The Mistaken Widow

He settled her in her room. “Dinner sent up again?” he asked.

“Please.”

“We’ll arrive at the house tomorrow. I’m wiring ahead to have the local doctor call in the afternoon. The doctor in New York said you have bandages on that leg that will need to be changed, and we haven’t tended to that.” He started to close the door.

“Mr. Halliday?”

“Nicholas,” he corrected, pausing.

“Nicholas,” she managed. “You’ve been very considerate. Thank you.”

His dark gaze flickered momentarily, but his expression didn’t change. “What else would I do for my brother’s wife?”

She didn’t reply. The inflection in his tone was almost…acerbic. Her heart skipped a tiny beat.

But then he wished her a polite good evening, pulled the door closed, and she wondered if she’d really heard it.

Something told her he was skeptical. He treated her politely and provided more than she could ask for, but it was there, lurking behind his eyes and beneath his words. Doubt.

And tomorrow, she would have to face Stephen’s mother and tell her the truth.

Again and again, while picking at her dinner, while feeding the baby and settling him down for the night, she went over her pitiful options. And each time, she came to the conclusion that she had no choice. She would plead her case with Stephen Halliday’s mother and hope for the best.

What was the worst thing that could happen?

Mahoning Valley, Ohio

Leda Halliday, garbed in black, her eyelids swollen, greeted Sarah with welcoming arms. And Sarah knew, in some deep recess of her heart as she pulled herself to stand on her good leg and let the sobbing woman embrace her, that this was the worst thing that could have happened.

The small-statured woman smelled of violets and faintly of camphor. Her ample bosom shook against Sarah’s waist as she cried openly. To her surprise, responding tears came to Sarah’s eyes, and she accepted the violet-scented hankie the maid pressed into her fingers.

Leda pulled away, dabbing at her nose, and let Sarah sit back down but didn’t release her hand. “You are just as beautiful as Stephen wrote us,” she said on a sob. Her fleshy face crumpled, and Nicholas was there to take her in his arms and hold her against his broad chest. When he raised his face from his mother’s silver-streaked dark hair, there were tears on his dark lashes.

Sarah’s heart ached for them both. A pang of guilt shot through her chest like a sword of cold steel. She couldn’t meet Nicholas’s eyes. How was she going to say the words? If only Nicholas would leave them alone.

Finally Leda pulled away from her towering son and glanced toward the door. The driver stood in the opening, the basket firmly in his grasp. “Well, bring him here, Gruver, bring him here,” she said, motioning the man forward.

Her expression held anticipation, as well as curiosity. When she caught sight of the baby, she covered her trembling lips with her fingers for several long seconds. Sarah saw how badly she wanted to see her son in this tiny child, and regret yawned in her chest.

“He’s just beautiful,” she said at last, her voice thick with emotion. “What’s his name?”

Embarrassed, Sarah edged her gaze away from Nicholas and looked directly into Leda’s gray eyes. “I haven’t named him yet,” she said, knowing the older woman would think that as strange as Minna had.

Instead Leda glowed as though she’d been gifted with a king’s ransom. “We can do it together.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, but Sarah wouldn’t lock gazes.

“Your rooms are ready,” Leda announced. “I think you’ll find everything in order, but you need only ask.”

Sarah glanced at the grand curving marble staircase that led to an open hallway above. She met Nicholas’s dark eyes.

“They’re upstairs,” Leda said, and then as if just now realizing, turned back. “Oh dear.”

“Not to worry, Mother,” Nicholas said. “Claire and I have perfected this transportation problem. Gruver, if you’ll just carry the little fellow up, you’ll be dismissed for the rest of the day. Take tomorrow off, too. I’m sure you’ve missed your family.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Nicholas swooped forward and waited for Sarah to reach for his neck. She did so, and he slid his arm beneath her legs, brought her against his chest, and turned to his mother. “See, Mother? All those peas and carrots paid off in the long run.”

“I told you so.” The woman chuckled and followed them up, her skirts rustling. Her small laugh eased some of Sarah’s discomfort, and Sarah was strangely grateful to Nicholas for making his mother smile.

