Judith Stacy (15 page)

A
fter a second day of squiring Aunt Rosa around town, traveling to the ocean and taking in an orange grove, Jana had to press her lips together to keep from cheering when the woman announced at supper that she planned to be on her way the following morning.

“So soon?” Jana asked, trying not to sound excited at the news.

She glanced at Brandon, seated at the far end of the dining table. His expression gave away nothing. Jana had been surprised that he’d spent every moment these past two days with her and his aunt—shopping, driving around in circles, eating delicate sandwiches and sipping tea at restaurants. He hadn’t seemed all that close to his aunt, or any of his family, for that matter.

Was he glad she intended to leave because he’d tired of playing the good host, the dutiful nephew? Was he anxious to get back to his office?

Or was it something more? With Brandon, Jana could never be sure.

“I’m off to San Diego,” Aunt Rosa said. “Meeting friends there, you know.”

“And where to after that?” Brandon asked.

Aunt Rosa’s wrinkled brow pulled together. “Somewhere in California, I think.”

Jana and Brandon exchanged a look. Aunt Rosa was a trifle difficult to deal with, at times, but at her age that was to be expected. During this past year, one thing Jana had discovered she possessed an unceasing supply of was patience. It pleased her to see that Brandon seemed to have the same—at least where his aunt was concerned.

They finished supper, then retired to the sitting room. Aunt Rosa chatted about the friends she planned to meet in San Diego, how she’d met them, when and where. Jana didn’t know the people and Brandon didn’t seem to know them either, but they let her talk.

“I’d better retire for the evening,” Jana said, after a while.

“Well, yes, of course,” Aunt Rosa said. “I suppose I should retire as well.”

“Good night, then,” Jana said and left the room, leaving Brandon to escort his aunt upstairs.

When she got to her bedchamber, Jana’s routine was much the same as the night before. A hot bath, a fresh gown and robe. She wiped steam from the bathroom
mirror and studied her reflection. Damp and dewy, her hair up, a few tendrils curling around her neck. Pink cheeks. Moist lips.

Was this the look of a woman who expected to find her husband waiting in her bedchamber?

Last night. Brandon seated at her vanity table. It had been so long since she’d seen him there, strong and sturdy among her delicate, feminine things.

Would he be there again tonight?

Jana pushed the thought—and the little surge of emotion—away and admonished herself. She didn’t want Brandon in her bedchamber.

But when she stepped out of her dressing room and saw the empty vanity bench, her heart sank. Disappointment settled in her stomach, and she—

“Enjoy your bath?”

She whirled at the sound of his voice and saw him lying on her bed. Stretched out, propped up on a stack of pillows, his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed, he watched her.

Jana’s heart fluttered. “What are you doing in here?”

His gaze caressed her for a moment. “I like seeing you right after your bath. Remember, Jana? Those first three months together? You’d let me brush your hair. Did you like that about us?”

Yes, she remembered. Jana’s heart beat a little harder at the recollection. Yet she couldn’t tell him how much she had enjoyed those times with him. It would be too cruel…giving him false hope.

“I take it,” Jana said, changing the subject, “that your aunt is loose in the house, spying on us.”

“I’m sure she is,” Brandon said. “But I’m here tonight for something else.”

Just what that
something else
might be sprang up between them. Jana’s breath caught. Brandon sat up on the bed.

“I wanted to thank you for being such a gracious hostess to my aunt,” he said.

Jana relaxed a little at this safe topic of conversation.

“I enjoyed her visit. She’s a little trying, at times, but who isn’t?” Jana said. “Besides, she’s the only member of your family I’ve ever met.”

She thought he might speak up, volunteer something about his relatives in New York, but he didn’t.

“So,” Brandon said. “Thank you. It was a difficult two days.”

“Two days and you didn’t go to your office once,” Jana said, shaking her head in awe. “I don’t remember you ever taking even one day off from your work.”

“Yeah. That was damn stupid of me.”

His admission startled her. So did the sincerity in his gaze when he looked up at her.

