Love, Come to Me

  “Why are you talking about him?” Lucy demanded, her nerves strung to the breaking point. “I’m the one who’s in trouble—”

  “Let me talk,” Lucas interrupted, his expression turning harsh even though his voice remained calm. She subsided quickly, staring down at her plate and wrapping her arms around her middle. “Mr. Brooks stopped by the store this morning. He told me that his wife and little girl wouldn’t do business here as long as you were working behind the counter, because of the kind of influence you might have on them. Other people feel the same way, Lucy—”

  “Then I simply won’t work in the store anymore.”

  “They’ll still hold it against me. Business is going to stay slow until you get married and become respectable again.”

  “They have no right to judge me!”

  “That’s true. But they’re going to, just the same. And what you’ve done, Lucy, has hurt me and my store just as much as it’s hurt your reputation.”

  “You must hate me now,” she whispered, wishing that she was a little girl again, wishing he could make her troubles disappear as he once had been able to. Oh, for the times when her problems could be solved with a few words of advice, or a dollar bill, or a piece of candy!

  “I don’t hate you. I’m disappointed in you. And mostly I’m concerned about what you’re going to do now. Even if Daniel still wants you, his family will never accept you. They set a big store by reputations.”

  “That’s fine,” Lucy said dully. “I’ll just be an old maid like Abigail Collier. I’ll just live here with you.”

  “Lucy.” For a second he didn’t seem to know what to say. Then he cleared his throat quietly. “If you stay here with me, my business will get worse. I can’t afford that kind of loss.”

  “Are you serious?” she demanded, shooting up from the table with new energy and wiping her eyes angrily. “Has what I’ve done been that bad? That terrible?” He said nothing. His expression closed. The lines around his mouth and nose cut deeply. Lucy sat down slowly. Her face felt stiff and cold, as if it had been chiseled out of stone. He was using the store as an excuse. His disapproval of her was so great that he didn’t want her with him anymore. He did not want to have to stand by a daughter with a blackened reputation. She had never felt so alone. “You’re saying I can’t stay here with you,” she said slowly. “Then where . . . what . . . what will I do?”

  “We can try to find someone from your mother’s family in New York to take you in, though I doubt we’ll be able to. She cut herself off from all of them when she married me instead of her cousin. Or you could live with your aunt and uncle in Connecticut.”

  “Oh no,” Lucy breathed, shaking her head. “Their house is so tiny, and they can’t afford . . . oh, that wouldn’t work at all. And I’m fond of them, but they’re so . . . strict . . .” She trailed off as her father looked at her regretfully.

  “You could have done with a stricter upbringing,” he said. “I’ve done wrong by spoiling you so much. I see that now. But you’re my only child, and for your mother’s sake I didn’t want to deny you anything—”

  “Please don’t talk about her,” Lucy choked, turning her back to him and burying her face in a handkerchief.

  “There’s one more choice,” Lucas said, and hesitated a long time before continuing. “You could marry Mr. Rayne.”

  Lucy spun around and stared at him, stunned. “What did you say?”

  “He came by to see me not two hours ago and offered to make you his wife.”

  “You’d . . . you’d marry me off to a Confederate?”

  “He said he could provide for you. I believe him.”

  The breath left her body. For a moment all the rich promise, all the happy anticipation of being Daniel Collier’s wife hung before her. They would have been the most handsome young people in town, popular and admired, with just enough money to go to dinners and plays in Boston; invited to the nicest parties; accepted in the oldest and most respected circles in Concord. All of that would never be hers now. And as Heath Rayne’s wife? They would all look down on her, and Sally would be so sympathetic and sorry for her, and she would have to be humble and self-effacing for years before she was forgiven for having defiled herself with a Southerner.

  “No, I won’t,” she said in a near panic. “You can’t make me marry him, you can’t force me to—”

  “Of course I won’t force you,” Lucas said.

