The Lady of Bolton Hill (14 page)

She pushed the dark thought away and forced a glimmer of light into her voice as she cupped his face between her hands, raised herself on tiptoe, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. “I hope
not
. Just to be contrary.” The way his eyes gleamed when he looked at her, as though she was a precious treasure, made her want to melt in his arms.

“Daniel? Daniel, where are you?” Kate’s voice sounded from the other side of the stands, but Daniel kept her snared in his gaze. A surge of exhilaration pulsed through Clara and she had the irrational wish that she could freeze this moment for all time. “We should probably go,” she said.

“I know.” He made no effort to move, just kept looking at her with that gentle smile playing about his mouth.

Kate was still calling out for her brother. “Daniel Tremain, if you left me here to walk home alone, I’ll smack you all the way to China.”

At last Daniel turned. “Over here, Kate,” he yelled. He turned back to grin down at Clara and whisper in her ear, “If my sister weren’t ten feet away, I’d fling you over my shoulder and carry you off with the worst of intentions.”

“What on earth are you doing down here?” Kate asked as she twisted her way among the pilings.

Daniel straightened and removed the arm from her waist. As Clara replaced her bonnet, she watched in fascination as Daniel’s demeanor shifted from reckless flirt into protective older brother in the space of an instant. As they walked toward the carriage, she savored the delicious knowledge that she was one of the few people in the world who had the privilege of knowing all the sides of Daniel Tremain.

C
lara scrutinized her father’s face as his gaze tracked across the lines she had written, awaiting the first glimmer of either endorsement or dissatisfaction to show on his stern, impassive face. Would there ever come a time when she could function without the approval of the Reverend Lloyd Endicott? No matter how angry she was with him, no matter how many years she had worked as a journalist, she still felt the pathetic need for his approval as he read the article she had written for
The Christian Crusade
. She brought her article here to his study and sat in the exact same spot on the sofa where she had waited for him to review her schoolwork.

Lloyd tossed her pages down on the table and removed his spectacles, his face still wearing that frustrating blank look that was impossible to read. “It’s a good article, Clara. Persuasive, articulate. A little strongly worded, perhaps.”

She raised her brows. “An article should be strongly worded.” Her editor in London had nothing but scorn for “namby-pamby” journalists who were afraid to take a position. Labor relations were on the verge of boiling over once again, and the public needed to be fully informed of the process by which wages were set and work conditions determined. Her access to Alfred Forsythe and Daniel Tremain had given her exclusive insight into two of the most important players in Baltimore.

“Let me rephrase this,” Lloyd said carefully. “I believe you are letting your personal disapproval for Daniel’s actions influence the tone of this article. It is as though you are using this article as an attempt to prompt him to change his ways, rather than inform the public about details relevant to the case.”

“Daniel is not the least bit reluctant to let his enmity toward Alfred Forsythe be public knowledge,” she said. “He is proud of his position. I don’t see how shining light on it is unfair.”

Her father picked up the pages again and scanned through her words. “What about this passage here? You write,
‘Mr. Tremain has withdrawn his company from consideration to become a publicly traded company on the New York Stock Exchange, based solely on his refusal to license his technologies to any company who pays the qualifying fees.’ ”
Lloyd looked up at Clara. He was no longer her father; he was the editor of a newspaper in which she hoped to publish. “Do you know this for a fact, Clara? Surely, there could be a multitude of reasons a man might wish to keep his company in private ownership.”

Clara shook her head. “I know it for a fact. He told me straight out that it was the restriction relating to Forsythe Industries that was the deal breaker. And I know he and his partner could use the money the public stock would bring them. They are both strapped for cash.” Lloyd continued to scan the pages, and the first hint of disapproval registered on his face.

Clara pulled down the pages and leaned forward to speak directly to Lloyd’s face. “Everything I wrote is true,” she said. “Every word of it can be verified. All my instincts are screaming at me that this is a fair evaluation of the state of affairs.”

“But how will Daniel respond to this? Your oldest friend in the world?”

Daniel had always been shockingly blunt with her and appreciated her forthright nature. “Daniel isn’t afraid of the truth. When I couldn’t write fast enough, he even slowed down to let me catch up. He knew I was interviewing him for an article and freely shared all this information. Of course he expects me to use it.”

Lloyd picked up the pages and turned them over and over. “You have years of experience as a journalist, and I’m willing to trust your judgment on this. It will appear in next week’s issue.”

Clara smiled. Next week she would begin to help heal this useless vendetta that had been destroying Daniel’s soul.

Clara pulled a slug from the stem of the clematis vine and dropped it into a can. The vines grew along the fence that bordered the back of her rented townhouse, and Clara wondered how such a delicate vine could support the profusion of violet blooms. She loved these early mornings when she could tend to the vines. Probably some sort of frustrated maternal urge, but it felt right to care for these vines that must have been growing along this fence for decades. Clara straightened the edge of her wide-brimmed straw hat to block the angle of the early morning sun, then turned her attention back to the curling vines climbing the fence.

She heard Daniel before she saw him. Booted feet were slicing through the tall grasses that grew in the side yard. She looked up from the vine and saw his face, white with anger, and his tall frame rigid with tension. Rolled in his hand was the just-released issue of
The Christian Crusade
. Daniel covered the expanse of the lawn in only a few strides, and the way he drew his arm back with the offending paper made Clara fear he was about to strike her with it. Instead, he threw the paper at her, its pages flying as it hit her dress and tumbled to the damp lawn.

