But the problem was damnably simple. His father had always known him far too well, for all they’d fought like cats and dogs. He’d chosen Molly for him, for the simple reason that he knew Patrick wanted her. Wanted her desperately.
Well, he’d gotten her. And desperation as well. He’d made his bed, and he’d lie in it alone. Until Molly was out of his house, out of his life, for good.
And then, maybe he’d be able to get her out of his soul as well.
Four
The room was dark and still when she awoke the next morning, alone in the wide, uncomfortable bed. She was sweating all over, and her hands were trembling. Shaking herself slightly, she rolled out of bed. A nightmare, she told herself, as she pushed open the heavy drapes and stared out into the early Pennsylvania morning. The sky was a sullen blue, not unlike Patrick’s eyes, and she felt as weighted down as the weather. She pushed open the window, hoping for a soft breeze, but she was rewarded with an icy blast of cold. She slammed it shut quickly.
The tiny gilt clock beside the massive bed said six-thirty, and she wondered whether she usually rose at such an early hour. She was in no mood to tempt fate with another nightmare—besides, she had too much she needed to learn. Maybe today was the day she’d begin to find out the answers to some of the thousands of questions plaguing her.
She went through the connecting door to the tiny bathroom and scrubbed at her face fiercely with hot water and the designer soap in the gold soap dish. Looking into the mirror, she wondered once again at the oddness of her surroundings: the cold, modern luxury everywhere in her rooms. A luxury that was both unnatural and stifling. But the reflection of that long oval face with the slanted green-blue eyes was that of a stranger, and could give her no answers.
She dressed swiftly in the same clothes she’d worn the night before—from what she’d seen of the overstuffed contents of the closet and dresser there was nothing else even remotely suitable for an early spring day on a farm. Though Molly had the feeling this was no ordinary farm.
The old kitchen was even more attractive in daylight. An old-fashioned brick hearth and oven took up one wall, and a small fire was crackling cheerfully, bringing a warmth to the room that was spiritual as well as physical. The gleaming wooden counter, the copper pots hanging from the whitewashed walls, the massive old cookstove and the harvest table created a feeling of simple needs and pleasures, and she found herself slightly, dangerously at peace for the first time since she’d arrived in Bucks County. For the first time since she’d woken up in that hospital room, just one short day ago.
“My goodness, Mrs. Winters, what in the world are you doing up so early?” an amazed voice demanded from the pantry door. “I was planning on bringing you your breakfast in bed, same as I always did.” A starched, comfortable figure stood in the doorway, another unnerving sign of normalcy.
“Good morning,” Molly greeted her hesitantly, taking in the woman’s graying hair, curious black eyes and general air of motherliness. “I decided it was too nice a day to stay in bed.”
The woman turned to peer out the window, then looked back at Molly in surprise. “Well, it’s not exactly the day I’d pick for a picnic, but it’s well enough, I suppose, especially after last night. And of course, you so long in the hospital, poor girl. Now you go and sit yourself down in the dining room and I’ll set you a place in two shakes.”
“If you don’t mind I’d rather eat in here.”
She looked even more startled. “Well, certainly, if that’s what you want. I will admit it’s warmer and cozier in here. Pat always eats his breakfast in here with me, and that’s a fact. Says it warms him up.” She kept a steady flow of chatter while she deftly set a place at the table, poured her a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar, and started some toast. “What’ll you have for breakfast, Mrs. Winters? The usual?”
Molly could feel an odd blush of color rise to her cheeks. “I’m afraid I...that is...”
“Oh, heavens, what a fool I am, jabbering away at you. Pat explained your little problem, but I forgot all about it. You probably don’t even know who I am, do you? I’m Fran Morse, the housekeeper, and you usually have two slices of toast and orange juice. But maybe I could tempt you with something a bit more substantial this morning?”
Molly sipped at the wonderful coffee. “Well, my...Patrick made dinner last night,” she said carefully, oddly unwilling to call Patrick her husband.
“Then you must be starving,” the woman said with a friendly smile. “That man can’t cook to save his life.”
“I am a bit hungry,” she admitted. “I’d love some eggs and bacon if it’s not too much trouble. And some of your poppy seed muffins.”
The woman beamed fondly. “Well, it’s a treat to see you’ve got some appetite. These last few months you were eating like a bird. And you remembered my muffins, bless your heart!” She deposited some in front of Molly, kindly ignoring her sudden start.
She’d have to get used to remembering, Molly told herself shakily. Things are bound to come back like that, a bit at a time. She took a bite out of the muffin, and the familiar-unfamiliar taste warmed her tongue. Slowly she began to relax. For the first time since she arrived she felt comfortable and comparatively happy. Here was one person who didn’t seem to blame her for a thousand anonymous crimes. Molly watched Mrs. Morse bustle around the kitchen with a sense of quiet gratitude, and she wished that feeling could last forever.
By the time she devoured her breakfast and had seconds of muffins and coffee she was ready to face the day. “Would you like some help washing up?” she offered, bringing her dishes over to the sink.
Mrs. Morse stared at her strangely. “Well, I never thought to hear such words from your mouth again,” she said frankly. “But there, I always said you weren’t so bad underneath. No, dearie, I can manage these myself. After all, it’s what I’m paid for.”
Molly nodded, trying to ignore those words that kept repeating themselves, around and around in her brain. I always said you weren’t so bad underneath. Who did she say it to?
There wasn’t much she could say in response. She plastered a cool smile on her face. “Well, if you need any help with lunch or anything just call me.”
It was just past seven o’clock when she wandered out of the kitchen, more troubled than she cared to admit. She didn’t know where to start. Her life was an Agatha Christie novel—full of clues and question marks, suspects and red herrings, and the thought of sorting them out was daunting. It didn’t sound as if there was anyone she could turn to for help or answers—from the impression she’d gotten from Patrick and company she had no friends in the area, and it was unlikely that anyone would want to have anything to do with her.
She ended up back in the opulent bedroom, staring at the walls. Patrick had gotten up and left early, Willy apparently didn’t make an appearance until past noon if he could help it, and Molly was doomed to her own frustrating company.
She went to the closet, looking through her wardrobe. Within minutes her disgust was even stronger. Those expensive clothes were absolutely lovely, but they were as ill-suited for her as gold lamé on a child. She went out on the landing and called to Mrs. Morse. “Have we got an old trunk anywhere?”
“What in the world are you doing, Mrs. Winters?” She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a dust rag in one capable hand.
“Cleaning house, just like you,” she replied smartly. “Have we got a trunk anywhere?”
