Alex stood, acutely aware of her faded Levi’s and denim shirt. Xavier’s wife wore green satin and diamonds and pearls. “Wait,” Alex said hoarsely.
She had turned to go. Now the other woman paused somewhat fearfully—but there was also growing curiosity in her eyes.
“Are you Xavier’s wife?” Alex asked, even though she knew the answer would be yes. She wanted to engage this woman. Xavier had said that he loved her, Alex. But faced with this angelic blonde, Alex no longer felt confident of that.
The woman straightened. “Yes. I am Sarah Blackwell.”
An awkward silence fell between them. Alex wasn’t sure what to do. She wished that Sarah Blackwell were ugly, old, or fat. Sarah shifted, worrying the end of the satin sash she wore. “You just referred to my husband as Xavier. You know him well?”
Alex didn’t know what to say. “We knew each other once, a long time ago.” Her heart constricted painfully.
“You’re here, in his bedroom.” Sarah said.
“It’s a mistake.” Alex jammed her hands in her pockets. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. Consumed with sudden misery. She had wanted to return to Xavier even knowing he was married. But she hadn’t expected to ever meet his wife, or had she? In any case, she had expected joy, not anguish, upon her return.
“I’ve introduced myself, but you have not,” Sarah said pointedly.
“Alexandra Thornton.”
Sarah gasped.
Alex did not understand. “Why are you staring at me like that? As if I am a ghost?”
“You’re not a ghost, are you?” Sarah backed away, until her spine flattened against the door. “But you are dead! I’ve heard them talking about you so many times! When he first came back, Xavier would get drunk at night, sometimes even cry into his snifter, and William would be afraid to leave him alone. And I just saw you appear in this room in front of my very eyes! Out of thin air!”
“I’m not a ghost,” Alex whispered, trembling. “I never drowned. I am very much alive.”
But Sarah was wrenching at the doorknob, jerking open the door. Alex watched her flee.
Xavier stood with his father in front of the fireplace in the salon, sipping brandy. They were both waiting for Sarah to come downstairs so they could go in to supper.
“Markham will be in Boston later this week.”
“You are staring at me.”
“He says he wishes to see you.”
Xavier shrugged. He glanced impatiently toward the two open doors of the salon, but did not espy his wife. “Whatever he wishes to discuss with me, my answer shall be no.”
William was dismayed. “Xavier, whatever is between you, I beg you to heal the breach. Markham is my only brother—your only uncle.”
“There is nothing between us.”
William sighed heavily. “I am worried about the British Orders in Council.”
“We can continue to evade the blockades of both the Continent and Britain,” Xavier said firmly.
“This Bonaparte must be stopped.”
“Absolutely, but at the moment, there is no end in sight.”
Both men fell silent. Both were thinking about how dangerous it had become to trade upon the high seas—which they must do if Blackwell Shipping was to survive. Then the rustling of a woman’s gown caused father and son to turn. Xavier’s small smile disappeared when he saw his wife’s pale face and wide eyes. “Sarah?”
“She is here! Upstairs, in your room!” Sarah cried.
Xavier exchanged a concerned glance with William; these past two years Sarah had been greatly improved, no longer so melancholic, and capable of functioning as a wife, a lady, and a hostess. He moved to her and put his arm around her narrow waist. He was always afraid he would break her when he touched her, she was so fragile. “Who is upstairs, Sarah?”
Sarah gazed up at him. “Alexandra Thornton.”
