The Mistaken Widow

He sat near her feet. “Mrs. Trent sleeps nearby. She can get him.”

“Yes, but I must feed him.”

“Perhaps we could find William a wet nurse.”

“No!”

Surprise brought his head up.

She looked away quickly.

“All right. I was thinking to make things easier for you.”

“That’s taking him away from me. That would not be easier for me.”

“You obviously have strong feelings about this.”

“He’s my son. I have strong feelings for him, certainly.”

“Certainly. He’s all you have left of Stephen. Besides a fortune in stock and investments Stephen left you in his will.”

She met his eyes, and the anguish he thought he read there almost made him sorry he’d said it.

Mrs. Trent returned with a tray, and placed it on the nightstand with a clatter that rattled the cups in their saucers.

“That will be all,” he said to her. “You may retire.”

Censure brought her brows together and she pursed her lips in a line.

“Good night,” Nicholas said deliberately, then poured. “Cream or sugar?”

“Honey, please,” Claire replied softly, with a sideways glance at Mrs. Trent.

The woman slipped into the dressing room where she slept on a narrow bed so she could hear William.

Nicholas stirred a spoonful of sweetener into Claire’s tea, handed her the cup and saucer and poured himself one.

“Call me if you need me, Mrs. Halliday.”

Mrs. Trent stood in the doorway in her robe, the front clenched tightly in her fist.

“Mrs. Halliday will call if she needs you,” he affirmed. Did the senseless woman think he was going to ravish his sister-in-law right here with her son a few feet away and his busybody nursemaid straining to hear?

She disappeared again, and he turned his gaze back to Claire. “You must have learned to favor honey in your tea from Stephen,” he said.

“I’ve always taken my tea with honey.” Noncommittal. Safe. Neither admitting or denying she knew of Stephen’s preferences.

“What were the qualities you appreciated most about Stephen?” he asked, leaving the side of her bed and carrying his cup to the nearby chair, where he sat and balanced it on the arm. He didn’t quite understand his need to press her about her relationship with his brother, but the desire to persist burned in him like a well-stoked fire.

She stared into her tea. “His concern for others. He was a warm, generous man.”

“Generous with Halliday money,” he agreed.

Her lips flattened into a line of displeasure, and she looked up. “When we met, I had no idea that Stephen had resources.”

“No idea, Claire?”

“You didn’t have much respect for your brother, did you?” she asked, taking him by surprise.

“Why do you ask?”

“You thought him foolish enough to marry a woman who was out for his fortune.”

“Are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I denied it.”

Nicholas held his cup by the rim, and considered the truth of her words. “Let’s just say my brother didn’t always make the wisest decisions.”

“The decisions you wanted him to make, in other words.”

He set the cup down, glanced at the waning fire and got up to add a log that should burn most of the night. He was deliberately inciting her. He was grieving for his brother and her presence irritated him, so he baited her.

“How does this new life compare to the one you had in New York?” he asked.

“My life is nothing like it was before. Nor is it anything like I anticipated it being.”

“In what way?”

“In the obvious way. Stephen is gone.”

“He took you to Europe before bringing you to meet his family. Didn’t you think that was odd?”

“Not at all. If you treated him with as much disdain as you treat me, he wouldn’t have had a pleasant start for his honeymoon. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Treat him with disdain.”

He didn’t like anyone turning the tables on him. “Didn’t he tell you all about his family?” he asked.

“No. He didn’t. I didn’t know anything about you until I was almost here.”

“So you just fell head over heels in love with my brother and married him without knowing his background or even whether or not he was capable of taking care of you. Didn’t you wonder how he earned a living? Or if he did?”

“I knew about his plays. They were successful productions in the East.”

“So you thought you were marrying a struggling playwright. Then lo and behold, it turns out his family has made a fortune in the iron industry.”

“I never asked for a cent of your money,” she said, blue eyes flashing. “You’re the one who came for me—who carried me out of that hospital. You’re the one who brought me here. Leda insisted I have the clothing. I’ve accepted everything because she wanted me to have it.”

And as Stephen’s wife, all that was due her. And more. Being rude to Claire wasn’t going to bring Stephen back, and holding her responsible was only a small comfort.

