Blue Waltz (32 page)

Wife. How strange, she began to think dispassionately, her mind sometimes a muddle, as if she swam in cloudy waters. Mrs. Farmer Braxton. The thought brought her up short, clearing her mind. She didn't even know his Christian name. She was the wife of a man she didn't even know.

When he was there, he never touched her, rarely spoke, only stared at her, especially when he thought she was asleep.

Eventually, Belle managed to sit up for a length of

Blue Waltz289

time against the plush pillows. Every now and again, memories of St. Valentine's Day would slip into being, but she always pushed them away. In their place she began to create a fanciful world in her head. She expunged the hazy, partially remembered reality. And as time passed, the fanciful world became indistinguishable from reality, became a new truth which she believed in as surely as she believed that her name was Belle.

Eventually, she managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but walking was impossible—just like the old woman had said. Belle fell back against the feather mattress, her legs dangling over the side, and she tried not to cry. She had learned that crying did absolutely no good. Her father still wouldn't be here, and her leg would still be a mess. The tears would burn, but she never let them flow.

Then one day the farmer brought her a hand-carved crutch. The sun was out and had slipped in through the doorway, illuminating the bedroom. In the years her father had worked for the man, Belle had never seen him up close, only from a distance. Since arriving in his home, she had only seen him in the darkened room. In her innocent mind, she had turned him into a hideous monster, scarred and misshapened. But this man was no monster.

His hair was blond, and he looked much younger than she had thought, though still, in her eyes, he was old —probably well into his thirties, she reasoned. Ancient, to her way of thinking. His eyes were blue and his skin smooth. He seemed to grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny. But instead of leaving, he came closer.

Belle's heart lurched and staggered. She shrank back against the pillows. The room had grown hot, and earlier she had pushed the covers to the side. When she reached

290 Linda Francis Lee

out to pull them back, he reached out and stayed her hand.

"No," she whispered. She didn't know exactly what she was saying no to, but she said it as instinctively as a squirrel gathered nuts to save itself from winter.

He ignored her. Lowering himself onto the bed, the mattress sank beneath his weight. His movements were awkward, and Belle watched as if everything was happening in slow motion. His eyes scanned the length of her.

She thought she would die. "Please, no."

He only continued to look, though never as low as her leg. And just when he extended his hand and she knew he would touch her, she jerked away and cried out. "No!"

With the movement the covers fell free, leaving her broken leg exposed against the mattress. His extended hand froze. His pale skin blanched, and the strange look that had been in his eyes only moments before vanished, replaced by what Belle could only call revulsion. As if burned, he dropped his hand away.

"I brought this for you to use," he said shortly a second later.

"What for?" she asked, relief mixing with mortification that the sight of her leg was so repelling.

"To walk," he snapped.

"But the old woman—"

"What about her?"

"She said I'd never be able to walk again."

His fair countenance darkened. "She doesn't know what she's talking about. You'll walk again if you will it."

She looked at him, then at the stick, before she held out her hand. Whether she hated him or not, she couldn't afford not to believe him. "Then I will. That way when my father returns, I won't be a burden."

Blue Waltz 291

The farmer stiffened. "Your father isn't coming back."

Fear raced through her. "You're lying."

She saw the anger grow, distorting his features, and she forced herself not to be afraid.

"Don't you ever call me a liar!"

"My father is coming back for me," she responded tightly. "He wouldn't leave me here. He wouldn't. He hates you."

His fist crashed against the wall. "Your father isn't coming back for you! You're my wife! Do you understand? Mine, all mine, only mine! Just like the cows in the pasture and the horses in the stable. You are mine." His face was ravaged, his silky blond hair falling in his eyes. "And don't you ever forget it. Mine!" he raged. "Only mine!"

Belle might only have been thirteen years old, but she had aged tremendously since the day she watched her mother's coffin being lowered into the cold, hard earth. Her chin raised a notch and she boldly met his angry gaze. "I am not yours," she whispered vehemently, "and never will be."

Then she turned away and started to cross the floor, one meager step at a time, ignoring the throb of pain in her leg and where the wood bit into her underarm. She would learn to walk with the stick, then once she was strong enough, she would learn to walk without it. She would.

Then she would walk away. Forever. Free to find her father.

CHAPTER 24

"Damn it, Belle," Stephen said, running his hand through his dark hair, "answer me. Did you love him so much?"

Belle's lips pursed into a straight line, her eyes burned and her throat ached. How had she ever thought she would be free? God, she cried silently, she would never be free.

She turned stiffly toward the door, walking with careful steps, afraid that at any moment she would crumble. If she could just make it home. Home. The word was a mockery. This home that she had made for her father, the home that he had always said he wanted. She didn't know if she should laugh or scream. She prayed instead. Please, Papa. Please come home.

When she reached the front door of Stephen's house, her delicate fingers grasped the brass knob, white against gold, until the door swung free and she was outside.

Stephen followed her, out of his house and down the steps, his hair rippling in the breeze, his loose white sleeves billowing like sails, his angry steps taking him into her house. He spoke to her the whole way. But no matter what he said, she neither spoke nor answered, just walked with determination, he on her heels like a badger. Another time he would have been embarrassed by such a scene. But it wasn't another time.

Once inside, she took the long stairway, slowly, care-

Blue Waltz 293

fully, her hand so white against the stained and polished bannister.

Stephen watched her climb from the foyer, up and around, up and around until she disappeared and he knew she was at the top, in her room, four stories above the earth. He should leave. He knew it. He told himself over and over again.

With a muffled curse, he raced up the stairs two at a time. When he came into her room, breathless, the sight struck him still. He found her standing at the French doors that led out to the balcony, her forehead pressed against the pane, her breath frosting the glass. Desperate and alone. How many times had he found her just like this?

