Beloved (19 page)

“Tyson.”

He looked at his wife.

Thank you
, she mouthed.

Something loosened inside Tyson, a fear that it would take weeks for things to be right between them again after the fiasco of Friday night. He’d apologized but he’d still been afraid. He’d hoped but he hadn’t been confident.

Lord, help me find out more about Ned. It’s important to Diana that he stay, so it’s important to me too
.

Like a breeze through the leaves of a tree, words whispered in Tyson’s heart:
And because it’s important to you, My son, it does not escape My notice
.

He felt God’s pleasure wash over him. Not because he did everything right. Not because he’d made no mistakes. But because he listened for the Shepherd’s voice. Because he yearned to please the Father by his actions—including by loving his wife.

An easy thing to do, as it turned out.

Brook poured whiskey into two glasses. “And who did they say the boy is?” he asked as he handed one of them to Kendall Michaels.

“Applegate called him Ned. Said he was a guest. That’s all I know.”

“Interesting.”

Tyson Applegate had no siblings, and Diana had lost track of her own brother and sister while still a child. The boy couldn’t be a relative to either of them. Unless … unless he was Tyson’s by-blow. The possibility was delightful, to say the least.

“You should look into it further, Kendall.” Brook settled into his favorite chair. “How old do you suppose him to be?”

“Not sure. Nine, maybe ten. Could be another year either way.”

Nine or ten? Too old to have been born after Tyson wed Diana.
Too bad. That would have been better. Still, an illegitimate child, even one conceived before Tyson took a wife, wouldn’t do a political candidate any favors. So, if the boy
was
his son, where was it Tyson had sown his wild oats? While at college? Or in one of the mining towns up north?

As if reading his mind, Kendall said, “Kid told me straight out he isn’t Applegate’s son. Made him kind of mad when I suggested it.”

“Perhaps the boy doesn’t know the truth. There must be some good reason he’s staying with them. People of good society don’t take in a child for no reason. I want to know who he is and why he’s with the Applegates.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Be quick about it. Time is running out.”

Panic roiled in his gut. If he didn’t find some way to get his hands on money—lots of money—he would be ruined. This boy could be the answer. If he was Tyson’s son out of wedlock, it could be worth a small fortune to keep the story quiet. And even if it wasn’t true, it might be worth just as much.

He would get his pound of flesh from Tyson one way or another. By heaven, he would!

Their picnic finished, Ned and Trouble went back to exploring the terrain while the adults—stomachs full and feeling sleepy—reclined on the blankets. Still, Diana kept a vigilant eye on the boy.

“You were about the same age as he was, weren’t you?” Tyson asked. “When you lost your family.”

She nodded. “I was six when Mum died.”

“You never talk about them.”

“No, I don’t. I suppose because I was given a new mother and father who loved me and provided well for me. It seemed ungrateful
somehow. And I was so young. I can’t even recall their faces anymore. I think sometimes I can, but then—” She sat up. “In those first months after I arrived in Montana, I dreamed about Hugh coming to fetch me and take me home. I wasn’t unhappy with the Fishers, but I missed Hugh and Felicia so much. And our mum.”

“What was your last name? I don’t think I’ve ever asked that.”

You never cared enough to ask
. She pushed the thought away. “Brennan. Diana Brennan. The youngest child of Sweeney and Elethea Brennan of Chicago, Illinois.”

Tyson was silent for a spell, before saying, “Maybe that’s why God brought Ned to our house. Because you can understand him in a way no one else could.”

Diana felt a flush of pleasure at his words.

“He’s lucky to have found you, Diana … and so am I.”

February 1897

Diana put an arm around her mother’s shoulders and together they walked away from the gravesite. Hard-packed snow covered the pathway between grave and carriage, and the two women moved slowly along the slick surface.

What are we to do now?

In the days after her father fell ill, Diana had been forced to acquaint herself with the family finances. Circumstances were much worse than she’d anticipated. After paying for the funeral, she and her mother would be left with little besides the small stipend she received because of Nora Applegate’s will. How could two women manage on that sum alone?

