Beloved (9 page)

Diana paused long enough to give her bay mare a pat on the neck, then headed toward the doorway to observe the training session. She was about to step into the sunlight when a sound caught her attention. It sounded like a cat in distress. She turned a full circle but saw nothing. Perhaps it had been her imagination. No, there it was again. That was definitely a feline’s protest.

She took several steps backward and turned in a slow circle, her gaze searching corners and shadows in the barn.

“Meooooow!”

Diana looked up. There, hanging from a narrow ledge by its front paws, was a skinny, matted creature. Its hind legs grasped at the air, its front paws scratched for something to hold onto. And then it fell.

Plop!
It hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dirt and sawdust.

“Oh, dear.” Diana knelt beside the kitten—for she could see now that it was still a young cat, perhaps six months old or so—and picked it up. “You poor thing. You’re half starved.” She stood, cradling the kitten against her chest, surprised that it remained docile. Perhaps the fall had knocked the wind out of it. “We must get you something to eat.”

As he entered the house, Tyson heard a shriek of surprise come from the kitchen. He dropped his hat onto the table in the entry hall and strode quickly toward the back of the house.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Applegate, but I’ll not have fleas in my kitchen.” That was Madge Cuddy, the cook.

Fleas?

“I don’t think it has fleas,” Diana replied.

Tyson looked into the kitchen. His wife stood near the icebox, holding a gray tabby cat against her chest.

“I just need to get it something to eat,” she said.

“Well, take it outside where it belongs and I’ll bring some milk and table scraps.” Mrs. Cuddy pointed toward the door leading onto the veranda. “Please, ma’am, get it out of my kitchen before we’re infested.”

Diana’s chin tipped upward. “It does
not
have fleas.” Then she obeyed the cook.

After the door closed behind Diana, Tyson stepped into the kitchen. “Trouble, Mrs. Cuddy?”

The woman looked up, her eyes rounding. “Mr. Applegate. I didn’t hear you come in, sir.”

“No.” He felt a strong urge to promise that he didn’t have fleas either. Laughter rose in his throat, but he caught it before it escaped. “You were busy.” He glanced toward the door opposite him. “I’ll let you find that food for the cat while I join my wife.”

The cook nodded.

He hurried across the kitchen and out onto the veranda, where he found Diana seated on the top step, crooning to the cat. “Poor kitty. You don’t have fleas. Don’t let Mrs. Cuddy scare you. It’s all right.”

Tyson cleared his throat.

Diana looked over her shoulder and frowned. “Oh. Tyson. It’s you. I thought you were Mrs. Cuddy.”

“Hmm. Not sure I care for that.”

He’d hoped for a smile. He didn’t get one.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she answered.

“I’m relieved.” He walked to the steps and sat beside her. “Where did
that
come from?” He motioned with his head toward the kitten.

“In the stables. I don’t think it’s been living there long. Surely someone would have found it before now if it had. Poor thing. It’s nearly starved to death.”

“
Does
it have fleas?”

Diana’s back stiffened. “No.”

“Are you sure? You’d better let me look. Trust me when I say you don’t want any of those tiny bugs crawling on you.”

Her expression turned comical—part insulted, part uncertain—as she passed the tabby into his waiting hands.

Diana was right about the kitten being nearly starved. She—his inspection told him it was female—wasn’t much more than skin and bones. She meowed at him, but it wasn’t much as complaints went. And he was thankful she didn’t try to bite or scratch as he gave her coat a close inspection.

“You’re in luck,” he said at last. “She doesn’t have fleas.”

Diana whisked the kitten back into her arms, smiling at last—not for him but for the young feline. “I’m going to call her Tiger because of her stripes.”

Too late Tyson realized what giving the kitten a name meant: a cat for a pet. A cat in the house and not in the stables where it belonged. He couldn’t say he liked cats much anywhere, although he supposed they served a purpose when it came to keeping the rodent population under control.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get too attached, Diana. She might die, being so skinny and all. She might be diseased. You can’t tell.”

“I won’t let her die.” There was that stubborn tilt of her chin again. “And she isn’t diseased.”