At odds with his resentment was his appreciation of someone to keep his mother’s spirits up and to give her days purpose and pleasure. Claire had been nothing but a comfort and companion for Leda. A fact that ate at him.

“You’re a Halliday now,” he said, turning back to her, “no matter what you were before. No matter why Stephen married you. And that makes you my responsibility. It also gives you responsibilities.”

“And what would those responsibilities be?”

“We’ll discuss that tomorrow. I have a few papers to go over tonight.”

“And a bottle of brandy to finish.”

“If I see fit.”

“I’m sure you’ll see fit.”

“Good night.” He left and closed the door, admiring her for holding her own while at the same he congratulated himself for being right. At last her true colors were bleeding through. She wasn’t the demure little flower she pretended.

Weariness caught up to him. The days had to get easier after this one. He’d thought giving his mother the news of the train crash had been hard. He’d thought identifying Stephen’s body and shipping it home had been difficult. He thought finding Claire alive and making the arrangements for her and the baby had been tiring.

Appearing today before friends and family had taken every last ounce of reserve he had left. Nothing could ever be this difficult again.

Unless of course, it was fighting this sordid attraction to his sister-in-law and sorting through the feelings of betrayal that had come to haunt his nights.

He was testing her, purely and simply. And she was failing miserably because of her total unpreparedness. She didn’t have a clue who Stephen or Claire Halliday were. And since it appeared her stay with the Hallidays was stretching into infinity, she’d better do something about her lack of information. Soon.

She could learn about Stephen from Leda. The woman loved to talk about him, and it would seem only natural to discuss and share their loss.

Claire, however, was another matter. The more Sarah thought about it, the more she became convinced that Nicholas would have had Claire investigated to protect the family’s interests. And if that were so, the results of the investigation were in his office somewhere, probably in that enormous, organized desk. If she could read the report she’d at least have an idea of who she was supposed to be playing. She’d know the same things that Nicholas knew.

She learned from Leda and the servants that he went to the foundry each day, and she formulated a plan.

The next day at supper she invited Leda to come to her room that evening, and when the woman arrived, they sipped tea and played cribbage by the fire.

“Tell me all about Stephen when he was a boy,” Sarah begged.

Leda smiled a forlorn smile. “He was as delightful as a boy as he was as a man,” she said. “He got into his share of mischief, mind you, but he was sweet and loving.”

“What about when he was in school?”

Leda told her story upon story, and as Sarah had hoped, she reflected on something in his adulthood from time to time. Sarah hung on every word, asking questions and joining her laughter and her tears. She felt close to Leda Halliday, closer than she had a right to, and she appreciated the time and the concern that the woman afforded her. Being there for solace and companionship was the least she could do.

She dreaded that one day she would have to tell her the truth and see the anguish her masquerade had wrought.

Once the hour grew late, Leda left for her own quarters, and Sarah prepared for bed.

The doctor arrived early the next morning.

“I think you’re well enough to walk on crutches. You haven’t had any dizzy spells or imbalance?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m feeling well.”

“I suggest you seek assistance on the stairs. We wouldn’t want you to take a tumble and break anything else.”

The following morning Sarah discovered her bottom worked quite well to make her way down the stairs. Sliding her crutches ahead, she slowly, determinedly, made her way to Nicholas’s office. She had only William’s nap time to use. Someone would come looking for her if she wasn’t there when he woke.

Nicholas’s filing cabinets were exceedingly neat and organized, but since she had no idea what Claire’s maiden name had been, the search proved tedious. The top drawers were especially difficult to reach because of the need to balance on one leg and rest often, but after nearly an hour she’d systematically gone through each file and folder without success.

In frustration, she discovered his desk drawers locked, and searched the top of the desk and every nearby surface for a key. Of course it wouldn’t be in plain sight. What would be the point of locking something if the key were readily visible?

William would be awake by now. She would have to discover the whereabouts of the key and return.

Sarah grabbed her crutches and left, sliding the doors closed behind her.

Leda and William took their naps about the same time each afternoon. She would risk less chance of discovery then than in the morning when the maids were cleaning. The following afternoon, Sarah left Mrs. Trent dozing in the rocker beside the crib and made her way along the upstairs hall, checking doors, and investigating rooms.

