Реклама
Читать книгу: «The Mistaken Widow»
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Excerpt
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About The Author
Copyright
Special thanks to our well-wishers,
who have contributed their
congratulations and support.
“The best historicals, the best romances. Simply the best!”
—Dallas Schulze
“Bronwyn Williams was born and raised at Harlequin Historicals. We couldn’t have asked for a better home or a more supportive family.”
—Dixie Browning and Mary Williams, w/a Bronwyn Williams
“I can’t believe it’s been ten years since Private Treaty, my first historical novel, helped launch the Harlequin Historicals line. What a thrill that was! And the beat goes on…with timeless stories about men and women in love.”
—Kathleen Eagle
“Nothing satisfies me as much as writing or reading a Harlequin Historical novel. For me, Harlequin Historicals are the ultimate escape from the problems of everyday life.”
—Ruth Ryan Langan
“As a writer and reader, I feel that the Harlequin Historicals line always celebrates a perfect blend of history and romance, adventure and passion, humor and sheer magic.”
—Theresa Michaels
“Thank you, Harlequin Historicals, for opening up a ’window into the past’ for so many happy readers.”
—Suzanne Barclay
“As a one-time ’slush pile’ foundling at Harlequin Historicals, I’ll be forever grateful for having been rescued and published as one of the first ‘March Madness’ authors. Harlequin Historicals has always been the place for special stories, ones that blend the magic of the past with the rare miracle of love for books that readers never forget.”
—Miranda Jarrett
“A rainy evening. A cup of hot chocolate. A stack of Harlequin Historicals. Absolute bliss! Happy tenth Anniversary and continued success.”
—Cheryl Reavis
“Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.”
—Elaine Barbieri
“Harlequin Historicals are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!”
—Karen Harper
The Mistaken Widow
Cheryl St. John
This book is lovingly dedicated to:
Dad, for being the best PR man a gal could want,
and to Jay,
for telling me I’m beautiful—even as deadline
grows near…
I know what I have done is unforgivable…
All I ask is that you do not hate me. I planned to tell you the truth from the very minute I awoke in the hospital. But when I saw your grief, Nicholas, and when you offered protection and shelter for my son, I could not bring myself to speak the words.
I am not Claire Halliday. I was never married to your brother Stephen. I only met him that night of the train wreck. He took me in out of the rain, and he and Claire gave me food and dry clothing and shared their berth with me.
If they had been in that compartment that night, they might still be alive. So you see, I am responsible for their deaths. That is something I will live with for the rest of my life…
Prologue
Lower New York State
April 1869
Wet and weary travelers, eager to return to their seats in the passenger cars, crowded together in the moonlight on the small wooden platform beside the station. Each time the train stopped for coal and water, Sarah Thornton feared she wouldn’t have time to find the primitive facilities, wait in a line and return before the train left without her. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
Cold rain drizzled beneath the red-fox collar of her double-breasted wool coat that had been the height of Boston fashion just last winter. Right now the fur looked and smelled more like a drowned animal slung around her neck than the most stunning feature of the coat, which had kept her warm on outings in the Boston Common, trips to the theater and the most exclusive social events of the season. Now the garment wouldn’t close over the girth of her burgeoning belly.
She gritted her teeth against the pulsing pain in her lower back and bent to retrieve the bulging leather satchel she’d toted at each stopover for fear of losing her last few precious belongings. Her hand met nothing, and she glanced down at her feet where the bag had been only minutes before.
“My bag!” Panic raced through her shivering body, and she stared at the wet boards, unable to see more than the dark cluster of feet and trouser legs.
“All abo-oard!” The conductor began admitting passengers, and the crowd thinned. She searched the platform in desperation, seeing only a few soggy papers and the sizzling stub of a cigar.
It had to be here! It had to! A sob lodged in her throat. A few straggling passengers clambered past and boarded the train.
“Comin’, ma’am?”
Sarah ran awkwardly toward the black-uniformed conductor, who wore his billed cap pulled low against the rain. “My bag is gone!”
“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to report it to the stationmaster.”
Up ahead the whistle screamed and Sarah wanted to echo the broken cry. “I won’t have time! The train’s leaving.”