Well, if determination was all it took, Tiger still had nine lives to her credit.

Tyson heard the door open behind them.

“I’ve brought the food you wanted,” the cook announced.

Diana rose quickly. “Thank you, Mrs. Cuddy. And you don’t have to worry about fleas. Mr. Applegate gave her a thorough inspection.”

The cook made a sound in her throat. Disbelief? Righteous indignation?

Tyson twisted on the top step to watch as his wife took the cat to where Mrs. Cuddy had set down a saucer and bowl. Before Diana could put Tiger on her feet, the feline leapt from her arms and began gobbling up the scraps of meat on the saucer. When every last tidbit of solid food had disappeared, the cat lapped up milk as fast as her tongue could go.

“You’ll never be rid of it now,” the cook said before going inside.

Exactly what I was thinking, Mrs. Cuddy
.

Diana had a soft spot in her heart for the broken and the lost. As a child, she hadn’t been able to do anything for the strays she’d found because being around dogs and cats made her adoptive father sneeze and sometimes his eyes would swell shut. But now she was an adult and mistress of her own home. She
would
keep Tiger, and not even Tyson would be allowed to tell her she couldn’t.

She picked up the cat and turned toward her husband, prepared to do the necessary battle. But she found him standing, too, watching her. The tender look in his eyes touched something deep inside and stole the fight right out of her.

“I suppose you’ll need a bed for her to sleep in,” he said.

She nodded, surprised there would be no argument.

“You’ll have to keep her away from Mrs. Cuddy’s kitchen.”

Another nod.

“Well, then …” He stepped toward her.

The breath caught in her chest, mirroring her uncertainty at what he planned. She almost thought he would embrace her. Perhaps even kiss her.

Instead he reached out and stroked the cat’s head. “Welcome to the family, Tiger.”

Standing at the dining room window, Gloria watched the scene on the veranda play out and felt her heart soften a little toward her son-in-law. Perhaps he’d changed for the better. Perhaps he did want to make Diana happy, as he claimed.

She meant what she’d said to Tyson earlier in the week. If he hurt her daughter again, Gloria would spend the rest of her life trying to make him pay for it. Not a very Christian way to think or act, she knew. But wasn’t an eye for an eye also part of the Bible?

Guilt niggled at her conscience. Perhaps it would be better to spend her time praying that both of them would be able to forgive and learn to truly love each other. Love was such a precious and powerful emotion.

She closed her eyes and pictured Byron. She’d loved being married to him, and he’d cherished her, always treating her with such gentleness, as if she were a fine porcelain doll. Even her inability to give him a child of their union hadn’t changed the way he’d felt about her. Oh, if only Diana could have married a man more like her father.

A smile came to her lips as she opened her eyes again.

Diana was made of sterner stuff than porcelain. She was stronger than her mother in so many ways. Tyson would have to prove himself her equal if there was any hope for their marriage.

August 1893

Diana watched moonlight and shadows dance across the ceiling of the bedchamber. Despite Tyson sleeping next to her, she felt alone and lonely. She longed for the respite of sleep, but in this wee hour of the night, escape from her troubled thoughts eluded her.

Tyson had come to her room earlier in the evening. He had come into her bed, and she had welcomed him there, as she always did, eager to please him, wanting him to know how much she loved him. Although it wasn’t unusual for him to seek her out at night, it was rare for him to fall asleep in her bed.

He didn’t love her. She knew that now. She should have known it from the start—he’d never said he did, not even when he proposed—only she’d been too blinded by her own love for him to realize it.

Tears trailed from the corners of her eyes, dampening the pillow beneath her head.

Some days she was able to pretend all was well. When she and Tyson went riding together through the forests that surrounded the Applegate mansion, for instance. He seemed happier then. Freer. Almost glad to be with her. But in the silence of the night, she was forced to see things as they were: Tyson had married in order to receive his inheritance before his thirtieth birthday, and he had chosen Diana to be his wife simply because his father didn’t think her good enough.

Her husband shifted in the bed and sighed.