She recognized Leda’s rooms by merely cracking the door. The scent of violets wafted into the hallway. Sarah closed the door silently and continued her search.

The corridor turned into a separate wing. Sarah hobbled along the hallway, listening for servants, but hearing nothing save the steady muffled clump of her crutches on the carpeted floor.

Massive double doors stood at the end of the hall. Leaning on one crutch, she tested one and it opened.

Maneuvering herself as quickly as possible, she entered and closed the door behind her, noting the maid had already been there, for the bed was made and the chamber conspicuously clean.

The enormous room held a heavy grouping of furniture before a fireplace on one side, a writing desk in the corner, and a massive bed with ornately carved headboard and foot-board on a platform on the opposite side. A matching armoire stood against the wall, and one door led to a dressing room, another to a small, unfurnished room.

Where to start? This was all a waste of time and a foolish risk, especially if Nicholas carried the key with him, which he probably did. But the papers she wanted might be here.

The desk was the most likely place to begin her search. The drawers were unlocked, and unfruitful, occupied by neat stacks of writing paper, pens and ink and an assortment of letters.

Sarah shuffled through them, finding they were all from Stephen. She opened the first one, dated several years previous, and read an account of his experiences at a production in London. The next one related a tale of an interesting woman he’d met in the East, and another the excitement of an opening night for a play he’d been wanting to see in New York.

She replaced all but a few and slipped them into the deep pocket of her skirt. Nicholas wouldn’t miss these, and she would return the remaining missives after she’d learned more about Stephen. The knowledge would be useful when Nicholas tested her again.

The other drawers held nothing of any interest and, disappointed, she headed to the armoire. The scent of freshly starched cotton and linens assailed her. The smell triggered the disturbing memory of being held close against his hard chest, and for a moment the recollection was so strong, she could have sworn he was right there. Guiltily, she looked around, but she was alone.

A unique scent, perhaps something he used on his hair, combined with clean linen and a faint trace of tobacco to represent Nicholas.

Quickly, Sarah went through the drawers, careful not to disturb anything and feeling criminal for going through his private things. The top of the cabinet held a wooden chest. A logical place to keep a key. In one compartment she discovered two roses, one dried, one looking as though he’d placed it there within the past few days. But why? Sarah pulled the dying flower to her nose.

She remembered the flowers heaped upon Stephen’s grave, and the answer came to her. Where had the old brittle one come from, then? The portrait over the fireplace in his office came to mind. His father’s funeral? The sentimentality of the idea seemed incongruous with the stern, untrusting man she knew.

Perhaps a woman had given them to him. She replaced the flower.

A garnet ring in a heavy gold setting, several diamond stickpins, a pocket watch and some gold coins were all she found in the other compartments.

The stand near the bed came next, followed by the drawers in the tables beside the chairs.

A soft gong sounded, and Sarah jumped and glanced around. A clock on the armoire ticked a vigilant accusation. She took her hand from her thumping heart.

This was hopeless. If he wanted to hide a key it could be behind a painting or in any of the hundreds of pockets in his clothing. More and more she leaned toward the theory that it was on his person.

It would be inconvenient for him to come up here to use this desk. And he obviously didn’t keep any kind of business papers in his sleeping area. If he had, they would have been with Stephen’s letters. She would never have access to the key if he carried it with him.

Sarah propped the crutches beneath her arms and prepared to leave. The unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway struck terror into her heart.

As quickly as she could, she hobbled in the opposite direction, in a quandary over where to hide. She passed into the unused room just as one of the huge walnut doors flew open behind her, followed by the sound of Nicholas’s angry cursing.

Chapter Five

Reaching the privacy of his room, Nicholas swore to his heart’s content. He jerked out of his blood-spattered jacket and tossed it over the valet, his shirt following.

The safety of his workers was of supreme importance to him. He’d been working in his office at the foundry when he had heard the emergency bell and run to see what had happened.

Thomas Crane, one of the metal workers, had been injured when a pulley broke loose and struck him. He’d fallen several feet but had been conscious. Nicholas had immediately taken control of the situation, sending for a wagon and stanching the flow of blood from the man’s arm with his own hand while the foreman fashioned a tourniquet.

He’d accompanied Thomas to the physician in town, and waited while the wounds were stitched and dressed and his ribs were wrapped.

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