“I did a lot of stupid things. Most of them involved you,” he said.

“When I was in London, I thought of you every day.”

The confession slipped out before Jana realized what she was saying. But it was true. She’d thought of him because she carried his child. Because she was con
fused and didn’t know what to do. Because she couldn’t bear facing the same sort of life with him if she returned home.

Because she feared he’d take her baby from her.

Surprise showed on Brandon’s face at her unexpected admission. He rose from the bed, but didn’t come any closer.

“I daydreamed that I’d find myself standing at a window,” Jana went on, “and suddenly, you’d appear. You’d leap from a carriage, charge up the stairs and take me into your arms, begging for forgiveness. You’d confess that you couldn’t live without me and plead with me to return home with you.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, a pained expression on his face.

Jana wasn’t sure if it was the memory of his complacency that troubled him, or something else.

Brandon took a step toward her. “I wanted you to come back, Jana. But I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” she asked.

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to tell her something, then turned away, no longer meeting her gaze.

She fought the urge to go to him, comfort him, find a way to ease whatever troubled him.

“It was all my fault,” she said at last. “I was the one who left. I accepted the consequences of my actions.”

They were quiet for a long while, just looking at each other, both lost in thought.

“So what happens next?” Brandon proposed.

Jana shrugged, knowing what she should say—that
her deception dictated that she must leave again. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

Or was it that she couldn’t fully accept it herself? Did some tiny part of her cling to the hope that somehow, despite everything that had happened between them, everything that she’d done, their problems might work out?

Yet could she really expect him to forgive her? Could any man? And did she have a right to ask for his forgiveness?

“We still have some time left,” Jana said. “Our four weeks isn’t up.”

“So there’s still hope?”

“There’s always hope,” she said. But Jana didn’t know how well it would hold up in the face of reality.

From the look on Brandon’s face, he shared her unspoken opinion. He walked to the door, then stopped and looked back.

“There must have been something you liked about us, Jana,” he said, his voice almost a plea. “Something, surely…”

A lump of emotion rose in her throat. “Good night, Brandon,” she whispered.

He left.

The commotion in the foyer proved worse at Aunt Rosa’s departure than during her arrival. Her mountain of luggage had nearly doubled due to all the shopping she’d done. Two servants carried piece after piece outside to be loaded into the waiting carriage, while other
servants brought more from upstairs. Charles directed their work while Aunt Rosa’s maid fretted in the corner. Charlotte went outside to oversee the packing.

Aunt Rosa stopped at the edge of the foyer. “Where
did
all this luggage come from? Charlotte!”

“These are all yours, Aunt Rosa,” Brandon assured her.

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Rosa said, latching on to Jana’s arm. “I’m afraid my maid has packed some of your things. Charlotte!”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Jana told her. “Remember? You and I went shop—”

“Charlotte!”

“You and I shopped,” Jana said, trying again. “You bought gifts for—”

“Charlotte! Where is that girl? There’s been a terrible mistake here. Charlotte!”

Concerned now because Aunt Rosa seemed to be genuinely troubled, Jana cast a pleading look at Brandon. He touched his aunt’s shoulder gently.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get Charlotte. Don’t worry, Aunt Rosa. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Oh yes, well, thank you, dear,” she said, quieting as he headed out the front door. She looked up at Jana. “He’s such a wonderful boy.”

Jana smiled. “That’s true.”

“And so lucky to have found a fine wife like you, Hannah.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Jana told her, as a pang of guilt stabbed her stomach.

“We were all so worried about him,” Aunt Rosa went on. “The trauma, you know.”

“About his parents?” Jana asked, realizing suddenly that this was the first time since her arrival that she’d been alone with Aunt Rosa.

The woman shuddered. “It was all so unseemly.”

“The death of Brandon’s parents?”

“A scandal, really.” Aunt Rosa pursed her lips together distastefully. “Of course, no one expected anything of Holly, really.”

“Who’s Holly?”

“Brandon’s mother. And in that regard, she didn’t disappoint. But after what happened in Europe…” Aunt Rosa’s eyes widened. “Charlotte!”

