Tomorrow's Dreams

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Tomorrow's Dreams

Heather Cullman

For Madeline Baker,

my RWA big sister and godmother

to my writing career. Because

I'll never be able to tell you in

spoken words just how much your

kindness and generosity

have meant to me.

Sacrifices of the Heart

Such a love can never be.

Better forget me, this cannot be.

—
La Traviata

Chapter 1

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
, 1868

He had to tell her.

Seth Tyler closed his eyes and rested his face against the hansom cab window, letting the rain-chilled glass cool his hot skin. Never had he felt so wretchedly alone, never had he been so afraid. And never had he known such crushing despair.

He choked as burning gall rose in his throat, strangling him with nausea. At that moment he'd have lost the contents of his stomach, had he been able to put anything in it in the first place. He'd been too heartsick to eat so much as a morsel since the Pinkerton agent had revealed the unspeakable truth about his parentage early that morning.

It was that truth he needed to tell Penelope.

But how could he tell her? How could he bear to see her face contort with revulsion when he made his hideous confession? How could he survive the crippling grief of losing her?

And lose her he would, he had no choice. For how could he marry her knowing what he was and what he was destined to become?

As Seth searched for the courage to face his coming ordeal, the wheel of the trundling cab struck a deep pothole at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Irving Place, the same hole hit by every other driver who had driven him to the theater that week. The impact of the sudden lurch caused Seth's cheek to slam painfully against the window glass, warning him of his imminent arrival at the Academy of Music.

Too weary to raise his hand and soothe the soreness from his cheek, he merely opened his eyes and gazed dully at the rain-spattered world outside. Halos of fog from his heated breath misted the glass until the passing structures resembled a gaslit landscape viewed through a gauze-draped stereograph.

The cab slowed to a crawl as it approached the corner of Fourteenth and Irving, the driver jockeying for a place in the long line of carriages and cabs picking up the departing theatergoers. With a lurch the cabby cut in between a coupé and a lagging brougham, drawing a flurry of obscenities from the brougham's driver. Now in line, the cab came to a standstill.

“Penelope Parrish was excellent tonight,” Seth heard a shrill voice announce from a knot of passersby.

“Extraordinary, that gel,” boomed the woman's companion. “A voice like an angel, a face and figure to match. A rarity for an opera singer. Most of them look like worn-out brood mares.” That remark drew squeals of indignation from the women.

Chuckling, the man added, “Mark my words, that gel has a bright future ahead of her. And all I can say to that is a hearty—brava!” As the rain began anew, the group hurried past Seth's cab, their voices fading with distance as they rushed to secure the shelter of their own waiting carriages.

Penelope Parrish. Extraordinary. Beautiful. Talented
. Seth smiled with gentle pride.
His Penelope
.

But not for long
, his conscience warned him.

Something deep inside him snapped at that reminder, and if he hadn't been in such a public place, he would have raised his fist to the heavens and screamed his fury.

He didn't deserve to have his life destroyed like this! Damn it to hell! He'd earned the right to a good life! He'd worked long and fought hard for everything he had. In the process he'd tried to be a good man, and in his own mind he'd succeeded. So why … dear God!… tell him why now, when he'd finally reached the pinnacle of his success and had found a love such as he'd never dreamed possible, was he handed this verdict of damnation?

Seth buried his face into his gloved hands, a sob tearing from his throat. What was he going to do? Grief, raw and violent, bubbled up from deep within, threatening to break through the fragile barrier of his composure at any moment. The most devastating part of his curse was that he was going to lose Penelope. He had no choice … he had to let her go.

His stomach twisted into agonizing knots as Seth contemplated his dismal life without Penelope. She was everything to him. She was his joy in life, his reason to smile. Everything he did, his every financial success, his personal triumph, he did for her, all in his endless quest to be worthy of her. He'd die inside without the nourishment of her love. He'd shrivel up until he was little more than a shell of a man … just like his newly discovered father.