This time Sarah didn’t fight the sensations his nearness created. His interaction with his mother and his treatment of his driver said more than a million words could have. He was a good man. A sincere man. A respected, decent man.

And she was still taking advantage of him.

She rested in the security of his arms for just these few minutes. Enjoyed his strength, the masculine scent of his hair and the crisp, fresh smell of his clothing. And wondered just how long she had before she was truly, deeply, impossibly past the point of turning back.

Leda had hired a nursemaid to care for the baby. The woman, a tallish, gray-haired widow who called herself Mrs. Trent, took him while Nicholas and Leda made Sarah comfortable. Sarah sighed in relief when Nicholas finally excused himself and left the room.

“Mrs. Halliday…” Sarah began.

“Leda, dear. Please.” The older woman patted the counterpane into place over Sarah’s good right leg and made sure the other one was settled on a pillow.

“Leda. I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”

“I know, darling. We’re going to have plenty of time together. You’re going to be the daughter I never had. And this little man…”

Leda took Sarah’s son from Mrs. Trent and held him to her cushioned breast. Tears ran down her cheeks openly. “This little man is going to keep me from dying of a broken heart.”

At the woman’s anguish, a great suffocating weight burgeoned in Sarah’s chest. “I’m not who you think I am,” she choked out.

“I don’t care who you are,” Leda said on a half sob. “If I hadn’t had you and the baby to look forward to these past few days, I couldn’t have borne the sorrow. A mother should never have to lose her child. Never,” she said fiercely. “You’re what I need to go on living now. You and him.” She nuzzled the infant’s downy head, and Sarah choked on the confession that welled in her soul.

But she didn’t have the courage to say the words that would destroy the woman who’d already lost her son. All her good intentions fled like dry leaves before a storm, and the secret cowered in a shadowy corner of her heart.

Not now. Not just now. She could wait. Until Leda had a chance to get over Stephen. By then Sarah’s leg would be better, and she’d be able to leave. Until then…how much harm would it cause to let the woman think they were her family for just a little longer?

Sarah prayed she wouldn’t have to know the answer to that.

The spectacled Mrs. Trent did as she was bidden, taking care of the baby’s laundry, bathing and changing him with efficiency, but never getting in the way when Sarah wanted to perform the tasks herself. In fact, she was more than pleased to share her knowledge, answer Sarah’s questions and assist her in learning to do what she could herself.

Leda visited Sarah and the baby often, but Sarah didn’t see Nicholas for the next few days. The portly middle-aged doctor called twice, proclaiming her leg better, but still not well enough to put her weight on. He checked her head, asked about the baby’s eating habits, looked him over and wished her a good day.

Sarah and her son slept and ate and grew stronger. At times, beneath Leda’s doting concern, Sarah didn’t feel so alone—until she remembered the gracious woman believed she was someone else. Her identity was a secret she bore alone. A burden she carried each day and each night, its weight squeezing her heart and her conscience.

Late one afternoon Leda came to her suite, and soon after tea was served. “I thought we might decide today,” the woman said, a note of hopefulness in her voice.

“On what, Mrs. Halliday?”

“Leda, please. On the baby’s name, of course.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Tell me, did you and Stephen have any names you particularly wanted to use? Your father’s perhaps?”

Sarah didn’t know Claire’s father’s name, so she shied away from that idea. Her own father’s name would only remind her of his hurtful rejection. She shook her head. “I like Thomas. Or Victor. Peter is nice, too. Did you have any you particularly like?” Sarah asked, knowing full well she must.

“Well.” She settled her cup in its saucer and patted her lip with a linen napkin. “My father’s name was Horatio. Stephen’s father’s name was Templeton.”

Sarah hoped the woman had some relatives with acceptable names. Sarah had, after all, suggested she needed help choosing.

“My grandfather was William—”

“William is quite nice,” Sarah cut in quickly.

“Do you like it?”

“I do. I like it a lot.”

“He needs a middle name,” Leda commented.

Sarah nodded, grudgingly.

“How about Stephen?”

Sarah thought about the kind young man who had taken her in out of the rain and given her his bed for the night. If he’d been in that bunk, he would probably be alive right now. Naming her son after him wouldn’t make up for the debt, but it would be appropriate. “I think Stephen is more than suitable.”