“Make up your mind. Get on or stay.”
Torn, she considered her last few pieces of jewelry, her journal and personal items. She still had a trunk of clothing in the baggage car and a silver and emerald bracelet sewn into the lining of the reticule she held. She stepped onto the platform.
“Ticket, please,” the conductor intoned.
Sarah stared at him blankly, her mind whirling. The ticket had been in her bag. “I don’t have it.”
“Then I’m sorry, you can’t come aboard.”
“But—”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“I have to get on this train! My other luggage is on it, and I have nowhere else to go!”
“Rules is rules. You got a ticket, you get on. You got no ticket, you don’t.”
“But, sir, you don’t understand—”
“Lady, I’ve heard ’em all. How many freeloaders you think we get a day, trying to hitch a ride?”
“I am no freeloader.” Her Boston accent came across sharply as she straightened her aching back and squinted at him through her dripping hair and the falling rain. “I have a ticket!”
“Off,” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and urging her toward the portable steps.
She caught her balance by grabbing the cold metal rail. “Wait—!”
“Off, lady.”
“Is there a problem here?” a masculine voice asked from behind Sarah.
She turned and looked up into the handsome face of a tall stranger.
“This lady don’t have a ticket, and she’s holding the train up.” The rude man tried once again to move Sarah from the metal platform.
“I do so—”
The stranger wrapped his hand around her coat sleeve, helping her keep her balance, and in surprise she blinked up into his warm brown eyes. “Honey, you’ve forgotten,” he said kindly. “I have the ticket.” He reached into his pocket while she stared at him. “My wife will catch her death of cold standing out here. You shouldn’t have detained her in this weather. She’s just a little forgetful lately.” He showed the conductor a ticket that must have satisfied him, for he moved aside, a contrite expression on his rain-streaked face.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, with a brief touch to his cap.
Shivering, Sarah allowed the gallant man to escort her into the car and along the aisles, until they’d passed through into another car. This stranger had saved her from the rain and from being stranded, but she didn’t know him from Adam, and she would not accompany him into one the compartments defined by rows of narrow doors, which he led her toward. She stopped abruptly and pulled back from his steady hold on her wet coat sleeve.
He gave Sarah a conspiratorial grin and raised his hand to rap on a door. It opened immediately.
A tall red-haired woman appeared in the opening, her look of pleasure at seeing the man turning to a question, and then concern when she saw Sarah. “Who’s this?”
“She was having a bit of a problem with the conductor.”
“Come in, darling,” the young woman said kindly, and Sarah realized the endearment was meant for her, not the man. Immediately, the woman helped Sarah out of her wet coat.
The compartment was tiny. Two narrow berths folded down from the walls for sitting or sleeping.
“I’m Claire.”
Sarah noticed the woman was younger than she’d first thought. It wasn’t her coppery hair or the rouge and lip color on her freckled face that made her appear older, but something more, something indefinable about her eyes and mouth. And as she moved around the tiny cubicle, Sarah noticed she was every bit as pregnant as she herself.
“I’m Sarah,” she said, relaxing a bit.
“Well, Sarah,” the man said with a warm smile. “I’m Stephen Halliday and this is my wife, Claire.”
“I don’t know how to repay you…for helping me out back there. Someone must have stolen my satchel with my ticket.”
“No need to repay me. We all need a little help once in a while. Just do a good turn for someone else in a fix,” he replied.
“Well…thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Claire, love, why don’t you find our guest some dry clothing and make her comfortable? I’ll go order us a late dinner and come back for you. We’ll eat in the dining car and Sarah can rest here alone for a while.”
Claire nodded and cast her husband a loving smile. The adoring looks on their faces touched an aching spot within Sarah’s heart. They were in love. Claire’s baby would have a loving father and a stable life. She blinked away the sting of tears and stiffened her back against another gnawing spasm.