She thought of Tyson—traveling the globe, living in opulence, sparing never a thought for her—and for the first time, she hated him.

NINETEEN

“Dear?”

Seated on a stool in the garden, Diana glanced up from the canvas she was painting upon.

Her mother held out a pair of spectacles. “Have you seen the gold chain for my eyeglasses? The one with the glass stones. I thought I left it on my dresser, but it isn’t there.”

“The chain Father gave you? No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen it. Did you ask Liz?”

“Yes, I’ve asked her already. And Joan, Mrs. Cuddy, Mrs. Brown, and Upchurch. None of them recall seeing it anywhere.”

Diana stood. “Perhaps it fell behind the dresser. I’ll go look for you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear. Liz already did that. She crawled around on her hands and knees and looked behind everything in my bedchamber.” Her mother took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Maybe I lost it on our picnic yesterday. I hope not.”

“I can ask Tyson to go there to look when he returns.”

“He wouldn’t be likely to find it. It’s such a delicate chain and the grass was so long.”

“He could still try. The chain is dear to you.”

Her mother walked closer. “I’m glad to see you painting again. It seems a long while since you picked up a brush.”

“It has been.” Diana turned toward the canvas on the easel. The rich colors—splashes of greens, blues, reds, purples, and yellows—made her feel happy. Or perhaps they merely reflected the happiness she already felt. “There was something about the flowers this morning that called for me to try to capture them.”

“I believe I’m a little jealous. Your father had a head for business. You have an eye for beauty. I’ve never seemed to excel at anything.”

Diana leaned near, holding palette and brush to one side, and kissed her mother’s cheek. “You excelled at loving us both.”

“Yes.” Her mother smiled. “But that was entirely too easy to count.”

Diana considered reminding her mother of the times, especially as a teenager, when she’d been determined to have her own way. Headstrong. Opinionated. Willful. But she let it go. Her mother beheld the past through the proverbial rose-colored glasses. There was no point arguing with her.

“Well, I will leave you to your colorful creation.” Gloria turned and followed the stone pathway back to the house.

Alone again, Diana recalled the reason she hadn’t picked up her paintbrushes in so long.

Brook had come to call upon her, early in their acquaintance, before either of them would have considered it a courtship. He had seen her easel, set up in the parlor of the house she and her mother rented, and had moved to look at her work.
“It’s good for a woman to have something to occupy her hands, whether or not she has any talent for it.”

She frowned at the memory. The words had stung at the time. She’d put away her art supplies that day and had left them to gather
dust for the past couple of years. Brook hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, she’d thought at the time. Even now, she wanted to believe he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Except other instances of Brook’s cutting comments began to come to her, one after another, until she could deny the truth no longer.

Why had she chosen to ignore the unkindness of his words? It wasn’t as if she’d been a stranger to such things. Her father-in-law had been quite gifted in that regard. So why hadn’t she spoken up for herself? Why hadn’t she demanded caring treatment from the man she planned to wed?

Frowning, she wrestled with the questions until she came upon what she thought might be the reason: she hadn’t thought herself worthy of his kindness. Why should she? She hadn’t been able to keep Tyson from leaving her. Her husband had been willing to get himself killed in a war rather than be with her. Why should she have expected better treatment from Brook or any other man?

At the root of it, self-pity. It wasn’t a flattering truth.

From close behind her, Tyson said, “I was told there’s a talented artist in the garden.”

A small gasp of surprise escaped Diana’s throat as she twisted on the stool.

“I see your mother didn’t exaggerate.”

She drew a quick breath and strove to make her reply sound light and amused. “Of course she exaggerated. She
is
my mother.”

“And I’m your husband, and I say she’s correct.” He gestured toward the painting. “Look at the way you’ve created depth with those brushstrokes there. And see how you’ve used light and shadows there. I may not be an expert, but I recognize a talented artist’s work when I see it.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she couldn’t decide if it was caused by embarrassment or pleasure. More confusion. It seemed she lived
in a confused state much of the time. Especially when it came to Tyson. She’d lost her grip on the anger, and without it, she felt more vulnerable than ever before. How could she remain aloof to his charms? How could she keep him from meaning more to her than he ought? She must be resolved to keep him at arm’s length. She must—

He spoke again, intruding on her thoughts. “I’m taking Ned to look for Mrs. Kennedy. Would you like to come along?”

