Strong and Stubborn (2 page)

“It seems secure and unfrizzled, Mother.” Naomi kept her puzzlement out of her voice—uncertainty signaled vulnerability.

“Are you so secure in your resemblance to me that you presume others will discount your disfigurement? Your father wore his oddity well, but you're a woman. That coloring will mar your crowning glory until old age wipes clean any vanity.”

“All and sundry know of it.” Naomi couldn't fathom why her family persisted in fussing over her hair on today, of all days. The shock of white brightening black began just at her hairline and swept down to her waist. Eight hundred seventy-three strands of pure white amid the darkness—eight hundred seventy-three reminders of the first husband her mother hated too much to forget.

Naomi counted them at age nine as she plucked out each and every one in a desperate attempt to please her mother. Instead she'd been confined to the house for almost a year until the bald spot grew in sufficiently. No concoction brewed by the apothecary, beauty shops, or French maids could darken them beyond dull gray, and she'd long since given up trying to change herself.

“Yes, everyone has seen it, but out of sight, less in mind.” Her mother pulled, twisted, and fluffed the hair to cover the telltale white then viciously stabbed more hairpins to keep the locks in place. “Now that Charlotte is wearing the Blinman ring, none shall mistake the two of you. It's to your advantage now to look your best, and all of Baltimore has turned out here tonight.”

I know.
Naomi closed her eyes against a sharp pain in her skull. Whether it sprang from her situation or her mother's hairdressing, she didn't ponder.
All the pitying glances and inane comments made me slip away in the first place.

“There. Now you're presentable. Back to the party, young lady.”

Naomi knew she should. Knew that walking out the door and joining the celebration with a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye would help quell the gleeful gossips. But she hesitated.
Why run the gamut when I lost the race long before?

Unexpectedly, her reluctance didn't wring a reprimand from her mother. Instead Delilah Higgins gave her eldest daughter a considering look, then crossed the room. Pulling on the axis of the massive standing globe, she revealed a set of cut crystal decanters and tumblers. Without a word, she poured a splash of dark amber liquid into a tumbler and handed the strong spirits to Naomi.

“I realize it's too much to ask that you be happy for your sister's marriage—try instead to be happy in spite of it. At the very least, paste a more convincing smile on your face. You look well enough tonight, otherwise.” Her mother swept toward the doors. “Charlotte wouldn't fly against convention, but for once your stubbornness can serve you well. If you can forget yourself long enough to enjoy tonight, you'll out circle the buzzards yet.”

Naomi gaped at the doors long after they shut. Only the sound of the fire collapsing into the grate startled her. She swirled the mysterious brew in her tumbler, wondering at its strength. Her mother—and society at large—never allowed her more than a glass of watered-down wine with dinner or a weak Madeira punch.

Forget yourself… .
Her mother's advice was tempting. What would it be like to forget the troubles of Naomi Higgins, if only for an evening? What would it be like not to think about the mother who despised the living reminder of her first husband? Not to ruin a conversation by mentioning a fact or opinion about philosophy, history, or even politics? Forgetting that everyone knew the man she'd chosen had chosen her sister instead?

Yes,
Naomi thought as she raised the glass to her lips and gulped its contents. She gasped for a few heartbeats, unable to breathe. The liquid seemed to burn a fiery path of determination straight through her.
It would be quite nice to forget.

Boston, Massachusetts, June 21, 1887

H
ow quickly you seem to forget, Michael.” Althea Bainbridge raised one finely arched gray brow. “I, on the other hand, am blessed with a superior memory.” Her tone indicated all too clearly that she believed herself blessed with superiority in every way.

“I remember.” Mike saw no sense in wasting words on deaf ears. He could tell his mother-in-law just how exceptionally he remembered the deal they'd struck ten years ago. A single decade, after all, wasn't enough to fade the most important day of his life.

Or the worst.

“Then you know I'm right.” Somehow the woman gave the impression of leaning back in satisfaction; something Mike knew couldn't be possible. Althea Bainbridge corseted the bend from her spine and the compromise from her conversation.

“No.” As a matter of fact, the woman couldn't be more wrong.

“No?” Mr. Bainbridge, whose sole function as far as Mike could see was to fund Mrs. Bainbridge's ambitions, made a good parrot. But then again, the man had a lot of practice. Surely his only path to peace lay in agreeing with whatever his shrew of a wife demanded.

“Humbug.” His mother-in-law looked as though she smelled something foul. “Despite the impression you give so readily, Michael, I know you are no fool. You've proven your good sense before. Dredge it back up from the mire you've made of things, and make the right decision.”

Not for the first time, Mike wondered what the indomitable Althea Bainbridge would do if he upended her bone china teapot atop that ridiculous—and obviously ridiculously expensive—wig of hers. But he'd forgo outright fighting with the Bainbridges, for Luke's sake.

“I already have.”

“Excellent.” His mother-in-law looked at him expectantly. When he failed to react, her magnanimous mood vanished. “What are you waiting for? Go fetch the boy and bring him here at once! We've already outfitted the nursery and schoolroom. His new governess and tutors await, and I'll not allow my grandson's fine intellect to be wasted a moment longer. As it stands, it will take years to fix the damage you've undoubtedly done.”

“I said I made the
right
decision. I won't leave my son.”

“He ain't yours.” Bainbridge looked pleased with that brilliant observation until his wife took him to task for letting his “unfortunate” background seep through the veneer of sophistication.

“Not, dear. Lucas
is not
Michael's son.”

“‘Xactly right, my dove.” The man beamed, typically unperturbed by the fact they were discussing his only daughter's disgrace.

