Enchanted Afternoon Read online

  She bit her lip, careful not to let on he’d thrown her entire plan into jeopardy. She’d assumed he would side with her against Troy, but now, knowing Michael owed his success to her husband, she feared she had made a horrible mistake in deciding to ask for his help. But after what they’d shared, could he refuse her?

  She wondered if his memories matched hers, or if time and yearning had caused her to embellish the past with her imagination. They had been living in the nation’s capital. Michael was a professor at Georgetown University; she was the daughter of the venerable Senator Franklin Rush Cabot. She had seen no obstacle to loving an impoverished teacher. As a young woman, Helena Cabot had believed in dreams and in the power of the human heart to overcome any obstacle. How could a love like theirs be wrong?

  By being one-sided; she knew that now. The moment she had declared her love to Michael, he received an offer to work as head of the Hudson Valley Institute for Innovation.

  Now she saw Troy’s manipulative hand in her life more clearly than ever. He had contrived to make the professor an offer he couldn’t refuse—the Institute. The new knowledge made her hesitate. The palms of her hands grew slick with sweat, but she forced herself to go on, drawing from a wellspring of reckless courage she’d never realized she possessed.

  “So,” she said in a conversational tone that masked her heartache and apprehension. “You threw me over for the sake of science. Tell me, was it worth it? Did you invent a machine for flying? Find a cure for scarlet fever? Change the world?”

  Though he stood with his back turned, she saw his shoulders stiffen, his neck redden. Slowly, he faced her. “If leaving you spared me from that sharp tongue, then I did indeed make the right choice.”

  He glanced away again, aiming a disinterested stare at the rustic paintings. Then he turned the corner to the facing wall, and she could see his entire body come alert with interest. For a few moments, he was completely engaged by the Degas painting. She expected him to express confusion or distaste the way everyone else did; instead, he said, “This is quite fascinating. Uncanny.”

  She did not want to feel gratified, particularly in the wake of his sarcasm. She ignored the compliment. “So, you traded my heart for a more efficient centrifugal pump,” she said, referring to the Institute’s most commercial invention. “All of humanity will be forever grateful.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?” he demanded. “Did you summon me here hoping I would grovel before you, declare my undying love and eternal regret for what happened, beg your forgiveness and tell you that I have suffered all the tortures of the damned for the past nine years, eight months, twenty-four days and—” he glanced at the clock on the mantel “—six hours and eighteen minutes?”

  She was too shocked to do anything but stare.

  He laughed harshly at her expression and took a step toward her. “Yes, I do remember, Helena. I remember to the exact second the moment I lost you. We were on the stair. I kissed you. Do you remember how I kissed you?” Without warning, he reached out and cupped her cheek, his touch so gentle that she nearly lost her composure. “Ah, Helena. What could we have become?”

  Unbidden emotions crept over her and through her and inside her—that mouth, those clever, inventive hands…The memories were specific and they cut deep. The first time they had made love, he told her the anatomical names for the parts of her body. He explained the natural impulses of arousal and how they could be stimulated in certain ways. He showed her things that made her soar with bliss or weep with emotion or howl with laughter at the absurdity of him, of life, of everything. But he had never shown her the mysteries of his heart. Instead, he’d walked out of her life the moment she needed him most and, apparently, he was about to do it again.

  “Why?” she asked, stepping away from him and willfully severing the moment of connection. “Why would you remember that day so specifically?”

  He gazed at her for a very long time. “You know why. That was the day it became clear to me that I would never be the sort of man who could keep you happy.”

  To cover her true feelings, Helena burst out laughing. “Oh, do tell, Professor. Truly, in your work at the Institute, did you invent such a thing as a balderdash machine?”

  “There is no need for one when the world has you in it,” he snapped.

  They glared at each other in silence for a time. He helped himself to more lemonade.

  She was trying to find a way to make her request to him when he asked, “How is your family, in Georgetown? Your father and sister.”

  She frowned. Was he being sociable? Michael?

  “Abigail married Jamie Calhoun eight years ago January,” she said. “He will start the fall legislative session as Speaker of the House of Representatives. They have two extremely interesting children, and they travel the world. At the moment, they are in Egypt, studying astronomy at the observatory on a mountain called el-Qurn.” She looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps they are on a steamer home by now. I had to send them a telegraph message with some terrible news, but I have no idea if they ever received the wire.”

  When he crossed the room and touched her chin and brought her gaze to his, she remembered why she had once loved him so. He had a way of focusing his entire attention on her and her alone, with a total absorption that made her feel she was the center of the world. It was an illusion, of course, and it was not unique to her. He gave the same attentiveness to mathematical equations. Yet his genuine concern had always contrasted with the fawning looks she received from other suitors. Beauty was the single virtue men focused on, but Michael looked beyond her outward appearance. He was the only one who ever had.

  Unsettled by his touch, she backed away from him.

  “Your father?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over the somber black dress.

  She nodded. Was it only ten days ago that she had taken the steamer to Georgetown to celebrate Independence Day with her father?

  “I feared so,” he confessed, “when I saw the funeral wreath on the door, the black…Sit down, Helena. Tell me.”

