Chapter Two
Boston, Massachusetts, 1891
Charlotte knew her husband was worried about his youngest sister because he sat, staring out of the window at the sea, his brow furrowed. He didn’t seem to notice as she entered their main room that served as the parlor and drawing room, as well as the place that they took their morning coffee and enjoyed a late night snifter of brandy.
She’d seen that look before, when one of his family members came to him with a problem. This time, he’d been closeted with his mother, Evelyn Malloy, for over an hour. When Charlotte had knocked on the door with tea, Evelyn had obviously been crying, and Reed was grim faced with his lips set in a tight, white line.
“Are you going to brood all night?” Charlotte asked after standing beside him for a moment in silence. She’d put to bed their two younger children as well as her two young cousins whom she and Reed were happily raising as their own.
At that moment, she simply wanted to soothe her husband’s furrowed brow.
He turned his head slowly after her words sunk into his distracted brain.
“I don’t brood,” Reed said, grasping her hand and pulling her onto his lap.
As he cradled her face in his hands, she gazed into his deep blue eyes and felt the familiar warmth of love along with the rapid rush of desire.
“I contemplate,” he added.
He lowered his head and kissed her. Her hands slipped around his neck and held him fast against her, pulling back only for a necessary breath.
“Well, Mr. Malloy, are you going to stare at that vast ocean andcontemplateall night?”
Reed’s handsome face lit with a smile, and Charlotte’s toes tingled at the obvious message in his roguish expression.
“No, I believe I’ll take my lovely wife to bed. I have neglected her since dinner and owe her some special attention.”
“Do you want to talk about Rose first?”
His face darkened momentarily. “Tomorrow morning at breakfast, we can talk more about our melancholy Rose.”
Then he stood up, and Charlotte couldn’t stifle a gasp as he lifted her into his arms.
Carrying her from the room, her husband turned toward the stairs leading to their bedroom that she loved for all its memories and for the promise of more to come. She rested her head against his broad chest, smelling his sandalwood scent that immediately made her feel both serene and excited at the same time.
Reed represented home to her, and their love was currently her only source of excitement as she’d halted a successful journalism career until their four children were older. Nowadays, adventure was confined to their bedroom — or occasionally the soft rug in front of the fire in his study.
“Tonight,” he added, “no more words.” He pushed their bedroom door open with his shoulder and carried her inside.
***
Rose sat on a tufted red velvet sofa next to Claire Appleton and surveyed the room full of people, some old and sedately talking, some young and breathless. The noise level was only moderate as the band was taking a well-deserved break. She wished she hadn’t come, but her brother and mother were starting to worry overmuch, and Rose had to begin making an effort at normalcy.
She knew nearly everyone at the dance. At twenty-two years, she’d already been to more of these gatherings than she could count. All her peers and her friends, married and not, were there, and even some relatives. She spied her older brother and his wife, Charlotte, and her oldest sister, Elise, with her spouse.
When she did attend an event, Rose tried to avoid her siblings since they always seemed to scrutinize her behavior. By their expressions, they found her lacking. Earlier, her mother had worn a preoccupied mien as she did so often of late and had told Rose to go on to the dance without her. This gave Rose a measure of freedom she did not usually get to enjoy.
However, her jubilance was tempered by Reed having spoken with her earlier, letting her know in no uncertain terms that her family was extremely worried about her withdrawn behavior and that if it didn’t cease, she’d better be prepared to explain herself.
To where had the mischief-maker disappeared? The firebrand, the plague of his existence? He had wanted to know, for he sorely missed her.
Rose had nearly told him where that mischievous, lighthearted girl had gone — with her husband to the bottom of the Atlantic over three years earlier, but she’d held her tongue.
Instead, she had discussed with her brother what was bothering her of late.
“I want to do something with my life. Something important. Like Charlotte and Sophie. But what can I do? Everywhere you turn, you trip over a suffragette, even Mama and Elise. They will fail or succeed without me, as I have no interest in that regard beyond hoping they’re successful. There are women doctors and scientists, and I have no aptitude for that type of thing. Why, Mrs. Cochrane has already created an automated dishwasher, for goodness sake. How can I top that? What more could anyone want? I am too old to be a painting prodigy or any type of prodigy, for that matter. What can I do?”
Into her brother’s stunned silence, Rose had added, “Perhaps I should become an actress.” After all, she’d spent the past few years acting the part of a normal person, one who hadn’t secretly married the man of her dreams and then had her heart torn asunder when she’d lost him.