“Charlotte’s coming. What happened in Europe?” Jana asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

“Well, of course, none of us
knew
. Had we known… But to find out from an
outsider
.” Aunt Rosa leaned closer to Jana. “She presented herself to be a woman of breeding, but everyone of substance knew Leona Riley was an opportunist.”

“Leona?” Jana’s heart rose in her throat. “Leona Albright?”

Aunt Rosa shrugged as if she hadn’t heard the question. “In Europe, on her second marriage by then, so I understand. And there was Brandon. A child. Only ten years old.”

Jana touched her hand to her forehead. “I—I don’t understand what you’re saying, Aunt Rosa.”

“Some liberties simply should not be taken,” she replied. “Charlotte! Where is that girl?”

“Brandon is getting her,” Jana said. “You were telling me something that happened with Brandon in Europe? With Leona?”

“I was?” Aunt Rosa frowned. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, my dear, it was a family situation and should have been dealt with as such. Leona had no business—”

“All set.” Brandon’s voice boomed as he walked through the front door.

Jana gasped. Her gaze flew to him. He stopped abruptly, reading her horrified expression.

Good gracious, what was Aunt Rosa trying to tell her? A family scandal? Involving Brandon—and Leona Albright?

Brandon turned to Aunt Rosa, ignoring Jana.

“Everything’s ready,” he said, taking his aunt’s arm.

Jana trailed behind, responding automatically to Aunt Rosa’s thanks. She watched from the doorway as Brandon helped the woman into the carriage, slammed the door and waved as they pulled away.

Seeing him standing in the drive watching the carriage for so long, Jana realized there was a reason Brandon hadn’t gone to work these past two days, and it wasn’t because he wished to visit with his aunt.

He didn’t want his aunt and Jana to be alone together.

And when he’d walked into the house just now and seen the expression on Jana’s face, he knew that in those short minutes, Aunt Rosa had told her something Brandon didn’t want her to know.

He seldom spoke of his family and had led Jana to believe the memories were too painful to speak of. Perhaps they were. But something more had happened.

Why wouldn’t Brandon tell her?

And why had she been such a poor wife that she’d never asked?

T
he sway of the carriage, the familiar route, certainty about what awaited him, soothed Brandon as he headed toward his office in the Bradbury Building. Like a workhorse returned to the field, the sameness of the situation comforted him.

He’d been away from the office for two days, returning now midmorning on the third. His instructions to his secretary had been heeded. No interruptions. No matter what. Mr. Perkins was a stickler for obeying directives. Two days gone, and Brandon was anxious to return, catch up on things, head off any problems, though he couldn’t imagine that anything catastrophic could have happened during his short absence.

Not that taking the two days off had done him any good, in the end. All his efforts, staying home, playing host, gallivanting around the city might have been for naught. Aunt Rosa had told Jana something just before
she left this morning; he saw it in her eyes. Brandon didn’t know what, exactly, but he could imagine. He’d left the house as soon as Aunt Rosa’s carriage pulled away, giving Jana no chance to ask him anything.

Jana… Brandon leaned his elbow against the carriage window and gazed out at the passing buildings, yet not seeing any of them. Jana consumed his thoughts, his sleep, every waking moment.

Last night he had almost convinced himself not to go to her bedchamber. He didn’t trust himself to be alone with her. If he touched her again—even her feet—he might give in to temptation.

And he hadn’t been able to come up with a better plan to win her heart. Every time he thought about her, his brain shut down and other body parts started working double-time.

A cold chill passed over him, an old ache he’d experienced too many times already.

Jana was going to leave him.

Again.

He knew it.

Brandon swore a mumbled oath. He couldn’t let her go. He
couldn’t
bear the thought. Some way, somehow, he had to show her that staying with him was the right thing to do. Right for both of them. But how could he reach her? Convince her to stay?

He blew out a heavy breath, pushing the thought to a far corner of his mind with considerable effort. He was going to his office now. A place where he’d always been
comfortable, where he knew exactly what was happening and why. He controlled things there. He’d have some normalcy in his life.