  She lowered herself to a dainty settee covered in watered silk, discreetly cradling the injured arm in her lap. For once, she welcomed the stiff support of a boned corset; it was a great help in binding bruised ribs.

  He took the wing chair opposite her. Clearing her throat, she said, “It happened at the July Fourth picnic on the White House lawn. Father was to receive a special medal of commendation for his years of service. It was to have been the greatest day in his career.” Her father was the famous senior senator of Virginia. He’d begun his career as an idealistic young man; then he’d become a bombastic politician and finally a revered elder statesman. In view of an audience of dignitaries, he’d walked up the red carpet to the dais decked in garlands of carnations and bunting in red, white and blue. He’d leaned heavily on his old brass-headed cane, a gift from the late President Grant. The short walk to the dais had seemed endless, but no one made a sound. Out of respect for the guest of honor, everyone watched in breath-held silence.

  Helena had occupied a seat of honor beside her husband, the powerful Senator Barnes from New York. She remembered how handsome and upright Troy had looked that day. How proud to show off his connection to the great gentleman from Virginia.

  Her father’s speech had been brief. He declared his satisfaction with the way his life had unfolded and with his achievement in politics. He was gratified that his two worthy daughters, Helena and Abigail, had married well and were content.

  He had been right about one daughter.

  Helena didn’t blame him for her unhappiness. She had made her own choices. His skills as a parent were far less well-honed than his skills on the Senate floor, but he loved his two daughters in his way. He was not an unqualified success in all he did, though he strove long and diligently for the things he believed in. At that moment, as the president awarded him a medal, Helena had felt nothing but love and pride for her father.

 
She tried to put her thoughts together for Michael Rowan, who sat waiting, ready to listen. When was the last time anyone had actually listened to her?

  She knitted her fingers together. “It was almost like a staged spectacle,” she said, picturing the red carpet and draped bunting, the uniformed attendants and naval guards standing at attention, her father and the president looking as distinguished as graven images. She could still smell the oppressive, funereal scent of carnations and roses.

  “A moment after receiving the medal,” she said, “he was shaking hands with the president, and he—” She stopped and shut her eyes, remembering. Her father died with almost operatic dignity, sinking like a great warship, with such formality that for a moment no one reacted; they were not even certain what they were seeing.

  Helena herself had shattered the spell. She screamed, “Papa!” and sprang forward, breaking through a garland of ribbons. She vaguely heard—and ignored—Troy’s order to quiet down and stay back. He was always so concerned with appearances.

  She was soon to learn just how concerned.

  “By the time I reached him,” she said, “his face had turned a most unnatural color and he was scarcely breathing. We did get to say goodbye,” she said. “We had that chance.” She would never forget his final words, gasped voicelessly through lips that were already blue. “I think I shall see your mother now,” he said. “Keep well.” A simple goodbye from a complicated man.

  She related this to Rowan with the barest hint of a smile. “He issued directives to the end. It was his way.” She drew a long breath, trying to fill the raw, empty hollows inside her. “By the time a doctor arrived, he was gone. I sent a wire to my sister that night.”

  Her husband had quite a different reaction to the tragedy and its aftermath. Even now, she could scarcely believe what had happened, yet every pain-filled breath she took reminded her of the hidden wounds. How had she lived with this man for nine years without knowing what lurked inside him?

  She should have seen it coming; that was so clear from where she was now, looking back. But she’d been blind, perhaps willfully blind to her husband’s hidden resentment. Now she realized his hatred had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, and his secret rage had escalated over the years. A slammed door, a thrown vase, a golf club broken in two…It was easy enough to sweep away the odd incident. Once, after drinking too much champagne at a fund-raiser, he’d grabbed her, shaken her, but she still hadn’t understood, or let herself understand what that temper unleashed could do.

  She disclosed none of this to Michael Rowan. She couldn’t. That incident was frozen, a separate part of a life that could not possibly belong to her. Yet the terror and desperation she hid inside reminded her that, indeed, this was happening to her.

  “My father was laid to rest in a full state funeral,” she said. “Because he was a veteran in the war, he was interred at Arlington National Cemetery. The pomp and ceremony all but undid me. However, it was as grand and formal as my father would’ve liked.”

  Michael Rowan reacted with a long, contemplative silence, and he was so focused on her that his attention nearly took her apart. She had sat through the endless eulogies. She had heard that the nation had lost a treasure, heard that she should be proud and cherish her memories. She had held a folded flag to her chest. She had listened to condolences until she wanted to scream. But no one had looked at her the way Michael was looking at her now.

  Finally, he spoke. “Is that why you wanted me to come? To take your sadness away? I can’t do that.” He regarded her in a way that made her heart hurt and added, “I never could.”

  “The grief is mine to bear,” she stated, holding her emotions in check. “I would not dishonor my father by refusing the burden.” The mantel clock chimed the hour of four, and the sound startled her.

  “Then why—”

  “I need your assistance in a matter of great importance.” The words rushed from her on a wave of desperation.

  “Yes?”