Stephen Halliday left them alone in the compartment, and Claire chattered to Sarah as she found her a long satin gown and wrapper. “Isn’t he a dear? Some days I wake up and marvel that being his wife isn’t just a dream. He’s a playwright, a talented one, too.” She pulled a pair of man’s socks from a valise and dangled them in the air. “Sorry, my slippers are all packed. These will have to do. We’ve just returned from a honeymoon in Europe, and I had no idea how to plan for the trip.”
“These are fine.” Sarah took the socks.
Claire helped Sarah out of her dress and shoes, then turned her back when Sarah hesitated to remove her damp underclothing. Quickly, Sarah changed into the nightclothes and struggled with pulling the wool socks on her cold feet.
“Isn’t he somethin’? I met him in New York when I was designing costumes for a play he wrote. He’s taking me to meet his family in Ohio. I doubt they’re going to like me, though.” Claire turned back and took Sarah’s wet clothing.
“Why wouldn’t they like you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not cut from the same cloth as the Hallidays. They’re rich. Stephen’s father started an iron foundry years ago, and now they send stoves and such all over the country—even to Europe.”
Halliday Iron? Sarah remembered seeing that imprint on the cast-iron stove the cook used in her father’s Boston home.
“My daddy was a factory worker in New York before he died when I was little. My mama and I hung on any old way we could. Not exactly blue bloods, you know.”
“I’m sure they’ll like you anyway,” Sarah said, placing more hope than certitude into the thought. She knew exactly what the upper crust thought of those they considered lower class. She knew how important social strictures and appearances were to well-to-do men and women like her father. Stephen, however, didn’t seem like Morris Thornton or his snobbish acquaintances.
Claire rambled on, and Sarah fought to keep her eyelids from drooping. Finally Stephen returned, bringing Sarah a tray of steaming meat and vegetables and a cold glass of milk. Her stomach rumbled at the smell, and she was so grateful she could have cried.
“We’ll be in the dining car,” he said. “You eat and rest. I’ll bring Claire back later, then I’ll find a game of cards to keep me occupied the rest of the night.”
His generosity at giving up his berth for the night warmed Sarah more than Claire’s wrapper and his wool socks. Her thanks were inadequate, but all she had to give. She ate the delicious food, better than anything she’d tasted since leaving home several months ago and, ruminating her stroke of luck, made herself as comfortable as possible on the narrow bunk.
Thankfully, neither Stephen nor Claire had mentioned the fact that Sarah was quite obviously pregnant, nor had they asked any prying questions or expected an explanation. That was why she’d begun this dreadful journey in the first place. Rumor said people were less strict the farther west one traveled. In the newly developing country of cattle ranches and mines and railroads, people weren’t asked nosy questions about their backgrounds.
She had no idea how far she would have to travel before she found work and a place to stay, but she had no choice.
Every week the Boston Daily printed dozens of announcements for women wanted. Western men needed wives; Sarah knew how to plan a dinner party and set a formal table, but her experiences with men hadn’t given her a great desire to marry one and suffer his temperament.
Establishments needed cooks and waitresses, but her skill involved planning a menu and instructing servants. Teachers were in short supply, though, and she’d been to school. She prayed she’d find a place where she and her baby would fit in. Perhaps Indiana or Illinois would be far enough. Sarah squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to cry over the pain in her back and the fear of being alone and solely responsible for another life.
Sarah placed her hand over her extended abdomen and fought tears. Yes, she was a foolish girl, just as her father had accused. Yes, she’d been rebellious and gone against his wishes, ignoring the young men he’d chosen for her, and accepting an offer from one less appropriate.
Gaylen Carlisle, without intentions of marriage or fidelity, had seduced her, then abruptly left for the Continent when she’d voiced her fear of pregnancy.
Sarah had waited until she could no longer hide her condition before she confessed her transgression to her father. Outraged, he had immediately tossed her out of his home before she could cause him further embarrassment.
She’d found a room over a butcher’s shop until last week, when her funds ran frighteningly low. Due to her father’s intervention, no one in Boston had been willing to give her a job or take her in. She’d sold a necklace, one of the pieces of her mother’s jewelry that she’d inherited, and tried to make her way toward a new life. One thing after another had waylaid her, until this last, and worst, predicament.