She blanched, but was proud of the way she kept the tremor from her voice. “I see you’ve read the article.”

“Is that what you call it?” he bit out. “
An article?
I call it a stab in the throat.”

The fury in his eyes was like nothing she’d ever seen. This wasn’t the Daniel she knew; this was the face of unadulterated rage, and it frightened her. She adjusted the brim of her hat with trembling fingers, anything to give her a moment to gather her scattered thoughts. “I’m sorry you didn’t like it,” she stammered. She backed up a step, but the wall of clematis vines prevented her from putting much space between them. “When you’ve had a few moments to calm down, perhaps we can talk—”

“How dare you, Clara? How dare you attack everything I’ve ever worked for when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth? Every tutor, every book, everything was handed to you, and now you’ve got the gall to attack what I have earned. Why did you do it, Clara? When you realized that you couldn’t be the next Chopin, did you decide to make a name for yourself by becoming the biggest muckraker in journalism?”

She hoped he could not see her trembling, but refused to break eye contact with him. “I didn’t write anything in that article that wasn’t common knowledge.”

Daniel nearly exploded, pushing away from the fence and stalking across the lawn. “You wrote about why we withdrew from the public offering! That was private information and you had no business publishing that!”

“But . . . but, Daniel, you told me all about it that day in your office. You knew I was there to interview you about your company. Did you think I would not use it?” she asked incredulously.

Daniel swallowed hard and for the first time she saw a flicker of uncertainty cross his face. “No, I didn’t know,” he said.

For all Daniel’s genius in the world of technical invention, he had always delegated the business side of affairs to his partner. Daniel remained relatively unsophisticated in the ways of business and journalistic ethics, and it had just gotten him into trouble. And it had been at her hands. Her father had been right; she had betrayed her best friend. She had not intended to, but it was how Daniel viewed her actions, and in truth, she had not been as careful as she should have been. She never considered Daniel’s naïveté in working with journalists.

“I treated that interview just like any of the dozens I have done over the years,” she said cautiously. “I think you treated it as a conversation between friends, but I saw it as a conversation for publication.” Daniel’s hard glare did not soften, but he did not deny her comment, either, and she knew her assessment was correct. Perhaps it was arrogant to believe she had the power to help mend the rift between Daniel and Forsythe, but the damage had been done, and the only way to make anything positive out of this debacle was to keep urging Daniel toward a just resolution of the issue.

“Daniel, you have been very forthright about your determination to ruin Forsythe. You have never failed at anything in your life, and I have every confidence that you will ultimately succeed in driving Forsythe Industries into the dust. Sooner or later you will shut his company down, just like you shut down his college.” It hurt to see Daniel’s smoldering anger directed straight at her, but Clara drew herself to full height and walked toward him, praying she would be capable of penetrating his animosity. “But while you are digging Forsythe’s grave,” she said quietly, “you may as well dig your own because you are
destroying yourself
.”

“I don’t care,” he said ruthlessly. “This is something that’s been driving me for years, and it feels right, Clara.”

“It feels
right
to allow Forsythe’s employees to scrape by on pitiful wages? It feels
right
to destroy a college Forsythe planned to build? Daniel, what kind of man are you?”

Daniel froze, and Clara’s heart nearly broke wide open when she saw the pain her questions caused him. “I’m the kind of man who has always trusted your judgment,” he finally said. “When you were hauled up on charges in England, I never doubted you or spilled poison about you in the press. I just shelled out whatever payment it took to get you the best lawyer in England to fight on your behalf.”

Clara’s eyes widened in astonishment and the breath left her body in a rush. Never had she tried to discover the anonymous benefactor who had arranged for Mr. Townsend’s staggering legal fees, and now that she saw the truth of the matter on Daniel’s face, she wanted to weep. “That was you?” she asked weakly.

“That was me.”

She held her hands outward, palms up in a mute appeal. “Daniel, I don’t know what to say . . . how to thank you . . .”

If anything, her words seemed to make him angrier. “I don’t want your thanks; I want your
loyalty
. I want to know how a woman I idolized more than the sun and the stars rolled together now thinks I am not worthy to be operating a business in this city.”

His face remained shuttered, and Clara scrambled to find some way to reach him before he ruined every bit of goodness in his soul. Nothing she said made a dent in his bitterness. The man who now showered fury down on her head was not the friend she had known all these years. The garden bench was just a few steps away, and she managed to reach it before the strength in her knees gave way. Daniel stood motionless; his face was carved in stone and he looked like a stranger. Daniel always seemed so strong and confident. Was that why she didn’t expect him to be damaged by her actions?

Rather than help mend the situation, her recklessness had thrown oil on the flames of his discontent. The realization left her drained and exhausted. “I wrote that article because I hoped you could see how you’re affecting yourself and thousands of innocent people.” She turned her tortured eyes to him. “I’m sorry for what I did, but I fear you are about to ruin any chance you and I might have for happiness, for a marriage. For children together. None of those things will ever be possible if you pursue this obscene need to punish Forsythe. When Jesus hung on the cross, He forgave the people who crucified Him.”

The moment she said the word
Jesus
, what little tolerance was left in Daniel evaporated. “No preaching, Clara,” he warned.

“I wanted to save you,” she said weakly.

“It didn’t work.”

He turned on his heel and left her sitting among her clematis vines.