Leda clapped her hands together in almost childlike excitement. “William Stephen Halliday! Isn’t it a grand name?”

Guilt fell on Sarah like a cold Boston fog and dampened her spirits. But seeing Leda this happy made her unwilling to change anything that she’d said or done. “It is indeed. It’s a wonderful name.”

“Nicholas will come and get you for dinner tonight,” Leda said, rising. “We’ll tell him then.” She bustled from the room.

Sarah wheeled her chair over to the alcove where the ornate iron crib Leda had purchased nestled beneath a brightly painted, sloping ceiling. She touched her son’s downy hair and patted his flannel-wrapped bottom lovingly. “William,” she whispered. “Sweet William.”

A trapped sensation gripped Sarah. What had she done? Doubt and shame clawed their way to the surface, and she was forced to admit to her part in this deception. She hadn’t told Nicholas the truth. She hadn’t told his mother the truth. Too much time had passed for them to understand now.

And she had just let Nicholas’s mother name the baby after her grandfather. A Halliday!

Sarah bit her lip, hating the self-reproach lying on her heart like a lead weight, and knew she had just passed the point of no return.

Sarah met with a problem in choosing a dress for dinner. Claire’s trunks had been delivered, and Leda’s personal maid told her she’d pressed the dresses and hung them in the armoires.

She opened the double-doored cabinet and stared at the collection of clothing. Satins and silks, vivid colors with plunging necklines and daringly visible underskirts lined the rod. What outlandish taste Claire had! Sarah rifled through her belongings, finding nothing suitable for mourning. Nothing suitable, period! Finally, she discovered a black silk gown with a lace insert from the bodice to a collar piece, and asked Mrs. Trent to help her with it. Thank goodness the bust was roomy enough for Sarah’s new full figure.

She was supposed to be a widow, after all, so black was an appropriate choice. The color washed her out, however, so she pinched her cheeks and applied a dab of lip rouge she found in her dressing table drawer. Claire had possessed an astonishing assortment of face tints and decanters. Sarah sniffed one of the perfumes and replaced the stopper with a grimace, feeling funny about using Claire’s personal items.

Nicholas appeared on schedule. Mrs. Trent stayed with William while Nicholas scooped up Sarah and carried her downstairs.

“My chair,” she questioned, looking back over his shoulder.

“You won’t have need for it,” he replied, his voice vibrating against her breast. He wore a linen shirt and lightweight jacket, and Sarah felt every sinewy muscle pressed against her body. “You won’t need to go anywhere that I can’t take you.”

His words and his voice spawned a quavery shiver along her spine, and her reaction to his nearness abashed her.

She concentrated on the house he carried her through. The furnishings and decor were as lovely as—no, lovelier than—her Boston home had been, more costly, yet more understated. The dining room they arrived in was paneled in rich walnut, with two sideboards and built-in china cabinets. Gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes and meandering rivers lined the walls.

Leda waited impatiently for them. “Good evening, darlings!”

Nicholas placed Sarah in a chair at the corner of the table, across from Leda, and seated himself at the head. The older woman’s glance took in the dress.

“I have nothing appropriate for mourning,” Sarah said softly.

“Of course you don’t, and we didn’t think of it, did we, Nicholas?”

He shook his head and paused with a raised brow as he poured wine. “Claire?”

“None for me, thank you.”

He placed a stemmed crystal glass in front of his mother.

“I’ll send for the dressmaker tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Sarah objected.

“Of course it’s necessary. You’re a widow, after all. And a Halliday. You mustn’t be seen in public without proper dress.”

It was true, she couldn’t possibly wear any of those dresses that had been Claire’s. Whatever had the woman been thinking of to buy them? What kind of person had Claire been?

Nicholas had been looking at her oddly for several minutes. “Your accent sounds more like Boston than New York,” he said finally.

“Does it?” She took a sip from her water glass and tried to appear unconcerned. “I think we tend to imitate the people we’re around, and many of my friends are from Boston.”

“Are they now?”

She nodded.

He appeared unconvinced, and she knew she’d have to be more careful of her speech. She was getting in deep now.