The nagging pain in Sarah’s back snaked around to her abdomen, and she nearly groaned aloud. But the rhythmic rocking of the train as it chugged its way westward combined with the soothing warmth of the dry clothing and bedcovers as well as the contentment of having food in her stomach. Exhaustion overcame discomfort, and she drifted into a sound sleep.
A sudden jarring movement and the deafening sound of scraping metal woke her. Disoriented, Sarah had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but the compartment remained dark. A sense of vertigo overtook her, and the motion of the railcar was all wrong. She clamped her teeth together, and with a scream, she was flung from the bunk toward the opposite wall.
The last coherent thought that crossed her mind was fear for her baby.
Chapter One
Sarah’s leg throbbed with an intensity that overrode the pain in her back and told her she was still alive. The coppery smell of blood was strong, and overhead, incessant rain pounded against metal. Her pulse throbbed violently in her head and leg. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t. She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t Gratefully, she succumbed to the pain and blackness.
Sometime later the stringent smells of antiseptic and starch burned her nostrils. Her leg still hurt, but it wasn’t the same torment as before. Now she could feel her head, too, and it pounded with every beat of her heart. She cracked open an eye and peered at the painfully bright sunlight streaming through the small window into the drab green room. She opened her mouth, and a dry croak came out.
“Lie still, dear. You’ve taken a nasty bump. Doctor says you mustn’t move.”
“Whe-where am—”
“Shush now. Don’t fret yourself. Rest your eyes.”
Sarah closed her eyes as the woman instructed. A nurse. She was in a hospital. A crisp sheet covered her, cool fabric draped her skin. Her leg wouldn’t move. She tested her hands, opening and closing, and lifted one arm at a time, barely off the mattress.
She opened her eyes again, and her right hand moved instinctively, protectively, to her belly.
Her flat belly!
“Oh, my—.” Sarah tried to raise her head from the pillow.
“No, no, lie back,” the nurse soothed.
“My baby! Where’s my baby?” The motion and those words sucked all her energy and, dizzy, she collapsed back against the hard bed.
“Your baby’s just fine,” the woman said.
The woman’s face swam in a flesh-toned blur that blended into the ceiling. Fine? Her baby was fine?
“Whe-ere?” she managed.
“We’re taking good care of him until you feel better. Rest now, so you’ll heal and can take care of him yourself.”
Sarah closed her eyes against the acute pain throbbing in her head. He? She had a baby boy? A single tear slipped from beneath her lashes and trickled across her temple.
The next time Sarah wakened, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was and what had happened. She’d been on a train. Something awful had happened, and now she lay in the hospital. She had a son.
She struggled to a sitting position, and pulled the covers away to reveal her swollen and bandaged left leg. Grimacing, she ran her fingertips over the bandage on her head.
“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be sitting up!” The admonishment came from the doorway, and a uniformed nurse rushed in to press her back against the pillows.
“I want to see my baby,” she demanded.
“I’ll get the doctor.” She shook her finger under Sarah’s nose, punctuating her next words. “Don’t you move again.”
A few minutes later, a short, wiry doctor appeared, two starched nurses flanking him. One held a tiny bundle of flannel.
“Oh!” Sarah pressed her palm to her chest and waited as the woman carried the baby forward. “Can I hold him?”
The nurse looked to the doctor who nodded his permission, then placed the infant in Sarah’s arms.
The red-faced baby blinked at his surroundings, much as she had upon awakening. He had fair hair and a ruddy complexion. The eyes he tried to focus were a deep, deep blue, with a look of wisdom more fitting an old man than a baby. He frowned and when he did, he looked just like Sarah’s father.
“He’s a handsome one,” the nurse said. “He’s the biggest, sturdiest boy we’ve had in a long time.”
Sarah sighed her relief. Her baby really was fine. Better than fine. Big and sturdy.
“We’d better take him back to the nursery now, so you can rest, Mrs. Halliday.”
Reluctant to let him go, the woman’s words didn’t register for a moment. When they did, she blinked at the nurse. “What?”
The doctor came forward then, and the nurse took the baby from her arms. “I’m afraid we have some disturbing news for you.”
Sarah blinked. Wasn’t all this disturbing enough?