Dear God! Was he truly condemned to share his father's fate? Was he doomed to spend his days bound naked to an asylum wall, despised and ignored, left to die alone? Would his life become a madness-wracked hell on earth from which death would be his only release? This wasn't to be his fate, was it?

But how could he escape it? More damning, more disturbing than the fact that he had been spawned by a madman was the horrifying catalyst that had lead his father to be confined to the asylum: His father had forced himself on his own sister.

And Seth was the cursed offspring of that rape.

So now, knowing of his tainted blood, knowing what he was and what he was doomed to become, how could he, in good conscience, marry Penelope? She was so beautiful and talented; she had such a bright future ahead of her. She deserved a man who had a future as well. A husband who would be there to cheer her on, to share and encourage her in her success; one who would give her children to carry on the legacy of her dazzling gift.

“Sir?”

Seth dropped his hands from his face to stare blankly at the cabby, who was peering at him with an expression of concern.

“You gonna be sick, sir?”

Seth forced himself to smile at the man. “No. Why?”

“We've been sittin' here a long time. The other drivers are gettin' antsy for us to move on.”

Seth glanced out the window, frowning. While he'd been locked in his private hell, the cab had made its way to the front of the line and was now directly in front of the theater doors.

For a long moment Seth watched the throng of departing theatergoers mill beneath the entry portico. Somehow he had to find the courage to cut through that smiling horde, make his way backstage, and tell Penelope the truth.

For one wild instant it was on the tip of his tongue to tell the driver to take him back to his hotel, to say to hell with honor and simply flee without a word of explanation.

But, of course, he couldn't do that. Penelope was waiting for him, expecting him to take her to dinner at Sherry's. She trusted him, and she had a right to hear the truth. She also deserved the privilege of being the one to break their engagement. At least that way she'd be able to salvage her pride.

After paying the driver his fare, Seth strode through the jostling crowd on the sidewalk, past the knots of gossiping theatergoers in the lobby and into the auditorium.

Aside from two musicians, who were at the far end of the orchestra pit packing up their instruments and music, the gaudily gilded theater was as deserted as a barroom on Sunday morning. The crimson plush stage curtains were open, probably to adjust the scenery, and Seth paused to stare up at the impressive setting.

This was the first night since he'd arrived in New York that he'd missed a performance. For a moment he wondered if Penelope had noted his absence … after all, his borrowed seat was in one of the coveted stage boxes, courtesy of his friend and business associate, William C. Schermerhorn. With a faint smile he dismissed the idea. When Penelope was wrapped up in her singing, the rest of the world, save that created by the magic of the opera, ceased to exist for her.

Leaning against the railing in front of him, Seth visualized Penelope on the stage. She was presently performing in Wagner's
The Flying Dutchman
, singing the role of the beautiful, yet doomed, heroine, Senta.

She was magnificent as Senta, but never more so than during those last dramatic moments when she stood on the cliff, her white gown whipping in the wind in the wake of
The Flying Dutchman
's hell-spawned tempest, her voice soaring with heartrending emotion as she sang, “
Hier steh' ich treu dir his zum Tod!
… Here I stand, faithful to you until death!”

Faithful to you until death?
Seth's heart seemed to still in his chest. What if, like Senta, Penelope insisted on sacrificing her life for him? In his self-pitying preoccupation, he hadn't considered the possibility that she might insist on marrying him, despite the overwhelming odds against their future happiness.

That thought was enough to turn his blood to ice. Hell! It was more than just a possibility that she might refuse to break their engagement. Knowing that stubborn woman, it was damn likely. Despite the fact that she'd been rather preoccupied with her career of late, and rightfully so considering her brilliant success, he knew that she loved him. Hadn't she shown him in the most intimate possible way just last night?

So what was he to do? Just the idea of her witnessing his shameful spiral into madness humiliated him beyond all endurance.

Convulsively he grasped on to the pit railing. He had to break their engagement. Now while his pain was still raw and his resolution firm.

But what if she cried? A cold ball of dread lodged deep in his throat at that thought. How was he to hold firm if she grew soft and pleading? How could he say no to her now, when he'd never been able to do so in the past?