Emma Barry (2 page)

Her lustrous brown hair threatened to spill from out of her coiffure, as always, making his fingers itch to aid its fall. Her gold-brown eyes flashed in annoyance at a woman she swept past. An object of dislike, that woman. He wondered what degree of frustration he might awaken in her, and a smile crossed his lips for the first time that evening.

She turned her back without noticing him, and Theo forced himself to look at his shoes. His cheeks burned and his chest tightened but he willed himself into normalcy. This was a silly romantic moment. Excessive, sentimental, and abetted by his dissatisfaction.
Stop behaving like a fool
.

He looked up into Josiah’s face. The old man’s brown eyes sparkled at the assumed hilarity of his own monologue. He had missed the goddess walking across the room entirely.

“I mean, if they’d been Ossabaws,
anyone
might understand. Fine pork, that … ” He became the full-on pig raconteur now. Jabs became sweeps through the air. His voice added baritone expressiveness. From the corner of his eye, Theo could see others turning toward the old man impressed, entertained, and bemused. But after fifteen years working with Josiah, Theo was none of these things.

Good. This was good. For once, the buffoon served some purpose, focusing Theo on something other than Margaret’s skin. The bitter frustration of her rejection settled in his mouth. She’d listened to his dreams and taken them seriously — which was nice in a flattering, soon-to-be-wifely way.

But then she’d suggested he should shirk his practice, leave and do something different. As if he were a youth and not a man in his thirties with responsibilities. She refused to understand what he owed Mother and Josiah. It had been damned maddening. That was what he should remember, not her pearly skin.

Yes, since he was no longer startled by seeing her unprepared, he could settle himself and examine again, seeing what was actually there: a woman of average looks and surpassing aggravating potential. One more glance would clear his mind.

Craning his head, his eyes found those shoulders again and followed the sweet curves down into her gown. It would be heated by her skin and would smell like her, floral and citrus at the same time. He could feel her voice now as much as hear it, a feathered exhalation that stole into his waistcoat and heated his skin. She had always threatened to exceed that volume deemed acceptable for ladies. She might have spent her life polishing merchants’ daughters into bland parlor ornaments, but Margaret was so vital, she made a mockery of the whole thing.

His stomach ached as if she’d struck him. Hang how tumultuous they’d been together. Forget her demands and his agitation. Years later, she still struck him dumb. How had he let this woman slip away?

Rather than sobering, he was tempted to approach her, to entice her to their favorite spot, underneath the willow in the park. He wanted to rest his head in her lap and spill out the entire story about his desire to enlist and Mother’s reticence. She would stroke his temples like she used to and laugh at him and tell him exactly what to do. And, as before, he would ignore her good advice and compromise and check himself and she would grow frustrated and leave him. Again.

No! Madness lay this way. He would
not
think such things. Josiah’s ranting about pigs continued — he had now reached guinea hogs — but was more soporific than infuriating, so Theo searched instead for his mother to provide an antidote to Margaret. At some chairs lining the wall he found her, discussing a shipment of donated good the Ladies’ Aid Society would be sending to the recently departed troops.

“We need socks, sheets, sponges, bandages, arrowroot, brandy, and other medicines,” Mrs. Dix, a buxom older woman whose eldest son had already enlisted, was saying, counting the items out in the air and rapidly running low on fingers. “Anything at all of the sort that might be useful to our boys, particularly those that might become sick or wounded.”

Mother nodded and responded, though he couldn’t hear her over Josiah.

Finally changing the topic, the old man said, “There seems to be troop movement all throughout the east.”

“I read that too. I don’t know what to make of it, but I track all the news in the papers.” Theo tried to feign interest, but so strong was the siren’s call behind him that even the war paled in comparison.

“I heard some of our boys were headed for a point thirty miles south of Georgetown.”

“Uh-huh,” Theo grunted without making a commitment either way. “Perhaps this is why the War Office is attempting to crack down on the reporting of the news.”

Josiah laughed, and Theo allowed himself one more regretful thought. If he and Margaret had married, he would have had her liveliness and smiles. Margaret on his arm, challenging him and urging him to be better. Margaret in his bed — that was a heated thought.