“Your husband was killed in the accident.”
Sarah tried to sit forward again.
The doctor urged her back.
“But, I—” Sarah began.
“You’ve taken quite a blow to the head, Mrs. Halliday. You shouldn’t move around any more than necessary for a few more days.” The other nurse had moved up beside Sarah with a glass of water.
Sarah drank obediently and lay back. She needed to straighten something out with these people. The room tilted crazily and she lost consciousness.
This time she would get some answers. She ran her tongue over her teeth, grimaced at the horrible taste in her mouth, and struggled to remember. “Your husband was killed in the accident…Mrs. Halliday.” Sarah thought of the kind, red-haired woman and her handsome husband who had so generously taken her in and shared their room and brought her food.
They thought she was Claire Halliday.
How on earth could she explain what had happened? Every time she tried to talk to the doctor or nurses, they treated her as though she were feeble in the head and dosed her with laudanum.
They allowed her to sit up and eat some bland oatmeal and drink a cup of tea. Later, a nurse she hadn’t seen before brought the baby and instructed her to nurse him. Sarah did the best she could, naively, painfully, and watched in wonder as her tiny son instinctively knew what to do when she didn’t. She touched his downy soft head, his tiny fingers, and opened the flannel wrapping to look at his wrinkled pink skin and marvel at his toes.
He was so tiny…so helpless…and—tears welled in her throat and stung her eyes—so completely and totally dependent on her. Her! How on earth was she going to care for this child all by herself? She had no money, no place to live and no prospects. The realization terrified her. Never in all her life had anyone ever needed Sarah before. And now that someone did, she was unprepared for the responsibility. She couldn’t bear to let him down.
The nurse returned for the baby later, and Sarah napped briefly. When she woke, the doctor stood beside her bed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Halliday. You’ve made great progress today.” He removed the bandage and examined her forehead. “It’s safe to move you now, I believe. You still can’t walk on that leg for some time. Not if you want it to knit so you can use it like you used to. It was a nice clean break, however, and you’re young and healthy. It will heal quickly.”
Where was he planning to move her to? she wondered.
“Mr. Halliday, your husband’s brother, that is, arrived yesterday. He’s waiting for my approval to take you home. I think it’s safe, as long as you follow my directions. You may leave with him in the morning. I will give him instructions for your care.”
Sarah bit her lip. She was afraid to object for fear they would sedate her again. She pretended calm, nodded and laid her head back against the pillow. The doctor left.
She could find her baby and leave on her own before morning. Sarah glanced at the bulky outline of her leg beneath the covers. And what? Become a cripple? She really doubted she could put any weight on it, anyway. And what would she do if she ran off? Where would she go? She would be unable to work for weeks—months maybe, let alone care for herself or her baby.
She thought of her father and her comfortable childhood home, and squeezed her eyes shut. It hurt unbearably to know she hadn’t meant enough to him for him to forgive her. He hated her now. She had to wonder if he’d ever really loved her, or if she’d merely been a convenience as long as she kept the house running and entertained his clients. Going back was out of the question.
When this Halliday fellow showed up, she would explain to him what had happened. He would be easier to reason with than the doctors and nurses had been.
Sarah spent a fitful night, waking often, dreaming of twisting metal, cold dark alleyways and crying, hungry babies. Finally, morning arrived, and with it, nurses to assist her. One washed her hair and helped her bathe while the other laid out unfamiliar black clothing.
“I tried to find something—appropriate—for your trip, Mrs. Halliday,” the nurse said hesitantly. “Your trunks were sent ahead, and Mr. Halliday asked us to shop for you.” Not her trunks, Sarah thought. She’d only had one. Apparently Claire’s trunks had been sent ahead. Obviously, the Halliday name carried much weight, and they were treating Sarah as though she were one of them.
She looked at the black wool skirt, handkerchief linen blouse and short velvet jacket with eyelet embroidery, all purchased with Mr. Halliday’s money.
The nurse gave her a hesitant look. “Don’t you like the suit? Buying it ready-made, I didn’t have much to choose from.”
“It’s lovely—it’s not that, it’s just that…”
“What, dear?”