As soon as he got to his office.

“Mr. Sayer!”

His secretary leaped to his feet the minute Brandon opened the outer office door, freezing him in midstep.

“Leave! You’ve got to leave! Quickly!” Mr. Perkins declared, rounding the deck and rushing toward him.

“What the devil’s gotten into you, Perkins?” Brandon asked. He’d never seen the man in such a snit. Eyes bulging, hands waving, white as a sheet.

“It’s not safe here.
You’re
not safe.” The elderly secretary caught Brandon’s arm and urged him back out the door. In the office adjoining Mr. Perkins’s reception area, Brandon saw his other clerical workers turn worried faces his way.

“What the hell…?”

Afraid Perkins might have a stroke, Brandon stepped out into the corridor.

Sunlight shone through the Bradbury’s infamous glass ceiling overhead. Offices opened onto an interior balcony that stretched the width of all five of the building’s floors. Marble staircases at either end boasted ornately designed railings of wrought iron and polished wood. The walls were gleaming yellow brick. Two birdcage elevators rose toward the roof.

“Get a hold of yourself, man,” Brandon said. “What’s this all about?”

Perkins clamped his hands onto the door casings, bracing himself, and jerked his gaze left, then right toward the dual staircases.

“It’s clear now,” Perkins said, in a low, frantic voice. “But you should use the back stairs, just in case.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on here,” Brandon told him, struggling to hold on to his patience.

“They were here yesterday. Then again this morning. They insisted—
insisted
—that they be allowed to speak with you.” Perkins drew himself up. “But I held firm, Mr. Sayer. I did just as you said. I told them you couldn’t be disturbed.”

“Who wanted to see me?”

“Then this morning,
another
group of them showed up,” Perkins said, his voice rising.

“Who?”

“Women!”

Brandon eased back. “Women?”

“Three of them had on
trousers!
In public! Right here in this very building! In this office! At my desk!
Trousers!
”

Brandon gave the little man a shake. “Calm down, Perkins. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re telling me.”

He gasped and drew in a quick breath. “The women—a dozen, at least, of those progressive, mod
ern women—came here, ranting on and on about how it was high time a man rose to the moment, faced the future and showcased the need for social change.”

“Who were they talking about?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“They went on and on about how you’re championing the rights of women, advising them on how to break the chains of oppression, freeing them from the drudgery of cooking and cleaning, opening new opportunities for downtrodden women in the city.”

Brandon just stared at Perkins. He’d explained himself, yet Brandon still didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was talking about.

“It’s the newspaper, sir,” Perkins declared, as if reading his thoughts. “The
Messenger
. It’s been running articles for three days now and—”

Perkins froze, his gaze darting up and down the hallway once more. “They’re back. That bunch from yesterday. I hear them coming.”

Brandon, too, heard the rustle of skirts, the murmur of women’s voices and the shuffle of shoes rising from the staircase at the west end of the building.

Perkins pushed up his chin and stepped in front of Brandon, spreading his arms. “Run, Mr. Sayer. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“Christ…” Brandon gently hustled Mr. Perkins back into the office. But when he saw the women reach the top of the stairs, he steeled himself.

A dozen women—none under the age of forty—steamed toward him. Big hats, and bigger hips. Each wore a scowl and clutched a rolled-up newspaper.

“Ah-ha!” The woman in the lead—Mrs. Fitzpatrick, if he wasn’t mistaken, a pillar of the First Methodist Church off Central Square—pointed her newspaper at him and picked up the pace. The others clipped along behind her.

Brandon fell back a step.

“Mr. Sayer. There you are.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick planted herself in front of him and the other women fanned out in a semicircle, hemming him against the wall.

“This is an outrage,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick declared, holding up the newspaper as if it was a hammer and she was ready—and anxious—to strike a blow. “Decent, God-fearing, church-going people will not tolerate these sorts of actions from you, Mr. Sayer.”

