. So I didn’t shelter, hoping a bomb would end my misery. When I arrived
at the Rayburns, the house was an inferno. And I knew—I had my chance. So I dodged the wardens and ran to the front door. Then I tossed my handbag and hat inside, where I would have left them if I’d come calling. I caught the first train here, and I’ve never been so happy.” She beamed at Mr. MacLeod.

  He gave her that same stiff smile.

  Something mean tweaked inside Dorothy. “I’m sorry to hear Mrs. MacLeod passed away.”

  Two sets of startled eyes turned her way, then Mr. MacLeod gave her a nod as if appreciating her cleverness. “Mrs. MacLeod is very well, thank you.”

  “Please give her my regards.” Then she addressed the woman who’d borne her. “How very strange it must be for everyone in town to see Margaret Fairfax without her husband.”

  Mum pulled at a strand of her bleached hair, her feeble disguise. “I—I don’t go out much. And I go by my maiden name, Margaret Wright. It’s best. I’m legally dead, and Reginald mustn’t know I’m alive. Dolly, you simply mustn’t tell him. I can’t go back to him. I can’t. Please promise me.” Her voice climbed almost to a wail.

  “Wright with a W,” Wyatt said, standing beside her chair.

  “Yes, of course.” Mum blinked at him as if he weren’t too bright.

  But he was. He was exceedingly bright.

  And in that brightness Dorothy saw. She saw the house, the familiar house.

  Mr. MacLeod had stolen Papa’s money and his wife.

  And Mum had betrayed Papa twofold.

  34

  Wyatt clenched the back of Dorothy’s chair, anything to avoid making a fist. Never in his life had he wanted to punch a woman, but Margaret Wright-with-a-W Fairfax kept talking, trying to justify the unjustifiable.

  Adultery. Betrayal. Theft. Fraud. Lies.

  Her sins were no worse than Wyatt’s, but he’d fessed up and tried to make things right. These two saw nothing wrong in their actions.

  Had Dorothy put it together yet? He’d better get her out before she did, while she was still dazed by the sight of her dead mother. “Dorothy, I think we should leave now.”

  “Why, yes. I agree. I don’t quite care for the company.” She stood, calm and composed, but how long would that last?

  “Please, Dolly.” Her mother sprang to her feet. “Try to be happy for me. Try to understand.”

  “Understand? I understand you perfectly.” Scorn curled her voice. “I’d like to leave now, Lieutenant.”

  “Sounds wise.” He opened the door. The sun had set and cold air swirled from outside, but it felt better than the air inside.

  “Dolly, please. I beg you, don’t tell your father.”

  Dorothy stopped by the door, her back to Wyatt. “Tell him the wife he’s grieving is gallivanting around with her married lover—his former best friend? Oh no. I love him too much to do that.”

  Her mother whimpered and covered her mouth. “You mustn’t speak that way.”

  “Let’s go.” Wyatt set his hand on Dorothy’s waist and guided her down the steps.

  “Dolly! Dolly, please?”

  A cab! Thank goodness. He hailed it, never releasing his grip on Dorothy’s stiff waist, and then helped her inside. “Where’s your hotel, darlin’?” Wyatt asked.

  She clutched her purse on her lap. “The—the—the North British.”

  “The North British,” he repeated to the driver.

  “Aye, sir.” The cabby pulled away from the curb and drove into the twilight.

  Dorothy sagged against the taxi door, her bun loose and disheveled.

  Wyatt set his hand on her shoulder, ready to fold her in his arms.

  She shrugged him off and hunkered down in her seat. “How could she? How could she?”

  “I don’t know.” Nowadays, he had a lot more understanding about why people sinned, but some things still baffled him.

  “I wish she were dead.” Her shoulders curved forward. “I don’t care if it’s awful to say. It’s true. I was happier when I thought she was dead.”

  “I understand.”

  “Papa.” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, poor Papa.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Tell him?” She raised stricken eyes. “I couldn’t. Grief destroys him—you’ve seen it. Can you imagine what would happen if he knew she’d betrayed him? That she—that she hated us so much she faked her own death to get away from us?”

  His chest collapsed. “Dorothy . . .”

  “It’s true. She loves excitement more than . . .” She moaned and pulled her feet up onto the seat. Shoulders shaking, she curled into a ball.

  Wyatt gripped his hands between his knees so he wouldn’t embrace her. Lord, comfort her. I can’t.

  “I—I’m just like her,” she mumbled into her knees. “Chasing—chasing after—oh, I’m just like her.”

  How could she think that? Margaret Fairfax showed nothing but contempt for her family, while Dorothy Fairfax showed nothing but concern, caring for her father even when he ignored her. “You are nothing like that woman.”

