The Widow's Secret. Sara Mitchell

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СКАЧАТЬ saturated Jocelyn’s nostrils “—whisper in my ear, then. Don’t be shy. We’re married now, Mrs. Bingham.”

      Married. With a tremulous breath of laughter, Jocelyn shoved aside all thoughts save her new status, and rose on tiptoe to explain her predicament.

      Hours later, she waited for her husband to enter the grand suite of rooms the Binghams had redesigned for the newly wedded couple. Hands clammy, heart thumping hard enough to rattle her teeth, Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with innocent fervor that she would please the young man who had vowed to care for her the rest of their lives.

      “Jocelyn…”

      She gasped, hands automatically clutching the crisp linen sheet even though she forced her eyes open. Chadwick stood by the bed, wearing a deep red dressing robe. Gaslight from the wall sconce limned his face, revealing the high forehead and the hooked nose so like his father’s. His face was freshly shaved save for the trimmed mustache. His eyes were…Jocelyn searched his eyes, trying to interpret their emotions.

      “M-Mr. Bingham?”

      “Oh, for Pete’s sake, when we’re alone, call me Chadwick. Or Chad, if you don’t mind. I’ve always hated my name, to tell you the truth.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “The truth,” he repeated like an echo. “Why do you suppose the Bible claims it will set you free?”

      Flummoxed, Jocelyn gathered her courage and sat up, drawing her knees to her middle and clasping her damp hands around them. Apparently Chadwick was as nervous as she was, and thought a conversation might help them both. She warmed inside at the thought of his sensitivity. “I always thought it meant telling the truth about Jesus. You know, that He’s the Son of God?”

      Chadwick laughed, the sound so dark and bitter Jocelyn flinched. “No wonder my parents insisted I marry you,” he said. “Well, it’s too bad for both of us your youthful innocence can’t last forever.”

      He leaned over, planting his palms on the counterpane, inches from Jocelyn’s quivering limbs. “The truth is, Mrs. Chadwick Bingham, that from this moment forth, you’ll never be free again.”

      Chapter One

      Richmond, Virginia

       September 1894

      Over a dozen clocks chimed, bonged, pinged or warbled the hour of four o’clock in Mr. Alfred Hepplewhite’s store, without fuss simply named Clocks & Watches. Jocelyn smiled at the cacophony of timepieces heralding the time, while Mr. Hepplewhite placidly continued to fiddle with the clasp of her brooch watch. His gnarled hands were as deft as an artist’s, his eyes intent upon the task.

      The store was busy today. Restless, Jocelyn wandered toward a deserted corner near the front of the shop to avoid mingling with the other customers. For this moment, she wanted to savor the freedom of being alone, a widow of independent means beholden to nobody, whose sole activity of the day consisted of enjoying the chaotic voices of a hundred clocks.

      “Mrs. Tremayne? Your timepiece is ready.”

      Jocelyn hurried across to the cash register, ignoring a disheveled little man wearing a bowler hat several sizes too large, as well as an officious customer who insisted that Mr. Hepplewhite hurry up, he had an appointment in an hour and didn’t want to be late.

      “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Hepplewhite,” she said as she opened her drawstring shopping bag to pay.

      “And you, madam.” He handed her the watch, bushy white eyebrows lifting behind his bifocals when the seedy-looking customer wormed his way past the rude gentleman to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn.

      “Sorry.” He produced an unrepentant gap-toothed grin. “Just wanted to see them watch chains.”

      “Here now, I was next. Move out of the way, you oaf.”

      “Right enough, gov’ner.” With a broad wink to Jocelyn the other man stepped back. “Fine-looking brooch watch, ma’am. Don’t see many like it these days.”

      “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Jocelyn pinned her watch in place, steeling herself to fend off another impertinent remark.

      Instead the man abruptly scuttled back down the aisle. After jerking the door open, he darted across East Broad, barely missing being run down by a streetcar. People, Jocelyn decided as her gaze followed the strange scruffy man, were uniformly unpredictable, which was why she didn’t trust many of them.

      The door flew open again before she reached it. A tall, broad-shouldered man loomed in the threshold. Blinking, Jocelyn took an automatic backward step when, eyes narrowing, he focused on her. For some reason time lurched to a standstill, all the clocks ceased ticking, all the pendulums stopped swinging because this man with windblown hair and gray eyes looked not only dangerous, but familiar. For a shimmering second he stared down at her with the same shock of recognition she herself had experienced.

      “Excuse me,” he finally said.

      His deep voice triggered a cascade of sensations she’d buried a decade earlier, of longing and hope, and Jocelyn squelched the emotions. “Yes?”

      One eyebrow lifted, but unlike most other gentlemen, this one remained uncowed by the hauteur she had perfected over the years. “A man came in here, scrawny fellow with a hooked nose, pointy chin. Clothes too big for him. Did you happen to see him?”

      Cautious, Jocelyn kept her answer short. “Yes. I did see him. He left a moment ago.”

      Frustration tightened his jaw. Beneath a straight, thick mustache, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Despite herself, Jocelyn’s heart skipped a beat, but even as she determined to push her way out the door, to fresh air and freedom, the man swept past her down the aisle, where he proceeded to make the same inquiry of the other customers.

      Impatient, Jocelyn quickened her step and walked out of the store. She was behaving like a two-headed goose. Men had gawked at her all her life, even after she was married, certainly after she was widowed. Little could be gained by turning weak-kneed over one of them. His pointed questions marked him as a policeman of some kind, though he hadn’t been wearing a uniform. But even if he weren’t a policeman and was only trying to find a friend, his affairs had nothing to do with her. The reserved widow Tremayne did not associate with policemen or ruffians.

      At what point during her marriage, she wondered, had she allowed herself to become the self-righteous snob the Binghams so relentlessly demanded her to be?

      “Mrs. Tremayne.”

      Her head jerked back. “How did you learn my name?” she demanded, concealing her perturbation with words. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians she could cry out to for help, and her shopping bag, though not heavy, would serve as a weapon if words weren’t sufficient. “Surely Mr. Hepplewhite wouldn’t—”

      “No, but one of his customers, a Mr. Fishburn, proved to be most helpful.” The man smiled down at her, a smile loaded with charm and not to be trusted. His gaze lifted in a sweeping search around them. “I take it you are unaccompanied, without a maid or…your husband?”

      Sometimes, usually when caught off guard, the uprush of painful memories would still crash over Jocelyn, stealing her breath as the waves sucked her backward into the past. “My life is none of your business. СКАЧАТЬ