“You had an announcement?” Nicholas queried his mother over the top of his wineglass.

“Yes,” Leda replied with a broad smile. “We wanted to surprise you tonight, darling. Claire has chosen a name for the baby.”

His expression revealed neither surprise nor curiosity. Calmly, he took a sip.

“William Stephen Halliday,” Leda declared proudly. “Isn’t that a fine name?”

Nicholas’s knuckles tensed on the glass. “William was—”

“My grandfather’s name,” his mother finished for him.

Looking as if he knew he was expected to say something, he cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”

“And he’ll carry on Stephen’s name,” Leda added softly.

A maid came through the doorway, platter in hand, and served dinner. Nicholas watched Sarah select her portions and pick up her fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Did Stephen have any plans for work?” he asked.

Sarah’s bite of braised beef paused on its way to her mouth. “Work?”

“Taking a position here? Going back to the coast? All his wire said was that he was bringing you home to meet us. He failed to mention whether or not he intended to stay this time. Perhaps he only meant to leave you off to have the baby while he continued his pursuit of folly in the East.”

“Nicholas!” his mother admonished.

“Well, it’s true he never took any interest in our family’s business affairs. And very little interest in our family, for that matter.”

“Nicholas, please,” his mother scolded. “Your brother is dead. Can’t you let this rest? You’ve spoiled Claire’s dinner.”

“No,” Sarah denied. He was testing her. And Lord, save her from herself, she resented it. That was crazy. “He hasn’t spoiled my dinner,” she said to Leda, then turned her gaze on Nicholas. “I’m quite aware that you and Stephen differed on many subjects. I don’t know if he had any plans for involving himself in the business. I do know he wouldn’t have left his wife here to have the baby and have gone on his own way.”

“How can you be so sure?” Nicholas asked. “You only knew him a few months.”

Sarah remembered the loving way Stephen spoke to Claire, the way he touched her as though he needed that contact for his very sustenance. “I may not have known him a long time, but I recognize love when I see it.”

“Of course you do, darling. My son is just too old and stuffy for his years, and he thinks everyone should be just like him. Don’t you dare upset our Claire, Nicholas. I’ll not accept your rude behavior.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, Claire,” he included her in the apology with a curt nod. “Why don’t you tell us all about your whirlwind courtship with my brother? So we’ll better understand, of course.”

A sarcastic undercurrent ran close to the surface, but Leda seemed not to notice.

Sarah placed her fork on the edge of her plate and nervously wrapped her fingers in her napkin. “I will tell you this. Your brother was one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met in my life. He was accepting and caring and considerate. He laughed out loud and he loved deeply. And I can tell you he probably has a lot fewer regrets now than most people will when their lives are over.”

Nicholas chewed slowly and swallowed before meeting her unyielding gaze. “Have you finished putting me properly in my place?” he asked.

Her heart hammered. She didn’t know what to make of him, of his questions. Was it his brother he resented, or just her?

“Come now, children, we have important things to discuss,” Leda said. “We have plans to make.”

“What plans are those?” Nicholas turned his attention to his mother, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

“Stephen’s memorial service. Now that our Claire’s feeling better, we can get things settled.”

A dark expression clouded Nicholas’s face. His lips flattened into a hard line.

“We can see to it, darling,” his mother said, reaching over and placing her age-spotted hand over his large hair-dusted one. “You’ve done quite enough already, handling the affairs in New York.”

He turned over his hand and encased hers. “I didn’t mind, Mother. And I won’t mind helping with the service.”

“I think we need to do this,” his mother said, and looked to Sarah for verification.

Sarah recognized Leda’s desire to do this thing for Stephen on her own, and to spare her remaining son another unpleasant task in the process. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “I’d like to do it.”

“Of course.” Nicholas gave in, and studied Sarah with a guarded expression, as if gauging her reaction.

She hadn’t tasted most of the meal, and her stomach rebelled against placing any more food in it. She sipped her water, and tried to calm her fluttering nerves. A memorial service! How would she ever manage to play the part of Stephen’s wife in this scenario? What would be expected of her? How many people would she have to see?

“A Saturday afternoon would be most appropriate, don’t you think?” Leda asked.