There was no productivity in this fantasy, however. She was no more right for him now than she had been then. All he had ever done was disappoint her, and all she had ever done was make him frenetic. But …

He looked up and could see laughter jostling her skirts. Feel it. Taste it, even. It was like a sweet from childhood experienced in a dream, more elemental than a memory. He needed, if only for a moment, to hold her again.

“I say, Josiah, will you excuse me?” He left without waiting for a response.

Margaret, who had still been laughing, stilled, her eyes wide, when he drew up. How long had it been since they had exchanged words?

She was older, yes, but not average looking. Not to him. Never to him.

Perceptive, mobile eyes surveyed him, leaving exposure in their wake. Confronted with her, he wasn’t sure if his tongue could produce speech. She rendered him vulnerable as a newborn chick. As if in court, he stood before a judge. Now he would plead for a few more moments in her presence, hoping it would produce a reminder of why precisely they couldn’t be together.

“Miss Hampton.” He bowed slightly. Stiffly. Awkwardly. He was
such
a fool.

“Mr. Ward, this … is a surprise.” The huskiness of her voice — did he imagine it? — stoked the desire that he had plagued him for several minutes.

“One that’s long overdue, I fear.” His generic compliment was met with a long, awkward silence. This was why he avoided dances. And women. He offered another wan, chivalric statement, hoping to aid things along. “Will you introduce me to your charming companions?”

Her lips quirked, stifling a scowl perhaps, as she did so. Her students were pretty girls, no doubt, but he was only interested in Margaret. He hardly took his eyes from hers as he offered the expected niceties to the girls.

Turning to Margaret, he asked, “Miss Hampton, are you engaged for the opening waltz?” An abrupt transition, he feared, but what was the use in pretending this wasn’t his aim?

She blinked once and then again. “I am not.”

“Will you do me the honor?”

Margaret paused for a long moment and regarded him levelly. He could almost see the gears in her mind grinding away as she attempted to figure out what he was all about. He was anxious, but not overly so. They both knew she couldn’t refuse without seeming uncivil.

Finally, she inclined her head. “I will.”

“Until later this evening, then,” he said, bowing to the ladies more fluidly now and retreating.

The light-headedness lessened. His pulse returned to a normal rate. He had performed acceptably and secured her for a few moments at least. Across the room he found Mother standing with Josiah, jaw set and eyes slightly aghast.

“Whatever were you saying to Margaret Hampton?” Mother asked. She made no attempt to hide the sourness in her voice.

“Asking her to dance.”

“Oh, Theodore, no. Please let’s not start
that
again. I thought she was in the past.”

“I find she’s not.”

Mother harrumphed but said no more. Perhaps her desire for grandchildren was stronger than he knew.

He’d obtained Margaret’s company for five minutes. For that space at least, she would be in his arms again. He’d done it, he knew, mostly to be able to inspect her décolletage at a shorter distance and to clear the vertigo she had engendered in him merely by walking across the room.

Careful. It’s a dance, nothing more. You still disappoint her.

• • •

Margaret watched broad shoulders recede across the room. Air had still not returned to her body and had perhaps exited the room altogether. After a few formal words with Theo, she felt trapped in a bell jar. He made her a frozen observer of a confusing world. Then he began speaking with his mother and Josiah Trinkett, and her flush shifted abruptly to a chill. Of course.

She turned back to the cadre of her favorite students who stood in a little cluster around her. No one said anything. Matilda, Rebecca, and especially Phoebe blinked expectantly, hoping she would fill the silence with an explanation of who precisely Mr. Ward was to her. As if she could find the words. As if in the sea of language available to her there was a way to express the hopefulness and longing and heartbreak — all the emotions she had left in the past — that were contained in one name: Theo Ward.

She faced her most ruthless examiner, Phoebe King, with a smile and forced something out. “Do continue about the decorations.”