Diana squeezed her eyes closed.
Please, God, make him love me. Please. Please. Please
.

NINE

Tyson stood in the entrance hall, dressed in evening attire, waiting for Diana to come down the stairs. He felt a rare bit of nerves. Tonight they were guests of Justice Waverley and his wife—along with a few of the Waverleys’ closest friends. It wasn’t officially an endorsement, of course, but it was as good as one.

He checked his pocket watch. What was keeping Diana? If she didn’t hurry, they would be late.

From behind him came his mother-in-law’s voice. “This is a big night for you, isn’t it?”

He turned. “Yes, I believe so.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

He nodded. “It’s definitely a big night. No question whatsoever.”

“You surprised me, you know.”

“How is that?”

“Letting Diana keep that cat.”

“Mrs. Fisher, there isn’t anything I would withhold from Diana if it’s in my power to grant it. But to be honest, I’m not sure my
letting
had anything to do with it. Her mind was made up, and she didn’t need nor want my permission.”

His mother-in-law laughed softly. “You gained a measure of wisdom in your travels.”

“I hope so, madam. I do hope so.”

A sound drew Tyson’s gaze toward the staircase, and his mouth went dry at the sight that met his eyes. Diana favored green in all its varied hues, but tonight she wore a gown that was the exact same shade of red as her hair. Gold threads ran through the fabric, making it shimmer as she moved.

If he could have his way, he would call off this evening at the Waverleys, sweep his wife into his arms, and carry her back up that staircase and straight into the bedroom. Only there was one problem. It was
his
bedroom and not
their
bedroom. His wife she might be, but for the present she was a wife in name only.

“Diana.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Diana, you look stunning. Perhaps it is you who should be running for office. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t vote for you if he could see you in that gown.” He waited for her to smile.

She didn’t oblige. “I know you mean that as a compliment, Tyson, but I assure you, I would not want to get any man’s vote simply because he thought me beautiful. I should want it for the same reason you want it—because he believed I could do a good job as a senator.”

He inclined his head in silent agreement. She was right. He wanted to win this election because he had something of worth to offer the people of Idaho. And he admired Diana for speaking her mind. Had she always been so sure of her own opinion? He didn’t think so. At least that wasn’t how he remembered her.

“Mother,” Diana said, “would you mind checking on Tiger before you retire for the night? I’ve shut her in my room.” She cast a glance in Tyson’s direction. “I wouldn’t want her to trouble Mrs. Cuddy in the kitchen.”

“Of course, dear. Don’t you worry about the kitty. Just go and have a pleasant evening.”

The Waverley home on Harrison Boulevard was spacious, elegant, and tastefully decorated, and Iris Waverley, a woman in her forties, had most certainly been blessed with the gift of hospitality. Diana had met her for the first time this evening, yet she’d been made to feel as if they were old friends.

As Diana looked around the dinner table—candlelight reflecting off china, crystal, and silver—she couldn’t help thinking this might have been her life these past seven years—if only her husband had wanted her at his side.

She glanced across the table at Tyson. He was talking with Helen Graham, the much younger wife of a state representative. Diana knew Mrs. Graham by reputation, of course. The woman was a leader in Boise society and a strong supporter of the arts and woman’s suffrage. Could Diana have become a hostess of the same renown had things turned out differently?

Kendall Michaels, editor for the
Idaho Daily Statesman
, leaned close at Diana’s left side and asked, “Are you interested in politics, Mrs. Applegate?”

“I became interested when my husband decided to run for the Senate seat.” She offered a smile that she hoped look genuine.

The editor laughed, making heads turn in their direction. “Thank you, Mrs. Applegate. It’s refreshing to hear such honesty.” He looked toward Tyson. “Your wife does you credit, Mr. Applegate.”

Tyson’s gaze met with Diana’s. “She does, indeed.”

The softly spoken words felt intimate, almost like a caress, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks flushed in response. How maddening that she let him do that to her. Where was her pride? Where was her self-control? They were playacting, after all. This was not a real marriage. It was little more than a business agreement. She
would help him get elected. He would provide her with a home and income of her own. Nothing more.