  “Then tell him no. I don’t ever want to talk to him again. Tell him that I don’t want to be his wife, and I would never—”

  “I told him we’d wait a few days before giving him an answer. Wait, Lucy, and think about what you’re going to do. I don’t think you realize yet what things are going to be like for you from now on.”

  It took less than twelve hours for the news to spread all over town. Best friend or not, it seemed that Sally hadn’t been able to keep her mouth closed about it. Lucy took to hiding in the house, for every time she ventured outside she was met with cold stares, or avidly curious ones, or worst of all, pitying ones. She was snubbed so many times that she started to expect it instead of being surprised by it. People who had known her all of her life and had always been friendly and kind to her now ignored her, as if she had committed some hideous crime. She had never dreamed how awful it would be.

  From Daniel there was no word, and Lucy was tormented by sleepless nights of wondering what he thought of her. It wasn’t possible, she told herself, that he felt nothing for her, not if he had once loved her so much. Perhaps she could make him understand, as no one else seemed to want to understand, that she was still untouched; but was that really what the scandal was about? She came to realize during the next few days that people weren’t stirred up about the question of whether or not she was still innocent. No, it was the fact that she had been caught with a man from the South. Old wounds had not begun to heal, and it was too soon after the war for Lucy to be forgiven for what she had done. No one dared to come out and say it, but they all felt that she was a traitor, and that was why they treated her like one.

  After nearly a week had gone by, her father treated her to a long lecture about making a decision. Even though it was an unusually cool night, Lucy ran out of the house without a bonnet or a shawl, her face distraught and pale. Before she had time to think about what she was doing, she found herself on the doorstep of the Collier home.

  Nancy, an Irish maid with bright green eyes and black hair, let her into the house and showed her to the parlor. Lucy sat alone in the serene room, surrounded by stately mahogany furniture. Her eyes were fixed on the closed door; behind which she could hear the subdued murmurings of the Collier family. Finally Daniel came in, closing the door firmly behind him. It was of some comfort to Lucy to see that he looked as white and strained as she was. His brown eyes, so dear, so familiar, were dark and opaque.

  “I had to come here,” she said, her voice trembling. “I had to talk to you.”

  He sat down on the other end of the sofa, his body stiffly set. “You’ve always known me pretty well,” he murmured. “I think you know how I feel about all of this.”

  “Daniel,” she whispered, rigid with fear, “it’s easy to love someone in good times, when everything is all right and there aren’t any problems . . . but real love . . . what I thought we had . . . real love is there when you really need it, when everything is so . . . horrible, and . . .” Suddenly she broke down and burst into violent tears. Daniel did not move. “Please don’t punish me any longer,” she cried. “It was a terrible mistake, but I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I’ll do anything you say, whatever you say, for the rest of my life . . . oh God, I need you so much . . . I need you to hold me . . . please, please forgive me . . .” She begged in that unfamiliar, broken voice until she felt his hands on her shoulders. At his touch she sobbed and tried to hurl herself against his body in overwhelmed relief—but his arms locked and he held her apart from himself.

  “I’m sorry for you,” he said. There
was something dead in his gaze. His voice was terribly cool. “I’m sorry for what you did to us, and what you’ve done to yourself. But I won’t marry you out of pity alone, and that’s all I feel for you now. I wanted you before, when I thought you were . . . a certain kind of person. But I don’t want the woman you’ve become. I’m sorry.”

  Even through her agony she heard the finality in his tone. There would be no arguing. There would be no forgiveness. Slowly Lucy pulled away from him and stood up on trembling legs. He stood up as well, reaching out automatically as she swayed. “Don’t touch me,” she said. They were both shocked at the thin, feral sound of her voice. “Keep your pity. I don’t need it.” Unsteadily she backed away from him, then fled the house as if possessed by demons. There was only one place to go now. Her mind was filled with silent, feverish chattering as she focused on her destination.

