His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) Page 27

  It was a place for the infirm and the dying. His wife was not sick and she was not going to die. She was too afraid of him to do that. Ria was having a baby, for God's sake. Women did it all the time, and they damn well did not have to do it in a hospital.

  He stopped his wife's maid as she stepped out of Ria's room. "How is she doing, Emily?"

  Emily shook her head, her expression bleak. "The baby does not want to come, sir. Miss Ria's strength is nearly sapped." She bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried on her way.

  Michael swore softly and kicked at the dark oak wainscoting once Emily was out of earshot. Just once, he thought angrily, couldn't Ria do something right? He let his mind wander to Katy for a moment. She would be nearing her time; possibly she had already given birth. And she probably had done it with a lot less caterwauling than Ria. Michael vowed that if he heard his wife cry out one more time, he would go in and stuff a rag between her teeth. Did she think she was the only one suffering?

  To hell with what Scott Turner wanted, Michael decided. If he was expected to endure his wife's labor, then he would endure it with bourbon.

  When Dr. Turner found Michael in the study a few hours later, the master of the house was drunk. Scott ordered Duncan to bring a pot of hot coffee and do what he could to sober Michael up.

  "Your wife is sleeping now, Mr. Donovan," Scott said, trying to keep disgust out of his tone. He was less than successful. "When she wakes up, she is going to need you. I suggest you heed Duncan's instructions and do what is necessary to make yourself presentable."

  Michael took a belligerent step forward and did not seem to realize he was wavering. "S'what about the baby?" he asked, thrusting his chin out.

  So he did remember. Scott was beginning to wonder. "A little girl," he said. He added bluntly, "She lived only a few minutes."

  "Damn Ria," Michael muttered under his breath.

  "Pardon?"

  "I said... never mind. It doesn't matter. Dead, you say? That's that, then. Nothing to be done but try again when Ria's well."

  Scott sucked in his breath. His knuckles were white on the handle of his black leather bag. "Your wife should not have been pregnant this time, Donovan. Another pregnancy will kill her."

  "That's what you said before—and you were wrong."

  "Well, I am not wrong now. She is still not out of danger, and her state of mind is fragile. I don't want to learn that you've tormented or upbraided her for what happened. She did what she could to keep her child and—"

  Michael grunted, raising his glass to his lips. "She wanted an abortion when she found out she was pregnant. You call that doing what she could to keep her baby? She's done this to spite me. She and Katy have conspired against me." He tipped back his wrist and drained his glass, vaguely realizing that he had said more than he meant to. "Go ahead, Turner, take your leave. I will take care of my wife without any help from you. Send a bill, but don't bother coming back to see her. It won't be hard to find another doctor who knows a damned sight more about women and babies than you do."

  Scott's jaw clamped together as he bit back half a dozen things he wanted to say to Michael Donovan. He made a slight bow, his striking blue eyes frozen with contempt. "As you wish. Only see that she gets medical treatment first thing in the morning. I cannot stress enough how fragile she is now."

  "Yes, yes," Michael said impatiently, waving Scott away.

  "You would do well to understand that Ria's in mourning."

  "Persistent bastard, aren't you?" The door to the study opened and Duncan walked in, wheeling a teacart. Michael pointed to the doctor and addressed his butler. "Show him out, Duncan."

  "I can find my own way." Scott brushed by the butler. At the door he paused. "Mrs. Donovan named the baby. You may want to know that for when you have the stone cut for her grave. Your daughter's name was Victoria Anne—after your parents."

  * * *

  "That came for you today," Mrs. Brandywine told Logan, taking his coat and hat. She pointed to the slim crate leaning against one wall of the foyer. "I was going to send someone around to the paper to tell you—I thought it might be important—but then I realized you would be home any time. That was six hours ago." She clucked her tongue twice in a disapproving sound that Logan was deaf to after all these years.

  "I had to work late, Mrs. B.," he said, flashing her a quick, apologetic smile.

  She sighed. "You are just like your father, drowning in your work. Come up for air from time to time."