“Luke.” It came out louder than he intended, but Mike didn't mind. “His name is Luke, not Lucas. I wrote it on the birth certificate myself.” He'd had to literally yank the paper from his mother-in-law's grasping hands in order to name his son for his grandfather. Mike had been pulling Luke out of her clutches ever since, and today would be the last time. He'd made sure of that.

“I remember that.” His mother-in-law lost her icy composure for long enough to glower at him. “But you will note that I am being gracious enough to overlook your audacity and rectify the error.”

“
Gracious
is the last word I'd use for you.” He allowed some of his rage to show. “Our agreement gave both your daughter and her unborn child the protection of my name. My name,
my son
.”

“Give over, Michael. Lucas bears your name but not your blood. Everyone here knows precisely why you married Leticia, and, more importantly, why our darling lowered herself enough to wed you. Your mother's familial connections combined with your father's unfortunate tendencies toward trade made you a beautifully unknown and marginally acceptable mate in the eyes of society. The marriage maintained Leticia's good reputation, but your usefulness to the family has reached its end.”

She “lowered” herself to wed me because first she laid down for another man
. Mike bit back the caustic words, knowing better than to let the past leach into the present. He'd known the situation when he married Leticia Bainbridge—though he hadn't anticipated the extent of his in-laws' constant interference in his household.

Leticia gained a new last name, quickly enough to squeak past too much gossip when her son emerged eight months after their nuptials. Michael gained money enough to buy whatever care could soften his mother's worsening case of consumption. Mama still passed on, but Michael's marriage bought her a measure of peace. She never knew the bitter truth behind his marriage, praise God.

“You're still wrong.” Michael shook his head. “Leticia's life has ended, but Luke and I continue on. And we'll stay together.”

“Sentimentality doesn't suit you. Think, man. Here Lucas will have every luxury, the best of educations, and more opportunities than you could possibly imagine. If you won't give us our grandson to ease our hearts or your burdens, bring him for his own good.”

“He's already lost his mother.” Though Leticia rarely saw the boy. “It's best for him to keep as much of the familiar as possible.” Having spoken his piece, Mike headed for the door.

“We'll pay you!” Althea Bainbridge's reserve cracked, desperation making her voice shrill. “Whatever you like, however much. You'll take the money—I know you will.
You have to
.” She drew a loud, calming breath, oblivious to the fists now clenched at her son-in-law's sides. “You were bought once before after all.”

“Yes, I was bought once.” Mike didn't bother turning around. “But Luke never will be. My son is worth more than that.”

“Of course. Lucas is worth anything.” She spoke softly, consideringly. “There is no sacrifice too great for his sake.”

Michael decided to ignore the vague threat and continued toward the door. A jarring crash against the far wall stopped him in his tracks. He stared at the shattered remains of Althea Bainbridge's fine Sevres teapot as a cup spiraled across the room to join it, sloshing tea across the Aubusson rug before it, too, smashed to pieces.

“Such a display of temper!” His mother-in-law calmly pitched the cream pot next. Then she surveyed the destruction and gave a smug smile. “I can't imagine what the servants will make of it. But perhaps over the next few days reports will arise as to your unstable and volatile nature, Michael.” She tsked.

Her husband spoke up. “It's only a matter of time before someone in power sees to it that Lucas is removed from your care for his own safety. Our friend Judge Roderick will make sure of it.”

“You've gone mad.” But whether or not she'd lost a few of her marbles, Althea Bainbridge made her point. She had the connections—and the sick determination—to have Luke taken away from him.

“Well, I bore a fondness for that tea set.” A hint of regret clouded her features before her lips thinned with heartless determination. “But, as I said, there's no sacrifice too great for my grandson.”

“I will never allow him to be taken from me.”

“We shall see. Since we both agree Lucas is worth more than your miserable life, you can't imagine what I'm willing to do for him.” Something reptilian flickered in her gaze as she glanced at the shattered china. “Then again, perhaps you can. I was fond of my tea set. It served a purpose. But you? You're no more than a problem—and I have ways of making those disappear.”

This brought things to a new level. Mike could push aside the prospect of a ruined reputation or vague threat— Althea Bainbridge just threatened to have him killed. The idea of being hunted didn't make him fear for himself, but the danger to Luke sent a chill up his spine.

No matter how much I have to give up, how far I have to go, the Bainbridges will never take my son. I won't let him out of my sight
.

San Juan Mountains of the Colorado Territory, July 3, 1887

“Have you seen Lacey?” Naomi couldn't suppress her nervousness over the way her cousin kept flitting away from their company in favor of trailing behind Hope Falls's new hunter. The girl didn't understand that a good reputation was as fragile as spun sugar—and as easily shattered.

“The mercantile with Arla.” Evie Thompson's mention of the sawmill engineer's widowed sister made Naomi relax. “She's drawing up lists of things to order. I don't know who's more anxious for the baby to be born—Lacey or its mother. Lacey keeps saying she needs to know whether it will be a boy or a girl.”

“You know how Lacey loves to shop. Hope Falls may have reduced her options to catalogues, but she'll find what she needs.” And a half-dozen fripperies besides, if Naomi knew the young woman she'd helped raise for the past five years. “Is Cora with them? She and Arla seem to have struck up a friendship.”

“Not that I know of.” A frown crinkled Evie's brow at the mention of her sister. “It seems unlikely she'd go pay Braden a visit, considering the way he's been acting, but I'm guessing you already checked the house.”

“No sign of her there. Would you like to go check the doctor's?” At her friend's nod, Naomi hovered by the door as Evie draped the stained apron over a stool, plopped a lid atop a simmering pot, and banked the fire in her prized cookstove. The two women fell into step as they journeyed toward the doctor's quarters.