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Brandon said, glancing uneasily at the women, “I don’t understand—”

“You don’t understand? You don’t understand why your Ask Mrs. Avery column is a scandal?” she demanded.

“My—what?”

“It’s a disgrace, an affront to the decent people of this city.”

A murmur went through the crowd of women.

“We’re appalled, Mr. Sayer, by this unseemly advice given out by your Mrs. Avery,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick told him, shaking the newspaper. “Addressing the subject of adultery. Unchristian-like behavior. Appealing to baser instincts. It’s shameful.”

“I—”

“Who is this woman? This Mrs. Avery?”

Brandon didn’t know, but he sure as hell intended to find out.

“I understand your concerns,” he said contritely, nodding to all the women pressing in around him. He’d say most anything to send them on their way so he could get to the bottom of this. “As the owner of the newspaper, I assure each and every one of you that I will look into the matter immediately.”

“See that you do.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick stormed away, the other women giving him one final scathing glare before following.

Brandon pressed his palm to his forehead. Christ, what had happened in the two days he’d been away. And what the hell was Fisk up to at the
Messenger
? He intended to find out.

But as he headed toward the stairway, office doors opened and out stepped several businessmen, all of them Brandon knew. He suspected they’d been hiding in their offices until the women left.

Not that he blamed them.

“See here now, Sayer,” Owen Franklin said. “We’ve got no problem with you pulling that newspaper of yours out of the red.”

Around him, heads nodded.

“But hell, man, what are you thinking running those sorts of articles in the
Messenger?
” Franklin demanded. “What are you trying to do to us?”

“After reading your newspaper, my wife is wanting to know how much money I have,” another man called out.

“Mine, too,” someone else said. “And she wants a say in where it’s spent.”

“Mine thinks she should have money of her own,” a man near the back called out.

“Rayburn down at the California Bank and Trust told me that yesterday two women came in demanding an accounting of their husbands’ money,” someone else added.

A round of grumbles went through the gathering.

“We can’t have this sort of thing going on,” Franklin said. “Women walking into our banks. Asking about finances? Hell, what will they want next?”

A chorus of agreement rose from the men

“You’d better do something about this, Sayer,” Franklin told him. “And fast.”

With a few departing cold stares, the men moved back down the hallway into their own offices. One remained. Noah Carmichael. Brandon hadn’t noticed him in the group.

“How the hell could you do this, Brandon?” Noah asked, holding a copy of the newspaper. He sounded hurt and confused and angry. “We’re supposed to be partners.”

Brandon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Noah.”

“Where have you been for the last two days? Your newspaper is the talk of the city. Fisk says the presses haven’t stopped rolling. The newsboys are frantic.
There’s a line outside the newspaper building, waiting for the latest edition. Fisk can barely keep up with the demand.”

“Because of a few articles?” Brandon asked. It hardly seemed possible.

“Our Jennings project is ruined,” Noah said, his words cold and empty.

Brandon’s stomach clenched. “Christ…”

“We’ve accepted lease fees, shelled out money for architects and construction crews,” Noah told him. “I’ll lose a fortune on this deal. Not to mention the blow to my business reputation.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” Brandon said. “I promise you that.”

But Noah wouldn’t let it go so easily. “I’ve got a wife, Brandon, and a baby on the way. How could you do this to me?”

“Noah, I—”

But he didn’t wait for an answer. Noah slapped the newspaper against Brandon’s chest, walked back into his office and slammed the door.

Brandon stood in the silent hallway, stunned. He looked down at the newspaper Noah had thrust at him.

How could a few articles and an advice column—all aimed at women, apparently—cause such a stir among so many people? Raise the ire of the ladies of the First Methodist Church to the point of frightening poor old Mr. Perkins? Worry his business associates that their wives might actually want a say in their finances?

And turn his friend against him.

Brandon opened the newspaper and read the articles.

“Holy…”

He gulped, then turned to the Ask Mrs. Avery advice column.

“Dammit…” When he got his hands on Oliver Fisk, he was going to kill him.

Brandon headed for the staircase.