Phoebe had the aspect of an angel from a parlor engraving, gold curls, upturned lashes, and depthless blue eyes. If Margaret was being frank, the New York princess was more than surpassing vain. She avoided being insufferable, however, by being utterly candid about her shortcomings. Tonight she looked stunningly beautiful in a light blue gauze gown trimmed with white lace and a green paisley shawl. But the effect was ruined by the mischievous way she arched her brows and shook her head.

“Only when you’ve told us everything about Mr. Ward!” the impish girl said. The other two nodded in agreement.

Margaret swallowed a sigh. There was no avoiding it. She had to provide some story. As straightforwardly as possible, she said, “He was a dear friend of mine some time ago. We haven’t spoken in years, and now he would apparently like to reminiscence about our misspent youths. Nothing more.”

Matilda Winters — dear, sweet, demure Matilda — nodded. Auburn hair gathered in a low knot and gown simple and practical, she embodied an unvarnished purity. She accepted Margaret’s story with only a tiny hint of skepticism skimming over her pretty features.

The third member of the party, Rebecca Livingston, said nothing but appeared unconvinced.

After a beat, Phoebe sniffed and said, “Well, I’m glad you listened to me about the pink tulle, nonetheless. He’ll be half in love with you by the end of the waltz.”

“I doubt that very much,” Margaret said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some air. This room is already oppressive.”

Once she had escaped into a quiet hallway, she collapsed onto a small bench and hid her face in her gloved hands. What was Theo doing, asking her to dance?

Their engagement felt like it had occurred a lifetime ago rather than a mere two years. Instead of moving forward together, they had stood still apart. Likely, he was still in that law practice where he felt so ineffectual, living with his mother, and generally raving inside while doing nothing about it. She had buried her heartbreak at the seminary, realizing her dreams in the lives of a hundred students. She had known what her future held when she broke with him, but she had anticipated he might progress.

He had remained a very handsome man, she thought with a smile. His curly brown hair was still thick and dark. He wore a short beard now, along his jaw line. His eyes were much bluer, even, than Margaret had remembered. Combined with his strong features, he had something of the aspect of an eagle. Margaret always felt as if he looked into her very soul with those eyes. To be regarded by Theo Ward was to be without cover or provision. He knew the ridges on her soul.

Why hadn’t he married? Each week she opened
The Constitution
with an air of resignation, expecting to see at last the dreaded announcement. Margaret’s jaw clenched. Presumably his mother had scuttled any hope of that. The only thing he’d ever reached for Mrs. Ward didn’t approve of was Margaret. And
that
had ended very quickly. So why approach again? What was he doing to both of them?

Before she could hazard a guess, Rebecca rounded the corner amid a rustle of skirts and petticoats. A brunette with great intelligence and spirit, she had strong, regular features, a plum of a mouth, and delicately expressive green eyes. Her natural mirth had been tamped down when her own engagement had ended a few months earlier.

“Miss Hampton?”

The purple silk of the girl’s gown murmured as she crossed the hall. The black lace trim floated in the air, a beautiful but funereal detail insofar as it announced to the room that she didn’t intend to dance.

You must save Rebecca from her grief
. The thought cut through the roiling emotions and memories in the transom of Margaret’s mind. It was another problem without an easy or obvious solution.

The girl dropped to the bench beside her. For the space of a breath, Margaret hoped they could avoid the obvious topic, but then Rebecca said, “Mr. Ward isn’t merely an old friend, is he?”

Had it been so clear? Well, dishonesty was worse than exposure.

“No. He’s not.”

Rebecca settled her hands in her lap. “You understood everything with Emery so well. It takes heartache to know heartache.”

“Ah.” They sat in silence for a long beat. Rebecca wasn’t forcing a confidence. She was not pushing. She was acknowledging the situation. Opening a door.

Margaret sighed and walked through it. “Mr. Ward and I were engaged to be married.”

She really should stop at this. For a week more at least, Rebecca was her student. But the words continued to flow out, impossible to stop now they had begun. “He is a passionate man, but he submits, I think, too much to the desires of others. He … doesn’t achieve moderation. I grew weary of his inner intemperateness and his outward capitulation. It’s a contradiction too great for one man to bear.” Margaret realized she was close to shouting. She had also said too much.