The House Of Secrets. Elizabeth Blackwell

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СКАЧАТЬ shade as Charles’s, but sparkling with an amusement she’d never seen from her husband. His dark blond hair was tousled from the drive, but despite his disheveled appearance, he held himself with the same strong confidence as the rest of his family. Evelyn couldn’t help but smile back.

      “A lift? In that monstrosity?” Charles asked incredulously.

      “Nice to see you, too, Charles.” Will laughed.

      By this time, guests were filing out around them, and friends called out Will’s name as they rushed up to greet him. It wasn’t long before Alma pushed her way to the front. She hurried toward her eldest son, then stopped in her tracks when she saw the condition of his car and clothes.

      “Oh, Will!” she admonished. “You look frightful!”

      “There was no time to change,” Will said. “I was trying not to miss the wedding—although apparently, I did anyway.”

      “Go to the house and clean up,” Alma ordered. “We’ll be serving dinner in one hour.”

      Will tipped his goggles in Evelyn’s direction. “I’ll look forward to getting acquainted this evening, Mrs. Brewster,” he said. His voice had a light, teasing tone, as if acknowledging how ridiculous it was that she should now bear that name.

      She meant to ask Charles about his brother, but she didn’t have a chance. Three hundred guests had to make their way through the receiving line, then she and Charles had to be presented as man and wife and take their places at a table with Alma and an assortment of elderly Brewster relatives. Evelyn became aware of Will only later, after the dessert dishes had been cleared and the orchestra began playing. Evelyn looked at Charles expectantly, only to have him announce, “I never dance.” There were so many things she didn’t yet know about him.

      A figure in an immaculately pressed tuxedo appeared at Evelyn’s side.

      “If my brother won’t take his bride for a pass on the dance floor, perhaps I might be permitted the honor.” Will’s words were courteous to a fault, but Evelyn sensed an undercurrent of amusement.

      Evelyn glanced at Charles, who waved her off. “Of course,” he said, before continuing a discussion of trade tariffs with his great-uncle.

      “Only Charles would discuss business during his wedding dinner,” Will said, as he lightly took hold of Evelyn’s waist and pulled her across the wood floor. “But I suppose you’re used to that by now.”

      In truth, she wasn’t. But revealing how little she really knew about Charles might seem disloyal. “The business keeps him very busy,” she said.

      “Oh, Charles was born an old man,” Will said with a wink. “He’s always been the serious one.”

      “And what are you?” Evelyn asked.

      “Haven’t you heard? I’m the black sheep.”

      Evelyn laughed, but she knew it was true. Charles seldom discussed his brother, and when he did, it was usually to criticize him.

      “You’re not at all what I expected,” Will said. “When I heard Charles was marrying a governess, I pictured a humorless old spinster, the sort who used to rap my knuckles with a ruler when I misbehaved.”

      “Did that happen often?” Evelyn asked lightly.

      “More than I care to admit.” Will smiled, and Evelyn caught a glimpse of the boy he once was, his eyes twinkling with mischief, but without malice.

      “You’re not what I expected either,” she admitted.

      “Ah, now things get interesting,” Will said, twirling her gently around the edge of the dance floor. “You imagined a clubfoot or some other deformity?”

      Evelyn laughed again. “No, not at all. I suppose…well, you don’t act like a Brewster.”

      “I take that as a compliment,” Will said. “There were many times growing up when I didn’t feel like a Brewster. And just think—now you’re one, too.”

      Evelyn flashed back to the moment Will had addressed her as Mrs. Brewster. How the sound of her new name—her new identity—had filled her with dread.

      “I understand how it is.” Evelyn could barely hear Will’s voice over the sound of the violins. He continued to watch her with a bright, unconcerned expression, but his tone was serious. “It’s hard work fitting into this family,” he whispered. “I have no doubt you’ll make a great success of it—you seem like that kind of girl—but I hope you’ll think of me as a friend. Someone you can talk to if things get sticky.”

      “Thank you,” Evelyn said. Uncomfortable with his intimate words, she glanced toward the table where Charles sat. He had his back to her, still engrossed in conversation. She saw people at the other tables watching her. Her behavior must be above reproach. She was a Brewster now.

      “Will you be staying long in town?” she asked in her best society-hostess manner.

      Will nodded. “I’ve caused enough of a stir in Europe. Time to recuperate.”

      “Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing you at the house regularly,” Evelyn said. The music was building to a climax. “I’ll look forward to continuing our conversation.”

      “As will I,” Will said smoothly. But the superficial chatter couldn’t erase the bond their moment of honesty had already formed between them.

      The orchestra paused before starting the next dance. Evelyn pulled her body away from Will’s as he leaned over and gently kissed her hand.

      “A pleasure to meet you, sister,” he said. His lingering hold on her hand made Evelyn blush. Was he flirting with her at her own wedding?

      Evelyn lifted the skirt of her gown and walked back to her table. She laid her hand on Charles’s shoulder as she sat down and smiled when he turned to look at her. Evelyn felt she was playacting the part of a dutiful wife. Inside, her stomach was churning with excitement, her mind replaying every word of her conversation with Will.

      With a sinking feeling, she wondered if she had married the wrong Brewster.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ALISSA COULD TELL Constance was surprised by her appearance, but she was too tired to care. She reached forward for a hug, then pulled back as she saw her friend stiffen. No wonder—Constance, as usual, was immaculate in a pressed cotton blouse and tailored trousers, while Alissa looked like a refugee from a construction site. Her greasy hair was jammed under an old college baseball cap. A paint-splattered, stretched-out T-shirt was paired with saggy pants that had a rip across one leg, and a fine layer of wood dust was sprinkled over her skin. The two women looked each other over, then broke into laughter.

      “I’m so glad you’re here!” Alissa exclaimed. “Ready for the tour?”

      Constance clapped her hands together and pressed them to her chest, one of the prim, old-lady gestures that made her appear far older than she was. Although, at thirty-five, she was only a few years older than Alissa, Constance Powers seemed to belong to another generation. Even when her job as an architect had her traipsing through dusty building sites in a hard hat, Constance managed СКАЧАТЬ