  Logan was investigating the crate. He hunkered down, running his hands along the top of the wooden slats. He whistled softly. "This is from Christian in Paris. Was there a letter to go with it?"

  "Nothing. Only the crate." She hung up Logan's coat and hat. "If you ask me, it's just as well. Sure, and every time we hear from them they are announcing it will be a few more months before they return. Holland is going to be out of short pants the next time I see him."

  He glanced up at the housekeeper, his eyes grave. "I miss them, too." Logan ventured a faint smile. "Come on, Mrs. B., ask Reilly to get a crowbar for me and we'll see what Christian's sent us. From the size of it I suspect it's a painting. What do you think? One of his own or something he wrangled from a private art collector?"

  Twenty minutes later they had wrested Christian's gift from the crate. It was indeed a painting, a portrait to be exact, and Logan knew the subject intimately. He simply stared at it and wondered what he could possibly say that wouldn't lay bare his soul.

  Mrs. Brandywine, however, had no trouble filling the void. "Why, it's that woman—that actress," she declared, a frown creasing her well-lined brow. "Whatever is Christian thinking, painting that woman? And how could he from memory? You don't suppose that she's in Europe, do you?"

  "I believe Miss Dakota has begun a career for herself in Washington," said Logan. "And it is likely that Christian's working from photographs that Jenny took." He pointed to Katy's luminous eyes in the portrait. "See? He has mistaken the color of her eyes. They are not green at all, but brown with splinters of gold. And her hair is a darker shade of honey, more amber than this gold that Christian's mixed."

  "No, I don't see. And how do you know what color her eyes are?" She set her hands on her hips. "Used to be that I knew most everything happening in this house. Now there are more secrets than I've got gray hairs, which is saying something since you and your brother are responsible for most of them."

  Logan let Mrs. Brandywine fume, murmuring occasionally so she thought she was being heard while he studied the portrait. Actually he felt helpless to look away from it. Katy's profile was presented at three angles, as if she were turning toward him. The pose suggested motion and when Logan's gaze drifted, Katy's seemed to follow. Her eyes may have been the wrong color, her hair a shade too light, but Christian had caught the radiance that made Katy's features so striking. Christian had used subtle shadings of light to follow the transition of the actress to her character. She was soft, even vulnerable, in the first pose. There was a shift in the second, a tilt to her head that suggested haughtiness. In the third, the lines of her face were hard, the set of her mouth brittle and bitter, her eyes contemptuous. The study was a tribute to Christian's skill as an artist, Jenny's talent as a photographer, but most of all to Katy's work as an actress.

  Logan stood, lifting the painting by the gilt-edged frame. He held it in front of him for a moment and then hefted it under one arm.

  "What are you going to do with it?" asked the housekeeper.

  "I'm going to hang it in my room until I hear from Christian. I don't know what his plans are for it, but if he wants to sell it I have a buyer already in mind." Although Mrs. Brandywine was silent, Logan suspected she knew he wanted the portrait for himself.

  He set the painting on the mantel of his fireplace and prepared for bed. Occasionally he glanced at the portrait, only to find Katy's eyes watching him no matter where he was in the room. It could have been an unsettling feeling but Logan was used to visions of Katy clouding
his thoughts.

  Long hours at the paper did not help erase Katy from his mind. At odd moments, for no apparent reason, she insinuated herself into his thoughts. He would remember her standing on the ladder in Victor's library, reciting Juliet's lines, or pacing the floor of her aunt's barn, playing at being Kate the shrew. He saw her in her bath trying to be both modest and defiant while being undermined by vanishing bubbles. There were moments when her smile would hit him with the force of a blow, and he would actually have to stop what he was doing to catch his breath. He could hear her laughter, the giggle of young Mary Catherine, and it made him wonder what her adult laughter sounded like. He had never heard her laugh, and he realized that he was a poorer person for it.