She could hardly leave in the cotton hospital robe she had been wearing. She would have to accept this traveling suit and somehow repay Mr. Halliday. “Nothing. Thank you.”
The nurses helped her dress, then situated her awkwardly in a wooden chair with wheels and brought the baby to her. He’d been outfitted as well, and was accompanied by an enormous valise. Sarah stared at the flannels and changes of clothing with a growing sense of unease. “Where did all this come from?”
“Mr. Halliday had them sent for the baby, ma’am.” The nurse opened a round box and presented Sarah with a smart hat made of the same velvet as the skirt and jacket. One side of the brim curled upward, trimmed with black silk ribbon and ostrich feathers. “Do you like it?”
Sarah stared at the hat, apprehension roiling in her stomach. Where was the man? He’d gone to all this expense without even laying eyes on her, without giving her a chance to explain!
“You don’t like it.” The nurse’s voice held disappointment.
“I’ve never worn anything so—mature.” She was, in their opinion, a married woman with a child, she remembered, and she wished she hadn’t said anything.
“You are in mourning,” the nurse reminded her.
“Of course.” She accepted the hat and turned to the mirror the nurse held. She would throw herself on the man’s mercy when he arrived.
Sarah sensed the atmosphere in the room change. Slowly, she turned and found a tall, elegantly dressed man just inside the doorway. Eyes as dark as black coffee, full of questions and uncertainty, swept the length of her skirt and jacket, touched on her fair hair beneath the hat she held in place with one hand, and then met her gaze. She recognized his pain at once. Grief had etched lines beside his firm mouth and shadows beneath his unsmiling eyes.
“I’m Stephen’s brother, Nicholas.” His voice was low and resonant, a rumbling sound a woman heard in her soul as well as with her ears. He was darkly handsome, like Stephen, with the same chin and hairline, but there the resemblance ended. Where Stephen’s face had been open and candid, with just a touch of laughter behind his eyes, this man’s was closed and unfriendly, without a sign of humor.
But then, he’d been handling painful details. He’d undoubtedly had to identify his brother’s body. Had he buried him? Sent his body home? Stephen had been a charming and generous man, cut down in the prime of his life. Grief wedged its way into Sarah’s chest.
And Claire. The lovely young woman had not deserved her fate. She’d had her entire life ahead of her, a life with her husband and baby. Sarah blinked back stinging tears.
And what of Claire’s body? If they thought Sarah was Claire, what had happened to the real Claire? Dread pooled in her queasy stomach. Guilt swept over her in a torrent: She’d been spared and his family had died! She couldn’t manage to voice a coherent thought. The words she needed to say lodged in her throat.
His intent gaze slid to her baby on the bed, and he moved to stand over him. A protective instinct rose in her chest, and then abated when he turned back.
“Mother wants me to tell you she’s eagerly anticipating the arrival of you and your son, and to assure you that you will have a home with us for as long as you want to stay.”
Sarah tried to coax words from her throat.
“I’ve taken care of the debt and purchased this chair for you.”
“The debt?”
“The hospital and doctor’s fees. Are you prepared?”
He’d paid her bill already? Of course. The man was efficient, as well as decisive. She should have looked into it herself. “H-how much?”
“You needn’t worry over that. It’s taken care of.”
A panicky little sob rose in her throat, and she clenched her teeth against the desire to rail at her heartless father. If only she could have wired him, could have had someone to come to her aid. Alone. She’d never been so alone.
“I asked, are you prepared? I have a driver waiting. It will take a couple of days to get there, and I’ve business waiting for me.”
There was no talking to this man. Sarah realized that with a cold, hard certainty. He would never understand. What would happen to her son if Nicholas Halliday demanded she repay him then and there or be thrown in jail?
“Yes. I’m ready.” She turned back to the mirror and stabbed the long pin through fabric and hair until the hat was secured. She would have to take her chances with him until she could talk to his mother. Surely a woman would be more understanding and responsive. She would understand and let Sarah settle up with them when she was able.
The nurse moved Sarah’s chair closer to the man.
Бесплатный фрагмент закончился.