  Heath appeared at the doorway of the small house as she rode up on Dapper, a small mare her father had given her a long time ago. Heath didn’t show a bit of surprise at the fact that she was there, and he made no comment about her being alone. There was a certain freedom in her position of disgrace, Lucy realized. No matter what she did now, eyebrows could not raise any higher and tongues couldn’t wag any faster. As she walked into the house and sat down in a chair before the fire, her desperation fled, leaving behind a blessed, numbing coldness that served to douse the shame and torment that had burned so steadily for a week. Wordlessly Heath sat across from her. She felt his eyes, assessing and calm, on her; and she lifted her face defiantly.

  A mere week had wrought tremendous changes in her, more changes than she would have gone through in her whole lifetime had she never met him. She had lost weight and the soft splendor of her figure was reduced to a more compact slenderness. Despite the puffiness from crying, her face was noticeably thinner. The sweetly rounded cheeks were gone, making her stubborn jawline more noticeable and her cheekbones more prominent. Her hazel eyes now gleamed with a hardness that was a far cry from their former vulnerability. The slanting determination of her eyebrows was more striking than ever, and the childish look had left her forever, to be replaced by something far more arresting.

  “I’d like something to drink,” she said, noticing abstractedly that her voice was no longer so choked and tight. She felt better already, as if coming here had given her the control she had lacked before. Knowing exactly what kind of drink she meant, Heath rose to his feet and returned shortly with a small draft of whiskey. Lucy took a sip and tightened her fingers around the glass as the liquid seared down her insides. Strange—how she could feel it burning, even though the ice inside her had not melted. “I’ve been frozen out by the entire town this week,” she said bitterly, taking another sip and coughing from the sharpness of it. “Everyone I know has managed to get a cut in one way or the other. My father told me that I couldn’t live with him any longer. The business . . . you understand.” She didn’t mention Daniel. The fact that she was here made what had transpired with Daniel obvious. “You told me once that hell was a cold place. You were right.”

  Heath remained silent, picking up a poker and shifting a log in the fire to fit over the blaze more comfortably. The light shone on one side of his face, leaving the other side with the scar in darkness. He kept his expression blank, unwilling to reveal his thoughts to her. He knew that somewhere under Lucy’s defeated exterior there had to be a huge load of anger, and probably no small amount of it was directed at him. That being the case, he knew it galled her to have to accept his help. But the two of them and everyone else knew that he was the only way out for her, unless she wanted to turn her back and leave her town, her people, her whole life. He knew from experience how hard that was. God, he had wanted her, but not this way—not with her hate, not with the gratitude and sense of duty she might come to feel later. He swallowed hard, finding it difficult to accept the fact that once more he would not have what he wanted without a handful of bitters thrown in.

  “I’ve thought about your offer to marry me,” Lucy continued, hearing her own voice as if it were someone else speaking. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that you’re the only one in this town who can save the last shreds of my respectability, seeing that you contributed so much to ruining it. If the offer still stands, I accept. If not, I’ll go to Connecticut to live with my aunt and uncle. Truly, I don’t care which it is, so don’t martyr yourself on my account—”

  “No. It sounds like there’s enough martyring going on already,” Heath said, but she refused to respond to the gentle sting.

  “Then you’ll still go through with it?” she asked.

  He paused, and it seemed like forever before she heard him speak. “Only if you wear a white wedding dress.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” she said grimly. “It’s my right . . . though everyone in town will say that red would be more appropriate.”

  “Cinda . . .” he said slowly, his eyes searching. “You’re giving yourself to the man who ruined you.”

  “You don’t deserve all the blame,” Lucy said after a long hesitation. Then she finished off the whiskey, which had helped a little to soften the hard lump in her throat, and added coldly, “After all, I wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, was I? That’s my burden . . . you can carry the rest.”

  “I don’t believe in lifelong burdens . . . or martyrdom,” Heath said, his eyes gleaming with mockery. “But since you do, I guess I’m heavy enough penance for you.”