Her resolve went right out the window. “Yes, I would.”

For Ned. She would go along for the sake of the boy and for no other reason. She didn’t want to lose Ned, and she might be needed if they found Mrs. Kennedy. Although why, she couldn’t say.

She glanced down at the cotton coat she wore over her gown. “I will need to put my paints away and tidy up before we leave.”

“I could put these things away for you. If you’ll trust me with them.”

I think I can trust you with art supplies, Tyson. It’s trusting you with my heart that frightens me
. She looked up again—and was grateful his eyes were on the canvas.

“I shan’t be long.” She offered him the pallet smeared with oil paint.

He took it from her and she hurried down the path.

Tyson watched his wife’s departure, encouraged because she didn’t seem to be fleeing his presence, as had been the case so often over the past month.

Maybe we’re making progress again. Maybe she’s forgiven me
.

Let it be so, Lord
.

It took three trips to move the easel, canvas, stool, and paint supplies from the garden into the house. Rather than ask one of the
servants to put the items away, Tyson decided one of the empty bedchambers should be designated as Diana’s art studio. He selected the blue bedroom because of the sunlight that spilled through the windows in the mornings and hoped the idea would please her. By the time he came down the staircase for the third time, Diana and Ned were awaiting him in the entry hall.

The fineness of the day allowed the use of the open carriage, which also made it easier for Ned to direct the coachman. The boy called for a few turns that later had to be corrected. Tyson wasn’t surprised. Much had changed in the four years since Ned was orphaned. New homes had been built. New streets had been created.

“Stop!” Ned cried, pointing. “That’s it. That’s where we lived.”

The two-story house had an outside stairway to its second level. The paint looked new, and the yard was groomed. Flowers bloomed in profusion from public sidewalk to front door.

“Are you certain?” Tyson asked. For some reason, he’d believed Ned’s mother had come from the working poor. This house was nicer than anticipated. Not in a wealthy part of the city but well built and well kept.

“‘Course I’m sure.”

Tyson looked at Diana. “Perhaps you two should wait in the carriage while I inquire.”

She nodded her agreement.

Tyson stepped to the ground and strode up the walkway where he rapped three times on the door. He was about to try again when he heard a sound from inside. Then the door opened.

The woman who looked out at him was bowed at the shoulders, as if she were folding in upon herself. Her hair was a mass of white curls, her face deeply etched by time. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but I’m looking for a Mrs. Kennedy.”

Wariness filled her pale blue eyes, and Tyson suspected she rarely had anyone come to her door.

“Are you she?”

“I’m Mrs. Kennedy,” she answered at last. “What do you want?”

He glanced toward the second-story window, then back at the woman. “Did a boy named Ned live in this house with his mother about four years ago?”

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed even more. “Who are you?”

“Mrs. Kennedy, my name is Applegate. Tyson Applegate. A boy known as Ned has come under my protection. My wife and I wish to learn whatever we can about his mother in case we might locate other members of his family. He remembers this as the house where they lived before his mother died. He said a woman named Mrs. Kennedy took him to the orphanage.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the carriage and stepped to one side. “That’s him, there, with my wife.”

“Well, I’ll be,” the woman said softly, suspicion gone. “Even with my old eyes I recognize him. It’s Aileen’s boy, all right. I’m sure of it.”

“Aileen what, may I ask?”

“Macartan. Odd name, I always thought. Aileen and Ned Macartan.”

“Was there a Mr. Macartan?”

She shook her head. “Someone did that poor girl very wrong, though she never told me who it was. She worked as a live-in housemaid, and the son of the household got her in the family way. She thought he’d marry her like he promised, but the family tossed her out on the street as soon as she began to show.”