A Saturday afternoon. Only one afternoon. She could get through that She nodded and gave Leda what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Nicholas folded his napkin and stood abruptly. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

“There’s dessert,” his mother called after him, but he was gone. “We’ll eat his share,” Leda said with a brave smile.

Sarah wished she could bolt from the room as Nicholas had. But she’d gotten herself into this situation. Now she’d have to see it through. She observed Leda’s determined expression and resigned herself. The least she could do was assist the woman and be as much help and support as she could. She owed them that much. And more.

After all, how long could a memorial service take?

Chapter Three

The memorial service would be interminable, if the arrangements were any indication. Leda arrived at Sarah’s door early the following morning. Together they came up with the appropriate wording for the invitations, and Leda had Gruver deliver the text to the printer.

The following day Virginia Weaver, a plump seamstress, arrived to measure Sarah for dresses and undergarments. She brought catalogues from which she and Leda selected a double-spring elliptic skirt to shape the full bell skirts, as well as six corsets. Sarah watched with growing trepidation.

“I’ll need to make you at least a dozen petticoats,” Virginia claimed. The women gathered in the enormous dressing room that was a part of Sarah’s suite.

The idea of Halliday money buying her clothing made her increasingly nervous.

“I’m not usually this…full-figured,” she argued, hoping they’d see what a waste so many new garments would be after her figure returned to normal.

“Of course not, darling. But you will be for the next year, and by then, the styles will change again.”

Uncomfortable going along with this plan, Sarah glanced at Leda, who said, “Virginia is right. You know…” She stepped forward with her palms pressed together. “I think Claire should have one of those bustles, don’t you? Perhaps I will, too. And a few dresses to fit it.”

“It’s the latest fashion,” Virginia agreed.

Sarah thought of all her own clothes that had been in her trunk on the train, and wondered what had happened to them.

All she had was the emerald bracelet she’d sewn into the lining of her reticule, and that had somehow miraculously been delivered to the hospital with her. She prayed it’s sale would bring enough money to get her started on her own when she left here.

Virginia opened a valise of fabric samples. The new dresses would all be black, of course. Muslin, bombazine and corded cotton for day wear, silks, grosgrain taffetas and shiny sateen for evenings and outings.

“How can you keep these on your feet?” Virginia asked, now kneeling before Sarah and noting Claire’s slippers. She poked one finger between her heel and the soft leather. “They don’t fit you!”

“Well, I—I don’t have to walk, just yet,” Sarah stammered.

“Your slippers are too large?” Leda asked, peering at Sarah’s feet with curiosity.

“My feet were terribly swollen before William’s birth,” Sarah tried to explain, her cheeks growing uncomfortably warm.

“You poor dear,” Leda said, and her gray eyes misted. “And our sweet, sweet Stephen bought you all new slippers.”

“Yes.” The word came out as little more than a whisper. It did sound like something Stephen would have done for the woman he so obviously adored. That wasn’t so hard to believe.

“Her dress for the service must be extraordinary,” Leda said firmly. “Stephen would have wanted it so. Elegant and fashionable, even though it’s for mourning.”

“A bustle, then,” Virginia determined. “And I have some black French lace I’ve been saving for something special.”

“But no one will even see it with me in this chair,” she said, wanting them to see reason.

“It doesn’t matter,” Leda said. “You’re a Halliday. Hallidays have a position in this community. Measure her feet. She’ll need slippers.”

William’s cry alerted them to his feeding time. Mrs. Trent appeared in the doorway holding him.

Glad to escape the escalating dressmaking plans, and always eager to spend time with her son, Sarah opened her arms for the infant. “Will you wheel us into the other room, please?”

Mrs. Trent did as Sarah asked. “I’ll have his bedding laundered now, and take my noon meal, if that’s all right with you, Mrs. Halliday.”

“Certainly.” Appreciative of the woman’s time away, Sarah sat near the lace-curtained balcony windows, nursing William and humming softly. Soon she’d be able to do more to care for him herself, and then she would feel more like a mother. Leda and Mrs. Trent pampered her so, their constant attention and sometimes smothering concern had started to annoy her.