The sight tore at his heart, ripping away his anger— or was it jealousy? he wondered suddenly. He didn't know, didn't have time to determine. She looked like a little lost girl, her blue hair ribbon askew, and he couldn't even see her eyes. But he knew if he could they would be filled with that longing for things he was afraid he would never understand. If only he could. If only she would let him. And he understood then that she was the key to her past. He could search the world, find birth records, marriage records, even records of death, but the inner secrets would have to come from her, from her lips.

"Did you love him so much?" he whispered into the silent room.

The sound of his voice seemed loud in his ears, as if he had screamed the words. Belle appeared not to have heard, or if she did, she clearly didn't care to answer. But he couldn't let it go. "Answer me, Belle. Please. Quit running away—from me, from whatever is in your past. For once give me a straight answer." He hesitated. "Did

294 Linda Francis Lee

you love him so much that you'll never be able to love me?"

He saw her body tense, and he could tell that she had closed her eyes. But still no words.

His heart sank. He was fighting a futile battle, banging himself against a rampart of steel that he clearly would never be able to breach. He wanted to scream, to cry, to rage at the frustration and futility of what his life had become. He was out of control, his life was falling apart. First Adam, and now Belle.

Taking a deep breath, defeated, bewildered beneath the pain, he turned to go. And then she spoke.

"I'll be thirty years old tomorrow." Silence. Then, "Did you know that"

"Did I know that you were turning thirty? No. That you were having a birthday? Yes. The party, remember." The party. The party that was supposed to have been the occasion on which they would have announced their impending marriage as well as a means to celebrate the day of her birth. Such a fool he had been.

"Ah, yes" she said, "the infamous party that others are planning in my house, and about which I have no say. That party, you mean?"

Stephen grimaced. "I'm sorry."

She gave a self-deprecating little sigh. "Don't be sorry, Stephen. It doesn't matter. Have a party, don't have a party. I'll turn thirty whether others come to celebrate or not. Birthdays come and go, year after year, bringing hope, then dashing it until I don't know if I'll ever be able to hope again."

"What have you been hoping for, Belle? Tell me, please. For your father? For your husband? For what, Belle?"

She took a deep breath. But the words she provided

Blue Waltz295

had nothing to do with his question. "While I've spent my time hoping all these years, I realize now that life has passed me by."

"Hope? Life passing you by? What are you talking about?" His voice was impassioned as he stepped closer. "I don't know of anyone who seems to live so fully as you."

"Seems, I think, is the telling word here. Running away, is more accurate, just as you pointed out only moments before. Activities to command the mind, to fill my time so I don't have to think. And I've been running for years."

He came so close that he could touch her. His fingers longed to caress her arms, pull her back against his heart, hold her tight, and never let her go. "Tell me, Belle," he said, as he finally gave in and touched her, his long, strong fingers curling around her arms, then turning her back. "Tell me what you're running from," he pleaded, looking down into her eyes.

They were no more than scant inches apart. Her head was tilted back, and he watched as her eyes found his lips. Desire surged through him, but it was a deeper desire, a desperate desire to make things right, make her whole.

"Sweet Belle, I want to help you. Only help. You say your life has passed you by, then good. Now you can move on, move on to a better life, one that's full and rich."

She didn't respond, simply stared at his lips, then his jaw and cheeks, before she ran her fingers through his hair.

"A life with me, Belle. As my wife."

Her fleeting smile was haunting. "A wife that you would love and cherish?"

296 Linda Francis Lee

"Of course," he breathed.

"Then love me now, Stephen. Show me how you would cherish me."

This time, he was the one to tense. He wanted her, his body's throbbing response to her demand was proof enough of that. But unlike his body, he wanted answers.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't be bound by questions that have no answers."

"Of course there are answers. You simply don't want to provide them."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Or have you ever thought that perhaps I don't begin to understand the questions, much less know the answers? Did it ever occur to you that there is one indisputable moment in my life when everything changed?" She looked at him closely. "Not so different from you. Your life changed when your parents died."

The words from long ago resurfaced in his mind. They're never coming home. It had changed him, irreparably. He knew that. But had it changed him so fundamentally that people saw him differently?

Suddenly he remembered throwing berries out of a tree. Laughing and smiling. Believing in pots of gold and buried treasures.

"The difference," she continued, "is that I have a huge gaping hole in my memory—and as a result, in my life. One day my leg is perfect and straight, the next it's not. I don't remember the incident that changed me. I remember before, then after, but not that moment. It's gone, except for bits and pieces that haunt me at every turn." Her voice grew strained. "If only the rest would disappear, too."

"Oh, Belle—"

"Shhh," she said, pressing one finger to his lips. "Don't say anything. Please." Then she reached up on tiptoes, her fingers curling in his shirt.

She was so lovely and innocent and fragile that he thought he might break. And it was then that he gave in, the dam giving way, his desire tumbling forth with an intensity that could easily destroy everything in its path.

He pressed his lips to hers. "God," he groaned as he opened his mouth on hers.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, binding her to him, while his hand came up to caress her cheek, his thumb lining her jaw. His kiss was gentle, loving, though commanding, as if demanding that she return to him all that he felt for her. Though she didn't speak the words, he felt certain that she did return his sentiments, at least that is what he wanted to believe—had to believe. She was there, in his arms, sharing his love.

And in the nearly overwhelming darkness that surrounded them despite the daylight hours, they found each other. Anchoring in the storm.

His hand trailed over her throat, feeling the hard steady pulse of her heart. Opening his mouth on her pulse, he ran the backs of his strong fingers slowly down her collarbone until he came to her breast, so full and lush. He took the weight against the palm of his hand. Her head fell back and she murmured his name.