She whirled to leave. Her father followed her retreat, grabbed her arm, jerked her to face him.
Elizabeth flinched. The first violence upon her person by her father. Anger spurring her words, she snapped. “It’s not every day one gets sold for a railroad. I’m marrying Zachary Rourke. End of discussion.”
“You better keep a tight rein on her,” Alva said, rising and speaking to Dyer. “To think you hid that bastard child under our noses.”
“My only mistake was lying to myself, hiding my daughter in the orphanage. I did that to protect her. To keep her from being around you, Mother. You are shallow, self-serving and toxic. She is too good for you.”
“One more thing, Elizabeth.” Alva catapulted from her chair, stepped nearer, closing the space between them until she could whisper harshly and be sure to be heard. “I can always have the child removed?—”
Dyer drew up beside her. “Sometimes life flows in unexpected directions, Elizabeth.” His eyes were cold, his features hardened, slinking, oozing charm with a bright false smile. Did he believe she’d be jumping for the opportunity to marry him?
“I’d like to have a few words with my fiancée alone,” Rawlins said.
She watched the unlikely occurrence of her parents departing. Sullivan closed the door with a snap, leaving her entombed. The butler had heard everything.
A chill cascaded along her spine and she shivered. No, something more sinister like a cobra seeking prey.
“Think of Caroline,” he said. “She’d have everything. I’ll adopt her and raise her as my own.”
Without a doubt, he had known about her daughter. Ice clattered up her spine with the looming threat. He gave her a self-important sniff, pleased to be the one to give her news she had already gleaned. Her daughter was the only thing he could hold over her. “You wouldn’t dare”
“And Mr. Rourke…to have him above ground or below is in your hands.”
Chapter Forty-Two
In the week that followed, Elizabeth had come to that in-between time where summer was dead and autumn had not been born. Numb from everything, Elizabeth didn’t think autumn, or any other season, would ever survive. She moved with the soulless existence of the living dead.
She was a prisoner in her home. She had not been able to tell Fiona of the disaster for her longtime friend had been replaced, nor had she been able to communicate with Zachary. The new maid was harsh, silent, and positioned to guard Elizabeth and watch her she did. The maid’s arms were the size of tree trunks and her hands the size of Manhattan. If someone told her the maid could crush bricks with her bare hands, Elizabeth would believe them.
Against a world turned upside down, she had fallen in love. So complete was her love that she would rather sacrifice her own life for Zachary’s, and she’d do it willingly, without hope, earning his hatred for what he’d think was her betrayal.
She had to consider Caroline’s well-being. Her daughter was innocent, vulnerable and unprotected. Dyer had made clear his threats for Zachary and Caroline.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. How could she get beyond the gorilla her parents had guarding her? Her jewels had been sold, so she couldn’t bribe the woman and doubted the woman would ever take a cent. The door was locked. Meals brought to her. How could she escape?
She looked out her window. No way could she jump the distance without breaking a leg. Nothing moved in the moonswept night. Not even a leaf stirred. The street lay heavy, sullen, and empty.
All the feelings of loneliness and isolation heaved cruel and crushing. How she wanted to finger the firm line of Zachary’s jaw, to take his ruggedly handsome face into her hands and have his reassurance. In the narrow space of time, so many things had changed. A hot ache grew in her throat. She imagined his cobalt-blue eyes, once burning with tenderness, replaced with fury and hard as flint.
Her mother entered her room in full wedding preparation mode. For the first time in a week, Elizabeth was moved to a larger bedroom down the hall.
A dressmaker arrived for her wedding gown fitting, presenting several bolts of white silks, taffetas, lace and satin.
Alva shoved a copy of Harper’s Bazaar in front of Elizabeth, opening to three pages of illustrations with the latest bridal fashions from France. “Something like this would be lovely on you.”
Elizabeth stared at her mother’s bejeweled fingers as she pointed to a particular gown.
“It would be made of fine white silk, trimmed with pleated ruffles and folds and sewn in seed pearls,” Alva trilled.
“I have no interest. I’ll show up wearing a sackcloth.”
“I approve the silk ribbons on the waist,” her mother purred to the dressmaker. “And ignore my daughter. She’s overwhelmed with making the match of the century.”
Alva whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. “You are so ungrateful, yet ridiculously lucky to have Rawlins…before your condition shows. It makes my blood boil the way you carried on with that cowboy.” Alva slapped the New York Herald and New York Tribune on the vanity for Elizabeth to see. “They’ve announced the banns.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank so low she could feel her pulse clear down to her toes. With certainty, Zachary had seen it.
Alva straightened. “Elizabeth is barely eighteen inches when she’s laced in a good tight corset,” she affirmed to the dressmaker. And then she said to Elizabeth, “With a plunging decolletage, you’ll bubble-up over somewhat, enough to tempt Rawlins.”