  “I am. I’ve always been like her. Everyone says it. Always. That’s why Papa—that’s why he can’t stand the sight of me. Because I look like her, act like her, am like her. She was awful to Papa. Awful.”

  “See? You’re nothing like her.”

  “But I am.” She turned her head on her knee, devastation warping her pretty features. “And you—oh no. You’re just like him.”

  “Him?”

  “Papa. Oh no. You are.” She sat up straighter, her legs still tucked up. “You’re like he used to be. You never knew—he was sweet and kind and happy.”

  “Dorothy—”

  “Don’t you see?” She clutched her fists to her chest, her eyes wild. “My parents—they were happy once. They must have been. But he was too quiet and predictable for her. So she carped at him and complained, and he could never make her happy. And she ruined him. Even before the war, he’d become aloof and cold. He was a dear man, and she ruined him.”

  How could this bighearted woman think herself capable of such pettiness? “You’d never do that. You’re nothing like—”

  “I am.” She slapped her hand on the seat between them. “Don’t you see? We’d be awful together. Not now, but someday. I can’t let myself do that to you. I won’t let myself ruin you. I—I care about you too much.” Her voice cracked.

  His entire chest ached for her. “Darlin’, that’d never happen to us. You’re better than that, and I’m stronger than that. And we’re good for each other. We’re right for each other.” He gathered her hand in his.

  “No!” She snatched her hand away. “Stop it. For your sake, I beg you. Leave me alone.”

  Wyatt’s hand hovered midair. Again.

  “Stop it! Leave me alone.” Oralee had said those words to him as she pulled her hand away. Her last words ever.

  “Leave me alone,” Dorothy muttered, curled up in a ball. “Please, leave me alone.”

  Wyatt stared at his hand—empty and useless—and returned it to his lap.

  He couldn’t protect someone who didn’t want to be protected.

  35

  Kensington

  Sunday, May 21, 1944

  Dorothy hesitated on her front stoop, thoroughly wrung out inside.

  But she had to come. Papa needed to know about the embezzler. She’d take Mum’s secret to the grave, but she wouldn’t let Mum and Mr. MacLeod destroy the company and the man who built it. They’d already hurt him enough.

  Lord, please help me.

  The doorknob was cold and hard in her grip. The Lord had known Mum was alive, known she was Mr. MacLeod’s kept woman, known about the theft. And he’d done nothing. On the other hand, Lord, stay out of this. I’m better off on my own.

  She opened the door. “Papa? Papa?”

  In a moment, the study door opened, and he peeked out. “Dorothy? You said you weren’t coming home this weekend. And it’s Sunday.” He glanced at his watch. “Why, it’s six o’clock. Shouldn’t you be on
your way to Portsmouth?”

  Dorothy set down her valise, then laid her handbag on the table, same as she always did. Same as Mum did at Mrs. Rayburn’s house. Her empty stomach twisted. “I—I had to come here first.”

  Charlie skittered down the steps, tiny tail wagging. Mum had bought a Scottish terrier to remind her of her beloved Scotland. Or of her Scottish lover? Dorothy felt ill.

  Papa descended the stairs. “Where did you go? You—you don’t look well.”

  She wasn’t, but it wasn’t poor Charlie’s fault, so she scooped him into her arms. “I went to Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh?” He stopped halfway down, his voice as thin as his waist. “Why would you . . . ?”

  Dorothy opened her mouth, but all the dreadful words tangled in her mouth and tripped each other.

  He grabbed the banister like an elderly man with a cane. “You saw her.”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. “What?”

  “Did you—see her?” His gaze dug in, forceful but fearful.

  Everything spun inside, everything she knew falling apart, same as last night when she’d heard Mum’s voice. “You—you know?”

  Papa collapsed to sitting on the stairs, his hand still gripping the banister. “I knew all along.”

  Her fingers coiled into Charlie’s wiry coat. “But how?”

  “She was never happy.” Papa set his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead in his hands. “She begged for a divorce, over and over, but I didn’t want the scandal. So I refused, even when I found her with . . .”

  Nausea squirmed in her belly. “Mr. MacLeod?”

  Papa peered at her through his splayed fingers. “She’s still at his guesthouse?”

  She nodded. Papa found them together? So that was why the friendship and the visits had ended. “But how did you know? The air raid, the fire . . .”

  His fingers tousled his graying red hair. “The morning after, you and I went to find her. While you searched the rubble, I found her handbag and hat. The authorities believed it to be evidence that she’d perished, but I knew otherwise. There wasn’t a halfpenny inside. You know she stored her best jewelry and the household cash in her handbag, so no one could steal them during an air raid. They were all gone. For her to go across town without them, without even tram fare? Impossible.”