  Lucy felt a stab of uneasiness. She stared into the empty bottom of her glass. So he knew that she was marrying him to punish herself. She wondered why he was going through with this. There had been no pity in his expression, just a hard sort of amusement and maybe a trace of understanding. She tried to envision her future with him, an entire lifetime with no escape, but she couldn’t see anything except hazy darkness. And then she told herself that the future didn’t matter any longer.

  “I’d like another drink,” she said.

  “No, honey. I’m taking you home now, before you get too liquored up to remember what we talked about.”

  “I’m a full-grown woman. I can decide what I want to do and what I don’t want, and if you don’t want that in a wife, then just forget that our discussion tonight ever took place, because I’m through with being told what—”

  “Shhhh.” He took the glass from her and helped her up, his touch light and strangely reassuring. She had the strangest feeling that he understood exactly what was going through her mind. “Don’t throw away all the rules at once, honey . . . do it one by one. You can do whatever you damn well want after we’re married. For now, I’m taking you home.”

  “Because I want to,” she corrected fuzzily, now utterly exhausted, “not because you’re telling me to.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said gently, guiding her towards the door. She would have told him not to humor her, except that just now it felt good to be humored and helped and talked to softly. Heath was the only one in the entire world who wasn’t looking at her with the cutting gleam of judgment in his eyes, the only one who wasn’t smirking or gloating over her downfall. Whether or not he was the cause of it didn’t matter at the moment. The fact was, he knew the truth, and it was comforting to have someone believe her.

  “Oh, good Lord . . . ,” Lucy murmured wearily, shaking her head. “I’m going to be the wife of a Confederate. None of the Caldwells will ever accept it.”

  “Honey,” Heath said quietly, and his white teeth flashed in a wry smile, “that ain’t half as bad as me marrying a Yankee.”

  “You aren’t planning on ever going back, are you? I won’t. One of my reasons for marrying you is that I want to stay here, and you might as well know it.”

  “No. I’m never going back.” His fingers closed on her arm in a brutally tight hold. “And that’s a promise I’ll never break.”

  “You’re hurting me,” she said, tugging at her arm, and he released it instantly. Lucy rubbed the sore spot and looked at his shoulder, so near her face. Suddenl
y she wanted to rest against the inviting strength of that shoulder, perhaps let herself cry some more, rest her cheek against his steady heartbeat, and hide from the rest of the world in the circle of his arms. But somewhere inside her there was a hard knot of pride that would not let her seek comfort from him, and she clung to that pride desperately, finding that it lent her its own kind of strength. She was beginning to understand for the first time she did not need other people half as much as she had always thought she did.

  Chapter 5

  The dress Lucy had intended to wear for her wedding with Daniel was only half-done. She went to the dressmaker’s home and viewed the unfinished garment regretfully. They had planned it to be the most exquisite creation a bride had ever worn down the aisle of the First Parish, but now Lucy’s dream of the perfect bridal gown was only a “would have been.” She could still picture every detail of it clearly. It would have been made of white silk, pulled tightly in front to outline her figure, drawn into a huge bustle in the back and ornamented with cascading bunches of orange-blossom sprays. It would have had crystal-dotted tulle at the hem, while the overskirt would have been trimmed with a luscious drop fringe of satin and crystal. The veil would have been of white tulle, fastened in her hair with her mother’s gold combs. Oh, how heartbreakingly beautiful it would have been, and how admiring and envious everyone in Concord would have been!

  But if she wore something like that to her wedding with the Southerner, people would have laughed and talked even more about her scalded reputation and how ridiculous it was for her to be festooned like an untouched maiden. It galled Lucy to have to sit down with the dressmaker and figure out a new design, one that could be made quickly and efficiently. But she would die before wearing one of her old gowns to her own wedding. She still had her pride, no matter whom she was marrying.

  They finally decided to take the foundation of white satin that had already been sewn and finish it off with pink crepe de chine and morning glories—white funnel-shaped flowers, which Lucy privately dubbed “mourning glories.” Since her father had insisted that the marriage take place as soon as possible, the dress was finished and delivered to her in a week, just in time for the ceremony.