  Sometimes the vision that caught him off guard was an erotic one. He would imagine her lying beside him as she had the last time he'd seen her, her long legs flush to his. He could almost feel the milk-white smoothness of her flesh. Her mouth would be touching his shoulder, his chest. She would draw his fingers into her mouth and suck gently, watching him all the while with darkening eyes.

  Lying back in bed, his head propped on an elbow, Logan stared at the painting. He wondered about her baby, if she had had it yet, and if it was a boy or a girl. He wondered if he was responsible for her abrupt departure from the city. Most of all he wondered if she ever thought of him.

  Logan reached across the bed and turned back the lamp. That night he dreamed of Katy only indirectly. His nightmare was Andersonville.

  * * *

  July 7, 1873 Washington, D.C.

  "I simply do not understand why you won't take a larger part," Donna Mae said. She blew a raspberry against Victoria's bare tummy and the baby chortled gleefully. Donna Mae's dimples appeared. She bent her head over Victoria again and nuzzled the baby's soft skin with her nose.

  Katy intervened, scooping Victoria from Donna Mae's lap. "Being my daughter's godmother does not give you the right to smear greasepaint all over her tummy." She held out her hand for a cloth which Donna Mae obligingly dropped in. "I am quite happy with the roles I've been getting," she said, returning to Donna Mae's original query. "The only time I was out of work was when I was recovering from having this little muffin. I have been busy since the middle of March."

  "There is busy, and there is famous," Donna Mae countered. She turned around on her stool and finished removing her face paint. "You have talent enough to be playing in New York or London or Paris. The lead roles, Katy, not just these character parts you put your heart and soul into."

  "You are supposing I want to be famous. I don't. I had a brief taste of that before, and it turned my life upside down. Victoria and I are fine with the way things are, thank you very much. We lead a private life."

  "You live like a hermit. I'd venture you don't know three people in this city who are not part of the theatre."

  Michael had suggested that she live in anonymity, and Katy had taken his words to heart. For a few hours, five days a week, Katy stepped into the limelight. When the curtain dropped, she all but disappeared from public view. "I am happy with my life," she said.

  Donna Mae snorted indelicately. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

  "I am happy."

  The older actress swiveled around in her seat again and leveled Katy with a hard, knowing look. "You need a man," she said with authority.

  Katy blinked at Donna Mae's tone. "I am in mourning."

  "It has been almost a year. Anyway, I am not suggesting you take up with the first man who offers. But you could look occasionally. You never seem to notice any of the men who come around here. By God, Katy, they do notice you. I've walked down E Street with you and seen men actually stumble in their steps while they're looking after you."

  Katy hid her warming cheeks against Victoria's downy cap of dark hair. "You are exaggerating—and you are wrong. I do look. Not so long ago I thought I saw someone I knew at the market."

  "A man?"

  "Yes, a man. That's what we are talking about, isn't it?" Katy could have sworn she had seen Liam O'Shea—not once, but several times since she'd moved to Washington. It was an unsettling feeling to think that Michael might be having her watched. Each time she tried to approach the man she thought was Liam, he had disappeared. "So, you see, I do notice, and I am not interested. End of subject."

  Donna Mae never ended a discussion simply because the other party was bored with it. Now was no exception. She set her auburn wig on its stand and ruffled her frizzy blond curls, prepared to do battle. A knock at the door interrupted her. "We will save this for later," she told Katy meaningfully as she went to the door.

  Katy played with Victoria, giving no thought to Donna Mae's guest. The actress had several gentlemen this month who were courting her favor. Katy was more amused by Donna Mae's continuous juggling of male callers than envious. Katy thought her own life was filled quite full with her daughter.

  Victoria Rose was an endless source of pleasure and, less frequently, vexation. At almost five months, she was fourteen pounds and twenty-five inches and possessed an independent streak to match her strength and length. She babbled to herself and lifted her head, gray eyes solemn, when she heard her name. Right now she was fascinated by her mother's drop earrings and reached out with her tiny hands to grab at one of them.

  "There is a caller for you, Katy," Donna Mae said, turning away from the door. She closed it slightly so her conversation could not be heard. "John told him you would be in here if you hadn't left the theatre already. Do you want to speak with him?"