  “I need your help in divorcing my husband.” She held her breath and waited. As the chimes of the clock echoed through the parlor, doubts infested her conviction. She’d made a panic-driven decision. Perhaps she should have thought things through, planned more carefully. But how could one plan for something like this? She stared at Michael, still waiting.

  Nothing. He gave her no response whatsoever, but simply sat there like a rock. She was not certain what she had expected, but surely not this great silence.

  “Well?” she prodded him.

  “I’m trying to figure out what you could possibly expect me to say.”

  “You could start with a yes.”

  “I am a man of science,” he said, “not the law.”

  “You are the man who used to be my lover,” she needlessly reminded him.

  He had the grace to clear his throat, indicating that her remark discomfited him. “I fail to see what this has to do with you divorcing your husband.”

  She fixed an unwavering gaze on him. He was right. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking at all. She’d simply acted. When all the world turned against her, when she’d lost everything, when even her sister was nowhere to be found, she’d turned to the one person she thought she could trust, praying he would help her. Michael Rowan was a stranger now. This was a huge mistake, but it was too late to unsay the words.

  Helena pressed her hands into her lap until her bruised arm throbbed. He was no better than the spineless lawyer she’d consulted in Georgetown. The moment the solicitor had realized who her husband was, he’d declared a divorce impossible and advised her to drop the matter. Helena had left his office, but she’d been more determined than ever. She knew there were women whose husbands beat them regularly, year in and year out. It was hard to believe. Helena had suffered through a single incident; she would tolerate no more. The moment the first blow of his fist had shattered her world, she had vowed to break free. But fulfilling that vow was another matter altogether.

  “You are as dense as ever, Michael,” she said in exasperation. “You see, getting a divorce is quite difficult for a woman to achieve, and so I must make a powerful case for myself. The fact that you and I were lovers is powerful indeed, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Powerful,” he echoed. “And what does your husband have to say about the matter?”

  “He doesn’t know, and he mustn’t be told. Not yet. He’s away on business, so I was hoping that we—you and I—could arrange things before he returns.”

  “Arrange things,” he echoed again, a mocking edge to his voice.

  “The divorce case,” she stated. “You are the proof that I married Troy under false pretenses, don’t you see? I pledged to love him when, in fact, it was you I loved.”

  He was starting to sweat, to take shallow breaths. His alarm came as no surprise. Her declaration of love years ago had literally sent him fleeing for the hinter-lands. Clearly he was just as unsettled by her now.

  But making him uncomfortable wasn’t her purpose. She needed his cooperation. “Don’t worry, Michael. I don’t love you anymore, so you’re safe. But I truly did, once, and that made me a fraudulent bride.”

  “And this only occurred to you now, after nine years.”

  Outside, she heard the sounds of Vandam Square—the clop of hooves in the brick roadway, the voices of children at play. It seemed so strange that the rest of the world carried on, while her own life had taken such an unexpected turn.

  Like many political couples, she and Troy lived apart most of their marriage, she in Saratoga Springs, looking after the house, keeping up appearances. She had always preferred Saratoga Springs to the nation’s capital. Georgetown was a fishbowl, and she was tired of swimming naked in public. Here, she was generally left alone to go about her business. Troy spent his time in Washington, D.C., or Albany, tending to the nation’s business and probably, she now realized, to a bevy of prostitutes.

  “No, I knew it all along. Don’t you remember ho
w I used to love you, Michael? Don’t you—” She caught his thunderous expression and forced herself to stop. This was absurd, she realized, wishing she’d never summoned him. What had she been thinking? What had she hoped to accomplish, bringing him back?

  She knew. In her heart, she knew. When her father had died, she’d been left completely on her own, and she’d panicked. Her sister was half a world away, her husband a despised stranger, her acquaintances remote and untrustworthy. Stripped of everything, she’d acted out of instinct, like a wounded animal. And instinct had led her to contact Michael, the only man she’d ever loved, the only man who made her feel safe.

  Unfortunately, Michael was still Michael—unwilling to compromise his own heart.

  She decided to offer one last attempt. “My point is, bearing false witness is unlawful, and therefore it should be equally unlawful to wed with a lie in one’s heart.”

  “Believe me, if that was the case, half the couples in America would be divorced.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He stood abruptly. “There’s nothing to discuss, Helena. Only you would think of calling upon a former lover in order to help you get a divorce. Your madcap logic is as entertaining as ever, but I’m not interested in your schemes.”

  “It’s no scheme, Michael.”

  “Oh, no? Now that your father’s gone, you don’t have to behave yourself anymore. Is that it?”

  “How dare you.”

  “How dare you. Damn it, Helena, you broke nine years of silence because you finally decided you need me to help you get rid of a boring husband. I’m sorry you’ve grown tired of the fellow, but it’s not my job to help you out of a trap of your own making.”

  “You encouraged me to marry another,” she reminded him.

  “I didn’t hold a gun to your head, darling. Good day.”

  She watched him stride to the door, her heart sinking deeper with every step he took. A trap of your own making. She had done exactly that. She had welcomed Troy as a suitor, had wed him after much calculation and scheming. She could not have known the true nature of the man she married.