  Katy set Victoria on her lap so the baby was sitting up, her back supported by Katy's arm. "I don't think so," she said. "Take his card and fob him off with one of those excuses you are so good at."

  Shrugging, Donna Mae stepped into the hallway. A few seconds later, she ducked her head back in the room. A frown pulled the corners of her mouth down, and she was looking at Katy oddly. "Mary Catherine?"

  Katy's head jerked upm and she stopped playing with Victoria's bare toes. "Who is it at the door?" she asked, tightness compressing her throat.

  "He says he is your stepfather." Donna Mae watched every vestige of color drain from Katy's face. "I'll tell him to leave," she said.

  Katy stood up. "No." She was surprised that she could speak, more surprised by what she had said. "No, I want to see him. Will you take Victoria and give me ten minutes alone with him?"

  Donna Mae's frown deepened. She thought it over. "Ten minutes. Not one second more—and I am only going to be waiting in the hallway."

  "That's not—" Katy did not bother to finish her sentence. Donna Mae was plucking Victoria out of her arms, and the militant look on her face said she could not be swayed.

  The first thing that struck Katy when Colonel Richard Allen stepped in was how young he looked. Ten years ago when she had last seen him he seemed a very old man to her. Time had changed her a great deal while the colonel was remarkably much the same.

  His features were still quite ordinary, neither particularly blunt nor sharp. Allen displayed a few threads of gray in his side-whiskers and neatly trimmed beard and mustache, but he still parted his hair on the left, and his bald spot was only marginally more noticeable than it had been a decade earlier. He carried himself rather stiffly, with his shoulders thrown slightly back, giving the impression of authority and command. His eyes, more gold than green, reminded Katy that he had been called Cougar.

  Allen shifted his silk top hat from under one arm to the other. Even before he cleared his throat to speak, Katy realized he was uncharacteristically nervous.

  "Thank you for seeing me," he said.

  Katy's chin raised a notch. "I am not certain why I did," she said honestly. "Perhaps it is only that I am surprised that you would come here at all. I had to see you to believe it."

  "I saw this play for the first time two weeks ago, and I've seen it three times since. I was never completely sure that it was you behind the footlights." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he shook his head sl
owly from side to side in the manner of a man drawing on memories. "Mary Catherine McCleary—an actress. You always were something of an odd child."

  Allen's faint smile chilled Katy to the bone. She spoke sharply, "I am not a child any longer, Colonel Allen."

  "No, you are not, are you?" He had seen that for himself during each performance. She was as tall as he now, slender and gracefully curved as a saber.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  "I came to inquire after Rose and your sister."

  "Both dead."

  He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry. I never heard..."

  "It's been a long time. They died before the end of the war."

  After a moment, the colonel said, "You were on your own then."

  "I managed." She paused. "I understand you are a congressman now."

  "Yes. I'm going to run for the Senate. After that... who knows?"

  "I see."

  Allen cleared his throat again, and his eyes could not quite meet Katy's. "Do you plan to make trouble for me?" he asked.

  So that was why he came, Katy thought. "I have lived here for almost a year, and I've made no attempt to sully your reputation during that time. I am really no threat to you, Colonel. I have always kept our dirty little secret, haven't I? Logan Marshall is the one who betrayed—" Katy stopped, her expression very still with thought. She had been about to say that Logan Marshall had betrayed them both, and now it was borne home to her that she had been wrong, horribly, dreadfully wrong. The guilty light in Allen's eyes, his suspicion that she would cause trouble for him, reached Katy as nothing else ever could. For years she had lived with the thought that she was responsible for the things her stepfather did to her. And for all those long years she had blamed Logan for revealing it. "I think you should go—"

  "No!" Allen held up his hand, cutting her off. "No, you said something about Logan Marshall. You seemed to be saying he was a threat."

  "As long as you do not amuse yourself with little girls, you will not have to worry about Logan," she said coldly.